Bikes, jobs, unimaginative headings

There are times in life when you end up doing things that you once swore you'd never do.

Some things come to mind immediately, like owning a modified car, or buying another high powered rifle. On the plus side, my hot rod brings all the bros to the yard,(and they're like, why doesn't it start?) and the .308 looks nice sitting next to the .223, .303, 12 gauge and pair of .22's that never see daylight, or spotlight for that matter.

So, things.

Before I moved to Malaysia, I'd sworn that I wouldn't ride a scooter in KL. The roads were too busy, the drivers were too nuts, and in short, I thought widened the odds of me dying of old age to an unacceptable level.

I mean, depending on which body you consult, the Malaysia annual road toll stands at 3,600 or 6,000 for the official/unofficial figures respectively. By rights, it's enough to make you lock yourself in a room and order take out until you wind up on one of those 'It Happened To Me' late night television shows, being winched out of your roof.

On to the present, I ride one daily. Often with my wife, hanging on the back. That's quite a change of opinion, and now I'll explain how it came about.

Firstly, I learned, and possibly conquered Malaysian roads in a Mighty Myvi.

Because you're not some sort of car encyclopaedia, I'm happy to explain that a Myvi is a small, locally built soft-drink-can-with-wheels that is the mode of transport of choice for entry-level car buyer.

From here I learned a few things. For starters, everyone merges into your lane. All the time. So you need to expect that. Easy.

Secondly, the majority of the merging, cutting off, reversing down on-ramps, and stopping in the middle of highway happens fairly slowly. So you have a few seconds to contemplate “Is he... really going to do that?” (of which the answer is inevitably YES) and then respond accordingly.

Thirdly, the right hand lane is suicide.

Seriously kids, suicide. It's where the Porches and Lambo's play. But it's easy enough to avoid.

Two more factors.

I caught taxis to and from work for a few weeks before the scooter came up for sale. In short, some of the taxi rides were terrifying.

The problem with being a mechanic is that when you're in a half million-kay old proton that's hooking round a highway bend at speed is that you're painfully aware of the relevance of every bump, creak, groan and grind to your personal safety. My worst motorcycle scare has nothing on my worst taxi rides. Nothing.

Now, about the road toll. Malaysia has a similar amount of people as Australia, so yes, the road toll is as absolutely shocking as it sounds. But it doesn't particularly worry me.

To obtain a motorcycle and licence in Australia, you have to pass a few tests of skill, be financially stable, and wait. You wait a long time. And then you pass another test.

You have super strict road laws regarding speed, as well as general road manners, and observation of road safety laws.

Whereas in Malaysia, you need to be too poor to own a car.

As to why being poor makes otherwise sane people ride scooters like absolute nutcases, I'm out of ideas. There is a saying thrown around that translates to 'by the will of Allah', which gives a little insight. In other words, you may live, or die, it's all in the hands of God. That can't help. What I know is that whilst there are no guarantees on Malaysian roads, (or Australian roads for that matter) the way you ride has a higher influence on life or death than anything else.

Now that you've digested all of that, I give you my closing argument.

From memory, around half of Malaysia gets around on two wheels. They do so occasionally out of practically, but mainly because of one thing: annual income.

I live in their country, eat their food, and breathe the same air as they do. The difference with me, is that I grew up in Australia, and when I relocated to an essentially developing country, I did so with large amounts of financial replenishment.

The average bloke on a motorbike does it out of necessity.

Millions of Malaysians ride scooters.

And in the end, if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me.

A few words about employment

In the interest of using this blog for actual chronicling of relevant news regard myself, I'll give you a quick run-down of my employment of the last six months.

Initially, I was happily and busily unemployed. I set up house, arranged a few things, did the washing, and occasionally did modelling work for my cousin's casting agency.

That got boring, and the work got scarce, so I was looking for a job.

I got one, through a friend at the football club. It was for a PR agency. That lasted six weeks.

