This summer I, along with my clothes, guitar, and books, moved from Beijing to Guangzhou.  Actually, my “stuff”, as George Carlin called it, went straight to Guangzhou, if it made it to Guangzhou at all.  (A lot didn’t.)  I had to route myself through Hong Kong, where I twiddled my thumbs for two months, waiting for overdue pieces of paper to arrive so I could apply for a work visa.

They go there to forget and remember. Tomorrow is far away. They have a few hours before turning off the light and waking up to frustrations again.

The men in my neighbourhood assemble every night.

It began soon after the Government encouraged less educated housewives to be retrained as domestic helpers and doulas, or birth attendants. In the housing estate where I live, some women traded their aprons for a job. It meant empowerment to them but something else to the husbands.  

If the world has a gulf that swallows travellers, it's probably close to Doha, according to Michael Vatikiotis

High above Jakarta, Melody Kemp watches a cricket match between Australian visitors and a team of passionate young Indonesians

The overloaded blue minibus struggled up the long driveway, leaving a trail of dust that merged with the smog-laden air rising from Bogor city, barely visible below. Body parts emerged though the open door, the passengers eager to break free of the heat and humid stink of the interior. An arm, then two; then a few legs.