...so this is good bye for real....

To Hoa.

Fall sneaked up on me – somewhere between a labor-intensive task of building a meticulous work plan and a capital-exhaustive period of social events – as a chilly wind blew into my face and made me hold on to the light-weight scarf to which I had never attributed any warmth-generating value. Despite its endless sun-filled weekends, somehow this Fall season brought to me a perpetual sense of emptiness – as if every last drop of sunshine had been taken away from me.

Or had it really?

This Fall season was a time for me to say goodbye to you, Hoa. Even though I had known this day would come, it still hit me. Hard. The pain it brought, albeit not overpowering or overwhelming, bitterly munched on my defenseless mind. Within seconds I received the news, I was left feeling numb, trying to find a word to describe or an emotional outlet to just break down and cry – but instead, I just fell completely empty.

Hoa – I wanted to write how much this occasion was meant to “bring together hearts, hugs and memories from across the globe – in celebration of your life and all that you have given to us,” and that we would be able to draw strength from your inspirations, and the community you had created. But the truth was that to me, you were not some inspirational Goddess that I turned to learn how to live my life. We have shared even our darkest secrets, and I have loved you for that. You were one of my best friends, and a part of my life that no hearts or hugs would ever make me feel enough.

As sunrays continued to glaze the beautiful color-changing leaves, this emptiness would be eventually forgotten for the work, mission, social events, and many things in my life – but I knew it would always be there, just as my love for you.

May you rest in peace.


Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Dar es Salaam - on mission

I woke up as a tiiiiny ray of sunlight got caught in my eyes, and with a sweeping action, the curtains were spread wide open to reveal a horizon of seawater, punctuated by large vessels which, from where I was standing, seemed like little toy boats leisurely floating offshore. Here in Dar-es-Salaam, life was just as slow - and despite the intensity of the normal Bank mission, I couldn't help letting myself savor that lifestyle every morning like right now.

I had planned to write a long blog on all sorts of genius ideas (what else?) but since I was buried under a huge pile of TORs and professional blogposts, I figured I would add an excerpt from Daniel Sellen's blog on Life in the Field. This blog on a "typical mission" would hopefully give you some perspective on what we usually do during missions. Obviously it's satirical and should be only taken lightly - so enjoy!

It occurs to me that half of Bank staff, maybe more, never get a chance to go on mission. This is a shame, because (a) it's where we get our most important work done, and (b) it's usually lots of fun.

I was recently in a state capital in India where there happened to be four simultaneous missions. This is not too unusual -- often Government staff have back-to-back meetings with the Bank and are mystified to find out that not only did we not know about the previous meeting, we have never heard of the staff members who we saw leaving. They seem to take this in stride.

The three-day mission I was on consisted of making the rounds with several Secretaries and asking them what reforms they intended to make so that we could write these into the loan as a form of conditionality. This makes Government happy (they don't have to bother with any troublesome stuff) and it keeps the Bank happy (we can pretend that reforms were our idea). In the end, it is generally accepted that Government will probably do what they like.

After our counterparts have gone home, the Bank missions gather in various corners of the hotel bar and discuss how the day went, gossip about various difficult Government officials, and after a few more drinks, gossip about members of other missions. The teams then drift off to various restaurants with their note pads, and eventually retire to their rooms to replicate.

Breakfast time on the third day.... At one table is a small forestry mission. At another table a large team is appraising an hydro-electric dam project. In another corner, a transport supervision mission. In yet another corner, a multi-sectoral team is preparing a DPL. About 30 people in all, Bank staff and consultants, most in jackets and ties, with a few saris here and there. Waiters rush back and forth with cappucinos and dhosas, trying to squeeze them in betwen laptops. The diners excitedly exchange tiny pen drives containing critical bits of text, just like (they imagine) secret agents must do. Tourists, munching on danishes, wonder what the hell is going on. An Aide Memoire is born.

At 10:00 the last coffee cups are drained and the various missions break off, jump in a fleet of cars, and head over to their respective offices to present their Aides Memoires to Government, who at this point are confused about whether they are meant to discuss a dam or a forest or a road.

