REVIEW: Brokeback Mountain

I went into the theatre 2 days after Brokeback Mountain made a clean sweep (or almost) at the BAFTA, picking up accolades for Best Picture, Direction and an acting award for Jake Gyllenhaal. The BAFTA affirms the rave reviews it has received since it opened to an enthusiastic American audience in December (NY/LA) / January and signals a similar triumph at the Academy Awards come March 6.

Critics and moviegoers alike hail this controversial tale of gay love in an era where homosexual relationships are persecuted with no recourse as anything from “the love story of the year” to “a cinematic landmark”, resulting in Golden Globes for both the film and its director, Ang Lee.

Well, I can’t exactly say I am one of them.

Perhaps, the mountain heaps of critical acclaim, public applause and industrial accolades have raised my expectations too high and as always, the higher you go, the harder you fall. I find the story extremely ordinary. It fails to move me until the final few minutes of the film; when I begin to feel something stir in the depths of my heart, it’s all over.

The leads, Ennis del Mar and Jack Twist, are only two of the thousands of homosexual individuals in this world, even back in the dark age of the 60s, who engage in similar dangerous liaisons, some more courageously than others. It is merely putting onto the big screen something that we all know. A few times throughout the movie, I find myself saying, “Enough already, we all know that. Let’s move on.”

That said, Brokeback does raise an issue, as deliberated in author Annie Proulx’s short story, upon which the film’s screenplay is adapted by Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, that people who are thrust into a position of sexual disorientation, either by birth or circumstance, reserve the right to humanly feelings. That includes love. It is an issue that the most conservative of us still refuse to acknowledge today so at its best, Brokeback Mountain can cause hairline cracks in long-standing prejudice against homosexuality.

The film also lives up to its genre as an epic western. Abundantly featured are sweeping shots of expansive prairie land and rugged mountains under clear blue skies, summoning a feeling of intense loneliness and longing, a prelude to the story that follows.

The scenery is certainly awesome on the big screen but alas, the story trudges along a bit too slowly, as if to let the audience take in the picturesque country as they would on a holiday and witness a robbery of the freedom to love in extended moments of solitude in a dark theatre. The one redemption to this film for me is some great performances by Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal as the ill-fated gay lovers and Michelle Williams as Alma, the estranged wife who discovers her husband’s sexual orientation too late to live in humiliation forever.

Alma has been engaged to Ennis del Mar (Heath Ledger) even before he meets Gyllenhaal’s character, Jack Twist, in a herding assignment out in Wyoming’s Brokeback Mountain. Up on the lonely slopes, Ennis rediscovers himself. Ennis is a taciturn man, who speaks with a drawl that hinges on incomprehensibility, either by nature or in a bid to suppress his true sexual identity after witnessing the torture and mutilation of a queer. Jack is quite the opposite. An aspiring rodeo rider, Jack is an exuberant youth, unafraid and totally frank about his sexual orientation, at least to Ennis. Jack seduces Ennis, drawing him into a tragic romance that spans 20 years.

They are prematurely recalled from the mountains due to a brewing storm, probably just an excuse of the owner who glimpses the boys’ travails as he delivers news of Jack’s ailing uncle. That explains the increasing number of coyote attacks on the herd, clearly due to the absence of the shepherd who is babysitting his new lover rather than sheep. Ennis goes on to marry Alma and fathers 2 daughters in Riverton, Wyoming while Jack settles in Texas with rodeo queen, Lureen (Anne Hathaway), the daughter of a wealthy farm equipment dealer, and promptly takes charge of the family business.

The memory of Brokeback Mountain lingers on for both men. Jack’s postcard arrives unexpectedly one day. Alma questions her husband, to which Ennis replies that Jack is his longtime fishing buddy, a lie that will quickly come to light with Jack’s arrival.

The passionate embrace shared by Ennis and Jack below their apartment stumps Alma, reeling her into the chasm of humiliation. Quietly, she examines Ennis’ fishing kit upon his return from a weekend with Jack and finds no trace of a consummated fishing trip. No surprise.

For several years, Jack and Ennis meet in the wilderness of Brokeback Mountain. If Lureen never discovers the truth, she is certainly displeased with Jack’s frequent 10-hour drive north. Ennis and Alma drift apart, a divorce is inevitable. An ecstatic Jack arrives at Ennis’ door the instant he receives news of the divorce, with hopes of a new life with Ennis at a ranch he plans to buy. Ennis, always the more reserved of the pair, rejects the idea. Infuriated, Jack heads back south, their regular rendezvous at Brokeback Mountain ceases in the aftermath.

The years roll by. Ennis meets a new woman whom he is unable to accept for fear of inflicting the same hurt on her as he did Alma. Jack, on the other hand, begins sexual pilgrimages to Mexico to fill the void that Ennis leaves behind. The couple meets again at Brokeback Mountain as thirty-somethings, Jack sporting a moustache and beer belly, a somewhat ridiculous and clearly unsuccessful attempt at adding 15 years to Gyllenhaal’s own 24. Ledger’s aging makeup is more convincing, with graying sideburns, a weathered countenance and if I heard correctly, a voice more gruff than young Ennis’. With his face always in the shadow of his cowboy hat, it is hard to tell.

Jack has not given up on his dream of a new life with Ennis. But after all that he has been through, Ennis is resigned to his fate – perpetual estrangement from the love of his life. That would be the last time he sees Jack, who dies at age 39 in an unwitnessed accident back in Texas, drowned in his own blood … or is it an accident after all?

Here is the sad part, the part where I feel my heartstrings tug a little. The only way to dissolve a homosexual relationship is by the death of one of the partners who brings the deadly secret to his grave while the living partner mourns. It is also apt that Jack should be the one passing, for tight-lipped Ennis will never ever tell, the final scene a symbolic closing of the closet door where Jack’s shirt, worn on Brokeback in their happier days as young ranch hands, now resides – the closet affair that must never see the light of day.

I love Heath Ledger as the quietly suffering Ennis del Mar. Here, the Australian actor demonstrates acute empathy for closet lovers living in 1960s America, when much of the country’s sociopolitical landscape is marred by bigotry. In a long time coming, Ledger, who has always been cast in roles that belie his potential, finally proves himself as an actor to be reckoned with, his outstanding performance as Ennis duly recognized by the Academy with a Best Actor nomination.

Jake Gyllenhaal who already bags a Best Supporting Actor BAFTA for his role as Jack Twist, is a tad bit pale in comparison to Ledger’s strong characterization of Ennis. Nevertheless, his wide-eyed exuberance and sheepish grin brilliantly personifies Jack Twist, whose waghalsig, devil-may-care approach to homosexual relationships (and Ennis) in an age that forbids it breeds dire consequences.

Michelle Williams, who is incidentally Ledger’s fiancée, puts on an amazing performance as Alma, a stereotypical woman of the 60s in small mid-western towns who suffers the cruel blows that life deals her in silence. No one can forget her stunned revelation at Ennis’ passionate welcome of his “fishing buddy”.

The trio is indeed the saving grace of this over-stretched drama.

The Happy Place

My best friends will know that I affectionately refer to the hypermarket Carrefour as The Happy Place. Simply because my spirits get mystically lifted everytime I step foot in there.

I am one that craves space, an incorrigible claustrophobic. Plus the multitude of merchandise that come under those two floors of well-spaced racks means I can spend hours there without a single second of boredom.

Enough to kill all blues. Enough to make peace with myself, to purge all inequities I feel about life outside this cheery kingdom, to simply shop and chatter away with family and close friends. When all other places fail to incite unanimous agreement for a rendezvous, there's always The Happy Place.

Many years ago, we would receive word from one friend or another updating everyone on our chum's BGR because he/she had been spotted at The Happy Place cozying up to the significant other. It's not just one odd couple but many of my dating friends seem to pick The Happy Place as their dating ground. And aptly so, it being the Happy Place, only it's not so advisable if one hopes to keep the BGR under wraps because EVERYONE, dating or single, is on the prowl there like a pack of hungry hyenas!

So yesterday, two friends bumped into each other again after more than a year of disconnect, at The Newer Happy Place down at Plaza Singapura. SS was busy shuttling the skies while I was preoccupied with trying to stay grounded. Welcome home, SS. We have lots to catch up on. But it was delightful seeing you again at The Happy Place ... where else.

REVIEW: The Constant Gardener

Finally! The Constant Gardener hits local cinemas almost half a year after it opened in the United States. Even Malaysia released it 3 months ago. What is the cause of delay? Is it the guileless exposé of postcolonial high-level corruption or the blatant stab at modern capitalism that entail a closer scrutiny from the axe-wielding censors? Whatever it is, I am glad the movie finally makes its way to our shores. Perhaps we have the Awards to thank, for bestowing a Golden Globe on Rachel Weisz even before her nomination for the Oscar was announced. The movie itself is up for 4 Oscars and receives a whopping 10 BAFTA nods!

The Constant Gardener is no chintzy prate. Very clearly, this is a message-ridden masterpiece. To Brazilian director Fernando Meirelles, whose own country is nonetheless an underprivileged cousin of one of today’s political superpowers, The Constant Gardener probably echoes his own views on the cruel exploitation of third world countries, in this instance, Kenya in Africa. Bringing on board Jeffrey Caine for screenplay, Mereilles picks up the John Le Carré book and gives it a voice in the medium he knows best – poignant, albeit fragmented but very effective, documentary-style story-telling with stunning cinematography and some truly outstanding acting.

I was first attracted to The Constant Gardener for 2 reasons – Ralph Fiennes and the magnificent African landscape. Then came the story. John Le Carré writes deeply intellectual fact-founded fiction that lacks the mass appeal that is necessary for the message within to propagate. For this purpose, The Constant Gardener, the movie, is the vehicle. It is a timely release, too, in an age when pharmaceutical companies come under fire for introducing inadequately-tested drugs, the most notable of which is the Vioxx saga in 2004.

The Constant Gardener delves deeply into the essence of humanity, pulsating with righteous preach lines in the voice of impassioned activist Tessa Quayle (Rachel Weisz) for the people of the Kenyan slums. It is also a story of unconditional love and mutual respect that comes with the genteel character of Ralph Fiennes’, Justin Quayle, an English diplomat who works his hands at his quaint garden so he can keep them off the life of his lovely wife. Sad to say though, his hands-off policy gives Tessa the diplomatic passport to places that would eventually bring her damnation. Justin’s hands-on approach in the aftermath of her death, in turn, triggers a plethora of intriguing discoveries that send him racing across Europe and Africa, turning over unsolicited rocks and gardening for the ugly truth.

Perhaps it’s the essence of an archetypal political thriller, or perhaps it parallels the elusiveness of real world high-level conspiracies, Meirelles’ fragmented narrative style seems to be the best way to tell this twisted tale of government malfeasance and the moral quagmire that arises when corporate greed supersedes the value of humanity. The story telling comes in diverse layers, alternating between the past and the present in a series of flashbacks which explain why things happen and to pick up where a crucial narrative gets interrupted. This, coupled with hand-held, fast and frantic shots plus razor-sharp editing, create a sense of beleaguered logic as we watch the events unfold through the eyes of confused Justin Quayle. Justin is such a heart-wrenching sight to watch, simultaneously crumbling under his grief and upholding the very noble and very dangerous secret causes of his murdered wife that the director slowly lets on.

The film begins mysteriously with the ecstatic chatters of a woman as the opening credits roll. As the images kick in, we see an exchange of longing goodbyes by a loving couple, the Quayles. She says, “Bye bye, sweetheart” … He hesitantly replies, “See you … in a couple of days”. And then Justin receives news that Tessa has fallen victim to a fatal bandit attack.

In a stark comparison with Meirelles’ earlier internationally-acclaimed work, City of God, this film is violence without the blood and gore. At the morgue, Justin’s superior, Sandy Woodrow (Danny Huston), the Head of the British High Commission, leans over the sink, puking at the sight of the mutilated body of Tessa Quayle. The eyes that remain fixed on the nauseating remains of Tessa are Justin’s alone.

Is this lack of visibility of the apparent violence an insinuation of what is happening in the world today, as will be appropriated in the film as the story progresses? Is this the ‘bloodless’ violence of profit-taking and blood-sucking corruption in the very places where the ailing public pins its hopes on? Is this the ‘goreless’ violence in which the lives of the poor and the destitute don’t count, where cover-ups of their gory deaths as guinea pigs are rampant and immaterial in the thick of material pursuits?

