A Tyger On The Loose

Layla Milestone Diaries: Live-in Help

2011-01-22T23:21:00.002+08:00

I've already gone through the pros/cons and various alternatives to hiring a live-in helper. In the end, due to our respective jobs, lack of trustworthy nanny referrals and ridiculously expensive infantcare options, economics and time pressure dictate that live-in helper is our optimal choice.

Our helper, Jubilah, started today. Based on our requirements, the agency assures us she is qualified. My interview with her proves benign, and she appears to handle Layla with sure arms and clean hands.

What caught me off-guard was the whallop to my stomach that I felt when I passed Layla into her arms. I think in the back of my mind I knew that my greatest fear was for Jubilah to become such a critical part of Layla's care, that my role will be steadily diminished. Rationally I know that I will never allow that to happen (although there are plenty of examples in Singapore to disprove that).

But as we went over the various tasks on Layla's schedule that Jubilah will have to help me with (especially when I return to work), the same tasks that I have taken great pains in the past 12 weeks to master on
my own, those tasks over which I am proud to say I have been able to accomplish despite having little help, I felt a jealous monster arise in my chest that wanted to growl "Mine!! She is MINE!"

That dreadful feeling grew even stronger when I realised that in a full day, 5 out of 7 feedings will have to be done by Jubilah. Ah the double-edged sword of bonding with one's child over breastfeeding - how keen the cut when your child is no longer in your arms when she needs sustenance.

I know this is ridiculous and surely time will no longer keep the baby a little koala forever snuggling in my arms. I just did not expect this keen response to guard my bond with my daughter. The dry run that I did some weeks ago with mother-in-law was not quite so bad as I knew that it was only for 1 day... Jubilah's presence reminded me that the separation coming up when I go back to work, will be for a lot longer than 1 day.

Well am I reminded that I go back to work in 2 weeks. T-16 days and counting...

The Breakup

2010-12-30T21:54:00.002+08:00

* This was written in April 2008, on my phone, when I resigned from my job as a Managing Director in a major international financial institution. I found it in a rescued thumb drive.

I thought it would be one of those conflagaration of emotions, with outpouring of well wishes and tears and hugs and teddy bears.

Reality was a diferent matter. I suppose in recent times when we all lead transient lives that emphasise mobility over rootedness, "moving on" is an expected milestone. No different from the 21st bday, or the silver wedding anniversary.

I resigned a month ago, and yesterday was my last day. The month's worth of notice period flew by - i made my last business trips, caught up on as many loose ends as i could, said as many goodbyes as i could. Tried to leave behind as much advice as i could to the junior members of the team - they were the biggest reasons for me to stay, yet my departure would have given them the biggest opportunity to advance.

I thought deep and hard about the lessons i would take with me, 14 years of career-building and the metamorphosis of human nature from the pure naivete of earnest ambition to questionable integrity at the height of one's career. About the principles that i was, despite my best (and worst) efforts, able to maintain and stick by. About the people in whom i have lost faith and respect, and the ones whom i count as mentors i will never forget. About the tea ladies and receptionists, the analysts and vice presidents, the mailrunners and managing directors.

A friend said that perhaps its because i've put in 14 years in this field that the departure was sentimental. In his view, "a job is just a necessary evil".

Perhaps he is right. My job has been my life so far, not just because it enables me to pay my bills or expands my knowledge.

But because I could learn and see what life has to offer in this sandbox that is corporate life. I am not sure that if i was doing anything else that i could have become the person I am, with the views and principles i have. I learned to love, hate, judge, despise, stress, evaluate, drive, mentor, be patient, and finally, let go.

It's rather sobering to finally realize that my feelings about leaving this stage of my life meant more to me than to the people that were such a big part of it. Some were caustic about my departure while others were selectively restrained in their send-off.

I re-read some of my old b-mails (ie. Blackberry emails) and am a little scared of how unhappy and angry I was when I wrote them.

So i guess in the end it is a better thing that i take a different path. My colleagues are going to be fine, and even if they aren't - they're all smart people and this bank isn't the only bank to make a living.

As hard as it was to say goodbye, like breaking up with a dysfunctional lover, in the end it was for my own good. I suppose i shouldn't be hoping for any more expressions of love as after all, it's a breakup - it was time to move on.

Ps. I did receive, after my last day, a card handmade by Sara signed by everyone, which was a really touching parting gift. That, will remain in my files with my old boyfriends' photographs.

Layla Daily Specials: Week 3 (Age 8 weeks)

2010-12-16T22:14:00.003+08:00

Reality has intruded and I am now sick of writing in third-person or Layla voice - so back to Pat's view as new mother.

14 Dec

I was bored of being inside today. Layla had always shown remarkable composure while outside, despite the rashes and bald head I needed to connect with the outside world. So I decided to do what tai-tais do in this part of town - go to Parkway Parade at 4pm with my mum and my daughter. What a luxury to stroll through a well-appointed mall, had coffee and cake at a cafe, looked at handbags and bras and finally ended up at the baby section to nurse Layla in the nursery area at Isetan. Looking around me, I saw more of the same - perhaps because it was school holidays, perhaps we are at the confluence of East Coast Road, Meyer Road and Mounbatten Road - all chock full of women whose husbands are fighting the corporate rat race and the maid has the housework well in hand - so air con and cappucinos it is. I felt in turns entertained, but also quite hollow - if it wasn't for the warmth of Layla against my chest, the entire exercise would have made me laugh in my own farce (pun intended). But given I had been cooped up at home for as many weeks, it was a much needed break albeit taken in a way that is not my typical style. Then again who knows what my typical style will be anymore given the little girl.

Side note: A nursery area in Isetan, very happy to see one - I doubt many malls in Singapore have them. CHanging tables in the ladies room would typically be woefully ill-appointed - cramped up next to women trying to wash their hands, seldom if at all installed in men's rooms. Glad to see there is a standalone nursery room in Isetan Parkway, as the mall bathroom is the most bacteria-infested place in the mall. This one has 3 changing stations, 2 private nursing rooms, a thermos with hot water, a jug with tepid sterile water, and a sink for washing up. Although must admit to amusement that it was necessary to include a sign by the sink that discourages people from washing their babies' bums at the sink. One would have thought it self-explanatory.

15 Dec

Stayed in today. Experimented with bathing Layla the new way with an additional variable - before she was fed. She was able to make it past head-washing and front-washing before she started to cry and wriggle. Doctor's recommendation is a total of 750ml a day - which means we are back to using more formula as supplement. Kind of ironic as my breast milk production just caught up to a total of 500ml a day. We'll just keep on going. I'm amazed at how fast she is growing - 5.2kg seems so different from the swaddled baby handed to me at the hospital - she was big then - but is sturdy and stout now. Her eyes are tracking now, and she's making sounds that mean "A Goo Goo" and "Ngg-gah" and weird squeals that always bring a smile to my face. Jo and I are slowly getting a routine in place - and we're slowly trying to build a routine for Layla as well. Wonder whether we should let nature take its course or put nurture into practice and "teach" her a routine... everyday I just keep thinking of having to go back to work and worry about what will happen to this little girl - so am fearful of a fly-by-seat-of-diaper way of bringing up baby.

16 Dec

I asked mama to come over to babysit today so I could go to the US embassy to run an errand. First time I was out and about without baby, and it felt strange. nostalgic for when I was not yet a mother, worry for baby at home, trying to stay focused to finish as much as I can as fast as I can. Coming home I felt such joy to see Layla again, couldn't wait to have her in my arms again. -a portent of what things will be like when I go back to work!

Layla has, to our great amusement, learned how to shout. Not the loud crying kind of shout, but the kind that is accompanied with gurgling and smiles. The kind that tells me she has discovered her vocal strength! And they are strong, like she is :)

P.s. I know it sets a bad precedent but I love having her sleep in my arms

Layla Daily Specials: Week 2 (Age 7 weeks)

2010-12-15T17:32:00.003+08:00

7 Dec
Continuing journey as Singaporean by visiting 2nd mall of her life - Parkway Parade! Dad and Mum took advantage of morning quiet to get some mee rebus in the food court, and Layla was very well-behaved in the Baby Bjorn the whole time. Good girl :)

8 Dec
Grandma is back today! We went to the airport to pick her up and Layla was a peach for the 1st time in the car seat. Must be the soothing engine sounds and the motion of travelling - she literally knocked out and slept the whole way. Getting carried in the arms was probably less comfortable!

9 Dec
Seminal day! Layla lost her hair today. It took 2 hours plus 1 diaper change plus 2 pairs of hands cutting and razing and 1 pair to hold her, and a very important pacifier. She had a great time at the bath with grandma after the haircut so mummy is now wondering what she was doing wrong for Layla to be so upset before. Good thing we shaved the head though, as much as we loved her punky hair - we now can see some cradle cap and rashes on her scalp. We then visited an aunt who exchanged lively old wives' tales with grandma about how to treat rashes - see detour blog post Old Wives' Tales. Dinner at a food court later, we were finally on our way home - what a long day.

10 Dec
Mummy was not feeling well. Layla was hard to put down after 3am feeding but eventually fell asleep - but mummy ended up with a runny nose and a terrible sore throat. She slept in and Daddy took over the morning feeding. Today we applied baby oil to Layla's scalp for cradle cap and some powder for her rashes. Really weird carrying her with no hair as her stubble chafes the arms - but strangely the lack of hair makes her look bigger :)

Good day at the bath! Mummy thinks she may have figured out (for now) what was bothering Layla before... so let's hope we can repeat it tomorrow :)

11 Dec
Mummy had her first massage in ages today - neighbour makcik came up and did magic with her fingers. Hurt by the abdomen area but not badly - interestingly right-side of the abdomen a lot more sore than the left, which according to makcik is normal as girls sit on the right of the uterus whereas boys sit on the left. Another theory to be tested on oldwivestales.com!

Layla rocked tummy time today - lifted her head clean off the mattress and almost pushed her chest up with her arms. This girl is strong! Rashes are getting a little too angry-looking for my comfort so we're
going to monitor it for tomorrow, then decide whether to take her to the ped. Bath time was so-so - went well for the first half but a draft spoiled all the good work in the second half. Mummy had another mini meltdown at night - resentment at Daddy's free time to play PS3. Mummy needs to get out or she'll go mad - just watch.

12 Dec
Layla had a visit from Chian Ying, Ee Chian's daughter - who is now a whopping 5.5 months old! She can turn over on her own, and seemed to have great fun staring at Layla. The 2 girls synchronised their poop - one went right after the other, so courteous so they could take turns using the diaper table, probably. Layla also took her stroller out for a test drive today - at dinner with the Gang. Not the easiest to
manouver given the stickiness of the equipment (not difficult to assemble at all) but she seemed to really like the car seat. The spotlights at the restaurants fussed with her a bit, but getting rocked to sleep by aunty Eggie and aunty Candice seemed to work for her :) Dad noticed that there were many many strollers in Marina
Square that night - or where there always many strollers and he only started to notice now? PS. Apparently Chelsea had a DRAW with Spurs - for which Layla is kinda excited about :)

13 Dec
We're visiting the ped today - Mummy wanted to take Layla there on the MRT but Daddy wants to drive us there. Grandma is coming over to cook for Mummy again - duck soup this time! The ped was a different doctor in the same clinic - who congratulated Layla on now at a hearty 5.2kg, then made mummy's heart sink when she said the bits behind Layla's ears were a rather bad skin infection. Waves of guilt made her blood run cold. After all the effort we made, and there was still an infection? Thank goodness for Daddy's nerves of ice who made Layla giggle and reminded mummy that surely it can't be all that serious if the antibiotic ointment prescribed only cost us $6. Nothing like price-value relationship to help mummy put things in perspective.

When cleaning and applying ointment on the infected areas that night, poor Layla was in pain and cried whenever the Q-tip touched her. Putting it in perspective, I suppose some other babies would have cried long before and long after, our girl just put her arms and legs to good use to kick and swat everyone but stopped once the Qtip left her skin.

It's heartbreaking to hear her cry - the level of impotence that one feels is crippling. Yet in a strange way I'm comforted by her swatting and kicking - my girl's got spirit, much like me when I was hospitalised at age 4 for pneumonia. Apparently it took 5 nurses to give me an injection each time - 2 for my arms, 2 for my legs, and 1 to inject. The genes will tell.

Layla Daily Specials: Week 1

2010-12-08T19:32:00.000+08:00

30 Nov 2010

Today we brought Layla to the airport to say goodbye to Grandpa (Pat's dad) whom Layla will not see till next April as he is returning to Melbourne.

We also went up to the viewing gallery, to look at planes like Pat used to do when she was a child, then accompanied by her dad who would quiz her on airline logos. Pat used to think that if she got them all right, she'll get to pick the airline to fly on for the next holiday... somehow fitting that we would start off Layla there too, and even more fitting as we were looking at a Jetstar plane, which Layla will take to Melbourne next April.

1 Dec 2010

Layla seems to have a slight runny nose so we didn't bathe her today. Johann finally finished the bulk of his work so we had some downtime, which we put to use by Pat silly-dancing around the house with Layla, while Johann played the guitar. When Layla was finally put down in the rocker, in 'mat' fashion Jo played a slow rock song to Layla while sitting on the floor by a corner.. Layla's first serenade :)

2 Dec 2010

Pat slept in this morning given Layla's nighttime feeds, so Johann had morning duty. While Pat was dead to the world, snug in a Baby Bjorn, Layla went to our neighborhood kopitiam so Jo could eat some carrot cake and neighborhood aunties can ogle at the baby girl... must have been tiring enough for her to be asleep when Jo brought her back!

3 Dec 2010

Layla girl suffered from a snotty nose overnight - poor thing had a restless sleep. Some cotton wool up her nostrils and the snot sucker helped - and we've dressed her up more warmly tonight. A rare spell of rainy nights this week has made the aircon unnecessary, which worries me a bit because when the weather heats up, I hope the AC doesn't pose a problem again for her delicate sinuses.

4 Dec 2010

Snot seems to have subsided somewhat and breathing appears better. Layla received a gift from Pat's old classmate Janice, who happens to live in the block across from us - a cuddly little rabbit security blanket. Now she has 2 blankies - let's see which one she ends up preferring - the blue teddy or the pink bunny.

Jo and Pat braved Bedok Corner hawker centre heat and crowd given the relatively cooler weather, and Layla showed remarkable composure in the Baby Bjorn - even awake at the hawker centre for about 10 minutes, looking around, yawning, then falling back asleep on Pat's chest. Very comforting for both of us although Pat had to learn how to eat without dribbling food on Layla's head!

5 Dec 2010

Today was special in a different way. Pat had bad day and her emotional outburst upset poor Layla. When it always seems like things are going downhill, Layla has a way of smiling or sleeping or even snorting or making funny sounds (even if its reactive and not intentional) that picks up the spirits - Pat is reminded that as much as she may think she's not meeting a hypothetical mothering standard, Layla is a healthy and well-loved little girl that will only know that her parents love her and does't give a hoot for the rest. Hugs.

6 Dec 2010

Layla had a tough time at the bath today - .not sure what caused it, water was what it was always at, and i had the bath music on. we'll try again tomorrow and see how it goes. lots of cuddles and hugs after the bath though, poor thing. something about the baby smell that calms me down.

Confinement Diaries Week 4: Reality smells like a stinky armpit

2010-11-29T23:41:00.002+08:00

A bit late with this week's instalment, because the confinement nanny left (finally!) Which means we have survived 4 weeks, Layla is a whopping 4.65kg now and 1 month old, my husband is again back in my bed, and for real we now have to work out how to deal on our own.

In some ways it's better without help - I am not tempted to second-guess myself. I can eat what I want when I want (within limits). I can fumble my own way through and learn, provided I can stand the lengthier bouts of crying.

It's also a sobering realization that what I'm dealing with now, is what will be for months and years to come. Not just the emotive part of parenting, but the humdrum chores and physical tasks that come out of nowhere and don't seem to end. Bottles to be sterilized, again and again. Baby laundry to be washed. Bath to be readied (and cleaned up after). Change after change after change. No one else to soothe a crying baby but you. Feed after feed after feed.

That's not even counting the regular household chores like floors, garbage, dishes, bills, and more. I barely had time to eat or drink, let alone shower, or sleep. I have lost count of the number of times I was close to tears from exhaustion or went to bed smelling like an athlete's sock.

