I am looking for a job, but the truth is there’s more than enough on my plate already. At least that’s what I thought. My friend Regina told me since I have already come this far, I might as well try to run two parallel lives. Telling myself that I am already fully occupied, thus not looking for a full time job, is probably opting for the easier option.

The influence of Africa to me is a higher expectation for myself. I might have thought that I was making a sacrifice, going to Africa and all, but I clearly see that experience as an extension of my luxuries, although some may not choose this sort of experience as their luxury. Since I have convinced myself that many of the people seeking help over there could actually do better than that, I must also act upon myself to do better than this. This is what I was looking for when I chose to go to Africa: a new attitude.

I do plan to finish my travel journal about Tanzania, but the soup has already gone cold, and still I am not able to find a night with enough energy and creativity to write. The smell of that place is already leaking out of me. The water pressure here is too strong, the shower can rinse anything out. I fear the six months will be just like a dream very soon.

Africa, red dirt, inconsistent electricity, mismatched slippers, ugali, tasteless bananas… are all really far away.

As we arrived at the ship that evening, the loading dock was already flooded by the flesh of men, women and children. Children below our waists were being crushed; old ladies unable to move in any direction were desperately screaming for help; the police with wooden sticks furiously attempting to create some sort of order; and the rest of the people tenaciously resisting those attempts. In short, it was just like in the movies: as if the island was sinking, or aliens coming from right behind, everyone was fighting with their lives to board the last ferry.

The first class had tables, air conditioning which was as good as absent, and a population density of about 8 people per square meter. The floor was covered first with a layer of luggage then another of bodies. It was nearly impossible to move in the cabin. Fighting our way to the bathroom required stepping on things we would usually avoid; returning to our seats after using the bathroom, with our sole still moist, made us feel extra guilty. The benches had small cockroaches crawling around occasionally, which I had to kill and vaporize swiftly before Sandy would notice them. It was a suffering even for the Tanzanian standard.

We arrived at Pemba in the port of Wete, a town with three or probably four paved streets. It had a very different vibe from the cities we have visited in Tanzania so far: the people here were not so used to tourists, yet. In the first 24 hours after arriving at Wete, we have not seen anyone with light skins besides ourselves.

Frankly, we didn’t have much objectives in Pemba other than using it as a stepping stone (a rather big one) to reach Tanga, so we never intended to stay there much longer than 24 hours. However, we arrived on a Sunday, and the Muslim festival Idd just so happened to be on that Monday and thus most businesses took the few days around it as holidays. We found no dhow that would take us to Tanga, and the soonest ferry would not be there until the next Sunday, so we decided to wait for one or two days hoping that we could find a dhow.

As we waited, we had our time to kill. We decided to visit the Misali Island Conservation Area which, according to the book, was one of the last paradise islands that were not owned by private resorts yet. It was not cheap to visit, though: Besides its ‘admission’ fee, we also had to rent a dhow for the whole day to take us there and back, around 3 hours each way, comes down to 130,000 Tsh total.

Naturally, the dhows today are motor-equipped, but once they are far away from shore, they would still pull-up the sails and catch the wind, adding a few knots to the speed. The three fishermen would also throw out a fishing line to try their luck as we cruise (and they eventually caught a large one, on the way back). The shade of the sail paired with the seasoned woods of the dhow made perfect naps, significantly shortening the boat ride, psychologically(the long hours of transportation we were getting used to probably helped also).

The water that surrounded Misali Island was so clear that I needed to take a sip, just to convince myself that even sea water that clear was still very salty. The Island was not particularly large, but it has got a few beaches. We arrived at the main beach where the visitor’s center was located, and finally met some white people (who were staying at one of those resorts that owns an island). We snorkeled just off the shore of the Island, along the reefs, and saw many many fishes. Sandy’s main enjoyment came from deciding which fish would taste better than the other.

Back in Wete, we spent another quiet evening reading under the spinning fan, until the generator got switched off and the night turned into a moist, warm and long mosquito feast.

The next morning we were told that there shall be no dhow going to Tanga until at least Wednesday or Thursday. We could not be too far behind our schedule, as we still have half the country to tour, plus my spoiled soul was very much craving for cold drinks and consistent electricity, so we decided to fly to Tanga.