There are answers that Justin seeks, especially when Arnold Bluhm (Hubert Kounde), a local doctor with whom Tessa works closely, goes missing. This is where Justin gets a little side-tracked. How can he not, when he had accidentally retrieved an email message addressed to Tessa that read, “What were you and Arnold doing in the Nairobi Hilton Friday night? Does Justin know?” Even before he solves this mystery, another letter that points to Tessa’s infidelity turns up. It is a note from Sandy Woodrow, who, among words of affection, mentions a report and an incriminating letter that must be returned immediately.

Justin starts digging. Dypraxa, the ‘wonder’ drug for tuberculosis (TB) developed by Canadian pharmaceutical giant KDH and distributed locally by Three Bees, which also provides free AIDS drugs and TB testing to the Kenyan slums. It sounds like a genuine philanthropic effort and corporate citizenship on the part of the drug companies, or are they using these programmes to mask the testing of other drugs? Lab tests would have cost millions and considerable delays with opportunity costs that run into billions of dollars. Human trial and error cost much less, and furthermore, these lives are worthless anyway.

Justin’s transformation from a quiet diplomat who is detached from issues to one who pursues the truth with astounding fervour does not escape the eyes of his superiors. He suddenly finds his diplomatic passport confiscated. Woodrow tries to convince him that Tessa’s death is nothing more than an unfortunate robbery gone awry. Sir Bernard Pellegrin (Bill Nighy) who heads the Foreign Office back in London, wants him to return to Kenya, resume his diplomatic post and stop the senseless questioning of his wife’s accidental death.

Justin’s incessant probing turns up more truths about the wife that he never really knew. Tessa did not have an affair with Arnold because he was gay. However, she had never really loved him. She had ‘cold-bloodedly led him on’ for her own mission. She had used herself to get into Africa and into places where she would otherwise be shut out of had she not been the spouse of a diplomat, just as she had no qualms about offering herself to the lustful Woodrow in exchange of the top secret letter.

Tessa is a beguiling, unforgettable character; her presence is ubiquitous despite having only appeared in the first half of the movie. While I am trying to decide if I should admire her valiant pursuit of human rights for the African people or detest her conniving ways of achieving these motives, it is clear that Justin’s love for her is unwavering. The scene where he breaks down at Tessa’s house is heart-breaking. When he sternly forbids concrete from being poured into her grave because “it is Tessa’s wish to be buried in African soil”, I thought, for someone who never really loved this man here, Tessa is one hell of a lucky woman.

Needless to say, Justin stops at nothing until he gets to the bottom of Tessa’s murder. Not when he is brutally beaten up in his hotel room in Germany, not when he is fleeing the marauding horsemen of a Sudanese tribe, not when every face around him seems to have a hidden agenda, every car seems to be hot on his trail, every friend could turn around and be the foe. When he finally puts all the evidence in a package that he entrusts to the UN aid pilot to mail to Tessa’s cousin, the one person he trusts to bring to light one of the darkest conspiracies involving the British and Kenyan governments and well-respected corporations, Justin has Tessa on his mind. He asks the pilot to fly him to Lake Tenaka, where Tessa had been headed. In a gripping final scene, Justin speaks constantly to Tessa in the land of nothingness, as though to the end of time.

Somewhere, far away in London, the truth comes to light.

And I dig it. Really, really dig it.

BOOKS: The Imagineering Way

I spent a fruitful Chap Goh Meh reading 'The Imagineering Way' by The Imagineers. I'm still on it but I feel such an inspired rush to share some of what I've read, which I think could be the guiding light of many in pursuing their dreams. Oh, for those who are still in the dark, The Imagineers are the mysterious creative team behind Disney theme parks across the world, the ones who build the worlds they live in in ours so we could be Peter Pan and Wendy once more.

I am such a huge Disney fan, first because of just how cute Mickey & friends are, and then of how true, and truly inspirational, the Disney philosophy is - Dream. Believe. Dare. Do.

I have always wondered what working for such an immensely creative corporation would be like. The creative thoughts, process, implementation. The relationships. The clash of creative minds. All of these so completely focused on the end products that have transcended generations for close to a century, and still well-loved to this very day. I dream of being part of the creative engine at Disney (hear ye! hear ye!). After glimpsing the animators at work at the Walt Disney World and now this, an intimate look into the minds of the Imagineers, I am keeping my dream alive.

"When I was about twenty-one, I went broke for the first time. I slept on chair cushions in my 'studio' in Kansas City and I ate cold beans out of a can. But I took another look at my dreams and set out for Hollywood. Foolish? Not to a youngster. An older person might have too much 'common sense' to do it. Sometimes I wonder if 'common sense' isn't another way of saying 'fear'. And 'fear' often spells failure." -- Walt Disney, Animator, Dreamer, Father

"Take a chance."

"Always say 'yes' first, then go off and figure it out."

"Don't try to solve a problem too early ... let the problem evolve so you understand it. The stew needs to simmer. Let the idea tell you where it wants to find its own balance."

"Sometimes a doodle on an index card has advanced an idea further than mere yakking around a conference table ever could. You can judge a brainstorming session by how many cards are plastered on the wall at the end of the meeting. Blank walls are your enemy! We like our walls covered with artwork and photographs, thank you very much. All the better to inspire creative thinking" -- Steve Spiegel, Senior Show Writer, Theme Park Productions

"Every time someone challenges me with a blank sheet of paper, I'm overcome by an uncontrollable urge to wrap his next gift in it. Blank sheets, if taken, must always be returned in full." -- Mike Morris, VP Theatrical Design and Production

"Every sorcerer was once an Apprentice." -- Steve Silverstein, Principal Developer, Animation Programming Systems, Show Animation and Programming

"When we fail, we don't stop. Sometimes you have to go backward in order to go forward, but we never stop."

"How many Imagineers does it take to change the light bulb?"
See if you're on the same wavelength as the Imagineers. Highlight the next line.
"Does it have to be a light bulb?"

Stay tuned ... as I finish the book :)

FEATURE: The Real Meaning of Chinese New Year

Gong Xi Fa Cai!

Welcome to the 4704th Lunar New Year observed by the Chinese and many other Asians. It’s the year of the dog, one of the 12 animal zodiac signs in the Chinese horoscope that predicts the person one becomes based on the “12 earthly branches” and the 5 elements – wood, earth, metal, fire and water. Food for thought and some serious snooping just to tame that curiosity cat, eh?

It is certainly humbling to declare that despite its long and intricate history, this is only the 30th Chinese New Year I celebrate this year. Well, that is if you don’t count the time I was battling the amniotic waters of my mother’s womb to make the 1976 celebration but alas, still missed the finish line by more than a month. That made a Dragon out of me though, for which I consider myself truly blessed.

Umm… 30 may sound a tad bit too many in human years but hey, look at the big picture, folks. For almost 5000 years, people have been celebrating the Spring Festival, another name by which the Lunar New Year is known as (more so in Chinese-speaking cultures than the Banana Republic where its people are Chinese by birth but have a Western outlook).

In as many ways as the festival is known in different parts of the world, so is the Lunar New Year celebrated differently. Although all of them last exactly 15 days, the significance of each day blurs across geographical, cultural and generational borders. Likewise, legends, folklores and superstitions handed down the generations are caught in the tide of time whose ebb and flow erode the storytelling as new versions spring forth but the essence of these ancient tales is never once lost. They have triumphed to found the Chinese community’s unique identity as one of the oldest cultural civilizations in the world.

With the many tales and their numerous versions, so what, then, constitutes the real meaning of the Chinese New Year?

Growing up, Chinese New Year was the one thing I looked forward to the whole year. To a certain extent, I still do. For obvious reasons – the new clothes, the holidays, the never-ending and mostly great food, drinks, cakes and snacks, AND above and beyond – the ‘ang pows’! It’s no wonder that even on New Year’s Day itself, I was already wondering just how far ahead was the next one…

Many of my fondest memories of the Chinese New Year are not of the holiday itself but of the preparation for the big day. Even a boring, dirty, tiresome whole-day-wasted task like Spring Cleaning holds some cherished memories. I don’t know if ‘spring cleaning’ is an original word in the English dictionary or borrowed from the Chinese initiative of ‘cleaning for the Spring Festival celebrations’. We believe that discarding old things and clearing the dust signify a change in fortune – done with the bad, hail the good. Don’t ask what happens if the year has been a good one, and if spring cleaning might inadvertently turn up … worse fortunes? I don’t have the answer because when I asked the same question in an attempt to talk my mom out of spring cleaning, the only answer that I got was to keep the day free and say no more.

Spring cleaning was a family affair. Even my grandmother, at more than 80 years of age and then well into her 90s, chipped in. That, in itself, has a charming quality to it because it’s not very often that the whole family gets to come together and… do something. And then there are those precious moments of reminiscence – digging up old photos of the little imps that we were (and the devils that we’ve grown into… hehe) and paraphernalia that we simply refused to throw away for one sentimental reason or another. These ubiquitous moments of nostalgic sighs and hollering laughter are worth the dirt and sweat of cleaning. Besides, it’s really not asking too much to clean the house just once in a year, is it?

When I was very little, my mom would join her colleagues on a ‘baking day out’ closer to the Chinese New Year, every year. Mom was a smart student, learning great cookie recipes from her wonderful colleagues, improvising and improving each year so that now, she makes the best ‘kuih bangkit’ and butter cookies (not the Kjeldsens type) in the world!

Although she makes far less new year cookies these day because her arms and legs (us!) are only home on the few days before New Year’s Day, we used to help her with all the baking when we were still in school over a few days in the month before the festival. Because we did not have an oven, we depended on ‘tao sar bia’ (traditional Chinese green bean biscuit) factories to bake the cookies.

Mom would mix the dough at home and when all’s ready, mother and daughters would take the 15-minute walk to the nearest factory. At the factory, we would quickly get down to business, sometimes with new year songs playing in the background, adding to the festive mood!

It’s usually not till evening that we could call it a day but at the sight of the delicious cookies and oh, how heavenly they smelled, fatigue was completely forgotten as everyone scrambled for a piece of the freshly baked goodies. Mom would usually let us have our way provided we knew when to stop. After all, those cookies were meant for the new year and that’s only when we should feast….

Cookies aside, the real delicacies are sumptuous, important dishes (translated – we never get to eat these at other times of the year, at least at a single spread) which are offered to the ancestors as a connection to our past, inviting our ‘whole’ family to usher in the new year, as a way of saying thanks to the deceased for watching over the living members and providing the good luck which they have enjoyed in the past year and hopefully in the new one too.

It would be quite impossible to list the entire menu here as the food display usually takes up 2 sizeable tables but here are some more significant ones – braised sea cucumbers with pork and shitake mushrooms, braised eggs with pork, “tau kua” (hard beancurd), black fungus and sometime with ‘fa cai’ (a hair-like vegetable that we kids used to confuse with seaweed), white fungus/long cabbage/fish ball soup.

Traditional cakes include the hand-beaten egg cake, ‘huat kueh’ (a must for the Chinese New Year as a symbol of prosperity for the year ahead), yam cake (steamed yams will do just fine too as all this dish represents is abundance in the family line), and my grandma’s specialty and a cake unique to the Hokkiens – a springy rice cake that is best eaten with the braised meat dishes above.

A whole fish, either steamed or fried, is offered for abundance, usually wealth, as the pronunciation of fish in Chinese - ‘yu’ - means leftover and is part of the Chinese adage, ‘nian nian you yu’, which means there’s leftover of the things that matter (money, health, luck) every year. The chicken, usually offered as a whole (including the innards) albeit chopped up, is simmered in fragrant sesame oil, ginger and button mushroom. Boy, just writing about these makes my mouth water!

New year shopping for the family would include procuring these food stuff, especially the dried ones like the sea cucumbers, mushrooms, fungi, etc. The atmosphere was thick with festivity as people throng the stores. It was as delightful learning about the different dried seafoods as watching the women exchanging recipes.

Shopping for new year clothes was definitely one of the highlights every year. Probably not for mom, who very often was dismayed at our fastidious taste in clothes. We would spend the whole day mall hopping and would sometimes end up buying none, rendering a second day of endless shopping necessary. Sometimes, mom would disagree with our choices because we should wear red (for good luck!) but other colours seemed somewhat more fashionable... What can I say, but girls just wanna be pretty, especially on New Year’s Day!

