Mean David

David is not all that innocent and pretty as he seems. In fact, David has a sharp tongue, and can often say things that hurt people, intentionally or not.

It was a beautiful day, cold--in fact freezing-- and I went cycling in the forest and sand dunes with three friends. We went far, and the cold air was freezing our ears and fingers, but the conversation and connection between us seemed to warm us all, and before we knew it, we found ourselves on a far and isolated beach watching the red sun set four hours later.

We stood there, admiring the calm sea pick up speed with the evening tide, and we drew our names in the sand, exchanging jokes and lives. At one point I said a really sneaky comment, insinuating that someone would really love to hug and rub bodies together to keep warm. In this group of three others girls, it could have implied nothing more than that someone has lesbian tendencies. And I said this, knowing very well that one person has difficulties with her sexuality, because she told me in confidence about it.

But I made a joke, a terrible, terrible joke, which to anyone paying attention would have immediately realise the subtleties of what I meant, or was trying to imply.

That friend confronted me with the issue, telling me how really hurt and how betrayed she feels. And I felt horrible... without trying to make it all seem like it was about me, I said I really often don't realise how what I say can hurt people so easily... It's not what I say it, but the words I choose to say it, and how I say it. It's frankly sneaky and snide, sometimes downright vicious and vile that even I'm surprised that the words have come out of my mouth. Sometimes I think I'm so merciless and clever that nobody would understand what I'm saying, but people do! And what's worse is that I think I say certain things because I know it will somehow 'poke fun' at someone, or will somehow make that person feel bad... it's as if I do it deliberately, and feel myself to be so clever that I can make 'funny' jokes at other people's expense.

But it's just downright horrible and mean! Horrible and Mean David! : (

I felt really terrible as my friend told me how she felt about today.... even more so because she wasn't trying to blame me or accuse me, but was simply trying to tell me how simple things I say can really hurt and harm others. And it hurt her today, which is the last thing I'd want to because I really care about her a lot... a lot! : (

I cycled home at close to 3am, feeling my heart really heavy, and my head replaying the scene between my friend and me. She was so calm and was just trying to make me understand, but at the same time I could see the hurt in her eyes, and as if also see the tears........
I stood there, not sure what to say, besides sorry, sorry, and more sorry.

Why do I say things like that?
Why to people I care about?
Why to anyone at all?
And I call myself a Buddhist?

If only she could know how sorry....

Pictures of Friesland!

OK, managed to uploaded lots of lovely pictures of my trip to Friesland!

Just to give you an idea of where I was... tada! Google Maps to the rescue!
My long train trip from The Hague (Den Haag) to Leeuwarden... took three hours!


My friend and I cycled from Harlingen to afsluitdijk... and back! You see along the sea coast the muddy sea is very visible from satellite pictures.

• Waddenzee sunset II
• Waddenzee
• Cycling back
• Afsluitdijk
• Afsluitdijk monument
• Afsluitdijk II
• Afsluitdijk
• Sneek
• Leeuwarden V
• Leeuwarden IV
• Leeuwarden III
• Leeuwarden II

Lee advert

Saw this advert in a shop window for Lee jeans...

Is it me, or does the ad look and sound like a gay sex ad???

For people who like it rough...

Videoclips from Friesland!

TAKE III: Afsluitdijk

TAKE IV: Bunker

TAKE VIII: Waddenzee monster

'David' in mud

Handsfree cycling

Frisian Days

I stood under the hot shower, feeling the jets of warmth splash all over my body, washing away all the mud, grime and tiredness that have been collecting over the past two days. It felt good to be back in the comforts of home , but closing my eyes, the sights and sounds of this past weekend still linger.

It all started with an unexpected email offer I got around a week ago. As a member of this youth organisation, I get bombarded with cheap offers to cultural events and trips... but this one just beats it all. A new youth hostel opened up in the far away village of Sneek. Tucked away in a sleepy corner of northern Netherlands, amid the green pastures and picturesque canals and dikes of Friesland, was the offer of one night accommodation, including breakfast for just 5 Euros! That's like the price of a sandwich, so how could David-- a notorious bargain-hunter who gets a kinky kick out of cheap deals-- possibly resist? And I could bring someone else along too!

So my friend and I hoped on the train yesterday morning, and rode for more than three hours to get to the far away province. Coincidentally, I found a way to save money by buying these ridiculously cheap train tickets that are valid for unlimited travel within a day. So travelling literally hundreds of kilometres from one end of the country to another cost only 9.95 per person (instead of 45!). Smiling at the cleverness of it all, we watched the green fields, forests and mooing cows fly by.

First stop was Leeuwaarden, the provincial capital of Friesland. Being almost at the most northern part of the country, the Frisians are often seen as odd farmers with their distinct culture and history. Earliest Frisians lived along the coast of the Netherlands stretching all the way up to Denmark some two thousand years ago. Today, Friesland is most famous for their sturdy cows and delicious dairy products , skating competitions (elfstedentocht) and 'pole jumping' (fierljeppen), and the home of the strange Frisian dialect.