A dhow to Tanga would have costed about 10 usd per person, while the plane costed us more than 65 each. It was far beyond our budget, but we didn’t really have a choice. We tried bargaining, to no avail. I was really worried about our finance. As the engine of the plane was started, however, much of my bad mood was washed away. It was the smallest plane I have every flown on, a single propeller, and we had it all to ourselves! Benja even got to take the co-pilot seat, the first time flying in his life! We got to see the coast of both Pemba and Tanga, Misali Island and others from high up in the sky. It was extraordinary. It was probably the most worthwhile twenty minute of our trip thus far(Although that did not solve our budget problems.）

久未看過中文電影，更久未看過如此巧妙的對白，如此傳神的演出（葛優與舒淇）。

故事或許並非港人熟識的提材—網上徵婚，但是稍為對中國大陸文化有體驗、了解或只是興趣的觀眾應該都不難投入。在北京這部電影要排隊購票，在香港，那小戲院中還是空著不少位子的。

翻開明報影評一頁，見此電影所獲四個分數分別為一，二，二點五和四。

影評人：

「把舒淇拍得很難看」—我不同意，我覺這是我看過舒淇最有韻味和深度的演出。

「影片就只靠張愛玲式的機鋒對白支撐冗長又時而穾兀的劇情」—大概拋出張作家的大名可以使影評人顯得較有學識，只可識此片描寫細膩的性格和言語，導演的聰明佈局，都通通給看輕了。

香港影評如此不濟，大概是社會風氣的反映。香港人看爛片看得多，看得慣，漸漸會連精采的幽默，精鍊的演技都不會欣賞；浮誇，荒唐的電影（如愛鬥大）則廣受歡迎……　沒有好的觀眾，難有好的電影。香港人自欺比大陸人有文化，可能曾幾何時是真的，現在是時候放下成見，虛心學習中國博大精深的文化，否則只會給人狠狠的比了下去。

The three hour spent inside the 1st class cabin was our most comfortable travel thus far. A/C, wide cushioned sofas, static-free television, and a comprehensible conversation in variously accented English. It was a fitting appetizer for our destination— the other-worldly Zanzibar.

The port of entry to Zanzibar is located at Stone Town–the soul of Zanzibar, according to the Lonely Planet, or what we regarded as the book– while the face of it is usually its flour covered beaches sided with the nearly invisible water.

In Stone Town we stayed at Malindi Guest House, five minutes walk from the ferry port, right next to the fish market. It was a very atmospheric place: fountain in the small court yard, two lounges side by side on the second floor, one with an out-of-tuned piano and western style sofa and the other with low coaches on the floor, copper wares, and a large persian carpet that tied everything together very nicely. The rooms were bright and spacious, although during our stay I spent most of my time in the ‘Islamic’ lounge. Most rooms were still vacant, probably due to the season, although the sign on its entrance (seen as you walk out the hotel) suggested another reason: “Danger! < -- Do Not Turn Left after 7pm."

The Anglican Canthedral/Old Slave Trade Center was not far, as we found out after the taxi ride. (The whole Stone Town is within 30 minutes walking distance.) The stories of slave trade, as told by our guide Christopher (recommended to us by Sue-lan who visited this place before us) were disheartening.

— The now Anglican Cathedral was once the Slave Trade Center between east Africa and Asia. Right in front of the sermon stand on the floor is a circular piece of marble stone(not shown) that represents the Pillar where slaves were once tied against while being whipped.

From the Cathedral finding our way back to the coast, ie. Getting lost in Stone town, is the most recommended activity by our book. Strolling on the stone paved streets, dodging bicycles and motorcycles within the tight space, nodding to children spending their afternoon with their grandma sitting on the baraza (stone benches outside of each building facing the street, where people meet and sit), peeking at a game of bao between an old man and a young folk, admiring the wooden carved doors that are usually older than the buildings that they lead into, walking through those that are left open (that was not recommended by anyone), asking for permission to take a picture of the store that sells everything, eating juicy mishikaki off the streets, catching eyes with the gorgeous ladies in their bui-bui(Muslim over-alls)… It was all too wonderful.

—Follow the linked picture(s) to my flickr to see what I mean. Except for the gorgeous ladies…

By the time we reached the coast, it was right around sunset. We also enjoyed some tourist actions in some of the more sophisticated souvenir stores that we have seen. The night was concluded by a delightful supper of seafood, followed by a tongue-warming-chocolate-banana-Zanzibar-pizza, right on the street leaning against the old-fort.