In case you don't know, a mission Aide Memoire is not what the name suggests -- in fact they are hardly memorable at all. An AM is actually a dreary document that explains what agreements were reached in about five lines, which are padded by dozens of pages of fluff which the exhausted Task Manager hasn't had time to edit and never will. It is a fact that every page of an Aide Memoire decreases the probability that it will be read by 15%; as such, a 5-page Aide Memoire will be read by about a quarter of the intended audience, and anything over 7 pages is guaranteed to be completely ignored. At any rate, Bank staff continue to produce these things, with the naive expectation that the things agreed on will magically be done by the time we return on our next mission. This occasionally happens, which no doubt gives us the enthusiasm to produce them again the next time.

This story is of course entirely ficititious. Do others out there have similar figments of imagination?

p.s. what is a "figment"?


Photo Credit: XL - View from Slipway, Dar es Salaam.

Fairytales in Reality

Starry summer nights often take me back to childhood memories of lying on the rooftop waiting for a comet, dreaming of a fairy tale to come true. The plot would be typical - prince charming meets his object of interest at a lavish party held at his palace. She runs off at midnight, leaving behind a (desirably designer) shoe, prompting an all-kingdom house-by-house search in which girls of all feet size try to (deceptively) fit into a shoe that is obviously not theirs. Albeit stretches, the shoe should still magically fit her eventually and they live happily ever after.

In Hollywood movies, these meet-cues continue to be fairytale-like, despite their modern day settings. The main characters meet in a romantic snowy night before Christmas when they stumble on each other and end up having passionate sex. The next day they go on a perfect date in which they talk nonstop about the beautiful things they have in their lives. They are "the couple"in the restaurant - beautiful, well-dressed, and clearly surrounded by nothing but love.

In reality, we met late night through an Iphone app called Grindr and went on our first date at a 24-hour McDonald's for the jasmine green tea to wipe away the Singaporean humidity. On that cloudy night, the cold drink also helped find some peace of mind after a whole day in the hospital witnessing one's best friend going through pains after pains at the last stage of cancer. Sitting outside on the sidewalk, we talked about how our lives were not perfect, tiring, and could be lonely away from home. And at the end, we walked back together in our worn-out flipflops, close and natural as if we had been together for a long time.

We didn't know how it would turn out, but suddenly, life - in that moment of imperfection - felt just like a fairy tale or a Hollywood movie.

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* And just like a fairy tale that has to end at some point, we found a good point to say "the end" - and stayed good friends until now.

Photo credit: Catch a falling star - by David Delamare

The vicious cycle of pain

I was sitting with my legs close to my chest in a beautiful garden on a rare cool midsummer afternoon when my stomach went inflame again. I knew the feeling – that of desiring something too much and learning to accept that it was not going to happen – and I also knew the cause of it.

It was the beautiful creature sitting a few inches away from me, petting a small dog in a manner that seemed completely ignorant of the conversation around him.

I had questioned myself from the start of our “non-relationship.” He had ADD; I had OCD. He was European and noncommittal; I was Asian and dreaming of a relationship. I had told myself this would not work, that there was no place for me in his little world, and that this would be the last time I even think of him. And yet, every time he smiled, texted, or talked to me, I snapped that tiny ray of hope and fell right back to the place I was before – vulnerable, painful but somehow satisfied like an addict between joints.

He told me about his previous relationship – crazy, intense, toxic. His friend told me about how his ex-boyfriend insulted, abused, and tortured him – and how he threw himself to that guy like a moth to the flame. All I thought was how much I wanted a little craziness, a little toxicity, or a little intensity – with him.

Thinking about this twisted chase of cruelty, I couldn’t help wondering why we were so addicted to pain. Was life so boring that we needed pain for excitement? Was life so miserable that we needed pain to escape? Or were we just selfish masochists who blindly give in to whatever our hearts told us to, in hope of finding “true love”? And if so, how much pain would we be willing to tolerate before we finally quit?

Quitting, however, would require closure – or putting a meaningful ending to “something” we had. But in the end, there was just no ending – just like there was nothing to begin with.

Photo Credit: La douleur exquise - from vi.sualize.us/kallini2002/la%20douleur%20exquise/

A gleam of the past...

For my Mino.

The notion of "summer" suddenly hit me today on the train back home in the form of a creamy and delicious 6-foot blond intern came back from his day (and gym - obviously!) in a sleeveless shirt torn to the lower seam, revealing a beautifully tanned and toned torso. View like that is the plus side of the Washingtonian summer, when out of nowhere, the city is flooded with bright young things, hoping to make it here some day. They reminded me of some not-so-distant past when I was still in college, wondering what the real life would be like.