I'm sure some of this will regularise as a routine is established. In the meantime I have a new appreciation for the following people: 1. Single mums that work (especially feeling it now that my husband is stuck in office chasing deadlines); 2. Stay at home mums who do not have household help (eg. my mum).

One wonders how our mothers did it in days past. To hear them tell it (including my own) - childrearing was taught by experience from raising younger siblings, in their day - whereas it is taught by books and classes in today's world. Extended families were also a boon to their generation - more hands to help, less worries about life, more time at home.

So can we count on extended families these days? As the old saying goes, you can choose your friends but not your family. What if there were family members whose influence/participation you would rather keep at arms length? What if older relatives want to enjoy their third age in peace and quiet, not re-living parenting? Which way do the childraising scales tip - stranger that has an objective clear relationship, or familial assistance including all its baggage?

As an independent person who has led a very independent life, I tended to go for the nuclear family model (circa 80s) rather than the extended family model (which the government is trying to encourage these days). When our values and lifestyles have taken firm shapes to govern how we wish to raise our child, perhaps well-intentioned relatives will become one ingredient too many in the long, slow stewing process of childraising and family formation.

Most Singaporean new families I know have the compromise model - live as a nuclear family but be physically near extended families. For us, that would be somewhere in the middle between Tampines and Melbourne. So unless there was an Indonesian island equidistant that we could build our
own Mediterranean villa on, we still have to muddle through this on our own.

A routine is slowly being established - even the fussy periods and the diaper-changing cycles. I don't quite have the hang of it yet - but I'm not panicking as much as I did 4 weeks ago.

In the meantime, Layla has gotten used to the smell of my stinky armpit because that, in today's reality, is the smell of mother's love.

Affirmations:
- Layla has gained weight well and passed her 1st month physical checkup with flying colours!
- Mummy and Daddy have learned to dress Layla in long-sleeved tops or baby onesies without breaking a sweat
- 1 more week until Daddy's deadlines are done and we can go on a little family outing

Confinement Diaries Week 3: Parenthood, Motherhood and Couplehood

2010-11-18T12:31:00.002+08:00

As much as I emoted over pregnancy, breastfeeding and confinement, I realize that those were temporary conditions that in several months would pass. Even the fussy stages that Layla is going through, I've
been told, will also pass.

What will linger is what I'm starting to feel - the bond of motherhood. It's not the pink and fluffy cotton candy ribbon-wrapped mother's day card sentiment you see on TV.

It's the tear-jerking tenderness you feel when you look at a sleeping baby's contented face and know you made her inside your body.

It's the terrible fear of making a mistake that will scar her for life, whether it's the accidental flash from the camera or when she chokes on her milk (future milk phobia?)

It's the inevitable resentment when some other woman seems to be better able to soothe her, or burp her, or make her smile, when you've done what you could to no avail.

It's the relief you feel when someone does take her off your hands before you lose your temper and say something stupid, after she's been alternatively nursing and crying for 90 minutes.

I'm not certain what makes a good mum. I catch myself at these moments wondering about how people learn to become parents - I'm not on trial run, nor am I experimenting with dolls - these are little humans whose future characters and bodies are shaped by our fumbling moves now. Should we trust nature to take its course? Is what I'm feeling the presence, or the lack of, maternal instinct?

Or the paternal instinct, ie. the other parent in the picture. Johann is in the unenviable position of being exiled to sleep in the living room for a month, while still taking care of all other matters big and small in the house, AND juggling tight work deadlines, AND taking on soothing or burping duty when needed. He has less physical time and proximity with Layla (no judgment please you need to understand the 10,000 things he juggles daily to get it), yet is indispensible to the family unit we are becoming. Not to mention running interference for all other obligations that are outside our little circle of 3.

Is this what parenthood is meant to be in the modern age? Still can't step away from the "outside-inside" dichotomy, such that when both parents are "outside" ie. full time jobs, someone else (eg. Nanny or
maid) has to be "inside". In effect the modern child has 3 or more parents?

We are grappling with this now as we ponder childcare solutions after my maternity leave is over. External childcare appears to be both uneconomical and fraught with diseases - is a live-in helper unavoidable?

In the forseeable future anyway, couplehood appears to be a thing of the past. Jo and I had been trying - an hour or two while Layla is napping to watch a footie match or a TV movie together, 30min of quiet time in the mornings just the 3 of us.

Something tells me that I need to find a way to preserve couplehood within the definitions of our new family circle. Ironically the quiet time exists because there is a nanny at the moment to watch over Layla - God knows what will happen when she leaves in 1 week's time.

That said, I find that the tried-and-true "How was your day?" and actually listening and responding to the answer, does make a very big difference - we become interesting adults and individuals again, not just another parental unit.

All of the above may sound like small potatoes to those of you who have been parents for some time. Apologies for making a mountain out of a molehill. When one is under confinement-arrest (and can't sleep)
there's not much else to do when faced with a sleeping baby and cheap data connection but express one's thoughts in a blog entry. Perhaps you care to share your views.

Affirmations:
- Watched Ron Howard's "Parenthood" again and was struck by how more meaningful it is now;
- Layla is gaining weight well and is taking almost 100ml per feed; Layla survived her first social occasion with nothing more than a cranky temper.
- Mum has figured how to switch sides when breastfeeding without disturbing Layla; Mum has come to terms with the breastmilk-formula conundrum;
- Daddy has changed his first diaper;

Confinement Diaries Week 2: On Breasts and Nannies

2010-11-10T12:10:00.001+08:00

Oh get over yourselves - the reality is nowhere as titillating as the title (pun intended)

I once suggested to help a friend with a project while I was on maternity leave. "I'll be stuck at home anyway," I said blithely.

Her response was pointed. "Don't try and be hero lah, the 1st month you are nothing more than a cow either with real breasts or bottled milk, you'll be so tired you'll just be walking around the house like a zombie in your pyjamas, everything will be about the baby and you won't be able to think more than 1 week at a time. Puh-leese." (She was also the one that suggested I take stock 1 week at a time and don't look further than that - great advice - or I'll be insane by now.)

In week 2, must say her description wasn't that far off from the truth. I wanted to breastfeed Layla exclusively based on all the health recommendation theory. Little did I know breastfeeding has become so much more than a form of sustenance - in some circles it has been elevated to the status of 'liquid gold', in others it is an indication of how much perserverance you have as a mother. It is entirely possible breasts sag over time from this additional 'burden of expectation'...

Despite my best intentions, my attempt at total breastfeeding in the 1st week has resulted in Layla dropping almost 20% in weight since birth, lack of bowel movement and slight dehydration. My lack of sleep probably didn't help milk production either.
I am now grappling with the appropriate combination of nursing, expressing into bottle, formula supplements and getting enough rest.

But what an emotional decision to change the feeding approach. What guilt! Such angst over my breastmilk production, and whether I am an adequate mother. So so so tired. Trying to stay upbeat when the baby is crying at every turn. Told by all corners (including peds doctor) that I'm not producing enough milk. Each side of the breastfeeding debate debunking myths from the other side. Torn between scientific evidence and prevailing collective wisdom from other mothers.

In this part of the world, the motherly wisdom is also meant to come from Confinement Nannies. For 1 month, new mothers post partum are under the care of women who are supposedly well-versed in the art/science of recovering from childbirth in a way that preserves the woman's long term health. A combination of folklore, holistic and traditional medicine, and motherly help with baby, confinement nannies are a cottage industry. In Singapore it has gotten to the levels of placement agencies, user contracts, work permits, etc. Going rate is in the region of S$2000 for 4 weeks (+/- for quality, live-in vs. not, experience, etc.)

Our nanny is mediocre - she has a lot to say about what to do or not do post childbirth. What she says is not always in sync with what my mother says, which makes for some very confusing instructions. I rather go with my mum on the side of caution, but I am still unsure about the purported "long-term effects" of drinking a cold drink, not wearing slippers on tiled floors, taking regular showers, or - gasp - heaven forbid I eat/drink while standing up. For as many people that tell me this is hokum, there are just as many that I know who blame their elderly ailments on lack of compliance with confinement instructions. Do I want to wait 20 years to find out?

In the meantime, I'm straddling the comfort/confinement spectrum by negotiating for small bonuses like... daily baths provided I use herb-infused hot water (it's not aromatherapy.. or rather, not nice aromas), wearing a tank top around the house but agreeing to only take warm/hot food/drink, etc.

In the end, Layla is doing what babies do (I think) - eat, cry, sleep, poop, pee, cry, eat, sleep - and not in that order. It really doesn't matter to her when complications abound about confinement, breastfeeding, etc. - she gets a clean nappy and plenty of cuddles, she smiles at mummy and daddy and we're all just in bits over her.

Shout out to Daddy who has done more than anyone can expect while juggling seriously tight work deadlines - there are too many that underestimate the importance of Daddy-hood when it comes to taking care of EVERYTHING ELSE. More on that in week 3.

Affirmations for week 2: Layla is pooping well, fussing more as she is growing faster, she loves her rocker from Grandpa, Daddy is getting lots of work, Mummy is recovering well from c-section.

Confinement Diaries Week 1: The Show Begins

2010-11-06T08:56:00.002+08:00

I was reading on a pregnancy website (seemed so long ago) about maintaining a pregnancy journal. Between the physical changes of being pregnant, starting a new job and getting ourselves ready, i barely started an email to the baby (see below), forget a journal.... so i thought it may be more appropriate to the topic at hand to ruminate over motherhood, a lifetime commitment, rather than 9 months of discomfort. Why not start chronicling it while i'm under house arrest - i mean confinement - for a month.

Our daughter Layla binte Johann wasn't a daughter until she was born. As in, her unknown gender had been debated and became the central subject of a charity drive. In a way we wanted a surprise and well... in another, for me it became a way to think 'hey, not yet, still not there yet'.

It was a way to cope with what i know will be life-changing for us. Already it was changing my life by putting me under the knife for the 1st time ever for an emergency cesarean after my attempt at natural labour. I, who thought I was so healthy and strong to 'push' through an estimated 4kg baby, and was never subject to anything more invasive than a bout of pneumonia when I was 4 plus a mammogram in recent years. The abject fear that my baby was going to be CUT out of me, greeted into the world with needles and scalpels, was more debilitating than any epidural. Jo held my hand while I cried silent tears and prayed as the doctor got ready. The few min of pre-op was the longest in my life.. even the sight of Jo in full blue scrubs couldn't make me laugh.

We held hands and breaths while prodding and cutting continued in the Star Trek operating room, all white and blue and sterile lights. I waited and tried to not wait at the same time - till there was the 1st blessed lusty indignant cry that told us things were finally looking up since labour began 16 hrs ago.

"We have a girl!" Jo shouted excitedly. "and she has a lot of hair!"

I couldnt help but sob in relief at that first loud wail, and I cried even harder when they brought her over to see me. Jo was bouncing around like an excited puppy - talking to baby and to me at the same time. "No man will ever be good enough for you!" he proclaimed. "Go see mummy, mummy wants to see you..."

The nurse brought her over, and our daughter's face came close to my face. Her eyes were open, the wailing stopped, and that look on her face was already a challenge to us:

C'mon Mummy and Daddy, are you ready?

****************
I still don't know what you'll be called, or what you'll look like. I just know that I'm terrified and excited and distraught and panicked and filled with love all at the same time. I can't even begin to imagine what life will be like when you get here - I look at friends that have just had new babies and they all say the same thing - "Your life will never be the same again" - but it's such a vague statement - never be the same good? or bad? And their motions don't seem to reflect this life-changing statement.. still picking up babies, swaddling them, nursing them, like it's no big deal, like they were born doing it.

How do They even get started?!

Happy 2010

2009-12-24T17:18:00.001+08:00

Dear Friends and Family:

It has been a strange and bumpy 2009. My reflections are many, I won’t share them here as it is a time not just for looking back but also to look ahead.

We are looking forward to a new start, a healthier body, a wiser mind, and a sounder spirit. As far as work and career… well, attached are Calvin’s thoughts on it! :D (thank you Bill Watterson)

Here’s wishing all friends and loved ones to have smoother journeys, happier days and lighter burdens. Hope that 2010 is one that we keep in touch more too.

To those who remember, George Michael’s song Praying For Time was once a big hit, most recently resurrected by a teenager on Singapore Idol. Although I’m reminded of another year passing by (this song is now on “oldielyrics.com”, by the way) – it’s unnerving that what he sang about then has come to pass again. Perhaps never really went away?

Let’s also wish for 2010 to be a year where we cherish who we have, not what we own. To love ourselves and those around us more for the content of their character, and less the outcome of their accomplishments.

Happy holidays, and happy 2010!

Jo and Pat

================

These are the days of the open hand

They will not be the last

Look around now

These are the days of the beggars and the choosers

…

This is the year of the hungry man

Whose place is in the past

Hand in hand with ignorance

And legitimate excuses

…

The rich declare themselves poor

And most of us are not sure

If we have too much

But we'll take our chances

…

These are the days of the empty hand

Oh you hold on to what you can

And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

…

- Extract from George Michael’s ‘Praying For Time’

World AIDS Day

2009-11-25T21:09:00.003+08:00

Imagine if Singapore's population was destroyed 5 times over. Killed not once, but over and over and over and over again.

Then imagine seeing all of that massacre within your lifetime.

That's like watching 5 people dying at the same time. Slowly, in front of you, while you are alive, breathing, growing, maturing.

If you ever wondered about the scale of the HIV and AIDS epidemic, UNAIDS reports that 25 million have died from the virus since the epidemic was officially documented. 60 million have since been infected.

That's 10 Singapores' worth of people that are documented to be struggling with this. Not to mention those as yet undocumented.

There's been a blitz on TV these weeks about HIV awareness and promote care and concern for those suffering from HIV/AIDS. Singapore idols are apparently singing about this. Hip and cool ads abound.

Just wanted to give everyone some perspective.

While I had Singapore Idols on as background noise, Tabitha sang a cover of "Praying For Time" - an old classic last made famous by George Michael. (Great job Tabby) It was hauntingly familiar, so I took a brain break and googled the lyrics again, which I reproduce below.

As a prelude to that, here's an extract from a 1990 NYT article about George Michael's Listen Without Prejudice album, which sparked a strange sense dejavu in me.

"[The album] also generated controversy when some American radio stations banned the single, ''I Want Your Sex,'' for being too suggestive in the age of AIDS." (Stephen Holden, Sept 16, 1990, New York Times)

Ironic, huh.

"PRAYING FOR TIME"

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll take our chances
Because god's stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all god's children
Crept out the back door
And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year
This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here
So you scream from behind your door
Say "what's mine is mine and not yours"
I may have too much but i'll take my chances
Because god's stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
That he can't come back
Because he has no children to come back for
It's hard to love there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time

Monday Night in Petaling Jaya

2009-11-24T01:07:00.001+08:00

I'd discussed with Anita about co-writing a paper, so took the opportunity to work in a different environment to visit her in KL. Hang out with the Malaysians, absorb the KL mojo.

So after a long day staring at the computer (punctuated by the discovery of HALAL meatballs in Ikea KL!!!), Julian wanted a beer, Jo and I needed a break.

How far away to a pub in Pj on a monday night? Apparently 13 turns plus, because we were in a keystone cops routine to figure our way out of Julian's estate. 2 cops on electric cycles were scooting here and there placing barriers at the end of random roads, seemingly confounding us at every turn. Surely this was a public safety measure? Or a road construction prelude? How the F were we to get out, and more importantly, how to get back when the beer is finished?

We did overcome the cops in the end, making our way to a relatively occupied pub. A lone man was on stage, with a laptop full of tracks and his acoustic, singing Cliff Richard. A documentary about Monkeys is playing soundlessly on screen.

Half a coke later, the audience is singing along with a Filipina called Anne, who is belting out Whitney like nobody's business. When called to encore, she quips 'Hurry up my permit so I can sing here all the time! Tonight just a free stout will do..' bar tender gladly totes over a free pint, smiley face for free.

Her drinking buddy Jude goes on and bawls about that brother of his that ain't heavy - just the right amount of stout to get on stage yet remember the lyrics. Right on tune with the perfect dose of emo, malaysia boleh sia, talent everywhere!

The documentary had moved on to babboons and how they are diapered in the zoo.

One-man band on stage sings about having a bad day, singing a sad song and turning it around. Yeah, F mondays. Move my life along please.

Back at my laptop awaits case studies on social models, volunteerism management papers, microfinance exam, financial education white papers, class outlines to flesh out, media strategies for nonprofits. I'm somewhat amused I am actually able to list all this while munching on stir-fried hotdogs and onions, humming to bandman, and sipping coke, at the same time.

