Tuck & Patti - Can't Help Falling in Love

CIVILISATIONS by Sid Mier

picture credit

"Asia's race for space"
"India launches first moon mission"


The front page of Al Jazeera's news brings back an eerie memory of a war game i used to play as a kid - CIVILISATION.

Sid Mier probably had a foresight on the race of nations. In the game, the human player picks a nationality of her liking (eg. French, English, Aztecs, American...). The player competes with computer generated opponents of other nationalities. Each by turn races to gain the next piece of knowledge, the next technology, so as to produce the most lethal weopon, the most effective, glamorous and strongest cities.

To win the game, one has either to wipe out all the other nations, or to be the first to build a space craft.

15 years later, apparently, nations haven't got sick of the model of "success", "game over".
Way to go Sid!

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Sharon Chong

What if....

click image for better reading

If i was free of the pressure to "be someone", if i was freed of the need to "make a contribution", if i was freed of the need to know what people think of me, if i was freed of the pressure to be useful, if i was freed of the pressure to be right, if i was freed of the pressure to be responsible for others, if i was freed of the need to master, to expertise, to power, to puppetry, to control, to make things happen. if i was freed of my need to be noble...

What would my life be for?

How would life live?



"We'll live, and we'll see." (1)











(1) Anton Chekov. in "Three Years"

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Sharon Chong

Sandakan (two) - Hiding in the Closet of Nature photos

Here are the snappies for the camping trip:

Yes, the trip's not very legal indeed

My guide for this journey, well, and many journeys passed
or yet to come - Daddy!

First meeting with the river - what was the name of the river again?

Oops...



Rummaging a steep rear of the hill


Living up to my Hakka roots of "land-openers" -
one weed down, two weeds, three, four (woozing sweat & back pain).......
gosh, and they opened forests??


Luxury of a 3-men tent, courtesy of Eric.

Back to the river



Dip time!
i was standing right inside the natural crate below

Yep, i know you're thinking "Ugh... dirty river"
but don't let the colour fool you, it's th natural pigment of fallen leaves.
so my guide told me
;-)

Boiled noodles with onions and eggs -
with a Japanese stage set, free of charge!
Come -sh Eat a-ke!

He's older than he looks. Secrets?
Marrying the right cooking wife, taking it easy, and get a dog.


Paying for ambients? Who needs pretentious ambients when
there's the real thing?

Very important, we brought clothes line.

Just the clouds couldn't hold itself through the night

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Sharon Chong
:o)

Sandakan (one) - Hiding In the Closet of Nature

The sun is coming out soon. The fog will cease, and the team of clouds will retreat, leaving the trees and low bushes stand in their wooden grey and brown, sometimes yellow, sometimes orange. Their dense green lush their tops, or skirt low to their leafy stems. What a morning, gently greeting the jungle campers.

That morning, with hearts of an explorer, we trot into the reserved forest, just beyond the backyard of my uncle’s house. My father traced the vaguely familiar steps of childhood; I journeyed with care, not knowing what to expect. What can I expect? In a few minutes only, we reached the small stream, its rather flat banks well blanketed with algae, bidding out steps caution. In a hop, we crossed the stream, and continued uphill where in another minute brought us to the open top. The hill is rather low, compared to my expectant heart.

Across the gravel road, the front line of a thinning forest stood facing us, as if they were standing in a line of defense, ready to do anything to prevent anymore human intrusion. We came to the edge of defense, strolled casually past the line, lamenting in my mind the helpless bodies of wood that bear the marks of red painted “X”, demarcating the line of trees that are to cease being cut, while the gravel parades before it. Beyond the defense, lives a completely different world.

No bridle paths, donned with clear cut planks to ease our walking, but fallen leaves of brown, black, dark red and occasional green, carpeted all the face of the hill, covering branches of old that were to crack and collapse at the slightest foot stomp. Trees, sometimes the size of my thigh, most of the time the size of my forearm, rooted at their spot, close by their neighbours. There were almost always a couple of rattan twining caressing tree to tree, enough to prevent us from walking by without swaying a few parang chops. When the marking ropes ran out, it was time to trace our way back to the open.

Now we’ve pitched the tent on the open hill top. Father fetched water, and we made coffee, hot and soothing very well for lunch with bread while we sat under a shade. “Isn’t it great to be able to camp out, so that we abandon our cares and worries, and give all our attention and energy to the here and now?” Father said, with a hint of gratefulness, or perhaps a boyish delight, now mixed with the reality of age.

At about 3.30pm, we decided to have an early bath and dinner down at the stream.

The water spurts and bubbles gently above burning heat from a portable flame, in a while swims inside two chunks of dried boodles, two peeled onion bulbs, three eggs accidentally cracked open in their container.

The motley broth simmers with an oily glow at the surface, sitting nicely on a rock island midstream. In a dip, the noodles swim easily into our plastic cups, pushed gently by the branch-sticks (impromptu chopsticks made from nearby branches) we were using. What came later, was a difficult sensation to achieve elsewhere. Hot broth and noodles steamed itself through my tongue and palate, and glided slowly down my throat and further down where my chest was now swayed gently as the oncoming current swept coolly past the rest of my body. A river cuisine no restaurant can ever offer.

At times like this, father and I were reminded of a song we both love, a song I used to awe in bafflement:

You think I'm an ignorant savage
And you've been so many places
I guess it must be so
But still I cannot see
If the savage one is me
How can there be so much that you don't know?
You don't know ...

