by Ning Cai
“OWWW!”
My eyelids flew open and I stood up straight, rubbing the bruised crown of my head. Pam stifled a giggle, having witnessed me paying to get whacked on the head by the heavy phallus, a reproduction of the Divine Madman’s Flaming Thunderbolt of Wisdom, wielded in the chanting monk’s right hand.
Pam and I went outside to spin prayer wheels and get some fresh air, as we waited for a devout Sonam to finish his prayers at the different altars. The BFF wore a thoughtful expression as she stared at the black stupa, which allegedly grounded the man-eating demoness.
I smiled sweetly. “A penis for your thoughts?”
* * *
“We have to continue the rest of the journey on foot,” Sonam informed us, pointing to the amazing Taktsang monastery, better known as Tiger’s Nest, perched on the summit of a high cliff. “The paths are too narrow for our horses.”
Climbing off our magnificent beasts, I said goodbye to my chestnut-coloured steed. I really love horses and whenever there is a chance, I ride them in different parts of the world. It’s something I relish because it’s quite impossible to do so in cosmopolitan Singapore.
The air felt thin and cold, since we were quite high up the mountain. I pulled on my gloves and started walking behind Pam and Sonam. The BFF was asking our guide about the history of Tiger’s Nest.
“In the 8th century, Guru Rinpoche flew up on the back of his consort to this place, so he could meditate undisturbed. He’s the saint who brought Tantric Buddhism into Bhutan. The people embrace him and his teachings because Guru Rinpoche subdued and exorcised many evil spirits and man-eating demons that roamed the land. That is why this holy place was chosen for Taktsang monastery.”
“His consort?” Pam scratched her head, confused.
“Yes. Guru Rinpoche taught his favourite consort many things until she became very powerful. To show her gratitude, she turned herself into a tigress so he could sit on her back and they flew to the top of those cliffs, where Guru Rinpoche meditated in a cave for four months.”
“I’d like to rent a flying tigress, please,” I whined, huffing as I tried to keep up.
We passed a group of five elderly tourists who were resting from altitude sickness. They were leaning against the gray mountain, which had huge eyes carved into one side of the rock. I pointed this out to our guide. “What’s up with the eyes?”
“Demon,” Sonam replied seriously. “The eyes are real, not carved. Do not touch.”
Pam and I exchanged looks. Really?
As we neared Tiger’s Nest, I stopped to take pictures of the brightly-coloured prayer flags flapping in the breeze. That was when I heard a familiar voice holler my name. Turning around, I found myself staring at my dear friend Michael.
“Mikey!” I laughed, as we hugged. “What are you doing here?”
Behind him, his equally surprised partner CK echoed, “What are you doing here?”
Pam waved from where she had been standing next to me. “We’re on the last leg of our 9-month long round-the-world backpacking adventure. Fancy meeting fellow Singaporeans here!”
“We’re filming something for Channel NewsAsia,” Mike smiled, his eyes shining, incredulous that we had bumped into each other. “It’s great to see you, Ning!”
CK looked tired, but he managed a smile. “Yes, the last we saw each other was about nine months ago at the 3D TV shoot!”
Mike and CK were involved in the complex 3D television shoot where my stage partner JC Sum and I were the programme’s presenting hosts. The variety show, our country’s very first 3D television content, featured the two of us performing magic, illusions and escapes in various parts of Singapore.
“You’ve lost weight!” Mike exclaimed.
It was true. And my secret is my jeans. Yes jeans, not genes. I only packed a single pair of skinny jeans, and whenever they felt a bit tight, I knew it was time to regulate my diet and exercise regime.
Behind us, Sonam politely cleared his throat and gave a small respectful bow. “I apologise for interrupting. But they will close their doors soon, so we must hurry.”
We exchanged final hugs and continued on our way along the steep sides of the cold mountain, as Mike and CK climbed in the opposite direction, having already filmed the footage they needed for TV. The wind chill was getting to me and I sneezed. “Are we there yet?”
“Almost,” Pam capped her water bottle after taking a sip.