Yeah F mondays. I'm gonna sing this sad song then turn around, go to bed and wake up to Tuesday.

P.S. 20 min after leaving the pub, we are still finding way around the barriers to find the way home. Just keep turning left, Julian says, as long as the blue lights are behind us... 'it's like we're trapped? Can't get in, can't get out... Kinda like Singapore, no?' Chuckle chuckle, left turn again.

Exploring the Brave New World of Sharing Platforms

2009-11-21T19:22:00.000+08:00

This is a test - to see if I'm brave enough to share my blog to my Facebook world. If all goes well (I feel strangely ill-equipped when navigating through it, kinda like an old woman on a blog for the 1st time), this post is also on FB shortly.

I had not blogged in a while. FB Notes application makes it easier for me to share my thoughts with people, rather than sending blog notifications to friends on email. Maybe this will re-inspire more kaypo thoughts from me. Given what I've been going through since July of 2008, there should be plenty of material to blog about, if I get around to it.....

Test complete. Results yet to be published.

Returning Home

2008-07-27T04:49:00.002+08:00

[A visit to Chaoyang, Guangzhou province, China; March 2008]
It was many years in the making but only took 3 days to put together. My Grandpa (or Gong Gong), as mentioned in previous posts, is at the ripe old age of 102.
I suppose when one has lived his number of years, one has had a lot of time to think about how to manage the closing years of his life. Although his mind is as sharp as a tack, and his health is relatively well considering his advanced years, at 102 years old he tends to wonder how he would bid his village farewell, his home country so many miles away that he left so many years ago. What would he do to protect the family he leaves behind, not just their lives, and also their afterlives? Has he done all that is fair and dutiful to his ancestors, and ensure that their legacy will be respected and lives on?
This sentiment of generational duty and piety, is not something that we, Generation X-ers, Y-ers, and whatever the new name is for the youth on the streets these days, will be able to fully understand. I don't think I would have even been able to appreciate half of the little bit I do now, if it wasn't for the years of living with Gong Gong, or the amount of history and family tradition that has been drummed into be since childhood.
Strange that the more I tried to break away from it when I was younger (and in some ways, even now), the stronger I am drawn to learn what it is.
"Returning Home", or "Huei2 Xiang1", as it is called in Mandarin, is a notion that is unique to immigrants and their future generations. These lost sheep are never really considered to have "left", but rather to have "come back". Although some of these ties are cemented with the rather materialistic glue of regular monetary contributions and annual holiday visits, even the surface ceremony has more meaning to me than just watching a re-play of "The Joy Luck Club".
I suppose it makes the stories that Gong Gong used to tell, suddenly take shape in front of me. HERE is the mountain that he said would mark the edge of his town; HERE is where Gong Gong slept every night after he came back from hard day's work as an apparentice. THERE is where Grandma had to tough out a life eating grass and sweet potatoes when the Japanese were in power. THERE is where 5 generations ago, a spat over an inheritance created in my Grandpa the will to pack up his bags and take a coach down to Xiamen (Amoy) and board a ship to the "Southern Seas" and make his life in Singapore.
Strangely it seems like a movie playing out in real life in front of me - but the main character is missing. Grandpa, who is so concerned about our visit and was anxiously waiting by the phone for our call that we had arrived safely, not in the airport nor the hotel, but in the village actually sitting down in the old family house and having tea with our relatives. That was when he wanted to hear from us, to hear our report that we had arrived safely, at home.
For me, there was a sentiment of returning home not just from generations of story-telling, but also because I was here, 15 years ago. In my father's generation of 5 sons and 4 daughters, he was the son that has returned to the village the most, with my grandpa (when he was still able to travel). Of the daughters-in-law, my mother was the only one that was ever back in the village. I was the only grandchild in the generation that had returned. So for all 3 of us, this was another returning, a way of reminding ourselves that despite years of living in Singapore, United States, Australia, Hong Kong, we still needed to return home.
The words remained the same, we could still speak the dialect, the home was like we remembered. Everyone looked older, more mature, some more haggard. Others have passed on. I showed pictures of Grandpa to the relatives, and the expressions on their faces were indescribable - a strange mix of grief and happiness and shock - as if to see a long-lost-thought-dead-relative come back to life. Such personal emotion that I felt intrusive to even take a photo of them.
I missed Gong Gong sorely on this trip. He was there in spirit with us but I know he wanted to be there in body too. He wasn't gone from this earth, but it felt, in a strange foreboding way, like he was. I wish he wasn't so stubborn (and so old) to fly - as much as I feel honored to be part of his eyes and ears, it would have been a much more valuable experience if he was here to see his old home again.
Then I remember what has changed about this place, and I think that it may be best for Grandpa to remember his home the way it was - and the way we are going to tell him that it is.

Overture

2007-11-09T00:16:00.000+08:00

My knees were beginning to tremble a bit and I could feel a strange buzzing behind my jaw. As I was escorted by two ladies towards a cushion on a carpeted floor, the only thought to run through my head was 'I hope he doesn't pronounce my islamic name wrong!' and 'Wow my bare feet are really dirty.' "

After 5 turns around the mosque (or at least that was what it felt like), I sat down and watched him from under my fake eyelashes (thanks, makeup artise Sharina, who did a fantastic glam job on me).

He looked rather calm and collected, still struggling with a slight cough. All around me I could hear chatter, my mom was asking 10,000 questions about whether she was to sit here or there, his mother wanted to put stockings on my feet, and someone was gesturing to my sister to hand my IC to Kevin to hand to Jo cos I can't move my head (veil was held precariously by 1 pin).

Someone said "Qadi isn't here yet!" And that roused a whole new wave of noise as everyone checked their watches and tittered and tutted if we were going to proceed on time. It was a storm of noise and chaos, and all I could see in front of me were blinking flashes from cameras and mobile phones aiming this way.

Ears buzzing, I lifted my eyes for a far-away focal point. Then I saw him looking at me, a steady gaze with slight concern. Separated by an ocean of islamic ettiquette and green carpet across 4 feet of corridor.

He hitched his chin slightly, and my throat loosened. Heartbeat returned to normal, noise receded and I was amused and impressed with how he looked. Dang, very smart. I like.

I smiled back at him, and raised my eyebrows slightly.

Yeah, I'm fine now.

The Qadi sat down, and we began.

The Bonds of Brotherhood

2007-11-09T00:01:00.000+08:00

Would you do any of these for your friend?

1. Put on a facial mask and perform an interpretive dance while wearing a leather thong over your clothes, re-enacting the scene of your friend's proposal to his fiance

2. Wrack your brains to remember when your friend and his fiance first kissed

3. Help him pick out his fiance's lipstick print from a paper full of lipstick prints

4. Perform a belly dance while wearing a belly dance scarf for him

5. Eat vegetables. Raw ones. Bitter ones.

6. Volunteer your body to be searched by other friends for areas with enough hair for a wax strip.

7. Sew "J hearts P" on a tee shirt

8. Instruct your friend to ask for his fiance's hand from her dad in a non-native tongue

9. Sing cheesy Air Supply songs

10. Do a dikir barat about vegetables

In no particular order: Reezan, Cheng, Big Joe, AK, Kev, Ayam, Mama, Yongzhi, Brian, Kanz, Jay, Pavi, Mazlee, Rozani, KT, Janssen, Kai Koon, Danny Boy, Alvin, Ben -

Bradders, you guys rock.

Other tasks we did NOT inflict on the boys... (trust me when I say it was due to lack of time, rather than lack of vindictiveness :)
- Passing a balloon down a chain of 6 guys, from knees to chin, and chin to knees.
- Squatting in a row by the longkang brushing your teeth (aka primary school) and singing a cheesy school assembly song
- Drink beetroot juice
- Tie a tudong in a most fashionable way as possible around the head of one of the brothers
- Name all the different accessories that accompany a baju kebaya

Beyond words

2007-11-08T22:26:00.000+08:00

I spent almost 3 hours looking through all my favorite literature to find a quote or some words that could help express how I feel at the moment. Whitman, Lawrence, Shakespeare, Snoop Dog, Jeremy Clarkson ... I just couldn't find anything that was anywhere close.

Yet this was such a momentous event that I fear my own scribblings could not do it justice, they were inadequate to convey how fundamentally mind-blowing yet strangely comforting it was.

How deeply and quietly right it feels, for Jo and I to be married.

In a way I was thankful there was no such thing as "writing your own vows" in the wedding we had, because I really don't think I would able to put into words what this means to me. How does one express the promise to always be the one that holds his hand, that tells him the truth, that cares enough to nag, that requires him to hug on demand, that always has a shoulder for him, that he can count on?

Neveen transcribed a lovely poem for us from Sex and the City, as a mini-homage to my journey from New York. Even that, while touching and eloquent, wasn't enough.

We watched Michael perform the history of Jo and I knowing each other, in playback. I loved it but it was still missing something (despite being able to bring me to tears).

We were young brash devil-may-care-world-is-my-oyster kids when we first met. Then, adults that have gone through life-changing experiences when we met again. A lifetime of events had occurred in between, the years did not disappear. Somehow they made us more interesting to each other, and in a strange way, more daring to try because we each knew better what his/her true mettle was. There was truth, and strength, and courage of conviction, to hold hands and take that leap - not of marriage, but of love. The terrible beauty of love, which survives messy living abode, bachelor pads, all-night mahjong marathons, junk-food diet, body odor, control-freakness, workaholism, business travel, interfering parents, among other things.

Fast forward 3 years and on October 28, 2007, Johann and I were married. It was an eventful day that marked the end of an eventful year punctuating a milestone in our eventful lives, as the beginning marker of our life in the future.

Strangely, it feels like it should have always been like this.

Heard in a small room in Singapore

2007-11-02T20:44:00.000+08:00

* * * *

1: Are you sure you want to do this?

2: Yes, I’m sure. But is this place clean?

1: Of course, they’re professionals. I went there the last time myself. They know what they’re doing.

2: Okay – but please make sure you hold my hand…

1: Of course babe. There for you all the way.

* * * * *

1: Grip my hand! Go on, breathe.. breathe.. through your mouth, in and out. In and out. Great job, you’re doing so well…

2: Oh my God is it done yet? I can’t take it, it hurts too much..

1: You can do it, just breathe. Grip my hand, go on, don’t think about the pain.

3: It’s almost done, hold on… breathe…

2: Oh god this hurts.. take it out, please, take it out..

1: Almost done, just grip my hand! You’re doing so well.. breathe through your mouth, short breaths. Go on, in and out in and out.

3: Hmm. Here, Number 4, you do it, your pinky is thinner than mine.

4: Okay. You can do it, just breathe… now wait…. Relax.. (tunnels with his pinky..)

2: Is it over? Oh god this hurts.

1: It’s almost there.. they just have to finish it, just that last little bit of skin to cut through. Almost there now.. breathe breathe

2: I can’t take it. Please take it out, take it out, take it out!

1: Grip my hand, breathe, it’ll be over soon..

2: No no no I can’t take it, please please take it out, this is too painful…

3: Okay, we’re done!

* * * * *

Multiple choice:

A) A women’s clinic where unmentionables are taking place

B) Obstetrician and patient in Labor Ward

C) Neveen getting her nose pierced (unsuccessfully)

This was Neveen’s first trip to Singapore and she wanted to end it with a bang… well, in a way it did. With tears and some blood, plus some amazing pinky dexterity. Whichever it was, she now has a souvenir to bring home to Egypt with her.. and maybe, just maybe, she may want to try it again. Cos now she knows what she has to go through, whatever doesn’t kill her will only make her stronger.

Heard on Domestic Flights in the US

2007-06-09T03:13:00.000+08:00

[Announced on the plane before take off] Ladies and Gentlemen, due to a technical malfunction, we regret to inform you that the lavatory on this plane is not available. I repeat, there is no lavatory service. We ask that before boarding, you use the facilities in the airport next to Gate ##. Alternatively, when the plane lands in about 1 hour, you may also use the facilities in our arrival airport.

[When asked to help find overhead cabin space for hand baggage]
Well what would you do at home? You'd keep looking until you find some space, wouldn't you? Please just keep walking along the aisle until you find some space.

[When a passenger asked for hot chocolate]
Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be offering a modified beverage service today. Passengers will have a choice of bottled water, canned juice, and peanuts. Please note that as this is a short flight, it will be inconvenience for us to prepare hot water to serve hot beverages. We would appreciate your cooperation. If you would like any snacks, Trail Mix can be purchased for US$3 a pack. Please provide us with exact change.

[While waiting for shuttle flight from Boston to La Guardia]
Ladies and Gentlemen, the time is 1.15 pm and your flight XXXX was supposed to be boarding at this time. Unfortunately we have been informed that the inbound aircraft from La Guardia has not yet left the airport. We do not know when the aircraft will be able to depart, passengers please remain seated at the gate area. The expected travel time from La Guardia to Boston is 45 minutes therefore we expect a delay of at least 2 hours.

Oh my flight! Boarding! and crap, there's no food! and crap, i have to pay for a headset! I miss international asian airlines!

Those Little Devils

2007-06-08T08:27:00.000+08:00

I am in the U.S. for my semi-annual catch-up trip. It's not the weekend yet so I am cooped up in the hotel room ordering room service and working on late proposals, so I take a break to do a 20-minute pilates workout and watch primetime TV.

Nothing says "Welcome back to America" to me more loudly than primetime TV. The birthplace of soap glamoperas, reality TV, Donald Trump's new hairpiece, among other things. I found my attention unwillingly compelled by the following offering - (not new, I know.. )

Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?
Hosted by Jeff Foxworthy, gainfully employed adults who are upstanding citizens of the community are asked to pit their knowledge against a class of 11-year-olds. Each question that is asked is worth an increasing amount of money, that the player bets against his own answer or by "copying from his classmate". If the player bets incorrectly, then he walks away with US$25,000. If he bets correctly and makes his way successfully past all questions, he could win up to US$1mm. If the questions are "too difficult", the player can walk away from the game with what he has won, and say to the camera in front of national TV "I am ____, currently a _{job}_ in {employer}, and I am not smarter than a 5th Grader."

Example of the questions, ranging in difficulty from 1st to 5th grade (i.e. primary 1 to primary 5):

"How Many N's are there in the word ENVIRONMENT?" (correct answer: 3)
> This question was worth US$50,000.

"Which U.S. state is named after an English king?" (correct answer: Georgia)
> the participant here is a high-school teacher and his answer was.. New York. The kid got it right, by the way, and the teacher bet on the kid's answer by "copying", so the boy saved the teacher's butt

"All Birds are Mammals - True or False." (correct answer: False)
> The kid got it right, the participant walked away from the game.

"On What Continent is Mount Kilimanjaro?" (correct answer: Africa)
> Adult answer: (after some hand-wringing deliberation, he "copied" the 5th grader's answer)
'Asia'
> The kid got it wrong.

Granted there are questions in here that are specific to U.S. history..
eg. during what decade did James Marshall discover the first nuggets that sparked the California gold rush? (ans: 1840s)

Also there were specific questions on U.S. Geography...
eg. what was the manmade structure in New York state that connected the Hudson River to the Great Lakes? (ans: Erie Canal)

Does it take a 5th grader's intelligence to decide if you're going to be displayed as an ignoramus on National TV? Or a representative blow to the collective credibility of American teachers? Or to walk away with a boatload of cash knowing that you did it by beating 11-year-olds? How about the mischief-makers who decide to mess you up with a purposefully wrong answer? For that matter, what kind of teacher would voluntarily want to be on this show?

As it turns out, the list of participants that flunked out in the episode I watched include:
1. a high-school teacher (his students were in the audience)
2. a CFO of a technology company
3. a consultant

One reason I've always liked Jeff Foxworthy's comedy is his willingness to make fun of the perceived ignorance of the "deep south" - which, more than anything, is a reflection of his intelligence and perception - because we all know that Southerners are a lot more than rednecks. That said, I can't help noticing his wry slings at the contestants, and their complete unawareness of his veiled (and not-so-veiled) insults.

Ultimate question:
What's a representation of the average American intelligence:
a) the show's creators?
b) Jeff Foxworthy's comedy?
c) the 5th graders?
d) cos it sure as hell ain't the adults.

Why Don't You Go With Him?

2007-06-01T02:38:00.000+08:00

It was said as simply as those six words.