In the end, I pulled the pin, which was 50% because I found out I wasn't suited to PR, and 50% because the last week I worked for them was a 62 hour week. No including the weekend. Yeah, not really why I moved to Asia. I still like my wife, so I should spend some time seeing her when I can.

Today I completed what may be my first step into a new career direction.

I worked a day at Jem's school. The principal is keen to get me started with them as a sessional/emergency teacher, off the back of my Cert 4 TAE. Short of me hating the work, I may begin study towards a proper teaching degree next year. But it's early days.

Anywho. Exciting times.

The fuzz

"I'll have to give you a summons," he said. "The summons will cost 300 rinngit."

I'd been a bit apprehensive about dealing with the Police over here. Ideally, you never deal with them. They just complicate things. And everyone I talk to just tells me to bribe them. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

We were exiting a car park, turning right, and I illegally crossed a turning lane. Which, in a country where it's quite normal for scooters to drive the wrong way down exit ramps, is barely even noteworthy. Had I actually seen the policeman standing on the side of the road, I probably still would've crossed the lane.

I was then waved down by Mr Plod, who I think at the time was writing out parking fines. 

He didn't actually ask me for a bribe. He just kept telling me that the summons would cost three hundred rinngit. Which is odd, considering I've been on the Police website and there aren't any fines that cost anywhere near that much. He'd tell us this, and then crack half a smile, and leave a nice big space for me to offer to settle the bill now. 

I wasn't worried. I sat there calmly, and looked him in the eye. "That's too bad," I said.

On with the small talk. He asked us where we were from, and what we were doing here. His face quite amusingly dropped when he found out that I wasn't an engineer for a petroleum company(read: rich) and Jem was just a teacher. Not just a teacher, but clearly a woman, so she couldn't be making that much money. So after telling us a few more times that we would definitely be getting a summons, and it'd cost us 300rm, and then staring at us, with hope in his eyes... he let us off with a warning. 

It was a good month for cops. Actually, no it wasn't. But it was a very good month for me. 

We'd booked a Bali holiday with Jem's family. In a stroke of good timing, I had a mate from Australia over there doing pretty much the same thing I was, and we met up for coffee. And sandwiches. And beer. After all, it's Bali.

The cafe was out a ways from the centre of town and on my much longer than expected walk I'd learned that the taxis were kinda scarce. So to get home, I hopped on the back of Tim's scooter. I didn't have a helmet with me. 

Now I should clarify. 

I owned and rode a bike regularly back in Australia. I own and ride a scooter here in Malaysia. I value helmets. I like my head, and I think I have a good looking face, which under normal circumstances I take many precautions to protect. But it was only a short ride, mostly on backroads, and although the traffic in Bali is kinda random, the speeds are pretty low. So I made an exception.
As it happened, Tim had never been to the place we were staying, and I was still getting my head around the roads. Soon enough we were slightly lost, and eventually wound up at a fairly busy intersection manned by a few traffic cops. 

Now I'm 6"2 and I'd guess Tim to be at least six inches shorter that me, so my attempts to duck down behind him didn't really help. The copper waved us down.

Just before I hopped off the back, I leaned in towards Tim and told him to absolutely ride on and let me deal with the Po Po's by myself. He didn't listen. He did, however, park just far enough away that the policeman wouldn't walk over to him, and instead sat there and played an amusing 'Hey you!' 'Who, me?' hand gesturing game with him across the intersection. Eventually, the man in the hat gave up and went back to directing traffic. Well played, Tim. Well played.

Anyway.

The taller one beckoned me into the little Police box, conveniently located at the side of the road.

If there's anyone reading this who hasn't met me, I should explain that me referring to myself as 'a bit of a talker' is understating the point. In the words of a former girlfriend (who you don't know) I could talk underwater. I causally shot the breeze with my captor.

I explained the situation clearly and apologetically. I'd normally wear a helmet, for sure. I just couldn't get a cab. And then we got lost.

He wasn't really an active participant in the conversation.

