30 years later -- how the world has changed

In 1979, a bunch of us girls, left school, Convent Klang, a highly popular school in our neighbourhood started by the Catholics. I had little knowledge of the world around me, having at that stage never been 30km outside of my precint, Jalan Meru. It was the last year for those of us in 5th Form. We took our major exams -- the one that would mark us for life -- the MCE or Malaysian Certificate Examination. A good aggreggate would mean access into Lower Six (6th Form) while a not-so-good result would relegate us to find other alternatives. For some, 5th Form marks the end of school to find a job, either as a secretary or typist, or whatever it was that came up. Most of us haven't seen each other since 1979.

KFC came to Klang in the 70s
Up until the 5th Form exams, life was of little concern to us girls. We were self-absorbed teenagers, soaking in the Americanisation of the world. In the 1970s, I remember, Colonel Sanders and his red strippy bucket of chicken, first came to Klang. Kentucky Fried Chicken was a treat!

In the 1970s, we girls at school swooned over Donny Osmand. The Beatles were still breaking girls' hearts all over the world. In Klang, Bollywood was already a phenomena way before the word Bollywood came to symbolise Indian prowess in movie making. My friends and I went to watch Bobby, and left the cinema much in love with Rishi Kapoor. I watched Haathi Meere Sathi (a story of friendship between a boy and his elephant) and learnt to sing the first few lines of the song Chal Chal Chal, Meere Sathi, Oh Meere Hathi... Farrah Fawcett was a rave as one of Charlie's Angels, so was the 6 Million Dollar Man.

Bell bottoms and high-handle bars
The 70s came with high handle bars on our bicycles, hippie-inspired dresses, and bell-bottom pants. Then came the platform shoes, and Afro hairstyles. A lot of the fashion didn't make sense to me -- a teenager coping with outrageous growth spurt, pimples and weight issues. Mom seems to be always in a stress mode, and the best times were still the times at school.

I looked forward to school as the school ground is a place to destress. Of course back then, in the 70s, we girls didn't think the word stress even existed. Our teachers were mostly dragon ladies who told us we were useless; and the authority at school was something to be feared at all times. We had tests and report cards to bring home to our parents. Mimicking today's global world, our school had its fair bit of competition -- some girls were always studying. Others like me did what I could get away with -- which meant the barest minimum. Some girls were so talented, everything they touch became magical in a short time. Others were born scholars while others had little chance to show they too can excel.



How to bake with no ovens
I remember well the Indian girls in the lower classes (we were streamed, yes). Poor things. What were the teachers thinking, asking for white shoes and white socks, when they had to walk through muddy estates to get to school during the monsoon season? What were they thinking, asking for ingredients for cookery class when most people were struggling to keep mouths fed in their households. What were they thinking, teaching us to bake when most of us didn't have ovens.

Troubling 70s
The 70s was a testy period in world history. Richard Nixon was trying to end the Vietnam war to no avail and landed himself into hot soup with the Watergate scandal. Vietnam suffered tremendously during the war. It wasn't until 1975 the last of US diplomatic personnel left Vietnam. Shortly after, Cambodia experienced what we now come to know as the Killing Fields, plundered by the Khmer Rouge.

Malaysia was battling Communism in the 70's. We were brought up to feared the name Chin Peng, a Communist guerilla. Communism was loathed. We were told to loath what it represented because of the larger part of the world was still feeling the effects of the Cold War, and the wise men of our time couldn't decide which to fear more -- the Russians' brand of socialism or China's brand.

China was in a bigger mess. Mao's wife and her gang of four was terrorising China. Mao died in the 70s, leaving behind a pit full of vicious vipers to fight it out. Zhou Enlai came into power. I remember his face all over the Chinese newspapers, not that it meant anything to me back then.

Americans, still reeling from the impact of fighting a pointless war that was not theirs to fight, was also facing domestic challenges. The Americans were going through a stockmarket bear phase, and the economy was in the doldrums. Life repeats itself -- or so it seems.

The British government was by then only a shadow of its former self. The coloniser was facing its own challenges at home, massive labour strikes and power shortages. At one stage, Britain had to ask the IMF for funds to keep the country afloat -- sounds familiar?