These memories had come back to me just a few days before, on a midnight train headed toward NYC as Mino and I reflected on all the changes we had gone through in the few years being friends. There we were, two twenty-something year-olds, still looking for Labels and dreaming of a big Love - but in our eyes, there's already a gleam of reality. We knew now that it took a lot of hard work to afford labels, that real love shouldn't feel like compromises, but also that there was more to life than the two big L's above. Most of all, we knew now that the quest for labels, love, and life required us to look within ourselves to search for the true essence and beauty that wouldn't need approval from anyone.

The hard part is that each of us is going at a different pace - so Dear us, here's to hope that one day we would all see each other at the finish line.

Photo credit: Between Worlds by Eugene Donohoe

Natural beauty from Masai Mara

Just when our little aircraft was about to land on a red tarmac lane standing out from the greens of date trees and the yellows of the savannah, it suddenly picked up speed and steered upward, letting a small horde of warthogs finish their business on the runway. Here in the little Masai Mara Serena Airstrip, these animals are the true kings of the savannah.

As the airplane dog swung open, Africa unveiled in front of my eyes a beautiful mixture of the savannah’s yellow and the trees’ green stretching seamlessly into infinity. Against that backdrop, the wildlife continued their “business as usual” carelessly of the curious safari trucks dropping by twice a day with cameras and occasional ooh-aahs. On the left, two or three giraffes gracefully strutted after their lunch. Down on the right, elephants and hippos leisurely bathed in mud pools to rehydrate, ignoring the crocodiles lying still on the bank. In the back, a queue of wildebeests marched across the landscape, making their annual river-crossing earlier than other years. And just there, amidst the thigh-high grassland, the lions lazily slept their day away.

Driving along the bumpy road one early morning, the sun appeared like a tiny red dot, gradually rising on the left and taking over the soft light from the moon, which was sheepishly fading away on the right. In that magical moment between day and night, LIFE, as it was illuminated in front of me, appeared to be nothing but a beautiful work of Nature. I was lost in that scene for a second, but never saw more clearly or felt more content.

And just like that, I felt alive.

Africa baby!

It's June - and Washington is just tortured with hauntingly humid and hot weather, not to mention insecure personalities suffering from boiling tempers. In such cruel atmosphere, I was more than happy to snap an unexpected opportunity to visit Nairobi, Kenya by way of Zurich, Switzerland, leaving behind the heat and the ordinaries. The next few blog entries, if I manage to do so, will detail this great adventure.

After a delayed flight on UA, Zurich greeted me with a tropical rain and a long queue at security screening. This condition didn't help improve my preestablished image of Switzerland - which I think is incredibly boring! This might have something to do with being turned away twice at Geneva train station to go back to France or feeling so dull in that city once I got in, or stuck at Zurich airport for 2 days before turning around back to Vietnam due to passport problems. Yet, stepping into the Swiss International AirLines B767, I have finally found something to like about this country - the LX Business Class cabin.

Designed in a 2-2-1 configuration, the LX Business Class Cabin is airy and open with seats that can transform into a 180-degree flat bed in a sort of beige/blue color template and punctuated with dark brown leather and light-color wood. The result is a zen-like suite that portrays luxury and comfort - enhanced by absolutely intriguing details such as remote-controlled entertainment system, mood-lighting, coat hooks at the seat, and USB/electricity outlets. The 2-layer blanket, one of which being this soft cotton material, adds warmth, comfort, and of course luxury to the overall atmosphere - completed by a beautifully designed bathroom filled with Valmont handcream, lotions, and lip repairs tubes. The service is exceptional for a Western airline, and the food was actually delicious - while helping open a window to Swiss regional cooking to global passengers.

Despite a short interception of the ever dusty and dangerous road from Jomo Kenyatta Airport to the hotel, I was quickly relieved by a hospitable reception of the Windsor Golf Hotel & Country Club - where rooms in savoy style remind occupants of the old colonial time. Surrounded by comfort and a high-60's temperature, it is no wonder that the DC annoyances seem like a distant past...

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Photo Credit: Inkart.com and swiss.com