He pulled a pre-laminated sheet of paper out from under a book, with the fines for various offences printed on it.

“In Indonesia,” he explained, “You must wear helmet.”

“I know,” I said. “I normally would wear one, it's just that I couldn't get a taxi. And we weren't going far, but we got a bit lost. Can you help direct us home?”

“In Indonesia,” he explained gently for the obviously slow minded tourist, “you must wear helmet. The fine for no helmet is 250,000R(about $25AU).”

“I see,” I said. “Oh well. If that's the fine, then that's how it is. I didn't mean to have come this way, we just got a bit lost.

“I'm Josh, anyway. What's your name?”

My new friend goes silent. 
Awkward silent. 
Which I thought was strange, but then, maybe that's just how he is.

“If I write you a fine, you must go to the Police Station,” he explained, “Or you can pay it now, and finished.” He made the palms down gesture for effect.

I was aware of what was going on here, but I wasn't really concerned. I figured that being an older guy, he probably had kids, and if the corrupt policeman's family, rather than the corrupt policemans somewhat corrupt government was going to profit from my sins, then I wasn't about to lose any sleep.

“Now because you are tourist, you have discount, so only cost 100,000 ($10) if you pay now.”

I agreed that 100,000 was better than 250,000, and pulled out the money and paid him.

“So we're a bit lost,” I repeated, “could you help us with directions? I can show you on a map where we're heaped, can you help us out on how to get there?”

He nodded happily enough, right up until I pulled a laptop out of my backpack. 
Then his eyes nearly fell out of his head.
“Is this where we are?”

Awkward silence.

“This intersection right here?”

“....yes...”

“So we head down that way, then?”

“.....Uh, yes, take second right.”

By this point he's looking very nervous, and the other policeman is shooting concerned glances over at my new mate and starting to walk over towards us.

“Oh, thanks heaps, mate, you've really helped us. What did you say your name was?”

His face changed again. No name was offered. I think I heard him sigh.

“Because you are tourist,” he said pulling the bill out of his book and handing it back to me, “I will give you a warning. Tomorrow, you wear helmet.”

I thanked him again, profusely, but he seemed to look at me as though I was insincere.

It was only later that I realised what I'd done, and what I must have appeared like to him.

Other than to always carry a laptop(because it makes you look very official) I'm not really sure what I learned from this.

I don't like the idea of a corrupt police force, but now that I've learned what they actually get paid, I don't like the idea of a poor police force either.

So I'm still on the fence what to do.

There are a few absolutes.

Be friendly, as this seems to catch the police off guard. I tend to think that in the majority of circumstances, accepting to pay a written fine will result in the police letting you off. Everyone hates paperwork, especially if you don't get paid overtime.

Always, always remember that you are a guest of whatever country you may be in. Remember that Australian woman who got locked up in Thailand for stealing a bar mat? She probably would have received a warning had she not made very loud derogatory statements about the Bangkok Chief of Police. That's poor form.

Don't be that guy.

On both occasions, the truth of the matter is that I was only pulled over because I'm white. No question.

But I don't think that pointing out this obvious discrimination would have helped my case.

I'll leave it to you to draw your own conclusions as to what is right and what is wrong.
But I'll part with this:
Act within your conscience, act politely, always, always ask for their name (I mean, that's just polite, really) and at worst? It'll still cost you less than a parking fine on Malop street.

*Last Saturday, the Malaysian Warriors, of which I am a playing member, travelled to Manilla, Phillippines to compete in a five team tournament. Due to the shorter than normal ground, the rules were set at ten men a side, with a maximum of five on the bench, and no goals were to be kicked from outside the 'fifty' (forty at the most) metre arc. The 38 degree heat was partially offset by the game time of ten minutes per half. That said, after ten ten minute sessions of footy in the heat, it's safe to say we were pretty spent...




Anyone who knows me well knows that I couldn't remember what I had for breakfast, let alone names and football stats, but here's the Tournament report all the same.


