tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90685656739461072682024-02-06T20:20:46.474-08:00Another Day in BorneoAnnie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-40643528967663425332012-01-22T23:32:00.000-08:002012-02-01T21:42:56.718-08:00A GHOST DID IT!<div style="border: currentColor;">
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<span style="color: red;"> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong>COME AND VISIT ME!</strong></span></span></div>
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I am always left speechless whenever (and it has happened quite a number of times) a female- friend tells me that her husband or someone's else's has gone astray because - here it comes!- "the other woman" has been using black-magic.<br />
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I understand that other people in other places have different beliefs yet I can't help thinking that Sarawak could be heaven for cheating husbands, with their wife literally exonerating them while crucifying "the other woman".<br />
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Sarawakians, so I found out, are far from holding the monopoly in blaming their woos on the paranormal. A philipino friend once told me, and very seriously so, how his neighbour had married a "dwarf" (understand an etheral being, visible only to a few chosen people) who had given her no less than five children, a nice big house, an expensive car, designer clothes etc, etc. As it was, everybody in the neightborhood understood perfectly well that they would never see her husband because, heck, he was a "dwarf"! From what I read in the news, American men are not imune to the paranormal insinuating itself into their domestic life, like this <a href="http://www.thesmokinggun.comww./">Wisconsin </a>man accused by his wife of punching her in the face and strangling her, who told the police: "A ghost did it". No kidding!<br />
<br />Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-90573249568327798662012-01-08T23:35:00.000-08:002012-01-21T02:23:41.391-08:00HAPPY FEET IN BORNEO<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of all the wonderful treats which I can enjoy (and afford!) while living in Kuching, my favourite is without a doubt a visit to Paradise; Paradise Wellness Centre that is, where I like to check-in for a one and half hour of Chinese reflexology with masseuse no.12 aka Siaw Hu Hu.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Siaw Hu Hu</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Upon arrival I am immediately directed to a huge super comfy armchair, one of a row of eight separated by see-through curtains. Somehow, the alcove feels private; the decor, a small hanging lantern and a picture on the wall I am facing, is very pleasant and the room is squeaky clean. Siaw Hu Hu brings a basin filled with hot water and salts. As I slowly sink my feet into the water, she instructs me to turn around and to seat on the velvety foot-rest. I am in for reflexology with a plus: pressure massage and stretching of the neck, the shoulders, the arms all the way down to the finger tips, and the back all the way down. She’s pushing, kneading, pulling, rubbing, and twisting... while I have surrendered to her expertise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m now back on the oversized recliner and she grabs my feet out of the basin, pats them dry then keeps the right one wrapped up in a towel. Some people like to watch TV (there’s one for every seat), some like to drink tea or even order and down a plate of noodles; I like to spend the remaining hour in silence, eyes closed, mind focused on what’s happening to my feet and legs and unashamedly delighting in being pampered. When I leave Paradise, it’s on happy feet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You do not have a no.12 reflexologist near-by? There’s still the DIY method. Reflexology charts are available on the internet to help you locate the different reflex areas you may need to pay attention to. If it’s sore, it needs care; feet never lie and reflexologists can give you accurate diagnosis on your health. You are not flexible enough to reach and massage your feet? Check out the hands reflexology chart. I have my own charts and I massage my feet regularly but right now, I’m off to Paradise and surrender into the capable hands of no. 12 aka Siaw Hu Hu.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: large;">Paradise Wellness Centre</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1<sup>st</sup> floor, Stutong Parade,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">(Opposite Kuching Specialists Hospital)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Jalan Setia Raja,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Kuching 93350</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-MY; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Tel: 082 368118 </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-59377099319744794872012-01-08T23:10:00.000-08:002012-01-21T22:28:40.685-08:002012 THE YEAR OF THE DRAGON<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><a href="http://anotherdayinborneo.blogspot.com/2010/06/dragons-of-ko-ko-wangi.html">A Borneo dragon</a></em><br />
<em>From Basic Iban Design by Augustine Anggat Ganjing</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The 23rd of January 2012 will usher the year of the water dragon which hasn’t been seen since the 13th of February 1953. There’s been the wood dragon, the fire dragon, the earth and the metal dragon and now the wheel has turned back to the water element. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What can we expect from the only mythological animal of the 12 that represent the Chinese calendar? Just like with western astrology, Chinese signs are bearers of particular characters and qualities which surface in the psychological make-up of anyone born under their year of influence. For those who were or will be born under the fifth sign of the Chinese horoscope, the good news is that the dragon means luck. Yes!!! Indeed if you were born in 1916, 1928, 1940, 1952, 1964, 1976, 1988, 2000 or and obviously 2012, you are likely to be a free spirited type of person who shows very little regards for rules and regulations and, probably because you enjoy the lucky spell of your sign, the odds are that you will attract lots of success. With a yin comes a yang and the flip of the coin is that you may become easily frustrated with things not going fast enough for you. In their relationship with others, dragons are readily helpful and yet too proud to ask for help when they need it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Chinese dragon and for that matter all <a href="http://anotherdayinborneo.blogspot.com/2010/06/dragons-of-ko-ko-wangi.html">Asian dragons</a> happen to be associated with wisdom as well as longevity which is exactly what the world needs right now; so lets’ welcome the dragon and hope that it will keep its promises. In any case, I wish everyone good luck. </span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><strong>Kong Xi! Kong Xi!</strong></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9068565673946107268#editor/target=post;postID=5733134487422912207">Cats by Annie R.Teo</a></td></tr>
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<br />Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-30167405184094641082012-01-02T01:35:00.000-08:002012-01-20T05:44:47.186-08:00THE ORANG UTANS OF BORNEO<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>“No. There are no gorillas in Borneo; at least not of the great apes family anyway. We do have orang-utans though.”</em></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">Who they are: </span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Orang-utan in Malay and local dialects mean person (orang) of the forest (utan) or more simply “man of the forest”. Scientists however refer to these great apes as Pongo Pygmaeus of which they are two groups: .The Pongo Pygmaeus Pygmaeus lives on the island of Borneo, is round faced and covered in dark red hair.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">. The Pongo Pygmaeus Abelii lives in Sumatra, has a narrow face and a clearer coat.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">Where they live in Borneo</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the wild, in the tropical rain forest and low-lying swamps.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In captivity, in rehabilitation centres set up in sanctuaries: Sepilok, near the town of Sandakan in Sabah; and Semmongoh and Kubah near Kuching in Sarawak. Indonesian Kalimantan has its own programme too. </span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">What they look like</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like men of the forest dressed in a red furry coat. Large body, thick neck, long and very strong arms, bowed legs, no tail. They can weigh 50 to 90kg.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">What they really are</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Great Asian apes or perhaps Maias, the name given to the local Big Foot.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">How long they’ve been around</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">20 million years it seems!</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">How long they are going to be around</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Depends on us. In Borneo (Sabah/Sarawak) there are only about 12 000 of them left to live in the wild.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">How long they live</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">About 50 years in captivity, which is longer than it is in the wild.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">How fast they reproduce</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Rather slow. It takes 7 to 10 years for a female to be able to reproduce. It takes about 9 months for her to deliver her baby. One single baby! It takes another 4 years at least before she mates again as she has to look after her first or youngest child who will stay with her for as long as 6 to 7 years. Daddy does not stick around. Luckily the eldest helps with the newly born sibling.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkI908HGCIBHRhFZgYQQtMSn_rEubq0acH-kixhWi9R6bM9pZ5sCDRi2iF7Jl314RNqt_ycM3so6FB8ugiJHfcg0K8uYLW_Yigageh_KKW2pBlbg0c6JaRWgcUYAnEPiRWz7RbqzO98nA/s1600/Mum+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkI908HGCIBHRhFZgYQQtMSn_rEubq0acH-kixhWi9R6bM9pZ5sCDRi2iF7Jl314RNqt_ycM3so6FB8ugiJHfcg0K8uYLW_Yigageh_KKW2pBlbg0c6JaRWgcUYAnEPiRWz7RbqzO98nA/s640/Mum+R.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><em>What they eat</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mostly plants and fruit and sometimes insects and small birds; they are omnivores.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhAVfJo83BgF5Qghz3L0EUXaBwzIJLLHEST9bQ6YtfEWp_76H87Ot7jd94yX3J9sNXg5E1UZGXzVhxtGpb215b8Vmr0BBUL__MwILFSEkLiJp7XtMDSC6jAN23Hs7qM0hp-W_QKjoxiM/s1600/Hanging+2+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhAVfJo83BgF5Qghz3L0EUXaBwzIJLLHEST9bQ6YtfEWp_76H87Ot7jd94yX3J9sNXg5E1UZGXzVhxtGpb215b8Vmr0BBUL__MwILFSEkLiJp7XtMDSC6jAN23Hs7qM0hp-W_QKjoxiM/s640/Hanging+2+R.jpg" width="420" /></a></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">What they drink</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Water trapped in branches or leaves.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">Where they sleep</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They build platform nests in the trees using twigs and leaves and they build a new “bed” every night; a good idea to prevent infestation by insects or unwelcome visits by snakes.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">How they move around</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">From branch to branch; this is called brachiating. They are great swingers! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDFiyGfmsN-sT4SzLGDPerxvq9Cws7Y6V2i3W0RYGbe2OKEHueIWqyGgSkNiKooyy9mSIbgdNKy0k5eUhh5ar3VKlZuxqGAETs3tNJA1J3fc3FXddvpJym1v8by-5FlTzCL-SyvgvorM/s1600/Hanging+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDFiyGfmsN-sT4SzLGDPerxvq9Cws7Y6V2i3W0RYGbe2OKEHueIWqyGgSkNiKooyy9mSIbgdNKy0k5eUhh5ar3VKlZuxqGAETs3tNJA1J3fc3FXddvpJym1v8by-5FlTzCL-SyvgvorM/s640/Hanging+R.jpg" width="322" /></a></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">How to help</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Is by visiting </span><a href="http://www.wwf.org.my/about_wwf/what_we_do/species_main/orang_utan/"><span style="font-size: large;">WWF Malaysia</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> website and donate.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">These pictures were taken at</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Semmongoh Centre (by yours truly). I am so fortunate to live only 5km away from the centre so that I can visit the orang-utans many times a year.</span>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-56536145515244179442011-12-18T00:34:00.000-08:002012-01-21T02:24:41.303-08:00HERO IN TEN SECONDS<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6pEKixiGhVQp629lK32n9hCm-uJMLRXkmJaH2hVUJYAty4X86Is6Ip7HqienW4p-mqQfloxsJ7LbUXEuSVIzgPtFL_Caz7VTLHHNvA0pm8SHlE_X4tvIBEuPeqggsySc4M21sH_DhWs/s1600/Mating+Cobra+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="390" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6pEKixiGhVQp629lK32n9hCm-uJMLRXkmJaH2hVUJYAty4X86Is6Ip7HqienW4p-mqQfloxsJ7LbUXEuSVIzgPtFL_Caz7VTLHHNvA0pm8SHlE_X4tvIBEuPeqggsySc4M21sH_DhWs/s640/Mating+Cobra+R.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>From Basic Iban Design by Augustine Anggat Ganjing</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Attending Robert Raymer’s creative workshop was so refreshing; a tonic boost really. It wasn’t all listening of course and we, lucky participants, had to turn an experience into an article. So here is my story which could have gone so many different ways, really, and probably will soon. Thanks to Robert whom I invite you to follow on his <a href="http://borneoexpatwriter.blogspot.com/">blog</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It had been a spur of the moment idea. Dinner had ended and I had volunteered to throw the mussels shells into the sungai (river) which blesses our family by crossing right in the centre of our three acres property, a mere fifty meters from our terrace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The afternoon had brought some drizzle and I put on a pair of rubber thongs to walk the stone-slab-path which, lately, had become seriously overgrown with grass. I had also remembered to bring a torch light, which was common sense after nine o’clock at night. Holding the torch while trying not to spill the large glass bowl filled to the brink with half emptied shells and still hot with stock, I was walking confidently, one step behind the cropped tail of my devoted Caramel, and I could already hear the water jumping over the man-made dam and rushing its swollen flow past underneath the belian* bridge that leads to the second and unoccupied half of our farm. Intent on watching my feet, a sudden fear grabbed and stopped me in the instant: What if I crossed a snake?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Needless to say, I had just opened a Pandora box of horrors sustained with personal memories of past experiences: the viper I almost stepped on while in Kinabalu Park; the large brown snake that killed Sunset, my brave cocker spaniel, right in the centre of Kuching city; the long grass snake I found casually napping underneath our living room sofa or even the more recent colourful visitor which had elected to relax on the broad arm of my wicker chair on the terrace; not forgetting that chilli and so amazing encounter I had yesterday with a King Cobra that gave me a royal salute from the side of the road, before slowly withdrawing into the safety of tall grasses, head up and high, as I proceeded to drive on and home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course I am scared of snake; and living on a farm in Borneo brings the odds of meeting reptiles to a frightening statistical number; yet it is not fear of that kind of reptiles that bothers me. In fact, and to the risk of appearing bold silly, I am not really afraid of any animals but rather of not knowing what to do with them so that I may survive an encounter such as one with a defensive poisonous snake and still let my attacker go in peace. I must confess that, so far, I have been oh, so lucky never to be alone every time I had to face a serpent, so that I did not have to find out, in an extreme situation, if I had the guts to pin the lethal head to the ground with my long stand-by harpoon. Truly, I often wonder how I will actually react the day I’ll find myself alone with, let’s say... a cobra?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Still holding my step while my dog is staring at me with expecting eyes, the scene we are creating together feels like it has been caught in a time warp: we are suspended in time. My mind is definitely on hard drive and I am asking myself what I am doing here, alone (except for a toy poodle!), in the dark of the night, in a Borneo countryside, with my feet and legs exposed... I read somewhere that it takes about ten seconds of thinking to make a person either a deserter or a hero. My ten seconds are now over and I find myself back to present time and action. I look at Caramel and I command him “Let’s go!” as I slap my rubber soles on the ground to warn-off any creature lurking nearby. Who’s afraid now?</span><br />