“How about now?”
“Not yet.”
“Now?”
“Shut up, Ning.”
We made it just in time. Sonam proudly showed us this magnificent gem of Bhutan, which was cleverly carved into the caves and rocks of the immense cliff. The UNESCO Heritage Site looked even better than what I remembered from postcards when I was a little girl. I felt overwhelmed with emotion as I walked through its massive wooden doors.
After prostrating himself in front of a golden statue of Guru Rinpoche, founder of the Nyingma “Red Hat” sect of Mahayana Buddhism, our guide spoke to us in a hushed voice. “The statue speaks.”
Pam blinked in disbelief. “Like, by itself?”
“Yes! During its transportation to Taktsang monastery, many people actually heard this statue of Guru Rinpoche sing,” Our God-fearing guide shared. “Really!”
I raised an eyebrow.
Respectfully, Sonam extended his arm to lead us to another part of the large complex. “This way please, I’ll show you the holy cave where Guru Rinpoche meditated.”
Pam followed after him but I hesitated. Alone in the room with the statue, I pulled out some money from my skinny jeans. “Five bucks says you can’t sing.”
Expected silence filled the still, smoky air.
With a wry grin, I placed the money into the alms bowl anyway, and said a silent prayer for my family since they are all staunch Tibetan Buddhists. Leaving the empty chamber behind me, I jumped when I heard a distinct cough.
* * *
Sonam was solemnly pointing to some regular gray rocks behind a glass panel in one corner of the massive Tashichhodzong. A frown creased his forehead as our guide tried to find the right words in English.
“People who steal stones from the river as souvenirs will receive a bad curse from the vengeful female snake spirit and hostile water mermaids.”
The BFF and I exchanged glances, trying hard not to laugh or be disrespectful even though what we’d just heard pretty much defied logic. On our very first day in the land of the Thunder Dragon, Sonam had already warned us that evil spirits lurked where there was gushing water at rivers. It reminded us of our Kashmiri friend Adil, and his sworn true story about his cousin, who was attacked by an angry spirit and was never the same again after being cursed.
Next to the rocks on display hung an old painting of a voluptuous, yet terrifying, cryptid. A topless serpent-mermaid with medusa hair, she wore a twisted expression that could only mean one thing... PMS.
Tashichhodzong is an amazing complex in which official ceremonies such as the king’s coronation and special prayers for the royal family are held. The Thimpu Dzong’s unique grandeur and charming beauty was truly impressive.
We didn’t see any officials at the fort but a special prayer ceremony was taking place and Pam and I were allowed to take a peek into the prayer hall where the monks were chanting. Sonam pointed out the strict abbot, and the subtle differences in the monks’ saffron robes, denoting their different statuses in the monastery’s hierarchy.
Our guide took much time and effort to explain the old murals painted on the walls of the prayer hall. The BFF found it all very fascinating, realising for the first time that Buddhism was a philosophy and not so much a religion.
We told Sonam about our experience in Tibet, where officials stopped us at the international airport to go through my things just because their scanners detected that I had books and rolled-up thangka scrolls (from Nepal) in my backpack. Unfriendly Chinese custom officers went through everything, looking for anything to do with
His Holiness the Dalai Lama.
“I assure you, you’re not going to find anything about the Dalai Lama in there,” I said dryly as the portly Chinese officer thumbed through my worn copy of Pablo Neruda’s poetry and sonnets. Beside him, his ruddy-faced colleague roughly went through my rolls of thangkas, looking for images of the exiled Tibetan Buddhist leader. I sighed. “... or in there. Can I go now please? My best friend is waiting for me.”
Our local Tibetan tour guide explained that the Chinese government was very sensitive about these things and that all tourist vehicles were fitted with audio recorders and video cameras. Lonely Planet guidebooks were also banned in the country, because an American family had read in there that Tibetan monks would be grateful if you gave them a picture of the Dalai Lama in secret; so at Lhasa, they did just that but the whistle-blower reported them instead and they were immediately deported. Touché.