Another feature of Chinese New Year in Melaka is the small but bustling bazaar at Kee Ann Road, off the once-upon-a-time hangout of Jalan Bunga Raya where shops and malls lined the narrow one-way street. Modernization has gradually but surely re-directed the shopping traffic to hipper malls like Mahkota Parade, Jaya Jusco and Tesco, leaving only the most nostalgic of merchants holding onto their stores along this shopping belt of bygone days. Yet, these small traditional businesses are the saving grace of Melaka, reeling the historic city from the vacuum of modernization.

Kee Ann Road comes alive every night for a month, up to New Year’s Eve, for as long as I can remember. We would take casual evening strolls to eventually end up amongst the crowd, savouring samples of cookies and candies of myriad flavours and colours. Undoubtedly one of my most cherished memories was that one year, when I was still real little (below 10, I believe), the whole family went out together (dad would usually prefer to beat the crowd) the evening before New Year’s Eve and ended up having duck noodles at one of the hawkers along Kee Ann. I love that occasion for 2 main reasons – one, because that’s the first time I had duck noodles (my family is more into chickens, and I don’t mean it in a bad way) and two, because we hardly ate out, especially not with my father who prefers the more hygienic home-cooked meals. We had a blast that night.

Come New Year’s Eve, it is an annual ritual of waking up early when it’s still dark to help with kitchen chores that would eventually give us that sumptuous meal mentioned further up. When Grandma was still around (she passed away in 2003), the first smells of her terrific cooking was the alarm clock. Even if our eyelids were still heavy with sleep, it was quite impossible to drift back to sleep with that wonderful smell stealing its way into our nostrils. Mom would come a-calling anyway, for an early trip to the market to grab the freshest prawns, veges and poultry (the porky dishes had been cooked the previous day to hasten the cooking process on the actual day).

At around 10 a.m., most of the dishes are ready. The tables would also have been laid out in front of the ancestral altar and the red canvas ribbon is up framing the doorway, another of many Chinese New Year decorations that herald vibrancy and good cheer in the new year. This is a day when most of the family will gather and offer their prayers to the ancestors. In a way, it’s thanksgiving, and also to pray for a smooth-sailing, healthy and prosperous year ahead. It is also reunion day; regardless of distance and time constraints, the family will be whole again when all members, young and old, gather for a meal.

Unlike many families who have reunion dinners, we usually have reunion lunch. And no steamboat to boot. Not that I crave it because I’ve always been partial to steamboat meals. Besides, all these great food that have been heartily prepared over 2 days certainly beat the everyday-steamboat!

In the evening, we would give the house a good wash in preparation of another offering at night, this time to usher in the new year with the blessings of the Gods. Fruits and various designated sweets are prepared. The ceremony begins at around 11 pm, with the whole family offering prayers for a good year.

After the clock strikes 12, ‘ang pows’ are handed out by mom, who at the same time blesses us with good fortune in our studies and now, careers, as well as life in general. These are called ‘ya sui qian’, which promise good life and longevity. Traditionally, children would go to bed with these ‘ang pows’ from their parents tucked under their pillows. It is also believed that the later the children stay up (‘shou ye’), the longer their parents live. Although these are just folklore, it is indeed a rare opportunity for children to stay up way past their usual bedtime to just watch tv, chat or have a game of cards.

In the years of growing up, most of these annual rituals remain albeit with marked variations. The holidays during my adolescent years became a show time – a time to catch all the music award shows that all the tv channels seem to have waited a whole year to show them all at the same time. As obsessed as I am with pop music, no one could pluck me out of my seats when these went on air. And then I left home for Singapore for an excruciating 3 years of undergraduate education. Show time traded for study time as the psychotic lecturers and tutors had to have mid-term tests scheduled right after the New Year celebrations. Only when I began working that the holidays were a complete bliss again, but with an expiry date that came far too soon.

Time spent with family and friends in completely relaxed, bonding-conducive climate is over with a blink of the eye. Although I’ve never taken a real liking to relative-visiting, not especially since the ‘ang pows’ diminish with our growing ability to ‘make money’ and the steady rise of nosey questions (come on, I don’t have to spell these out. You must have heard them a hundred times), I recognize the significance of this practice.

It’s the real meaning of the Chinese New Year – a celebration of family ties and friendship.

Medicine for the curiosity cat:
Wikipedia's Chinese New Year
Meaning of the 15 Days of Chinese New Year
Chinese New Year Taboos
Chinese Zodiac Signs

FEATURE: Crossings

I've been pondering this for months, the notion having quietly slipped into my mind one fine evening, when I was on the free shuttle bus service from Clementi to Turf City on the way back to Toa Payoh, and there it has lurked ever since. Every now and then it would peek its cheeky head from the mass (mess?) of grey matter, reminding me of its omnipresence, that attention-seeking little brat. I'm digressing, forgive me. But if there're only 6 degrees of separation among us homosapiens on earth, surely a little digression in thought won't throw us too far off track. And there I go again. Digressing.

So are there really only 6 degrees of separation between 2 people, regardless of location? Word is, if you pick a random name out of nowhere and address a letter to him or her, and then mail the letter to someone you know with instructions to pass it on to the next person this someone knows, the letter will reach the intended recipient in the 5th exchange. Imagine this, he/she is only the 5th link in this seemingly endless chain mail even if he/she lives half way round the world! Although I haven't bothered experimenting, it has reportedly tested TRUE.

Recently, some anthropology think tank came up with the cool idea of creating the GREAT-GRANDMOTHER of family trees. The idea is to map out our genetic origins and so far, the evidence is leaning very much towards all of us being one big giant happy family some gazillion years ago. Osama is your and my cousin/brother, only we are separated by some thousands of years and countless rounds of genetic mutation. So Bush too must have a strand of DNA that also exists in some remote part of you and I. Gasp! Bush and Osama and Saddam must also belong to the same genetic map if not for the myriad millennia that have elapsed, blurring their bloodline in its trail.

DNA test kits costing USD99 each were available for the curious public's purchase. The class geek could make a swab of his cheek, mail the DNA back to the designated lab and eagerly await the result that he was indeed a descendant of Alexander the Great. People from completely different cultures across the globe without the slightest physical likeness have shared the same DNA. I've read of a pure Chinese since as long as she can remember suddenly finding Welsh influence in her genes. Hmm...

With all of us so intricately linked, even if the exact details of our proximity continue to elude most of us, does it come as a surprise that our paths have crossed more than we can ever imagine or know. Many of us must have been on the same bus or train or waiting for the rain to stop under the same shelter, more than once, but have failed to consciously register the face so there, another stranger, although you have probably been by my side more often than my new boyfriend. Many of us are travelers who have met, bumped into or brushed against some people from abroad who are now in Singapore and our paths cross once more on the busy Orchard Road without our ever knowing it.

I guess this kind of explains instances of déjà vu, which can be attributed to our subconscious trying its darnest to record every frame of life as it unfolds. Yet somehow, the data transfer over to our conscious state of mind is lagging so much so that subsequent occurrence of a particular instant is erroneously registered as the first and the mind is overwhelmed by an inexplicable subliminal revelation we term déjà vu.

Along the logic of déjà vu, fate is probably also a mind trick, or rather, a tricked mind. It only seems to come into play when your consciousness finally acknowledges the person who will go on to claim an important place in your heart, although for the longest time, your subconscious has been profiling this incredible character who crosses your path more times than you care to know; every second of his/her previous ephemeral existence in your life a building block of unwavering affection, the zenith of which eventually shoots through your roof of consciousness with effervescent sparks of love and happiness. Voila! You think fate brings him/her to you but you never know, he/she has perhaps always been there.

Wouldn’t it be interesting if we had the power to remember every single person or thing that we encounter everyday of our lives and by the end of it, realize just how many people have repeatedly wandered into it unregistered but how shockingly few have actually touched it in more profound ways, some more than others.

That will bring mankind even closer by several degrees.

REVIEW: Kong, the King of Soul

One song has this line in its lyrics
You never live until you’ve loved with all your heart and soul

King Kong left me with a bittersweet aftertaste. I was sad because the beast that I had not previously cared for, but came to love in its towering 2-hour presence on the big screen, died. Almost simultaneously, I rejoiced – because Kong was finally shown how to love after many long years, and be loved in return, a feat that some of us struggle a lifetime for in futility. And with that, he had truly lived.

Peter Jackson’s King Kong is a love story in every sense of the word. Carl Denham (Jack Black), is a passionate albeit pompous film-maker whom we hate to love, but whose never-say-die attitude is somewhat admirable although the target of his pursuit is always shrouded in mist or mystery. Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), the sensitive playwright, has love oozing out his every pore. The stowaway Jimmy (Jamie Bell) is a lover of great adventures, one of the reasons for his stowing away on the ship and sticking with them for 4 years. The other reason is his admiration for Mr. Hayes (Evan Parke), the man who found him first and who has been looking out for him ever since like an adoring big brother. Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts), although out of work and starving, holds herself with much dignity and dreams that it cannot be anything less than a manifestation of her great love for life and its promises. And the beast himself, devoid of love and steeped in loneliness until he catches the spark ignited by Ann, burns and returns to ashes, all in the name of love.

It is also out of love that multiple Academy Award winner Peter Jackson, most famed for the top grossing films of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, decides to remake this 1933 classic. In fact, we have to thank King Kong for inspiring a filmmaker out of Jackson, who at age 9 was resolute after a treat to the 1933 Kong –“I want to make films.” The project was conceived and proposed even before the Rings trilogy. Universal Studios had in-principal approval to fund the picture but pulled out at the last minute due to an over-crowded market of ‘monsters’ hits and flops, causing Peter Jackson to put Plan B in action – the Lord of the Rings. The trilogy’s international critical acclaim and mind-blowing box office receipts had studio executives revisiting Jackson’s gargantuan childhood dream, which is set to be the biggest release of Christmas 2005.

King Kong chronicles the ambitions of a fledgling filmmaker, Carl Denham, to produce the masterpiece of his time on location at an island as mysterious as the map that has come into his possession. With studio executives throwing in the towel on his film project and his lead actress walking out on him, Denham scours the streets of New York for a replacement, and finds the desperate Ann Darrow in the reflection of a cabaret house’s glass doors. He woos and cajoles her into the lead role, but not without the mention of Jack Driscoll, a playwright of whom Ann is extremely fond. The crew boards a ship that has seen better days shipping live animals, with a chloroform-hording Captain Englehorn (Thomas Kretschmann). Jack Driscoll, expecting to be on the ship only long enough to deliver a partial script and to force some overdue payment from Denham, finds himself trapped aboard as it sets sail, leaving angry studio executives and the police in its trail.

The trip is peaceful at first, funny even, with the egoistic actor Bruce Baxter (Kyle Chandler) distorting Driscoll’s script beyond any semblance of his original work. His annoyance is only appeased by the exuberant Ann, for whom he gradually falls in love. The feeling is mutual but alas, the ship crashes on the rocky shores of Skull Island, Ann is abducted by the barbaric natives and offered to Kong as a sacrifice. Jack Driscoll sets off to rescue his love, the entire ship and film crew in tow. It is doubtful that Carl Denham cares very much for Ann’s fate, but the payoff from a major motion picture with a real giant ape, as he has glimpsed, is far too great to miss. Even the melancholic Preston (Colin Hanks) fails to sway his oversized caprice.

Using the same technology that brought the ancient Middle-Earth and its mystical inhabitants to life, Peter Jackson and his team inject life, heart and soul into Kong, in the same way they sucked the goodness out of Gollum, making him an instant legend in the world of 3D animation. Like Gollum, Kong is far from an empty shell of visually magnificent CGI triumph. He is a personality – extremely realistic and well thought out, down to the scars that his hulking torso bears, souvenirs of savage wars that he has fought and won. Of course Kong is beastly, but beneath all that hair and snarl, Kong is capable of feelings that unimaginable years of loneliness must have eroded but restored by the lovely Ann. Breathing life into Kong, or rather, breathing as Kong, is Andy Serkis who also lent his soul to Gollum. Character animators capture and duplicate Serkis’ motions and expressions on a lifeless CG model and voila, King Kong as we see on screen is born. Serkis also provides a point of interaction for Naomi Watts, enabling her to turn out a stunning performance as Ann Darrow.