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Belian: Borneo iron wood.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-17527572746461135842011-11-28T22:13:00.000-08:002012-01-19T23:20:38.384-08:00NEW DOLL TO MY COLLECTION<span style="font-size: large;">Her name is Brindemauve</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I made her dress out of a Malaysian batik sarong and had fun playing with the designs.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwluMDHXww4F0nBE6FAKILtVztl-d3BQqJ8q-NXkH0Wr5Jyt4hmFttavbRZPtfsJP7Inf_T-bl9cHSLDLKVbmEBVGBFPRJjtLwbLajiLwF2uZjPF6leixA0pxb27ukwlVhaZMIHgxtUTs/s1600/Brindemauve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwluMDHXww4F0nBE6FAKILtVztl-d3BQqJ8q-NXkH0Wr5Jyt4hmFttavbRZPtfsJP7Inf_T-bl9cHSLDLKVbmEBVGBFPRJjtLwbLajiLwF2uZjPF6leixA0pxb27ukwlVhaZMIHgxtUTs/s320/Brindemauve.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEleOD2PdNbiANWkY5tkvaZt10FVmNxW3wbISaQjqGb1adSabwvaxANcgc7yJWYJk8L-yt-n0HtdozKb21d9mpIw8-FdSq75B0hu48rEUU14HtB9aJMtTxYBPK_IU9A9wXJo9pxyr4H2M/s1600/Brindemauve+back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEleOD2PdNbiANWkY5tkvaZt10FVmNxW3wbISaQjqGb1adSabwvaxANcgc7yJWYJk8L-yt-n0HtdozKb21d9mpIw8-FdSq75B0hu48rEUU14HtB9aJMtTxYBPK_IU9A9wXJo9pxyr4H2M/s320/Brindemauve+back.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-26047799404262116712011-11-28T22:03:00.000-08:002012-03-28T04:28:42.048-07:00SARAWAK PROPERTY FOR SALE NEAR KUCHING: KO KO WANGI, COUNTRY HOME IN BORNEO<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj762MRpvrYUqJaFekVx0qdJG4QAPMn3iWAzlqBTMTcR5hDmfeHSuW1fH-rNH67zfzXWoxRmJsQMFChe3A5GMvrMZz43CwMhfNaWfPu4EGFR5V8Ak1-nbXDRyd-mhEa01PHKsvmCXRBy30/s1600/1+KO+KO+WANGI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj762MRpvrYUqJaFekVx0qdJG4QAPMn3iWAzlqBTMTcR5hDmfeHSuW1fH-rNH67zfzXWoxRmJsQMFChe3A5GMvrMZz43CwMhfNaWfPu4EGFR5V8Ak1-nbXDRyd-mhEa01PHKsvmCXRBy30/s640/1+KO+KO+WANGI.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">KOKO WANGI VIEW FROM THE RIVER</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">COUNTRY HOME IN SARAWAK</span></u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Located 25km from Kuching, this fully furnished 4 bedrooms single storey country home has a unique design. It sits on a 1.0765 hectares lot crossed by a small mountain water river. Easy access by Kuching-Serian road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Sarawak</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Mile 16 – Kuching-Serian Road</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Hobby Farm</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Bedrooms</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">M2,500,00 Net </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt;"></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Estate Agent</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">By owner</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Contact:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Genuine inquiries welcome through email to </span><span lang="FR"><a href="mailto:shabada_tree@yahoo.co.uk"><span lang="EN-MY" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">shabada_tree@yahoo.co.uk</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Ref: “Ko Ko Wangi”</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Description</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Located only 25km from Kuching, yet the ideal country retreat for nature lovers and bird watchers. Nicely furnished, own unique design, solar heated water system, covered car park for 3 vehicles and large store room attached to car park. Huge deep terrace (120 X 50 feet) with belian wood flooring. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">All rooms are over sized: 4 bedrooms each with own bathroom, family room, living room, kitchen dining room, laundry and pub-karaoke room. Most rooms with native timber flooring and fitted with an individual air-conditioning unit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Landscaped land with 2 fish-breeding ponds and 2 decorative ponds, small mountain river running through. Fruit trees and heliconia plants. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Village style wooden house for working couple accommodation. Easy access by Kuching-Serian Road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Bedrooms: 4 | Bathrooms: 4 + 1 Visitors’ Toilet<br /> Land area 1.0765 Hectares<br /> Built up area 6,000sf </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /><b>Email: </b></span><span lang="FR"><a href="mailto:shabada_tree@yahoo.co.uk"><span lang="EN-MY" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">shabada_tree@yahoo.co.uk</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-58134902652773980742011-07-22T01:33:00.000-07:002012-01-19T23:23:00.398-08:00ROSE THE MERMAID<span style="font-size: large;">Another mermaid from Borneo;</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-zYDTiwQk5RLNfm06opxL4cxNesUMUspE0tyQ0jrDpI04upDAy6RKQXMfI7ME-iUanfDTJbIsvnBTlCwlg5d6A1SCrRdkzNf0ougecaXIdEVmsGCxzl0gnznAZ-q-CrHjEoXIWGgJ40/s1600/ROSE+THE+MERMAID+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-zYDTiwQk5RLNfm06opxL4cxNesUMUspE0tyQ0jrDpI04upDAy6RKQXMfI7ME-iUanfDTJbIsvnBTlCwlg5d6A1SCrRdkzNf0ougecaXIdEVmsGCxzl0gnznAZ-q-CrHjEoXIWGgJ40/s640/ROSE+THE+MERMAID+3.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0OBmXjznbjXYt4qaiSf6WcDQ3OSNi4tdtuiHLsDYrH4TRlvx0WGvIaA2YFHFtYm-1aJhHRVhXGp99EnV8cZLI7u89ZcWKHFhVsaHdEj3GdfE6G0-Blcasmd-sn93xI9heITTUOwtrdHo/s1600/ROSE+THE+MERMAID+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0OBmXjznbjXYt4qaiSf6WcDQ3OSNi4tdtuiHLsDYrH4TRlvx0WGvIaA2YFHFtYm-1aJhHRVhXGp99EnV8cZLI7u89ZcWKHFhVsaHdEj3GdfE6G0-Blcasmd-sn93xI9heITTUOwtrdHo/s400/ROSE+THE+MERMAID+1.JPG" width="205" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I think she will be moving to France soon, however, she will fly there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To see all my hand-made dolls, visit my <a href="http://anotherdayinborneo.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-borneo-workshop.html">gallery </a></span></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-9907956609877832212011-07-22T00:45:00.000-07:002012-01-20T05:39:31.878-08:00MYSTERY INSECT OF BORNEO<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I found this amazing insect (dead) on my kitchen floor; I have never seen one like this before and I have no idea what it is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’d love to be able to put a name on it, so I welcome readers’ info with thanks.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgNV8xjzZgz2hMCW27DmTgJLM01MckXTpfB1SalxT9Rvk-k3GPaizXcrcxuiyaaz4iuFWZQ8cvEB-l1cIBxfhq0TdtW9zyoBjvdionOoVt2Zux1byHlQwXowdJOsMjnZKnC91ccXF0Og/s1600/P7152160+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgNV8xjzZgz2hMCW27DmTgJLM01MckXTpfB1SalxT9Rvk-k3GPaizXcrcxuiyaaz4iuFWZQ8cvEB-l1cIBxfhq0TdtW9zyoBjvdionOoVt2Zux1byHlQwXowdJOsMjnZKnC91ccXF0Og/s400/P7152160+R.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B00142FQ5W&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>Bug! A Rainforest Adventure is <br />
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A film about the various insects in Borneo's rainforest.</div>
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</div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0Sarawak, Malaysia1.554649241596973 110.69712623750002-0.504089258403027 107.62494073750001 3.6133877415969731 113.76931173750002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-90537824935084853272011-06-16T03:21:00.000-07:002012-01-20T05:43:58.112-08:00FRENCH FROG SAYS<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">FROM A FRENCH FROG THAT LIVES IN BORNEO</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://images_q=tbn_c9fnv1tml1qw3m_http___www/"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFN5nR0yr46a353HFZLqtges6DCTi6OuDEtbW7_vajsxty28Bgl2Qd1mliHZajdQ0lU9PLc3LvtUplXONUp1WtSRdBHwoRcf-7HS-alnd4IX5U4zDgLn8vEOtTrPcsf5cpcuCTNMy29Xo/s1600/images_q%253Dtbn_7ZPxNQXi1LrM_M_http___elisa18.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">TO AN ENGLISH PRINCESS WHO LIVES IN (I assume) ENGLAND</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Beatrice,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I am pretty sure that it’s been quite a long time since a frog was last in touch with a princess and I can only guess your surprise. I’d quickly recommend though, that if we ever come to meet, you wouldn’t, in any circumstance, attempt to kiss me. It’s not that we French are most certainly prejudiced against English kisses, but rather because there is no hope that I’ll ever transform into a prince for you see, I happen to be a girl frog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">You may, of course, be wondering what a French frog is doing in such an unlikely place as Borneo, and how on earth she may be able to write in the Queen’s language (or almost!)? May I recommend you look for the answers in my blog (http://www.anotherdayinborneo.blogspot.com/ and http://www.untoitaborneo.blogspot.com/ )</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt;">I was not always a frog like I have turned out to be; the incredible transformation only happened when I crossed the borders of my home country and as it is I have retained that innate sense of chic we French are legendary for and that gives me an edge to sometimes comment on other people’s choices of dress or fashion accessories. So let me hop right into the heart of the great world-gossip-press’ tsunami which you recently caused and which reached out the far, far away shores of Borneo: THE Hat! That’s right, the hat that you wore at your cousin William’s church wedding. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt;">The truth be said right away that I would have never picked THE Hat myself, but only for one reason and that’s because I am French. You, however, an English princess are probably bound by royal duty to wear one of those unbelievable hats on every grand occasion and I can assure you that the French do actually expect you to do so and that they take it that royal hats are as much a symbol of the English Establishment as the quirky black bowler hats are and so irresistibly <i>anglais</i>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt;">And if I would have ever dreamed of being allowed to wear your royal shoes, I’d also have worn your unique chapeau at the grand happy event of the century which turned out to be one rare occasion when I actually was able to watch something happy on the Great News Channels. So let’s praise THE Hat and its awesome, amusing bow which I’m sure says a lot about you and how tall you stand on your very young years. Indeed when I look at your picture, I see a pretty jewel of the crown that a twist of fate turned into a sore in the short-sighted eye of the grim news Reaper whom you so royally out-smarted when you dropped THE Hat and performed magnificent magic with it ( and this frog does know about magic) for the benefit of children and pinned down the toad-spitting royal watchers with just one wish: "<i>I hope whoever wins the auction has as much fun with the hat as I have</i>," </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you, Beatrice, for bringing out a moment of beauty and humor. </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.shefinds.com/files/2011/05/Princess-Beatrices-Hat.jpg"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoRyayA5HBo6VEO97zj8DruuGjwvnruzl2jp_5hUiTRtuvjfPPAr-AhzHnNwanxA7IX_kYNduIhL41p6Ev-MfnsyoiiGV-p8L_zRW4nXJSQDS33T2Iao_XEHXLrNlXprGAxvDEyDpvss/s320/Princess-Beatrices-Hat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">The French frog that lives in Borneo </span>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-38081758854477127202011-06-13T02:31:00.000-07:002012-01-20T01:17:48.621-08:00MASTERS of CAMOUFLAGE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">The insect world will never cease to amaze me; merely observing those surprising creatures is an adventure in itself that does not even require me to leave my garden and often my house </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">(check out Theme Day: http://anotherdayinborneo.blogspot.com/2011_06_01_archive.html). Only this morning, as I was getting organised to spend some time on my lap top seating on the terrace, I started moving one of the rattan armchairs to position it under the cooling draft of the ceiling fan. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBhSQMT9KpnySWu6XfV2f5WXPQU3YCU1-9PlhocYD9lCzjnlbQgMah4I7YxTtpkrI6TZNMqhDyrSe1y-9w5_m2MO437XnjkP83ZYJFBw_KyV4OotAmgsu9tcb46TE6PM5DRbDg8BXSmc/s1600/Frog+June+2009+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBhSQMT9KpnySWu6XfV2f5WXPQU3YCU1-9PlhocYD9lCzjnlbQgMah4I7YxTtpkrI6TZNMqhDyrSe1y-9w5_m2MO437XnjkP83ZYJFBw_KyV4OotAmgsu9tcb46TE6PM5DRbDg8BXSmc/s320/Frog+June+2009+R.jpg" width="313" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">I am far from being the only one to enjoy the comfort of the semi-outdoors and I am not just thinking of my family and friends; I often find tree frogs under the cushions (I guess they feel more comfy than a branch) if not one or two of the unavoidable abominable Cicaks* and too, elusive night-birds that enjoy perching on the back of the chairs and leave droppings behind them to let me know. For all these un-invited visitors, I like to cover the cushions with sarongs printed with Sarawak tribal designs which stand out white against a beautiful palette of greens. Those shades of green keep reminding me of the trees which line our river bank and keep watch over our home from the hills around us. Clearer patches of batik ink also seem to mirror the grasses of our lawn or, as I love to recall, the cheerfulness of the new padi in the near-by fields. In all these associations I am not alone; my Sarawak sarongs seem to have admirers in the family of winged insects that I keep finding, although they are masters of camouflage, amongst the batik designs, so much so that it makes me wonder which came first: the artist’s batik or the insect to copy it? Silly me! Amazing nature!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfwAsXSbl44kT7uoT1RDyljKpsitf8jjlN_DSTYErACAqygvrN8V3QpvemmW4sL67BIHSuTQqsQhHecLvoXUSSAgqzVqayVlYt1C-3sdexqc-oXm0XGujjifTRg_aGApibkMKuWtMxXI/s1600/June+2011+OK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfwAsXSbl44kT7uoT1RDyljKpsitf8jjlN_DSTYErACAqygvrN8V3QpvemmW4sL67BIHSuTQqsQhHecLvoXUSSAgqzVqayVlYt1C-3sdexqc-oXm0XGujjifTRg_aGApibkMKuWtMxXI/s200/June+2011+OK.jpg" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-32711627185591380422011-06-11T23:10:00.000-07:002012-01-21T02:51:12.804-08:00A THEME DAY<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">The curse of the red ants</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">There are days which are like any other ordinary day and there are those that seem to follow an agenda of their own and those have the particularity to signal their difference as soon as the absolutely unaware yet decidedly targeted human gets out of bed. There are those days, for instance, when I seem to hit a corner of every piece of furniture in the house; when door handles are determined to catch my sleeve, or again, when the door of my car turns vicious for no apparent reason and ordinary objects I reach for would rather attempt defying gravity and risk shattering to pieces upon landing on the floor rather than letting me grab them. Go and figure? </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Then too, there are days when I seem to be the only driver on the road willing to speed over 60kmh and others yet when all the road loonies pick exactly my time and my route to put their mad skills to the test. Indeed there are days which are simply “theme days” and today I’ve just lived through “Insects Day”.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It all started this morning. As I was walking through our car porch I almost stepped over a huge rhinoceros that had come to end its insect life (what did you imagine?) right in front of my black WV beetle, perhaps struck by despair at the sight of such a dinosauresque beauty straight out of Jurassic Park or even a Transformer, no less. I picked up the little fellow in my hand and placed it on a table top where I knew it would be safe from ants’ attack. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">"I almost stepped over a huge rhinoceros"</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Just as I was making my way back towards the door that leads to our laundry room I noticed yet another casualty: a large leaf insect that was lying on the concrete path where a column of red scavenger ants was already forming. I often make a point to save ants, simply by ignoring them until they finish whatever task they came to do in my house and disappear once more, yet I must say that I truly hate their cruelty. I picked up the martyr by its wings which were closed and gathered above its back; it was still alive. There was nothing I could do to change the fate of my unlikely protégé and yet I wanted to make its passing more humane than that of being eaten alive. I thought of throwing it into the river as I had done with a small bat that had broken a wing on a ventilator blade (radar error); the red ants had found it within seconds of its fall, and attacked their terrified pray without mercy. This time however I lacked courage and instead I laid the insect on a large tree leaf well above the ground, a safe enough place it seemed to me for it to surrender its little soul to the great universe.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">"I picked up the martyr by its wings"</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A few minutes later, back inside the laundry room and as the washing-machine had completed its cycle I walked out again with a bucket load of clean laundry in hand and almost stumbled at the sight of a snake awkwardly rolled up at the bottom of the steps. I ventured to check it out. The reptile appeared bizarrely twisted and inert. It was dead; probably one of the dogs. I’d have to check them for any symptoms of poisoning. I once, at another address, lost a Cocker Spaniel that had prevented a cobra from entering our kitchen. Malaysia does not authorise the use of anti-venom for pets that sacrifice their life for their mistress. Armed with a long metal clip I turned the 45cm long body around. The scales were a beautiful bluish-black with alternate orange markings along both sides all the way from its tail and up to its eyes. I have no idea whether that snake was venomous or not, however I couldn’t help finding it exquisite and likely to inspire a master jeweler. I decided to dispose of the body by throwing it over the fence and into thick wild bushes. While I passed near the leaf insect, </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I noticed that at last, it had surrendered its tiny little soul and that it had been able to do so undisturbed. I felt relieved to </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">have been of help.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowz-L2BL2oL-6stdprz580CIoEscbrvWkEA1wfVZEPGegDtBtoM3enUkvKfzur_R_n7EKgnZneKCbRIdLbaSKOTD59DhX5694Bk8jk6W6S1G0oLwhxEe4xylUpZLtwVQvECmpoTPPuDc/s1600/P6062129+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowz-L2BL2oL-6stdprz580CIoEscbrvWkEA1wfVZEPGegDtBtoM3enUkvKfzur_R_n7EKgnZneKCbRIdLbaSKOTD59DhX5694Bk8jk6W6S1G0oLwhxEe4xylUpZLtwVQvECmpoTPPuDc/s320/P6062129+R.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">"The reptile appeared bizarrely twisted and inert.</span></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">" </span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">"I couldn’t help finding it exquisite and likely to inspire a master jeweler"</span></i> </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Once I finished hanging the laundry, I went back inside the house still lost in my thoughts over those serial deaths. As I was crossing the living-room I found yet another victim, its amber color wings spread out on the silky fabric of the white sofa. It was a giant dragonfly as they often happen to be here. I turned to look at Caramel, my toy poodle; I needed advice and he seemed as intrigued as I was.”Want to poke it with your nose?” He gave me a blank look. As I grabbed the dragonfly by one of its wings it suddenly jumped out of its slumber and darted off and out of the open doors, leaving Caramel and I perplexed yet relieved; end of the curse?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"amber color wings spread out on the silky fabric of the white sofa"</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A familiar ring tone finally called me back to the ordinary world and I hurried towards the console by the window and stopped short of picking up the phone when I realised that a few hundreds of those red ants (my nemesis?) had taken over the receptor, the phone book next to it and even a bouquet of artificial roses! What were they after? Was it some kind of curse really? They left me no other choice than use the ultimate weapon on them. With a few well aimed sprayed, I decimated a whole army of those mean carnivorous scavengers, at once avenging the unfortunate bat and the leaf insect. All I had left to do was to clean up before returning the call.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I would have liked to find some clever words to end my account of an unusual morning, even by Borneo standards, yet I have to conclude rather in a hurry if I wish to avoid being hit on the head, or worse in the eye, by an air ported black bomber bent on attacking me; so ciao for now!</span></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-54168798237566429692011-02-16T04:02:00.000-08:002012-01-21T02:25:34.625-08:00BORNEO WRITERS MEET<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dining out instead of cooking has become the norm with my family, and why not? There is such a choice of “makan places” (eating out places) in Kuching and at such affordable prices too, that it would be almost unreasonable not to go out for a meal! Recently though, I went out solo to a very special dinner. Imagine a rustic tropical terrace on the Sarawak River’s Water Front, where patrons of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamaludin/4160244840/">Khatulistiwa Restaurant</a> can enjoy Malay food and fresh fruit juices and, in my case, the company two very special men indeed: Borneo writers! <a href="http://www.borneoexpatwriter,blogspot.com/">Robert Raymer</a> and <a href="http://www.borneotom.com/">TomMcLaughlin</a>. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Raymer</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It was Robert who had prompted what was to be a brain-storming meeting of expat writers: both Robert and Tom are American and both have married Borneo girls, while yours truly French enjoys life with a Borneo Teochew man. If you can read French, you can catch my story “<a href="http://www.untoitaborneo.blogspot.com/">Partie à Bornéo</a>” on my blog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Assuming you are a regular follower of this blog, as I’m sure you are (wink), you must be already familiar with Robert Raymer (check out my post “<b>About Crocs</b>”) who “[...]<i> once held a live crocodile in his arms</i> [...}”. When he does not cuddle crocs, Robert is a very productive and successful writer whose book “<b>Lovers and Strangers Revisited</b>*”, a collection of contemporary stories set in Malaysia, will now be available to French readers as “<b>Trois Autres Malaisies</b>” (Editions Gope). Robert is also the author of “<b>Tropical Affairs: Episodes from an expat’s life in Malaysia</b>” another collection of stories amongst which I truly enjoyed the whole series “ON BEING A MOVIE EXTRA” (alongside no less than Catherine Deneuve (Indochine), Patricia Arquette and Frances McDormand (Beyond Rangoon) and Glen Close, Juliana Margulies and Cate Blanchett (Paradise Road). While recollecting his experiences in front of the camera, Robert simply treats the reader with contagious feel good humour! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">NB: Soon in stores, Robert Raymer’s new book “Spirit of Malaysia” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Robert has his own blog: <a href="http://www.borneoexpatwriter.blogspot.com/">http://www.borneoexpatwriter.blogspot.com/</a> (you can see him with the croc in his arms.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Indeed we had much to celebrate since Tom McLaughlin aka Borneo Tom has recently publish his own story and sketch book “<b>BORNEO TOM: Adventures of an Expat in Borneo</b>” about love, travel and jungle family in tropical Asia. Tom, who is a retired teacher, is passionate about conservation and Orang Utans and chooses to use his pen to “raise hell” about certain subjects close to his heart. “<b>BORNEO TOM</b>” is now available at Amazon.com and Kindle. You can also follow and contact Tom through his website <a href="http://www.borneotom.com/">http://www.borneotom.com/</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*Lovers and Strangers Revisited, winner of 2009 Popular-The star Reader’s Choice Award</span></div>
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<br /></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-16227117188080290252011-02-14T00:49:00.000-08:002012-01-21T22:25:44.317-08:00LITTLE MISS CHEONG SAM<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: large;">What is a <i>Cheong Sam</i>? You may ask, and I’ll tell you that it is a sexiest thing the Chinese have ever invented: a dress, fitted to follow the curves of a preferably slender body; it can be long or knee length and nowadays audaciously mini. No matter the length of the skirt though, the slit skirt half way up the thigh is a common requisite.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwXgGw-v1huYneR6R3NHiNsHcen-kKsVxSXxyk21_Ec5tg1KAtvNcsTQmoUYp50LyDY9M7SuVNYpFrjZcvdKTJwQJgwC7z62ndTBJ2KJ1UYCvvNDkFYBwyhkjeHBr5ZTSnMwDeB4MOZU/s1600/Tea+Cup+Miss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwXgGw-v1huYneR6R3NHiNsHcen-kKsVxSXxyk21_Ec5tg1KAtvNcsTQmoUYp50LyDY9M7SuVNYpFrjZcvdKTJwQJgwC7z62ndTBJ2KJ1UYCvvNDkFYBwyhkjeHBr5ZTSnMwDeB4MOZU/s320/Tea+Cup+Miss.jpg" width="148" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Every year before Chinese New Year, pageants are organised around the country to elect Miss Chong Sam. As luck would have it on the tenth day of the Chinese calendar, I found myself caught up in the midst of a <b><u>Little</u></b> Miss Cheong Sam pageant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Regrettably, I only had my mobile phone to capture the irresistible little misses who showed much elegance and confidence on a cat-walk made to measure for those tea cup-sized Chinese princesses. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Busy little Misses</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Do I wear Cheong Sam? You bet I do, well, I did, many moons ago that is. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINlRGHYoxK-lMQCjaeOiIQL-SEyYKEMrz7GC30aiCnxN6JbqEwxR1YOqCwH0htJrcS1oRsoonPFPRRgxUEmIGGfe3reXgr37jP_OI3KmRwvNa97svXoe67JZ9HHuMqYhzeN-xgRCCeec/s1600/Premiere+visite+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINlRGHYoxK-lMQCjaeOiIQL-SEyYKEMrz7GC30aiCnxN6JbqEwxR1YOqCwH0htJrcS1oRsoonPFPRRgxUEmIGGfe3reXgr37jP_OI3KmRwvNa97svXoe67JZ9HHuMqYhzeN-xgRCCeec/s320/Premiere+visite+2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"many moons ago"</i></span></td></tr>
