Tag: #AylaiaGeorgia

Kuala Lumpur – a city that should be on your bucket list

 

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Malaysia Truly Asia is home to Kuala Lumpur or as the locals call it ‘KL’.

KL is not really a destination that pops up on many peoples bucket list, right?

But damn this city is impressive.

 

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Think Singapore except

 

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bigger and brasher, without the foreign lawyers and bankers and definitely more Asian.

 

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If you’re looking for Asia’s most ethnically and culturally diverse city then this is it.

 

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At KLIA you’ll be greeted by cheery ‘Selamat Datangs’ and waved through immigration.

 

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Hop on the KLIA express.

 

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You’ll pay approximately $7 and will arrive in downtown KL in under 30 minutes.

 

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In KL, walk through the city streets

 

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And you’ll find

 

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Hawkers thriving

 

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Colonial buildings reigning dormant against towering skyscrapers

 

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Roll through glitzy,  space-age shopping malls which shelter designer threads and boutique beds

 

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then eat nasi lemak in Little India against a backdrop of bangra beats.

 

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When the heat gets too much, hop on the skytrain and fly through the heat and congestion above wide highways.

 

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KL’s a city of contrasts

 

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chaotic but organised

 

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modern yet traditional.

 

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Where you’ll find grand Malaysian architectural achievements sitting next to traditional Chinese shop-houses.

 

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and money dripping testament to Malaysia’s economic power.

 

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A place where the big and the bold unfolds

 

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Against the gritty, raw feel of local life.

 

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Markets brimming with fruits and fresh fish will sate your hunger.

 

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Malaysia has a tropical climate. When it rains it pours. Remember this or, like me, you’ll learn the hard way not to wear white…

 

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KL is a place where life moves fast and kindness flows.

 

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A heady mix of cultural and religious traditions.

 

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A city which celebrates diversity.

 

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Where an outsider can do her best to try and understand.

 

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In KL, I tossed my plans into the wind and lived off the city’s pulse.

 

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Ya, this place basically rocks.

 

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Genghis Khan and the Ice Temples of Central Asia

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I awoke to the sensation of dawn rising.

 

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Somewhere between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.

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41,000 feet above.

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Bound for central China.

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The cabin was silent but for me,

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as the black night yielded to the dawn.

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The closed, mysterious, secretive and distant lands of the republics of the former Soviet Empire lay shut beneath me.

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Sapphire glows pleated the ledge between Heaven and the Earth.

 

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Dawn’s cautious sunlight sprinkled the horizon with its amber glow.

 

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Lonely, apricot coloured, clouds drifted past me through the vast, empty sky.

 

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Crossing the lands which mark the border between Islam and Buddhism.

 

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Ancient seats of nomadic empires laid in horizonless steppes.

 

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Silk roads holding secrets deep.

 

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Passing over lands where Ghenghis Khan had once weaved his armies,

 

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bringing Empires remote violently down onto their knees.

 

 

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Frozen lakes.

 

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Crystal clear torrents.

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Glaciers running slowly through icy veins.

 

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Rippling gales chasing bareness, everywhere.

 

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Endless white planes.

 

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Centuries old. Wild and untouched.

 

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Sparse villages.

 

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Stony mountains climbing so high I could almost reach out and touch them.

 

 

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Inhospitable lands,

 

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cut by time and dreaded weather,

 

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lay frozen,

promising to hold off summer and spring.

I felt like I was at the earth’s edge.

 

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And, as I drifted further East,

I thought of you,

as winter stretched out everlasting,

and my warm tears threatened to melt the snow beneath me.

 

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A Midsummer-Night’s Dream in France

We cycled through rolling fields of golden wheat back to the hidden house.

The wheat turned yellow as far as the eye could see.

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The sky was wide and trackless, and

the sun shone on the stone of the little commune house, standing deep in the woods, as we approached.

 

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The sultry sounds of yesterday evening’s party long evaporated,

 

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where glasses had been filled to the brim,

where we’d eaten from shared plates filled with meats and bread,

as children wove around our legs,

with the murmur of voices, laughter, singing and dancing escaping into the air,

and the heavy sounds of jazz music spun us into the moonlit night as the darkened sky harked to the owls.

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Today, we lay on our backs, in the grass, facing the sky.

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Not another soul around us.

Not another sound except for the babbling brook and the cry of the larks.

All still.

