Back to Hervey Bay

It’s the beginning of the second-to-last rotation: obstetrics and gynecology. I will be spending the first four weeks of the eight-week rotation back in my old haunt Hervey Bay.

The med school is putting me and another fourth year up in a house in a new subdivision just behind the hospital. Driving down the new road behind the hospital, I can’t help but notice that the neighborhood in front of me could have been airlifted straight out of Anywhere, USA, and plopped down in the middle of Australia. The same denuded landscape that had been clear cut to make way for cookie cutter houses, the same manicured lawns with feeble saplings propped up by supporting frames, the same deserted streets in which the only indication of human inhabitation are the cars parked in the driveway. The elegantly designed Queenslanders that are built and oriented to suit the warm and humid Queensland climate have given way to the cheaply and massed produced prefab homes. Another unique regional feature has died a quiet death by the forces of McDonaldization of the Western world.

This sterile neighborhood will be my home for the next four weeks.

In the morning, I walk over to Hervey Bay Hospital that had grown so familiar to me last year. Walking down the central corridor like I had countless times before, I keep running into junior and senior doctors who had taught me last year. To my surprise, they all recognize me and stop to chat. Sure, there were only ten of us here last year, so they didn’t have to deal with a thousand med students coming through day in day out. But stopping to chat with a lowly medical student? That’s way beyond what I’d expect big shot doctors would do. And yet, there I am, shooting the breeze with the head of surgery, being asked about my elective in Zambia by the consultant in medicine, listening to another surgeon recounting his OB/GYN rotation during medical school.

It’s nice to be back in Hervey Bay.

Book, Blanket, and Blues

It’s been raining since last night. I woke up to the sound of a fine drizzle that seems to be here to stay, at least for the day. Gray, wet, and cold – not exactly the normal warm and dry winter days in Brisbane that I am used to. Now to think of it, it has been raining quite a bit lately, which is good for the water level of the reservoirs supplying Brisbane. We may actually see the loosening of water restriction at some point. But for me, being on my precious one-week break between rotations, the rain is a major bummer. I had originally planned to do a sixty-kilometer cycling trip to a couple of mountains nearby today. But the rain basically just killed that plan.

So I have to settle for the next best thing – brew a cup of hot tea, queue up some blues music on my computer, curl up in bed under a warm blanket, and read a book, one that has nothing to do with medicine.

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Today’s lunch: pita pockets filled with guacamole and sautéed chicken and mushrooms with a side salad.

A Day To Straddie

As the alarm clock goes off at 5:30 a.m., I jump out of bed, eat a filling breakfast of muesli, and get ready for a full day ahead. Today my mate James and I are going to ride my bike to North Stradbroke Island, just off the coast from Brisbane’s eastern suburbs. It’s the southernmost of the chain of sand islands along the Queensland coast and the closest one to Brisbane. It will be a one-hundred-kilometer ride, roundtrip. I haven’t had a chance to do any serious riding since New Zealand back in January. The only riding I have been doing since then are the short commutes to and from the hospital and into the city, nothing more than a half-hour away, so this trip will be a good opportunity to give my legs a serious workout.

Google view of the ride from middle of Brisbane to Point Lookout on North Stradbroke Island

The ride starts near the hospital where I did the last couple of rotations. James and I start pedaling down the road just as the day breaks. The sky is veiled in a thin layer of clouds, the temperature cool enough to allow me a comfortable ride without breaking into a big sweat. Rush hour traffic on the other side of the road whizzes by toward the city. Following the thin line on the road that’s the designated cycling “lane,” we follow the undulating road from one suburb to the next. The thirty-kilometer ride to the ferry terminal in Cleveland is almost all on city road, save for a section in the middle where we manage to go on a parallel side road with less traffic.

Directions: from the corner of Ipswich Rd and O’Keefe St, go east on O’Keefe and continue onto Old Cleveland Rd. In Camp Hill, turn left on Wiles St, then right on Stanley Rd. At the T junction, take a right on Creek Rd, then immediately left on Meadowlands Rd. At the T junction, turn right on Belmont Rd, at the roundabout, turn left on Grassdale Rd. At the T junction, turn right on New Cleveland Rd, which ends on Old Cleveland Rd. Turn left and continue onto Finucane Rd. Finucane turns into Shore St West. Turn right on Passage St, then left on Middle St and the ferry terminal is straight ahead.

We arrive at the ferry terminal for the 8:00 a.m. barge with minutes to spare. The sun has burned away all the clouds in the sky. We sit on the upper deck, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the salty and cool breeze from the sea. The vehicle barge takes less than an hour to cross the calm water. As it docks at Dunwich, the tiny settlement on the western shore of North Stradbroke Island, we ride off the barge and head straight toward Point Lookout, twenty kilometers at the northeastern corner of the island. The road, narrow in parts, gently winds through the forest. In an hour, we arrive at Cylinder Beach.

The vehicle barge navigates the shallow channel to Straddie just ahead.


James takes in the view from the upper deck.


