miit, hiit, endure and run!

Gonna start with a disclaimer right at the outset of this truly long overdue post with the caveat that this is by no means an attempt at a sordid motivational story. It isn't intended to nudge, push, persuade or force anyone into making any major life decisions. Please don't. 

Oh, I tend to be quite liberal with the use of inverted commas, for obvious reasons (to those who know this NBC – Natural Born Cynic).

This post is merely an attempt by a self-proclaimed, introverted and occasional narcissist at putting her jumbled thoughts into some kind of narrative. As usual these written ramblings are often a “note to self” or something I need to get off my chest, commit to “paper”, breathe and then move on to thinking about something else. 

Right, here goes. 

I like to consider myself an active person, having indulged in all kinds of sports. But with a plethora of shoddy excuses over the years - from an insanely jealous individual who forced me to hang my skates up (once upon another life I used to play inline hockey) to having no time - a dread sense of realisation that something had to give began creeping into the periphery of my consciousness. So about 20-ish months ago, I embarked on a journey down a road, one I never really thought would lead me to where I am today. And, it is a trek I'm quite happy to continue plodding on. 

The seed of that need-for-change prick of a thought had already burrowed itself deep in my psyche particularly after visits to a “lifestyle” physician at the behest of a family friend. At that time nothing really happened despite having to endure listening to the “doctor” and “nurses” drone on about “BMI”, “borderline obese”, “height to weight ratio”, “aerobic and anaerobic” blah, blah, blah.. At that time, I actually perfected the art of going into safe mode, i.e., “I really am paying attention and looking concerned, but actually somewhere in my head, I’m strapping my snowboard on and staring down the line through the trees of that gorgeous powder-deep snow covered mountain, preferably somewhere deep in Viking-land.”

And so, nothing happened. 

The Nordic eye-opener 

Can you really blame me for taking that extra few minutes at the top of the run to marvel at this. Norway 2015 

That was until I was actually on my snowboard marvelling at the gorgeousness of the Nordic landscape of central Norway some 20 odd months ago. Now, I have been on many snowboarding adventures over the last few years and it is my one and only true love.

Chairlift respite

But, after trekking 2+ km from the house in wintry conditions on slippery, icy roads wearing snowboard boots with no-grip (seriously, try it!!) lugging a snowboard in tow and climbing up the little hill to the gondola station, I was literally huffing and puffing and glad for that 3.5-minute respite on the chairlift. 

I had never really noticed it before, but it would always take me a fair bit longer to get my ass off the frozen ground after strapping in my right foot and start riding. Once I got going though, everything else becomes a pleasant blur. And what contributed to my ignorance was the fact that I typically got used to it after the first 48 hours of any snowboarding sojourn. But my last Norwegian escapade really became an eye opener. I didn’t endure any particular slanderous body-shaming or “you are so not fit” experience per se, but for one very strange thing that happened one unsuspecting day. 

In winter, the sun never rises any higher. I was up really super early and first on the mountain to catch this. It's these kinds of vistas that make me want to pack up everything and just live here forever. Happily this was not the day of that awfully embarrassing episode. 

That "Oh Sh*t" moment(s)

It was a normal snowboarding day, in fact a truly spectacular winter day, the ones where the sun barely rises but gives you just about enough light to make it down the mountain. It was the kind of vista that literally begs you to drool in awe at the beauty of this amazing blue planet of ours. 

The offending binding!!

I digress. Anyway, after spending a good couple of hours in the morning up and down the chairlift, I decided to take a little break. I came to a stop at the bottom of the run ready to extract myself out of my bindings… 

Holy %*@$#^!!! I’m stuck!!! The binding strap on my right boot simply refused to release itself from the catch. Trying very hard not to look like a complete idiot, I eased out of the view of the chairlift operator whom I had come to know and took a deep breath and tried again. I failed. 

After sitting there for what felt like an eternity, I realised that I needed a little help despite my sorry-ass attempt to look like a cool cat. I should tell you that I ride regular which means that my left leg is the lead, and far more coordinated than my lazy right. 

But, for some bizarre reason I decided against strapping the left foot back on, and started to skate on my right to the café where I might try extracting myself again. Naturally, I fell several times making little Norwegian children laugh so hard at my comedic theatrics. After clowning about I finally reached the café and thankfully my barista friend was there and I managed to get her to help me call a ski patrol. The complete and utter SHAME!! 