In the 70s, the world was not a happy place. There was war in the Middle East following the lost of Palestinian land to the Israelis. The Arabic world was up in arms, there was an Arab oil embargo, causing what we know as the oil shock.

Malaysia was then a nation with just over 10 million people (peninsular) and rubber accounted for over 20% of our exports. It was then, still a primary producer. We had Indian friends whose parents worked in the rubber estates. We had Chinese and Malay friends who were rubber smallholders. Tin was by then on the throes of its demise as a lucrative commodity.

Self-centre teenagers
As teenagers in the 70s, these events meant little to us. Our world was self-centred...it was all about us, and our happiness, or the happiness of our parents or immediate and extended families.

I believe school was theraphy for us. We met our friends in the school yard, we traded gossips about the latest episode of Peyton Place, and caught up on the latest hairstyles our posh friends were into (Farah Fawcett was a definite rave for a while).



At the school yard, all the effects of what was happening in the world evaded us. We were with our friends, playing hopscotch, badminton, netball. We were learning about bits of Southeast Asian history. My favourite was the Malacca Sultanate and the Thai Mongkuts and Chulalongkorns. I had little time for Math or Science or Commerce. But I think most of us didn't pay attention because Math and Science were such dry subjects given the way they were taught.

At school, a little bowl of noodles can go a long way. 20 cents was a big deal. We could buy a plate of noodles and a cup of rose-syrup water. And if we saved up enough, we could buy some kerupuk (prawn crackers) or a snack of our choice.


Connected world
Recently, a few of us got connected on Facebook. In the 1970s, the world's vision of computers was there was room for one large computer (IBM's mainframe). The world then progressed to semiconductors, revolutionising processing power. Then the nerds got more clever, and now we have powerful chips that run computers and computer programmers who design super softwares that run fancy algorithms which only, again, nerds can understand. Yet, we thank the nerds for Facebook. Without them, those of us on Facebook wouldn't have got in touch.

I looked for my lost friend Zubaidah on Facebook. And found her to my delight! I couldn't believe my luck. Then I found, our friend Kay, who thanks to her foresight, set up a group on Facebook called Class of 79. First it was her and Anom, then a few of us got hooked up. Now we have caught up with a friend in Adelaide, one in France, one in the US, me in NZ, and a few others. We have over 2 dozens of emails now...what a beauty email is. The girls have had a face-to-face meeting early January, thanks to Zahara Awang, a smiley, can-do gal that she is, who cooked and hosted the lot! I couldn't be there but was watching via Facebook!

We have grown too, from our cocoons. From being self-absorbed, we now have to put up with our kids' self-absorption. Some of my friends have kids in their 20s! Mine is only 11.

Dreams can be built
We learnt over the last 30 years that dreams can be made. We learnt your teachers can't tell you what you cannot be. Your teachers can also give you interest, or the small encouragement that would make a world of difference in how you view your ability. My first real inspiration was Cikgu Zaleha, a fair Malay lady who had class and compassion. We learnt that we can become greater than what our school teachers would have us believe. For some, school wasn't so much a place to learn, but to build character.

I feel so happy just to have reconnected with a part of my life that reflected mostly my self-absorbed teenage years. School was my oasis in many ways. It was at school, amidst the laugher of my friends, that I forgot how hard my parents had to stretch the budget, or how much I was costing them just for school uniform and accessories for school.

At school, we were a vast melting pot -- learning to like what each other eat, and learning how we can be different and yet the same. We all have one basic instict -- that of self-preservation, and that of having a chance to have a go at making life better for ourself, and our family.

Till we meet again -- Anna Woolf (Apri 68-Dec09)

Aunty Unu, preparing surprise cake for Princess in Gold Coast.
Tony's birthday party in Sept.
Picture of Princess with Aunty Unu.
Picture of Aunty Unu as the Avatar, Ang, (from a cartoon series) I took in, Mahurangi, 09.


The Chinese do not have the equivalent of the term “goodbye”. So here I am, doing the very Chinese thing – saying “Joi Kin” (in Cantonese my dad’s dialect), till we meet again, to Anna.

Anna was a Aunty Unu to Princess. She missed Princess’ arrival because she had to drive back to the house to get my parents to the hospital. She never quite let me forget that.