Idling in the heat of the late afternoon sun.

Dragon flies glimmering in the hazy light.

Not a thought in our heads.

The leaves rustled in the ruffle of the woods and wildflowers danced around us.

As you spoke to me in French, through the hush of the gentle breeze,  Oberon and Titania whispered the forest’s secrets back to us.

The whole world ceased to exist but for that which immediately surrounded us.

We were the last people standing in paradise as Athena departed and Cupid’s bow landed.

And as dusk began its descent, the spokes of the florid twilight reached out to us as we bid adieu to our secret hideaway.

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The Language of Interplay

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Words search for security and meaning in a world where language is turned on its head.

As our human experience becomes more and more sanitised, language lies fossilised.

Sluiced in desire to articulate free and unanchored thoughts which can penetrate beyond the shell like surface, beyond the starlesss vacuum.

We align words which miss the ability to express the essence of human existence.

They fall into unreliable patterns where everyday speech flows in tongued rhythms.

We have the possibility of moving beyond the ingenuous fibres of modern conventions of speech. To a place where our language and communication is more authentic.

But with the certainty of tides, we’re cut adrift from one and other in a system where language loses its connection and interplay.

I hear your words flowing. You hear mine. But we pass in the middle. Skirting in a place between lightness and darkness. Instead exchanging dreams with Dante.

 

 

Why it’s too easy to get stuck in Kanchanaburi

Crickets sang to me from outside my window into my midnight bedroom, luring me to sleep against their rhythmic chorus.

Roosters woke me to roseate dawns.

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Jasmine scented gardens hung heavy against the rising humidity.

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Kanchanaburi. A place where life moves slowly.

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Once steeped in darkness.

Ride the creaky rails.

On the infamous death railway.

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Walk through the fields where thousands were thrown into early graves.

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Immaculate rows, testament to the scars of the devastation that the Japanese Imperialist army brought.

Kanchanaburi is a place not really to see but a place to be.

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I set my bags down for a night.

Then lost track of time.

People get stuck on the River Kwai.

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The sleepy river seduces you.

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The flowing waters.  Sounds. Like pearls.

Beds your heart.

Sugarcane sweet.

You’ll find your senses lost.

The dreamy land begs you to stay one more night.

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To stay in a place where the skies are never sated of ruddy sunsets.

To take one more sunrise swim in it’s green waters.

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In Kanchanaburi it’s too easy to laze through one day.

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Before you realise the next day has sneakily approached.

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You remember all the activities you promised that you’d do but didn’t.

With further reflection you recall you haven’t done anything at all.

Its not your fault. It’s really not.

The river’s easy rhythm draws you in.

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Luring you into its laze.

Looks like you’ll just have to stay one more day…

 

 

 

 

 

The Meaninglessness of the American Dream

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The spirit to imbue.

Stands monochrome.

A polished face. Charmed

as sweet as it is grim.

Where the only things that get you anywhere are the things you sell.

Your mind, your body and your soul become the commodity.

Seduced into thinking that that which cannot make profit is valueless.

Confusion between the fantastical and the real where

simulated communication is held together by designer fabrics. Painted in gold.

Jostling to confirm where you fit in. Image fixed. Controlled by uncertainty and doubt.

Big dreams lie exhausted.

Enchantment dissolute.

Penned in suburbs.

Returning to dreaded homes.

Locked into closed loops where the world stands stagnant,

where Heaven refuses to awaken the Meaningful from its deep slumber and

the Meaningless lies bloated and satisfied.

Are you always so dull?

Dust settles on habits tracks.

Moments which are calculated by memory,

threatening to dredge themselves up from the depths of unexplored lives.

To confirm the reality that we know is there.

Acquisition anxiety keeps us dormant.

Where everything we are not is at every moment alive in us.

Where all that I want is out there.

Waiting for me the minute I can say I know who I am.

But they would certainly dismiss this tragedy as absurd.

Thailand – Fried Eggy on De Toppy? Bubbie Tea?

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In Thailand a large number of dishes are accompanied with a fried egg on the side.

At a particular favourite restaurant the lovely host always offers a fried egg accompaniment in absolutely the cutest manner I’ve ever heard:

– ‘fried eggy on de toppy?’

Similarly at my favourite Taiwanese based bubble tea shop I was also regularly greeted with:

– ‘bubbie tea madam?’

Awesomely cute!