Waiting to disembark at Dunwich

Straddie is popular with Brisbanites on weekends and during school holidays, but being a weekday, the beach is deserted except for a few other groups of people. Still, a lifeguard has set up his yellow-and-red flags and is patrolling that section of the beach. After throwing a football around and jumping into the shallow water for a swim, we break out cooking kit for lunch. Doing this on the cheap, we brought our food for the day. After a nice feed, we go back on the beach. Lying down on the soft sand, I shield my face from the stinging sun with my cycling shirt. I don’t even remember when was the last time I spent a day at the beach doing nothing. What a great feeling! Soon I descend into a postprandial coma.

When I wake up, I look up to find ominous clouds blowing in from the north. The sun disappears, the whole beach becomes gray, and the air chills considerably. Looks like it’s nature’s way of telling us that it’s time to go. With legs properly rested, we hop back on our bikes and retrace our route back to Dunwich for the 4:30 p.m. ferry back to Cleveland.

Clouds start to roll in over Cylinder Beach.

By the time we get off the ferry, it’s almost completely dark. We put on the blinkers and pedal into the busy road. Although we are going against the rush hour traffic again, it’s not much fun riding in the dark. Some parts with no streetlights are dicey as cars pass within inches, while on the quieter roads we have to hope that there are no potholes to send us airborne. As we get closer to the city, my legs are starting to beg for mercy. Unrelenting, I push forward steadily at a slower pace. Back at where we started this morning, James and I head our separate ways.

At home, I cook up a dinner for four and eat it all by myself. After a nice hot shower, I crawl into bed, feeling every fiber of my legs screaming. Oh, it hurts, but it hurts so good; and not a bad way to spend a mid winter day.

Match, No Match

Getting out of bed, the first thing I do is to check my email. Today is the day when every state releases their internship match results. New South Wales and Victoria put all of their applicants together, so I will hear from them today. Queensland, South Australia, and Western Australia will release the results for domestic students today; the riff raff like us international students will have to wait for a couple more weeks.

I am not too anxious about the results. A rumor has been floating around that New South Wales had more internship spots than they did applicants, which means everyone who applied would get a spot. If that’s true, I am fair confident about at least getting a spot somewhere. Chances are it will be somewhere outside of Brisbane, which is fine by me. After being based in Brisbane for three years, I am ready for a change of scenery. So I am very excited to fine out where I will potentially end up next year.

Being in the electronic age, that excitement of anticipation is somewhat dampened by the instantaneous access to information. Instead of checking the mail everyday for the arrival of the “fat envelope” – acceptance – and dreading the sight of the “skinny envelope” – rejection – like back in the day of college application, now I just go online and click on a few buttons. There’s no heft of the weighty brochure accompanying the acceptance letter or the flimsy one-page letter that flutter in your wave of disappointment. The results now just glare coldly back at you just the same, regardless of outcome.

With fingers flying over the keyboard, I log on to each website.

Victoria, the state with the most complicated application process, one that required the most effort from their applicants – no match.

New South Wales, with the easiest application requiring little more than demographical information on their online application – “Congratulations, you have been allocated to Network 11”. Woohoo! Where’s Network 11? A quick check reveals that it’s based in Wollongong, the third-largest city in New South Wales, just ninety kilometers south of Sydney.

Phew! I will have a job next year after all. Now I just have to sit and wait to see what kind of offers will come from Queensland, SA, and WA.

I walk out to check the mail at lunch time, and there it is – the fat envelop from New South Wales sticking out of the mailbox. Ah, the satisfying ripping open of the envelope, the reassurance of ink on paper. Thank you, NSW.

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Tonight’s dinner: vegetarian fettuccini with pumpkin sauce and grilled haloumi.

In Retrospect: Huang Shan

I did my first-year elective in China in November 2005 and did a bit of whirlwind traveling afterwards. Huang Shan, or Yellow Mountain, in Anhui Province was one of the places I saw. It is also one of a few famous mountains in China not traditionally associated with Buddhism or Taoism. Consisting of a group of mountains, all of which are below two thousand meters, Huang Shan is not tall, but it is reputed to be the most beautiful of them all. Its scenery is considered archetypal of landscape beauty in traditional Chinese paintings. There’s a saying in Chinese, “After returning from a visit to the five major mountains [in China], one has no need to see any more mountains; after returning from a visit to Huang Shan, one has no need to see even the five major mountains.” So that’s how highly the Chinese have traditionally regarded Huang Shan.

To me, the climb up Huang Shan was just the perfect antidote to a month of living in a big polluted city in China. The clean air, lightly scented by the pine trees, combined with the greenery all around, made me feel like I was a million miles away from the pea soup I was breathing just a few days before. Despite the freezing temperature at night, I stayed at the top for two nights to explore the peaks on the network of stone trails.

Located in eastern China, Huang Shan is only a little over five hundred kilometers from Shanghai.

Jagged peaks and misty clouds are features of Huang Shan.

Climbing the concrete and stone steps is the ultimate Stairmaster. All the supplies at the top are carried up on bamboo poles on the shoulders of porters like this one. Tourists like me have the option of following their footsteps or going up in comfort in gondolas.

The luxury hotel at the top caters to groups of well-heeled tourists. Penny-pinching backpackers can stay at the unheated but much cheaper guesthouse across the plaza. There’s no question which one I picked.