In the searing Manilla heat, the recently Mighty Malaysian Warriors lined up on the somewhat short turf to take on the world (yes, the world) in the PAFL Manilla Tournament. Ten men a side were to man the pitch, and the scene was set for a cracker of a day.


The first round saw the Warriors line up to take on the strong home side of the Philippine Sea Eagles. Having already played their first match, the Eagles were expected to have their team structure sorted, and be in good form. Fortunately that wasn't the case, as Woosha kicked the opening goal, highlighting quite clearly that this was bound to be a special day. It was around this early stage that various explanations were entered into with the umpiring staff. Most of the players were of the opinion that although too much of anything is a bad thing, it wouldn't hurt to put whistle to mouth from time to time. The umpires disagreed, much to the authors despondence, but soon it didn't matter much as goals by Eggsy, Flanna(probably), and someone else (not me) had the Warriors up by three points when the final siren blew.
Warriors 4 3 27
Eagles 4 0 24


Full of confidence from the early win, the boys lined up to take on the Jakarta Bintangs for round two. The boys quickly hit the front, with strong defensive pressure by Jimmy 'Bitch Piss' Wardrop and Nate Buma keeping the Bintangs to just two majors for the entirety of the match. Although according to the bloke I lined up on, the poor performance of the Indo boys was more directly related to the fact that whilst they played well in the first game, they were drunk, and by the time we played them they were all hung over, and no-one could be bothered running any more.
Warriors 5 5 35
Bintangs 2 0 12


History against them, the Warriors took on the Hong Kong Faggo.. er, Dragons for round three. Marcus Coombes immediately found some form, dominating the centre clearances and also the HK ruckman's face. And although Coombsey's accuracy was centimetre perfect, our forwards struggled to get the ball between the big sticks. With Ricksy heavily tagged, and myself being unable to kick straight for longer than five metres, the Warriors came into the half time break two goals down.
A heroic fightback in the second half failed to produce a win, with the difference coming down to one accurate kick. Special mention should be made to to Burnsey, who's perhaps misguided effort to break to largest HK's player shoulder with his ageing and tech-screwed one was nothing if not selfless. With any luck, his teeth have by now stopped rattling.
Warriors 3 3 21
Dragons 4 1 25


The fourth round held great significance for both teams, as it was dedicated to former club identity Brian Hammond, who recently passed away unexpectedly. This added weight to the already fierce rivalry between the two clubs, and with Rixxy starting things off in the ruck, the physically punishing match got underway.
The Warriors started hard, with Snakes and Eggsy's gut running showing complete disregard for the oppressive weather conditions. But it was never going to be easy, and by the time the half time bell rang, the Warriors were down by a kick.
It was time to contemplate. We all knew that only a win would do, and this wasn't an opportunity that would present itself again soon. It would take clear heads, gut running, and a fair slice of brute to do the job. 
The whistle blew, and everything began to fall into place. 
Marcus and Rixxy shared the rucking duties, with the midfielders Snakes, Eggsy, Stewart and someone else working hard to shut down the powerful Singapore midfield. Jimmy Wardrop and Buma continued their savage defence of the backline, soundly beating their direct opponents and then sneaking up forward to take crucial possessions across the midfield, further starving the Wombat forwards. Jimmy Drummond put his head to good use, repeatedly throwing it over the ball without regard to life, limb, and the ability to smile. Coombsy put in a huge effort, running down into the forward line to finally take his first mark for the game. Despite heavy protest from the bench, the umpire ruled that five meters really was less than fifteen, and the game continued unabated. (I'm only joking Coombsey, don't hit me) Shane Lawson stepped up to the task, taking the unorthodox approach of kicking a hideous inside out drop punt that flew straight for a major score. Burnsey followed the more conventional style of drop punt for another goal, and with the backline covered, the Wombat centre structure in tatters, and a few minor scores from our forwards, the game was won by just three points.
Warriors 3 6 24
Bankers 3 2 20