The next day, we did the spice tour as planned (Mitu’s was the original one and the one we ‘decided’ to go with, because we walked pass its office randomly). We were taken to spice farms and the guide explained to us various kinds of spices: cloves(smells great, reminded me of good curry), cinnamon(tasted almost like the Cinnamon Toast cereal!), lemon grass(smells like insect repellent, which it does act as), Pepper(now I know black and white pepper are from the same tree, processed differently) and more(Sandy paid more attention than I did). After the tour we were taken to our starting point where a lunch of Pilau (rice cooked with spice) was prepared. Frankly, it was not among the best Pilau I have had; Passing Show, for those who care, makes awesome Pilau.

A beach visit was thrown in at the end of the ’spice’ tour (I think it was invented by some competitors). The weather wasn’t exceptional, neither was the beach(Now you got to have some higher standards because you’re in Zanzibar!), so I took a peaceful nap under the breezes and above the waves.

After returning from the trip we had a lazy afternoon walking along the coast in Stone Town. We visited the House of Wonder(a museum) where I bargained for half the admission price because it was only 30 minutes to closing. We did more bargaining in an antique store near the old fort which sells really nice items. As for dinner, we planned to dine at Monsoon Restaurant which according to the book should have live Taarab music every Wednesday and Saturday evening. Because they didn’t have enough business that arrangement was no longer. One less business for that. We walked pass an Indian vegetarian restaurant –Radha Food house– when an old couple was sitting outside, pretty sure they were the Radhas. I asked them what was the best item in the restaurant, they recommended the Thali(if I remember correctly), which is the everything-in-one menu, including a glass of Lassi, for 9,000 Tsh. I told them we were really tight on budget, but their food seemed really delicious, and my female friend there didn’t need big portions, so would it be possible for us to order 2.5 Thali for 20,000? It was an OK (by Mrs. Radha). They even gave us three full glasses of Lassi, which was what we really wanted anyways :-)

The next morning, we checked out from Malindi Guest House, and left Stone Town on a dala-Truck towards Nungwi. My plan was to be dropped off at Kendwa, check in to some bungalows and walk to Nungwi along the shore, and come back later that night. Anyways, after the long cramped ride we were dropped off at Kendwa, which even the dala-operator double checked if we had meant Nungwi. Kendwa was the place I wanted –more quiet and a better beach, according to the book.

Turned out, the beach was a couple of kilometers from the beach. With all our luggage, and a melting sun, walking was not a desirable option. We found a big tree to rest under and waited for a ride. The big truck with plenty of space on top of the bricks that it was transporting refused to give us a ride (bastards: “Sorry, no space”). We waited longer and gathered two passing cyclers and one motorcyclists. They took us to the beach for cheap (1,000 for the two cyclers, the motorcycle dude just took off and didn’t want money; and I even tried bargaining for that 1,000… it was a shame.)

The lodge those guys took us to was Mocco Villa. It was new, half still in construction, and not even mentioned in the book, but it had Zanzibari beds (those four posters), and that(plus clean bathrooms) was all we wanted. We compared a few other lodges but none could beat its price-quality ratio. (A double room and a single room, both self-contained, for 50,000, not the cheapest, but much nicer than that one. Oh, but they started at 50 usd for one double.)

After settling in, we could finally sink our feet, with much appreciation, into the powdery sand, which was just the right temperature(not like Santa Monica, my friend!), and look far out to the horizon where the dhows wander. The water that focused the sunlight into a pattern of animated web, clearly visible from above the water, was a treat to the eye and a lift to the spirit.

No need for Nungwi.

After lunch, Sandy and I taught Benja –being an Arushan his whole life– how to swim. At some point we thought he needed some practice on his own, and so we rented some snorkeling gears and went off for some close-shore snorkeling. We never swam far enough to pass the population of sea urchins, but that was not the point of it, at all.

—Manifestation of our joy.

Benja, our travel companion, has a sister who lives in Rombo. That day she graduated from the University of Dar Es Salaam, and so we visited her home to congratulate her. At one point she pulled out a very fancy DSLR, which I was quite surprised (as the cost of that camera is quite comparable to the cost of the building they’re living in). Turns out, it was our friend David’s camera. David was kind enough to lend his tool of trade out for this special occasion. David lives in Arusha, so the camera came all the way from there.

At the end of the night, she passed the camera to Stephen* asking him to bring it back to Arusha to David with him. Of course, things went wrong, and the camera, in the mist of transferring vehicles and searching for a place to stay for the night, was left behind in a taxi. By the time, it was too late to have anything done about it.

The next morning, Benja called his friend who lives in Rombo and asked him to go to the taxi stand where we got our taxi the night before to ask for the number of the driver whom we hired. We didn’t know the driver’s name, but we remembered his car was a Toyota hatch-back, which wasn’t too common. We got the number, and the name.

