03.06.09

Hong Kong.

It is 7.42pm, I am siting at my favourite haunt. Outside the IFC mall, on the only public tables i can find in this abysmally seatless city. Where everyone is constantly walking. The temperature is perfect, humid and warm enough to coat my bare arms and legs- as i am wearing a dress. I'm afraid this has been, and may be, my only update from Asia's 'world city'. As it's been slightly too intense for me to write anything, which may have contributed to my exhaustion. I still dont know what to say. Here it is, the place of my childhood, the missing eight years of my life, where i was born, a country i no longer know but definately recognise. I think ive finally uncovered the realisation I came for, which is why i can stand to leave fifteen days earlier (that and my terribly light wallet) on the tenth (hopefully). Northern Ireland wasn't a deviation from destiny, it wasnt outside of where i was supposed to be, or what wassupposed to be happening. it isn't where im that american sounding, tanned, mixed alien, where i started reading from despair and lonelieness and the cold, where i'm 'wierd' and 'deep'. Its home. its got the most beautiful beach in the world,with such bleak dramatic character and a howling wind, that is alive at least. alive with more then the pleasant warmth full of good-time potential. But with a biting, barking cold that penetrates your very bones, and leaks through yourdamp blazar. as you can maybe tell, i miss home. and what for? there is everything here, there is the perfect mix of east meets west, of beachside meets city, of green meets steel. There's delicious cheap food, faces from all over the world,a convenient and accessible social life; club parties, beach parties, boat parties, roof parties! But theres no public seats. Theres no time to sit, and be less. Everyone is beautiful, everything is successful.

ive read Dostoevsky's Crime & Punishment (which is a book so alive it must transcends simple literature; it is breathing, and exhaling, and excreting and freaking consumed me! I literally walked around convicted of futility, and then inspired by hope and resurrection depending on the plot) and Turgenev's Fathers and Sons recently, so ive been pondering nilhism. I was slightly obsessed with it a year ago, but because i misunderstood it. I thought it was about destruction in the face of emptiness, something akin to the 'tragic hero' for whom indignation and degradation is not acceptable, for whom even death is a fulfillment of identity more noble then wretched conformity and mediocrity, for whom a life of materialism is an abomination. I suppose they are a similiar discussion of meaning, but nilhism is enlightened materialism. It's got nothing to do with gripping worth, with a desperation so intent it makes your nails curl back and your fingersbleed. It basically has something to do with Russia back in the day, during a cultural and scientific revolution that refuted the sacradness of traditional institutions such as monarchy, religion etc. (leading eventually to the usurpment of the Tsar) that produced a stagnating society of immobile lower and middle classes. Something similar to the philosophes of the Enlightenment and French Revolution- which were all good, are all good. But have culminated in such a soulless idea of existence. that have replacedthe mysticism of heaven, with the mysticism of romance; but either way, worship nothing except the flesh. Because they have finally concluded, there is nothing esteemable, except the tangible. Nilhism is something like a parent of communism- and if you would like to know my thoughts on communism, scroll down to my ramblings during my stay in Russia- or do something better, and read Dostoevsky. I mean, communist China is having the largest christian conversionin something like forever, and certainly because in the vacumn of anything spiritual, your 'deep heart' cannot help but to protest and thirst for something which can lift your head. Weeping from the affliction of an ideology that preaches death to God, of course you would hold fast to Him. Its a reactionary revival that articulates the deepest instinct of humanity, that cannot be fulfilled in materialism. Among my generation; (im referring to my social group; consisting of me to 40 year olds lol), there seems to be two major preoccupations, to get rich and/or to party. Of course, there is the odd bohemian 'traveller', but really, Hong Kong is so freaking materialistic it galls me. and being here, among that, i cant help but to feel that i am wallowing in utter mediocrity. in a pursuit so absolutely devoid of orginality, never mind abstract 'truth' or 'dignity', it is for ghosts.Sheep isnt even the word for it, because sheep flock from instinct, whereas ghosts are transparent creatures that live in the wake of everything in them, which has died.