As luck would have it, the Warriors again lined up against Singapore for the Tournament Final. 
With team spirit at an all time high, the boys set out to take the reigning asian champs to pieces. All the efforts of the day finally fell into place- the deliveries into the forward line were spot on, with Flanna, Shaneo, Marcus and Rixxy putting scores on the board. Half time saw the Warriors up by nine points. 
At the return of play, the Warriors showed their true potential as a football team, with all working hard as a well functioning unit. It was a pleasure to see the confidence the boys showed in themselves and their teammates, made even more enjoyable by the Singapore boys, who proceeded to sook and whinge at every decision and in general act like a bunch of whiney girls.
The Warrior assault was unrelenting, with both big ruckmen in Rixxy and Coombesy putting away goals, and unprecedented levels of physical pressure being applied across the board, everyone played out their role until the final siren blew. 
All in all, a fantastic effort, with previously unseen levels of fitness, physical toughness, and a dogged win-at-all-costs attitude being shown to a man. 
Warriors 7 4 46
Wombats 4 0 24


Special mentions:
Flanna for kicking six goals, although you wouldn't know it from reading the match report
Flanna for kicking five points
Rixxy and Marcus for giving us first use of the ball all day, and scoring some goals to boot
Snakes for his Steve Monnaghetti-esk running prowess
Eggsy for a massive effort in the centre, playing his fiftieth match during a grand final (which has to be a fine) and not saying anything dumb in the after match speech
Marcus for laying down the law in spectacular blood drawing fashion against the HK ruckman. The Manilla turf still trembles, with the judges final ruling putting the score at HK 1, MC 12 solidly placed fists for the win. And as they say, a win is win.
Tim Paps for playing his first day with the Warriors on the day we won the first cup in seven years- what a jerk




Well done boys! It was my first grand final in ten years, and a massive win for the club. I only wish I could remember more details to better do the day justice. That said, given Sundays performances, I'll be surprised if anyone has the memory to correct me...




Joshua Fines Chief Woosha Welsh

How to be a man.

I know things. Man things.
I'm not the type to just randomly throw unsubstantiated claims out there, but I know some things about being a man.
I have several undeniable qualifying factors.
1: I have used a chainsaw on several occasions.
2: I possess (and use) at least three non-kitchen knives.
3: I have killed and prepared the food that my family (okay, wife and dog) has been nourished with.
4: I have fixed various components by striking them. With fist and hammer, I'm not fussy.
5: I've never drank wine at a bar. Not once.

It's certainly not the complete list of my qualifications, but I feel I've given enough for all of you to come to the same conclusion: I am a man. With this in mind, I would like for a moment to shed some advice on those of the male gender who wish to one day achieve the status of manhood:

For her sake, and for your own, learn to cook.