She took time to accompany Princess at the World Transplant Games in Brisbane in August this year. I could see her pride, watching Princess come in first, in the 50m dash, first in long jump, 2nd in swimming, knowing Princess did have the real makings of a competitor, (much like her).

She bought Princess her first easel (which stands too tall in the living room) bought Princess her first metronome, and cringed and chided at Princess’ complete lack of attention to timing at the piano. She once witnessed how I blew my top at Princess, for her lack of focus on the task at hand – practising her piano. Talent Princess had. It was effort she lacked. We both sat and chatted and agreed about effort being everything. She and I often joked about Yale and Harvard as destinations for Princess to aspire to. Princess, obviously has no desire to go to either, and would stomp off, in a huff and a puff, and how we laughed.

On many occasions, Anna would hover over the kitchen, and commented on how I should clean up my benchtop and the clutter. I have largely ignored Anna because she was a perfectionist in everyway, and I am totally at ease with a few specks of dust and a bit of mess. But lately, clutter is beginning to bother me a lot more.

Anna, to me, is a contradiction. She is fire and ice; rain and sunshine. She is gentle yet wrathful.

Anna is bountifully generous with others and stingy with her own comfort. In fact, when she was on her last leg, I was helping her clean up the family bach (she was not in good shape to clean up and yet wouldn’t stop) for the next lot coming in, and she was so apologetic about it, I felt most embarrassed.

Death and dying. How does one prepare for such a momentous event? Grief we must. But let go we also must. This is one of the noble truths Buddha taught – the truth of suffering; also the truth of impermanence. In Buddhist cosmology, there is no such thing as going to meet your maker and Anna and I have had discussions about what happens after death in Buddhist belief. A famous forest monk Ajan Chah has these words of wisdom: The minute we are born, we start to die. How apt. The cycle of life and death.

Anna is not a fan of religion. But she once told me if there was any religious path she could most relate to, it would be Buddhism.

Anna didn’t need religion. She has many religious qualities which we all aspire to.

We disagree on many things but also agree on many of the crucial ones. She dislikes the Chinese way of scuttling around issues, prefering to nail everything right down to black and white. The Chinese, we like to see shades of grade in everything.

Princess wrote this poem right after Anna was first diagnosed with cancer, in her kidneys. I found it crushed up, in a crumbled bit of paper, in the recycling bin. I am glad I retrieved it. It is to be our lesson.

Let the wind pass away,
Let the rustling leaves blow away,
Let the dust get swept away,
Don’t cling to your beloved,
The lesson is don’t let attachment, teach you its way.
(8 yrs, 2007)

Here is another one of Princess’ poems, found tossed in a scrapbook to be thrown out. I have retrieved this as well…and I think it a perfect description of how most of us who know Anna feel too.

The only thing that makes a flowing droop is the morning dew,
Straight and tall a flower survives the cold night
With the company of dancing leaves
Once admired always admired. (Julia Woolf, 10 yrs, Mar 09)

So, in typical Chinese fashion, here is a "till we meet again" Anna, not a goodbye. Thanks Anna for being a part of our life. Princess, Tony and I will miss you heaps.

For Anna's favourite music and other tributes check out NotPC and Annie Fox

From squeals to meals

The Woolf family just spent our weekend at Mahurangi East. It was a perfect weekend, except for a bit of rain on Monday. Still, Hubby managed to take the 3 Woolf girls and Uncle WaterMelon for spin in the StabiCraft. The waters were kind to us, supplying the fishermen (Hubby and Father In Law) an abundance of fresh snapper.

What really struck me about the Woolf girls this time is how they have grown and how well they seem to be able to occupy themselves. It wasn't so long ago that they have high tendencies to stomp through the bach, making elephants sound gentle.

This Labour Weekend, the stomping seems to have all but dissapeared. The squels and screams haven't stopped but they should be getting less and less, I hope. I also hope they will never turn into sultry teenage girls with no worries outside their own and nothing to say except for the occassional monosyllabic answers teenagers give. I hope they will be charming, loveable and happy girls, chatty and inspiring well into their teenage years.