So what of mediocrity? what of finding your match? they both begin with m. they seem so inexplicably linked. the latter a writhing, panting struggle against the first. A convulsion of body fluid and sweat and desperation. To find your ennobling piece of paradise. The promise that lifts your wretchedly mediocre head. To stake your soul on something and not be found wanting; but needed and embraced and covered in saliva and intimacy. What a mediocre, unoriginal remedy. a pursuit so ultimately crude it is utterly unremarkable. And man, boring! The loaded 'international buisness' owners i have met, that flirt shamelessly with a humble english teacher, wearing converse and jeans- and only nineteen! Pronouncing, in drunken slurs and with that fashionable vocabulary, 'you are aboslutely fabulous'. The stunning women i have seen, flaunting their worth, for nothing more then the acknowledgement of dead men. I wish they would take off their pretty clothes, and those knowing smiles, and show me some friking humanity. Of course i can say all this, as i am young, naive, melodramatic, zealous, and dont really mean any of it, and therefore, simply from youthful brashness, may condemn everything and everyone around me. I am sick, or disgusted, or emotionally exhausted, or thirsty for something, someone, i can respect. But of course, that isnt all to say i havent had a good time, or made great memories, or met wonderful people, i have; people i like and will remember, and for whom this doesnt apply in reality, just in my quiet pensive moments, of something almost despondant, such as right now. when its dark, and the city is hushed. But in total, i dont feel any particular burning love of Hong Kong. I dont know if its worse then anywhere else, and if that im just being oversensitive. (please remember that my blogs are very exaggerated)

Of the three most outstanding things that have happened to me, one involved a crazy russian woman who randomly struck up a conversation with me, and then proceeded to give me a skirt, because she was a designer and her bag was too heavy from 'samples', and the other two- weren't particularly pleasant. I met a friend for the first time at Hong Kong peak, and stupidly suggested that we walk down- which became a four hour hike through winding downhill paths, strange monkey calls, and pitch black. We were chased by wild dogs and ended up on the other side of Hong Kong; in a cemetary. Thank the Lord he wasn't a grouch. Lastly, I was literally chased- as in running- through Tsim Sha Tsui by a crazy pakistani whose 'love' for me means he would let me poke out one of his eyes, or supposedly hurl himself into moving traffic, rather then leave me alone.

But I do enjoy partying, i love dancing, i like smelling good and attempting to look good, and i do have great friends from all over the world, including one fascinating young man, whose rigid German vs flamboyant Jamacian heritage seem to be at odds inside of him lol. I've met a few other mixed chinese people, and one half irish/half chinese girl, who looks absolutely nothing like me, that its almost laughable. She has brown hair and light eye, and freckles.

Meeting my family has been great. Walking down the highest hall in my grandmother's apartment building, almost exactly as it was eleven years ago, in the dusky light and dustiness. My grandmotheris a Cool, with a capital C, she is continually buying my clothes, and making me eat the best tasting food in Hong Kong, or showing me photographs; in her time she has travelled almost all of Europe, and was/is as exceptionally beautifulas most of the chinese women in my family. And the eight cousins that have appeared from nowhere, and are fascinated with me, and my height, and hairy arms lol. Im living with 'aunty Bunny', and her family; which means that i share a room with her daughter Ellis and Ellis' grandmother- who suffers from some mental illness, 'speaking with spirits' as the indonesian maid describes it; shehas a tendancy to look through me, except for offering chocolate every now and then, she seems like a kind lady but tends to talk through the night, or get up and spell out words in english. Also there is one and a half year old Ronnie,who has recently learned to walk, and smiles in bashful delight whenever he looks at me, before trying to hide, Im not sure if its sweet or slightly incestuous and premature, for him to have a crush on me! I tend to spend most time withthe maid, in that usually Ellis, Freddy and Bunny have left by the time i wake up, and are asleep by the time i get home. Maid isnt really the politically correct word for it, the phillipinos prefer to be called 'domestic helpers' and they are absolutely swarming the city- it is very common for chinese families to employ a philipino or indonesian woman to do house work and pretty much raise the children. I had one. It's odd to find something, once so natural, making me uncomfortable- it appalls my liberal british sentiments lol. These women literally give away years of their life to a family that isnt their own, they have one day off a week- on Sunday, when they gather on mats in public places, in thousands it can seem, to crack open chicken bones, paint nails, and chatter incessantly. Some phillipino/indonesian women are absolutely stunning; they look like they belong in music videos, with long black hair wafting to their bums, andso petit yet shapely. I accompanied my Scottish friend Kenny, to a phillipino family barbeque- we were welcomed with heart melting hospitality and fed until we were fit to burst. And Annis is absolutely endearing, she tends to wake me up with her squealing, or singing. And always worries that Im not sleeping enough.

