Apart from a quick trip to Siniawan to see the dragon, we've spent this month entirely in Kuching.

Chinese New Year has been the main focus, and that awesome dragon set the tone. After that it was all markets, fireworks, decorations, and food.

I love Chinese New Year. Love the energy, the colour, the noise. I'm glad we came back in time for this festival.




Before Chinese New Year, we managed to complete one of the major tasks facing us after our Europe trip. After lots of tests and consultations, the hospital folk decided they don't need to see me again for another four months. Which is good, because I'd been bracing myself for much worse news. Four months is way off in the future... It might even have stopped raining by then...

Ah yes, rain... You'll definitely spot that recurring theme if you take a quick look at the posts above. The other feature that you'll notice pushing itself to the forefront is B-for-Bureaucracy. Big Bad B's requirements stretch out like tapeworms, endlessly forming new job-filled segments at one end to replace the ones that have been moved on at the other...



We're still stuck half-way across the swamp in the lengthy process of extending our MM2H visa. I hope I'll have better news by the end of next month, but I'm not holding my breath.

And as if the tedium of dealing with one set of authorities wasn't enough, we're both still battling the British powers-that-be on the pension front. Plus, our bank in New Zealand pops up, and demands we jump through some verification hoops for them as well. (They're wonderful, all these blessed money-laundering regulations, aren't they? They let the big fish cruise the world as they please, while constantly inconveniencing minnows like us.)




But -- returning to the bright side before I depress myself too much -- it has been a great food month. So many new places and dishes to try; so many old favourites to revisit. You're probably tired of hearing this, but one of Kuching's strongest suits is its food culture.

Months with bad weather and long to-do lists are also good months for reading (you can't walk as much, and you sit around in waiting-rooms a LOT). The first four on the list hit my radar screen because of their connection with our recent European journey: The Light of Day, by Eric Ambler (set in Istanbul); That Boy of Norcott's by Charles James Lever (written in Trieste); The Scapegoat by Sophia Nikolaidou (set in Thessaloniki); and The Children by Edith Wharton (set in Venice -- well, a bit of it is, anyway). I can't claim that A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway, was travel-inspired, as we spent hardly more than an hour in Paris this time. It was interesting, however, and extended my "to-read" list by another mile or so. Also not directly travel-inspired, although Slovenia does come into it, was The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth (this is a monumental family saga set in the Austro-Hungarian empire in the lead-up to World War I, and it makes sobering reading for those of us who are growing ever more concerned by the way the world is heading at the moment). Also set during WWI, but very much sui generis, is The Return of the Soldier by Rebecca West (haunting, and thought-provoking). Closer to home, we had Age of Vice by Deepti Kapoor (a dark but riveting look at Delhi and environs); The Travelling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa (a warm and fuzzy must-read for all fans of cats and/or Japan); and That's My Dilan 1990 by Pidi Baiq (a winsome tale of young love in Indonesia).




I've also stumbled upon many lovely poems this month. There was this little gem from 8th-century China: A Question in the Mountains, and an Answer (scroll down to the section headed "A Bit of Culture"). Then there was the exquisite Endling by Maria Popova. Not to mention the proportion-restoring Number One, which arrived in my inbox on Valentine's Day.

But, having been "home" for several weeks now, it seems appropriate to conclude with this, by Moroccan author Kebir M. Ammi (translated from the French by Alice-Catherine Carls):

The Homeless

The homeless don’t live in the streets
Every day they wait for dusk to pounce
From a sky laden with helplessness
And fear...

They walk
And no one knows who they are
Mirrors and people take them for strangers
Hoping not to recognize a brother in them

The homeless pay for us every day
For the nonchalant, losing hand of fate
They are the men we could’ve been
But fate is fickle and captive to the world’s vanities