What's more, the far north is notorious for being known as been extremely fanatic about religion. Indeed, as soon as we got off the station, we were greeted with a Christian youth group enacting the struggles between good and evil, and how a white-robed man (Jesus) can deliver us all from the world. I sat enjoying probably one of the most delicious portion of French Fries I've ever had, and watched the group make a grand scene between the hustle and bustle of the Saturday afternoon crowd of shoppers. There were laughs and sniggers, which disappeared as soon as a man stood up and started to preach salvation and sin. I started to walk on with my friend, and had a leaflet shoved into my hands by a cheery lady. "Come to our congregation and be saved!" I turned the leaflet over, and saw that they offered child minding services too. Being the free-thinking individual who subscribes to the philosophies of Buddhism that I already am, I no doubt immediately made a mental note to return come Sunday morning at eleven for a heavy dose of indoctrination and healing.


In the setting sun, we toured the old city a bit, strolling through the cobbled streets and in between quaint traditional doll-like Dutch houses. Eventually (unintentionally, of course), stumbled across the Red Light District. Perhaps not as sleazy and open (it wasn't open yet...) as in Amsterdam, but just proved that in a preaching and strict practising place where statues of Virgin Marias smile through almost every shop window, the oldest profession in the world is also practised too.

I wandered the streets alone by myself a bit, since for sometime my friend was somewhat having a cosier time with her work and mobile. Maybe it was being away from home, but things just looked more exciting and refreshing. It was as if the streets were bigger, the roads better paved, and the city was more spacious than where I live. Strange as it may seem, the most admirable were the public toilets at the station. Behind slick, shiny metal doors the toilet seat, the mobile seat itself, and the soaper-washer-dryer-in-one were all made out of polished steel. It felt like entering a surreal world of tomorrow, when all I wanted was to relief myself. You had the choice of entering the toilet by inserting a coin, or SMSing a certain number and entering a code, and the door will open for you too. Who would have thought, up there, in the far, far north, things were so futuristic?



The train to Sneek snaked slowly through the Friesian countryside in the dying light of dusk. The warm weather during the day met with the cold onslaught of night, and created a landscape shrouded in a veil of white fog, set in front of a horizon of purple and crimson orange. All too soon we had to step off of the train, but the little streets and cute houses of Sneek charmed us immediately.

The hostel was just amazing. So brand new that you could smell the fresh paint whiff through your nostrils. The bed linnen was still in its packaging, and the room I shared with two other people was really well furnished, with its own shower and toilet, as well as with a view of a broad river. Along the riverbank was a quay, where we took a walk, passing moored leisure yachts. Peeking through the little windows, I felt a little envious of the people inside, cuddled up cosily and enjoying glasses of wine on their own boats. But then again, leisure and simple pleasures like a stroll through the night taking deep breaths of frozen air that was intertwined with the smell of burning wood cost absolutely nothing, and can also be enjoyed by students with poor pay. Or, perhaps even better treasured exactly because we were poorly paid students .


After a good night's sleep, we enjoyed a filling breakfast before setting out into town in search of a bike to rent. The church bells rang, and people ran towards the centre of town. It was then that we realised that chances of a bike shop being open on a Sunday, in a town where the train track has only one line and isn't even electrified, was less than slim. It took a while, but we travelled back to Leeuwarden, and even though the city was just as dead (everyone else probably in church...), we did manage to rent two sturdy bikes. We rolled the bikes onto a train, and headed in the direction of the sea-port town of Harlingen.

From there, it was merely 9 kilometres towards our destination, the great Afsluitdijk ('Closure Dike'). We cycled along the coast, on a cycle-path that was constructed on a dike itself. The scenery was sublime, and weather wonderful. Feeling the gentle breeze through my hair, and autumn sun on my face as the sea flashed by on one side and green pasture on the other, I thought to myself that freedom is anything, it must be that sensation. The sea was so calm, and calming, and seagulls called in the distance, as if cheering us on. Some flew up high, and then suddenly plunged down, while others flew alongside us, as if chaperoning the two cyclist on their way back into nature, as we got further and further away from the city.




The Afsluitdijk itself is an impressive piece of engineering, and a monument to the Netherlands' constant and continuous war against water and flooding. Built in 1932, it connects two northern provinces of the country by cutting across what used to be the Zuiderzee ('South Sea'). The 32km dike has a highway on it, as well as a cycle-path. At two points there are locks and gates that can allow ships to pass through, and at the same time block rising seawater in times of storm. As a result of the dike, perhaps the largest artificial lake in the world was created (Ijsselmeer), and the water on one side has become fresh water, while the salty sea water of the Waddenzee ('Frisian Sea') is kept at bay on the other side. It was impressive to be standing on the dike, let alone cycle on it. It stretched as far as the eye can see, and seemed like a sword that cut through the sea, splitting it into two. In the distance, yachts sailed on by lazily, while the sun cast a sparkling golden reflection on the smooth sea surface.