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<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0804836639&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-35228715807150531072011-02-14T00:30:00.000-08:002012-01-21T22:30:03.500-08:00CHINESE NEW YEAR IS A BLAST!<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXqpRu__nETBGhW4YMS4_69tkCCA0cHbtmTpd40thEJPQ59K0sbNfXpSyKyS8pPELdwkYqP-kdNVKGp8PeekZvZ_6Mn4lyeYTQPMY4XBT3jWpA-E1gZ_iaCUkWFPQ6zkESK2HpkQ05AE/s1600/Fire+works+and+crackers+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXqpRu__nETBGhW4YMS4_69tkCCA0cHbtmTpd40thEJPQ59K0sbNfXpSyKyS8pPELdwkYqP-kdNVKGp8PeekZvZ_6Mn4lyeYTQPMY4XBT3jWpA-E1gZ_iaCUkWFPQ6zkESK2HpkQ05AE/s320/Fire+works+and+crackers+R.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here in Kuching and all around Malaysia, Chinese New year is very much about color and noise, lots of it, with trucks going around loaded with martial art troops dedicated to performing the lion dance to bless homes and their kitchens and be literally fired by loud crackers. Yes Chinese New year is always a blast I simply love to be part of. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJdbwaWQKklSnYalVOztn7urez3mGYko8CvbcNUOiheVgsxW09rupAC_3qZoZRQpVQo9qJlGAxzMm6Rt6IscE-VyD4n941LZO4cNchJsHKp46_EGjJiB7jz9jwCefRvF_-MHd3Ec5-Os/s1600/IMG00240-20110202-1406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJdbwaWQKklSnYalVOztn7urez3mGYko8CvbcNUOiheVgsxW09rupAC_3qZoZRQpVQo9qJlGAxzMm6Rt6IscE-VyD4n941LZO4cNchJsHKp46_EGjJiB7jz9jwCefRvF_-MHd3Ec5-Os/s200/IMG00240-20110202-1406.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We... as in we, small branch of the Teos, do not celebrate at home. Our family is ridiculously too small for us to have fun, instead we visit our friends and traditionally set up camp on Helen’s terrace which operates as a card games and mah-jong den for the whole two weeks the celebrations last. Gambling which is “mostly” illegal in Malaysia is so much part of the Chinese tradition around that time that it is actually aloud in the homes. Because our group is a family and we wouldn’t want to rip each other off, so we play small. Others may not be so cautious though and the new moon is well known for bringing dramatic changes of fortune, make some rich and bring other to ruin who lose hundreds of thousands of ringgits and even their homes. As for me, I must confess that I have just lost again but only MYR50 lah!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">"Helen’s terrace which operates as a card games and mah-jong den"</span></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mah Jong anyone?</span></td></tr>
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</div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-6556624809038271262011-01-30T21:33:00.000-08:002012-01-21T22:31:17.846-08:00MOONSTRUCK AT CHINESE NEW YEAR<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.spacedaily.com/images-lg/moon-lady-change-goddess-china-lg.jpg</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">There is a woman on the moon, her name is Chang’e and she keeps a rabbit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">She’s been there since she lost her beloved husband on earth and became eternally lonely, except that is for the little rabbit. When she was still a mere mortal, she lived a great passion for Hou Yi who had been sent by the King of Heaven to save the earth from being burnt down under the unforgiving rays of no less than ten suns. Armed with a red bow and a collection of white arrows, Hou Yi had shot nine suns and life on our planet had finally become humanly bearable under one sun that is still shining on us today. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">When Hou Yi and Chang’e were given an elixir of eternity by the Western Queen Mother, Hou Yi died of a violent death (there are different versions of his death) and Chang’e drank the potion that gave her eternal life and lifted her towards Heaven. When she reached the moon she decided to stay there and watch over her old world where she had lived a great love.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Chang’e became the Chinese moon goddess and her rabbit a powerful healing spirit praised for once riding into Beijing in the shape of a young girl riding a horse (or was it a tiger, or lion?) and saving millions of people from a deadly epidemic that ravaged the imperial city.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">While her Chinese name is Chang’e, the Greeks too revered her as Selene and later as Artemis or Hecate and the Romans called her Diana. The moon, however, was not always identified as a woman; indeed it was the sun that was given feminine attributes while the moon, which was then positioned much closer to earth, was believed to possess more male-like qualities. In time and as the moon raised higher in the sky, it seemed to have been affected with a sex change; that’s when most languages started referring to it as “she”: la Luna, la lune, while acknowledging “her” as the recipient of the great unconscious from which life once emerged and the embodiment of the feminine principle in life itself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I can’t recall when I started feeling charmed by the moon, its beautiful appearance in the night sky and its sobering light and I find it, oh, so uncanny to think that the new year on the Chinese lunar calendar will start precisely on my birthday with the wolf moon (read this Shakira!) and be dedicated to the healing moon rabbit! Because of this I’d like to imagine that 2011 will be a feminine year, with more sensitivity born from wisdom rather than the bullish attitude that was expected for this last year; a time for us to tend to our earth garden and care for the human family. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">For a long time I have been contemplating starting my own moon garden near our pond; sad that I haven’t yet found the time or enough motivation to do it. Perhaps I have been waiting for a blue moon (when there is a second full moon within one month) that I keep missing or else it is simply not meant to be and perhaps too, what the moon really wants is not a mere private garden where she could shine her soft rays, but a whole collective and global garden instead. Think about it, it is not un-achievable and it certainly makes more sense to me than to answer a “MOON FOR SALE” advertisement with the intention of buying an acre on the moon. Now who’s been moonstruck?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">This is a beautiful vision of a moon garden from Tatiana Hardie’s novel The Rose Labyrinth followed by an Iban legend on the genesis of Borneo where I have made my home. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“<i>Lucy’s finger looped along the spiral Diana had created in her fountain. Made of mirrored glass, it picked its shiny path through a pattern of blues and ruby reds all mosaiced from broken china plates so carefully color matched that Lucy realised they’d been purposely broken. The fountain was shallow, edged with shells; and Lucy was reminded of the Lady of Shalott working in reflections to weave her embroidery, as the silver shards reflected the sky and the landscape all around it. She traced the route to Venus in the center, and thought of Alex’s gentle fingers curving along her scar around her breast, circling her heart. The motion itself was sensual, mesmerising, a gesture of mystery. The sun doesn’t preside here. Its vitality is essential for the roses; but even at midsummer, when the smell is over-powering, my mother would bring me out long after the shade had deepened to prove that the scent was strongest, most alluring, in the evening. All the flowers are night-scented. Under the moon’s light the white roses are luminous, almost palpably so. The moon-dial makes it midday at midnight. The fountain reflects down the stars: a fragment of heaven on earth. The spirit of this garden is female. My mother created this space to express another view of the world, and subvert the norm. The sun is consort, and a vital partner, but not the sovereign lord. It wasn’t enough for us to understand it cerebrally: she needed us to witness it.” (...) “Maybe because hers was a house of men”.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>IBAN LEGEND</b></span>: <span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Owl and the Moon</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">This is a story from very ancient times, when the moon was still identified as a male.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">A long, long time ago, so the Iban people of Sarawak like to tell their children, the moon had married the only living creature on earth, an owl on the island of Borneo. Soon they had a child: a moon color owl. Sadly, as the moon ascended higher and higher in the sky hence making nights much shorter on earth, the couple finally gave up on an impossible schedule to be together. When they finally decided to end their union, they agreed to split the child; and so they did, into two halves which they scattered separately across the sky and we can still see at night as stars and all over the land of Borneo where they are still cherished as the trees of the great Rain Forest. </span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR, MAY YOU TAKE GOOD CARE OF THE RABBIT.</span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="color: black;">Singing off...</span></i> </span></span></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://blog.femmeactuelle.fr</td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></b></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-52028668077651694342011-01-25T01:46:00.000-08:002012-01-21T22:32:52.281-08:00A MALAY WEDDING IN KUCHING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newlywed Nasruddin bin Rambli and Dayang Kahirunnisa binti Awang Khairudin</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I remember reading somewhere that children are far more aware of their surroundings than we are; they seem to be gifted with a wide angle vision which we, adults have lost to the benefit of a narrower focus on things; we, as in “most of us”, have lost the ability to see the bigger picture developing around us without making a voluntary conscious effort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sunday morning, I dressed up and drove to a Malay <i>Kampung</i> (village) close to the bungalow of the former White Rajahs Brooke and now the official residence of the Governor of Sarawak, the Astana to attend a wedding. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finding the street, Lorong Petra Tiga, was quite easy; if you ever visit Malaysia and happen to notice the national and (at least in Sarawak) the State flag rising high at a street junction, I sincerely hope you will remember that there are the Malaysian way to indicate the direction to a wedding reception and that you too are invited. Indeed, Malaysian weddings, especially among the Malay and indigenous communities, with all the music and the DJ announcements, never fail to remind me of a happy funfair where the whole village (and often more than one) and, for that matter, any passer-by turns up to feast, dance, exchange the latest gossips and mostly marvel at the newlyweds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the Malay tradition, the groom is expected to follow his new wife into her family’s home where the ceremony is often performed rather than at the local <i>surau </i>(small mosque). With a few large tents designed for outdoors receptions, the home roof of our friend Awang Khairudin Bin Awang Buang and his wife Salamah Binti Bushrah had been extended enough to accommodate a few hundreds of diners and keep them safe from enormous dark rain clouds which, thankfully, never kept their menace to down-pour upon the party.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bride's parents <span style="font-size: x-small;">Awang Khairudin Bin Awang Buang and Salamah Binti Bushrah </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome committee in red Baju Kurong</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">As far as weddings are concerned, Malays have become masters of organisation with the help of volunteers set up as a committee whose members have their names printed on the invitation card. Among them, the welcome delegates awaits guests at the arrival point and usher them to their seats at the banquet table. They all wear the same uniformed <i>baju kurong</i> (for the ladies) and <i>baju Melayu</i> (for the men) that match the theme colour of the day worn by the parents and family members (red for this occasion), while other “officials” can be recognised by the orchid flower pinned under their collar. In doubt with what you can or cannot do, or whom you would like to find in the crowd, ask one of them. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very kind and helpful "official"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Never too far away from the welcome committee is the <i>Kumpulan Hadrah</i>, a group of tambourine players, dressed in light blue <i>baju Melayu </i>with a <i>kain songket</i> (fabric woven with gold or silver threads) sarong worn around the waist and over the pants. They role is to follow the bride and groom on their way to their reserved seats set up on a stage decorated with rich drapes and flowers. </span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kumpulan Hadrah</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Food is an important part of the celebration; there’s always curry, and rendang, beef and chicken, perhaps lamb and today a lime skin pickle that woke up all my taste buds at once and sent them begging for more; and of course there’s always some fruit and lots of very sweet cakes. The beauty of all this is that one never has to wait for even a minute to be served by one of the soldiers of the catering army.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One rinses one's fingers before eating with the right hand</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yummy lime-skin pickles prepared by the bride's mum</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In front of the bridal stage, women and little children take turn to seat on the floor and enjoy the blessing ceremony of <i>Tepung Tawar</i> and now that just about everyone owns a mobile phone, close-up memories can be taken away and shared all over again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">To reach a good spot for me to take pictures of the newlyweds, I had to negotiate my way through a tight row of women whom, once they became aware of my presence and purpose showed much kindness. I prepared myself for the next stage of the ceremony where parents followed by relatives and friends, come to bless the groom and bride with rice, potpourri and oil and walk away with a special gift, a <i>Bunga Telur</i> (translated “egg flower”) which is in fact a hard-boiled egg held in a piece of veil to make it look like a flower; such a delicate way to remind us to cherish life, be grateful for our daily food and be thankful to be blessed with children. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunga Telur</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I readied myself to focus again through the eye of my camera, I suddenly felt in full love with the moment, one of those Eckart Tolle’s “live in the NOW” moments, or more poetically a John Denver’s “you fill up my senses” moment, or was it an Oprah’s “Ah! Moment”? No matter, I had just become aware of the rather odd fact that I could actually feel and appreciate the whole happening of the wedding party, around me as well as in and out of the room, and I wondered if this was the way I used to experience the world as a child, with a wide angle vision where every shape, colour and even sound spoke to me about what every single person had brought of themselves to this gathering while they remained totally unaware of their synchronising a moment of pure joy.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTKNl6TIV9ZQ7RAEQ-m0BVJGC1G2R4OxlgodUOt-gttupQ5fwG0qRzw2z1c986jICVrQ4LhUyT8U_BeWI6PUR2We6rIEwTG0GRSG4RT8Jn-EeDFwCWXRWdrqHSt97hMtxebTtlrXDJq0/s1600/I+love+this+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTKNl6TIV9ZQ7RAEQ-m0BVJGC1G2R4OxlgodUOt-gttupQ5fwG0qRzw2z1c986jICVrQ4LhUyT8U_BeWI6PUR2We6rIEwTG0GRSG4RT8Jn-EeDFwCWXRWdrqHSt97hMtxebTtlrXDJq0/s320/I+love+this+shot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this shot</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Dayang Khairunnisa and Nasruddin, may you share love and happiness forever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More picture.....