Lost in Transition

Scooped deep in my new rattan chair, brow furrowed, I will my pen to the page. Unsure of where the ink may lead, I know that this morning I will write again. It's been a long time coming.

Soft and slow already, the sounds from the street beyond our gate are dimmed further by the meandering Albinoni through my headphones. Although still early, the heat is building steadily. The leaves on the trees that frame the wat's spire outside my window are sagged and still. A sly mosquito darts furtively around me. I'm too lazy to light another coil and decide to monitor its movements instead. The day biters can carry Dengue. Nothing is drawing me outside, but i have little incentive to remain inside the house for much longer. The weekends start slowly in Phnom Penh.

I've been here just over a month. I arrived in a convoy of other young (and younger) idealists. Hundreds more are scattered all over Asia and the Pacific - a benign infiltration into governments and NGOs from Tonga to Mongolia. At about $15,000 a pop, our government can't send out enough of us.

There is much of little consequence to say about my time here. But the seeds of consequence are being sown. It would, however, be disingenous to plough into the present without reference to the past. History provides a context and so must be accounted for.

When last I left you Dear Reader, I was bedded down with a mysterious illness in a high valley of north-eastern Lombok. Though those who will actually read this rant will know of my slow decline back to Australian domesticity, the hypothetical Dear Reader (to whom all objective narratives must be addressed) needs to be informed. I should also like to apologise to all my real readers who have logged onto this site in mild anticipation of its resumption. I have to confess to doing this myself over the previous months. There are only so many times one can be confronted by a selective and incomplete account of last year's Indonesian presidential elections without becoming just a little depressed. But we will now move beyond the valley and the politics of that time and space.

The illness I acquired in August was cunning. Its evolutionary adaptability to its host's pilgrim psychology was impressive and perhaps ensured its long term survival. In those initial days a morning might be spent in bed-bound delerium and lethary as my stomach cramped with a crescendo of contractions. In the late afternoon of that same day I would find my stomach calm and some energy return. I might wander slowly amongst the crops staring hopefully at the summits of surrounding volcanic peaks. But disapointment was axiomatic as the symptoms of my illness always returned - sometimes savagely.

It was on one of these post delerium walks, returning from the fields along a dusty road, that I encountered Asmuni. Many days previously he had arranged my transportation to Sembalum Lawang. He was taken aback at my lingering presence as he had assumed I had set off for the summit of Rinjani many days before. It was Asmuni who first sowed the seeds of restraint in my mind. He suggested I return with him to Mataram to see a doctor (I had already consulted a charming but ineffectual Balinese in the village). I refused that day, but a few days later he was back with the printout of an anxious message from Natalie. We set off for Mataram that evening.

I spent 10 days at Asmuni's house. Every day we ventured out by motorbike to consult doctors and procure pharmaceuticals. The doctors diagnosed confidently on a strict combinational methodology of outdated tests and misplaced intuition. I could scavenge almost anything at the chemists, but without proper packaging, I could never tell if the drugs were out of date or even real. I still remember the feeling of despondency while paying 1000 rupiah (less than 20 cents) for four tablets of fazigen. Asmuni's wife, Anik, cooked me three meals a day - the meal's contents varying with each new theory about my illness. I slept alone in one bedroom while the three children piled into their parent's bed. Asmuni insisted they slept like this even without guests around. Fed up with inept doctors I took to self-diagnosis and treatment. After a heavy hit of tinadozole, which caused my skin to tingle beneath the surface, I awoke with renewed energy and free from pain. By now I had made several friends in the neighbourhood and spent much of my free time visiting them for cups of tea. The following day, a Friday, I felt better still. In my euphoria I delved once more into the planning of my journey eastwards. But I awoke Saturday with severe cramps and shooting pains across my body. It was clear that I needed proper medical treatment. I arranged admission to a private hospital in Bali.

I spent eight days in the hospital in Denpasar - a world away from the hedonism of Kuta. My treatment involved swallowing copious amounts of pills at precise times throughout the day. The weeks of solitude had produced a compliant patient who dutifully followed all but the most doubtful of medical instructions. The nurses were courteous and plentiful, but they overwhelmed me with their care. It was not unusual for five nurses to appear at my door enquiring after the success of a morning motion. However after my fifth day of heavy doses of flagyl I began to suffer waves of nausea. Whereas upon admission, I adopted a routine of short morning walks, by day five I was literally bed ridden. Deprived of any meaningful company my mind started to whirl in cycles of unhelpful thoughts. I had only enough mental fortitude to retreat and by the time I was discharged I had a flight to Sydney. I spent my last day in Indonesia (in comparably good health) on a beach marvelling at the almost perfect symetry of historial repetition.

Though I had been feeling better in the days before my return, I promptly feel sick again on arrival in Sydney. My initial reaction was of curious relief for I had been agonising about returning to full health and concombitant regret. But in time I learned how misplaced such sentiments were.

The mystery illness was now a month old and showed no signs of abating. Over the months ahead it would continue to defy diagnosis. Its pattern became no more discernable. For the next four months leading up to Christmas I spent nearly half the time suffering bouts of cramping and fatigue and the rest recovering. I lost a lot of weight. Natalie had just resigned from her work and together I wanted to resume travels as soon as possible. Often such a possibility seemed imminent. Each recovery felt absolute. My stomach would go still then relax, and my strength would dramatically return. The lifting of the weight of despondency would allow my mind to freshen with modest hopes for the near future. Thus each relapse seemed to me a grosse violation of my future and it sometimes took me days to accept the reality of my condition. I slowly learned to adjust by taking comfort in small pleasures - a good book, a small walk or a wholesome bowl of soup. But my long term happiness was only sustained by the amazing support of my sweet.

Things turned around as they often do. I abandoned further plans of travel and drew increasing pleasure from a sedentary life. My health slowly became more reliable. There were many further setbacks, but the general trajectory was a lot more positive. There is much that could be written about these eight months of limbo, but I have not the heart for it at present. I was seldom bored, cultivating many trivial interests. But during no other period of my life have I so lacked direction. Life was not so much something I imposed my will on but something that just happened to me. There's probably a lesson there somewhere but I don't yet pretend to know what it is.

On 22 April 2005 I traded in that life for the chance to work here in Cambodia. It was not an easy decision to make. I have not returned to full health and still fear the implications of a relapse. But for better or worse I am here and it is about this intriguing place that you shall be hearing from now on...