My saviour! Jas is an amazing soul. 💞 

To cut a very embarrassing episode short, I realised at that point how badly out of shape I really was. To be fair, I was both physically and emotionally destroyed, so much so that I gave up the rest of that gorgeously un-groomed and rare powder day. 

All the way back to the house, I reflected on what had happened in the midst of praying that I would not bump into Mr. Ski Patrol tomorrow on the slopes or what disguise I would opt on for the remainder of my stay. Alas I did see him again, and will have this rather stupidly amusing story between us, and probably one to add to his list of the most stupidest rescues. 

Another oh-sh*t moment happened on the return journey home. 

I met up with an old work colleague somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere and during our very long dinner date, she threw me a curveball. She asked what had happened to the feisty super fit tiny kenit (Malay slang for 'small') she met an aeon ago. I was like, “What? Who?” She asked why I had let myself go so much and from the inference, she was referring to my girth. As my genetics means I have the enviable gift of having a much lower centre of gravity, i.e., I’m short, in essence I had literally let myself morph into a fairly wide human ball. 


Thor's delayed thunderbolt

How round was I! This kid is one of my 
inspirations.Kiwi racecar driver, Faine Kahia

Sometimes I believe that some people (i.e., me) stumble upon certain decisions as a consequence of a series of many little incidents, gentle suggestions and/or episodes or in my case, absolute calamity. 

Therefore, upon my return to these tropical shores, this trek to turn things around actually happened more like an unconscious and quite possibly, happy accident - the consequence of a series of different forces. So, there was no being struck by a bolt of lightning on a clear day but the ball began rolling after I plucked up the courage one day. 

I had been eyeing this mma/Muay Thai gym in my locale (sadly it went out of business) and decided on a visit one random day. After a quick scan at the rates, I politely proffered my apologies and exited with as much grace a human ball could muster. That would have been it but for the man who ran after me when I left the joint, someone who would come to change my life. Turns out he was just helping out and was there to train some of the trainers at that gym. After shaking off pleasantries, he was very blunt and asked me what my motives really were. 

Muhammad Ali. My biggest inspiration and why I
went to that blasted gym in the first place. 

To be honest, I had no idea what I wanted, or for that matter what I really needed or why I was even there. I gave the stock response of wanting to “get fit” and thought boxing was really cool. He gave a derisive snort and asked again and added, “why?” Wow, this guy is really obstinate. Instead of being repulsed, I actually decided to humour him. 

Before I knew it, he had had made me think of the “what”, “why”, “who”, “when” and “how” behind my very random visit. After a good half hour of listening to me mumble something, he somehow concluded that he was to become my coach and I, his pro bono little project. The nerve of this stranger (on his self appointment, not the I-don’t-have-to-pay bit)! 

I was a little stunned; this scary looking dude wants to coach me?? Why? After breaking down my usually iron-clad resolve of avoiding discussions on fitness, weight etcetera in any shape or permutation, he came clean in the most straight forward way I have ever encountered. In essence, he was surprised that I was brave enough to come to this dodgy looking place and that I didn’t run when he came after me. 

In the weeks that he had been in Malaysia (he’s not from around here) he had come to see people (women, particularly) sneak a peek at all the gyms he had been visiting and beat a hasty retreat (probably after looking at Mr. Scarface). By chance, the one that actually decided to walk in and ask the price was the one he decided to talk to and literally adopt. 

I on the other hand, swallowed my pride (despite the deafening protest at this point) and shock, and decided to just go for it. Amazeballs. I’m glad and lucky that I didn’t roll away (not run…  NEVER run) or listen to my damned pride. To this day, I'm glad for he never asks for anything but my time. Sometimes I find it hard to wrap my head around the fact that he chose to help me. 


Miss Procrastination, meet Mr. Scarface

Aches and pains.. Groan.. I'm getting really
good at this kinesiology taping business

If I am honest, the journey didn’t start especially well. With my pride in overdrive, there were a lot of moments of self-doubt, the insecurity of this fit ex-illegal street-fighter (amateur boxer, he says) judging me. We spent a huge part of the initial months breaking me out of that insecurity and allowing me to trust him. Though I hated (still do) those moments, I did, trust him that is. 

He also wanted to school me on the many myths about fitness. Amongst the first thing we threw out was the idea of the gym, this despite him smuggling me into the gym where we met at low tide (i.e., it's empty). While my case of not having the funds to spare for these exorbitant membership fees was different to most cases, he used to say, the most common myth he discovered during his stay was the misguided concept that getting fit involved spending money on and time in a gym (sorry all you gym buffs, it's not my intention to belittle the idea, and totally respect that you may have different goals). Phew!

