Work for money, or for joy?

This is the question that has been running over and over like a broken record in a corner of my brain. When I was a child growing up in Kota Kinabalu, I had no idea what work was about. I dont think I ever heard my parents say anything about work, and my aunt who used to work as a reporter, made it sound like loads of fun. Mind you, she worked in the pre-computer days. I remember hearing her type stories late into the night on a tiny, white (I think it was white) typewriter. If she made a mistake, she had to start all over again. And I remember she had this godzilla-sized tape recorder. And yes, I dont think she ever complained.

So I went to university and landed my first job on my last day at campus. I became a reporter, just like my aunt. For the record, my late grandfather was a sports writer. So it runs in the family. Anyway, its now been 12 years, 1 month and 27 days since I filed my first story for the NST. I must admit that it has been an amazing experience. I've had slimy water (thickened with poo, rubbish and I-dont-dare-to-imagine-what-else) splashed at me when a fireman lost control of a hose, I've stood in my heels outside the morgue late at night, I've flown on army helicopters, survived high seas to get a story on seaweed farming in northern Sabah, and plenty of other things. I almost fainted in Danum Valley when I covered a WWF Rhino tracking story two years ago ... because there were just way too many leeches and I panicked. Nine years ago, I burst into tears, again at Danum Valley, when the producer of Eco Challenge told me and my colleagues that there was no food for us, and that meals were only for foreign reporters. The Mark Burnett some of you revere said : "What were you expecting? Wine and cheese?" We walked away, and some kind souls from Telekom Malaysia shared their limited cans of sardines with us.

I've shaken hands with ministers, been to fancy hotels, eaten some of the best foods. On the other end of the extreme, I've seen a mother feed a baby watered down rice because she cant afford to buy milk in a remote part of Sabah. I've seen children walk for miles to get to school, and run away when I offered them sweets. I may not have done much, but every experience has made me a better person.

And yet, today, I am asking myself if I still want to do this. If I stay, how long more can I stay passionate about my job? I see to many reporters who dont have passion for what they do, and I feel sad for them. Maybe I am becoming like them too. I dont know. Yes, money is important, and I thank God for putting a roof over my head and enough to eat every day. But is money everything? Isn't it important to sit by a river when I want? Do my nails when I want? Do what I please when I want?

I pick joy over money.