“So is the type of Buddhism practised here in Bhutan very similar to that of the other Himalayan kingdoms, like Nepal and Tibet?” Pam asked Sonam, as we strolled towards the exit after spending a few hours at the huge Dzong.
Sonam was just about to say something when he suddenly stiffened and bowed deeply, covering his lower face with the long sleeve of his traditional gho. Pam and I froze, confused by our guide’s sudden change in behaviour. He mumbled something, which we could not decipher, from behind his sleeve.
“Sorry, what?” I asked, staring at him. Pam was equally perplexed.
“Her Majesty!” Sonam spluttered.
The BFF and I turned around and saw a beautiful Bhutanese woman dressed in a traditional kira coming towards us. Right behind her was a military man, obviously her personal bodyguard. She smiled warmly when she saw us; her soft features, graceful movements and kindly eyes reminding me of a beautiful White Tara thangka painting I had seen. “Hello.”
Stunned, Pam and I stared back at King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck’s mother, unsure if we should bow or curtsey. I cracked a smile and waved. “Hi.”
“... Your Majesty!” Pam blurted out for us, as she shoved down hard on my back so we both bowed deeply before the regal woman.
“Lovely day isn’t it? I’m just on my way to pray for His Majesty’s good health,” Queen Ashi Tshering Yangdon, aka Mrs Wangchuck, had a friendly air about her. There was none of that pretentious royal stuffiness. “Where are you girls from?”
“Singapore,” I beamed, and then remembered my manners. “... Your Majesty.”
“Ah, my son studied at the National University of Singapore ,” the Queen Mother flashed a warm smile. For a moment I could imagine her being a close friend’s mum whom I’d just bumped into at the supermarket. Okay, maybe not.
“The King?” the BFF breathed, amazed that Bhutan’s present king was educated at the NUS, just as she was. “That’s wonderful!”
“Yes, in fact he was just in Singapore with his wife for their honeymoon, and he met up with your Prime Minister and Mr Lee Kuan Yew. That man is a visionary,” she graciously complimented. Pam and I exchanged glances. We felt bad.
On our first day in Bhutan, we had read the local newspaper and were surprised to find an article about Singapore in it. Apparently, the Bhutanese people were offended that a certain key Singaporean politician had criticised Bhutan’s unique Gross National Happiness (GNH) measures, commenting that “Bhutan is not the last Shangri-la in the world”.
A disturbed Sonam had earnestly asked us why our National Development minister had insulted his country. Pam apologised and I shrugged, explaining that the same politician had also told Singaporeans that he’d only had to pay S$8 for his heart bypass surgery.
“Thank you, your Majesty, you’re very kind,” I smiled and bowed my head in respect. I really liked her; she seemed very genuine and unexpectedly sweet. A thought came to me, and my eyes lit up. “May I be so bold as to ask you for a picture together?”
I caught a flash of Sonam’s nervous flinching beside me, and the Queen Mother’s bodyguard gave a dramatic shake of his bearded head as he mouthed the word “NO”. But the Queen of Hearts chuckled and obliged my brazen request with a dazzling smile. “Of course!”
SNAP!
Us with the Queen in Bhutan! Oh the nerve… to ask her for a picture!
29
bali bliss
Indonesia · November 2011
PAM
Booking our final flight back to Singapore after spending nine months on the road was bittersweet. Purchasing those Air Asia tickets meant that we would soon be reunited with our families and loved ones, but it also meant that it was the end of an amazing journey around the world, an adventure that we might never get to repeat.
One last week. Where could we go? We wanted a safe haven to rejuvenate in before we stepped back into the craziness of our life in Singapore – defined roles that we would assume the moment we touched down. Being away for so long meant that we could be just ourselves. That, we will sorely miss.
Ning found us the perfect place in which to fall off the radar: Bliss Sanctuary for Women. All meals provided, massages everyday, Yoga in the mornings, a private chauffeur to take us around Bali...