Filming the hustle bustle of the Big Apple as it is may prove a daunting task for some, but to Peter Jackson, creating an entire city set in the 1930s is really a manageable challenge. The man has, after all, successfully created the worlds of ancient men, elves, goblins and dwarves on film. Stretching his ability as a fantasy imagineer, Jackson creates his own version of Jurassic Park in King Kong. I do not mind the dinosaurs so much, especially with that comical moment of Kong playfully clapping the loose jaws of a defeated T-Rex like a pair of castanets. The less palatable creatures are the upsized creepy crawlies. Just the sight of them makes my skin crawl and the theater puncture with shrieks of eehs and oohs. That must be the exact effect Jackson relishes, for the creature chase sequence is a little too extended to my liking. However, it is very well done; so much so that I couldn’t wait to get off Skull Island soon enough, even though there are parts where half a degree of separation exists between the imaginary world and the actors, with the latter clearly being filmed on blue screen and superimposed into the creature chase.

Only a handful would not have anticipated the ending once King Kong is brought to New York. A savage beast in an even more savage city, the beast does not stand a chance. How else could he return to his homeland since he only has Ann, and maybe Jack Driscoll, on his side? Nevertheless, as the events unfold – Kong’s escape from the chains that hold him at the centre of public ridicule, the legendary climb up the Empire State Building, the swatting of the planes like they were flies, the cradling of Ann in his arms in a gorgeous moment of solitude as they watch the sun creep above the horizon to bathe the city with golden rays – it is tough to keep a dry eye.

Especially when Kong places a hand at his heart – in a ‘beautiful’ expression, an affirmation that he understands, feels and remembers what Ann teaches him on Skull Island – King Kong is more alive than ever. Like a true legend, King Kong and his story of unwavering love will prevail in the hearts of movie-goers and box offices everywhere.

REVIEW: Stupefy! Stunning, but No Stunner

I was crest-fallen as we found ourselves wedged into the seats right in front of the theatre – the horrific first row! – at the Singapore premiere of the highly anticipated Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, 3 days before anyone else got to see it. But the opening sequence of the film quickly took my breath away and submerged me in the world of witchcraft and wizardry, which seemingly cast a strong spell that numbed my senses to any form of discomfort.

The fourth of J.K. Rowling’s 7-book Harry Potter series opens with a nightmare, Harry’s fuzzy premonition that sets the mood for the rest of the movie, signaling the dark times that would soon befall the magical world of Harry Potter’s, even as the youngsters undergo some of the most difficult years as any youth – adolescence. It was, fortunately, a nightmare that Harry could snap out of, unlike the sinister reality that he is about to plunge into.

The merits of this movie are like a double-edged sword. Its best qualities can also be interpreted as its worst, depending on whether one is already fairly familiar with the story or otherwise. Director Mike Newell, well-acclaimed for Four Weddings and A Funeral and Donnie Brasco, takes the audience, now a much expanded one as the young wizards grow up and the story gets darker, on a thrilling roller-coaster ride that is exhilarating but rushed.

The stunning sets continue, if not top, Harry Potter films’ legacy of magnificent visual and special effects. The Quidditch World Cup sequence is breath-taking, reducing all previous Hogwarts Quidditch tournaments to mere child’s play. Scenes such as this become the saving grace of this movie which is a greatly abridged version of the book, leaving little room for the development of new characters and a story that spans more than 700 pages of manuscript. Knowing it is an impossible task to jam all those pages into a two-and-half-hour movie, the writers cleverly focus a major part of the movie on the Triwizard tournament with a few light moments to prevent the movie from being overly dark to the extent of alienating the younger audience.

The Yuletide ball is almost a sub-plot with Harry and the boys fretting over their date possibilities when they are not worrying about Death-eaters. Harry already has a choice but has not the guts. When he finally musters enough of those, the most popular boy in school, Cedric Diggory, beats him to her. The sweet Cho Chang, played by Katie Leung who is an unknown on the film scene, is quite a girl who any hot-blooded adolescent male fantasizes about. But alas, the hunk, that is Cedric, must always have an edge over the school geek (Harry). Poor Harry – when Cho apologetically declines him as her ball date, my heart breaks for him. And this is saying a lot because I have never thought much of Harry Potter. I have always seen him as a dork who, through no fault of his own, is sucked into a maelstrom of magical malevolence, which he does not understand, much less know how to fend himself against.

The Goblet of Fire sees me gaining newfound respect for the boy wizard with the lightning scar on his forehead. Harry is all grown up. Not only physically, but he is also now capable of confronting his past, the evil that’s been stalking him, his emotions. He is capable of destroying and protecting; he is selfless and righteous, earning himself an ally in Cedric who earlier scorns him for cheating himself into the Triwizard Tournament. It is probably his selflessness that saved Harry from doom when the Triwizard Cup turns out to be a portkey that transports both Cedric and himself into the graveyard where Lord Voldemort and the Death-eaters lurk.

An unfamiliar viewer may feel breathless playing catch-up with the plot as one event overthrows its predecessor in quick succession. Even for someone who has read the book like myself, I find the fold of events unraveling far too quickly that some scenes are slightly disjointed. The audience gets the impression that the Triwizard Tournament is a brief affair when in actual fact, it is a tournament that spans the entire school year. As a result, the trials and tribulations that span the entire Triwizard Tournament, which would have been highly entertaining had they made it into the film, are greatly reduced. Each leg of the tournament is actually followed by 3 to 6 months intervals before the next challenge begins, but that is not well-reflected in the film, nor do I remember it being mentioned or suggested that every challenge does not happen within a short space of time from the last.

There is no question that The Goblet of Fire is my favourite Harry Potter story, and perhaps of many other Potter fans as well, because of all the action and colourful new characters found herein. The expanded cast, however, spells headache for the filmmakers. With the entourage from the 2 other schools – Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the nosey reporter Rita Skeeters, the Death-eaters and Lord Voldemort who are unveiled for the first time, the filmmakers have quite a handful of new characters to design, introduce and develop. The design and introduction of the new characters are almost perfect although I wish the Beauxbatons girls weren’t portrayed so coquettishly. While it is understandable that the new characters’ development need to be compromised on the grounds of time and flow, I am a tad bit disappointed that regular cast members such as Professor Snape, Hagrid and even the brat Draco Malfoy have very little screen time.

This is a movie that will not stun expectant movie goers because the standard has been set by the previous 3 films and everyone’s expectation is high. Only when it falls short of expectation will it create any buzz like that of The Chamber of Secrets which is widely hailed as the weak link in the Harry Potter film franchise. The Goblet of Fire, fortunately, has lived up to the audience’s high expectation, albeit not surpassing it, to claim the title of the best Potter film to date. It has not raised the bar for the next film, The Order of Phoenix, but can the phoenix soar above and beyond? We’ll see.

POETRY: Headed

My head is heavy
My thoughts are many
Save me
From this mental agony
Return me
To emotional solitary

My head is tipping
I am tripping
Freewheeling
Where this road of life is leading
Bumpy, erratic, unforgiving
Exciting?

My head falls
It gets caught
In a massive web of thought
Emotional somersault
Is this a mind circus? Naught!
A reality jackpot ...
Myriad wrongs are wrought
To make one right taut

My head is level
Looking down the road untraveled
The forks and the humps, they don't matter
The smell of flowers
and the songbird's chatter
I declare!
Ready for where I am headed.

REVIEW: On the Tale of the LOST

* FLASHBACK * A friend buzzed me on MSN – “Channel 5 is showing LOST!”

The message marked my earliest acquaintance with that mega drama. Being the pretend-I-know-it-all that I was, I simply replied, “Great!”

But really, I didn’t have a clue what that show was all about, much less why my friend was so excited about it drifting to our shores. I had heard nothing of it. If it was as highly-acclaimed as it was purportedly so, wouldn’t it be heavily-marketed? Besides, I had just returned from the States. Sure I had more sense than to spend my precious holiday glued to the tube, but the wind ought to have carried news of this latest groundbreaking, earth-shattering, megalomania-inducing production to hit TV this year to my ears.

Yet, the show was completely lost on me.

Not quite ready to shrug it off as yet another over-hyped TV fad and surprisingly pinned under an inexplicable nagging curiosity, I cut my pretense.

“So what’s Lost really?”

My friend beeped an emoticon that was rolling on the floor laughing out loud (we online chatheads know it as ROTFLMAO) – “You may as well be stranded on that island with the cast of Lost.”

So that was it? A bunch of air crash survivors marooned on a bizarre island? Further references that I read, saw and heard from the media, drawing similarities between Lost and Survivor, only diminished my enthusiasm in the show. Sorry, it may be the original reality show but Survivor is right at the bottom of my watchable TV show list.

Fortunately, the hype surrounding Lost was building at such break-neck speed that I got so irrationally caught up in the frenzy, that when the highly anticipated series finally premiered on June 9 with a 2-episode pilot, I was actually looking forward to it. Well, if all else failed, there’s always Matthew Fox (of Party of Five fame, the big brother I always wanted) and Dominic Monaghan (from my all-time favourite, The Lord of the Rings trilogy).

The future of Lost had been as elusive as its monsters. Even its creators were keeping their fingers crossed at the premiere of the pilot episodes, hoping that it would at least strike a chord with a fraction of the American audience. Little did they expect the pilot to take off to one of the fieriest starts of the year, securing a few more episodes for the season. By mid-season, it was already slated for season two. Lost has not only become the ratings powerhouse of America, it has also conjured international mayhem like no other rookie TV series has ever done. That should explain the 12 Emmy nominations it recently received.

And well, as cliché as what I am about to say may sound (just like the broad plot of Lost – haven’t we seen enough shows in which the cast dodge mysterious, elusive monsters to end the final survivor count at a tenth of the original) – I was blown away. The 2-hour pilot bears little semblance to its synopsis, nor is it anything like Survivor, for which I am immensely thankful. Not to mention the brilliant direction of photography – kudos to Larry Fong, who frames every scene so carefully and beautifully to achieve their impact and aesthetic objectives, juxtaposing the beauty of the Island and its insidious malice to cinematic perfection.

Right from the beginning, the show carries with it ancient secrets of Jurassic proportions. From the moment Jack (Matthew Fox) opens his eye in the wake of the crash some distance away from the crash site, with which the first pilot episode begins (is that not reminiscent of Disney’s Dinosaur or Spielberg’s Jurassic Park), the audience knows the story is steeped deep in complexity beyond the current space and time. I, for one, have wondered how an entire season, more than 20 hours worth of story material, can be built around 48 people who are virtually strangers on a deserted tropical island. What else can possibly happen to them besides eat, sleep and pray to be rescued soon?

I knew there’s a reason why I am not a screenwriter.

Much less one that can spin a mighty fine tale, which is Lost, around symbols – which by the way, teeter dangerously on the edge of religious proclivity – that attempt to connect fantasy to reality, but very often provide fewer answers than the questions they rouse. The characters, their names and relationships, the episodic titles, the music and lyrics, objects, colours, and as you will later see and connect, numbers, are all symbolic. As Executive Producer Bryan Burk says, “There is nothing on that show that is an accident.(1)” Every little thing, person, gesture and incident is accounted for, and is in the picture for a reason.

It is not happenstance that many episodes begin with someone’s eye flipping open. Remember the adage about our eyes being the windows to our souls? Whatever is in the soul of each of the survivors will soon be bared in a series of intriguing flashbacks. Every one of them only draws the audience deeper into the mystery, the secrets of a past life that are better left buried on the Island as it starts everyone on a clean slate. Tabula rasa.

And the 5000-year-old backgammon game prominently features the traditional symbol of good versus evil – the conflicting yin and yang forces of Taoism, if I may – in its black and white seeds, "two players, two sides, one is light, one is dark." The black and white reference recurs in several other instances throughout the show, pummelling into the audience’s rationale that forces from the extreme ends of the good-bad continuum are at work here, on the Island. What is uncertain, however, is who/what/where is which. The survivors versus the Others? The Island? The monster (s)? Each other? Or the ghosts in their very souls?