At the minute however, I'm staying with Ying Ying- who has arrived from Dublin for three weeks. She has a free apartment, as her dad works in China, and has kindly offered me my own room for five days at least. Ying Ying is my cousin, and it almost seems like some feat of serendipity that we are both here, together again, after so long, and after our lives have taken such a similiar turn. The last time we spent any substantial amount of time together was when we lived in Hong Kong, when she was something like Rebecca and I's only cousin of a similar age. She is 23 now, and working as an employee trainer for McDonalds, but has reached a sort of crossroads,where she is unsure what direction to pursue. To remain in Hong Kong and attempt to find a job, or return to Dublin- as her mother bids her. To be standing outside Paw Paw's (granny's) house, hearing her tell us how proud she is thather grandchildren have grown up, is too surreal to even register, or know how to digest. And even to be sleeping on a top bunk again, of which i have so many fond memories from my childhood- listening to my dad read from the illustrated "Greek Myths and Legends" hardback, going to sleep wearing my trainers, being sent to bed with a sock around my hand to cure my thumb sucking- is such a strange irony. Sometimes i dare to wonder if perhaps i could, one unsuspecting afternoon, cross paths with an old friend; Armilyn or Mary, or Aunty Evelyn- who used to call me Racket, or Jessica, and I wonder if they would recognise me- and then hope deludely that if they didnt, perhaps they would notice the birthmark on my forehead- and remember that. I approach these thoughts with a shy sort of terrified reverence, and i dont know if i have detached myself from apathy, fear or self-preservation. And then there is that floating, fragile idea, of perhaps, visiting Lok Fu Path- where i used to live.

I'm tutoring english to three chinese girls, who like to photocopy everything i draw and share it amongst themselves. Sparking memories of the american boy I had my own english lessons with; because i couldn't pronounce'squirrel' or 'th'- i still remember the moment i discovered the world was round, exclaiming in a sort of mock interest as he explained gravity. It's good to be back. And i wouldnt change any of it, not the eight years here, and not the eleventhere.

I will be back before July, leaving on either the tenth or twenty fifth, depending on if i can my return flight changed. At the beginning of July, i'm flying back to Cesme, Turkey, with a friend for three weeks. And then wheni get home already have a job offer working as a fundraiser i.e. those kids that stand in the street with clipboards, harassing people. I will be 'roaming' so will be moving from obscure corner to obscure corner of the UK every week. Once i have earned enough, and if i can be bothered with the visa complications i will maybe go back to Moscow for a week, and also have an invitation to Stockholm. And then... university, i'm really quite relishing the prospect.

p.s. I went to the Global Day of Prayar at the Hong Kong stadium; some recently deceased and hugely significant missionary(Taylor the 3rd...)'s wife was brought on stage. The stadium, well over two thousand christians, from all overthe world, stood up in respect for what her family had done for China... imagine that?

so.. thats all folks!

28/03/09

Its the final days, im going to Hong Kong on Tuesday. I am so scared. And welling up with excitement. I guess this is something like a suicide note, not because im going to kill myself, but because my gap year is about to disappear, in a blink. I have a return ticket from Hong Kong on the 25th June, but if i get a job in the three months until then, ill probably stay on and spend the summer in China, volunteering as an english teacher in Guilin, Yangshuo. Otherwise, I will come home, and depending on the success of my application, work as a 'roaming' fundraiser in England. Either way I would like to go back to Russia, from mid August- mid September (LSE doesnt start til Sep 27th). And then... London.

