Feature Photographs: Zaanse Schaans, Netherlands

Step back into the 18th century in this picturesque 
living neighborhood that defies imagination

Industrial mills quietly spinning along the river

Where endless fields and waterways meet the clear blue skies

March 2009

It's Happy Hour Hell all the way up from Down Under

There ought to have been some lounge music, a giant projection screen, perhaps some sombreros, or even some artificial fog. TV screens there are many; but the only fog seen is probably in the form of steam rising from my head.

Ding. 
- "Can I have a Scotch with soda, please."
- "Certainly. I will be right back." 
Ding. 
- "Yes, how may I help you, sir?
- "Yeah, I'd like to have a Whiskey with coke," the man turns to his neighbor, "you gettin' anything?" He pulls out the wretched menu card and runs his finger through the list of spirits that really should not be there.
- "Give me a Cognac."

I tread back to the galley, my mind regurgitating orders after orders of cocktails like a broken printer. I line out a stack of plastic glasses, unlatch the carts and retrieve the bottles one by one. Ding. Before I even get to the ice drawer, the attendant bell chimes again. Ding. My colleague returns from the cabin, herself with a handful more orders. Ding. Another bottle of Chivas Regal emptied. Ding. I poke my head out and squint at the call light indicator. Row 62. Again. I swear he's already had his fourth drink. Ding. I take in a deep breath. Patience... I remind myself.

With a tray balancing five cocktails, I make my way out into the cabin. It is late afternoon in Melbourne; no one seems to be sleeping. 260 passengers in coach, 90 percent Aussie, 100 percent alcoholic, 2 cabin crew. The rest are on their rest shift. Two pairs of hands and two pairs of throbbing legs that have trampled back and forth the 40-rows-long cabin nonstop for the past four hours. That's roughly 10 continuous laps around a football field - speedwalking.

Ding. I strain my memory trying to match each drink with its owner. It doesn't help that this horde of middle-aged men all wear the same grey polo and black trousers. They are supposedly a group of police officers or something connecting to another city for training. Disciplined or not, to me, they all look like any other monsters who are obviously not into sobriety and are having too much fun with the idea of all-day 'free-flow' booze. 

Ding.
- "What can I get for you?" My question is becoming as much a rhetorical question as my passengers' own. Somewhere in my mind I am thinking of my meal - all cold by now - if only I could just eat something.
- "Can I have a Gin Tonic?" Rhetorical question.
- "Sure." I try to catch my breath and feign a smile that is fast fading.
- "Hey, Rob," he taps on his mate across the aisle, "Gin Tonic?" He nods. "Make it three - one for me, one for him, another for him." As if he's buying everyone a round.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Oh, the lovely chime that never fails to strike a nerve. Two Bloody Marys, three Gin Tonics, a Brandy - oh, and what? A Campari Soda with a dash of orange juice. "What's next," I roll my eyes at my equally exhausted colleague, "Sex on the Beach?" I start understanding how Aussies manage to survive on weekends when all shops, malls, food courts, even supermarkets, close at five - if they open at all. They probably stay home with their stash of booze.

I never consider Australian flights to be the most arduous of all. That is in large part due to the fact that Aussies generally carry a friendly, complaisant attitude emanating from the laid back culture from Down Under. As a result, they are relatively easy-going and polite. But here is the twist. Aussies are also extremely heavy drinkers. The difference between flights taking off midnight and those departing midday is that rather than carrying loads of sleepy travellers, we have a stadium full of alcohol-thirsty beasts eager for an all-day Happy Hour 30,000 feet from Up Above.

And for better or for worse, they don't get drunk.

When I signed up for this job, bartending was hardly the first image that came to mind. I am only a few tumbler shakes and a couple of juggling tricks away. Long before our second meal service commences, the entire cabin's stock of red and white wines have been depleted. No surprise, considering that each passenger is capable of downing a bottle each, in addition to a month's worth of cocktails. 

Growing increasingly weary, my colleague and I begin to double - sometimes even triple - the shots, deriving pleasure from each drop of vengeance, only in the hopes that a stronger drink could postpone the next. By the end of the flight, nothing sounds better than a Long Island Iced Tea. But I will call it a day. Enough spirits for me.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]

How I 'saved' a life: Head-on with my first inflight medical emergency case

"Help! I think my mom just died!"

As I am tidying up the galley-top, just about to finally have a minute of silence, a young African American woman suddenly flings open the curtain and cries out. Her lips and body frame tremble, her eyes bewildered, and tears threaten to well up behind her spectacles. With less than a quarter year of flying under my belt at the time, the news of a casualty on board hits me like a shooting star - the kind that hurls by so quickly you wonder if it was real before you even remember to make a wish.

It is in the graveyard hours of the night, midway through the twelve-hour flight to Los Angeles, when half of our set of crew retire for respite and the majority of passengers are beginning to drift off. I am alone in the galley. The most junior crew member at that time, I have yet to encounter more than a few real life first aid situations, let alone handling one that allegedly involves death of a passenger.