Our plan that day was to visit Bagamoyo, an ancient coastal town about 80km north of Dar, but finding the camera was more important, so we went first to the taxi stand in Rombo hoping to find that taxi driver face to face. Naturally, he didn’t come to work that day, a rarity according to his fellow drivers. So we decided to seek help from the police.

I thought the police couldn’t do much, as we really had no evidence at all, so I asked Benja to give a call to the driver and offer him some money instead. He called and the driver simply denied ever having seen the camera. Of course not. So we went to the police.

We explained our situation to the police and he told us there was no need to offer the driver any money, as it was his responsibility to report any lost items to the police. The policeman went with us to the taxi stand and asked around about the situation. The drivers there called our driver and told him that the police is looking for him. He said he was far far away from town that day. For no particular reason, except perhaps to find a buyer for the camera?

We went back to the police station and started filing a report on the case. Five minutes later, the driver called back and said he’d be at the station in five minutes. He showed up with his car, which we recognized, but his face and his shape is quite different from the one who drove us to town the night before. He explained to the police that he lends his car to his friend to drive and when he got the car back that morning, there was no camera and he knew nothing about it (no mentioning about being far far away from town). We completed our report and the police told us to leave and wait for his call that evening, and don’t talk to the driver(s) directly. So we left.

By the time it was too late to go to Bagamoyo, so we decided to go back to Dar, to visit the National Museum, and buy some fish and octopus for dinner. Fried octopus paired with rice and sauce made the day.

The next morning, we still haven’t heard from the police so we called him ourselves. It was someone else who picked up and they said they have already arrested the owner of the car (although he claimed to know nothing) and soon he will have to turn out the camera. I thought that sounded a little unusual so we called the driver ourselves. The phone rang, and he picked up. He said he was arrested, but he had set up a trap for the driver who must have taken the camera to come to a place where the police arrested that guy, and released the innocent him. He blamed us for reporting this to the police and causing him so much trouble.

After that we had nothing to do but wait, so we figured we might as well head towards Bagamoyo in case nothing happens. Sure enough, half way there the police called us and said the driver(s) were willing to give back the camera, for a price of 500,000 Tsh (1000 Tsh ~ 1 usd). Time for a bargain. Benja told them we only had a 100K, and they responded saying it was not enough for the five of them –the two drivers and three policemen who were involved– to split that. They said at least 100K for the driver (who was lucky to have the camera) and 50K for each of the rest, total 300K. Benja said that’s too much. OK. How about 250K total they asked. Come out and meet, Benja told them.

We got off our bus towards Bagamoyo and caught another bus towards the junction where we shall catch another bus to our meeting point. The last stop of the bus was still a couple kilometers away from the meeting point, so we hired a taxi out to the petrol station where we were to meet. There was a bar/restaurant next to the petrol station. So we waited there.

Ten minutes later, the five of them showed up with the car that we had become familiar with. The small driver that we hired that first night was one of them, in his hand the red plastic bag that we had been much looking forward to.

We all sat around a table at the bar (which is empty at that time of the day) and they each ordered a drink, beer or soda. The big guy police ordered himself an extra plate of food. Time for business. We took the camera, checked that it was working, and all the pictures from the graduation were inside. They put the camera back into the bag and drew it towards their end of the table. “What about the money?” they asked. “We don’t have 250K”, we said. “We could only offer 100K, really.” “How could you do that to us?” exclaimed the big guy, “We have already reported to our boss that we’re getting 250K for this.” Impossible, I thought. I doubted they would let anymore people know about this, having to pie the money even thinner. “OK, we really need our money to travel, but I understand you have worked very hard to get us back the camera, so how about we settle at 150K?” No no no no no no….

The diver (owner of the car) pulled me and Benja aside, and told us with 170K, it shall be OK. Fine. I paid that money. “Make sure he takes care of the bill too, Mr. Driver” said the policemen.

The policemen who told us not to offer money was not among those men. I do not know where they came from, what were the dynamics between them, and how come the taxi driver got to say whether the money was enough while the policemen were enjoying their drinks in the back. Of course, without their uniforms, they were as close to policemen as they were to pigs.

With the camera in hand, and our wallets thin, we paid the bill and left the scene as quickly as possible. We stopped at the first shop that sells backpacks and bought one for 2,500 Tsh. The red plastic bag was simply too unfitting for the camera inside. Alas, Benja had the bag over his shoulder, within it an item of tremendous weight.