At one point on the dike was a strange bunker, hidden under a hill. We ventured closer to take a look, and realised it was a part of a complex network of bunkers strategically covered over by grass and trees overlooking the open sea. We (or actually she...) wanted to go inside and explore, but I had a really bad feeling about it... the rusty lock, mangled furniture, empty bottles, and torn up clothes strung on the floor and dripping water and complete darkness seemed like a scene out of a horror movie, and my paranoia and claustrophobia kept conjuring images of us being locked and trapped down there screaming for help, as a psycho watches us suffer and grins. I stood at the entrance to the bunker, and shivered a little, as my friend took a peek inside. There was a reason why the area was fenced off with barbed wire that had badly corroded in the salty sea wind. Was I glad we finally left that place.


The day passed quickly, and soon enough the sun was setting fast over the Waddenzee. The low tide enticed us to take off our shoes and socks and jump onto the sand. But it wasn't sand, and we immediately sank into the famous mud! Brown, slimy goo splashed everywhere, and the more you struggle, the more you get stuck in deeper. And mud wasn't the only brown thing we stepped on. There were these pebbly and slimy things that looked like grapes and that collected in large amounts across the surface we walked on. We couldn't identify them, since they weren't really mud, and when you crush them, their become mushy and gooey. Hoping they weren't animal corpses, or worse, we just plodded on.


The seagulls stood still and weren't amused by these two growling monsters that were trespassing what was normally a tranquil and protected area. I was sure a couple of times I would loose my balance and fall flat on my face and soil my clothes even more than they already were. We waded wildly through the mud. My friend, curious and adventurous and daring as ever, ventured further out to where the ebb of sea met the temporary sand bank some distance away. I watched her stand there as the sun set behind her, a slim silhouette standing bravely in the sinking ground below but still ploughing determinedly onward. We each fingered a slob of mud and drew warrior marks on our faces, and laughed as we saw each other. Stomping around, we drew our names in the mud. Names that no doubt later that evening would be washed away by the rising tide, and lost save in the loose remnants of our memories.

The sun set even lower, and the bright light of day narrow to a magnificent golden glow splashing across the dimming evening sky of orange and various shades of blue and white. Just watching the sun shy away quicker and quicker made me smile for no reason.

There was no need for a reason.

A mighty heart

It was a powerful, but painful movie to watch.

Especially the scream… the long, howling wail as the wife discovers after almost two weeks of waiting and hoping that her husband, who simply disappeared, had been brutally beheaded by Jihadi kidnappers. The scream, her banging against the walls, the tears streaming down her already darkened eyes from lack of sleep, the saliva clinging onto the corners of her mouth as she wails, and wails and wails till there’s nothing else to wail but a heart-wrenching emptiness.

Nobody can imagine what it’s like to loose a beloved. Nobody can imagine what it’s like to wave goodbye to your beloved, believing later that night you’d meet again. Nobody can feel the pain and sorrow of Marianne Pearl.

A … Heart is a really touching movie based on the true story of a wife’s search for her husband after his unexplained disappearance in 2002. The main characters are no other than Wall Street Journal journalist Danny Pearl (…), who on his final day conducting investigative journalism in bustling Karachi was lured into a set-up by a terrorist cell and held hostage for many days.

What follows is the undying faith of his wife (Angelina Jolie) in love being able to survive and be felt despite the unknowns, despite the separation. Feelings more accentuated as she was at the time carrying his then five-months old baby in her. Within two hours, the movie is a powerful mix between intrigue, thriller, and suspense, captured in chaotic scenes, and depicting the consequences of the ‘humane treatment’ of (so-called) “illegal combatants” held captive at Guantanamo Bay, and what tormenting consequences it had on the Pearl family as events unfolded. It shows how the worst excesses of misguided foreign policies and wounded national prides can so perfectly intertwine with the deep-seated fanatism and hatred that can lead to such extremes of compelling people to hurt and instill fear into others in the name of the religion, and of vengeance. Anger leads to anger, and leads to violence, and leads to a self-perpetuating cycle of anger and violence that fuels feelings of ‘them against us’.

The husband does die. But the wife is brave and fights back the tears on TV. How many people are kidnapped everyday in Pakistan (or the rest of the world for that matter) and do we not feel their pain too, she asks. Indeed, in a fast-paced need for news, sensationalism and snapshots of weeping relatives seem to sell better than how people really feel. With the journalists brandishing cameras and constantly creating a nauseating fever and frenzy with their blinding flashes, there is a subtle critique perhaps that is best echoed in the line “Have you no soul?” which Marianne Pearl harks back at a TV interviewer. We may hope that those words echo stronger and linger longer than the few seconds that they spread in living rooms worldwide.

Most moving of all, strangely perhaps, was the moment when she gave birth. A moment of release… a moment of long-awaited anticipation… a moment of joy, that after all the waiting and longing, it was not in vain.

Birth after death, creation after destruction, love after hatred.