You don't need to be Jamie Oliver. Although his man-status (BOSS 11) is well beyond mine, and is a fantastic role model in the pursuit of manhood.
But cooking skills are essential.
Let's run through the reasons.
A: Girls love it.
Seriously. A man who can cook is worth his weight in gold. Or perhaps apple cider. He's valued. Why?
You've got the feminist movement and a generation of chauvinists to thank for this. A man who can cook is perceived, I'll have you know, as sensitive, mature, and above all, not a sooky mumma's boy, or a sexist pig who think women belong in the kitchen. You may be either one of those last two. But for now, we can keep that under wraps.
Scenario one: Teenage boy, hanging out at a movie marathon... What's that, you say? No coin for pizza? Raid the host family's cupboard and BAM. Mac and cheese. Chicks love mac and cheese.
You're a handy guy. Thoughtful. And clever. This is the reputation you want to have before you're eighteen. Because the Corolla you're going to get isn't doing you any favours. Ever.
B: Guys will promote you to genius status. 
The best pizza and nachos can be made in the same kitchen that your mother made bangers and mash that you hated. You need an oven, some sort of bean based salsa, and small pieces of bacon. Layer of nachos, layer of cheese, layer of salsa, sprinkle the bacon. Repeat until you need a bigger pan. And don't use a microwave, or the chips will go soggy.
Now. Just in case there are any numptys reading this: I know there's a Domino's down the road, and if you have no sense of taste whatsoever this may be an attractive alternative. But it isn't.
Scenario two: You're nineteen, mates are inbound for football watching and beer consumption. Buy the cheap chips, good salsa, and steal the rest from the fridge. Call mate no. 1 and 2 and state the following:
"I've made awesome nachos, you bring the beer."
Your cost: $5. Your mate's cost $15. Paying off your car before him: Priceless.
C: Marriage.
Remember: It's for the lady first, the ladies second, and third, for you.
The wife gets home late one night, and you've prepared a feast. She's stoked, she'll probably do the dishes out of gratitude, and she can't tell you that you 'never cook' for at least a week. I could tell you about the sliding scale of how much mess you made compared to how thankful she is, but there are some things you should learn for yourself.
The ladies.
By now, you should have figured out that girls talk. The exact nature of their talk in regards to you will can be divided into either positive or negative.
Positive talk is a wonderful thing. If your wife's friends are talking positively about you, your wife will be thinking positive thoughts about you.
Married brethren, think about that for a minute.


Mmm.
This is a serious boon for you. Potentially life altering. Positively sex life altering. (I figure the young ones have stopped reading by now...)
There's an easy way to do this. My wife is a school teacher. When her school has a morning tea for the teachers, I produce a baked cheesecake.
And the whole staff goes freaking nuts over it.
They talk about it for months. Seriously.
They absolutely do not talk about how you're a slob, you leave clothes on the floor, spend too much money on bikes/motors/alcohol, fart in bed and hide empty glasses beside the couch.
It's all in your favour.
There's a fantastic rumour going around that baked cheesecakes are hard to make.
They're not. If you can follow instructions, you can make a baked cheesecake. Or a pavlova. Or a Black Forest Chocolate cake. You may have to buy a special pan, or extra wide tinfoil. But it's simple enough. Baking is an exact science: follow the instructions, and the awesome will follow.
The guys probably won't mention your baking. It's awkward. But the girls will talk. There will be envious citations. And then, in that beautiful moment, your wife will actually brag about you. Just to join in.
Finally, learn to cook for you.
The male mind when hungry is almost completely occupied by thoughts of food.
Hunger in the average female's mind, however, is trapped somewhere between Tiffany's breakup, her hair, that sale on this weekend, the work that's due tomorrow, the women with the purple scarf who was very rude and how she can't stand wherever you left your work boots AGAIN.
So. If you want to eat, you'd best learn to cook, or you may starve to death.

So learn to cook for you: For if a man has prepared the meal, he will never, ever have to sit down to a legume salad for dinner.


PS. Someone from Cambodia read my blog this week... May I ask who?

You gotta have faith.
Without faith, you're immobilised. Stuck.
Everyone has faith. Even the best atheists have faith.
The trouble is, only a few people seem to realise this.
Drive down a highway. Without faith in the other drivers, you'd have to pull over every time a car goes past. But you have faith in their abilities, and the engineers that designed your automobiles, and you drive on past without giving it a second thought.
Hop into an elevator. Climb into an aeroplane. Catch a train.
There is a gap growing between 'people of faith' and the modern secularised world.
The argument is that people of faith trust in something that they cannot see.
My argument is that everyone does that. All the time.
It's just that most people don't think about it.

So... who do you put your faith in?

I found my peace on a facebook page...

Our earth is an astounding place. At every new turn I'm greeted by incredible sights and incredible people, all unique, and yet still all with the same hopes and needs that the rest of us have.

But the more I learn, the more I know. And the more I wished there were some things I'd never learned.

I had a flying visit to Cambodia. In and out in a weekend. Living in KL has it's advantages.