</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9r2-TCcg3Xh-Qs_Keh_cWrCpDrJT17UmiQxvLB8uQvtsd2Ew9lFmTUtfSovLCP1T2l-Nig549JsSfdTO_2AzwIUteVv8pX4Qr8Zmh_Vmv3Fu4Y0r0D917Zir9bDG4kHd1E3ZNuj9mVY/s1600/Wedding+prayer+are+being+told+inside+the+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9r2-TCcg3Xh-Qs_Keh_cWrCpDrJT17UmiQxvLB8uQvtsd2Ew9lFmTUtfSovLCP1T2l-Nig549JsSfdTO_2AzwIUteVv8pX4Qr8Zmh_Vmv3Fu4Y0r0D917Zir9bDG4kHd1E3ZNuj9mVY/s320/Wedding+prayer+are+being+told+inside+the+house.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Men are reciting prayers inside the house</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbZ6CyHcEvN2ayV78ZKlim9UJySNLhrr2patHy_sIN00ZxSkQ8n4UTX9zylZwal5ciQdTp7lfqpRafyylv34361HKoJwy5rAAtoqJqWCFT9CpEidHDh9t2pfaW0CFQS7LVqoaO3Cl5fs/s1600/The+newlyweds+in+prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbZ6CyHcEvN2ayV78ZKlim9UJySNLhrr2patHy_sIN00ZxSkQ8n4UTX9zylZwal5ciQdTp7lfqpRafyylv34361HKoJwy5rAAtoqJqWCFT9CpEidHDh9t2pfaW0CFQS7LVqoaO3Cl5fs/s320/The+newlyweds+in+prayer.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The newlyweds in prayer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQa4CvkP1IzK_9IXwgWp88hlVZaGzwP3GOQY4i2XQs_QWygMni0LWod-CrFS080PaGV_oa79AbbHOFy462tfIdoGmFI2wZNWUWeY8rYUNq5HHNrmtSnP_eBAWMFN9iRQ0BRGSQTiJkps/s1600/One+of+the+guests+wearing+a+colorful+baju+melayu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQa4CvkP1IzK_9IXwgWp88hlVZaGzwP3GOQY4i2XQs_QWygMni0LWod-CrFS080PaGV_oa79AbbHOFy462tfIdoGmFI2wZNWUWeY8rYUNq5HHNrmtSnP_eBAWMFN9iRQ0BRGSQTiJkps/s320/One+of+the+guests+wearing+a+colorful+baju+melayu.jpg" width="135" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A guest wearing baju Melayu</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77-An7V2u_sNdkWafvnlYH7_pI-MT4UNVoGvDApw-3RcrjP8zpKILuZhDq-HjQil6YytM83Tj3HNcwMiiU1YgozR7DCIdJoDrO4SzMQa6_MRzjhC-3p9gCXW6QgrbGQPSKkuy4YiYMl0/s1600/Listening+to+the+prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77-An7V2u_sNdkWafvnlYH7_pI-MT4UNVoGvDApw-3RcrjP8zpKILuZhDq-HjQil6YytM83Tj3HNcwMiiU1YgozR7DCIdJoDrO4SzMQa6_MRzjhC-3p9gCXW6QgrbGQPSKkuy4YiYMl0/s320/Listening+to+the+prayer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prayer time</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJv_hcgLDwq2kgLALzbtN3xvuGzUppxjyKb1uhGt_ED74ipokNULVoZdixsv1oIOWpk-vGtQ9Q_0dSS9X7CW-3RNQMBQzfn-tvAt6GjHnLxh4YXjv9auzUd1kD0ecTw1YzEMsAREP74g/s1600/It+may+not+be+his+first+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJv_hcgLDwq2kgLALzbtN3xvuGzUppxjyKb1uhGt_ED74ipokNULVoZdixsv1oIOWpk-vGtQ9Q_0dSS9X7CW-3RNQMBQzfn-tvAt6GjHnLxh4YXjv9auzUd1kD0ecTw1YzEMsAREP74g/s320/It+may+not+be+his+first+wedding.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi11QneOQ7a4nl_GAQWQ1KtXJzFISfN5m9Sez_Fw9hQHupJVcilZ-T8AkjrPEdDQ5joOMkq-oiRHBNnGygJGfnp37taZsTigHcmFSJqWenVCF3YTpBml9jdSnG2YDpUQika6dhWNZIC8_g/s1600/Teenaged+wedding+guests.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi11QneOQ7a4nl_GAQWQ1KtXJzFISfN5m9Sez_Fw9hQHupJVcilZ-T8AkjrPEdDQ5joOMkq-oiRHBNnGygJGfnp37taZsTigHcmFSJqWenVCF3YTpBml9jdSnG2YDpUQika6dhWNZIC8_g/s320/Teenaged+wedding+guests.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teenaged wedding guests in baju Melayu</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZR_W6nb73Oq3tfQpTec1FwLWludPCXBLg-TkFQGBHxM_rPgRIoXP9jw4PwcsjX9z9fFA7whxbFvzm3Z9kyiq7oM2cbC5Z9SZLqsP-yVdrpASR7osNFFouwCbKxzyJ5u5KnRrxAQZQCSM/s1600/Honoring+the+elder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZR_W6nb73Oq3tfQpTec1FwLWludPCXBLg-TkFQGBHxM_rPgRIoXP9jw4PwcsjX9z9fFA7whxbFvzm3Z9kyiq7oM2cbC5Z9SZLqsP-yVdrpASR7osNFFouwCbKxzyJ5u5KnRrxAQZQCSM/s320/Honoring+the+elder.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honoring the elders</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJUDA7G7FYgGVdmRw2UrcOn_8cuPt3gopNFc2ODG9Ku9L0_BM5eFchT70QayHwl2sQYG6JUVJuqd3uhhC1TV5cL2W2sd0peb_gTUvqqMGv_Xe-zsUJbRCz8HmyArbpbOGqPALesOEsf0/s1600/Guest+arriving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJUDA7G7FYgGVdmRw2UrcOn_8cuPt3gopNFc2ODG9Ku9L0_BM5eFchT70QayHwl2sQYG6JUVJuqd3uhhC1TV5cL2W2sd0peb_gTUvqqMGv_Xe-zsUJbRCz8HmyArbpbOGqPALesOEsf0/s320/Guest+arriving.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends arriving at the reception</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRB8uCelMjGVRDv1EInRaiQSgKKM_6I_vtIDgXssNUr-s17obNtFyJnotj8UJvCFKkA5HifwIpgkmj-aaRcS1vaVQL1be5YY6oBSKHRgHgjU4xzfMC9S-uKWzu_QNIIHjkhS4B0xg9fmg/s1600/Elegant+baju+kurong+for+the+ladies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRB8uCelMjGVRDv1EInRaiQSgKKM_6I_vtIDgXssNUr-s17obNtFyJnotj8UJvCFKkA5HifwIpgkmj-aaRcS1vaVQL1be5YY6oBSKHRgHgjU4xzfMC9S-uKWzu_QNIIHjkhS4B0xg9fmg/s320/Elegant+baju+kurong+for+the+ladies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRij-cbRLCDqCwrleykNk3Dk_ZAV3qyOExs01DiqhrXjAK2aZjj8U-9DWF5_fJZPhb_Ccmh2S2hgpLspNRn31HLJX_iOSYxsrvcLluevX6XmLDTBu7d8Ou7A01q-2hgQO9pxryv9uUs_Y/s1600/An+elegant+couple+with+sweets+to+take+back+home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRij-cbRLCDqCwrleykNk3Dk_ZAV3qyOExs01DiqhrXjAK2aZjj8U-9DWF5_fJZPhb_Ccmh2S2hgpLspNRn31HLJX_iOSYxsrvcLluevX6XmLDTBu7d8Ou7A01q-2hgQO9pxryv9uUs_Y/s320/An+elegant+couple+with+sweets+to+take+back+home.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elegant couple with a swift gift to take back home</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgFF_vsL17n1uZzxkunwrM9gwdi2ujxpzqbMvWx7rP0Q-8pwgT8uVvn_6a-4HMI2v4WtkMWLwOxalG_x9jvdaZlIP857Uq15SjWd-qYQnyPBSKhr3nhAe0wfsEO3Nd9uct3PKFy7rMGw/s1600/Bride+s+maid+attending.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgFF_vsL17n1uZzxkunwrM9gwdi2ujxpzqbMvWx7rP0Q-8pwgT8uVvn_6a-4HMI2v4WtkMWLwOxalG_x9jvdaZlIP857Uq15SjWd-qYQnyPBSKhr3nhAe0wfsEO3Nd9uct3PKFy7rMGw/s320/Bride+s+maid+attending.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dedicated bride's maid</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14AALw6cQiILR2a4mu2juZ29y5GFRP22lFR0MMO6Tyk0fc7jthE_2kgYX_XLtGR7XP-2DQZ2aMDHCv0HEkKaPSan6psV3r1mLgpOgoCkHkIXpOpkFdIreMftk0fKoVxjPspt_uT9TsZE/s1600/Arrival+of+the+bride+and+groom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14AALw6cQiILR2a4mu2juZ29y5GFRP22lFR0MMO6Tyk0fc7jthE_2kgYX_XLtGR7XP-2DQZ2aMDHCv0HEkKaPSan6psV3r1mLgpOgoCkHkIXpOpkFdIreMftk0fKoVxjPspt_uT9TsZE/s320/Arrival+of+the+bride+and+groom.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrival of the bride and groom followed by the kumpulan hadrah</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0k5WuOQZriTeX7ITPk2re3FtpsVz_hZaSjNqYym7N3evU_q1dpCjufbej4f3nFaUJTaGd8H4Qn8NEecn6C0L0VcSXaUh3rt_N1_UKAqt7PgJRAI3jepq2sE6rS9FLVDyZF5yeHoSz7U/s1600/I%2527d+have+to+build+a+kitchen+extension+for+this+cooking+pot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0k5WuOQZriTeX7ITPk2re3FtpsVz_hZaSjNqYym7N3evU_q1dpCjufbej4f3nFaUJTaGd8H4Qn8NEecn6C0L0VcSXaUh3rt_N1_UKAqt7PgJRAI3jepq2sE6rS9FLVDyZF5yeHoSz7U/s320/I%2527d+have+to+build+a+kitchen+extension+for+this+cooking+pot.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For such a big pot, I'd have to build an extension to my kitchen!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGtWHt10itgvYKAnEOLC62M_cJlRxwPMpHMPrGHLe06lIaq9j7thWKkg25bV4i_iDwjfUqhHCyOEYZVjJ6u_mkhUonwgz-WykoGNKGcqFGzMsIcxFGZ3bLkfHq6x7orxRB26_UkJqI3k/s1600/A+Malay+kris+on+the+groom+s+lap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGtWHt10itgvYKAnEOLC62M_cJlRxwPMpHMPrGHLe06lIaq9j7thWKkg25bV4i_iDwjfUqhHCyOEYZVjJ6u_mkhUonwgz-WykoGNKGcqFGzMsIcxFGZ3bLkfHq6x7orxRB26_UkJqI3k/s320/A+Malay+kris+on+the+groom+s+lap.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resting on the groom's lap, a traditional kris</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLvyP8I4v9ZHnBeaarOQv7YcJ-604GwhyiarYBDZbAwwTjlExaw4GZhEwF3e_wtnCK1UftGOnSQ1icHHjiqLd2AqtfyFch3ZxltxSZsp-i3CUgylJAucrpgKj_QmB9uKcg16Zpc5aAT8/s1600/Mr+DJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLvyP8I4v9ZHnBeaarOQv7YcJ-604GwhyiarYBDZbAwwTjlExaw4GZhEwF3e_wtnCK1UftGOnSQ1icHHjiqLd2AqtfyFch3ZxltxSZsp-i3CUgylJAucrpgKj_QmB9uKcg16Zpc5aAT8/s320/Mr+DJ.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. D.J</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FwxkxXnTSyz_-dUrEYSjkqkyir7npRtDAP2bJg0yuPHxDcMS4D28Smrdcgofmi-sJ82h5JxerpH9Go_kv-pzOEb4fTaC0BMo-ZydaNW3TlGa9nIxQveSmGOrIJwRGoG3zKQY3GKyJxw/s1600/The+bridal+stage+taken+over.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FwxkxXnTSyz_-dUrEYSjkqkyir7npRtDAP2bJg0yuPHxDcMS4D28Smrdcgofmi-sJ82h5JxerpH9Go_kv-pzOEb4fTaC0BMo-ZydaNW3TlGa9nIxQveSmGOrIJwRGoG3zKQY3GKyJxw/s320/The+bridal+stage+taken+over.JPG" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridal stage taken over: Life's like that!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-91977441577696840902011-01-25T00:38:00.000-08:002012-01-21T22:35:15.230-08:00A TRIBAL AND TATTOO EXPO<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPLZsjZQj6Ps4cGpWdmR8UqUOYKX2siiOwuHsQT5i-xWpGi-Tn1OCnWdlplnDfgI_v_7FMOQ9OK1vNw4QevLHGWoqUMJTut_FjTYpL5_essF29TKTonggkRGJlTZNqacnEs_0wbnjNiw/s1600/Gathering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPLZsjZQj6Ps4cGpWdmR8UqUOYKX2siiOwuHsQT5i-xWpGi-Tn1OCnWdlplnDfgI_v_7FMOQ9OK1vNw4QevLHGWoqUMJTut_FjTYpL5_essF29TKTonggkRGJlTZNqacnEs_0wbnjNiw/s200/Gathering.jpg" width="141" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVftxoVnUEo3Gmauma9Cs6-nDZTObGOp1iry655c6nazgUFXdUlC8-gQyrZixBHkobjKFLVw53DscAaj9DZV010OBZxc6iZTptu50U0kmEtK-OeW3WISip5o9nkBsfnWSMXzvvM3dslmg/s1600/Kacong+R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVftxoVnUEo3Gmauma9Cs6-nDZTObGOp1iry655c6nazgUFXdUlC8-gQyrZixBHkobjKFLVw53DscAaj9DZV010OBZxc6iZTptu50U0kmEtK-OeW3WISip5o9nkBsfnWSMXzvvM3dslmg/s200/Kacong+R.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>GATHERING OF THE </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">January 2011 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A tribal and tattoo expo in Kuching? I had to go; after all, tattoos are the ancestral written language of the indigenous people of Borneo and in particular of the infamous former head-hunters: the Ibans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In this region of the world where paper would not have subsisted the ambient humidity or the frequent crossing of rivers, sophisticated symbols drawn and printed on the skin became the portable library of the indigenous people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Although there were some rules depending on the tribe one belonged to or the status the person enjoyed within the community, as a general rule, both men and women could adorn their bodies with artistic and, more often than not, symbolic designs, with the difference that a man without tattoos was considered sissy and cowardly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some legends say that the Ibans are able designers simply because their gods wished them to be so. Two creative spirits in particular are believed to have given the Ibans the idea of decorating their bodies, when the Contrococcyx bird (<i>Bubut </i>spirit) tattooed his friend the Argus Pheasant (<i>Ruai</i> spirit) – both happened to be were in their human form – with the most exquisite designs.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0GMfZjXsD-2PWZ3ewsLn1Gw8QRKX1NfSiO-TDlYjMkRicJwt076smH2zybsLa8xoeOIeEZTMzUMCMBRsoemsO6cj3-twf8wHRKoWtnCChBU9oaqoRGboLeLecZPy2tG3ELPSDPb4DRk/s1600/August+bubut+and+ruai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0GMfZjXsD-2PWZ3ewsLn1Gw8QRKX1NfSiO-TDlYjMkRicJwt076smH2zybsLa8xoeOIeEZTMzUMCMBRsoemsO6cj3-twf8wHRKoWtnCChBU9oaqoRGboLeLecZPy2tG3ELPSDPb4DRk/s320/August+bubut+and+ruai.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bubut spirit tattooing the Ruai spirit <span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">- Iban design – Augustine Anggat Ganjing</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGChKj59nDnes2mrDpzVM3xq_xPe7vi8bSU7oSr6Ch5EaUIx9eB7TqZUzHTCDWRIVZWLzBbYl0E3QlwHcGSi35zCgiLP68WHyTno31LNZtOHEUhU4Rj5tTmIbOS8MnyehgCN5T106h2oE/s1600/DSC_2218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGChKj59nDnes2mrDpzVM3xq_xPe7vi8bSU7oSr6Ch5EaUIx9eB7TqZUzHTCDWRIVZWLzBbYl0E3QlwHcGSi35zCgiLP68WHyTno31LNZtOHEUhU4Rj5tTmIbOS8MnyehgCN5T106h2oE/s320/DSC_2218.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;">The Argus pheasant</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Since the designs were symbolic and the ink was charmed, certain tattoos were believed to protect from one’s enemies and in particular from head-hunters. The winner in a man to man combat to death would cut his trophy from the neck of their opponent and immortalise his victory by having their hands and fingers tattooed with a special <i>Entegulun </i>design.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6ZI-AZ23K_Ypxt0UictwiN8OAQwHHieDqOKTxfzlSEtigjdKesdbSHFfGutu_t1UXbql_Cwk3Gy9yNuewmmkWSiGniqr3z19IPsLb57GdD1xccnBZQNrKb-_JgPBm9_B9B-R3NOL7rc/s1600/August+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6ZI-AZ23K_Ypxt0UictwiN8OAQwHHieDqOKTxfzlSEtigjdKesdbSHFfGutu_t1UXbql_Cwk3Gy9yNuewmmkWSiGniqr3z19IPsLb57GdD1xccnBZQNrKb-_JgPBm9_B9B-R3NOL7rc/s320/August+hand.jpg" width="181" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Entegulun </span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">design.</span> <br />
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Basic Iban design – Augustine Anggat Ganjing</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Amongst other popular designs to decorate the skin were the scorpion on the throat; the crab, immediately below the nape of the neck, and the nowadays, the ever popular <i>Bunga Terung</i> or egg-plant flower. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__4Eg1GdNdSWsEHbNkES2b56NywdZJyA45ZhoTI6e7ceHwTf8jl5FxoPbd3VrfL5wbqPfR_hV1HWrSlWw9kIbEVC92D2B2j-jqU2xVC57pWpICdhOKAszROSle6QgajT7ZJ60QOtkmLU/s1600/August+bunga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__4Eg1GdNdSWsEHbNkES2b56NywdZJyA45ZhoTI6e7ceHwTf8jl5FxoPbd3VrfL5wbqPfR_hV1HWrSlWw9kIbEVC92D2B2j-jqU2xVC57pWpICdhOKAszROSle6QgajT7ZJ60QOtkmLU/s320/August+bunga.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunga Terung <br />
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Basic Iban design – Augustine Anggat Ganjing</div>
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T<span style="font-size: large;">attoos would also tell the life story of the Iban man who had had to leave his village and travel alone and far for a few years to prove his courage; they would tell of his <i>Berjalai</i> (his journey) and where he had been. With more Ibans joining the army rangers, they started tattooing their forearm with their ID number and the name of the places their unit had been dispatched.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The recent trend and, I’d say the worldwide rehabilitation of the tattoo has somehow rekindled the pride of being a Borneo native amongst their younger generation often turned urban and college educated. The old <i>Bunga Terung </i>has become the new symbol of the young Ibans and surprisingly, many insist in having it tattooed on their skin the old fashion way: manually.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFihDkWo_abjfg8Js7538aF3CP319Vq9bxUbIRBBy9Dcuow0ArU-AvG3J6NSym3kYBMHhE48U0z1ndAriz8d7oky-J5JX6YnUSZUjTTQc1cuMkKLmOIup4BOF4SOFoXlM3Dab0GpTmaw/s1600/Bunga+Terung+on+the+shoulder+and+a+Kelingai+or+curved+design+on+the+chest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFihDkWo_abjfg8Js7538aF3CP319Vq9bxUbIRBBy9Dcuow0ArU-AvG3J6NSym3kYBMHhE48U0z1ndAriz8d7oky-J5JX6YnUSZUjTTQc1cuMkKLmOIup4BOF4SOFoXlM3Dab0GpTmaw/s320/Bunga+Terung+on+the+shoulder+and+a+Kelingai+or+curved+design+on+the+chest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tattoo artist with Bunga Terung on the shoulder</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uahgW-VtNoimFhlkWkH3J9KwYU33FzDe3Fjn_PHvLtTrjs0FmKnH-BTmaQIcCjIQtDjUp-RMBuQFAZpTtS0bIAy8f8uWmyPZ4wvG8b8oTLZdlKTyGS-ac-YxzbhRgx9dqIuKXp4h6oU/s1600/The+ever+popular+Bunga+Terung+or+egg+plant+flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uahgW-VtNoimFhlkWkH3J9KwYU33FzDe3Fjn_PHvLtTrjs0FmKnH-BTmaQIcCjIQtDjUp-RMBuQFAZpTtS0bIAy8f8uWmyPZ4wvG8b8oTLZdlKTyGS-ac-YxzbhRgx9dqIuKXp4h6oU/s320/The+ever+popular+Bunga+Terung+or+egg+plant+flower.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