Of course I shouldnt think about the future when there is already such a trial at hand. Humidity that will make my hair fro. A country and culture I belong to but am such a mutant in. A grandfather who thinks Im too tall to ever get married. Family I dont know and probably cant communicate with. Apartments the size of my kitchen- sleeping familes of six, and myself and mother on a matress, on the floor. And this time I dont have that happy mask of childhood oblivion to hide behind, or my brother and sister.

Im more nervous of Hong Kong then Russia, in less of a fatal way, but in more of a slow agonising humiliation of it all way. I suppose its all about the Russian optimism, and living for the moment, that I miss. But im excited, I cant wait for the heat, and the city bustle, and the oppurtunities. And theres a certain smell, that i have never smelt anywhere else, and cant associate with anything else; a clean sort of womanly, powdery fragrance that reminds me of people that are together. Of my beautiful aunty.

And a very small, barely articulate part of me cant wait to go home. To where I was a superstar in the neighbourhood. To where its too hot to even walk a pace of the sports court, and not just hot but clammy and humid. To Hello Kitty shops everywhere, and that chinese flare for invention that gives everything a face; even toasters. To real glass lifts that zoom up and down more then one floor. To mango trees and police men that drive around on motorbikes. Where the police are prestigious and not 'peelers'. To my mum being in her element. To people playing basketball at night, and groups of elderly practising their dance together in the morning. To open restaurants with old men slurping noodles in the street. To buses that are too hot to even sit down in. To damp, neverending markets with soggy cardboard covered floors and fish and fruit and someone shouting. To incense and lines of shoes outside the door. To the wonder of city lights at night time over a harbour. To life that was an open door, and not a cliff edge. To where I dont have to be maybe brazilian, or portugese, or hawian, or spanish, but just half chinese. I cant wait. But im so scared.

23/03/09

It is 8 days before I leave for Hong Kong. I cannot wait. But partly, or maybe mostly, because, I cant wait to paint over my NN memories with new colours, new smells, new tastes and traitor that i am, new friends. And so that terrible question assualts me once again, that gaping monster of a ? that drools and grunts; trailing its swollen double chin and obiese belly along the floor- shuffling warpishly into my path when i turn away; left or right. Raising its ugly warty head to bark coarsely or just eyeball me, with such a chilling penetration; grinning despicably. and that question, that stuuupid question which authorises this ugly bloated toads presence; which means i cant just disperse the image, goes like "is your life a rebound?"

From Northern Ireland to Turkey, from Turkey to Russia, from Russia to Hong Kong, from Hong Kong to China, from China to London (not to mention saturday nights). What the frick am i running away from?

Hannah, Hayley and I; Cesme, Turkey, August 08

Why cant these memories just soak into me, become a cherished ember burning below the surface rather then a picture so bright i cant look at it. I have locked myself away into my house, as though mourning the death of something. But why put it to death? Why forget friends like you've never known, and a girl braver then you ever thought she could be? Why burn all my bridges?
It's Takondwa's birthday tomorrow. I should be there.

wooohooooooooo; the journey continues

"This magnificent city holds a world of cultures and people and wisdom from both Asia and the West. It is the crossroads for many worlds, many pasts, and many futures, and in it we might read our own fortunes as individuals and nations."