It wasn't the first time the idea was suggested, and it certainly wasn't the first time I had considered it.

But it seemed that the germ of a possibility so alarming, at the time incredulous and fantastic, hadn't faded away into thin air like the other ideas I had.

Sometimes, the situation around you, and the dizzying variety options that are available, seem to be nothing more than a big game of trade-off. All of them different equations that sum up to an algebraic zero-sum game of life.

Stay with this job and gain security, or take another and get more money. Move to that apartment for more comfort, or stay in this apartment and save on rent. Take this new project for experience, or stay with current portfolio for expertise. Eat the dessert and enjoy it, or decline and preserve a figure.

How many of us are actually faced with an option where the + column is more than the - column? When the credits are more than the debits?

Of course, the prevailing wisdom is "do what you want". Yet want, is a fickle thing. Want, is the motivator for the adventurous heart, and also the voice that stills the hand. Let's face it, we want everything - it's a question of what we want MORE, or LESS.

Do I want to be happy? Loved? Free? Financially secure? Healthy? Have children? Professionally successful? Intellectually fulfilled? Spiritually at peace? Inspired? Content?

This is the gordian knot that I've been trying to unravel for the past year. Short-term vs long-term, money vs life, security vs adventure.

I know, and people have told me, that it all boils down to expectations and detachment. Don't expect too much, they say. Detach yourself from material things, and the decision is so much clearer. It only takes a second to decide, as the prevailing wisdom goes.

So the second is drawing nearer, as I am pondering which path to take.

There are several job options, all of which have varying levels of stress, commitment, locales, and monetary incentives. There are trade-offs among all of them. Beneath that, the more fundamental decision of whether to continue in this career or strike into a new one, or go into academia. And even deeper, the decision to consider "me", or consider "him", or to put "us" ahead of all else.

He has gotten the opportunity that he has been looking for. A chance to go with a global NGO to places where he can be a part of the greater picture, helping to rebuild the world from its mad-made and human disasters, a little bit at a time.

He will be gone, far away, for a long time. I will see him again, of course (for the alternative is impossible to contemplate). But he will be away experiencing the wonder of a different world, whilst I would be here, still working on the pluses and minuses of my little decision matrix, secure in my own little world bound by my comfort zones. Missing the loving warmth, and the soul-stirring inspiration from a new experience shared with another. Yet still secure in that the mortgage is getting paid, savings are growing, families are supported and the safety net is intact.

I don't know which way to go. And as time goes by, the not-knowing is twisting the gordian knot tighter and tighter.

So why don't I go with him? I can think of a million reasons why not, but none of them are comparable to the one reason why I should.

That maybe, just maybe, this is the chance that I've been unknowingly waiting for. All my life I've made decisions that I thought were difficult ones, fraught with potential missteps and probable failure.

Somehow, my gut tells me, that this would not be one of them.

Not a damsel hanging on to her man, wilting away in her own linens while he toils away with the dislocated and disadvantaged. But being a contributor myself, somehow, some way, to the greater good. And for my inner satisfaction. Save my own soul.

So dare I? Go with him? Dare I take that leap.. Across the divide between the known, and the unknown.

Watch this space. Akan Datang.

Lakeside

2007-06-01T02:36:00.000+08:00

Somewhere in the middle of the South Island (New Zealand), we decided to camp. The air held a chilly bite that stung my nose slightly, not in an unpleasant manner – this was the bite of fresh air, carrying with it the timeless notes of the huge glaciers that lie less than an hour’s drive away. It smacked of the pristine sharpness that lingers after a lightning storm – there was no scent, yet it was unmistakable that we were in glacier country.

We stopped at a campsite by a lake. It was surrounded by a narrow rocky beach, embraced on both sides by the towering cliffs that could only have been carved by millennia of creeping ice. It would have looked like it hadn’t been touched by man since then, if not for the large parking lot and the landscaped flat grassland next to it that marked out a designated camp site. Despite this, it was a pleasant spot – there were few people this time of the year. The sun was shining, it warmed the air and we were tempted to spend some time here.

A solitary white car by the parking lot closest to the beach had its doors open, a Japanese girl was camping out in her car after driving around New Zealand for 4 months. She nodded, and went back to her sandwich. Sitting on top of the hood of her car, she turned her gaze towards the lake, her lips in a pensively unsmiling line, her jaws moving meditatively while chewing her sandwich. Some ducks waddled up to her car, they were ignored.

Indignant at this futile effort, the ducks stepped back on the rocky beach. A blonde girl was reading – sunlight was at its brightest splendour this time of the day, and she dared the cold by lying out on her blanket clad in a bikini. She wouldn’t have been out of place on a Hawaiian beach commercial, except there were no palm fronds, only temperate forests. There were no curling surfs, only a still and motionless water that stretched out towards the horizon.

We walked up towards the water, and noticed a little wooden jetty. A slightly sun-tinged old man was sitting on the edge, with his legs hanging over the side, peering into the water. Curious, we walked up and peered into it with him. Under the pier was crystal clear waters, untouched by pollution, slightly marred by the ripples left behind by a wandering black swan.

“What are you looking at?”

“They won’t come out when it’s too bright. Just wait. They’ll be out soon enough.”

As if in answer, a stray cloud crept in front of the sun. As the shadow crawled across the jetty, then across the water, they seemed to appear out of the darkness with a soundless, eerie grace.

Morays, of all sizes, swirling around the jetty beams. Their graceful tails played with the wisps of floating algae clinging to the jetty. Their bodies twirled around each other, then parted – came together in another knot, and parted again. A smooth elegant dance that had no start and no end, as one with the icy waters that were their home. We watched, entranced, as they swam in search of food. Their smooth twisting bodies alternatively formed figure-8s, then S’s, then O’s, in such beautiful motions that we forgot about the time.

As the stray cloud finally moved on and the sun was able to shed its rays again, the morays darted back under the jetty, once again out of light and out of sight. I looked at Jo and sighed with regret – it was too beautiful but too short.

In a strange serendipitous response to my thoughts, the blonde girl got up from her blanket and her book, and strode towards the jetty with the slow but confident move of someone who has been here before. In almost as smooth a motion as the morays, her arms raised as she reached the end of the jetty, and her lithe form sprang and sliced into the water like a perfect arch. When her head finally broke the surface of the water to gasp for air, I was already taking off my shoes and socks. Surely this was the way! How many times in my life can I say I swam in a glacier lake? And got to see morays up close?

In my bathing suit, I crept gingerly over the pebbly beach and let the water edge lap at my toes. Then another step, and the icy grip of the lake latched on to my ankles. My mind says “Get Out! Too Bloody Cold!” but the lake wouldn’t let me, I kept going.

The allure of this pristine crystal water, the blue sky, the hovering mountains, the quacking ducks and the absolute peace of stealing a moment from Mother Nature, was too strong. Every step I took into the water, I lost feeling in another part of my body. But my heart would beat a little slower, my breath deepened, and I felt like I could taste the biting air that hung over the lake. All my senses above the water were sharpened, I could see the crisp outline of the faraway outcropping. Each branch of the trees at the lake’s far edge was visible, each duck’s feathers so stark against the blue of the water. Entranced, I kept going and the water reaches my chest.

Then I felt it. A light smooth brush against my calf, so fleeting I thought it was a muscle twitch. I looked down, and there it was. A moray swam past my legs, then circled back to under the jetty’s shadow.

I don’t remember the last time I felt so elated, to be so close to something so elusive. I couldn’t reach down to feel it, my back was still numb from the cold. But I looked at the duck floating next to me, and I laughed joyously. “Did you see that?!” I asked, and the duck quacked in discontent and paddled away. I looked back at Jo, and he was laughing at me. “Had enough? Still feel your toes?”

I laughed again, and I turned to look back at the majestic mountains, the blue endless lake, and the row of ducks that have paddled off in annoyance at tourists. It felt so natural to be a part of this beauty, even if nothing on me would have been beautiful at that moment – not the goosebumps, the old bathing suit, the extra cellulite. But there, it didn’t matter. Goosebumps, cellulite, even a runny nose, were all part of this.

This moment was true. This moment was beautiful, timeless and endless. I was beautiful, timeless and endless. With a slight skip, I launched forward and the icy water closed over my head in welcome.

Midges aka Kiwi Flying Ninjas

2007-06-01T02:29:00.000+08:00

Midges are insects. They are almost known as sandflies in some areas, and have the look of a fruitfly, the bite of a mosquito, and the dexterity of a housefly. No, they don’t suck your blood. They do, however, leave a little red bump not unlike that of a typical mosquito bite, and the itch will make you want to tear your skin off, again not unlike that of a typical mosquito bite. But here’s where the resemblance ends… for Midges, the little critters of hell, the banes of my existence, have all the lethal power of Ninjas, in the insect kingdom. I am quite serious when I say Ninjas, as the following Ninja Principles in Midge Behaviour have been observed during the time that I have spent battling them while enjoying the beauty that is New Zealand:

Dress in Black

That’s self-explanatory.

Teamwork is effective

They don’t come at you one at a time. No kamikaze assignments for these buggers – one for all, and all for one. They fly around in a group looking for targets, rest on a surface and take off from it, as one. Slap one, and six will land on the same spot. Wave them all away, and they scatter in what you think is chaos, but really is a cunning flight pattern that eventually resolves into a larger nimbus of black buzz that surrounds your head, slowly but surely honing back onto the fleshy targets that they spot.

Be As One With Your Surroundings, make not a sound.

It doesn’t matter how many times we inspected a location before camping. Midges are not to be seen when they don’t want to be. It doesn’t help that they are black, and one-tenth the size of a grain of rice, and are almost invisible when in flight. They blend perfectly into the dark corners under the bushes, the quiet corners of a leafy canopy, within the grains of sands on the coves by the Milford Sound, and hiding under the hand grip of the glove compartment in the car. Sitting quietly, waiting, for the unsuspecting humans to let down their guard. Their flight is soundless, barely visible, leaving the target ignorant of their power until a bite is felt.

Neutralize the Enemy’s Strengths

This is a very simple, yet profoundly powerful: Bite humans when they are sleeping.

The ones that have achieved the level of Ninja Master have proven that with their training, they are even more accomplished – bite at areas that are not covered by the sleeping bag e.g. behind the ears; on the eyelid, etc.

Create maximum impact with the least effort

They get the target where scratching is almost impossible to relief the discomfort. Or, where scratching will cause pain and not relief. Examples of target areas: inside of the wrist, underside of the chin, behind your ears, on your eyelids, in between your toes, in your armpits. And the bites last long after you have left midge-region, and no amount of itch ointment, moisturizer or anti-histamine will relieve. Not to mention the little scar that some of the bad bites will leave behind – a little circle that constantly taunts you about being victim to the little buggers.

Retreat with Speed and Leave Nothing Behind but Confusion and Destruction

“There it is”

*slap*

“Ow.. dammit, there it goes! Get it again!”

*slap*

“Got it!” – “No you don’t, there it goes… Can’t reach it! Dammit I’ve got another one on my neck..”

*slap*”

“Holy shit they’re all in a cluster on the dashboard… the fucking nerve…”

“Slap them with the map..”

*slap*

“Oh stop it they’re now flying all into my face!”

*frantic waves*

“Don’t move you just aggravate them more…”

“Aggravate them? How about them aggravating me?”

“You’re only aggravated cos you let them get to you… calm down and they’ll leave you alone.”

“I was all calm last night and they left 4 bites on the bottom of my feet.. how to scratch that?!”

“Ignore it, think of something else.”

“You try ignoring it when you’re walking around on itchy feet… dammit, there’s two more..”

“Stop moving like this, I can’t see the mirror!”

**CRASH**

The Ninja team calmly retreats into the backseat cupholder, silently congratulating each other on a job well-done

You can try to guard yourself against them if you wish.

It is not for me to tell you how futile it will be, it is for you to find out.

For it is only when you feel the bite, Grasshopper, before you know how to live with it.

Such is the power of the Midge Ninja. Learn from them, for they have lived for generations before, and will continue to bite and annoy for generations after.

P.S. For more information about where the Ninja Midges reside, please go here.

Further Below Down Under

2007-06-01T02:28:00.001+08:00

There are New Zealand travel articles a-plenty. It is a beautiful land, boasting a variety of scenic vistas, complex ecosystems, physically extreme challenges and soul-waking adventures. Middle Earth, Samurai Japan, Narnia - name an alternative world that needs realism, and New Zealand probably has the location for it.

I was in New Zealand in December of 2005. I’m not writing about destinations in New Zealand, I probably won’t do it justice. Besides it’s a place better experienced and visited, then read about.

So I’m writing about Midges, Morays, and Moonrocks. These were what made New Zealand memorable for me – the rest, is for me to replay in my head as my own silent movie, and for you to read about in guide books.

North Island:

Auckland

Coromandel

Taupo

Tongariro Crossing

Picton

South Island:

Nelson

Abel Tasman National Park

Glacier Country

Wanaka/Manapouri

Milford Sound

Te Anau

Christchurch

Young Love

2007-03-23T16:51:00.000+08:00

It was a good infight movie, my headset was working fine, and the meal was moderately tasty and adequate in portion. Flight was relatively turbulence-free, no annoying passengers kicking me in the back. So far this was a smooth and uneventful journey.

Earlier I was a bit miffed that the 2 seats to my left were taken by two teenage girls, complete with tinted hair, black fishnets and puffy skirts, giggling and gasping as they were the last to board the plane. But they were polite, asked for my pardon as they made their way past me, and were quietly nodding off while I was eating.

The movie was over, and passengers started to stir and stretch. Food trays were cleared away, tray tables were folded up. I sense movement next to me, I automatically make some elbow room by moving my arm inside the armrest. I needn't have bothered.

She turned towards her friend, and put he right arm around the other’s shoulders. Her left arm was snuggled deep somewhere between the other’s knees.

The other girl stirred, and her pink head was tucked under my neighbour’s chin. Four stockinged legs twined around each other, the airline blanket askew while their arms wound around each other. I sneaked a peek, expecting their lips to be touching.

And indeed they were. Tender kisses on the pierced eyebrow, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. She giggled lightly, then she shushed her. I catch bits and pieces of it..

What’s your first class tomorrow?

I don’t remember – doesn’t matter, I’ll skip it.

Did you sms your mother that you’re on way back? Just in case she forgets to iron your uniform.

Of course I did, did you?

I’m going to school naked!

(Giggles and hushed whispers)

The captain's anouncement about landing approach alerted them to the need to disentangle. They buckled up and sat quietly as my ears popped. All was hushed, they were serene in each other's company.

Shoulders barely touching, heads tilted just that little bit towards each other. Teenage coltish knees within a whisper of a contact. Her right hand was holding her left hand, fingers clasping with no overt passion but an incredible gentleness. The girlish fingers were slowly rubbing the other hand, and the two lovers quietly enjoyed their homecoming together.

A tender, touching, yet strangely surreal tableau.

Travel experience # 274: Spending three and a half hours next to teenage lesbians.

Looking for the Closet in Shanghai

2007-03-23T15:12:00.000+08:00

The evening was clear, the air brisk and snappy. Winter in Shanghai is not uncomfortable, a refreshing and bracing nip that makes you open your eyes a little wider and your feet step a little faster. I had spent the evening walking along the major boulevards of this old old city, marveling at the metropolitan city amid dodging suicidal taxi drivers and scooter-riders that use their feet more than they do their wheels.

Traffic has come to a standstill in Shanghai, and no wonder as it is only 6.30 pm on a Friday on Shanghai’s busiest shopping street. I keep walking in the general direction of west, and I see a little alley. The dirty laungry hanging off the lines between dilapidated blocks was like a beacon for exploration, and I was justly rewarded.The alley was a local residence street, and it was getting ready for its busiest time of the day.

Men and women who had spent the work day in office towers and shopkeeping and making their way home on feet, on bicycles. In their minds, thoughts chase after one another – what to buy for dinner, has the son finished his homework, has the husband paid the mobile phone bill. They pass the neighborhood bun shop man, who has just brought out freshly steamed meat buns – not to sell just yet, but to fry.

The flat greasy pan is never washed with soap and water, generations of wiping the oil away with a cloth has left a patina of nostalgia and flavor that defies description yet leaves more than just an aftertaste. Fresh pan-fried buns are the best indulgence while you’re traipsing your way down the street, poking your head into little shops, smiling at the staring locals.

When you’re done with the buns, dump the plastic bag that they were served in without looking at the grease that collected at the bottom of the bag. No point, it’ll only take away the enjoyment.