And possibly the biggest symbol of them all, is the Island itself. In this very character-driven drama, the Island itself is a character in its own right, almost deserving of a spot on the credit roll. It seems to think (did it deliberately crash Flight 815?), react (the cave-in at Charlie (Dominic Monaghan)’s “I’m a bloody rock God!”), breathe (the whispers that Danielle (Mira Furlan), the French woman who has been stranded for 16 years, hears), feed (the polar bears, boars, wispy smoke monster… and survivors meeting their doom in bizarre accidents). It also seems to want to influence (Locke, played by Terry O ‘Quinn, thinks “this is my destiny” and Walt, played by child prodigy Malcolm David Kelley, “likes it here”). But the energy that it is siphoning off, is it good or is it bad, is still anyone’s guess.

So welcome to the Island.

Meet your friendly neighbours – Jack the doctor who is God’s (or the Island’s?) relief package for the disaster. A trained spinal surgeon, his vast medical knowledge also comes in handy in various other, many of them life-threatening, situations. That – together with his natural instinct to lead and help others as evident in his immediate sprint to the crash site belting out life-saving orders – makes him an instant favourite with viewers. His budding relationship with Kate (Evangeline Lilly), the woman with a tad too much testosterone in her who sews him up like the drapes in her apartment, becomes a source of envy for Sawyer (Josh Holloway) – the badass, bad-mouthed, bad-tempered… basically bad-everything, Kate-proclaimed parasite that is “always taking, never giving”. But the sides and angles of this triangle will not add up to your average trigonometry formula. Just don’t count on it.

Next in line, the families. Michael (Harold Perrineau), Walt and Vincent the dog make the estranged father-and-son family who are reunited after 10 years of separation. The communication breakdown between Michael and Walt is probably as bad as that between the Korean-speaking-only couple Jin (Daniel Dae Kim) and Sun (Kim Yun-Jin), and the rest of the English-speaking-only survivors. But at least, Jin and Sun can communicate between themselves despite the chauvinistic behaviour of Jin, unlike certain wealthy stepsiblings who bicker at every possible opportunity. In contrast to Jin, Boone (Ian Somerhalder) is the most accommodating male, always looking out for his self-centred brat stepsister, Shannon (Maggie Grace), for whom he secretly holds a torch. How the Island exploits these relationships may be the best of the plot yet.

Finally, the lone rangers. John Locke, the only survivor who has “looked into the eye of this island, and what I saw was beautiful”, has been paralysed for 4 years up to the point of the crash. He is a firm believer of his destiny – the task that the Island has commissioned him to do in exchange for mobility and agility. Always the solitary enigmatic survivor, Locke gains some respect from the group after establishing himself as the sole breadwinner hunter until he becomes too occupied with yet another symbol the Island throws at him and the audience. The Hatch.

Perhaps the term is more suited to the very pregnant Claire (Emilie de Ravin), who looks ready to “hatch” anytime. And when the day comes, will she suffer the fate that the psychic back in Australia has predicted for her and the baby? Whatever is in the stars for Claire and child, there is certainly Charlie, the rock star from a fallen band called Driveshaft, which he is in the process of reviving before he finds himself acquainted with the Island’s very own star rock – the “Black Rock”. The couple strikes up an endearing friendship, possibly rescuing each other from their FATE.

Fate puts Sayid (Naveen Andrews), a former Republican guard, the “genuine Iraqi”, on that fateful Flight 815. Separated from childhood sweetheart Nadia, he finally meets her again in the interrogation room of the Republican Guard. He later engineers her escape, the success of which is dubious. Fate deals Sayid another blow when he is offered a chance to find Nadia again, but at the expense of a close friend. And now it seems he may never see her again, or will Sayid choose to forget the past and start anew?

If only. If only the nice, cheerful, comic burly Hurley (Jorge Garcia) could turn back the hands of time, he would return to the fried chicken place he was working at before he became the major shareholder of that box company in Tustin, California and the shoe factory in Canada, with a personal worth of US$160 million. He would be “Harry Pottered” so he could expel these cursed numbers – 4 8 15 16 23 42 – from his life with a wave of his wand. Forever. Now, wouldn’t that be “the Jedi moment”?

Unfortunately, or fortunately, viewers can extrapolate all they want but what goes on in the labyrinth of the Lost writers’ minds is currently closed to public access. When Lost returns for a second season this September in the United States, the producers have promised more Island adventure and character development as we delve deeper into their dark pasts. The Hatch will finally be revealed, and to the glee of many fans, in the first episode. This will definitely unleash a whole new slew of events, which are most likely exciting, probably unsettling but certainly without a lull.

What an irony, when all the survivors want is really to bury the hatch (et).

References
(1) http://www.livejournal.com/users/suil_liath/487.html

TRAVEL: California 15 Feb - 09 Mar 2005

Having just returned from one of my most rigorous adventures yet, I've been busy with other commitments of life, which to say the least, are not too far less rigorous than the miles of uphill hiking I did in the US. So this is a completely incomplete account of my holiday, the pages of which are in transfer from my hard journal.

Do check back!

15 Feb 2005, Tuesday – Narita Airport, Japan

2.25 pm. Narita Japan again. Gosh, more than 4 hours to kill before the connecting flight at 7.10 pm. This stretch of 30- and 40-something gates is boring. Little to browse, even less to stimulate fervent purchase interest. Well, great for the pocket though. But I’d better remember to pick up the cute doll-snack on the way back. One has gotta love Japan’s merchandise – so full of character that I doubt the US could closely match. We’ll see.

5 pm. Still 2 hours to go!! Why is time moving at snail pace?! Sigh... I hope the flight to San Francisco would be less eventful. Not that the earlier flight was bad. The flight was not full so the 2 of us were comfortable in a 3-seater. It had been okay save for a few bouts of mild turbulence that spilled my elderly neighbor’s tea on my pants and stained my socks.

But that didn’t really matter. What piqued me was the “random security check” at Changi Airport. Was it really random, or targeted? If the latter, what was the reason? My passport or the e-ticket? I’d check with Hui Ling if she had similar experience. Let’s hope the entry to the US would be less unnerving, although the strict security enforcement was really quite… comforting.

15 Feb 2005, Tuesday – San Francisco

It was surreal. As I walked on the aerobridge, through the airport hallways, across the custom gates, out of the arrival hall, into the BART station, on the train, into the rain and the cold of Union Square, up Powell Street, down Sutter, up Taylor Street and finally arriving at the USA Hostels, I looked around me thinking – this is surreal. Surreal. Surreal.

I don’t think I’d ever felt like that before on my many other trips.

The plane landed at about noon. It had been a reasonably good flight, mainly because I slept through most of it as I was the only person occupying the row of 3-seats. In fact, the flight was so empty that many of us had the chance to recline and sleep like first class passengers. Yet when we landed, I was in a sort of daze. Jetlag? Hmm…

The folks at the USA Hostels were great but they’re screwed by some irresponsible hosteller, which also meant I was completely screwed too. I would have loved to settle quickly into the room, have a quick shower and possibly a short nap since it was raining and I wasn’t too keen on the idea of sightseeing in wet weather. Where’s the romance unless you’re on the arms of some hunk but that’s beside the point.

The point is, the room that I was assigned to did not have a bed for me! The girl at the reception could not help me right away because she had to check with someone else but the reservation records showed that there’s supposed to be an empty bed in that room. So after dumping my bags, I went to hang out at Borders. Thank God for Borders.

I’d also spotted the Disney Store on the way to USA Hostels… this is an excellent location really. Union Square, the hub of downtown San Francisco. And a bed at the bargain price of $9 per day (it’s on half price because it’s Valentine’s week), wow!

The multi-floor Borders indeed was stocked with books and music of every variety to amuse myself on cold lonely nights… or afternoons. One of the gems that I immediately took myself to was the screenplay of the highly-acclaimed ‘Sideways’. I’d heard so much knew so little about the movie that my curiosity just about built to the max. I pounced on the book, and made it my own for the 5 consecutive nights I spent in San Francisco, save for one when I was too tired to keep my eyes peeled.

When I went back to the hostel to check on the status of my room, I had the bad news that they had to move me to the Sutter Street building. Jim, the manager in charge, apologized profusely and helped me carry my bags in the transfer. Hmm… I was hoping they’d offer a discount to redeem themselves for the screw-up but oh well…

The situation seemed to redeem itself, though. The original room was a hell of a mess that when I first entered it, I was frankly quite appalled and dismayed that I’d have to live there for 5 days. The new room, although with 5 beds (compared to 4 on Taylor) was completely vacant when I checked in. I was later joined by an Australian girl who was working at Berkeley for nothing but for the experience (given the chance, I’d like to try it too!). The two of us had the room to ourselves for 3 nights before 3 other girls checked in on Friday.

After a shower and a call home to report my safe arrival, I decided to hit Borders again. The rain had not abated. So I read Sideways till my eyes could no longer be kept awake and my mind could focus no more but on the growl in my tummy, I left to pick up a pizza and retire for the night. At 9 pm. Ridiculous.

16 Feb 2005, Wednesday – San Francisco

It’s a beautiful day! Despite turning in early the night before, I woke after 9 (although I was jerked from my slumber at about 5.30 am by my roommate’s alarm clock – she needed an early start at work). I quickly washed up and went down to the kitchen for the free pancake breakfast. But found none. Then I remembered a complaint on a website that the free breakfast was a hoax. Or maybe I was late and missed it. It didn’t really matter anyway.

Since the weather’s great after so much rain the day before, I was determined to pack tonnes of sightseeing into this one. First stop though, would be breakfast. But where at? And which part of town should I be spending the day at afterward? Since it’s Chinese New Year, and only 6 days into it, perhaps the most logical choice would be to bask in the festive atmosphere right there among the largest Chinese community outside of Asia. Besides, I needed to use the Internet and the Chinatown public library seemed to be the closest.

24 Feb 2005, Thursday – Hollywood

The bus pulled into the Los Angeles station at approximately 0500. The bus to Hollywood would not depart until after 0600 so I had to find something to amuse myself with for more than an hour. There wasn’t very much, only restless or tired travelers streaming about the busy station. Busy at this hour, I guess they operate 24 hours a day.

Just when I thought the hour would drift by uneventfully, a security high drama, or close to one, unfolded. Two security officers approached a drab, emaciated man, pummeling him with questions. He seemed like he was high on something, and the officers eventually led him away from the station. Peacefully.

The ride to Hollywood came and in less than a half hour, I was strolling the Walk of Fame, some of the stars I recognized, many I didn’t and most I couldn’t care less. My sense of direction was warped by the insistent thought of cozying up in the dorm bed as quickly as I could. After crossing some streets and Schrader Blvd never came in sight, I re-consulted the map and uh huh, I was strolling down the opposite direction.

The guy who checked me in was sort of in a daze, maybe lack of sleep, or if that was his usual demeanor, the unusually laidback attitude almost set my nerves ablaze. It was even less comforting that a bed would not be available until after 10 am when the current occupant checked out. Great, and I spent the hours in between watching Good Morning America in the kitchen.

Which wasn’t half as bad, really. Fellow hostellers started streaming in for their free pancake breakfast, which they had to make themselves. Some made beautiful golden ones, some could pass off for charcoal but the animated conversation amongst these young and (some of them) very good-looking people were the most entertaining of all.

Welcome to Hollywood.

When the dorm bed became available, the sheets did not. That didn’t really bother me although housekeeping did. Vacuum cleaners buzzing down the hall, loud music playing and people in… more animated conversation. By the time the team stepped into my room, drowsiness had already bade me goodbye. For the record, the housekeeping team was pretty impressive at keeping the room and amenities in tip top condition. Kudos to them.

A stroll down Hollywood Boulevard on a sunny afternoon was swell after a whole week of overcast sky and freezing cold raindrops pelting my face in San Francisco (and Las Vegas).

First stop, the Visitor’s Centre. The walking map was simple enough and I shouldn’t have bothered, really. There were only 2 main streets worthy of closer scrutiny here – Hollywood Boulevard which I was on, and Sunset Boulevard, of the Divine-Hugh Grant fame.

Scouring for props may be a logistic headache for us producers in Singapore, but here in Hollywood, they are everywhere … some even on characters plying the streets, tourists or aspiring actors hoping to catch the eye of a discerning casting agent? The street was flanked by shops selling eccentric clothing, collectible movie memorabilia and like a true tourist town, souvenirs in all price ranges with only one thing in common – the word “Hollywood” creatively eternalized on the most prominent surface.

10 blocks didn’t seem like such a long walk from Vine Street to the Kodak Theatre and Gaumann’s Chinese Theatre, both the star attractions of Hollywood, as asserted by the Visitors Information Center dude who tried to get me on a bus tour of Tinseltown. Must be a slow day.