I'm always amazed that I can get off a ninety minute flight and be a completely different world. (does that make me old? It sounds like old man talk...) KL is a sprawling metropolis, and Phnom Penh is a dusty poverty stricken city. With spider webs for power cables and a road system that resembles a drunken bar fight.

I'd done the dumb tourist thing... 

I hadn't looked into any of the past or present goings-on of the country, learned any of the language, or even written down the name of the hotel I was staying in. Traveling with a group had me relaxed.

There were a few things that stood out to me about the city. Poverty was on display for sure, but I saw stalls, marketplaces, and people buying and selling. The city would seem to be on the upward. It's a strange view, seeing a large television at the front of a shanty bar, next to a squatter camp, with a mansion towering in the background. Full circle, in one photo snap.

The traffic was so unorganised it was almost comical. Fortunately for everyone, the 'tuk tuks' aren't known for high speed prowess, so the average speeds are pretty low. God help them when they get proper highways.

I don't remember seeing any ambulances. I could probably put that down to luck.

On reflection, there was something else that stood out to me. I've been to a few asian countries now. I have a clear memory in each country of seeing old people.

Malaysia has tonnes of them. Old dudes, manning the market stalls, driving taxis. The head guard at a gated community. I remember old people in the Philipines. Not as many, but definitely there.

In the weekend I spent in Cambodia, in a city of 1.5 million, I only remember seeing one old person. It's only something I realised afterwards.

Looking at the CIA website, we find the average life expectancy of a Cambodian born today is 60 years for men, 65 for women. And we find the average age is just 23.

So. If you don't know the story, it's now time to read up on the rule of the Khmer Rouge. Particularly the years between 1975 and 1979.

What I'm referring to was genocide, on a scale Hitler would be proud of. About one third of the country died as a result of the ruling government's attempt to change society. They believed good communists came from simple peasants. So in summary, if you were rich, educated, or in any way outstanding you were killed. Or if you disobeyed any order. Foraging for food to supplement the meagre rations for example, was proof enough that you'd disregarded the ruler's wisdom in food allotment, and were therefore a traitor to your country and should be killed. They also focused on eliminating certain people groups, and we particularly set against the the younger generation, as the were seen as too educated and untrustworthy.

About two million of the people of Cambodia died. Either murdered, starved, or struck down by disease, as any western medicines were banned. And it all happened within the last thirty five years.

Count back the numbers. If you were between 15 and 35 then, you'd be between 50 and 70 now.

Scary, deeply depressing stuff.

Poverty still has the majority of the nation in it's grip.

A member of the group was a union rep, for want of a better term. He'd been in rural Cambodia for the last few weeks, negotiating a wage increase for construction workers. The backers were keen for a deal, and the wages were raised. Raised to $4.50US a week. That's up 50%. No holiday pay, sick pay, six days a week, $234 a year.

Honest work doesn't pay. Civil servants are on about $30 a month. Corruption is rife. And the child sex trade has reared it's ugly head again.

Girls being sold by their parents is commonplace. They are then kept as slaves until the 'debt' has been paid off. This debt generally increases as living expenses are added to the bill. And as the girl ages, her 'street value' decreases, and by the age of 20 she is left uneducated, abused, and diseased.

It happens to the boys, too.

It has been said that the horrors of the Khmer Rouge live on within the people, creating a moral vacuum, and a perpetuating cycle of abuse. This abuse is allowed to continue by tourists, locals, and corrupt police and government officials. Although I find it hard to use the word 'corrupt' when you're talking about people who earn in a month what I earned every week delivering newspapers when I was twelve.

Much of the prostitution has been pushed underground. It's not as blatant as it once was.

And it's not the image I left with.

Driving on a bus with the boys, we passed the scene of an accident. A young man, probably about my age, lay dead in the middle of the road.

Perhaps he fell from the back of a scooter. Perhaps he was trying to cross the road. There was no sign on the car that had hit him, only a few people, standing vigil in the centre of the road, awaiting the undertaker.