More injuries.. haha!!

Amongst the other first things we trashed out was also the idea of emulating. Once in a random conversation, he was so cross when I inferred at aiming to be like a particular athlete I admire. "Don't ever idolise, or set your goals to be like him or her! We are here to get you to be a fitter version of YOURSELF, not him or her, but YOU!" 

The initial months were crucial, I realise on hindsight. With him guiding, I began to develop a whole different understanding of my idea of fitness, actually doing it and more importantly, keeping at it. 

Truthfully, it isn’t a science with some weird mad calculations but is more about common sense. It isn’t about slogging out the hours per se, but more about accommodating activities into your daily life. He made me first re-adjust the way I thought about getting fit before attempting to change my day to include it. Every day was different but the same, if that makes any sense. It’s not that complicated but an approach that if I ever decided to commit to paper, would confuse people.

Although training during Ramadhan is
scaled back, it's still torture. 

Suffice to say, the initial months of experimentation have led me to where I am now. 20 months on (wow!) and I can say that I am grateful. With his guidance, we developed a very personalised, medium to high intensity training regiment, tailored to what I want to achieve and can maintain. From someone who absolutely detested and still HATES running, I now shadowbox, run on average 5+ kilometres daily and do interval training every single day. The cool thing is when he shared his training regiment with his other charges, every single one was different, unique to our individual needs.

My relationship with Mr. Scarface is also a unique one that is slightly easing off with him having so much on his plate. He has come to the conclusion that I now have enough discipline and motivation to train without him in the (FaceTime) picture all the time. Yes, we FaceTime or send video messages to each other because Mr. Scarface went back to his home country. So, living in different time zones means our training was and has always been via electronic means. 

More than that, we also have an unusual relationship where he became and remains my life coach. Whenever my motivation wavers, or I am frustrated and angry or lazy or complacent for whatever reason, he always makes me look at things differently and forces me to channel that energy. It doesn’t always work but he gets me off my high horse or from my slump and works my ass off.  


Coach said I could, and I did, damned straight!

Mount Yotei in the distance, and I shall climb and ride you one day

The training paired with his off-the-wall coaching style is where the brilliance of it all is. Whilst elements of experimentation, trickery, a healthy dose of coercion, pushing, forcing, yelling and screaming were aplenty, there is method in the madness. Though we decided against major data analysis (since I really cannot be bothered to weigh/measure myself) other than what we interpret through my tracker - heart, VO2, rest and sleep patterns including my monthly moon cycles (YES!!), ours was a strategy that produced results and more importantly, one I can feel. It is hard to explain how we train, but I think the biggest litmus test was going back on snow. 

On my recent snowboarding sojourn to the land of the rising sun, I noticed that I had more endurance, didn’t huff and puff as much, and I would’ve ridden all day were it not for the stupid hourly passes someone on a teeny weeny budget like me can afford. That or the fact that I have to catch the last bus back. 

When I met MMA fighter Colby Covington, 
we talked about my coach, and Colby 
agreed with my Mr. Scarface.. wow.. 

I’m also a creature that doesn’t really feed off people’s opinions, being the over-opinionated narcissist that I proudly am. But, when people started commenting, lamenting and even begging me to help them, I am reminded of the essence of what Mr. Scarface said to me early on in our relationship. 

“I need you to remember that fitness begins first in the mind.” Profound. There’s often the (misguided) idea that fitness involves slogging it out for hours and hours. Inaccurate. People also often mistake that getting fit involves some weird science and requires someone with the weight of academic paperwork behind them. Do you? You might not really need it. 

What you might really need is someone to guide you through the fundamentals on top of the prodding and pushing (gently or forcefully). Strip it down to the bare essentials; wrap it around your overly full (or otherwise) life and the rest we build on and learn together. 

We are all unique, so your fitness regiment should also be unique to you. He used to say in the beginning, "it's working out at your pace, in consideration of what you can do, what your day is like, where your mind is at, for you." 

In essence - working out at YOUR pace, YOUR ability, your time, with what works for YOU, not anyone else. 

I have also learned that what you really need is someone you can trust to unearth your own internal drive to chase your own inner demons away and tell you that you can and you will. Thank you Mr. Scarface. I’ve been lucky and maybe it is time for me to help someone else.  

OK, it’s time to glove up and begin my torture training. 

This lesson is brought to you by the letter E... eureka!