Kodak Theatre was bustling with activities and that little stretch of Hollywood Boulevard was closed to traffic. Only then did I realize that the Academy Awards was happening that very weekend. Alas, I wasn’t going to be around – I’d be frolicking with Mickey Mouse in Disneyland on Saturday, and then rocking on the long ride back to San Jose on Sunday as the red carpet which they were rolling out just about now played host to the most glamorous of Hollywood’s stars on Oscar night.

A visit to the Hollywood Museum felt like a stumble through the wardrobe on the sets of movies from the early days of film-making to recent blockbusters. Although not every movie was represented in the museum, all the exhibits were well-preserved.

My favorite was the Marilyn Monroe corner. It was almost like a shrine in tribute of, in my opinion, the most misunderstood and media-wrecked star of her time. Exhibits included her dresses from movies and public appearances, and photographs with quotes from the photographers. But the highlight, at least to me, were the video autobiography and her autopsy reports, all congruent to allegations that Marilyn Monroe did not commit suicide. It was murder, which appeared to be a high-level act.

I spent at least 2 hours lingering in the museum (never thought I was such a museum-lover!) When I was finally outside, it was past 4 pm. The Oscar production and security teams were still very hard at work setting up for the big night. Kodak Theatre was off limits so I had only the Chinese Theatre to hang out at. There was, of course, the shopping mall that spanned these 2 landmarks, if I ever ran out of places to go to.

I deliberately skipped the guided tour of the Chinese Theatre because I did not deem the fee value for money (although I’m rather curious why’s it called a Chinese Theater besides the architecture and why Chinese architecture at the hub of western film industry). Besides, I enjoyed checking out the who’s who of Hollywood who left prints and messages on the slabs of stones that now adorned the sidewalk leading up to the heavy doors of the theatre.

With all the temptations of this glamour town, I chose McDonald’s for dinner. Perhaps, all the star-gazing today was getting to me and McDonald’s was the much-needed reality check that would keep me sane for more Day 2 adventures. Ciao.

25 Feb 2005, Friday - Hollywood

Whatever kept me in bed for 10 straight hours, I did not know. Could be sleep in arrears from the overnight bus ride into Hollywood from Las Vegas the previous night, or was the upper bunk cozier than the lower one I had in San Francisco? Whatever it was, I had all the rest I required for a 3-mile hike up to the Hollywood Hills.

The weather was not as good as the previous day. The Hollywood sign was shrouded in thin mist as I navigated through an immaculate neighborhood whose sidewalks were lined with palm trees that had become synonymous with California as far as TV shows went. Hopefully, the mist would soon lift and the sign would be bathed in golden sunshine for my million-dollar picture of the symbol of a billion-dollar industry.

Although it was a relatively easy hike, the long, quiet and somewhat meandering Beachwood and Ledgewood Drives made the journey seem longer than it actually was. When I finally got close enough to the sign, alas, there was still a thin veil of mist over it. Not the most picturesque of shots but the mysterious quality was somewhat appealing. Maybe I was an optimist, or was I just trying to justify the effort put into getting up close to this … thing.

Spending no less than a good half hour walking back and forth in anticipation of the lifting of the veil, er, mist, my patience eventually paid off. Although the lighting condition was far from perfect, at least the sign was sporting subtle glints of gold. Well, not exactly a million-dollar shot like I’d hoped for; I bet this one’s worth a couple of Starbucks coffees…

The trip to the Hollywood Hills proved to be the last straw for my Reebok sneakers, whose sole had already shown signs of falling apart. Coincidentally, a store near the USA Hostels was having a sale and I picked up a cool white and tan leather-suede Guess shoes for bargain price. And another pair of sporty blue suede Guess for… just in case.

I did not have very much to do that afternoon except shop for souvenirs for family and friends back home. Oh yeah, and that must-go “Build-A-Bear” store, which I found the day before but was closed for the day, that was similar to the Basic Brown Bear Factory in San Francisco. But alas, for whatever reason it was closed when I went a-knocking (maybe because it’s Friday? Or maybe because it’s Oscar weekend)

So I had plenty time to browse and pick the best gifts for my family and friends, and the cash registers sure had fun “ka-chinging” my purchases while my burnt little pockets must be screaming in excruciating pain, on which I turned a deaf ear. Hollywood was a shopper’s paradise. Very attractive merchandise, very beautiful clothes and shoes, unparalleled haute couture, lovely shoes, stunning tops and skirts, cute shoes… oh did I mention the sexy shoes that the 4 Sex and the City girls would kill for? Ooh…

Shopping is indeed a time killer. Before I knew it, the day was getting dark. On the way back to the hostel, the sound of music drew me into a place called The Musician’s Institute. A band was performing with a black lady vocalist that could give all the American Idol contestants a run for their money. So mesmerizing was the performance (and the drummer J) that I decided to sit down and immerse myself in the melodies of this group of aspiring musicians, artistes. I was sure that many of my revered musicians, BT for one, had had a similar gig at some point in their lives. It was cool that these creative persons had this avenue to showcase their talents and have fun. It is something that the more affluent countries in Asia should emulate in promoting of the arts; I’m happy to note that the occasional performances at the Esplanade and the MITA Building came close.

Very shortly after I dumped my stuff in the room, I set off for Amoeba. Like the one on Haight Street, this is a really cool store which a wide selection of everything. Still, most of them are more than I could afford so after a short while there, I was off to Jack-in-the-Box for dinner. I wish we had more burger choices, such as this and the In-and-Out Burger, back home.

I had spotted Borders on the way back from the Hollywood Hills and that was where I spent the rest of the evening. Picked up some Valentine’s merchandise on 70% discount – a couple card game for Hui Ching and Raymond, and a Love Is… notebook for Hui Teng who needed a diary. And if she didn’t want it, I would gladly keep it for myself. After all, I had religiously cut out the cartoons complete with quotes on what Love Is, published everyday in the New Straits Times about a decade ago, and still have them in my safekeeping.

At Borders also, I had the good fortune to catch a gig by a husband and wife team. It was a pity I did not stay throughout the performance which I thoroughly enjoyed because I had to wake up early the next day to catch the train to Anaheim, and I didn’t have my handphone which doubled as my alarm clock with me. Of course, I had the alarm function of the iPod but I wasn’t confident that a single beep could jolt me from a deep slumber. So to play it safe, I’d better have enough sleep and let my biological clock set the alarm.

26 Feb 2005, Saturday – Disneyland, Anaheim

I think I hardly slept that night. Or if I did, I woke very early this morning, way before the designated 0545 set for the alarm. Still, I lazed in bed until 0545. A huge mistake, because by the time I checked out and started walking to the Hollywood/Vine Metro subway station, it was already past 0615. And alas, I missed the train and only caught the next one about 20 minutes later.

One really interesting thing noteworthy of the US public transport system is that everyone could travel virtually free. I had dutifully bought my ticket at the machine before realizing that there wasn’t any barrier ala the MRT auto-gate to validate the ticket, much less an inspector onboard. I had also ridden free before in San Francisco on their street and cable cars – the operators of the former had seemed more than happy to take us on a free spin.

Anyway, I arrived at the Union Station 10 minutes after the collection time for my reserved Amtrak ticket to Anaheim. I was glad my reservation still held, and at the same time, I could collect my 3 other reserved tickets to Lake Tahoe and Yosemite the following week.

Upon boarding the train, I realized I shouldn’t have bothered reserving. The train was quite empty. I had felt like an idiot the day before while making my reservation at the public phone in a crowded kitchen of the USA Hostel, trying to keep my voice down as I spoke and sometimes, repeated my answers several times, to a voice-recognition reservation system. To the outsider, I had certainly seemed crazy talking to myself! Haha…

The journey to Anaheim was very comfortable and I resolved to ride Amtrak in future if the price was comparable to Greyhound’s. I had certainly made the right decision refunding the Greyhound ticket.

A short cab ride after arrival at the Anaheim station, and I arrived at the Anabella Hotel at about 8.30 am. En route, the cab driver told me that the beautiful weather would be short-lived - the rain, which had stopped just a couple of days before, was expected to resume the following week. It seemed we were extremely lucky to be there at the right time. What fun would Disneyland be in wet weather?

And hell yes, we were extremely lucky indeed! Hui Ling and her colleague had arrived earlier and while they were waiting for me at the lobby, a couple gave them a 3-day pass, of which they had only used once the day before. Gee, that’s a saving of US$106!!

Another pleasant surprise awaited us. I wasn’t expecting much of the room for the price that we paid for, and its exterior didn’t seem all too impressive either. But once we stepped in, I thought that was really great value for money. Immediately, I had the urge to snuggle up in the many soft pillows and snooze.

But the 2 delicious complimentary chocolate strawberries brought me back to earth and soon, we were all set for DISNEYLAND – the happiest place on earth!

The place was huge. Even the search for the main entrance and ticketing booths required some sort of skillful navigation. And once we were in, we were at a lost where to go first. To first launch into “Tomorrowland”, which was near the entrance, didn’t seem like the most logical choice before a picture with some of Disney’s historical figures such as Mickey, Minnie, Pluto, etc. But alas, just as we wielded our cameras, the stars began to retreat to their “trailers”, promising to be back soon.

So into tomorrow we went, without the past. And we quickly discovered that it was the colorful past that was the most lustrous.

Like the Dumbo Ride. Or the Snow White & the Seven Dwarves stage musical performance, which was truly outstanding (besides the fact that the prince was gorgeous). Or the Mickey & Friends street parade and the Disney Princesses Royal Party that to say the least, thrust forth the little kid in everyone of us to sing, dance and wave to all our favorite Disney characters from days past and present.

The warm day became increasingly chillier as evening approached. We had all left our jackets back at the hotel so that was the perfect excuse to hit the souvenir stores for one of the pricey but pretty sweaters, and be distracted by a myriad of merchandise that effortlessly but surely drew cash from the pockets of the faint-hearted.

We hurried over to the Rivers of America in Frontierland where the night’s grand finale, Fantasmic, was to be staged. The show had not started but the venue was so swarmed with people that it was impossible for us to get a good view so we decided to return for the second show an hour and half later at 10.30 pm. So we utilized our FastPass for priority entry to the Big Thunder roller coaster ride, the queue to which was unbelievably long. After the ride, I completely understood why it was worth the wait. It’s got to be the best thrill ride Disneyland had to offer.

Right after Big Thunder, we left for Frontierland again to reserve the best seats for Fantasmic. The first show had just ended so we easily secured the front row just above the river. But there’s almost an hour to go before the show started and quite frankly, the wait in the cramped seated position in the cold was not much fun. We should have opted to stand. This was confirmed when the host warned that those in front would be wet because of the spectacular water magic that Mickey conjured up in battle with his enemies. Nevertheless, the half hour show was a magnificent finale to a fun day at the happiest place on earth.

TRAVEL: New Zealand 28 Apr - 09 May, 2004

There and Back Again

I hope I’d do as good a job as Bilbo Baggins reiterating his adventures in Middle-Earth, scaling mountains and fighting Smog the ancient dragon. I did not see dragons, much less fight them. What laid before my eyes were, paraphrasing Elijah Woods’ words “every geographical and geological structure imaginable… and some unimaginable” and all that I fought was an overwhelming urge to deliberately miss my flight when the day of return to Singapore drew near.

But alas, here I am again, back in my scorching hot home after a swift 12-day adventure to New Zealand but the memory of it is far from fading.

It is the perfect getaway from the vicissitudes of life. A calming place for one to recollect him or herself, pull focus and get a new, possibly different, perspective of life that could sway one’s destiny. It was a trip for the spiritual self, and I’m glad I went on that journey.

Everyday I woke up to imageries of Jurassic proportions that had been sculpted by the gentle hands of time. One or two hundred million years old? I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure they will still be there, more beautiful than ever, long after I’m gone.

Quite frankly, one can’t help but feel small, ephemeral and temporary amongst the mountains and rivers that are going to outlive us all by a few million lifetimes. And with so little time between now and the end, shouldn’t I already seek affirmation to my own purpose of existence? What better place to do that than here in New Zealand, where time seems to stand still? An embarrassingly-tiny fraction of the time needed to create this magnificent land is what will take to fuse my thoughts, shape my mind and bolster my courage to reconnect with life.