Finally, after some more bus transfers, and a long ride up the coast, we arrived at Bagamoyo. The breeze in our faces as we speeded through the town on the back of hired motorcycle taxis, and the fried fish that were still swimming in the ocean earlier that day, un-fried, AND the knowledge that the camera is now in one of our backpacks, was all we needed for that trip.

&mdash Dhow sail in Bagamoyo.

* Stephen was with us on this trip, too, as he was heading to Dar Es Salaam that exact day to give his girlfriend a surprise airport pick up :-)

In the small basement chambers, which is about 3 meters wide, 5 meters deep and 1.5 meter tall, 50 male or 75 female plus children would stay for two to three days or more, awaiting for the slave auction to open. According to our guide Christopher, many of these people would die of suffocation, starvation, disease or god knows whatever reasons. But that would be OK, for if they could not survive the three-day storage they probably were not strong enough to be sold for a good price anyways.

At the auction, the slave up for bidding would be tied to a pillar, whipped repeatedly as people call their prices. If the slave shall make a sound when the whip cracks their skin, the price would suffer, so would the good temper of the seller.

Children were of little uses as they are not strong enough and not worth the investment of food and care until they are. They would be thrown in as extras for the bulk buyers.

The middle-men are mostly Arabs, who were good sailers and have had trading relationships with many other countries for many years. The rise of Islam prohibits the enslavement of Muslims, thus demanded a new supply for the existing market. The slaves from Tanzania are collected in Zanzibar, then shipped mostly to Arabia, Persia and the Indian Ocean islands. Europeans also participated in the buyings.

Sometimes, some well intended priests and explorers, mostly Europeans, would buy the slaves and baptize them as a gesture of setting them free, and then using them as their assistants. Eventually, with a societal moral revelation in late 19th century, the British Empire ended the slave trade in Tanzania. However, the Arabs continued trading slaves secretly until decades later.

This knowledge may explain why I have been hearing so many negative comments about the Arabs and Indians from Tanzanians. I have been thinking that it was only because Arabs and Indians own most of the larger businesses across Arusha, if not Tanzania, but it makes much sense that the long history of slavery in Africa has embedded deeply into its culture a disgust towards the traders of their ancestors. Just so happens, the geographical location of now Tanzania (which is formed after the end of the slave trade) favors the traders from Asia.

As sad a chapter of history as slavery was, I find it difficult to blame any culture for enslaving others. After all, study of ancient tribes, cheif-doms and states across the continents shows that enslaving the defeated groups’ members is quite the standard solution. Other options would be a wipe-out massacre, or a male-genocide followed by homogenization with all women.

I am by no means trying to justify slavery. Instead, I, being in the middle of Diamond’s Guns, Germs and Steel, am simply sharing with you the spirit that drives the book: Why is Africa so underdeveloped comparing with, so to speak, the western world? Why wasn’t the Africans the ones to enslave Arabs and Indians, and some Europeans?

I personally believe now that basic understanding to this question is more important than displaying sympathy towards the people immediately.

“The phrase The heartbreak of psoriasis is often used both seriously and ironically to describe the emotional impact of the disease… The term can be found in various advertisements for topical and other treatments; conversely, it has been used to mock the tendency of advertisers to exaggerate (or even fabricate) aspects of a malady for financial gain.”

—Wikipedia, on Psoriasis.

Psoriasis is an interesting condition: once it developed in your body, in most cases, it stays with you your whole life. It is a chronic disorder. Although there are many off-the-shelf drugs that could ease the symptoms, a cure is yet to be found. There is still too much unknown to the disease, and the cause to it too complex.

Heartbreak is a rare symptom of Psoriasis, if not a pure exaggeration. But exaggeration sticks, and people buy the drugs. The drugs are real, and people benefit from using them at the end, so why not?

On Friday, November 28th, 2008, the article Bruin hands reach out to Tanzanian orphans was published on the Daily Bruin.

In the article, a particular line caught our attention immediately. “There are an estimated 1,200 street kids per square mile in Tanzania who go about their lives uncared for…” Certainly a devastating fact. However, according to the CIA factbook, in the 886,037 square kilometer (around 350,000 sq mile) of land within the Tanzania border, there is only a population of 40,213,160 - yet enough to have 1,200 per square mile, let alone children.

It’s simply a careless mistake, inspired by the misleading wordings/information on the website (”With every square mile of Arusha, there are more than 1,200 abandoned children living on the streets”), while perhaps motivated by the eagerness to call for attention at a problem.