Once again, I've neglected this space for a wee bit, partly because I've been so darn busy looking busy and partly because I've been a tad lazy. Then one day, while waiting to break my fast, my fingers felt the itch and once I started, it all came back to me. 

It began when the boxing Coach* came back to his round of #ringphilosophy thanks to his (really) psychotic GF drama… 

Then came conversations over chocolate waffles about epiphanies.. It led me to realise how dangerously close I was to falling through the gates of frustration, disappointment and that overwhelming sense that every avenue, lane, alleyway and path I’ve tried seems to have led to absolute naught, every time.

Over the past year, I've continued orbiting in an industry that has been my passion for more than half my life with organisations and individuals that I've felt deserved my attention. 

Ruled by passion and emotion over logic, I have of late been thrown accusations that I am wasting my time, effort, energy and emotions on folks who either don’t notice, deserve care or even bother. 

Training in Ramadhan is hard. Was inspired by Hakeem Olajuwon who
played for the Houston Rockets in the 90s, he still played all his NBA
games while observing Ramadhan. Respect.

“Why? Why do you bother when he / she / they clearly don’t / doesn’t care??!” At times, in the dead of night when insomnia takes over, that small voice in the cavity where a heart used to be would yell out, “for heaven’s sake, stop caring about them already. Walk away.” 

All I know is that I’m sitting on an obscure edge right now. Truth be told, I can feel the anger surge within me, in spite of my pathetic attempts to suppress it. It’s a nasty feeling that is being compounded by the roundabout insults hurled at me by the very folks I have agreed to help.

Interestingly enough, I find these out in the most unlikely situations, conversation openers that begin with, "he / they said to not say anything to Farah," or "whatever you do, don't let Farah find out.." or even one that wins the Olivier Award for ultimate ridiculousness, "I refuse to discuss anything about this with Farah, what does she know.. nothing!" Seriously? OK.

So, do I, should I, ought I stop caring? Some have said that those I try to help don’t deserve all the energy or effort I put in. See that’s just it. I’ve never proclaimed to be an expert at anything. In fact, I think I’m really good at just winging it and on the odd occasion I actually pull it off, surprising myself even. Lately, I’ve felt that that strategy has failed me. I’ve even let myself stumble over something so mundanely stupid and so out of character that it would seem that I’ve been stumped by some invisible kryptonitic force. WTH?? 


Why do I effing bother? Because I care? Because I want to achieve something that I never thought was possible? Because I feel some strange magnetic pull from a deep dark place somewhere in a black hole hidden away in the universe? Because I feel the urge for an impossible challenge? Hell if I know. 

Then I’m reminded of something Morgan Freeman said in Million Dollar Baby -- and yes, live with the fact that all my friggin analogies will gravitate around BOXING.. not kickboxing, muay thai, mma.. BOXING -- “the magic of risking everything for the dream no one else sees but you.” 

And, yes, it seems Tim the Coach senses these things (I reckon he’s super freaking observant.. I really must rethink this relationship...) and out of the blue, Mr. Coach sends me a flurry of cryptic messages, like: “you’re feeling like you’ve been KO’d with still half the bout left to fight. GET UP!” 

This is often followed up with, “you’re tripping up shuffling on two left feet, try one foot over the other, SLOWLY, then pick up the pace. Still stumbling? Stop.. start again."

As something that is becoming rather frighteningly too regular when in conversation between jabs and hooks or footwork over the past few months, I’m befuddled. I'm begging him to stop throwing me these cryptograms and of course, he gives his weird smile over his nasty scar under his crooked nose and says, "it applies, you want to quit, give up and stop bothering.. but that's just it, deep down you care too much.. You BELIEVE. Take a step back, breathe, look, then move forward and take one step at a time.. observe, learn and then decide." 

He then adds, “but don’t do it for them.. do it for YOU, damned it! Get the satisfaction of doing something for yourself and if it helps them, great, a bonus for them.” 



Honestly, training during Ramadhan has been especially mind-numbingly hard.. 2am wake up calls, intense timed sessions and I always end the session crying in pain. 

Strangely though, in between the ridiculously excruciating footwork and boxing, my mind lapses into a truly bizarre and very surreal state of calm for a brief moment and I’m at ease - yes, panting and sweating profusely with my heart about ready to burst out of my rib cage. Why do I work so damned hard? 

The first epiphany at 3.45a.m is this: though it seems I’ve been enraged at having wasted my time on this, that or those ungrateful sod(s), it seems I’ve overlooked the fact that I’ve learnt something new or picked up a new skill or established a new connection or reestablished an old one. 