I pass several vegetable stalls, butchers, fresh seafood stores. Look past where their wares are displayed in the front, and you see a house not unlike any other on the street. Different and yet the same – each house indifferent from the next, but for the mix-and-match front porch that could be selling vegetables today, plastic sandals tomorrow, and fresh lamb the day after.

Pausing at a fruit stall, I see kumquats of all shapes and sizes selling at a good price. They are the perfect snack while snacking – the perfect mix of sweet, tart and the little zesty zing that makes your lips smart a little. Not to mention the very liberating feeling of spitting the seeds onto the street without worry, because everyone is doing the same. I buy a half-pound’s worth, and keep walking…

When it hit me, that I need to go the bathroom. While I’m intrigued by the shops and homes in the alley, they can easily tell me to get lost as they will call me over to buy their wares. This is not the place to ask to use a bathroom.

My little detour had taken me almost out to the famous Bund, where the stately European-style buildings gaze benignly down at traffic. I walk up to a famous restaurant on the Bund, and ask the valet for the bathroom – I’m told it is for guests only. Not worried, as there are hotels down the road.

Well okay.. not really hotels, but “hotels”. But just bathrooms, right?

No, they tell me in Putonghua. I don’t care that you’re just taking a piss, no.

But of course you can tell me where else I can go?

Try the public bathrooms in the park around the corner.

I profess to have strong faith that the China Metropolitcan Public Bathrooms of today are no longer the horror stories of ages past. I arrive at the little building at a slight run (feeling the pressure now).

I don’t know if the conditions of these bathrooms have improved since I last went into one, because public bathrooms in Chinese parks are closed after 6.30 pm and it was almost 8 pm.

A little distressed now, I step into a neighbouring noodle shop and purchase something to go, asking to use their bathroom. “We don’t have one.”

What the…

“Go try the one in the parking lot across the road, see there, under the elevated highway?”

I left with the promise of coming back to pick up my food. I braved Chinese drivers on a one-way highway and ran to the parking lot, where the guard pointed to a little corrugated tin shack with no light and no door. There was a pit in the ground and a large pail of water next to it, which was scant consolation when I would be taking a piss in full view of the nouveau riche zooming by in their newly acquired Volvos and Audis.

The situation was getting dire. The nearest hotel that would have friendly doormen was at least a 30 minute walk away and I had already been searching for the past hour. There was no other way for it – I ran back, grabbed my food, and hailed a taxi.

Cost of a bathroom visit in Shanghai after working hours
= RMB20 soup noodles
+ RMB 30 taxi ride (20, if there is no traffic)
+ RMB 5 tip to doorman

Death showing in Theatre 6 at 2.15 pm

2006-05-04T01:00:00.000+08:00

My Grandmother passed away in January 2005. She was cremated in Singapore. This was written over the course of the past year as I found the words.

It was a traditional Chinese wake, for 7 days and 7 nights my grandmother's coffin was accompanied by her sons, daughters and grandchildren. For 168 hours her spirit watched scores of relatives, friends, old neighbours, colleagues, hangers-on, strangers, all stop by to pay their respects and have a free meal.

Grandchildren that barely remembered her when she was lucid sat beside those that she babysat and reared to teenage. Her 83 years were eccentric, obstinate and independent for the most part. Her last 5 years were spent in a fog of lost memories and home nurses.

Now that she's gone, one would think she was looking down at these many visitors with some pride. Except those that knew her well knew, deep down inside, that Grandma would have snorted derisively at the visitors and would list all the dirty secrets she knew, real or made up.

Grandma always paid little respect to pomp and ceremony, she preferred the simple and the self-made, any day.

Which made the end of the funeral an exercise in irony.

We set off with the procession, boarded the vehicles and went to the crematorium. All 60 or so family members filed out of the aircon bus booked for this day, led by chanting Buddhist nuns. Grandpa did not come. The younger saw off the elder, not the other way around.

The crematorium director stood by the teak doors, waving us into the auditorium. Cold gusts of aircon ruffled the hair as we filed into the pristine, immaculately maintained multi-faith, all-purpose universal hall. The altar was ambivalently neither ornate nor simple, the pews were unadorned, ready to be filled with Buddhists, Methodists, Catholics, or pagans. The walls carried no symbols, just smooth carvings of vague shapes that could have been Ganesha, Christ, Tua Peh Kong.

We lined up and looked upon the nuns at the altar, chanting the last sutra over the coffin. The droning sounds grew in proportion with my unease. Surely this multi-functional hall wasn’t it? This impersonal one-hall-fits-all-faiths couldn’t be the way we were saying goodbye?

The walls behind the altar opened, and the coffin moved. It was then that I noticed the coffin was sitting on a conveyor belt. It was swallowed by the walls, and there was silence.

My 8-year-old cousin started to sniffle, and she crept closer to me. She doesn't remember grandma, but something in the air was disturbing. "Is it over?" she whispered. Before I could answer her, a side wall panel slides open and the director appeared soundlessly, smoothly, deferentially. "This way please," he waved, and we all dutifully filed out, making way for the next coffin behind us, which one could make out approaching from a distance.

I breathed a silent sigh of relief that it was over. Then promptly swallowed my breath again when I saw where we were being led.

An LED ticker display, not unlike the one that announced stock prices over Wall Street, repeated in arranged red dots:

Mdm Tan Kee Eng, 2.15 pm, Theatre 6.

Blink blink, blinkety blink.

I walked on, suspended in disbelief, following my relatives into a viewing gallery. It could have been one of those from the planetarium for a 5 minute star show.

We stood in rank and file. We looked through the glass wall without speaking. The nuns continued chanting, the only sounds in the eerie room.

The glass wall overlooked a cavernous white room, sterile and unadorned, empty except for a conveyor belt. We watched in mute horror as that now-familiar coffin smoothly slid in on the belt, gliding quietly to the back of the empty white cell. Another white panel in the back soundlessly opened, and the coffin slid through, slowly disappearing from sight.

The white panel slid closed, becoming invisible among the rest of the walls. We couldn't look away, all staring hard at the white walls. The chanting had stopped. In the stunned silence, I thought I heard a muted boom. I could have imagined it, I could have imagined grandma to have left this earth with more than just a soundless glide of a conveyor belt and the smooth hiss of a shiny white wall behind a glass window.

It was over.

Coda: First uncle said with gusto, on the bus ride back. "Isn’t modern technology wonderful? Remember the old days when bodies would burn for 3 days and 3 nights? Now you can pick up the ashes the next day!"

Ching Ming

2006-04-11T01:55:00.000+08:00

Paying respect en masse

Humidity hangs over the cemetery like a tent, trapping under it hordes of people squeezing by each other, snaking their way through the maze of plaques and urns, vainly looking for the little picture on the wall that looks familiar. Eyes are tearing through the haze of incense smoke, the buzz of muttered prayer worms its way past the layer of prespiration to run a chill down my back.

It has been a long walk from where the taxi dropped us off, to where we are now, and we're still not there. My aunt has a tissue over her nose, my 10-year-old cousin is coughing from the smoke.

The ones who have found their destination bring out their offerings - a conucorpia ranging from little bunches of flowers to a whole haunch of roast suckling pig. The ones whose family members have travelled far, kill two birds with one stone and hold their reunion meal by the graves, bringing out the paper plates, plastic cutlery, complete with the cleaver and chopping board for the roast. Aunts and uncles and cousins munch away at the spread placed before the gravestones, chatting and reminiscing, accompanied by the ghosts of relations from time past. A chilling yet somewhat tender tableau.

This is Ching Ming, the day of paying respect to the dead. Tomb-sweeping is also an integral part of this ritual. We were looking for my grandfather, my aunt, and my cousin. Their placques were high on the wall, Hong Kong having run out of space long ago to have more burial plots. Squeezing by the others to gently touch the placques, remembering my grandfather's name again, we moved back to give the thousands other placques on the wall their chance. In lieu of tombsweeping, the uncles take out some clothes to wipe grime and dirt off the placque, and scotchtaped little bunches of flowers next to the name of the dead.

We shuffled back further, and take turns to bow 3 times, ignoring the people snaking their way in front of us to get to one of the thousands of walls of ashes ahead.

After the hasty bows, we walk away from Unit 417, Block G, Area 6 of Diamond Hill cemetery past the cemetery directory, the portable toilets, and queued up for a taxi with hundreds of people hungry for their brunch. We had spent almost 1 hour in finding the placque and worming our way out, and a total of 3 minutes paying our respects. I suppose one could say it was the thought that counted, but I couldn't help thinking this was more an excuse for most to go out for brunch than anything else.

Rewind, rewind

2006-04-11T01:45:00.000+08:00

So what has happened since September 27, 2005? (aka the last date I really posted something here)

It’s been over 6 months, for starters. Time flies before one actually has the nanosecond to wonder about it. Plenty has happened that I could blog about, but reminiscing can sometimes be very tiresome.. so I’m going to just post bits and pieces that have stuck in my head of the past one-hundred-and-eighty-days.

But for those who have an obsession with chronology, here are some highlights in calendar order:

Early November 2005 – was in Seoul when a pancake seller that was rather yummy (and not just his pancakes) made a pass at me.

Late November 2005 – went to New Zealand for three-week holiday, worked the portable hard drive to death with all the pictures we were taking, seen some mindbogglingly beautiful nature, and swore a blood oath against sandflies.

December 2005 – the turn of the year was spent on top of Lion Rock looking over a smoggy Victoria Harbor, nursing sore arms from climbing, to be topped off at home with a very fascinating documentary about hamsters.

January 2006 – one year from my grandmother’s passing. Four months to my grandfather turning 100.

February 2006 – my mother is in town! Well, sort of... 3 hours and 45 minutes away by plane.

March 2006 – I turn 32! And I finally get to spend more than 1 night in Bangkok.

April 2006 – My first time in paying respects to the dead in Hong Kong.

So here's an attempt at rewinding... posts will be all over the place... have fun!

Flirty Pancakes

2006-04-11T01:34:00.000+08:00

Sometime in November, 2005

This time, I get to have more than the whirlwind 2-day-1-night sprint through Seoul. This time, my sister is also in Korea and we can have a groovy time, us girls only. For all of 4 days! Missynomad was in Korea on her way to the UK, and stopped in Seoul to experience the ultimate ironies in life – backpacker’s hostel for a few days, then 5-star corporate hotel for a few more. If the Westin’s Heavenly Beds weren’t so comfortable, the contrast would have made anyone’s head spin.

We went out walking a lot – street markets, curio shops, gawking at the gazillion posters of the same popular movie star in the same broody mournful pose, bonding, talking. It was nice to spend time together – talk about stuff we always talk about – boys, and parents. More importantly, you can always count on her to back you up when attempting to diplomatically walk away from a flirtatious pancake seller.

Especially one that has the build of a soldier boy, distinguished good looks, the charm of a Casanova and makes pancakes that taste like heaven on a crepe.

We walked by the stall when all we were going to spare it was a cursory glance. The glance froze on a picture that hung on the side of the tacky little stall. It was framed ornately, and was clearly very very old. In it was a young woman, holding up a pancake griddle or something that looks like it.

He waved us over to the hot griddle. “See? This is good! Makes strong bones,” he exclaimed, pointing at the pancakes.

The little pancakes had a slight green tint-they were mixed w green tea. He gestured towards a little sack, I peeked inside. "Good, put in pancake - tasty." Inside was a mix of raw cane sugar, sunflower seeds, and ground peanuts. My sister fished out 500won (50 us cents) and bought one for each of us.

What delight! Hot and fresh, with the perfect mix of fluffiness and chewines, oozing the sugar mix, munching was an act of pleasure itself. The petite little things were gone in a few bites, but what a few minutes of heaven.

My face must have given it away, as Mr Pancake beamed, draped his arm around me and said, "You like? Good! You want to take photo?" My sis gladly obliged ,snapping pictures of the brawny pancake seller, his strong biceps nudging at my neck, his gripping fingers at my shoulder.

This level of affection made me nervous. So I looked at him -- what I was going to say died on my tongue.

Mr. Pancake was chiseled-jaw, tall, bronzed, sharp-eyed samurai handsome. Up close, I lost my breath for a moment. He grinned, and my sis started to laugh. "So, chie, you like his pancakes?"

Before I could find my tongue, he gripped harder and waved at my sister. “You go, she stay. Thank you, byebye!”

I started to panic a bit. Oh no, kidnapped by pancake seller. Never mind that he’s got that rough edge that I find very attractive in men – he’s still a strange man in a strange city. I edged away a bit. “Thank you, very tired now, must go! Airport tomorrow!” My sis caught on. “No, no, she must go back to her husband.” *cross fingers behind back as I’m not wearing a wedding ring*

I managed to snake out from under his arm. In chorus, we were backing away and making our excuses. “Pancakes very nice! Good luck, bye bye! Must go! Taxi waiting!”

Mr. Pancake was waving as we turned away, we rounded a corner, and my sister looked at me straight-faced. “When was the last time you can say you were hit on by a pancake seller?” We dissolved into giggles, and the girl-bonding continued for the rest of the night.

Five Weird Habits

2006-01-28T23:57:00.000+08:00

I've been away from blogspace for so long, I needed the meme as an excuse to get back in. Not like I've got nothing to write about – but I haven't yet found that 3 hours or so of mind-space for me to think properly and write eloquently. I didn't want to get into the verbal diarrhea that sometimes accompanies lack of inspiration.

So – what is a meme? It's a kind of chain letter, and in the cyberconnected world that we're in today, meme certainly sounds a heck of a lot cooler than chain letter. Unlike real chain letters though, you get to comment backwards – i.e. add a comment back to the one that sent it you.

It may sound like a pain in the ass, but one way to keep people reading is to make the topic interesting – so since wyjunkie got me to this point, let's continue the story, shall we.

My Five Weird Habits

1. I always eat the best part of the dish, last. The potatoes and garnish get eaten before the filet mignon, the chicken wing is the last to be eaten on the nasi-lemak plate. I like to think I'm a devotee to the concept of deferred gratification, but this method of enjoyment is rendered ineffective when you eat with people who have no compunction about picking off your plate. Especially when they're dense enough to think that if you leave something that good temporarily undisturbed, then you must not like it very much...

2. My bed is my only sanctuary. This is a habit I've had since university days – my world could be in complete chaos, but the bed will only have what beds are supposed to have – sheets, blanket, pillows, and comforter. Maybe an alarm clock under the pillow, but nothing else. Not dirty clothes, not books. All that can be dumped willy-nilly on the floor but never, never, on the bed.

3. I am paranoid about the "soapy feeling". On dishes, on the body, on my hands. This is the reason I hate shower gels – I never feel like it's completely washed off from the skin. That slippery unclean feeling – drives me crazy. Where possible... "squeaky clean" is preferred.

4. I take off my shoes under the office desk while I'm working. Even if it's frigid cold. With or without socks. I don't care if my feet smell. I can't think clearly when my heels are higher than my toes. I also blast alternative rock on the office PC to help me through difficult proposals. Colleagues know to stay well away unless they get earplugs.

5. I remember my dreams. Sometimes they're as clear as a movie I watched an hour ago. Other times they linger on the edges of my memory, like an incident from nostalgia. And I remember them for days and days – whether it's the frenetic dream of an upset stomach, or the uneventful dream of a good night's sleep.

The rules of this game as they stand:

The first player of this game starts with the topic five weird habits of yourself, and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Dont forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says You are tagged (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.

Preferably friendly ones, so they don't come back and malign you for a chain-letter-freak. Preferably ones that allow comments, for obvious reasons. And preferably not with celebrity blogs, or ones that have overtones of animal sacrifice or the occult.

So the rugby ball has been passed to: missynomad, joetheman, madcattalespins, yakherder, and tiara knits (are there 5 weird knitting habits?!).

My Feet Barely Touch The Ground

2005-09-08T01:26:00.000+08:00

I am back in Hong Kong.

I know this because I am able to reach the jetway within 5 minutes of the seat belt sign being turned off. HKIA is not one of the world's leading airports for no reason.

I know this because the couples that are smiling are chatting have just come from a fully organized and guided gastronomic tour of Japan, and their trolleys are loaded with the newest Hello Kitty trinkets.

I know this because the girls in the airport are snow-pale and stick-thin.

I know this because the same shuffling crowd gathers at the airport transfer shuttle train, as that at Causeway Bay MTR station.