28 April 2004, Wednesday: Singapore – Auckland – Christchurch

Every great journey begins with a single step; that would be the moment I boarded the plane. After a glass of white wine to go with my fish dinner, I was comfortably knocked out for most of the 9-hour journey to Auckland. One hour at the customs, another hour idling at the domestic airport in transfer and there we were in Christchurch – ready to rock and roll in one of the country’s oldest cities and one that held the strongest bond to its English heritage.

29 April 2004, Thursday: Christchurch

Our bus captain-cum-guide, Peter, is a fine example of old English charm. Not without what I’d theme the New Zealand sense of humour – don’t believe everything he says – a common denominator amongst New Zealand men as I would gradually discover. Well, whatever gets the rather passive Asians going can’t be too bad a thing.

First stop was the Antarctic Centre. It’s really not my type of thing to do, visiting museums. I’d had enough of confined, claustrophobic spaces – I couldn’t wait to run out and embrace the wondrous wilderness that this country was so famous for. But the fact that the US had based its Antarctic research centre in the next building and that it was the only place where flights departed on their perilous journeys to the Antarctica rendered it worthy of some closer scrutiny. While excitement peaked at the haglund ride and a simulated Antarctic snowstorm, it had at least been an educational tour.

Temperature at the South Island dipped below 10oC at night – a very nice change from the heat at home although our teeth began to chatter after a while. I worried constantly that we were under-prepared without winter jackets but maybe it was only a matter of adjusting to the new chillier climate.

While our natural thermostats did the adjustment, a walk around Cathedral Square proved too cold to handle so we snuck into Starbucks for some piping hot coffee and chocolate just before dinner. The Chinese dinner was decent, the hotel was cozy and I slept like I never slept before. I was definitely looking forward to the Tranzalpine train ride the following day, which would undoubtedly bring us into the heart of New Zealand’s scenic country.

30 April 2004, Friday: Tranzalpine Train Ride & Fox Glacier

The 2-hour train ride offered a spectacular view of the Southern Alps that formed the spine of South Island. Standing on the open deck with only a woolen pullover, the chilly country air bit into my cheeks as the train rumbled over ravines and rivers into tunnels beneath ancient mountains reminiscent of the mines of Moria. Ironically, the momentarily still air in the pitch darkness was a much welcomed relief to my cold-numbed cheeks and Rudolph-red nose.

When we finally alighted at Arthur’s Pass, I wondered what else could New Zealand offer that was more beautiful that what we had just seen. As it was, I found that photos were not going to do it enough justice, and no words could ever capture the glorious landscapes or explain the emotions that these splendid works of nature conjured. In fact, I’m embarrassed at this attempt to describe the majesty of these impeccable natural sculptures with my humble English vocabulary. But I’ll do my best – this is only but the beginning.

I cannot even begin to describe the pristine glacier towns that we came to – the Franz-Josef Glacier where we stopped for fuel, drinks and where we cleaned out the minimart’s peanut slabs, and the Fox Glacier where we’d be going for a glacier walk the following morning. These were clearly tourist towns, with young glacier challengers enjoying a moment of solitude beneath parasols on the balconies of cafes before taking on those massive icy landscapers. Mountains in the distance were breathtaking but it was how the sky lit up in the evening sun that amazed me. A gorgeous blend of orange, pink and fiery red – the last time I saw the sky in that palette of colours was in Texas on a smoldering evening.

01 May 2004, Saturday: Fox Glacier – Haast Pass – Wanaka

The fiery sky of the previous evening did not forewarn a misty morning. As our group departed for the Fox Glacier though, the mist cleared up a little with soft morning sunrays parting the heavy clouds. Not having to trek the glacier grounds in showers sure lifted our spirits. For me, the cute guide had a lot to do with it. We got a little worried for mom though, because Ben (that’s the guide’s name) mentioned the terrain would get rough. Mom was a tough woman and she was going to rough it out with us, and that got us a little worried. The tough lady soon proved us wrong.

It turned out the trek wasn’t too bad. The constant stops to catch a breather helped. By the time we came face to face with the mouth of the Fox, I was actually perspiring a little in the chill mountain air. For Heaven’s sake, I had on 3 layers of shirts, one jacket and a raincoat!

Ben wouldn’t let us go beyond the mouth of the glacier. I guess it was for people with more time, on a half-day or a full-day tour. Time was not a luxury that we had on this trip so off we went, retracing our steps in bitter disappointment. Well, not quite so for me because I managed some small talk with the cute guide all the way to the bus. Informative too, so I’d be very well-prepared the next time I decided to challenge the Fox. But would Ben be there? We were just lucky he took us out that morning, probably standing in for his over-booked staff (this is the best time for glacier climbing!), and groups were not part of his regular tour of duty.

By the time we bid the Fox goodbye, it poured. It rained 200 days a year so we counted our blessings for the 2 hours of good weather that morning. All the way out of the mountains, over the Haast Pass, it poured, rained and drizzled. Finally, warm sunshine greeted us in Wanaka, a most welcoming gesture just like everything else that this gorgeous little town ever spawned.

I fell in love immediately with the calm waters that swept the long, sandy shores of Lake Wanaka, the faraway cries of the gulls, the Southern Alps that brimmed the opposite end of the lake and the lovely folks who had the good fortune of calling it home. Mom panicked when I told her this was where I was going to settle down and raise kids. I wasn’t kidding. I’m working towards that.

Most appropriately, the wonderful news of my greatest inspiration’s new daughter came in the midst of this supreme beauty. My shoutout to you, BT – a nature-lover yourself, and little Kaia Nui.

02 May 2004, Sunday: Queenstown

Today, I turned around and watched our coach pull out of Wanaka. It suddenly occurred to me that every step into new amazing Kiwi experience brought us that many steps away from something no less spectacular. So I left a little bit of myself behind, which I vowed to return for later.

The next town that we came to was a gold-mining town called Arrowtown. It was where the inn of the Prancing Pony in Bree was set, the place where the 4 hobbits were supposed to meet Gandalf but ended up in the company of Strider (Aragorn) in the Fellowship of the Ring. Some distance away from Arrowtown was a bungy site where the adventurous took a steep dip into the river gorge from a bridge suspended some 40 feet above the gushing water below.

We swung into Queenstown – the city fit for Queens – a little bit after noon. Who dared suggest that this quaint little town was anything less than royalty? Its main lake, for a start, was nothing short of majestic. According to legend, the village hero rescued his love from a giant he had slain, whose monstrous carcass fell and created a huge dent in the ground, which became Lake Wakatipu. A vast network of rivers fed this massive body of water from ski fields in the distance, the very same mountain ranges that were glimpsed in the Lord of the Rings movies. Oh yes, somewhere along the Kawarau River “stood” the Pillars of the Kings, the Argonath. Our exhilarating one-hour jetboat ride that afternoon might have taken us beyond the royal gateway.

After a hearty Hard Rock café dinner, we snuggled in our hotel beds watching the penultimate episode of the New Zealand Idol. No surprise, it’s more a contest of popularity than raw talent. It was good bedtime entertainment nevertheless. The night was still early and we had no need to wake up early the following morning. It would be our free day and we could idle in bed all day if we liked!

03 May 2004, Monday: Queenstown

We woke up early all the same. The rest of our tour group had already left for Milford Sound, an optional day tour which we opted out of. Following breakfast, we headed back to bed and I drifted back to dreamland while my sister checked out brochures to find something adventurous to do (as I had promised Peter) the following day. It didn’t take her long to convince me that the Caitlins tour would be great fun. Indeed, it took me only one brief glance at the brochure’s description – the rugged Caitlins coast was the only place where rare yellow-eyed penguins, fur seals, elephant seals and sea lions co-exist in their natural habitats! Let’s go hunt some seals! I wondered if they had walruses.

Nobody warned us that Queenstown was right smack in the middle of a wet season. The Caitlins tour operator did promise great weather the following day and he’d better be right. Because I wasn’t going to be stuck in the rain again like this afternoon, high above Queenstown at the Skyline building after a pretty cool gondola ride up that seemed too risky to descend the hill on in the heavy downpour.

So we waited, and I read the Lord of the Rings Location Guide from cover to cover. It was nice to discover that we had passed or at least come in distant contact with a number of the film sites. In fact, a few scenes had been filmed in and around Queenstown such as the mountains beyond Lake Wakatipu. Wow.

Wow again when the rained finally stopped and the dull-coloured mountain ranges were now covered with pristine white snow! It was a beautiful sight – we had a good view before heavy fog clouded over. I was just glad it rained while we were up here. Simply gorgeous.

Simply cold too! The temperature must have dipped several degrees after the downpour. There was no way we were going back to our hotel without something nice and warm to settle our grumbling stomachs first. So Bombay Palace was the obvious choice. What could be better than good, spicy, hot curry over streaming rice on a freezing cold night? That was the best dinner of the tour.

04 May 2004, Tuesday: The Caitlins Adventure

Charles, our Caitlins discovery guide was very punctual. We weren’t too bad ourselves, all ready for the day’s adventure at 5 minutes to 7.30 am. The sky’s looking great – all signs pointed towards an awesome day for the great outdoors.

We’re the only ones up for the Caitlins adventure that day, except for one other young man from Auckland whom I’d mistaken for an acquaintance of Charles’ right until after the trip. Morgan was the epitome of friendly, chatty Kiwis. Seated next to Charles, he was full of questions from the start of the road trip right through the end, and kept us all entertained with his wacky antics. It’s a pity I was in the middle of the vehicle and couldn’t listen in on the conversation, or I’d have found out all there was to know about South Island and Charles’ family by the end of the trip.

First stop since leaving Queenstown was a fruit shed in Alexandra where huge bags of apples went for only NZ$5. Payment method? Just slip the cash into a wooden box at an unattended counter. It’s amazing how rural folks placed such good faith in their counterparts, or they simply couldn’t wait to get rid of the perishable goods with or without payment of any kind?

Shortly after that, we stopped for Charles’ home-made tea served with authentic Cromwell cheese on sesame seed cookies by a river in Roxbury – a beauty whose serenity belied multiple drowning incidents. Then we’re on the road again, driving past a sign that read “Jimmy Pies”.

Jimmy pie, oh Jimmy pie. New Zealand’s finest meat pies that we had the opportunity to learn about but no chance to try. It took Charles and Morgan quite a while to stop raving about it.

“The coast is near.” It felt like an eternity before Charles finally cued us on the approaching Caitlins coastline. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of it but alas, we weren’t near enough yet.

Suddenly, it rose over the next bump! A massive bed of calm, clear blue water whose seamless convergence with the cloudless azure sky would have gone unnoticed but for the golden highlights of the afternoon sun on the faraway horizon.

Here, I shall pause and take a deep breath. I’m going to need all the oxygen to help me articulate this impending deluge of thoughts, words and emotions that I hope shall adequately describe one of the best days of my traveling life.

The panoramic view from a few hundred feet above sea level was absolutely stunning. Everywhere within a 180-degree pan on my left was a brilliant array of blue. Getting out of the vehicle to begin a short trek up to Nugget Point was the highlight of the trip so far. It brought us that much closer to the tantalizing Caitlins coast although I yearned to descend the steep cliff and plant myself atop one of the age-old boulders where a brontosaurus or two rested so long ago maybe? If those little guys in tuxedo (the penguins) could waddle their way up here to Nugget Point, I believed we could descend to the waterfront and get back up again later. Only time was not in our favour.

The rugged coast was out of reach for certain, at least for now, but we could see it up close through the eyes of the binoculars. I had been a great fan of physical geography for as long as I remembered. And for just as long, I had never been able to fully explain how every rock, river or mountain could be so immaculately sculpted by the forces of nature and I sure didn’t have the answer this time either. The stunning view inspired other thoughts but I could never imagine how these great structures had been created and co-existed in perfect harmony for multiple millennia, and if they would ever be transformed again before the end of time.

It took a trained eye like Charles’ to find seals among the rocks. And if you were a first-time binoculars user like me, happy adjusting focus and comprehending sight through magnifying lenses. Once I got a hang of it though, I had a blast watching seals and pups play or rest on the calloused rocks, or disappear underwater for a cool dip or fish. They were particularly fond of a narrow canal between two huge boulders that cast a nice shadow over the water, swimming among floating fronds, a camouflage that often fooled my eyes. Was it a frond or a seal ebbing and flowing with the tide? Ahh… it’s a pup!!