The RBF queen - Vivien Leigh as Cleopatra in the 
1945 film Caesar and Cleopatra

I am only human after all and a scorpion to boot who’s lightning quick reaction to bullshit is more instinctual than intellectual and very much predicated on a built-in primal force. Thus, the failure to look past the fire. 

As the stunningly gorgeous Vivien Leigh with the perfectly executed RBF (Resting Bitch Face) so eloquently put it, “My birth sign is Scorpio and they eat themselves up and burn themselves out. I swing between happiness and misery. I am part prude and part nonconformist. I say what I think and I don’t pretend, and I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions.” 

But most of all, what came out loud and clear ringing through the rigorous pain I subject my body to is as the great Muhammad Ali put it, "it isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe.." 

It is my choice. I am the one that can slow it down or speed it up, if I want or care to. I can choose what I need to discard and the moves I need to change.

So with Ali's words: "Inside of a ring or out, ain't nothing wrong with going down. It's staying down that's wrong," whispered by Mr. Coach in my ear, the second painful epiphany at 4am is this: 

Yes, I'm down but I'm getting up. I know what I need to do. 

Gloves on... 

And as usual, Mr. Coach has to have the last word and says, "look on the underside of your gloves. What does it say?" I want to say that I think if I had a spirit animal, it'd be an Amur leopard, but what the heck.

* and in case you haven't already figured it out, since I was last on, I only managed one snowboarding return trip to Norway and had to postpone the one planned for March. So, I picked up boxing to fill up the need to be active. I miss snowboarding terribly and stare longingly at my board every night. 

Anonymous apparition astray in Andorra

Hola.. It's been a while. I know.. Lots has happened since my last post and I really did come dangerously close to ditching this futile attempt of a log.. So close.. But, I'm back and I did say from the very outset that the silence would be deafening.... 

This time, I've decided to commit my traipsing around in a tiny Andorran portion of the mighty Pyrenees to words. The Pyrenees in January can only mean one of two things = snow-hunting season has begun to ease my snowboarding itch or the search for the abominable snowman. Before reading this sad attempt of a record, consider the possibility of the latter over the former. 

Anyhow, considering the former option as the more likely candidate, there is always something quite exhilarating when after a nine-month hiatus from any snow, one finds oneself strapped back onto that board that has been longingly staring at you. I certainly don’t count the times when I’ve caught myself putting on my boots and strapping myself onto the board in the comfort of my 27°C bedroom in the tropics like a crazed woman. Strapping it on for real, on snow, and getting on the chairlift and looking down at the run you’re about to ride down from is really an indescribable sensation, probably akin to being reacquainted with a long lost friend. 

For a poor snowboarder like me, there’s a fair amount of trepidation laced with a small tinge of fear, out of the corner of your mind when you question whether you might have forgotten how to ride, or perhaps the prospect of utter humiliation when you fall on your ass as you alight from the chairlift. Sidenote: As a unbreakable rule, I never EVER take the T-bars, because to be quite frank, I absolutely, most definitely, unequivocally and unquestionably HATE T-bars. To me it was invented as a cruel (even borderline evil) joke by two-plankers on us snowboarders. 

Back to my random train of thought, so what if I fall? I’ve always maintained that my sole purpose of being on a snowboard is to provide entertainment to the other patrons. I get a good laugh at myself for worrying too damned much! And when I do fall, I cannot help but laugh at myself, much to the entertainment of everyone else! Mission: Accomplished!

Anyway, after mustering whatever little grace there is left in righting myself and strapping on my goofy foot, I set off. My goodness, to be back on my gorgeous board.. After some time, it does come back to you as you get reacquainted with riding the board. Up and down you go, tumbling off every now and then, righting yourself again, it all comes back, the good, bad and ugly. All of it!

I know a couple of my instructors from past excursions would be hopping up an down if they were to see me at my latest destination – Vallnord in Andorra. Yes, Andorra. Thank goodness, they are halfway across the other side of the world! Hehehe! Worry not, how can anyone ever forget Tayler’s constant sitting down on chair analogy while making the heel turn or Megu’s “keep your back straight!” reminders. That, as well as Bianca and Dario’s constant aide memoire to look where the heck I want the board to go, and not down the blasted mountain.