After we spoke to the resort’s lovely Australian owner, Zoe Watson, we were sold. And so, this was what we did on our very last week of the Adventures of 2 Girls:
epilogue
PAM
In the large scheme of things, nine months isn’t a long time. If I had spent March to November in Singapore, time would simply have whizzed by, and I would’ve exclaimed (like I do every year), “How time flies!”
But when I look back on those nine months I spent with Ning exploring the world, hopping on trains, buses, planes, going on amazing road trips, hanging out with locals and learning about new cultures, I have to say that those were the most amazing nine months of my life!
Needless to say, I picked up many random things along the way:
CAPE TOWN: At noon every day, a bloody canon goes off, instead of chimes from a clock tower.
PARIS: If you say “excusez-moi” while trying to get through a crowd, no one will budge. Try “pardon!”
EUROPE (most parts): To indicate “1” with your fingers, stick out your thumb, not your index finger. For “2”, use your thumb and index finger, etc.
TIBET: Immigration ransacks your bag... for books! Don’t carry any images of the Dalai Lama or you risk being deported.
NEW DELHI: There is method in the madness! When a tuk tuk driver wants to swerve out into the flow of traffic, he subtly juts out his foot. Look out for the foot!
MOROCCO: You’re expected to tip for everything, including asking for directions!
HAWAII: Poi is a Polynesian staple food, pretty much like rice for Asians. It’s made from corn and taro and tastes like glue.
KASHMIR: Checking in your luggage at the airport doesn’t guarantee that it will make it onto the plane. If you don’t identify it prior to boarding, it will be left behind.
CAPE TOWN: To say “thank you” to a driver for letting you overtake him, flash your hazard lights three times. It’s road courtesy!
PARIS: The unspoken rule at restaurants is no sharing of food. You should only order water or wine. If you want to insult the chef, order Coca-Cola!
Of course, I learnt other things as well. When I returned to Singapore, I joined regional broadcaster Channel NewsAsia as a Senior Producer. When I worked on covering the World Cities Summit 2012, and produced a story on how urban upgrading reduced violence in Khayelitsha, I understood the topic with a depth I would otherwise not have before.
Khayelitsha is the largest township in Cape Town, and was created in the Apartheid era when the white minority banished the black and coloured people to the outskirts of the city and housed them in specially created slums. Khayelitsha was once known as the murder capital of South Africa. Nadeem, a local South African, brought us into the township and introduced us to some of the local folk, and Ning and I interacted with them. So when I produced that story, I had a deep p
ersonal experience and understanding of Khayelitsha and its people from my travels, and it helped.
And when I produced another story on Tahitian dance, Beatrice Caisson – who founded the Tahiti Dance & Fitness school in Singapore – commented that I was the first Singaporean she had met who knew the difference between Hawaiian and Tahitian dances. I learnt that in Hawaii, when Ning and I took hula classes! And at a traditional luau, we experienced the wide spectrum of Polynesian dances, and realised that each island has its unique costumes, accessories, music and dance moves.
I feel that I’ve come away with a deeper understanding of the world, and that I have so much more to offer as a journalist. And as a mother, I’ve brought back fascinating bedtime stories and mealtime conversations, which I have not finished telling even half of to date!
I’ve told myself that if my boys ever want to take time off to travel the world, I’ll do what I can to give them that opportunity. After all, life is so much more than a paper chase and rat race! And if they are ever afraid to follow their hearts or chase their dreams, I’ll remind them that I did, and that they can, too. Actions do speak louder than words.
Yes, nine months isn’t a long time. But I’ve come back a different person: Bad hair, bad skin, and I’ve put on some travel weight too! Tragic. But aside from the wear and tear, I’ve learnt so much. The Singapore I returned to was pretty much the Singapore I left behind. But I had changed from the inside. I now see Singapore in the context of a bigger world.
When you’ve lived in Singapore all your life, you start to think a certain way – about what’s right and wrong, what’s acceptable and what’s not, how making a living should look like, what success is, what life is all about... but when you’re moving from culture to culture over a period of nine months, being open to different ways of thinking, you eventually realise that nothing is set in stone. It’s all a matter of perspective.