Several moments of utter tranquil, punctured only by Morgan’s occasional “scare-antics”, and many great pictures later, we were greeted by a group of boisterous kids on vacation. The viewing platform was obviously getting a little over-crowded so we thought we’d let the kids have their share of the breathtaking view and retreated to our vehicle.

Lunch was on the long albeit narrow beach but alas, I had my sneakers on so I had to keep my distance from the water, until I thought what the heck, let’s get wet! Finally a warm day on a fabulous beach and I wasn’t about to let it go to waste!

From beach to bush, things were just getting better as the afternoon drew on. Surat Bay where we’d be trekking through wild bushes for some sea lion sighting welcomed us in quite a bizarre way – underwear sunning alongside sneakers and slippers on the fence, inspiring Morgan’s notion of brassiere for flippers and his curious questions later about fashion in Singapore. Hmmm…

Mom wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prickly bush walk, much less the trek over soft sand dunes. The Milford Sound cruise would have suited her better but the Caitlins adventure would be etched deep in her memory as one of her most remarkable travels. Her trepidation abated when we arrived at the bay. We had to keep our excited voices down to prevent rousing sleepy sea lions hidden in the thick shrubs or spread out on the beach. Charles had forewarned us of the incredible speed that these animals could move at, not to mention their teeth could penetrate 3 layers of thick clothing. Judging from my current apparel, that really translated to as deep as my bones.

Our sea lion encounters were pleasant. On a few occasions, I followed Morgan’s lead and took several brave steps closer to the sleeping lions of the sea. One of them woke, looked us in the eye, yawned and went back to sleep. Such is a day in the life of a sea lion.

We took a different, rougher route back to the vehicle to avoid the sand dunes. Mom was still complaining about the rough terrain but I could tell she was rather pleased with her collection of shells and stones from the bay. So, no regrets.

We drove on for another half an hour or so before stopping at a spot overlooking yet another beach, where the waterline bordered the last remaining rain forests on the eastern shore of the southern parts. Again, as we pulled away, I was struck by overwhelming sadness leaving behind something so beautiful.

What we drove to proved to be well worth it. The Purakaunui Falls, one of the most photographed New Zealand wonders was an intriguing 3-tiered waterfall in the middle of a lush rainforest, which in tune with the seasonal change in the rest of the country, sported glimpses of gold in its canopy. Unfortunately, the time of day was not favorable to great photography. Mornings were the best, as the gushing water sparkled in soft sunlight – a mystical, surreal sight that appealed to both human senses and camera lenses.

In the delight of its tranquility, I once again marveled at the power of nature. Where did the water come from and where was it headed? Did water erode the sturdy rocks into these 3 distinct tiers that we saw today? How long did it take? I couldn’t help but draw parallels of our life journeys to the course of the water. If we couldn’t move boulders that obstructed the journey to our goals, we shaped them into something wonderful which would live on to be appreciated by future generations long after we’re gone…

It was slightly after 4 pm and almost time for us to journey back to Queenstown. Charles offered to make us tea before we embarked on the long journey. With great reluctance, we re-traced our steps out of the woods. I took it really slowly, while Morgan asked for a bit more time at the falls. My snail-paced walk out allowed me to soak in the sounds and sights of the jungle. It was great fun examining the wild flora even though I had no clue what they were or if they had a name. One thought clung to my mind – exactly how old were they? – for these woods seemed aged.

I had a close encounter with one of the ancient trees, presumably deceased because its trunk was hollow. It was into the hollow that I slipped, on the suggestion of the guy who lived life on the edge – Morgan that is, who took 2 great pictures of me in the belly of this sleepy hollow. My clothes were soiled after I eased out of the hole at the foot of the trunk. Morgan helped clean them and for a crazy moment, I relished the closeness so much that I thought this could be one guy that I’d like to get to know better. Why not, since he’s obviously someone who could show me a good time and for now, that’s a very important characteristic that I didn’t find in most men I knew. But alas, our short trek out of the woods did not leave enough room for a good get-to-know-you-better session save for a quick question about Auckland.

At half past 4 after we’d had our tea, Charles urged us to begin the journey back. There was only about another hour or so of daylight left for one final glimpse of the scenic south.

Sunset rising over the next bump was an awesome sight. But the real magic happened after sundown when the full moon was high, its rays penetrating the light drizzle to create a rainbow at night! How many times in a lifetime does one see one? It was certainly a first for me and I was truly stunned to even whip out my camera for a picture of this rare phenomenon. There it was, a complete arch over the plains where sheep and cattle had grazed just hours before, in its full grayscale glory. It held my gaze for as long as my eyes could behold.

The drizzle became heavy showers as we approached Queenstown. When it was finally time to say goodbye, our new pals earnestly welcomed us back to New Zealand, perhaps with more family and friends. As we made our way back to our rooms, I had a feeling I would be missing a piece of myself when we departed for Auckland the next day, left in Queenstown with ironically, someone from Auckland. Then again, what’s part of a travel experience had better remain as just that.

05 May 2004, Wednesday: Queenstown – Christchurch – Auckland

The rain of the previous night had created heavy fog that kept Mount Cook well out of sight. It was a pity that we had to give it a miss. The bitter disappointment soon turned sweet as my taste buds were treated to some of the finest raw salmon meat ever. What a fine platter of sashimi out of the milky blue waters from the glaciers. The original plan was to see some salmon swim in the farm’s ponds but really, salmon ready to serve was more appealing. Actually, only to me, as most of our tour group reeled from the sight and thought of fishy flesh sliding down their throats. Well, they didn’t know what they were missing, that’s for certain!!

Another stop at an animal farm and we were back in Christchurch, barely a week since we first landed there. In a mere 4 hours, we’d be up in the air heading back to Auckland. How sad… for I loved the South Island to bits. Would the North have just as much to offer? Perhaps better?

The opportunity to find out was delayed by an hour because our aircraft was stranded in Wellington due to bad weather. It was almost midnight before we were checked into a posh hotel only to enjoy a few hours of sleep in the oversized, over-comfortable beds and a scrumptious breakfast in the morning. Let the North Island adventures begin!

06 May 2004, Thursday: Auckland – Taupo

I was torn between idling in bed for another hour and going for a quick walk outside to look up the famous Sky Tower, just in case I didn’t have another chance before we took off for home. I chose the latter and my feet picked the road towards the harbour. I had no idea it was that close!!

The sun was just over the horizon, the harbour peaceful. I took a moment to reminisce my final morning at the Boston harbour 3 years ago, watching planes take off from the Logan Airport, the very place where 3 days later, one fateful aircraft would lift off the runway and into the World Trade Centre in New York.

After a few great pictures, I headed back to the hotel for a great albeit rushed breakfast. Our guide, John, a chatty local Chinese, arrived on the dot. After loading our luggage, we set off for Taupo. When I learned that we’d be driving through Matamata, a.k.a. Hobbiton, I was beyond ecstatic. What a sunken feeling I had when John said we would not be stopping by Hobbiton, for that required a day tour and trust him, it was not worth the money. I also stupidly passed up the chance to have a picture taken at the door of Matamata that said “Welcome to Hobbiton”.

Our long drive – in excess of 3 hours – was an informative one as John tried his best to provide us with extensive historical, cultural and socio-economic background of New Zealand.

Being the volcanic land where steam wafted out of rocky soil to create some of the most spectacular geysers and geothermal power stations that supplied at least 3% of the country’s electricity consumption, one would expect the North Island to be much warmer than the South. To our dismay, it turned out to be just as chilly especially after sundown. The steaming hot fries at McDonald’s were a huge relief. They never tasted better.

The day was relatively uneventful. Its highlight included a quick descend into the crater of a dead volcano, now a massive lake known as Lake Taupo, and a trip to the Huka Falls. Somehow, hurling volcanic rocks into the centre of the crater was less enjoyable than rippling the tranquil waters of Lake Wanaka with stones from its rocky shore. The rapid Huka Falls was just as dissimilar to the serene Purakaunui Falls. Instead, it triggered the zest for white and black water rafting, something that I would be returning to New Zealand for.

07 May 2004, Friday: Taupo - Rotorua

Today, we set off for the smelly city of New Zealand, Rotorua. This sulphur-filled land, though smelled perpetually like rotten eggs, was also clear of snakes for eternity. In fact, the entire New Zealand was snake-free!!!

Snakes were a great turn-off for me but I loved the rest of New Zealand’s animals! A quick visit to the Agrodome put us in close contact with sheep, lambs, hairy cattle and the rare alpaca, among others – it felt great to have them feeding out of my palm.

Our journey continued on to the Maori Village where we’d get up close with Maori culture, art and craft. John had earlier on briefed us on the history of the Maori settlement and where they stood in the modern New Zealand society today.

“Ki-o-ra” meant hello in the Maori tongue but I did not have a chance to say it. So it seemed the Maoris were well-assimilated into the “white, European” culture where English was the lingua franca. Oh well, better for me, there was no risk of the towering Maoris coming at me for mispronouncing the word. You know how a perfectly decent word can be completely twisted in meaning with just a single wrong syllable. Such is language.

I did not believe the Maoris were savage anyway. Their art form was delicate and the attention to detail was impressive. Nevertheless, much of their wood carvings were war-themed but it could be for self-defence, not offensive.

The Hangi feast – Maori-style dinner – at night proved me quite right. Although very capable of war cries which were really quite intimidating at times, and I had no doubt they could inflict serious harm on enemies by virtue of their stout physique, the Maoris appeared to be peace-loving with their own unique form of song and dance that told stories of love. Even though the food fell short of expectation, the concert performance fed my senses well.

08 May 2004, Saturday: Rotorua – Auckland

The final full day in New Zealand was a Saturday. Spirits were low but I’m pretty much speaking for myself. The road back to Auckland was much shorter. We arrived well before noon and after a short debate on the best lunching spot, we settled on the Victoria Market, a sort of a flea market where good bargains were expected of everything New Zealand. My appetite was thin so while my mom and sisters went for some lousy Chinese food (as they complained later), I decked out in the warm afternoon sun enjoying a live jazz performance by a duo in the central courtyard. The music heaved my spirits but also heightened the melancholy of my imminent departure from this wonderful country.

That evening, we took a walk down Queen Street, now crawling with Chinese students who according to John, had bashed the reputation of the local Chinese community with their vices. His disdain for them was not unfounded as I, too, got a disturbing vibe from the crowded sidewalks. My sister even chided a drunk Chinese who tried to be funny.

Fortunately, the rest of Auckland was much more pleasant. Earlier, we stopped by a different part of the harbour where we could get a closer look at the Auckland Bridge, New Zealand’s testament that it was no longer the little brother of Australia. A drive across the bridge was breathtaking; the sight of hundreds of sailboats anchored at an exclusive bay where membership fees ran into tens of thousands of dollars, was magnificent.

Mount Eden gave us a good bird’s eye view of the city. This dead volcano is now overgrown with grass, maintained not by a crew of park rangers but by cows who were as much a part of the New Zealand population as anyone else that they had to carry out civic duties!

It was a great spot for viewing the sunset but we did not stay. I later tried to catch it at the harbour but alas, darkness came too soon. So we made our way into the Sky Tower although not to the top. That night, I had some great pictures of this towering splendour from our hotel window as one last piece of souvenir from Auckland.

09 May 2004, Sunday: Auckland – Singapore

My heart was filled with gladness that I did not wait till the last day to take a morning walk down the streets of Auckland and its harbour because this day began with foggy weather.

At 8 am sharp, John arrived for our airport transfer. The check-in was quick and we were soon lingering in the departure lounge, watching other planes roll up and down the runway.

And there it was, one of the Lord of the Rings planes with Aragorn and Legolas on the walls made a graceful touchdown, rolled past our window and parked at a gate, waiting for the next departure. It was joined by yet another one, this time with Aragorn and Arwen. There were a total of four aircrafts in the Lord of the Rings fleet and we had sighted two. We saw neither the one with the Hobbits nor that whose walls were graced by Arwen and Eowyn. I wondered if we would ever have the great fortune of riding in any of them.

Our flight was scheduled for 11.55 am but the heavy fog set departure back by several hours. At one point, I hoped that it would be canceled totally. But come 3.30 pm, we were safely tucked in the cabin of the aircraft though not a Lord of the Rings one, ready to roll down the runway, into the skies and back to the lion city.

Goodbye Middle-Earth. The real Earth beckons.