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PHOTOS OF TRADITIONAL BORNEO TATTOOING, A MANUAL OPERATION!<br />
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Reference: Basic Iban design – Augustine Anggat Ganjing </div>
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Wooden Iban tattoo blocks can be seen at the Sarawak Museum.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">MAGICAL TATTOO PHOTO EXHIBITION</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thought the <b><span style="color: red;">Lars Krutak</span></b>’s from the TV documentary show “Tattoo hunter” (Lars is the Tattoo hunter) was a wonderful way for the visitors to understand the universality of tattoos. Regrettably, it was the only information available at the gathering. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Lars Krutak is an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist who discovered his passion for the art of tattoos while researching in the arctic region back in 1996. Since then, Lars has recorded the lives and stories of tattooed people around the globe and become the technical adviser for one of the world’s largest and most popular tattoo website: <a href="http://www.vanishingtattoo.com/">http://www.vanishingtattoo.com/</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here are a few of the fascinating info I jotted down while at the exhibition:</span></div>
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-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> - <b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>SHAMANIC SKIN</b>: In Indonesia the Mentawai people believe that their bold body tattooing keeps them in harmony with the universe and the spirits that govern it. Most tattooists are shaman.</span></div>
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-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>SOUL POWER</b>: Less than eighty years ago, Kayabi warriors who had taken human lives were believed to enter an intimate relationship with their victims. A powerful Kayabi shaman explained to Lars that “you definitely take an enemy’s soul when you kill him. Also, the blood of the dead man begins filling your stomach which necessitates a special diet and ritual seclusion to avert spiritual poisoning and physical transformation.” But before the warrior went into seclusion, he was entitled to have the name of his victim tattooed upon his body. “This tattoo symbol represents the new soul that he has gained as well as its spiritual power”. Today, the Kayabi of the Brazilian Amazon no longer hunt men, but they continue to wear the facial tattooing of their ancestors.</span></div>
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-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><b><span style="font-size: large;">RITUALISTIC</span></b>: <span style="font-size: large;">In Thailand, having the picture of an elephant tattooed on the back to absorb the power of the animal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span>BL<span style="font-size: large;"><b>BLESSED PRAYER</b>S: In Thailand, magical tattoos are based on ancient Khmer texts. Combinations of magic number and Hindu mythological characters that are endowed with special powers that tattooed monks and ordinary Thais find appealing. Some of these designs are believed to protect from bullets and knives; to bring luck in business, to protect from danger, while others may give strength, or even have the power to attract a future husband or wife.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span>A<span style="font-size: large;"><b>AFTERLIFE</b><b></b>: In India, one will be recognised after death only by the tattoos one one’s body.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span>G<span style="font-size: large;"><b>GOOD OMENS</b>: In the Philippines, Kalinga tattoo motives, centipedes and python scales seem to dominate. Both creatures were considered to be friends of the warriors because of the omen they delivered on the warpath.</span></div>
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-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>CURATIVE POWER</b>: In the Philippines, a tattoo on the neck could prevent or cure goiter. It did not always work as Lars’ picture revealed, showing a woman with a tattoo on a huge goiter.</span></div>
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-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>EARNING HIS STRIPES</b>: Shows an old Indian man wearing a chest tattoo showing that he is a successful head-hunter and that he can shift to the shape of a tiger when attacked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">-<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> <b> </b></span><b>FLOWER POWER:</b> Shows a Kayan woman (Sarawak, Borneo) with hornbill, “shoots of bamboo”, “guardian spirits’, “dragon dog” and tuba root motifs that are all believed to repel evil spirits. Floral imagery symbolising spiritual power and relationships, permeate every facet of Kayan life, Plants are regarded as a major kind living thing sharing the same fundamental properties of life and death as humans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">-<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><b>HERO SCARS</b>: In Ethiopia</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">http://www.larskrutak.com/ </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>MORE PHOTOS FROM THE EXHIBITION: </b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkXGVuTeDA6ea9SQx3mfXpjhSLGCWRhyphenhyphenOQr56vpi9X_SWDY0oMaggtoQu3S8eFe7lm2Pkjea-aon-S_knJmg8I-atcoIHdzJt9lctK8gbLrUSOn9a98SJ_dEdlnaIE9ft9XQk0K4B_k0/s1600/Sape+player+from+the+highlands+of+Borneo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkXGVuTeDA6ea9SQx3mfXpjhSLGCWRhyphenhyphenOQr56vpi9X_SWDY0oMaggtoQu3S8eFe7lm2Pkjea-aon-S_knJmg8I-atcoIHdzJt9lctK8gbLrUSOn9a98SJ_dEdlnaIE9ft9XQk0K4B_k0/s320/Sape+player+from+the+highlands+of+Borneo.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tattooed Sape player from the highlands of Borneo</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxqI1XLuSxDZryP_dCUZBSMH9EK-v0-hI0PdjWU7YlCJ4Z-NeX1CD2qlYHagfgzRLwCnbYArof3GBmPq7mAH1Z9DrBKdUk_UfBqwjWLaS7-8x2SE6fuKw8lYM-wGKiWMgEADyzabJwXs/s1600/Old+Time+Tattoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxqI1XLuSxDZryP_dCUZBSMH9EK-v0-hI0PdjWU7YlCJ4Z-NeX1CD2qlYHagfgzRLwCnbYArof3GBmPq7mAH1Z9DrBKdUk_UfBqwjWLaS7-8x2SE6fuKw8lYM-wGKiWMgEADyzabJwXs/s320/Old+Time+Tattoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Old Time Tattoo" Artist work</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preparing the ink at TNT Tattoo</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WsKL8kSWnKmrhz62wbVLQIn1U1sK817zLSQrHTMWgbQRhNOHAZIqVvmTIbq8oTPU8Nmw_k7hdogX1RGV085o1V5nS3gkpyZgXqLUZHYU9w6N5HW7EmvjKQktblAdvIV-oA1lZoNOqHc/s1600/Ink+preparation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WsKL8kSWnKmrhz62wbVLQIn1U1sK817zLSQrHTMWgbQRhNOHAZIqVvmTIbq8oTPU8Nmw_k7hdogX1RGV085o1V5nS3gkpyZgXqLUZHYU9w6N5HW7EmvjKQktblAdvIV-oA1lZoNOqHc/s320/Ink+preparation.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPJpeScLJwa8kZz5sMLriV_3JpSGtjhs_-1Tk-XAVj4UJgIdIY-H5pyf156XqBn_x26UuDwcx2rOA0R2r0F-p4aObR3wWfVsRLrWmfY9VIEsJQIl688Te19cOrBcJJEndQSW5OPZlOqc/s1600/Making+a+choice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPJpeScLJwa8kZz5sMLriV_3JpSGtjhs_-1Tk-XAVj4UJgIdIY-H5pyf156XqBn_x26UuDwcx2rOA0R2r0F-p4aObR3wWfVsRLrWmfY9VIEsJQIl688Te19cOrBcJJEndQSW5OPZlOqc/s320/Making+a+choice.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making a choice</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2s2X_qzFVJmamfQYSueTR-10dearm1P8kwM5AglplEVJu1xlHwCwn89qyGHW1_05v6O8q8ho8vm1XWqyRkV9cqfRo0Fnt77gROW9rExE5QAb90b1rgNzL7hkoisNuREXaUQYrQyrr6Q/s1600/Having+it+done+at+Bingo+Pijama+Tattoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2s2X_qzFVJmamfQYSueTR-10dearm1P8kwM5AglplEVJu1xlHwCwn89qyGHW1_05v6O8q8ho8vm1XWqyRkV9cqfRo0Fnt77gROW9rExE5QAb90b1rgNzL7hkoisNuREXaUQYrQyrr6Q/s320/Having+it+done+at+Bingo+Pijama+Tattoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having it done at "Pijama Tattoo"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3tXdoa8-D-zHCooATbql5wmYPsFDh0ugas8ipcF4n2wkAeW-z3DO40F32ypJcM_pUPSi3Z45BG5CKnqB5cjmsS7aAQnE9fqBZ7hYDyNwno-JONjkLD2Eh1CbIZ_5LSuoXxZFJUd3_0c/s1600/Offerings+to+the+Iban+gods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3tXdoa8-D-zHCooATbql5wmYPsFDh0ugas8ipcF4n2wkAeW-z3DO40F32ypJcM_pUPSi3Z45BG5CKnqB5cjmsS7aAQnE9fqBZ7hYDyNwno-JONjkLD2Eh1CbIZ_5LSuoXxZFJUd3_0c/s400/Offerings+to+the+Iban+gods.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Offerings to the gods</td></tr>
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</div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-75463152330044117712010-12-13T01:33:00.000-08:002012-01-19T23:37:53.781-08:00A TASTE OF BORNEO<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">The Strange riddle of the Yew Char Kueh and the Chichi fregi</span></b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yew Char Kueh</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What can a Mediterranean Frenchie like me and the Chinese people of Sarawak possibly have to share from their respective cultural heritage? Give up? I’ll tell you what it is: A long golden fritter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I would not dream of entering a debate on whom actually “invented” the rather addictive fritter and whether the Chichi fregi as it is called in Provence came before the Yew Char Kueh which is commonly served in Kuching or even in China. Back where I come from and back in time, and well before my time, the port-city of Marseille was born out of a cluster of small and often quaint fishing villages. L’Estaque, on the west side, happens to be one of those villages with one very special pride: the Chichi fregi. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mediterranean folks from beyond the Italian border will probably point out, and rightfully so, that the Chichi fregi is actually a <i>Chichi</i> while at the other end of the coast, a Spaniard will insist that it is but a <i>churro</i> and by now I too could probably argue with them that it is in fact Yew Char Kueh; and if I did, any Estaquois (People from l’Estaque) listening to me would probably be only half surprised that their recipe should be found as far as Asia. Indeed the story goes in Provence that once upon a time, a man from l’Estaque left to visit China. When he finally wanted to come home and he presented himself at the Peking train station to purchase his return ticket, the officer asked him: “l’Estaque Beachside or l’Estaque Town”? This would bring any common-sensed Estaquois to reason that it must be that the reputation of their treasured Chichi fregi has reached as far to the East as the Kingdom of Heaven; so much so that the Chinese are now aware that l’Estaque counts not one but two train stations! And what of the amazing coincidence of l’Estaque being legendarily linked to China when they seem to share the same popular recipe? If Marco Polo brought the Noodle back to Italy, could someone have brought the Yew Char Kueh to l’Estaque all the way from Peking? Or could the Chinese have taken the recipe of the Chichi fregi back on board their ships in 1421 or 1434, perhaps after a short call at l’Estaque harbour?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whether any amateur historian will ever get to the bottom of this (please do let me know) or not, I am simply grateful to be able to enjoy one of my childhood favourites on any given day while staying in my adopted home town of Kuching in Borneo; and the joy is even greater when I realise that I have learned many other ways to eat my Chichi fregi other than with olive oil and Orange blossom flavouring and sprinkled with sugar as it is the tradition in l’Estaque and which has long since spread to the street hawkers of Marseille and of all the fun fairs and markets of the region. Here in Malaysia, it also served as a mouth melting treat with sweetened milk or even with kaya (a curd made from coconut), my personal favourite. It is also delicious eaten with porridge and bak ku teh (herbal pork stew) or simply dipped in chilli sauce. So truly I just don’t know whom I have to thank for the joy of eating Chichi fregi except perhaps that young Chinese bloke at Penrissen Food Court? Never mind, if you happen to catch me there on my Sunday brunch, do join me for Yew Char Kueh!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">Recipe Chichi fregi: : <a href="http://www.gustave.tv/recettes/775/chichi-fregi-estaque.html">www.gustave.tv/recettes/775/chichi-fregi-estaque.html <iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0061564893&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe></a></span></span><br />
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</div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-22042761832307020312010-11-03T01:18:00.000-07:002012-01-19T23:39:33.618-08:00THE BASKETS OF MANY COLOURS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrznESvfEWoJhOu3p6hctslOD9xHKDi4CRz3WigKvPGYtyZW2ucEJ3UUY8aEc8wmJgj5MVmZzarpNhRWhp0sjp-R7Nbxol9TyVQvhOeKvKcIuobzIfx8GQvFAsll6MIarLt2mS-6umsOM/s1600/DSC_1433+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrznESvfEWoJhOu3p6hctslOD9xHKDi4CRz3WigKvPGYtyZW2ucEJ3UUY8aEc8wmJgj5MVmZzarpNhRWhp0sjp-R7Nbxol9TyVQvhOeKvKcIuobzIfx8GQvFAsll6MIarLt2mS-6umsOM/s400/DSC_1433+res.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Back in June this year, I visited the plentiful market of Serian town, about one hour drive from Kuching . Serian is a regular stop-over for tourists on their way to visiting the longhouses of Skran, Lemanak or Batang Ai. While I was there to shoot the Durian monument with my camera (check out my previous post: <span style="background: rgb(255,255,255); color: lime;">Green Monuments</span>), I spotted a little old lady, seated on a woven mat, timidly laid out on the ground, yet standing out quite obviously with her baskets of many color, in a corner of the otherwise mostly green vegetable section of the market. As I looked closer, I noticed that the baskets were entirely made of interwoven plastic strips and although I am usually no fan of plastic ware, except for cold storage purposes, I couldn’t help feeling excited and I felt rather frustrated that I just did not have enough time to spend to select a couple, at least, of those beautiful baskets. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Back in Kuching, I mentioned the basket lady to a few of my friends, making a promise to myself to go back there and purchase one of two as soon as I would return from a trip to Perth WA. While I was enjoying browsing in a quaint little shop in Cottlesloe, near Perth, I found myself looking at the same type of colorful baskets! Yet of course with an Australian price, which helped convince me even further that I should indeed go back to the little old lady, back in Serian, Borneo; and so I did, last Sunday morning. I did not find any trace of my little old lady. Instead and to my great surprise, I found the whole center of the vegetable market occupied with rows of baskets, from small to very large, square and round, all with beautifully sharp colors. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">While scouting for two different sizes and colors, I started chatting with the women who were busy weaving; they told me that they were self taught and worked at the market every day of the week and Sundays; they got their supply of plastic straps from the hardware shop. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: magenta; font-size: small;">A pinkish basket for my lap-top</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Shopping was good; I went back home with a shocking pink and white basket to carry my lap-top and another large one and more purple to store magazines, unaware that my friend Alicia had transformed one of her own into a still life, right inside her living-room, bringing me to think that there seems to be no limit to uses of those beautiful baskets of many colors.</span></div>