I'm going to Hong Kong! ;)

The End

So im not going back; and all because of a delayed bank statement, which arrived today. My flight is tomorrow evening and i dont have a visa. So that's it, decision was out of my hands anyway. I'm disappointed. I miss my friends; they were the greatest, truely indescribably amazing. grr im so pissed off. simo wrote me, and i was on facebook looking through his photos and got so jealous. and magda emailed to say i was her favourite volunteer. and darina sent the sweetest condolences. there's photos i was meant to take, that i didnt, photos with them; photos of that 'Belfaso' shop i slipped past everyday on my march to the LSC. the forty minute walk through snow and cold, my fingers so brittle they could barely bend around the handle of the plastic 'mega' bag of text books id be carrying. man my memories of nizhny are so vivid, because life was so real.

and for the past week ive been sitting at home in my pyjamas, with smelly hair and an unwashed face. pouring time into this rut of Alley McBeal replays, internet surfing, peanut butter sandwiches and shreddies. grr its pathetic. i need to reincarnate that super woman ego that drives you to the gym, to buy high heels, to spritz perfume, to not be a messy smelly tramp disappearing into my house. but id rather disappear then go back to clubs and high street, where stupid men eye you up like they're man enough, when they havent lived through racism and fear and skinheads and -30. and yet i feel like i abandoned them. my wonderful friends that are still there, shivering in the cold. waiting for me to come back.

So i guess this is it, the last page; the End of my wonderland. I hated it, but man i loved it.

11.02.09

i am still in london. and there is problems getting my visa, because now they want a bank statement and i have none with me.

i know all my mother has to do is fax one over, but i feel like this is the last fire exit. i have gotten really sick, in fact, im sitting writing this in my coat and scarf. and of course hayley best is online, enthralling me with stories of international hotties, sunshine, and general happiness. and then i imagine hong kong and the first image that comes to mind is being in a roof top swimming pool as a helicopter flies by.

and everything in russia is grey and cold and filled with uncertainty and insecurity.

is that really what i choose? i keep trying to tell myself someone needs to, we cant all just live lives of oblivious luxury (after hearing a radio journalist describe how police were told not to investigate the daylight murder of a human rights lawyer and female journalist in moscow, i have come to the conclusion that russia is still a third world country), and i could never respect myself for choosing the easy way out... but why does it need to be so hard? why cant i have chosen to go to new zealand or portugal instead? i know that an extended period in any country isnt a holiday, but six months in malta or italy would have been a darn sight easier then russia. but i suppose harder in different ways.

i went to russia because it was mysterious, and alien, and unconquered, and i knew it would be difficult. because i seem to enjoy putting myself in situations that are really just beyond me, like when i signed up for that hellish week of hiking with an ex-marine and spent five days stumbling after three unhumanly fit boys that ate uphill miles like they were landrovers- while i struggled with sunstroke, dehydration and my completely unpractical army boots. gosh. i dont know what to do.

i dont know even if ill be able to get the visa at this point.

30.01.09

Its been a while since i blogged, mostly because im running out of reason to. alot has happened, an uneventful day in Russia is quite rare; but i'm not scared of them anymore. im not so terrified period. sometimes i even forget that i'm in 'Russia'.


im writing this though from London, as supposedly i have two weeks to renew my visa. however, of course, i have no access to a printer in order to print out the electronic application, and time is beginning to run out- i must submit it by 3pm today. at the moment im waiting for sarah's lecture to finish, she wont be back until 2pm. with how problematic everything to do with Russia, and Russia itself seems to be, i could probably fabricate some excuse to prevent my return. honestly that oppurtunity is very appealing, especailly when you arrive in London Heathrow and the imigration service officers smile and say 'hello' 'have a good day' and 'your welcome' instead of glaring at you as though you are to blame for everything crap about their life. and when you are on the tube and realise that not everyone around you is white, different languages are being openly spoken, people dont stand in the most awkward inconsiderate places, and when they do- they say 'excuse me'.

i got the night train with Magda to Moscow on the 27th, and we spent the 28th on our feet; taking photos and generally acting like tourists. Almost every Nizhny Novgoroder i have spoken to about Moscow hates it, its too money orientated, the people are rude, life is too fast etc. but honestly, and maybe its because i was only there for 24 hours, i way prefer Moscow to Nizhny. Every Russian we stopped to ask for directions smiled and were helpful. tubers only glanced bemusedly as we dragged luggage through the subway and scratched our heads. a man even offered to help Magda carry her suitcase down the stairs.

Red Square is quite regale.