I know this because the slickly dressed young men in their designer suits and their bluetooth headsets are chatting away at rapidfire speed about the latest Premier League football match in lilting Cantonese.

It still boggles my mind how in the space of 3 and a half weeks, I go from the frog-in-well mentality of the American majority, to the polished civility of tea-drinking English, to the tentative yet professional Singaporeans, to the colorful, industrious and hopeful South Indians, to this.

The southern continent, Australia, is next on the agenda for the coming week. In the meantime I have 5 days to get reacquainted with my flat, sort my mail and clean out my fridge. My suitcase awaits, open, for the next batch of suits and a refreshed toiletry case.

Pakistan has left India

2005-09-03T23:33:00.000+08:00

Our short visit to this small part of India was about to come to an anxious end. We came back from the Nandi Hills with plenty of time on a Friday afternoon – after a nice visit with Suresh’s family, and the family pet squirrel.

Really, it’s a squirrel named Jenny. She has her own pathways in the form of rulers, branches and strings that are tied willy nilly across different corners of the house so she can run a clear path from the inside to outside. She also disappears up Ramesh’s (Suresh’s brother) pant leg to reappear on his shirt collar. A bit uncomfortable perhaps, but damn cute to watch.

Suresh was going to stay with his family a bit longer, so we spent a bit of time talking about what was done to delay his return flight. Johann and I were quite ready to brave the 7 hour layover at Colombo, Sri Lanka that night.

Ramesh drove us to the airport, after a brief stop to buy some last minute souvenirs. A rainstorm and Friday night slowed the traffic to almost a standstill, such that I could look out the car window at things that caught my attention… a road named “Ravindran Avenue Street”, and a building by the major noisy road that hung a sign “Music School” out its window. Ramesh’s brother finally got us to the airport after taking some superb short cuts through places that I desperately wanted to get out and walk around in, but as with so many things in life, there just wasn’t enough time.

We had 45 minutes to make the flight, a bit of a push but we saw the short queue and thought it was okay. Suresh said goodbye, we ambled our way to the check-in counter.

After a longer than expected wait for the girl in front of us to finish her overweight baggage negotiation with the staff member, it was our turn. It’s alright, we’ve been later before… I stood there drumming my fingers on the counter, letting Johann do most of the talking since he’s just a nicer person than I am. Then I heard “Sir, your reservation is for the 6th of September.”

That was THREE days later!

After vociferous objections along the lines of it couldn’t be, we were issued tickets that clearly said the 3rd, what the HELL was going on, what kind of system do they have, we have to get on board to make our Colombo connection, any number of righteous reasons we could think of to fix this problem.

And of course it was handed off by Mr. Staff Member to Mr. Manager, who went into an invisible office out back to “check on your booking”. Minutes ticked by mercilessly while we saw more people get checked in, and we started to plan in our heads how to explain this to our bosses on Monday.

Mr. Manager came back, and said they could get us to Colombo, but we were on our own to find our way from Colombo to Singapore. We were too relieved to care, so we watched impatiently while Mr. Manager handed the tickets back to Mr. Staff Member who had to consult Miss Staff Member when his computer froze. After several dubious bangs on the keyboard, our boarding passes were issued and we were told to cut the queue on immigration line.

As to be expected, the mustachioed portly gentleman behind me at the immigration line had a few choice comments to say. I pleaded.

But Sir, I’m sorry, our flight takes off in 10 minutes and the Manager suggested I should cut the queue. Please, I’m sorry.

What 10 minutes? Young lady haven’t you heard of India Standard Time? That flight isn’t taking off for another 25 minutes. Get back in queue.

I ignored him, he continued to bluster, and I was up next at the immigration counter. The multiple security checks that occurred next flew by like a blur, and we finally boarded. Sitting down with big sighs of relief, we were catching our breaths to ready ourselves for the next battle at the transit counter of Colombo International Airport.

I pulled out my passport folder, and that was when I realized what Mr. Staff Member, in his frustration and hurry, had printed on my boarding pass.

Oh yes, Pakistan has left India.

Beyond the Wedding Hall

2005-09-01T11:07:00.000+08:00

Kumar’s wedding was spectacular for many reasons. Several of them had to do with the excitement and incredible sense of adventure that accompanies anyone’s first time in India, others were due to the unique reason of this being Kumar’s and Shobana’s family.

Making our way to Coimbatore in Tamil Nadu, from Bangalore, is not a common route for tourists. But it has been done by many Indian locals for generations – and the train journey’s well-worn feel proves it. (see previous post). Coimbatore was typical of many up and coming Indian towns, but was most notable for a very famous Classical Indian music school. It is world-renowned among music scholars, particularly for Kumar’s father, Dr. S. Subramaniam, who is a leading professor of the school.

I was prepared for a cultured wedding. After all, this is India. Culture, rituals, chants and costumes that date back to ancient myths or for reasons that no one remembers any longer, they were all to be expected.

What I did not was expect was the human element that reached out and squeezed all our hearts – made us laugh, cry, sigh, fret, uncomfortable, do a double-take.

While every ritual has an ancient mythical reason, when I saw them in front of me, they became more real – that it wasn’t a mythical god giving away his virgin bride, it was Shobana’s father giving away his only daughter. It wasn’t a godly warrior accepting the bride, it was Kumar that was promising eternal care and love to Shobana’s father. I am about as far removed from the bride and groom as I could possibly be, yet even my eyes teared and my heart squeezed when I saw the bride’s parents reverently wash the feet of the groom, or the bride sitting on her father’s lap, his hand grasping hers in a final goodbye.

When the Brahmins recited the orally recorded chants and prayers passed down for millennia, the droning sing-song tones carried over everyone’s head. Some of the guests looked bored, others were trying to make out the words, but most were a bit in awe. I was somewhat uncomfortable – these were chants that were not heard of in years, and they were said to specially bless the bride and groom. But there was somehow a strange disquiet in the way those repeating tones wormed their way into my head through the loudspeakers, nasal sounds strung together that made no sense but made me want fight going into a trance – hypnotic, alien, resonating in a very private part of my consciousness that I never wanted anything or anyone to penetrate.

Which is a strange contrast to the fun and giggly riceball ritual that was held in the morning. It was a very female event – flowers and riceballs and giggling not withstanding, many women made it a point to remark about how I wore my sari and provide well-meaning advice. We all crowded around the bride and groom, who were decked with flowers, made to hold hands and sit on a swing. When the riceballs were flung by the female relatives to the four directions to ward off evil spirits, it was done with a wink and a nod, to judiciously hit several people in the watching crowd. People laughed and stepped away half-heartedly, while Kumar and Shobana smiled at each other. A woman sang softly in a nasal humming voice that seemed to add a slight giddiness to everyone’s mood. Under the morning sun, happiness seemed to float tangibly in the air, like a little fairy dancing on the bars of the ancient song, touching everyone’s brow that morning, making them smile, laugh, and sing along or clap in rhythm.

The incredible hospitality and generosity extended by all of the bride’s and groom’s families, ranging from old grandmothers, to cousins three-times removed, to their busy and weary siblings that still wore smiles on their faces. Kumar’s parents, who were so warm in their welcome embrace and remembered to buy me a sari and Johann a kurtha despite their incredibly busy schedule preparing for the wedding. Indian hospitality I have heard of, but to feel it first-hand just makes me feel so humbled and a bit distraught as I am prone to wonder what I can do in return. But most of all, to feel so well-cared for and not so much a stranger in a strange place. Thank you, Dr. and Mrs Subramaniam.

Shobana’s three cousins, whose names defy English spelling – three girls ranging from ten to twelve years old. The older sensible one, who warned the other two to behave themselves. Caught somewhere between a girl and a woman, wanting to act like one but compelled to behave like the other. Every now and then, childish giggles would escape her lips then she would remember she was to set an example and her face would rearrange itself back into a dignified half-smile.

The middle hyperactive one, running all over the place with her trendy jeans and spunky headband, her sharp bright eyes taking in the scene, asking intelligent questions and demonstrating remarkable eye with the Canon EOS 350D that we loaned her to play with. She took to it like a duck to water – her stance, the shots she framed, and her willingness to step out in awkward positions to take interesting angles, all display a natural affinity for the camera – we never did find her parents to suggest that they get her a camera. But we have her shots, and they are telling.

The youngest shyest one, who turned out to be very attached to me. She tried to teach me to sing in Tamil (I failed miserably), but her shyness at singing, to be encouraged by her parents’ obvious pride in her abilities, was touching. Over time she opened up and sang with some courage, the untrained voice of a 10 year old, but with all the yearning to give that song what it deserves. Trying to keep up with the more active cousins, but realizing after a while that she can’t take good pictures, or be as grown up, so she starts talking about her school, her life, what Indian women wear everyday, and whether I like my sari. And she became the most open among all of them that night.

The performers, who are also instructors at Dr. Subramaniam’s school. Their singing, their heavenly voices that defied the not-so-good acoustics to carry to the farthest reaches, alternatively made my heart race faster, my fingers clench, my eyes water and my throat close. The tabla drums that echoed the rhythm of phantom dancing feet, thumping in anguish, or drumming in joy. The delicate fingers of the singing women, keeping time by gently slapping on their crossed legs, or lightly drawing patterns in the air, like they are playing their soundwaves as their own instruments. The lamenting prayers, the song of lost love, or the one between the fisherman and the fishes in the sea – lingered in my memory long after the last echoes faded from the wedding hall.

All this effort, goodwill, love, caring, wellwishes, good mood and ancient prayers, all in an effort to provide the bride and groom with the best fortune in their life together. All the positive energies and forces in this world seemed to congregate together that day, whether mundanely human, or mythically ancient. They all weave together to buoy the couple, and everyone, on a magic carpet ride, beyond the wedding hall, to a great future ahead of them.

Now this is what a wedding is all about.

A Quiet Dignity

2005-08-31T12:58:00.000+08:00

* Pictures courtesy of Johann, Suresh and me. *

In the Nilgiri mountains within the Tamil Nadu district of South India, there live a people that date themselves back to the conquering heroes of Alexander the Great and the Macedonians.

They speak a language that has lilting tones and sibilant sounds that are strangely reminiscent of the Lakota nation in North America. They wear their hair in single or double plaits, drape hand-embroidered shawls like the Romans of old, and worship the buffalo. They revere nature and abhor warrior-like activities, but live in a small but communal world where a woman can be a wife to many men, and a man can be a husband to many women.

These are the Toda people. They are indigenous to these hills. Despite seeing their own leave their community boundaries and never return, despite watching a population age and their kind dwindle down to around 1,500 people, they still walk erect with pride and do not forget their stories and teachings of old. They speak Tamil to outsiders, tell them of the Toda heritage, but speak to each other in their own secret language that echoes their unique identity that they are still fiercely trying to protect.

Chief tells us, in his deep voice, that there are not many Toda left. Many young people have left, to pursue what they think is a better life outside their village boundaries.

But don’t they keep in touch? Visit you?
Once they leave us, they have left us forever.

It is sad that there is no turning back. I imagine I heard in his voice, in the strong yet quiet voice of this village headman, that it breaks his heart when they leave, because he knows how hurtful it is to not be part of your people anymore, how painful to see them outside and treat them no more than strangers.

Their homes feature an elliptical roof – historically because the Toda would bend the flexible reeds and branches to make roofs, and has since become an architectural feature unique to their people. Their homes are now concrete, a modern convenience that still pays homage to their simple lives by being no bigger than a shipping container.

When Chief invited us inside, we stepped in barefoot quietly in reverence. He showed us with pride, pictures of his family, his people – some living in other areas of India, gathering for tribal celebrations in their full regalia. Some of these pictures were old and dogeared. Others were clearly pictures taken by visitors that were left with him as momentos.

He took pains to explain each picture – this is a marriage ceremony, this man is a chief over in this other village. The words were few, but the feelings ran deep. I imagine this man knows in his heart that he could be the last of his family to still have 30-year-old pictures of millennia-old rituals, explaining age-old customs to young visitors.

The walls were solid and smooth, yellowed and bare, except for faded pictures in old frames, and the symbol of the buffalo horn, placed high in a position worthy of respect. There was a bleak sadness to this spartan house – but you couldn’t help but be filled with admiration for the dignified way Chief, and his wife, speak of their people, their efforts to survive, and live meaningfully to preserve their heritage.

The small house opens into a spacious cement frontyard, where Chief’s aunt (I think) smiles at us. An irresistible photo opportunity.

The front yard was the start of the true world of the Toda – green fields marked by solitary stones, holy spiritual space bound by pieces of ancient rock. It’s okay, says Chief. Female non-believers can walk past the stones, we do not mind. Toda women know to stay outside these rocks.

There are two temples, probably musty with old on the inside, full of mystical and ancient energies that are shut behind stone walls with hand-carved symbols of the sun, the moon and the stars. We do not get too close – Chief says non-believers are not permitted past the rock wall immediately surrounding the small temple. We don’t get closer – the temple’s short stone walls wear an ancient forbidding gloom that keeps us at a wary, but respectful, distance.

The air is sweet, the grass soft, the ground is pregnant with rainwater, it sweats and darkens my toes when I step on it. I don’t mind, it’s not a cow pat. There are many – they somehow belong there as much as the stones that the Toda use to mark their temple grounds.

A gnarled tree stands in the middle of the village grounds – Chief tells us it is called the Snake Tree. He doesn’t explain much about why, but he says it is an old, old tree that is worthy of respect. Below this tree is The Rock.

Chief says, Young men in this village lift this to prove their strength. Go on, young men – try it.

The boys try – grunts, swears (softly, in case Chief hears it), growls, sudden jerks, to no avail. The Rock rolls around on the grass tauntingly, not even a millimeter above the ground. The blades of grass under it are still squashed flat, not a single one has unbent.

Chief says, The trick is to roll it into the right position in the cradle of your arms, then you stand up. He says this with a straight face, so it must be the way, but you can’t help but think behind that moustache, his lips were curving slightly in amusement.

The boys try again – the swears are not so quiet now, the grunts a bit louder, the jerks a bit harder. Friendly advice from bystanders about hernia were ignored. The girls were biting their lips to not laugh at the noble effort at machismo. The Rock rolls around a bit more. Some blades of grass unfurled slightly under the rock, but it still was no more than a centimeter off the ground, for a nanosecond.

The boys stood, chests puffing with exertion, shaking their heads. Chief walks up, and demonstrates the correct position, smoothly, quietly. He doesn’t lift The Rock, he says he is too old and he doesn’t want to get hurt. But one can see he has done this before in his youth. The stance, the familiar way he touches The Rock. He looks at the boys, probably 20 years his junior, and speaks with a quiet pride. Young men in his tribe have been able to lift The Rock so easily that the village elders have taken to buttering The Rock to make it more challenging.

The boys were still digesting this fact in stunned silence. I ask, half-joking. Is there a remedy that the Toda have for back pain?

Chief says, through translation. It is our women’s responsibility to take care of their men.

I think I was just put in my place.

Chief has done so with that same quiet dignity that he has carried through our entire visit. His wife had done so with the pride in their heritage when she discussed her work with a joint Japanese-Indian study to preserve the Toda dialect. His aunt had done so when gracefully permitting us to take a picture of her face unadorned with artifice, but lovely lined with character and age.

The Toda embodied a quiet dignity that seemed to be at peace with the universe. Somehow perfectly in place, at home.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

2005-08-30T02:09:00.000+08:00

Singapore - Colombo - Bangalore - Coimbatore
We are off to Kumar's wedding in Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu, India - August 31, 2005.

Sri Lankan Airlines

Graceful flight attendants, with flawless English albeit with a strong accent, and a wicked sense of humor. Their service was flawless, food is adequate and in-flight entertainment apparently voted as the "most entertaining" in 2005. Going through their selections, I have to admit that while not as numerous as SQ or CX, the movies are much more current and music has more variety than the other two.

Suresh spent several confounding minutes in a dilemma with a particularly charming flight attendant about whether he wanted tea or coffee. After dithering between the two flasks, Johann and I were exasperated and were ragging him, "Come on, Suresh, make up your mind."

Which he did, and I would have sworn he was blushing under his dark skin but I couldn't tell. I was subsequently told off by the smiling flight attendant, as I disembarked and stepped on the jetway - "Don't bully your friend too much!"

Trains

After arriving at Bangalore, we took the train the next day to Coimbatore. Contrary to popular opinion, India's rail system is quite extensive, surprisingly comfortable and punctual. Not to mention affordable - a First Class ticket costs the equivalent of S$10 for a 7-hour journey.