Making lunch
This Labour Weekend, the Princess, Cousin 1 and Cousin 2 undertook a massive expedition -- they cooked us Labour Day lunch. It was impressive considering they had not much ingredients to work with. They served us tuna pasta (the touch of lime was sheer brilliance!), roasted herb potatoes and for dessert, Summer Splash (chopped pineapple and apples with juic -- perfect). They topped our meal with coffee/tea and put on a splash of spring flowers on the table. During meal times, they were eager and willing to help chop and stir fry. What a change...over a year!

Family meals are crucial. It is around these meal times we get to show our best, and our worst; to define what we stand for, and learn that acceptance of what we are not, or what others are not, can be as meditative an experience as going to listen to a sermon or hear a guru teach. It is around these meals that you get a sense of how hurriedly or slowly a person takes his/her time to take a bite, and sense the rush of taste. It is around these meals that the unspoken speaks more than the words.


I now can hope Princess will cook (when she wants to). The Woolf girls exceeded their appetite for springrolls. They fried mini spring rolls for lunch until they cleaned off Grandma's entire box of spring rolls. They must learn how to reuse used oil, and put away empty food boxes.

I love seeing how the Woolf girls gel, as a pack. It is a mistake to bring a fourth number into this triad. They are at their element when they are three. The bond is strong and enviable as it should be. I feel so lucky for Princess to have such cousins, as I have my own dear cousins in Malaysia.

I remember my own childhood, of weeks spent hiding in the lush guava trees, in my maternal grandfather's backyard. Sometimes, the guavas hang so full on the branches, they are dying for you to pick them but I used to prefer picking the green ones, for use as missiles for "shoot" at my cousins. I remember holidays stomping through muddy red earth at my aunty's house in Kapar Road, fighting with the boys to be treated as an equal, and waiting for mangoesteens that never seem to ripen. I remember the cabin crackers that taste like heaven dipped in black coffee, and how afternoon tea can turn into a brief paradise.

Secret island
Over this weekend, I came to see how boring I had become. The girls dragged me to their "secret island" where they plan to swim in the summer. I had to put sandshoes on, and walked through water and slimmy stones and algae-clothed stones. The water was mostly warm and quite delightful. It took about 20 minutes for us to get around the bay from the beginning of the road...I have been sworn to secrecy, I cannot tell anyone where the place is. Access to their paradise is by invitation only (or whoever is unlucky enough to be dragged out comfy sofas for a walk in the sun.)
At one point, we met an over excited dog...I wasn't quite sure what I would do if he/she started to chase -- lucky for us, we were in knee-high water, and the dog was water shy.

Over the weekend, I comfirmed my status as a hopeless romantic, staying up will 1am to watch and rewatch Jane Austen's Emma, Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey. I have the same misdeeds, reading and rereading Orson Scott Card's Ender Series, or Tenzin Palmo's Cave in the Snow. What about all the other books I have to read?

The girls watched and rewatched Wild Child (the DVD). I love this part of being a child -- that of doing something repetitive, which can somehow magically provide an endless stream of joy and wonder.

Watching the three girls brave the cold pool, and squealing and splashing, I am reminded this is what childhood is about. Is is also a reminder for us adults that the older we get, the less prone we are to see the magic in everyday life.

We all know now the Woolf girls know how to put on a mean lunch. Also that Aunty Unu can really become a fanatic at housework and does a mean crossword puzzle; and oh, there is hope for the Woolf men in the fishing department, coming home with their first major catch, and that Uncle Watermelon really is a weed murderer par excellence, disguised as a horticulture scientist.

Waste not want not

A couple of weeks ago, in the Saturday edition of the Herald, Canvas ran an article about this lady who is Kiwi but moved to the Aussie outback to escape the hustle and bustle of city life. She wasn’t a natural cook but grabbed onto this idea of writing a book about cooking that would help households save money. Her trick is cooking only 3 days a week. The rest of the week’s meal consists of eating concoctions built around what has been cooked the three days prior.

Fine idea. I like the concept of saving money. The Chinese are great at saving leftovers. There is a fantastic dish mom used to make “Kai Choy” it is called.

Kai choy
What goes into the pot is a medley of leftover roast duck, steamed chick, roast pork, and other bits and pieces from a Chinese New Year banquet. The pot holds together a melting pot of flavours from an assortment of meat.