There is something really majestic about the old architecture, and the almost comical spires that glisten dreamily in the winter mist- like frozen tear drops or something.

we went into the Kremlin and visited some Russian Orthodox Cathedrals, and finally exhausted at 6pm, sat inside one barely able to speak. I asked Magda what she thought of the churches, that are so elaborate and lavishly ornate.

they have huge intricate swirling chandelers and gold leafing up the walls, with the New Testament painted onto the high cielings and pillars. Despite being a Catholic, Magda thinks these Churches are too extravagant. The money should go elsewhere she believes. I agree. But these churches are also works of art, and more then art, worship. when you look up, awed by these biblical scenes and watchful saints; that still do not capture the grandeur of heaven- suddenly the weight of your own puny existence occurs to you. its breath taking sometimes. we watched russians; old women, buisness men, contemporary women cross themselves faithfully, and even kneel prostrated. the art is too spectacular to be unmoved by. and not for the sake fo the art itself, but for the explosion of something trying to grasp heaven. the beauty inside someone moved and inspired from worship, which surely validates the idea. these pictures are like songs of praise that lift up, drifting toward heaven in this outburst of colour and form. it is magnificent.

During our mid-term training that took place the weekend before we left, we also visited the ancient capital Vladimir, and Suzdal. these cities are smaller, cleaner and more peaceful. it was something like a four hour bus ride, and we got a tour around the churches. in one particuarly exquisite and nationally famous monastery, we stood in the chapel as four russian men lined up in height order, in front of us. man i will never forget it. they sang. maybe it was because the room was so big and empty, or because i am so unused to choirists, but their voices reverberated. it was like hearing angels. this unlikely foursome, making these noises that actually made my eyes water and mouth hang open. it was astounding, pure, beautiful- maybe i could say it better in russian; but it was wonderful. like they had actually been touched by heaven. like God has breathed art into the Russian church. i still cant get over it. its taking me about twenty seconds to articulate anything after every fullstop. it was perfect. standing in that reverenced holy place, with these angels singing in front of me. like their voices were reaching into you and soaking into your blood, making your own heart rise in wonder.

there is something special about the russian church, despite all the crapness that goes on in the country. most russians harbour some sort of conviction about God, even if they dont practise or vocalise it. but its like the optimism that they have to depend on, when the economy collapses around you; you must just turn to faith in something outside yourself. of course, this completely contradicts everything i wrote previously about the athiesm, musical deafness etc. they do have hard hearts, but they have also been buckled by God. i just dont know.

but in Suzdal we also got a tour of a 'wooden museum', a reconstructed medieval village. as our tour described various buildings and purposes, the prevelence of superstition struck me again. in the medieval ages everyone was superstitious i know, but still even nowadays russians honour old superstitons and wives' tales. but mostly, this supersition centres around God. whenever a peasant built a house, he would erect a sort of 'holy corner' by decorating it with icons and candles; before 'moving in' his family would let the cat enter first; if it went to this holy corner, their house would be blessed; if not- they wouldnt. they were a very God fearing people.

medieval church

and as we looked around the village that old peace struck me again, that i always experienced as a child in museums, that old love for people that went before, and the existences they led- that were so humble. wooden museum

And so completely contrary to the bustle and sky-scraping towers of Moscow. with the beautiful women in knee high leather boots and skimpy fur coats, and the designer streets, and the guards that approach you with consternated 'Delete! Delete!' whenever you try to photo the police station. it was a good trip though, and i like Moscow. we were exhausted, and in the end it all seemed a bit inescapable. but we got to see Lenin's preserved corpse.

After being forced to have our bags stored in a locker room for eighty roubles (despite the russian in front of us getting it for forty -_-) we followed a rope fence leading into Lenin's Musaleum. Guards stood at various places stiffly jerking their arms to indicate in which direction we were allowed to take, we descended into a silent black building where a guard silently motioned for me to take off my gloves. it was like we were entering the tomb of a God to be honest. eventually we found our way into the central room, were there he lay. incased in this glass box as though he were Snow White. lying so peacefully, glowing eerily in the dark room. he was absolutely petite. with a sharp little face and bald curved head. he looks like a determined person, and very clever. like a pirannah. i cant believe i saw someone who changed history. we left, and walked through monuments of various famous Russian politicians; even Stalin. and then eventually past stone memorial boxes. as though they were grave stones.