You think you own whatever land you land on
The Earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know every rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name

You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew you never knew

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Come run the hidden pine trails of the forest
Come taste the sunsweet berries of the Earth
Come roll in all the riches all around you
And for once, never wonder what they're worth

The rainstorm and the river are my brothers
The heron and the otter are my friends
And we are all connected to each other
In a circle, in a hoop that never ends

How high will the sycamore grow?
If you cut it down, then you'll never know
And you'll never hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moon

For whether we are white or copper skinned
We need to sing with all the voices of the mountains
We need to paint with all the colors of the wind

You can own the Earth and still
All you'll own is Earth until
You can paint with all the colors of the wind

Colours of the Wind said it all. Location is not just a location anyone can simply own and claim. It is a place, a place filled with people with their meanings and languages, a place with life of nature, waters of nature, rocks of nature; of God. I sighed in my heart.

Night came with occasional drizzling rain, making their rhythms on our tent fly right beside our ears. We sipped hot coffee inside the already heated tent. Father laid down to rest beside me, covered with huge drops of sweat, I laid on my sleeping bag beside him, not ready to sleep yet, not even a hint of drowsiness; all alert, all awake and thinking. With my eyes closed, the distant town played its band of large and small engines, toots of horns, whizzing of wheels, a steady and restless rotor. My left side took in all of that. Also now, the hillside aroused its magnificent orchestra of a thousand bug clappers, bird hooters, screeches, whistlers….; a constant midnight concerto.

I will never understand how did such a time came that I should hear this massive “naturally occurring” juxtaposition, each side declaring their own rightful characters. It will not creep inside an album, but it has shouted a question in my head. I came from the city, I hate the city; I came to the jungle, I’m afraid of the jungle. I couldn’t sleep, my ears heard the whole night of torment.

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Sharon Chong. May 7, 2008
:o)

回故小城

究竟，别人把我当 ”客人“，我不可能生活上，就永远像客人一样表现自己。生命让我走过二十三年，转过来眺望，突然感觉自己好像真的为了身边的人而活着。记得十几岁时，总觉得他人还比我重要；常常害怕说，嘿，我这么做是会伤害到别人吗？他会喜欢我这么说话么？等等。很多时候第一个考虑的，往往不是自己暂时性的利益，而是要确保友情，亲情的巩固。反正，心里想，以后总会有要求人家的时候。

这样一来。说真心话，这不好吗？对他人的友善，不是一种美德吗？当然，轻率得看，抽象的比喻什么想法都能通。但是，文化归文化。摩登的现在，现在的我们，生命不是我要怎么耍，怎么掰，怎么闹，都由我本身决定吗？

平静地想一想，要是没有了文化，我们还知不知道 ”表“ 怎么亲，”太“ 怎么远；”堂“ 为什么是爸爸的，”外“ 为什么是妈妈的？没有家教，我们还会不会礼让，思原，尊师，讲毅气。。。？问到这儿，我更要谨慎地思考，我所感受到，施礼的需要，是被我家人的 ”客家文化“ 遗传到的？那察觉到这个影响，我是要怎么样与她互动啊？

我有权利放弃她么？
我有责任把她发扬光大么？
我有心要为她付出心血力气么？
爱她的人，有么？
为她而骄傲的人，有么？

。 。 。 。 。

我呀我，我们呀我们。真的是小城作客来咯！ 一作（一坐）作了四，五代。

沙巴的田里，橡胶林里走出来，做生意，买地，入大公司，生儿育女，读书，当医生，律师，管理员，秘书等。有没有真心的客人，把过酒，问过青天，那些没有南下作客的同胞，那一村，今夕是何年啦？我这姓张的，多愿乘风归去，唯恐心中那个怕死，怕没钱，没名堂，没作为的鬼。

我家，三代都作客，新年初二，离家却一片南中国海，让我写这些的难道不是重上三倍的思亲情？满三代，客人都没有 家 而让在异乡的我们来得格外有礼。满三代没有卫家，防家土的权力，使我们无奈地谦虚了。硬哥呀硬哥，是你才有那股臭霸气，作客还要抢做主人家，你要养你的人说你的话，言你的语。是要我们谢谢你啦！

在沙土长大，没有一个客人会不知道沙滩上，没有养育我们（原于中国北方然后又南下的）祖先的奶蒂。公公婆婆们来了，我们没法子就在这儿。离乡两三重，我们这一代是要回北，望英，创马，还是要继续作客哪？

但我主大善博爱，客且客，我们客家人的心却大于地，大于洲，大于国。我主叫有生命的客，到峰下岭，心也要带去，因为家住在心里。我主叫有亲的客，人再少，屋再陋，客要因亲而成家。

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Sharon Chong
:o)

Further Down the Development Road

we construct with glasses, but not transparency;
we offer many products, but not our sincere services;
we drive many cars, but not going anywhere...
our heart gets colder and harder like the concrete and metal we get closer and closer to.

we get more wooded furniture to get more landslides, worse air;
we give more money to unseen privilege givers to also give away our honesty;
we become polite not anymore to make sincere friendships than customer relationships;
we teach not anymore to souls but to make walking resources.

we tour no more for understanding than be commercially understood and exploited upon;
we praise the sky no more, for it's like a dirted pool of cotton candy;
we journey with pleasure no more, than to curse from jams to tols;
we get paranoid on our streets, because we have neighbours no more.

our kids will learn to be 'modern' not knowing their hearts will be broken;
our houses will be cluttered without room for substance;
our hearts gets blurrer and blinder, till the clothes of development be unveiled;
till the Truth finally befound, that would have maybe been too late to stop many a feet from shuffling, many a minds from cheating, many a hands from toiling, many a mouths from persuading, many a women from proving, many a men from asserting, many a children from wanting, many a ministers from pushing, many a voters from...