Gather all your leftovers in a pot, throw is some water, a big handful of dried chillies and a handful of dried tamarin slices; add some sugar and generous helpings of fresh mustard greens (kai choy) and boil them to death. Voila – a cauldron of disintegrated meats and seasoning blend in with the mustard greens to make a part-stew, part tom-yum like dish that is amazingly tasty and appetizing (never mind the look).

We have had occasions in the dining room where my aunties sit around the table spinning yarns as chew on bones and fish mustard greens to savour the sweet and sour and slightly spicy dish.

The Chinese never waste food. Well, the generation that was, that is. These days, I tend to be less conscious of the lessons mom gave me – never ever waster food.

Leftovers were reheated in mom’s home until they were no longer recognizable.
If we had rice leftover, it was turned into fried rice – dressed up with a bit of chopped garlic and leftover meats and some green peas/carrots.

If we had leftover roast pork, it can be brought to live again with a bit of chopped garlic, fried with dark soy sauce and sugar.

If we had bean sprouts that wilted, it was mixed into a batter, and some chopped spring onions and a bit of dried or fresh shrimps, to make a delicious fritter.

When we were young, our great grandmother used to save the not-so-fresh sweet potatoes and boil them for mashing. Mixed with a little tapioca starch and sugar, they were deep fried into potato balls that made a fine breakfast.

Leftover pork lard would be fried to perfection. Sautéed with garlic and chopped fermented beans, the pork lard became crackling -- a dish so divine and sinful.

Wasteful generation
I wonder if Princess’ generation will do the same. I throw out leftovers after a week but it is often done with great guilt. Waste has become so much a part of our lives.

Every generation needs a war, I was told. It is true. My aunties told me they used to eat only sweet potatoes (kumara) as they hid in the jungle during the Japanese invasion of Malaysia. Other families have similar stories.

Let us not forget. Whatever we can save should be saved. The challenge is inspiring our kids to have this consciousness of saving and being frugal. We don’t live like our parents used to live. But we need to remind ourselves that wasting is indeed sinful – not in a Biblical sense but because so many hours/so much resources go into bringing food to our table. I tell Princess – enjoy the food, and be happy when you eat. It is being here now, and enjoying everything on the table, and enjoying the great company around us. Nothing beats that! This is the secret to happiness.

Lessons on life (and organ donation)

Pic: Long Jump medal winners
Pic: Aunty Unu, artist in the making








Brisbane can be intimidating. Its giant highways that snake through the topography make Auckland look like toyland. Brisbane’s wild weather swings capture the best of what it means to be a huge unpredictable country.

It was in Gold Coast – about an hour’s bus ride away from Brisbane International Airport – that we got a taste of what it is like to transplant everything you ever wanted onto a stretch of land that stretches from coast to cost, marked by the ocean that rages on, even at the best of times.

What is it about Gold Coast people? Every other girl walks around in skirts really short, and every other bloke has ugly body marks wrapped around their arms and call them tattoos. The young girls parade their arms, legs, bodies and bums. The guys with or without nice bodies show them off in surf shorts.

You can’t walk away from Gold Coast unimpressed. It is a vast piece of man-made landscape. It has tall buildings straining into the sky, trying to touch the clouds. It is about the only place in the world that has more Thai restaurants than Thailand. And here, you can eat a cup of ice cream with as much gummy bears in it as you want, or go scare yourself to death with death-defying rides in the theme parks.

I am glad I took Princess to the Gold Coast for the 17th World Transplant Games. There she learnt that money can run out pretty quickly if you just spend and spend. Or if you forget the NZ dollar sucks because you loss about 20% everytime you buy an Aussie dollar.

Lessons
There she learnt that sun screen is a must, in the scorching heat, and rehydrating yourself can save you a lot of pain later.

There, she learnt, that time and tide waits for no man and to catch the bus, you actually may be competing with hundreds of others dying to get on the same bus.

There, as an 11 year old, she learnt the arduous discipline of a competitor, waking up to be at breakfast at 5.45am, and getting ready to compete at a venue by 7.30am.

