Pom Rak SC!

Pom Rak SC!

Day 1

I practically leaped out of the comfort of my humble bed.

An twelfth of a to-be-amazing day later, I was scarfing down a piece of bread before having to hurry my way to where all the councilors were gathering. Attendance was, as always, a hell of a job to do. I was excited, afraid, nervous - altogether raring to go. It was also an appreciated surprise to see Jun Rong and Han Ping at such an ungodly hour just to send me off (at least that's what they told me. It's true, right?) Countless barriers and bag checks later, the enormity of the coming days settled into me as I settled into its awe. The magnitude wasn't that near to Cairns a few years ago, but a hint of it was there.

Two uneventful flights left me itching for some sort of entertainment, and the ecstasy of finally landing in a scorching Chiang Mai was near overwhelming. The heat gave my surroundings a shade of familiarity, but signboards scribbled all over with foreign hieroglyphics constantly reminded me of where I was. Different wordings all sent one simple, classic message: "Dorothy, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

Sightseeing took its customary seat in the packed itinerary. As our bus rumbled along unfamiliar streets, I slowly lost the voice of the tour guide, and started to apply my attention to what my eyes could take in as I stared out through the bus window.

Time slipped away from my consciousness for what seemed like a moment between a second and a day, and we arrived at a temple built halfway up a mountain. Although its name escapes me, the sight that I beheld lingers. Three hundred and six stone steps were laid out in a daunting angle in front of us; The two intricately tiled dragons flanking either side height eagerly invited us to conquer its height. Most comments I picked up seemed less enthusiastic. The freshness of the air fortunately morethan makes up for its bewildering scarcity, as many of us were left gasping after the breathtaking climb.

When we were asked to enter the temple, I opted to stay beyond its perimeters instead. Iris, Regina and Rebecca had made the same wise (where wise is used in its most biased form) decision. The four of us made our way round the edge of the impressive building to be rewarded with a magnificent find. A large balcony-like area where the trees gave way to a scenic view of Chiang Mai, slightly shrouded with the mist of the high altitudes we were at.

A few artsy photos later, we made our way down the steps again into the shops set up below. We found a boy whose made to be a tourist attraction in itself. A few feet away, his presence had caught our both of our attention, and Iris couldn't resist a photo. Despite several dirt marks on his face, his perfect cheeks and eyes were the only thing we saw as we passed by him sitting on a straw mat playing with a wooden car. Too bad he spent most of his time ignoring us.

Near our starting point, Mr Tan appeared to be having fun with other children, but ones that were was foreign to Chiang Mai as we were. His aggressively candid behavior amused a group of students from an international school in Guang Zhou. We spent some time observing the exchange, with Mr Tan pestering them to improve on their Chinese. A while later, Iris and I took the chance to chat up with their Teacher, who was every bit as warm as the weather, proud of his scarce proficiency in the oriental language, and surprisingly well versed in Singlish (The man already picked up "lah" and "cheh"!)

Not long after, it was time for see-you-laters to be said, and the councilors were split up into groups of ten to board trucks. We took a winding trip to a tourism-oriented village a little way off the tar road. Our journey seemed to have taken longer than expected though, as we arrived at the village only to discover that the group ahead was beyond our sight. What was present for our eyes to enjoy was a quiet recluse, whose humility was expressed in its housing and charmingly uneven roads.

Mr Tan made the decision for us to wander as a separate group, seeing as there was no way to find the rest of the councilors within the complex winding paths. We took pictures with yet more friendly children with permission from their equally kind parents. The village held a slow pace despite its mass of shops set up, which left me puzzled.

Our group soon made a great find, where a wooden archway revealed a winding path that led through a sloping garden built behind the village. The entry fee of 10 baht was a steal, and Mr Tan, in an affable mood, decided to pay the full sum for all of us. With the best of nature lining our pathways, the walk was a delight, but held its darker secrets.

At the bottom of the slope, we sighted a beautifully laid out pond that received its liquid beauty from a nearby waterfall - probably man-made. Some of the children were playing there thread-bare, which came as a slight shock. Despite this outwardly utopian representation, what happened next bothered me. The children, seeing that they had our attention, asked us to throw money into the water. They then proceeded to dive after the coins, hoping that their antics would bemuse us into releasing more precious nickels and dimes for their foraging.

I declined. That incident changed my view of the village itself. Being forced into changing from its traditional income source of poppy-growing, it had selected to sell its natural beauty to tourists who wanted to get a look at a technologically deprived, backward and ultimately paradisal society. Paradisal it could not be even after all this time, but the proper placement of traditional souvenirs (as if souvenirs could be part of a farming village's tradition), flowers and buildings would be enough to provide the expected effect.

I was left pondering its future if such was to continue, as tourist visits have been dropping. There were too many shops, with too little purchases to go around. Their fate seemed darker than their flowers colourful, and I wasn't too sure about encouraging their current way of life. But when I passed a nearby food stall, I found my answer.