The Principality in the Pyrenees: Andorra 

OK, a little bit about this principality of Andorra, the sixth smallest nation in Europe, nestled in the Pyrenees mountain range between France and Spain. In addition to its tax-haven status, it is almost akin to a shopping (and probably, banking) asylum for residents of the European nations either in its immediate vicinity or slightly beyond. Even though it is not a member of the European Union, it actually doesn’t have its own currency, though everything is traded exclusively in Euros €. 

Anyway, there is an entire street (Av. Meritxell) dedicated to mid- to high-end brands you will recognise. It stretches from the hub of Andorra la Vella all the way up into Escaldes-Engordany. From a Mango outlet store to Bauhaus, Zara to Bershka, hubbies, beware! For a non-shopper like me, who cares not for the perils, ills and trappings of high-street retail therapy, it’s amusing observing the scrunched up faces of partners as they watch their better (or worse) halves, unleashed into the mayhem that is shopping. Rest assured oh those of the opposite sex, all hope is not lost as there are a plethora of sports shops to explore. My three favourites are Tiki Snowboards, ESports Yeti, Kilvil and Viladomat (the latter two being a large chain of sports shops) who have, hands-down, the nicest shop attendants ever. There’s even a massive cycling shop, for those inclined. 

A view of Andorra La Vella (sort of) from Andorra's famous Caldea Spa

By the way, my advice is change whatever currency you have into Euros BEFORE you arrive here. The local banks charge an astronomical fee on top of the exchange rate to change any amount of money; that’s unless you’re changing like a billion US Dollars into Euros, then by all means change (treading lightly here) your money here.



How the pin dropped on the map

Andorra was actually recommended to me by several people, one of whom talked me into it when I saw him at last year’s MotoGP test as I was about to depart for the wonder that was Norway. He said, I paraphrase, “why do you go to Norway? You should try Andorra!” Honestly, it would be very unfair for me to compare the two countries, but I think if you were to put a gun to my head, I would hands down pick the Scandinavian winter wonderland, home of the mythical Norse deities, despite not meeting Loki-aka-Tom Hiddleston.. Why? Well, in a nutshell, Norway is absolutely gorgeous in every sense; from its jaw-droppingly breathtaking landscape to its wonderfully warm charm, even if it is ridiculously expensive and will break the bank in more ways than an outright atomic explosion.

Before I lose it and go on and on about my Nordic experience, I’ll (reluctantly) come back to this small principality. Prior to coming out here, without being egged on by my MotoGP acquaintance, I had read about the historic significance of the Pyrenees, particularly during my reading obsession with Hannibal’s Punic War campaign against the Romans and his overland march across the Iberian Peninsula over the Pyrenees as he sought to punish the Roman Empire. 

So the thought of strapping myself onto my board to ride down what might have been relatively close to one of Hannibal’s army crossing was quite something, even if it is as relevant as cheese is to wallpaper. If you haven't figured it out by now, I am strange, so stuff like that was special to me OK?!

The one and only time I managed to grab a picture of the range, on the gondola up to the station

Having taken the 10,620km trip across I do not know how many time zones, I stepped off the plane in Barcelona before continuing the 200+ kilometer journey by road up to Andorra. I do not know a single soul in Andorra, as is typical in my solo-snowboarding trips. Having had the experience of meeting a wonderful Uruguayan lady in Barcelona, my spirits were quite high. However, as I stepped off the bus in Andorra la Vella, amongst the first thing that greeted me were stares, and lots of it. That isn’t exactly unusual as I normally get stared at as if I have a huge massive witch’s wart on my nose. I am used to it, though I am seriously considering including a proper rustic broomstick and a proper cape instead of a snowboard jacket to my travel ensemble. It would at least legitimise the stares.. Pfft..

Unfortunately, the stares did continue unabated, which did get on my nerves throughout my stay. During my travels elsewhere, it would stop after a couple of days as the novelty of having an Asian-looking girl travelling by herself wore off. And in places like Norway, Switzerland and Austria, I guess once the locals have seen you more than once, they tend to go past the, “oh, look she’s a tourist from Asia,” phase and move about their daily lives and even holler a greeting at you. Here, in Andorra, I continued to endure the scrutinising stares right through from locals and a handful of other tourists through to the end, which is undoubtedly the most uncomfortable thing one can possibly endure.

Though I have harnessed my power of ignorance to a level 1 sorceress stage (one step shy of being a super mage), it does get to you. That did limit my ability to go out exploring a bit, confining the bulk of my time exclusively to the pistes, which is fine by me, really.