There, she learnt that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. Watching the Japanese girl burst into tears when she came last in the 50m sprint told Princess that some people deal with disappointment outwardly, others never show any sign. It is not about losing, but also about how you deal with the aftermath.

There, she learnt that to be gracious when you win is the true mark of an athlete. It is never just about the wins, but also how much compassion you show to others who struggle to do something that doesn’t come as naturally.

There she learnt about what it means to have team mates who cheer for you, and stand in the hot sun to bake, just to watch you race and cheer you across the finish line.

There, she learnt, to give as much as she receives – that to give up a seat to an older couple after a tough day at the fields/tracks can be just as rewarding as winning a medal.

No freak show
There she learnt the lives and tales of other little girls and adults just like her. That she is no freak show.

Transplant patients are a testament to how life can be normal. Sure – there were visible signs of athletes cracking under the heat of the sun, knees giving way, older participants panting and heaving. But there were also plenty of signs of healthy, golden and brown runners or swimmers who dare test their limits and come out as glorious as the sun.

There I go again, thinking about Dr Stephen Munn’s wisdom -- the whole transplant odyssey is about achieving normality. Sure, every now and then Princess comes up against bad liver enzymes showing something is not right. Every now and then, there are those unexplained aches and pains.

But at 11 years old, Princess is a normal kid looking forward to going to intermediate school next year. She greeted her 11 birthday on August 27th at the 17th World Transplant Games in the Gold Coast, with over 1,000 people singing her Happy Birthday and a cake with a computer generated photo of Jacob Black, her beloved from Twilight; and oh, a silver medal in the 25m swim on the same day. How cool is that?

She came home from her school today giggly about the puberty talk and being shown tampon soaked and expanding in water – a silly 11 year old, with a lot more zest for things a lot sillier I suspect.

Family
Hubby came home after a 6-8 week assignment in Wanganui, working on a dairy project, and a boys-only ski weekend.

Aunty Unu, the braveheart that she was, came to the Gold Coast with us to cheer Princess on, forgetting her own troubled battle with cancer, and the 5 zaps she has just had to treat the insidiousness of malignant tumour in her spine.

Grandma took a week out to cheer Princess too and did so well being dragged around by us on so many occasions on our expeditions here and there. So did Aunty Malulu who gave up a week of precious time.

We are a normal family. Leading a somewhat normal life.

The story has to be about the priceless gift of life given to us by some unknown person with a family, just like ours -- probably with hopes and dreams, just like ours.

Spread the message of transplant and organ donation around. There is a life somewhere needing a precious organ.

Transplant Games 2009: An ordinary day, go Kiwis

Aug 23rd 2009 wasn’t like any other day. The sun was shinning in Brisbane’s Broadbeach except it wasn’t ordinary sun. It was a sun coming up to greet thousands of people who had descended on Broadbeach to attend the 17th World Transplant Games.

We are in the Gold Coast at the Transplant Games – a sporting event held bi-annually for transplant patients.

Our first main event was the beach walk – along the spectacular crashing waves, an inflated giant beach ball rolled by various people – 5km to and from the tallest landmark along the beach.

As you look through the long lines of people snaking through the beach, walking to celebrate the gift of life (of organ donation), you forget – despite the ordinariness of a day so hot in Brisbane – that this is far from an ordinary day.

It is most extraordinary to see so many transplant patients and their families and supporters gathered on a beach, being scorched by the hot sun.

Chances are if you turned around, you would have met a boy, a girl, a man, a woman of various ages. Chances are he or she would have been a recipient of an organ, or a donor family, or a family member of a transplant patient. Chances are he or she would have had multiple weeks of hospital stays, heartaches and tremendous quiet suffering that neither you nor I will ever know.

The New Zealand contingent came out full force – 20-0dd transplant patients and a slightly larger number of families and supporters. The air was filled with camaraderie.

We wear our black polos with pride. Afterall, the All Blacks had just won the rugby the night before against the Aussies, and a few Aussies and other nationalities who are keen rugby folks noted the victory. The world may not be able to pronounce New Zealand. But they can say the All Blacks. “What is a Kiwi,” a Canadian couple I met on the beach asks. Hm, how do I explain ways we use the word Kiwi in New Zealand?