Being in Arusha for just over five months, I am very certain that with every square mile, there is not 1,200 street children. During my encounters with dozens of individuals who deals with street children in Arusha, I often tried to get their estimation of the population. The highest estimation is still below 1,200, in the whole of Arusha, including both full-time and part-time street children(those who go home at night), most of the others were below a thousand. Even the street children whom I am close with gave numbers in the range of 150-250.

Street children may not see the picture any wider than their few active spots, individuals’, and even organizations’, estimation is only so reliable. Yet, we are talking about a disagreement of two to three orders of magnitude. There must be a terrible mistake.

Statistics are powerful, and easy to correct, thus deserves to be corrected first. Other problems may be more difficult.

Optimistically, whether Psoriasis causes heartbreak or not, the drugs still benefit the patients. Either way, best first consult a physician.

From right here.

At least that was how I felt when I first got those shiny white patches all over my back during primary school age.

Soon after that my condition was controlled by the treatment given by our family dermatologist Dr. Sham, who is now so popular that appointments need to be made months in advance (except for us old-time-customers). Years have passed and Psoriasis has never bothered me any more than the usual dandruff and occasional wrinkly finger nails. In fact, I had convinced myself that Psoriasis is the perfect natural alarm for my subtle health condition - whenever I go through a period of time with bad diet, lack of sleep and/or immense stress, the two symptoms will unfailingly express themselves to remind me to re-evaluate my life-style.

Lately, I have gone through the intense wrapping-up of the film Stephen and I have been working on for the past months, my terminal exit with OHS and the chronic fever and sore throat that unknown parasites and/or bacteria have given me. Together with the humid weather of the rainy season (dry is better to keep Psoriasis in check, thus explains possibly why my four years in L.A. have kept me free of disturbance from it), there was simply no reason why my Psoriasis shall not erupt from its long hibernation.

And so it did.

Within a matter of days red patches have appeared all over my forearms, elbows, calves, shins, thighs and slowly reaching up my back. I honestly freaked out. First I thought it was some fungal infection (for my lack of encountering with my long lost condition ruled out the possibility of its reoccurrence) and so I bought Detol soap (advised by local doctors and pharmacists) and started applying them. I also bought anti-fungal pills. Another doctor gave me a bunch of anti-allergy drugs including a de-worming pill. Of course, none of those measures succeeded in controlling my condition, some probably harmed my body and worsened the condition even more.

It was only until I visited the dermatology training center in Moshi did I found out it was after all the not-unfamiliar Psoriasis. I was on one hand very relieved, knowing that I am not passing any fungal infection to other people, and on the other rather worried: I still have a month left before returning home where I could seek help from Dr. Sham, and I have never had this hitting me so seriously before.

In the myst of it, I realized how little I actually knew about the disease myself. Here I share with you a few “interesting” excerpts I got from the immensely helpful Wikipedia self-education:

“The cause of psoriasis is not known, but it is believed to have a genetic component. Several factors are thought to aggravate psoriasis. These include stress, excessive alcohol consumption, and smoking. There are many treatments available, but because of its chronic recurrent nature psoriasis is a challenge to treat.”

“Around one-third of people with psoriasis report a family history of the disease, and researchers have identified genetic loci associated with the condition. Studies of monozygotic twins suggest a 70% chance of a twin developing psoriasis if the other twin has psoriasis. The concordance is around 20% for dizygotic twins. These findings suggest both a genetic predisposition and an environmental response in developing psoriasis.”

“The history of psoriasis is littered with treatments of dubious effectiveness and high toxicity. These treatments received brief popularity at particular time periods or within certain geographical regions. The application of cat faeces to red lesions on the skin, for example, was one of the earliest topical treatments employed in ancient Egypt. Onions, sea salt and urine, goose oil and semen, wasp droppings in sycamore milk, and soup made from vipers have all been reported as being ancient treatments.”

—Wikipedia, on Psoriasis.

Why am I telling you all this? I used to felt like sharing this secret only to my close ones. But now I realize, when my arms and legs are covered in red rotten skin, it is best to tell as many people as possible that this is Psoriasis, before they start making guesses.

*Psoriasis is the infamous 牛皮癬 in Chinese.

**Btw, for those who insist that I should drink more, sorry, health condition forbids me from doing so.

—extracted from re-defining home, an article I encountered at Stephen’s blog.

*Santiago is the protagonist of Alchemist, by Paul Coelho. I got this book as a gift from my lovely friend Sherese Tong. Thanks.