A swarm of flies had took a fancy to some of the local produce on display. Upon seeing this, the shopkeeper simply ambled over and flaunted the most mindblowing invention I have ever seen. By pulling a few plastic bags filled with water and attached to the patched up roof via a string, the combination of insignificant materials scared the living daylights out of the tiny buzzing terrors. These people will adapt.

By the end of our short and long journey, we finally found the other councilors, and were brought up to speed on what we missed (basically, nothing). However, I was feeling the right vibes and decided to rock a traditional costume for some photos in yet another florally populated landscape. Pictures are around in facebook, for those who are curious.

Everything else after that had turned blank. My eyes and mind had seen enough for a day.






On the way (I hope):


Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

We are family

We are family

Sorry Sofina, but it's not a list

Despite its brief, impractical existence, flowers are still passionately popular as a gift for fellow man. Yellow roses to express appreciation of friendship; Red for relationships more complex and treasured. White carnations to show sympathy and sorrow for a great loss. Lilies to celebrate the ascension from an institution of education. Holly to remind us that the annual, loved yuletide season draws close (if the annoying commercials haven't done that already). Despite its brief, impractical existence, the impact of a flower grows beyond its physical and temporal presence. After a good flower withers and exits our view, the effect of its reassuring message and alluring beauty remains within our consciousness.

My very first experience with a principal had been embarrassingly awkward. I stood in my primary school's general office, being there for the first time. Stretching myself to peer over the counter to convey my needs to the clerk was already a struggle, and I did not notice as the then-principal entered the office till she was two steps away. Suddenly aware of her regal, haughty (and thus somewhat creepy) appearance, I spun around to face her and gave an instinctive bow. The action I had already got down pat, but being a primary one student I could not stop myself before the wrong word had left my mouth.

"Hello," was what my voice had managed to choke out. A mistake. She gave a little sympathetic smile, and even as I straightened my back my head did not do the same. "In such an occasion, it would be more appropriate to give a 'Good afternoon, Miss [Censored for my own safety. Take that, online irresponsibility!]'". I stammered out another thank you, and breathed in relief as she ended the distressing encounter and walked away. I tried my very best to avoid her after that.

The lesson caught in my mind, and proper greetings were something that I made sure I did not screw up whenever I meet a teacher or a principal.

6 years later, I made it into Dunman High. The memory still haunted me, and I took extra care to note the appearance of our Principal, Mr Sng, when he went to the podium and spoke to the school. Several weeks later, it paid off, as I found myself walking towards the direction he was coming from. I carefully executed the proper formalities - stop, bow, and give a simple "Good afternoon." I gave myself a mental pat on the back, and was about to be on my way when my mind was blown away - Mr Sng gave a smile, waved and said "Hello, afternoon!" with the warmth of a mid-day sun.

I repeat for emphasis - My mind was blown away. He continued on his way, but I couldn't locate my head to sufficiently garner the same smoothness in pace. Since when did principals say hello?

That was when I started to learn what a principal Mr Sng is. His presence over the years has always been appreciated under all circumstances, all situations, all people. It is an understatement to say that he is well respected by students - an ironically rare characteristic that principals achieve. The short speeches he gives to us at the start of every term are a testament to his perception of himself to the school; There are no marks statistics, no "rules" that they have to enforce upon us, no singling out students who have not been satisfactory in conduct. He reminds us to care for others in not using the lift, he convinces us to work hard for our own sakes, and he lets us know that the school still cares for us as we continue to care for it. Mr Sng is more clear than any of us what Dunman High is - family.

This is the principal that students rave about to their friends in other schools. This is the principal that when you take a photo with him, you gloat about it on facebook (looking at you, JJ). This is the principal that has a fan group of over a thousand members. This is the principal that stops to say hi whenever you say hi to him. This is the principal that says hi even if you're not sure how to greet him. This is the principal that helps to carry chairs after a campfire ends at 9pm. This is the principal of Dunman High. Like I've said - What a principal.

So all that's left to say is to bid a farewell. The parting is every bit as important as the greeting. Close guy friends would just give each other a pat, nod and smirk, but it may be too informal for such an occasion. Close girl friends would exchange a note, a present, 593 messages, a blogpost in dedication and crying faces, but I doubt that's the best tone to end off with. Then there's "May the force be with you" or "Live long and prosper" for the sci-fi fans, but they aren't exactly appropriate. "Have a good one", "" and "IF YOU GO I SWEAR I'LL JUMP!!!" are great in their own right, but still too nonchalant, too cold, and way too creepily desperate.

Thus it is best that we all say our own personal goodbyes to him in our own personal ways, be it through a message, a letter or a wallpost. But perhaps the most important message of all is this - Dunman High is family. Dunman High is love.