The view across the peaks into the sea of clouds, just a five-minute walk from the guesthouse.

As evening approached, more clouds started to roll in to envelope the whole mountain.

The next morning, I woke up to find the whole place shrouded in dense fog. Well, bad timing on my part. I walked around anyway, finding steps carved into rocks in places where the fog thinned out enough to see more than a few meters in front of me.

At a place where I could barely see five meters away, I came upon a rock where the water dripping down was the only sound around. Click, click, click.

Dried leaves clinging on to the branches in the winter cold

This little creek near the guesthouse was frozen in place.

As the evening approached, the gnarled and twisting pine shrouded in dense fog added an eerie quality to the place.

The third morning, the fog receded, but mother nature didn’t give me one of the sunrises this mountain is famous for.

Walkways like this built into sheer cliffs allow people to see the Grand Canyon of Huang Shan.

View from one of the walkways over the “West Sea.”

These almost-vertical trails are not for the faint of hearts.

Taking a break, these sedan carriers had been desensitized to the breathtaking scenery around them.

Travel in style – being carried around in a sedan on a mountain

The "Welcome Pine", the symbol of Huang Shan, is probably as famous to the Chinese as the General Grant sequoia tree is to Americans.

It’s difficult to go straight down while trying not to lose your footing by getting distracted by the scenery.

Everywhere you turn, there are pine trees taking a foothold on craggy rocks like this one.

Eight Down, Two To Go

Yay, it’s the end of another rotation. This rotation, without an exam at the end, more or less fizzled out rather than having a “proper” end, which is just fine. Now I’m looking at the two hardest rotations for the next four months: obstetrics and gynecology, and pediatrics. In comparison, the first three rotations of this year were mere holidays.

I will be enjoying the break next week nonetheless. This is the first break since starting of third year when I don’t have anything planned. No camping trips, no going anywhere. I will be hanging around Brisbane, with maybe a day trip here and there. But it will be a good and relaxing break before I have to buckle down for the next four months.

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Tonight’s dinner: wonton noodle soup. Yes, that’s a sauce pan. And yes, it’s just for me, myself, and I. Oink.

You Don't Look Like An American

At the eye clinic today, an elderly patient in her seventies came in with her daughter for a follow up review. At the end, she turned to me and asked, “Where are you from?”

“The United States,” I answered.

Clearly surprised, she pulled her head back and squinted, “Oh, you don’t look like an American.”

With just a flicker of annoyance on my face, I thought to myself, “What do you mean, lady? Which part of me doesn’t look American?”

Her daughter, barely concealing her embarrassment, tried to make a joke to divert our attention from the awkwardness hanging in the air.

Completely oblivious, she continued, “Where are your parents from?”

Ah, so it’s the non-white part of me that doesn’t look American. “I’m Chinese,” I offered.

“Ha! I was born in Formosa.”

“Oh, okay. That’s Taiwan.” I added without missing a beat.

Clearly surprised again and now very impressed, she said, “Very good. A lot of Chinese people I ask don’t know where Formosa is. My parents were Russian and I was born in Formosa.”

Welcome to the twenty-first century, lady. Nobody’s been referring to Taiwan as Formosa for like a hundred years. I said, “Well, I do know a bit of geography.”

With that, the patient’s daughter said, “Mum, we should be going,” and whisked her out of the consult room.

I guess she will always call Taiwan “Formosa” until the day she dies because that was the name she had first learned, even when the native name is universally accepted and doesn’t carry with it any colonial baggage. It was like when I came back to Australia back in March and told people I just came back from Zambia. Quite a few of the people in their sixties or older either stared at me blankly or asked straight up, “What was its name during colonial times?” When I said, “It used to be Northern Rhodesia,” I could see the light bulb light up over their heads. The country has been independent for over forty years and you still only know it by its colonial name?

In Retrospect: Purnululu National Park

The first time I came to Australia, I backpacked around the country for four months. I went through Purnululu National Park in Western Australia on my way from Broome to Darwin through what’s considered the final frontier of Australia: the Kimberley. It was May, 2003, in the early part of the dry season in this tropical part of the country. Days were dry and hot and the rain had already stopped for a few weeks – perfect for hikes and camping under the open sky.

Purnululu National Park is located in the Top End in tropical Australia.


The place is also called Bungle Bungle. The national park was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Area in 2003.

The national park is famous for its sandstone domes with alternating orange and gray stripes.

We arrive at the park in the late afternoon. I took a helicopter flight over the Bungle Bungle Range.

View over the range into the Northern Territory

Our chopper pilot-cum-tour guide gave us a running commentary as we flew over different parts of the park.

The setting sun cast a warm glow over the unique sandstone domes.

Watering holes were starting to dry up in the dry season.

Taking a hike among the domes

A couple of fellow backpackers were admiring the smooth craters created by rushing water during the wet season.

Termite mounds like this littered the landscape. Don’t imagine it to be a good place for building houses.

The tall but thin mini palms growing against the backdrop of rough sandstone rocks



Behind this grove of mini palms is a little pond called Froggy Pool, due to an abundance of tiny frogs that rely on the pool.