The sand was the only cold thing around. The sun was unforgiving and wrathful. We trundled along and back. Sweaty with face like lobsters freshly cooked, we head back to the apartment for a quick shower and change before the next big event. For the athletes it was a group photo shoot. For supporters, getting ready for the big Opening Ceremony.

The Opening Ceremony
It was big, it was bold, and it was truly a showcase of Australia. We were entertained by voices, cheerleaders, dancers, string divas, voice maestros. It was not the crazy stuff that you see on telly with the Beijing Olympics but it was certainly fun and entertaining. It was an hour or two too long – but what the heck, the Aussies have got to strut their best and we sit patiently, waiting for the ceremonies and show to get on, and end. We even gave the host nation a standing ovation when they came in. The race begins in ernest on Monday.

Princess came down with the NZ contingent, looking for our faces as she marches down. The arena is a like a big black cave. We must have looked like bats to her, stuck to our seats. She can’t see us, but we waved and cheered “Go Kiwis”.

I would love to say forget the race but it is hard to forget the competitive aspect on a transplant patient’s life. It is as if every organ recipient has got a bigger story to tell – having conquered death (some of them multiple times), there is always something larger and more challenging.

The sporting competition will always be the sideshow, I think. The main drama is these transplant patients’ constant struggle with coming to terms with how life can be normal, and yet abnormal.

These are the contradictions. You can look a transplant patient in the eye, see his/her joy and triumph, but never their true battle scars. You see them fit as a fiddle and forget they can get very sick and turn custardy the next day. At the games, you even feel almost helpless you are so unfit compared to some of them.

If you have seen the Italian cyclists, you would think Lance Armstrong and Tour de France. These cyclists are slim, sinous and sensationally gorgeous in their tight biking gear. Our Kiwi cyclist’s wife was afraid she might have lost a pump she loaned to the Italians. Trust a Kiwi wife to be so dependable.

At the arena where the 17th World Transplant Athletes marched in, I got a sense of what it felt like to be part of a community – of people who have experienced hope and life.

This Thursday, August 27th, Princess will turn 11. She has had her new liver since June 2004. On Sunday, she will just one of 100 other kids in the games, all transplant kids. The adult athletes total just under 900. She brings with her a diary, her math homework, and an assignment from Mr May her class teacher to jot down things she has done everyday. It will be a hard task to keep to the homework. She would rather watch Sponge Bob on telly.

The sun is scorching. It is 30 degrees outside. Princess is just back from the pools with Aunty Malulu. Tomorrow (Tuesday) is her first event – tennis. Should we practice today? Maybe, maybe not. Lina my friend who lives in Brissy, is coming to visit us. We were thinking shopping?

Princess has been busy collecting pins from other athletes. She is a Kiwi gal. Kiwis are passive aggressive. They are laidback and competitive all at once. They are serious yet fun. The Kiwi contingent will battle the Goliaths in these games – the Aussies, the Brits and the Americans. We maybe a small nation but we are giant totaras – proud and unmovable. Go Kiwis!

Off to Brisbane for World Transplant Games

Three generations of Woolfs head to Brisbane this Saturday at the unearthly check-in time of 4.40am to head to the World Transplant Games. We are all excited, no doubt, except for the prospect of having to wake up at 3.30am to get ready!

Grandma, Aunties (three cheers for Aunty Unu who is just out of one of the world's most killing chemo regimes and out and about with us!), Princess and I are excited about the prospects of seeing other organ recipients run, swim, play golf, and do things most normal people do. Princess hasn't practiced much. But as a liver transplant recipient, she lives a damn normal life. She swims an hour a week, trains for gymnastics between 3 to 4.5 hours lately, and plays tennis for 2 hours on Fridays. In between, there is math tuition, piano and Mandarin lessons. What a full life!

I am excited over seeing a good friend who lives in Brisbane -- her family has dotted on Princess the day they knew her. Also, we are excited about seeing another friend who has also moved from NZ to Brisbane (WHAT IS IT ABOUT BRISBANE THAT ATTRACTS KIWIS?)

Hubby continues to be on site in Wanganui. So he can only cheer from across the ditch.

Brisbane will remind us of the gift of life from our organ donour (from Australia). We stand in constant humble awe and thanks for the precious gift - from an unknown person.