That doesn't mean that we got plush cushiony seats in cool window cabins with white-gloved waiters and soft music wafting from the loudspeakers. It doesn't mean we got a priority boarding process.

A First Class Train passenger on India Rail generally follows the order of behavior below:

1. Purchase tickets through phone, tickets are mailed to an Indian address. Pickup is your problem, not theirs.

2. Go to station platform early enough to find out, on an old signboard with handwritten remarks, that the car number on your ticket actually maps to a section number on the platform.

3. Hang around aimlessly and watch the many-colored saris mingle with white and cream-colored dhotis. It's quite easy to get from one platform to another - you scramble down to the gravel bits and cross the track, trying to not breathe in the bouquet of human waste, and then scramble back on the platform on the other side, preferably not using your hands (but sometimes, for short people like me, not quite succeeding).

4. When the train approaches, stand back and watch the crowd bunch up around the doorways, and observe in amused fashion as each bunch moves along with the slowing train.

5. When boarding train, do not get too amused or distracted by the train-riding practices of locals to not notice your pocket getting picked.

6. When running after person who picked said pocket, be sure to throw down all luggage and hand videocam to disoriented girlfriend.

7. When attempting to track down picker, do take note that train is beginning to move. Said disoriented girlfriend should scramble on board moving train with 2 camping backpacks, 2 daypacks and a videocam, getting a pull up from friendly passengers on the train, and a shove up from bystanders on the platform. Girlfriend should, at this point, be both a) thinking rapidly through worst-case Plan B's in case boyfriend is stuck on platform; and b) trying to slow down breathing as train picks up speed.

8. Concurrently, Indian friend who has train tickets should also be scrambling up the train accompanied by well-meaning unsolicited advice from passengers, helplessly watching train tickets fall out of pocket and float away on the platform.

9. Pickpocket victim should then settle down in seat, use girlfriend's mobile to stop all credit cards etc., and curse stupid bad luck that has followed him since he won the "13 Wonders" hand at Mahjong.

Aside from the above, it's very comfortable to ride First Class - it is air-conditioned, seats are made of cracked pleather but still nice to sit on. The seat numbers have no meaning as there is a complex swap system that everyone seems to be happy with. The best thing is the food, which is not restricted just to First Class.

Staff carry trays of snacks, fresh juices, bottled drinks, dosai, samosas and pakoras, complete with freshly ladled dipping sauces. There is a running supply of hot masala tea, hot sudanese coffee, hot soup, which the man dispenses into a little paper cup from a canister held between his knees. For lunch, you could get all kinds of briyanis. Nothing costs more than 40 Rupees (less than US$1), presentation is nothing fancy (wrapped in wax paper or served on paper plates, you eat with your hands) but it's filling, it's fresh, it's cheap and there's lots of it.

Automobiles

Traffic in Bangalore, Coimbatore and even the hill stations of Ooty and Coonoor have changed from the dusty memories of the colonials ala Hemingway and Kipling. No smiley cheery skinny Indian coolie held slavery to carrying a rickshaw with his bare hands and running with shoeless feet over the sunburnt pavement pebbled with rocks and debris.

Instead you see TATA lorries, loaded with goods and spewing black exhaust fumes. Mid-sized cars carrying large families. Colorless bicycles and scooters driven by dour Indian men decorated by women in colorful saris. Minivans and 4-wheel-drives zipping this way and that, as taxis on call. Rebuilt scooters everywhere that have a 2-seater on the back and a hardtop cover, painted standard canary-yellow, carrying passengers for a metered fare -- the new Autorickshaws.

One cute thing - there are many old Ambassador Novas acting as taxis for a slightly higher fare - and they were fun to ride in, providing some long-forgotten regal presence to the dusty Indian streets.

Welcome to India in the 21st century.

P.S. Barry said it best - the two most useless signs in India:
1. Sound Horn (because everyone does it anyway all the time, so this sign is redundant, yet it's on the back of almost every vehicle)

2. Do not overtake on blind curves (which was soundly ignored by all the vehicles we were on, much to Johann's glee and my dismay)

Strike, AAA and Overture

2005-08-25T01:59:00.000+08:00

You'll at least get a sandwich.

As I boarded BA 15 in dread of 12 hrs with no food, ground staff kept saying that to me.

BA's caterer's strike meant that food and beverage service on board was limited at best, business class got economy's budget sandwich boxes, while economy got nothing but drinks. Everyone was given vouchers to purchase something at the airport to bring on board, but this was no food court that the people were straggling around so the selections were thin at best. There was a general feeling of “what can you do” type stoicness, people were mostly patient and understanding... Although a rumor was flying around the BA terminal, that was rapidly achieving urban myth proportions... that enough complaining can possibly get you 100K frequent flyer miles.

So after boarding with a rumbling stomach, I'm once again amazed at the quirkiness of British humor. Sandwiched between continuous announcements of flight safety and the captain's suspiciously sincere-sounding apologies for the strike and resulting delays, was an urgent plea by the BA lead stewardess.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are urgently looking for anyone who has a AAA-sized battery. A passenger is in desparate need of one for this flight.

Alarm bells started going off in my head. Oh no, was it for a medical device? Don't I always carry spares for my MP3 player?

The passenger would be very grateful for a battery that would help him enjoy some music on his MP3 player on this long flight. Will anyone that has a battery to spare please alert a flight attendant.

I slumped back in my seat with disgust. All this for someone to play music. Hmph.

I switched on the in-seat entertainment system to play some sleep-inducing music. Classical salvos wafted out of the speakers, sonatas followed on by concertos, then the DJ comes on.

Well that was the 1812 overture, resoundingly performed by the XZXZXZXZXZ orchestra. Hot off the score sheets from 1812, here's the smashing hit from Wolfgang, nothing more than the one, the only Sonata in D. Feel the rhythm, and let it move your body....here it is, number 5 of this week's classical FM hot chart.

Only the British.

Do You Speak English?

2005-08-16T14:44:00.000+08:00

I am standing outside the boarding gate at LAX (read : Los Angeles International Airport). I am numb and buzzed from 19 hours with no sleep, flying in from Hong Kong. I am waiting for the onward flight to Boston.

I am stiff and sore and the patent leather heels I wore from Hong Kong are pinching my toes. A girl with a strong Valley accent sidles up next to me.

"Hey, is that the Harry Potter book?"
"Yes it is."
"Wow. My mom queued up overnight to get that when it went on sale."

I turned and looked, she was chewing gum and snapping it, wearing a baby blue hooded sweater and jeans and running shoes, her dirty blonde hair pulled back into a complex ponytail. Her pale face and inquisitive constantly roaming eyes were a bit disconcerting, but one can tell she's a teenager with loads of energy.

"I hope it was worth it!" I replied.
"I dunno. You can ask her. MOOOOOMMM!!" she turns and yells, and a woman 2 feet away looks up unperturbed. She walks over, dressed in the XXXXX Airlines uniform. Ah, she is ground staff.

"Mom! She's got the Harry Potter book, she's still reading it." The girl swerves around, and pokes a finger in my general direction. "You're flying to Boston, right? Are you from LA?"

"No, I'm from Singapore, but I work in Hong Kong now. Are you flying somewhere?"

"Yeah, I'm going to see my dad in Boston." The older woman stood there, her eyes surveying the people congregated around the waiting area, clearly bored.

"Mom, she's from Singapore. So they read Harry Potter there too."

The woman looks over at me, then at her daughter. "Honey, they probably use it to practice their English."

Then she looks at me, still in my suit, business laptop case, high heels, carrying a blackberry.

She then opens her mouth and says slowly, one syllable exaggeratedly drawn out at a time -- "DO-YOU-SPEAK-ENG-GLISH?"

Welcome back to America.

Mabuhay

2005-08-08T11:09:00.000+08:00

So Mendy guns the gear shift and 15 horns blare indignantly behind him as he swoops through the one car-width to cut across 8 lanes of traffic, screeching to a halt amid the cacophony of blocked vehicles, because there is a concrete barrier in the way. He backs up 3 inches, waves cheerily at another mad driver, shoves his steering wheel mightily and squeezes the car past the barrier, and off he goes in the opposite direction. Time is on his side now, the roads are less congested and it looks like off-peak hours for the buses. One bus drifts right ahead of Mendy, the only signal being the right arm of the bus conductor stuck out a side window.

As he gets closer to the airport, the aircon is giving him goosebumps.

“International terminal?” asks his passenger.

He nods, says in Tagalog, “Yes, but I need to stop.”

Passenger shakes her head, she doesn't understand him. She sees him rubbing his arms, she says “Turn off the aircon, you're cold.”

He smiles helplessly - that's really not the problem after all.

He swerves around a jitney overloaded with fat white tourists, and hits the hazard lights. The car is stopped in the middle of 6 lanes of traffic, the same yet different group of indignant drivers banging on the horns.

Mendy says, “Sorry, Mum”, with a helpless weak little smile, and dashes from the car. The passenger sits in the car bemused - Does she stay in the car? Does she drive it?

Mendy runs into an abandoned estate off the side of the road, not hearing the horns and not caring about the passenger nor blocked traffic. This cannot wait, his body can't take it.

Welcome to Manila, where everyone is smilingly friendly, traffic is a nightmare and cab drivers stop at the side of the road when they need to take a piss.

I am in Singapore at the moment. There was a side-trip to Manila for 2 days and 1 night. Somehow this little moment with Mendy made up for the complete sterile corporate taste of this visit - I saw nothing more of Manila beyond the airport, roads, and a shopping mall. The hotel doesn't count - it looks just like the gazillion other ones I've stayed in on business travel, the same tired pre-fab mass-produced attempt at being the "unique place" the traveller calls "home". Ya right, don't hold your breath. Their pristine bathrooms and soft swanky sheets are cold to the touch regardless of ambient temperature, nothing compared to the well-used sheets and noisy mahjong sessions in Hong Kong or my Singapore part-time home.

Helpful Moving Advice from a Radical

2005-07-20T16:05:00.000+08:00

Thanks to wyjunkie - Friedensreich Hundertwasser's Window Dictatorship and Window Rights, 1990, has some useful tips when living in a rental unit.

"A person in a rented apartment must be able to lean out of his window and scrape off the masonry within arm's reach. And he must be allowed to take a long brush and paint everything outside within arm's reach. So that it will be visible from afar to everyone in the street that someone lives there who is different from the imprisoned, enslaved, standardised man who lives next door."

Yes, I must remind myself to submit this to the NYC Rental Guidelines Board and the New York Housing Authority. I'm sure it'll be as well-received as junkies on a doorstep... which a waste because in New York, there actually ARE lots of ugly masonry within arm's reach that could use some creative coverage. In Hong Kong, all I'd touch is someone else's laundry. *yuk*

And some very thought-provoking observations:
"Today we live in a chaos of straight lines, in a jungle of straight lines. If you do not believe this, take the trouble to count the straight lines which surround you. Then you will understand, for you will never finish counting."
- Mould Manifesto against Rationalism in Architecture, 1958

That said, one of his most famous designs in Vienna, although artistically bold, must have been an engineer's nightmare. And a furniture maker's challenge. And an interior decorator's ultimate job. I couldn't get in there the last time I was in Vienna - must try next time, to see if there are artificial floors set up inside.

I've moved!

2005-07-20T01:00:00.000+08:00

I am blogging at the moment from my new home. I have moved, after a very nice 12 months in my first flat in Hong Kong. It's a little unreal that I've been here that long - 12 months have zipped by -- when I review the blog posts and other assorted writing I had done over the past year, I am again reminded about how crazy I am and how lucky I am that no one has yet seen fit to put me away.

So while the unsuspecting new neighborhood welcomes me with open arms, it's been a mad few weeks of unwinding my old lease, packing boxes (plenty of practice in that one thanks to living in 5 apartments and 1 boat in 9 years of New York City life), opening new utilities accounts, negotiating setup times.

It is common knowledge that any single girl in a new home that wants to get things done with the collective powers of utility companies and furniture/appliance stores, has to show a bit of skin, bat eyelashes several times and also smile very sweetly. So I won't bother telling you how I got the Broadband salesperson to set up an earlier installation time, or the appliance store salesman to deliver the fridge earlier with 24 free cans of coke.

Pros of new flat:
+1 Cheaper.
+2 Closer to work, to Airport Express, to Central, to my friends.
+3 In the middle of "old" Hong Kong - where I can find old tea ladies next to art galleries next to incense-filled funeral parlors and world-famous char-siew shops.
+4 No more nauseating French country-style furniture from old landlord.

-1 Closer to work means longer work hours.
-2 Closer to Airport Express because I travel almost 70% of my time now for work.
-3 No longer by the sea.

Continued on Fengshui, Ikea and a Very Touching Moment... ...

Fengshui, Ikea and a Very Touching Moment

2005-07-20T00:35:00.000+08:00

From the new flat, I don't see the sea. I now live in a part of Hong Kong that is old and reminiscent of creaky trams, dried seafood, herbs and assorted animal by-products like cured tiger penises.

I quite like it actually (not the tiger penises, I mean the area – you sickos). It makes me feel like I live in a neighborhood instead of an estate. Like I am part of the stuff of Hong Kong life, where Central, office buildings, condo clubhouses and gym swimming pools fade away, and the only workout I can get is the 20 minute walk to the office, or the 2 hour hike uphill to Victoria Peak. 70-year-old tiny Chinese women that live around here do that as a daily morning exercise, starting at 4.30 am. You have to admire the spirit of the people here that can still have energy and zest for life at that age.

But I don’t smell the sea anymore. I smell incense, pollution, and roast duck. Sometimes the incense can be strong, because I live next to several funeral parlors and coffin shops. I've been told that this building has bad fengshui - although it is on high ground, it faces north (facing the biting cold north wind, or so says geomancy), surrounded by a hospital, several funeral parlors, street corner has a blazing neon yellow cross that proclaims christian evangelism still lives in this part of HK. Not to mention a morgue is about 15-minutes of a walk uphill. According to some old folks, I've basically accumulated enough bad fengshui to take a chance with a hair dryer in a bathtub full of water.

Frankly I don't care. When it comes to Geomancy, fengshui, fortune-telling, I am usually filled with a mixture of tentative curiosity and defiance. Do I really want to know? And if I am told, then do I really believe? And even if I believe, do I submit? So in the end, I walk away from these discussions feeling that come what may, I dare the collective evil spirits, bad juju and hellish demons to mess up my life - because I can safely bet that they'll have a fight on their hands and I sure as fengshui-hell won't go quietly.

For the ones who are curious, I am apparently a strong Wood (from the Five Elements), also known in certain circles as a Night Tiger, my favorite compass point is East, and I’m shit with plants and vegetables. I think my parents, who are organic vegetarians, won’t be too happy to hear that.

So the Wood that I am, I went furniture shopping the past few days. The new flat comes unfurnished -- thank god, the last flat’s nauseating French Countryside furniture was serviceable but...nauseating. I’ve decided to decorate in primary colors. White walls, pine frames for shelving and sofa and tables, red/yellow/blue cushions and rugs. No longer am I getting cupboards, dressers, etc. All the shelving I have is “open” – no hanging doors, no glass and no panels. No more drawers – I no longer believe in them. Everything is placed in storage bins stacked on pine shelves, which had to be assembled on your own.

Which brings me to the most spectacular highlight from the past few weeks. It’s been a stressful time, and I was preparing my fighting instincts for a challenging move on my own, like I’ve done for so many times in the past. On Saturday, Move Day, as I was answering the door to whom I thought was Telephone Line Guy, with a blistering reprimand ready to spring from my lips as he was late, the most wonderful surprise was standing there with a big grin on his face.

He was supposed to visit the following week. The plan was for him to arrive then with several other friends, with the high hopes that by then my apartment will be ready, so we can all slumber-party our way through several nights of bullshit trivial pursuit or mahjong, accompanied by days of climbing multi-pitches at Lion Rock Country Park.

The plan was not for him to show up, completely unannounced (with the help of my local friends as accomplices in keeping this a secret), to give me the oh-so-needed hug when I’m ready to fling my mobile phone at the utilities installation people. Nor was the plan for him to give me a second opinion on furniture, or to be tall enough to place something on the top shelf for me, or to build the shelves for me. The plan wasn’t for him to tramp through the streets of Shum Shui Po in 35-degree heat and 100% humidity to hunt for a second-hand sound system, even he knew, despite my increasingly ornery disposition shopping for something I know nothing about, that in the end I would prefer to really feel my music, not just hearing it from crappy speakers.