With the opportunity to breathe in views like these, I much preferred the company of the mountains

Thereby wanting to confine my time to spending as much time getting to know my snowboard riding it on the slopes, there is one little feedback I would probably offer the powers-that-be in Andorra. Re: skiing / snowboarding tourists wanting to go up to your many resorts - my one constructive feedback would perhaps be to consider increasing the frequency of the free skibus that runs between your beautiful little towns. The irregularity of them makes for a rather chilling wait at the appointed bus stops, which is more often than not, a superbly and insanely long one. Thank goodness for me the weather was especially and perhaps unusually warmer than it should have been in mid-January. Be it down to El Niño or the blue planet shifting axis.. I have no clue. Anyway, had the wait been in the sub-zero temperatures I had to endure in Niseko, I might have been tempted to hitchhike or begged the Coca Cola deliveryman to drop me in La Massana or Ordino-Arcalis.



Stumbling on Charm, Tripping on Kindness

Despite the exhausting wait, there is a flip side, really! You will not be suffering alone, which opens up the possibility of meeting all kinds of people, from all walks of life. I became acquainted with two Argentineans who were wonderfully friendly and we got off talking about all kinds of things. Sadly, I don’t speak any Russian, so I couldn’t really converse with the large Eastern Slavic ethnic group I found myself with on the daily ride up the mountain.  However, I would say, the most important individual I got to know was perhaps the bus driver. 

If you have a sad enough looking face, he’ll take pity and even offer you a seat next to him and even drop you right off on the street you want to be, well, close enough. He’ll recognise you and even if the language barrier is as complex as deciphering the runes on a Dwarfish burial temple, you will kinda guess what he’s trying to convey to you. He even went so far as to once “rescue” my board from the fate of being buried under a landslide of skis, saving it from the torment of scratches, bumps and bruises, nestling it right next to him. Thank you Mr. Bus man!! You have no idea how grateful I am. Alas, it did get scratched on later trips when you were not on driving duty. *sad face*

Avoiding the town centre, you do get to meet some extremely interesting people. Undoubtedly, I find the people I meet anywhere in the world to be quite interesting. I befriended a lovely Argentinean girl I met on one of those arduously long waits at the bus stop, who not only decided to offer unsolicited advise on what to ask the bus driver, but became a great companion as we ended up spending the entire journey talking in English. I begrudgingly admit that I found that to be a very refreshing change to the predominant Eastern Slavic language that I had become rather accustomed to listening to from Alexei, Vitaly, Dmitry, Ekaterina, Zoya, Oksana and their comrades during my trek up to the piste. 

On another separate occasion, I met her fellow compatriot who also offered to help when quite frankly no one else seemed to care, as we battled the insane crowd trying to get on a bus already bursting at the seams. Though I did manage to get on that blasted bus, I didn’t sit with the Argentinean boy but ended up being offered a seat next to three Brits, the first I had seen in many many days. The trio were very cool and befriended this poor Asian girl. Nice guys! 

Pal-Arinsal

Overall, the majority of the people I met in Andorra were not from Andorra, Spain or even France. A large Dutch ski group I met while riding down one of the longest runs I have ever been on in the short time that I had been snowboarding were insanely hilarious, creating quite a ruckus, and made me chuckle as they politely asked me in Spanish to take a picture of their rather eccentric assemblage. When I answered in English, they were overwhelmingly nice and almost embraced me as one of their own, thus befuddling me. Another Dutchman in another group of tourists was also rather friendly asking if I had ever lived in New York (oddly), which started a prolonged conversation about the Rockies and Whistler, suspiciously much to the chagrin of his Spanish girlfriend, whoops. Come on lady, one look at me, and you really cannot possibly think that I would be a threat of any kind! Lol!

Ordino-Arcalis

Anyhow, I once watched a travel documentary that in certain places, some group of tourists from certain parts of the world tend to be more inclined to help other tourists. Given my experience in Andorra, I am inclined to agree, though I must employ a caveat that my experience is by no means exclusive or conclusive or can be categorical proof of any kind. It would be a gross overgeneralisation on my part to say that my experience in the Pyrenees was completely shaped by other visiting tourists from either South America or Northern Europe, as there were those residents who were incredibly nice, in particular, the dude at Kilvil who went above and beyond to gift me a book that I could share with my dad. Very cool guy, thanks Mr. Silver-hair!


Shredding Sideways in the Pyrenees 

I've just realised that I have not mentioned my semi-neophyte non-native experience on snow in any length anywhere in this narrative, my sincere apologies. After some research online, which is by no means the most extensive, I opted on exploring Vallnord, which is home to the two resorts of Pal-Arinsal and Ordino-Arcalis. 