I sprint out to the cabin where the girl's mother is seated. My mind races through day after day of first aid drills back in training school. In the dark, I see an elderly lady sitting still - so eerily still - with her head slightly tilted backwards, eyes shut and jaw lifelessly hanging.

Feature Photographs: Mamallapuram, India

The five monoliths, called the Pandava Rathas, or Five Chariots, proudly stand 

as one of Southern India's most well-preserved UNESCO World Heritage Site

Women and children cooling down in a pool of seawater at the Bay of Bengal

Intricate and detailed relief carvings inside the 

Mahishasuramardhini cave temple, Mamallapuram

June 2010

 The sights and sounds of urban Chennai traffic

Baring it all in India: An epic journey into the hands of the unknown

I enter the massage room, an austerely furnished, dimly lit rectangular space that, with its wooden floor and furniture, exudes an almost medieval aura. I notice a wooden massage bed - a wide, bare, burnished plank, really - devoid of padding or linen that massage lovers so commonly come to expect, and think to myself - this is going to be interesting.

My masseur, a tall, handsome, neatly groomed man around my age, motions me to undress over at the corner with a shake of his head that I have already become accustomed to across India. There stand a simple dresser and a full-length mirror facing a big wooden armchair, the latter two diagonally placed. I awkwardly strip down to my underwear, "...um, do I wear anything?" As if caught by surprise, Shaju fetches a thin, long strip of champagne-colored cloth from the dresser. Uh-oh, I wonder... yes, it is a loincloth - an obsolete piece of garment whose name is long forgotten and only retrieved from my memory of college Introduction to Anthropology 101. 

Thankfully, Shaju does most of the work for me, because I'd embarrass the hell out of myself figuring how to don a loincloth. Tying the strings behind my waist and with the fabric hanging on the front, Shaju asks me to remove the underwear and wiff - he firmly tugs the cloth back through my thighs and voila - I see in my reflection my first G-string. It is silky, and comfortably it feels nothing like a wedgy.

I wait anxiously for my next command. Rather than heading to the bed, Shaju props me down on the chair in front of the mirror and then strips off his shirt. Oh, I did not see that coming. I gaze curiously at the mirror as he sploshes palmful after palmful of oil onto my hair, followed by vigorous rubbing and pounding on the scalp. I am starting to like this as a warm up. Pretty much naked, I attempt so hard to keep a straight face as, in the mirror, I suddenly see the reincarnation of the fabled Nude King in an Invisible Robe - sitting in his throne, thankfully not parading in town.

Distress from my previous two days of noises, the chaos of Chennai streets and a tiring flight gradually melts away as a delightfully warm aroma of coconut oil envelopes me. Shaju taps my head with loosely interlaced hands, then with medium pressure he repeatedly glides both palms from crown to shoulder and forearm then back again. By now, my upper body is glistening with oil. I wonder if the whole treatment will be carried out seated. Just then, Shaju invites me over to the wooden bed, and this is where even more of the unknown awaits.

'Sudden Spokesperson Syndrome'

Time and again I run into male passengers with what I coin the "Sudden Spokesperson Syndrome" (SSS -or 'Asses'). The subjects are typically white Caucasian, middle-aged, almost always unmistakably American, and traveling alone on business. As implied by its name, the syndrome does not occur frequently; it is triggered only when an attractive, young, Asian single female traveler is involved.

The first symptoms of SSS are immediately apparent starting at boarding. On a recent Bangkok flight, I showed a Thai passenger to her seat at the exit row. Decently outfitted in business casual attire, softly pretty in the face but downright sexy, she instantly lit up the white man - gray-haired and nearly two decades her senior - seated adjacent to her. Eyes observing her closely behind his glasses, he simultaneously sat up straight, adjusted his collar, and stashed away his newspapers. Not long after, he tried engaging her in small talk - kicking it off with a sarcastic joke, as always. Such a straight American bar thing to do.

Next thing I know, as I was on my way to answer call lights, Mr. SSS stopped me on my track and said with a stern face and his head cocked, "the lady sitting next to me would like to have a blanket." And so I guess he has suddenly become his new Asian female friend's spokesperson. There is nothing wrong about impressing a lady - it's just the certain condescending tone and patronizing attitude mixed with his trying-too-hard gentleman demeanor that makes me roll my eyes. Puh-lease. The lady can perfectly speak for herself, and maybe that's why she embarrassingly smiled at me.

And so I played along with it when I distributed meals. I purposefully made eye contact only with the Thai lady as I recited the entree options. Once again, as expected, Mr. SSS turned to her before I finished and asked, "which one would you like?" Then after that, "We would like to have two glasses of red wine." As if he's already hooked her up at a bar. She speaks English, let the lady speak for herself!

Feature Photographs: Auckland, New Zealand

Mushrooms atop Mount Victoria overlooking the city of Devonport, Auckland, New Zealand 

 The Auckland skyline by night, Auckland, New Zealand