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<tr style="background-color: white; color: magenta;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alicia's basket: what a splendid idea!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> <iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=1579903312&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><br />
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<br /></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-90587057066743236282010-11-03T01:07:00.000-07:002012-01-20T01:29:25.315-08:00UNPREDICTABILITY: A BLESSING!<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">No matter how well organised or prepared I pretend to be, life in the country is simply unpredictable. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I make a lunch appointment in town, thinking that getting up earlier and doing most of my morning chores the night before will be an assurance that I will show up on time, and clouds of tiny insects choose to descend on us during the night, to drop dead by the thousands all over the terrace floor, the garage and the whole perimeter of the house. The best thing to do in such a case is to grab the water hose, open full pressure and spray, spray everywhere there are insects, on the floor, on the walls, along the roof cornice.... Iko, the Labrador, is having a field day, catching the spray, sliding the whole width of the garage, falling off the terrace deck, and honestly, so am I having a wonderful time being wet, wet, wet. Meanwhile, the old Dutch clock in the living-room remains indifferent to my having fun; it keeps a stern track of time while I totally lose it. I’ll call to say that I’ll be late for lunch. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I promise myself an afternoon treat at the book store; an indefinite power cut strikes the area and I am left to choose between manually opening the front gate which weighs more than a ton (literally) or spend the day staring at my own sweat oozing out of my pores. I choose to open the gate, and while I can’t help a quick mental calculation of my surely will-be <i>sinsei </i>(traditional Chinese chiropractor) bill, once the job done I find myself standing both arms stretched up towards heaven, proud to claim “Yes! I did it!” “I am woman!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And just this morning I wanted to stay at home and concentrate on writing something I’ve had in mind for a while. I had barely opened my computer when suddenly the whole study-room sounded like the busiest dog pound on its worse day. I looked out the window to find four of my dogs furiously barking towards the corner of the wall. One glimpse and I jumped to my desk, grabbed my camera, ran out and took my best shots at a tiny baby monitor lizard fencing with three Maltese and big Uncle Sherlock, the Belgian shepherd. And so it is with unpredictability, which by nature always catches me unaware and more than often, turns my day into experiences I would not have missed, not even for a lunch appointment with a friend. </span></span></div>
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<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: red;"><iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0810988992&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>I pull my tongue at p<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B0036H2V8I&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe>redictability!<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=1416284559&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe></span></b></span><br />
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</tbody></table>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-90582237431778299472010-10-27T01:13:00.000-07:002012-01-20T05:51:30.969-08:00NORTH QATAR DISCOVERY<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">24<sup>th</sup> of April <span style="color: lime;">IN PROGRESS....</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert Falcon Helmet</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first thing I notice as I take my seat in the car is the falcon helmet that hangs from the reflector. Falcon breeding and hunting with them is a national sport in Qatar. These wonderful birds can cost thousands; there are even clinics caring specifically for them, fully staffed with falcon doctors. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our driver, like most of the working population here is not from Qatar; Suria is Nepalese and he’s been in Doha quite a number of years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Alkhor is the 2<sup>nd</sup> city in Qatar, yet what we find is a small fishing village where all the fish consumed in the country comes from. Previously, that is before petroleum became black gold, fishing and pearl diving were the sole industries. Records of fishing trade go back to the 5<sup>th</sup> and 4<sup>th</sup> millenniums BC ; on our way to Alkhor we stopped to see stone carvings made by ancient fishermen probably while waiting for their ship to sail. Nets have made divers redundant while pearl fishing is no longer allowed. Qatari pearls used to be the most precious in the world; now petroleum fetches the big bucks. Divers and fishermen have deserted most of the villages between Doha and Alkhor; they moved to the capital city where they can enjoy big houses with big air conditioners. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs5PvnlXqpy1woDh09F75db9aEFxRgLdnzMOyGXTvY4I8dwZzFrJJZEhRmORgR-AiWtuhPCLlb5ettO6_mq2Uz_IdTSSfUEseE9htGxjsTnkr3wlwA70fy4aFGxtzMO4EUqSwNGQbrN8/s1600/DSC_0643+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs5PvnlXqpy1woDh09F75db9aEFxRgLdnzMOyGXTvY4I8dwZzFrJJZEhRmORgR-AiWtuhPCLlb5ettO6_mq2Uz_IdTSSfUEseE9htGxjsTnkr3wlwA70fy4aFGxtzMO4EUqSwNGQbrN8/s320/DSC_0643+res.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Opposite the port, I’m surprised to find a mangrove forest; Suria is sad to tell us how most of it has already been removed and how people like to drive here to see and smell the mangrove.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Alkor</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgq9PCvvORHQFJWj71hZrZrPnDIks-Igu3oaAGAb4hJQbn655Th1ASddIzQ3WSlSGqRZvi_QUdDv55GtmUmNH1uY8f_84uS5qqNvFGPBd3Kg8gsakKLazrYzRKZfQc9QenGVXgBpHgXc/s1600/DSC_0597+res+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The fort of Zabara is a pleasant stop. It was built in 1958 as a watch point and now serves as a tourists’ stop.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fort Zabara</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fort Zabara: The Door</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR2CLJhX5aDAFR2-JkPj8-1JJlhOZjqZI26HVCq7tP8wRdzFpIXjLZexLRjLFPexo1yQyL-XIGlm1KCnA1Ut4hIEXNruk7CUEcGCCMNb6i-ZCCqAS8NvR1j1WwU0sHIzEeCi56eDBt7Y/s1600/DSC_0665+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Inside the Fort</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">View From Inside: No one's coming!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0061951641&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe> <iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B00005JOA4&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe></span></td></tr>
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<br /></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-44323387644862003632010-10-25T01:39:00.000-07:002012-01-20T05:52:35.863-08:00QATAR 4X4 DESERT SAFARI<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkeIC_ePC2YAi0J5luVFvvlS8FOZSK0n7xcpZ6TZh7VrDGDNCap3OEHDgvHaGjPzqZxhK_I6TvQe4O8UK7z5imsb2NpCmFOmlujregShoW05HrO71QW9qRVmC1mgo32EOrZj5OiijR0k/s200/DSC_0366+1st+step+in+Gulf+desert+res.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My First Steps in the Desert</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">23<sup>rd</sup> April</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3Bxy_1RNXq0RZqvynUfLLLA8GgbklkVvPBpMhPweLWUXzfYWANpifua78ewXPCPMtCejHHuXoAbTXrwd_RI7R5sz97Pg29t2Je-vbTwWklGLAHZ9rJHWWLk6nyYTjxMDr0rXXgDsPE8/s1600/DSC_0380+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3Bxy_1RNXq0RZqvynUfLLLA8GgbklkVvPBpMhPweLWUXzfYWANpifua78ewXPCPMtCejHHuXoAbTXrwd_RI7R5sz97Pg29t2Je-vbTwWklGLAHZ9rJHWWLk6nyYTjxMDr0rXXgDsPE8/s320/DSC_0380+res.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">My first step on desert sand, ever; I can’t help it, I snap a photo of my feet in my gladiator styled sandals; I should have had my toenails varnished in preparation of the photo-shoot. What color? Never mind. Although I make a big thing out of it (I have never been here and most probably I will never come back), where I’m standing right now is merely sandy road side. We have stopped here to deflate the Toyota Land Cruiser’s tires before we can start the real safari which happens to be the true reason why I have come all the way to Qatar, after I let a few pictures (they were amazing) posted on a travel agent’s website awaken in me the Lawrence of Arabia syndrome. Right now and beyond knowing that there are going to be the obvious dunes and an inner sea, I am still not quite sure what to expect and what I have let myself into; the thrill of anticipation is overwhelming.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our driver’s name is Jassim, a young and tall Qatari man, a bit on the dark side. In contrast to the color of his skin, he wears the traditional full length white athobe and the Ghatta over what I guess to be a very short hair cut. His feet are comfortable in leather sandals. Oddly enough, looking at him brings me back to the days when I was in Scotland, attending the Highlands Games in Braemar where most Scotsmen still wear the kilt. The question on every non Scottish woman’s lips then was: “So, what’s under the kilt?” and I briefly wonder if female visitors to the Gulf country show such cheeky curiosity. What do these men wear under their immaculate white robe? Although he seems friendly, Jassim lacks confidence to speak to us in English and Saeeda, our guide, is acting as our interpreter. I can’t help feeling surprise at seeing a twenty five years old woman working with an otherwise all men crew. Although she is wearing a full length black dress (LBD?) with a black veil to hide her hair, Saeeda is not one bit shy; in fact she is a real clown whose ebony colored face keeps on breaking into a sparkling white smile. When I take her picture, she forgets to smile and</span> <span style="font-size: small;">her face simply blacks out, making her appears as a full height black statue. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With T.P and Saeeda</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our car has now become part of a convoy of all white Land Cruisers, except for ours; we’re the black sheep. Mustapha is the leader who communicates with all the other drivers through a </span><span style="font-size: small;">radio. Lots of jokes are coming through the loud speakers, a lot of helpful comments too. Mustapha may not be sitting in our vehicle, but he is very alert to all our questions. Jassim, and we’ll understand later, all the other drivers are absolutely in awe with his capabilities. Mustapha is actually Lebanese and the desert is the love of his life. After having worked in Saudi Arabia, he’s only been in Qatar for less than three weeks during which he has learned everything there is to know about the history, the economy and of course the geography of the small kingdom. Jassim and Saeeda are obviously impressed that their new and foreign colleague knows more about their country than they do themselves and in such a short time too! I, on the other hand, can’t quite understand what the fuss is all about; I have been here less than a week and I have been googling big time to find out as much as I could on this, after all tiny country. What I do find amazing though is that Mustapha already seems to know every dune there is in the desert and every inch of sand, so much so that he is now our leader! Where we see one dune after the other and honestly could be conned into climbing up and down the same two or three over and over again, our companions have a name for every one of them!</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> <span style="font-size: small;">Up we go, speeding up a wall of sand to reach the top of a dune and speed along the edge, lifting a cloud of golden dust in the process. Everyone is screaming. Saeeda’s veil has dropped from her head onto her shoulders; right now she only cares for her dear life. Somehow, I dare look out of my window to find the two wheels on my side of the vehicle reeling up in thin air just above an absolutely vertical drop to the bottom of the dune. Jassim, however, is a picture of calm. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Ahead of us we watch the other vehicles perform what looks like some extreme ballet dance; it gives us a preview of what we are going to go through ourselves in a few seconds. Adrenaline is pumping like never before; voices and laughter are filling up the car and through all this and above it all, I can hear Shakirah singing through the blaring stereo. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">For more than an hour now, we’ve been going like a bunch of mad people thrown together inside a shaker bottle, yelling at the top of our voices; yet and through it all I am still trying to take pictures of this “once in a life time” experience while my camera stubbornly refuses to take most shots: we are in the desert and there is nothing to focus on! </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Next to me Doctor Saad is making serious comments on the safety equipment or, should I say, the lack of it. Sure we have fastened our safety belts; with no helmets to wear, aside from prayer, that’s all we can rely upon. The good doctor has to stop worrying out loud though as Saeeda reminds him that here in the desert, it is very bad luck to talk about accidents. She reassures us that Jassim has been an apprentice dune safari driver for six years now; this should imply that he is not a professional yet, but I don’t let it worry me; this is not a time for worrying; I came to be thrilled and I am getting every bit what I wished for. Soon however, all cars have to stop at the foot of a very high and long dune to fix a punctured tire. Passengers, including my friend TP and me, seize the opportunity to take their distances from the vehicles and attempt a climb. So far the sky has been overcast with drizzling intervals (a rare thing!) so the sand is just pleasantly warm and oh so fine! Dragging our feet up and forward though is tough sport with sand running from underneath our soles. While our feet we keep sinking, we move forward one step and slide two or even three backwards. This is so much fun! And to think that this sea of sand used to be under water! </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T.P Desert-Crossing? No Way!