"Leningrad"

as we stood at these boxes it occured to me, despite my at times- lack of affection for Russia, how much this country has suffered. there were a row of maybe twenty bleak little boxes, with roses laid on them. each one symbolizing the deaths of scores of hundreds of russian men, children and women. who died in combat, froze or starved to death. sad isnt a word for it, its too belittling and demeaning. tragic is too inhuman. you could only express it with silence, but a silence loaded with the things you dont want to say- that turns to love. man, its overwhelming when you stand there, and refuse to register it, in case the registering of it depletes you.

war memorials

despite the good start to the day, by 5pm i was zoning; having slept uncomfortably on the night train, and seats that fold into beds. eventually we returned to the train station to collect our suit cases. Magda decided we should buy our return tickets that evening, where we had our first encounter with the bad side of Moscow. With unhelpful cashiers and information desk officers giving you whatever inaccurate guidance they feel like, and men and women openly bunking queues. but at least people smile more in Moscow; i think they just have more reason to smile though. they have jobs and money and higher living standards. the entire place is quite european.

except of course, that in the 24 hours we were there i saw three black people. and each of them looking around themselves like they were wild animals. itching in their seats nervously, so obviously uncomfortable in public. its degrading and absolutely sickening. Takondwa told me that in the 24 hours he has spent in Moscow, four people asked to take his photo, and someone whispered 'KKK' into his neck. why on earth should they have to face this? i have discovered that Adrian Smith, a member of the TK/Kampilla/Mo/Carlos gang that has been missing recently, is in hospital recovering from an attack. Nine russian men attacked him, and beat him so badly that he had a blod clot and was on the news. And he is half white. The group of them only told me he was sick because they didnt want to upset me.

I can see the africans going crazy from ancipation. "I'm next" they'll say, carrying knives and walking to university conscious that everytime they step into the open they are in danger. and yet most of them are here for six years, studying eingineering or medicine. its horrific. Mary, who left for Moscow a day before me (to attend training with her programme) texted me saying that a babushka had just stole her money; "what kind of country is this?" she asked.

im in london now, alone in Sarah's room. and although there is that temptation to stay in a place where there is infrastructure, where there are people that want to be happy, where you dont need to be ashamed of who or what you are, where there is good food and good smells and good facilities and good clubs- im already beginning to miss Nizhny. in the oddest way. Mary was right when she said it; it is a love/hate relationship. it is like domestic or emotional abuse. you love it because it hurts. not because im messed up or self destructive, but because in Russia you have something to face. You dont have the luxury of boredom, you arent sickened by gluttony. and like i told Sarah last night, i have never felt so scared as i have been in Russia; but happiness swallows the fear- and i have never been so happy as i have in Russia. in those simple surprising moments that last an instant, when you are just walking down the street or on a bus- and suddenly absolute elation fills you up. or when you are trudging through snow listening to Michael Jackson's 'Black or White' and you cant stop smiling, and ache to dance or just want to vent one great whoop of "E- HE". because you do have so much to be grateful for, you are alive and you know life and joy has meaning because you are struggling so much for it. when you have nothing to be happy about, but can be happy, you know what happiness is.

we waited last night in a queue for two hours to get into a club, my feet were aching from my heels, an italian and australian came onto me, Sarah's friends were drunk, and despite all the glitz and glamour of it, it was absolutely boring. why do we need flashing lights and perfume and so much crap to stimulate fun? are we that boring?

people need too much things here. toothpaste isnt enough; theres whitening, ultra whitening, minty fresh, cool breeze, peppermint, spearmint and maybe seven other types that disgusted me when i worked in Woodsides. Russia isnt better, but the UK isnt that ideal i dreamed of. its easy and comfortable thats true, but easy and comfotable isnt enough.