Once you alight the gondola from La Massana, this is amongst the first views of Pal-Arinsal (more Pal actually) in Vallnord

The primary reason is purely cost as the Vallnord lift tickets are not as pricey as some of the preferred Alpine resorts or even neighbouring Granvalira, which is more famous (as it hosts major skiing events in the FIS calendar). The cost factor alone made Vallnord an attractive place for a skiing / snowboarding holiday for the budget conscious especially those hailing from parts of the world where the currency exchange can make one weep for months on end like your's truly. 

Anyway, access to the Pal-Arinsal resort is via La Massana or Arinsal, which is the closest to Andorra La Vella. Ordino-Arcalis meanwhile is a quite a bit further away, located in the northern part of the principality. 

The majority of people I speak to suggest Ordino-Arcalis for snowboarders. On top of the beautiful but long bus ride up, there are more off-piste areas to explore, the runs longer and wider. At the time I went in mid- to end-January, the snow cover (however little) was also a bit better than Pal-Arinsal at the mid-station. 

The views are quite astonishing especially on the La Bassera chairlift that takes forever to get to the top of the run. It goes up almost vertical in parts, facing the rocky cliff face of the mountain, it was admittedly a scary yet slightly exhilarating ride up for me especially if you look behind from where you took off.. 

The views from the bottom of Ordino-Arcalis, with the La Bassera chairlift just visible at the bottom left corner

The reds are hard (in my non-professional and rather beginner opinion), and superiorly daunting as you can see the entire way down from the side of the mountain. The other two chairlifts, doesn't go up as high as La Bassera, but offers up blue and red runs that takes you through pretty tree lines.. And there are the off-piste areas, which while I was there was being used by some professional group of freestyle skiers and snowboarders. Me? I stood in awe watching these guys and gals throw themselves off a temporary shelf from the peak. 

The snow, in this weird springtime climate during my time here in January, was invariably better and more powdery (not by Whistler or Niseko’s standards, of course) in Ordino-Arcalis. Even the green-run on the long 8.5km Megaverda takes you through some stunning scenery, nothing my iPhone camera could do justice to. 

Pal-Arinsal is not that bad, but was insanely crowded (especially on the weekends) and there are those evil and wicked T-bars. *gagging* But, Arinsal is worth a trip up if you're not averse to those damned T-bars. Me, I unfortunately avoided it as I wasn't feeling particularly adventurous that week, therefore rendering this narrative pretty useless to anyone who wants to know more. 

This is the view of the massive O located on the green  Megaverda run, which is a must stop for skiers / 

snowboarders of any levels

Sorry, I am no expert nor an authority in this subject. There are plenty of videos on youtube where you can see how the run from the Arinsal station looks like. My Argentinian friend on skis did go up, and the snow is more powdery than at the middle-station. Before I draw the ire of more accomplished skiers and snowboarders wanting more information, I shall draw a line here on my limited and poor narrative on the snowboarding experience especially my sole intent was to tighten up my riding skills. 


Bottom Line

As I bring this average narrative to a close, I would also say this, if your purpose coming to this little corner of the planet is to enjoy the snow with your two-planks or snowboard, I would strongly recommend coming in a group, not for any security concern, but rather to keep your sanity intact and as a strong deterrent against utter and complete boredom off the slopes. If you are intent on a solo travel, then make sure to stay near to the towns that have access to the ski-lifts. Staying downtown may sound like an attractive idea with the prospect of more dining or shopping options, but if you’re on a budget and are going to rely on the free ski-bus, then be prepared for the absurdly long wait. If your wallet is bottomless, then by all means fork out the €1.80 per trip on the local communal bus. 

Anyway, if you’re like me, Asian, novice rider and solo, and do decide to make downtown your preferred option for accommodation, then steel up the nerves and ignore the stares. Bring a big fat book (I brought Gav Thorpe's bumper Warhammer Time of Legends Omnibus The Sundering) and shut out the crowd with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's entire Die Entführung aus dem Serail opera blasting out of your massive headphones. 

Travel, like anything is about experiencing everything, good or bad, and to that end, I am really happy with my choice, even if not preferred, especially looking from the skewed lens of having had a great experience somewhere else. It is a beautiful country to look at with jaw-dropping views of the Pyrenees. Suffice to say, I am grateful to the few individuals who made my up and down two-week sojourn in Andorra memorable in every sense. 

moltes gràcies!

Another pathetic attempt of a selfie by the author