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We Found Sea-shells in the Desert!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">During our stop we found a few sea-shells that left us dreaming of what it would have been like tens of thousands of years ago; soon we realize that the sea actually still nearby, now an inland sea that separates Qatar from Saudi Arabia. As we jest about taking a swim across, Jassim points out that the waters are very deep (some 200 meters) and that the Saudi side is guarded with armed posts. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Inland Sea</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">As we are making our way towards a resort-camp, night is about to reach the Qatari desert. In the car, our level of enthusiasm is still high; Jassim and Saeeda tell us how they could drive like this every day and the whole day, up and down the dunes, straight down and really fast like we are going right now, until we finally reach all the flat zone where evidently Jassim has lost control of his vehicle which is swirling right and left, this once in total silence, until the car finally stops moving and we all start breathing again. From there, going to the camp feels like a Sunday drive with hundreds of four wheelers and buggies traveling like meteorites do in the sky, with no apparent order yet never colliding (at least not while we were there).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">The camp is made up of a few large Bedouin tents, one of them fitted and decorated like a traditional living quarter, complete with carved wooden coffee (or tea?) tables, tea pots and musical instruments and really comfortable “sofas” to sit or sleep on, entirely covered with bright red ethnic woven covers. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Saeeda calls us inside, she wants us to wear the traditional long black dress and cover our heads so that we can have our photo taken together as three friends. We happily oblige although when I see myself on the photo, I know that this style simply does not suit me. I look dreadful! TP looks quite elegant though. As TP and I remove our Qatari dresses, so does Saeeda in front of one of the men, incidentally the one who’s just taken the few photo shots, who is still standing there watching us and laughing, obviously enjoying the rare intimacy. We think Saeeda has forgotten his presence, but as we gently bring this to her attention, she laughs with her contagious laughter: “It’s ok, he’s my boy friend!” And of course it’s o.k with us if Mohammad stands there with loving eyes, discovering Saeeda’s jeans and tunic. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T.P, Elegant, as always.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Outside the tent, aromas of kofta and curries attract everyone to the buffet table. It doesn’t take long till French, Canadian and Japanese tourists, some with young children, all agree that tonight’s dinner is out of this world under the perfectly clear sky that offers us a glimpse into infinity.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr.Saad and T.P Footloose in the Desert</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkeIC_ePC2YAi0J5luVFvvlS8FOZSK0n7xcpZ6TZh7VrDGDNCap3OEHDgvHaGjPzqZxhK_I6TvQe4O8UK7z5imsb2NpCmFOmlujregShoW05HrO71QW9qRVmC1mgo32EOrZj5OiijR0k/s1600/DSC_0366+1st+step+in+Gulf+desert+res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-35524617483546286762010-10-25T01:05:00.000-07:002012-01-20T05:53:47.917-08:00PLANNING A DESERT SAFARI IN QATAR<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Was it sleeping in the wrong position during the flight? Was it the unnerving sound of the stiff plastic mattress cover? On my second day in Doha I feel no better than I did yesterday; I can see white bubbles flying all around the room and I have strong suspicion that they are not really there. It is not even a challenge not to stress at the thought of having traveled so far to just want to sleep, just sleep while the world is busy and T.P is working. Hunger finally drags me out of slumber; time for a large croissant and a maxi sized bowl of … <i>café au lait</i>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Almost two o’clock in the afternoon and at long last I feel slightly energized by a long shower yet a little anxious at the perspective of having to let my rebellious hair dry without blow. Over my many years in Asia, I had noticed that there were usually no shaving kits in the bathrooms, which was ok by me since I am no relation to The Bearded Woman. From now on I will have to remember that Asian women who are blessed with straight manageable hair sometimes do not bother keeping a hair dryer, and why should they? I probably wouldn’t.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">While I need time for my hair to dry, I pick The Peninsula, the news paper T.P kindly brought back yesterday. I find the suddenly familiar face of </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Aleida Guevarra. On another page, Khalid Al Jaber reports on child marriage: <i>Robbing children out of their innocence</i>. The message is to say “no” to marriages of minors. He explains that, although Prophet Muhammad married Aisha when she was only nine years old, scientific research shows that girls should not mother babies before the age of seventeen. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"> Further down I learn that foreign workers need an exit permit to leave the country even at the end of their contract! There are even a few announcements for this or that foreign person who is going to leave the country. Under the photograph there is a standard message calling for anyone who has any claims to make. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"> There is also an article with a rather unusual story about a British woman who has suddenly started speaking with a Chinese accent! She reckons her chronic migraine is responsible for the change. Reportedly, the woman has become extremely annoyed and can’t wait to get her West Country drawl back. I quickly fold back the news paper before I too get a migraine and start blabbering with a Trans Carpathian accent. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">It is high time for me to get creative with finding ways to fix my back and neck and finally get a life in Doha. I spot a chair that has the right height and shape; I push the seat facing against the wall, I evaluate the back of the chair one more time and for a split of a second I actually wonder if this is not a risky move that I am going to make, alone in the apartment. Then again, the thought of finally starting on my holiday is worth the risk. I bend backwards with confidence, arms left hanging, I breathe out and as I do so, I hear the cracking sound I was hoping for. I recover my standing position; a heat wave runs up my neck, down my right arm and I am not sure whether I have stricken luck or disaster. I aim for the nearest armchair. The room is still around me and this time the air is clear from white bubbles. I give it five minutes; time to check out whether my un-orthodox back stretching method (do not try this at home!) actually works. I feel great! Just as I hear a knock on the door, I look I quickly check myself in the mirror; my hair has dried and settled in quite a nice style; for a second I’m thinking of checking out the Trans-Carpathian accent as well as my canines for that matter. Nah! I run to open for T.P. “How are you today? She asks. “Absolutely great! Let’s go and book our desert safari.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">The office of Regency Holidays never closes. It seems that in Doha, people come to make reservations for their trips or their holidays at any time of the day or night. I can imagine myself after watching Ian Wright <i>Out of</i> <i>Bound</i> in Cuba on the Travel & Living channel, jumping into my car to visit my travel agent: “Hi Suzan! So let’s work out a package to Havana, shall we?” Or, again, me having a dream of cruising to Alaska and wanting to realize it ASAP: “Hello Suzan, glad you’re still there at 3am…” I can’t help but love Regency Holidays; as much as I would hate having to work there. Business has been done smoothly and pleasantly too; we have booked tomorrow’s safari and a tour of North Qatar for the next day. I have also requested a quotation for me to visit Dubai, solo, while in transit on my way back to Malaysia. Now we can go and have dinner!</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9068565673946107268.post-75279270680670095142010-10-25T00:54:00.000-07:002012-01-20T05:54:40.375-08:00THE ANCIENT MARINER OF DOHA<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">The Ancient Mariner at Al Corniche</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">T.P is back, I am not feeling much better but I want to keep that to myself. I know she’s doesn’t often have company to go out with and also like the idea to somehow impose a break on her mind blowing and unhealthy work schedule. Besides, I would need to be half dead, literally, to miss out on a northern Indian dinner. So off we go and down to the fourth floor, into the overly decorated restaurant that would take the air out of the lungs of any claustrophobic; I am not one of them, yet this is not helping my feeling dizzy. The food is delicious though and I make an important discovery. I ordered a lime juice and I am surprised to be served a green drink. TP explains that here, in Qatar, fresh lime is served with fresh mint. I venture a sip. I can’t say I appreciate but I don’t want to create a fuss and because I feel quite thirsty, I take one more sip and it actually tastes better, then one more and I am beginning to love it. I have definitely acquired the taste; in fact I even suspect this thing may be addictive!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">To help us digest the garlic nans and the hot Vindaloo, nothing could be better than for us to walk a few kilometers to Al Corniche, the water front that follows the entire bay of Doha. I just hope the evening walk will make me feel better as right now I feel quite unsettled. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">To reach our destination we need to cross the business district which is totally deserted at night. A few cars are still parked in front of an office building. The four wheel drives are enormous. I ask TP to take a picture of me standing next to a pick-up; the wheel is as high as my hips! Something to show the boys back home. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">We walk through the streets like two lonely ants between sky scrapers. A few drivers make us raise our eye brows as they practice rubber-burning around the corners; other than that no one disturbs us and we feel free to mock about hugging a cartoon styled sign-board that represents a smiling traffic police officer pointing at the traffic light sign above his head.<span style="color: red;"></span>Underneath the cut out figure, there is a notice which of course we cannot understand since it is written in Arabic.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">T.P does not drive in Doha, she says she is too scared after watching local drivers. When we find another road sign which is meant to warn of something related to approaching a round- about, I agree that I would probably feel nervous to drive among wanna be formula one drivers in a place where I can’t make head or tail of the signage.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">The towers are making me even dizzier, I dare not look up, yet they are all a spectacle to admire as most of them are lit up in one specific color or even change hues like the Storm Tower. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Storm Tower in Doha, it changes colour</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"> When we finally reach Al Corniche, the breeze lifts my spirits and seems to clear my dizzy head a little. The large promenade runs parallel to the road, between manicured lawns dotted with palm trees and the waterfront parapet. The place is very busy, a favorite destination for joggers or mere strollers and families. Like I did the night before at the beach, I spend time looking at so many children out and enjoying the evening with their parents. There’s a boat waiting for passengers. T.P explains that it is called a Dhow. She wants us to buy tickets for a cruise back and forth across the bay. Unlike me she is a tough negotiator; the deal is done for QR 20<span style="color: red;"> </span>each. For a while I forget my unstable feet while I negotiate the plank walk that serves as a gang-way. Off we sail into the night gathering in our sight all of the 240 (well, perhaps not all of them) glittering towers and the sultan’s palace too. Yes, right now T.P and I are queens of the night aboard what feels like our very own vessel while the old mariner who’s at the helm is definitely in a party mood, rocking the otherwise silent bay with Arab hits as well as Lily Allen and Whitney Houston who’s singing <i>I Need Somebody</i>. For a minute we both consider standing up to dance on the empty deck (we are the only passengers) but then we are too scared to either give our captain a culture shock or send him the wrong message. In the end we both agree to dampen out enthusiasm for the wild rhythm of the night and keep to our bench, behaving like ladies until we find ourselves back alongside. Strange how the boat trip succeeded in making me feel much better; it must have been the breeze, or perhaps the seafaring genes in my DNAS, the fact is that I had almost forgotten about my discomfort while on board. Stepping down on the steady ground of Al Corniche however, feels like payback time. I feel like a drunken sailor on leave. I have often heard that seamen in a state of ebriety never fall over board; I just hope that I won’t fall over my own feet! Meanwhile I feel all at once crossed eyed and nauseous, and yet flooded with an immense pleasure of being here right now, with a friend, in a city where towers turned bejeweled every night and mirror their beauty in the calm waters of the bay. As I can barely hide my awkward steps, TP becomes concerned. “Shall we hail a cab?” she offers. “No, let’s just walk, the night is just too beautiful, beside, look at the moon, it’s full, surely it’s a good thing for me to get better.”</span></span></div>
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<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B00371V6T8&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe><iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=anothe0b-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=3791339338&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align: left; height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe></div>Annie R. Teohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02313439240348983782noreply@blogger.com0