Poverty had claimed another victim. Few streetlights, no crossings. Overcrowded motorcycles and no road safety education. In a land where a human life is still very cheap.

I felt sick. But worse than that, I felt helpless. I was too late. There was nothing I could do.

How do you talk about these things? In what social settings is it appropriate to discuss infant mortality rate, mass murders, or the price the a twelve year old virgin goes for in Svay Park?

I don't want to internalise things. I don't want someone to tell me it's ok. Because it isn't.

I found rest in a post on a teenage girl's facebook page.

“At any given time we are given the power to say, 'this is not how the story will end'.”

My peace comes with a resolve: I will not forget what I have learned. I will not forget them.

And I will not allow poverty to decide the direction of a nation.

We have the technology. We just have to decide how to use it.

A short lesson in world politics

Sitting on a couch, reading Sherlock Holmes.

It's not a bad way to finish the day, particularly when it's hot, and the couch is beside a pool. Anyway.

I was interrupted by three guys, all about my age, who stopped for a chat. Which is good, I'm a chatty sort of person.  So we chatted.
It could've been a joke...

Two Persians and a Malaysian walk into a bar. The first Persian requests a soft drink, because he's studying later.

The second says absolutely nothing, and promptly fires up his sheesha.

And the Malaysian wanders over and punches 90's western pop songs into the juke box.

Interesting bunch. Each quite different. 

All are studying. One mechanical engineering, one IT, and one, from what I could gather, some sort of business-mixed-with-english studies.

One of the Iranian guys (learnt something that day: Persian=Iranian) that we'll call Mike for fun, gave me a new insight into world politics. In this case, it was perhaps better described as fate. 

He was explaining the problem with life in Iran.
Mike comes from a well off family. His father is a helicopter pilot, his brother and sisters all went to university and went on to get good jobs. His mother was able to stay at home and keep house.
They're clearly a hardworking, intelligent bunch. In any other country, that would be enough.
But Mike is uneasy about his current situation.
I was surprised about how many Iranian students I found studying in Malaysia. There are two reasons, from what I can gather. The first is financial. Malaysian Universities are pretty cheap by world standards.
And while no-one actually said it, I get the feeling that Malaysia's standing as a modern Islamic nation has a bit to do with it's popularity as well.
(don't follow? Can you imagine doing an Australian O-week as a non-drinking muslim?)
Mike loves it here. He's made friends, and his studies are going well. His english is excellent.
But he's worried that he'll have to go home early.

His family isn't running out of money. They're not poor. The problem they face is a simple one of currency and exchange rates. Ten years ago, the Iranian Rial was selling at 908 IRR per Australian dollar. Now, it's more like 12,000 to one. 

Their currency rates are on the borderline of being in freefall. None of the banks will exchange IRR for another currency, because no-one wants to be stuck holding the cash. It's a colossal game of hot potato.
This presents a major problem for Mike, because as an international student in Malaysia, he's not allowed to work. So he relies on funding from his family. And funding can't be sent if it can't be exchanged.

Time passed.

But I spoke to Mike again last week. He was back in Iran. Until the financial market changes, he's stuck there, with half a degree, in a country that may or may not be on America's future hit list.

Now any sort major conflict is a terrible idea. I would guess most people agree with me there.
But it's funny how news reports tend to desensitise you to the human side of international affairs.

It's funny how easy it is to think of a people, rather than a regime of being evil or dangerous. Even for a second.

But here was a regular guy, with regular dreams of career, family, wealth, you name it. With all of his prospects being dictated by the things you see at the end of the news.
I can come to grips with poverty affecting someones life. That makes sense.
But I'd never realised how something as inconsequential (in my eyes, at least) as nationality could interrupt someone's otherwise well laid out plans.

And now, it seems so obvious. I guess it's hard to understand until it hits you in the face.

First he's here, now he's not. Mike stuck in limbo, and no-one can tell him what his future holds.