So much for the Plan. I’m moved in now. Completely. Despite the bad fengshui, the roast-duck smell, I am very at home here. This place has my mark on it, and I am uplifted that my first day here was punctuated with a Very Touching Moment that meant so much to me. That can only be a good omen, fengshui be damned, for the rest of my time here.

P.S. I was reading Harry Potter’s 6th annual adventure, relaxing to my newly purchased second-hand sound system, when I remembered wyjunkie’s post about alternative Harry Potter styles... a hilarious read. My personal favorites are Helen Fielding-stye, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez-style.

Let's Go To Poland

2005-06-22T10:23:00.000+08:00

Recent rhetoric in the French negative vote on the EU consitution referendum has sparked some defiance on the part of the Polacks - I like how the Polish fight back. I say we go to Poland and support their Plumbers. Uh huh. Maybe discuss how Plumbing skills can be shipped overseas to select female homes to help them with their...plumbing.

Oh it's a rainy day and this made me laugh, cut me some slack.

Extract from BBC Article, and the Polish Tourist Board website:
The Polish tourist board has come up with a seductive image of a Polish plumber to counter negative French rhetoric about east European workers.

The "Polish plumber" - a symbol of cheap labour - became a catchphrase of the French "No" camp during the referendum on the EU constitution.

"I'm staying in Poland - do come over," says the new ad on the Polish tourist board's website for French visitors.

Ties That Bind in a Wireless Universe

2005-06-19T12:44:00.000+08:00

I am in Sydney Airport, waiting for my flight. It's amazing that I can blog on my laptop, sitting in an airport, this corner of the world. It's even more amazing that I can see, on the right side of my monitor, who's online or not, available or a chat or not. Wireless Fidelity has changed everything.

Being able to type messages, express emoticons, even chat with voice, across the oceans and hills by sending wireless signals from laptop to wireless card to server to bigger server to satellite, then in reverse order back to another computer gazillions of miles away. Invisible strings, pulling all of us closer and closer in this hypertechnical connectivity.

Can't help but think there's a strange yet sad symmetry in the following scenario:

Sitting in my parents' house in NSW Australia. Chatting with my sister in Melbourne - on MSN. Chatting with J in singapore - on MSN. About my mother, 2 meters away from me. About my grandfather, 7 hours flight away from me. Reading emails on my blackberry sent from the US, HK and Japan.

Yet I can't tell my mother what I really think about her. I can't tell her that she drives me crazy when she puts me on a spot in front of her friends. I can't convince her to leave me alone to my own decisions about my life, whether to do with religion, love, health, career, or children. I can't stop her from telling me over and over again that seaweed pills are good for me. I can't tell her, when she spends my money for my own good, that it drives me berserk. Can't make her understand that a charitable donation of A$300 is MINE to make, not hers.

Yet I don't seem to be able to say no, to rebuff her in front her friends, in front my dad, when it is so clear she is saying and doing these things out of good intentions and love for me. I struggle inside with the words to diplomatically have my own way, to disagree without disrespect. But when I see how eagerly she looks to me to follow on with her promises, when her friends and her relatives watch expectantly for me to act on what she said, I am torn. I feel myself having to bite my tongue and stop the instinctive protest, because if the words that I really wanted to say, left my mouth, there would have been no going back and the rift that exists today would be rendered broken forever.

So I acquiesce, and what she wants done is done. I pay for it - she conveniently points out that a credit card machine is available.

The plastic card is swiped, a digital stream of data tells my credit card company to take a piece of my self-definition and the independence that I fiercely protect. Wirelessly, a small piece of me just went to make my mother feel better about her daughter.

Or at least, I hope. I never know if this is a good step towards building a better understanding between us, or does it just encourage the same pattern of behaviour where I would feel that conflict of trying to preserve my independence and yet preserve her tender feelings at the same time.

I have a feeling it will be a futile resistance. There are too many years of unsaid words, too many instances of misunderstanding and too broad of a generation gap to overcome with one swipe of a credit card.

So I continue to spew my thoughts on this infernal struggle to a wireless universe, whether it's through this blog or through MSN to J or on my berry to my sister - I am counting on my wireless connections to help me deal with the ties that bind me.

Napping and Sleeping Around a Replica

2005-06-08T20:04:00.000+08:00

Today's been one of those days that I am torn between the urge to tear my hear out, bash my head against the wall, or burrow my head into my arms folded on the desk and just switch off. (Funnily why do all these scenarios involve my head).

So it is with much relief that I call it a day and browse my list of regular blogs - wyjunkie's being one of them. And lo-and-behold, she has a link to an article about the benefit of NAPS. Gotta love it, this gives me a lot of ammunition to bring to my boss and explain why I need a day off after a 24 hour turnaround flight timetable. Thanks, wy! By the way.. Condi Rice as a political butterfly? But that would be undermining all the good work she has done so far as Secretary of State, and the National Security Advisor prior to this! Oh, the shame! *roll eyes* Heh heh Madeline Albright could probably teach those young-punk Heads of Rome a thing or two.

I've missed the pool opening hours for a swim. And tonight would have been a fantastic night for a swim. And it would have been the only exercise I can do (beyond yoga, kungfu or isometric stretchs) these few days back in Hong Kong. That's cos I'm a lazy bugger and left my running shoes and rock climbing gear at Johann's, so I will use them this weekend when I'm over. Perhaps the replica is the best solution - a copy of my life in Hong Kong, replicated in Singapore.

Which brings my tired brain cells to wonder - if each of us could replicate our current lives to a different location, what would I replicate? Certainly not my French Country-house nausea-inducing-make-my-friends-laugh-at-me furniture (it's a furnished rental, people. Cut me some slack.) Or my 16-hour workday. Or my idiotic neighbours that play mahjong with the door open and don't invite me to join. Most definitely my friends.

Kinda forces you to think about what you like in your life, and whether you like it in context of the environment you're in, or on its own merit.

Sigh that's too much deep thought for such a shitty day. Off I go. The diner with its late night value set dinner and the Asian Wall Street Journal awaits.

Up Top and Down Below (II)

2005-06-06T14:12:00.000+08:00

DOWN BELOW

Seoul continues to be a culinary adventure. This time, your friends introduce you to a sinus-running, eye-watering, face-flushing, tongue-numbing trip into Indigestion-Land. The vehicle that takes you on this rollicking journey, is what’s called bool-dak. Enterprising Koreans have set up a website for this lovely dish, on http://www.booldak.com .

BOOLDAK is pronounced almost exactly as it’s spelled. Bool means fire, and Dak means chicken, in Korean. No, we’re not talking about Turkey. (Footnote: In Chinese, “Fire Chicken” means Turkey).

BOOLDAK is chopped up bits of chicken (usually tender dark meat that absorb flavor better) that has been marinated in the world-famous hellfire Korean chilli pastes, then barbequed on aluminium foil, basted with more of the same world-famous hellfire Korean chilli pastes.

BOOLDAK is served sizzling and smoking to unsuspecting diners who think the mountains of serviettes provided on the table is just good service.

BOOLDAK’s first mouthful is hot to the bite but very quickly the flavor of the chicken overtakes the spice and we naively think, “Hey, this isn’t so bad”. Beer is poured, the visitors’ first bite deserves a toast.

THEN it hits.

As the beer leaves the tongue and makes its way down your throat, you’re wondering when beer started leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You take another draw from the chilled metal flagon – and it feels worse. You look around in bewilderment at your Korean friends who are trying not to laugh as your face turns redder and redder, and your eyes start to water.

You eat another piece of booldak just to prove yourself wrong. See, yummy – munch munch, swallow. Here’s another toast, just in case they thought you couldn’t handle it. After you swallow your beer, your Korean friend kindly hands you a serviette. “Hey, sweat is dripping off your forehead.”

This is the secret weapon of booldak. The spice lingers, grows, and grabs on to your tongue, tingling every nerve and chafing at every available tastebud. Intuitive reactions to swallow cold water, cold beer, rub at tongue with serviette, will only make it worse. Then the helpful Korean friends, who had already replenished the rapidly depleting serviette supply, point out two sources of relief – burnt rice water, and sweet pickles. Burnt rice water consists of the bits left at the bottom of a rice cooker, rapidly boiled with water – a flatly flavored soup base that, if you believe in that stuff, has “cooling” properties. Frankly, disbelief is suspended when your tongue is flaming – anything to tame the heat, you’ll take.

Quite surprisingly, sweet pickles DO work. Not local pickles, but sliced “bread and butter” pickles that used to accompany deli sandwiches, the ones that are ubiquitous all over New York. The first contact your tongue makes with the pickles, there is the welcome relief of a doused fire. You start to feel your mouth again.

Of course, then you think you can try another piece of the Fire Chicken. BOOLDAK is not for the weak of heart.

Booldak remnants

Cooling Element

Another Korean delicacy – BBQ Octopus

Up Top and Down Below (I)

2005-06-06T14:09:00.000+08:00

UP TOP

3 minutes after take-off
I’m sitting in a Cathay Pacific flight bound for Seoul from Hong Kong. Already I’m dreading arriving at Incheon airport, which is a long ways away from the city. A disturbingly expanding trend that is affecting major cities all over Asia – Beijng, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Taipei. In a way I’m thankful that Singapore is tiny – airport can’t be too far, or it’ll become Johore Bahru International Airport. (Gasp! Shock! Horror!)

10 minutes after take-off
Irritated at the passenger behind me who liked to shove things with thinly veiled violence into the pocket of the seat in front of him i.e. MY seat, I leaned forward to prepare to turn around and deliver a cool setdown. I had taken the aisle seat as usual, and there were 2 empty seats next to me. In that split second, halfway through the turn, my eyes glance out the window –

And I glimpsed heaven. I saw the most amazing cloud formations, ever. Indigos and periwinkles and azure and white tinged with silvers and greys. A sundae of cotton topped with a dollop of whipped cream. An ocean of white foamy nothingness, so solid to the eye it belies the collection of tiny water droplets that it really is. A bed of softest white for heavy clusters of grayish moody rainclouds to lie on, then eventually sink through to let loose their watery tempers on the world below.

I was entranced with the vertical buildup of florets of cauliflower clouds, one stacking on top of another, like a farmer’s project gone awry. They teetered this way and that way, impossibly building and building, my eyes followed it all the way to the top until the sun’s rays made me blink.

I wanted to reach out through the window to touch the different textures in front of me – plush luxurious white fur, smooth soft white silk, squeezable squishy white pillows. So near some of them, so clear every nook and cranny. I could even pick out the little ones that try to hide behind the large fluffy ones, from my little window in the middle of a 747.

I had crept into the window seat. An involuntary sigh escaped from my lips, as the deceptively slow pace of the plane gliding through the air took me further and further away. As the distance grew with each illusory millimeter, the sense of yearning in my throat made my eyes water. I blinked swiftly to clear any tears away, because I didn’t want to lose a second of this beautiful wonder of nature, drinking it all in with my eyes, imprinting these images in my brain.

Looking further ahead, it was an endless vista of white white prairies, with little cotton balls of cloud-lambs that were frozen mid-prance, their dainty hoofs barely touched the silver linings. Purely brilliant cloud-trees seemed to turn slowly to look at me while I gazed out of the airplane window, and gusts of whispy cloud-breeze wove their way in between to drift farther and farther away into the horizon of never-ending dreams.

I had forgotten about the passenger behind me.

Hand Luggage Must Fit In Overhead Compartment

2005-06-06T14:07:00.000+08:00

I travel a lot for my work. I remember I counted the number of days I was actually in my apartment in Hong Kong over a 2 month period.. and I can safely say that number hovered around the teens… I got a little confused when I tried to keep track of time zones and half-days in the air followed by half-days in the office.

Today I am doing another mad dash. Departing from Hong Kong to Singapore on a Friday, returning to Hong Kong the following Tuesday. Then back to Singapore the upcoming Friday, to be followed by an onward flight to Sydney the upcoming Wednesday. Flip right around back to Singapore the upcoming Sunday, for an onward journey to Hong Kong the following Monday.

And it all starts with a frantic run through Hong Kong International Airport in high heels and a rolling executive case, which is suitably sized as cabin baggage, with ergonomic handles, slip-proof wheels and hard-knock-withstand-disgruntled-baggage-handlers-titanium casing.

Too bad they couldn’t make it roll on its own with a homing device to just follow me around the airport, and automatically leap, through a cunningly implanted air propulsion jack, up and over into the overhead baggage compartment.

That said, this case has followed me for almost 5 years. Bought at a sharp discount in a Walmart somewhere outside Lancaster, Pennsylvania, it’s neither the most stylish nor the quietest bag. Matter of fact, I still cringe every time it rolls across a corrugated surface with the embarrassingly loud ripping farting noise that comes out of the wheels.

But it has withstood my rigorous travel schedule, abusive luggage-packing practices, kicks from high heel shoes when I’m pissed off at airport staff, not to mention Herculean efforts tugging at zippers and sitting on top of the case to make it close. After 5 years, I think it’s time to retire this loyal companion. Rest well, old friend.

I am starting the process of shopping for a new case. What will it be? A stylish red with modern art overtones that Samsonite calls the “City Traveller designed for the Stylish Female Sophisticate”, which not only fits as cabin baggage, but also contains a makeup compartment, cellphone pocket, and hanging key loops? I’m not sure what woman would keep a cellphone and keys in a rolling executive case, but hey, there’s no accounting for what Style and Sophistication can do. I have a feeling I’m going to pass on this one.

One curious point though – as I browse through the Samsonite website, my eyes are reading “upright business case” for the collection of wheelies that they’ve got, yet my brain registers “uptight business case” – is there an optical equivalent of a Freudian slip?

This Pointing Finger is worth US$4.6 billion

2005-06-01T10:48:00.000+08:00

I work in an evironment where finger-pointing, blame-storming, ass-covering are all par for the course. Generally the higher up in an organization you are, the more is at stake, usually for actions and events that are beyond your physical control. All we can do is try our best and stick to the bright side of the line the separates good and evil.

Then I read this article about the Bank of Thailand (the central banking authority of the Kingdom of Thailand, for those who have been living under a rock). Am I glad I don't work there, or at least, am stepping anywhere close to being its governer.

Excerpt from the BBC, full article here:
A former Thai central bank governor has been fined 186bn baht ($4.6bn; £2.5bn) for his leading role in the country's 1997 financial crash. ... The Bangkok Civil Court has now ordered that Mr Marakanond must reimburse the Bank of Thailand within a month. / Otherwise he will face the seizure of his personal assets. ... The ruling means that Mr Rerngchai is in effect being held personally responsible for the meltdown.

That's going to be some fancy fund-raising that he'll have to do in a month. Net of his personal assets, of course - yacht in the Bahamas, perhaps? Chalet in Switzerland, maybe?

Good luck, Mr. Rerngchai.

A Moment of Revolution

2005-05-31T23:39:00.000+08:00

I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back
... ...
Don't wanna hear abt it,
Everybody's got a story to tell.
Everyone knows about it,
From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell.
... ...
I'm going to Wichita
Far from this opera forever more.
- "Seven Nation Army" by The White Stripes.

I'm feeling very rebellious today, quietly stewing in my own revolutionary fervor while riding the bus to work with the regulation 50 standing and 121 sitting passengers.

Force of habit - how formidable it is. You take the bus at the same time every morning, such that on days off you'd wake up at the same time too, feeling vaguely disoriented that you aren't doing the weekdaily rush in the morning. Why do people find comfort in routine? Are adaptation and change and flexibility really that intimidating and scary? Probably because to be able to deal with change, we have to be firm and sure of our own selves. Truth and strength of character, trust in belief. Conviction of purpose, courage to hope.

Sounds scary indeed, yet full of promise. On days like this, when the sun is shining in a cobalt blue sky, the breeze is gentle and the birdsong is clear, I'm riding in the bus with 171 other working stiffs to the same financial district. Yet I feel like raising my own seven-nation army to strike out at the rest of the world where a salaried job and 9 to 5 have no meaning.

Then I realize I'm punching these thoughts into a corporate-issued blackberry and I come back to earth. Just in time as the bus arrives at the stop below my office building.

On the same note of revolution, wyjunkie talks about why she wouldn't want to live during Napoleonic times... then again, in that era, people used to sleep at 4 am and wake up at noon. Now that's a revolution.

99 Years

2005-05-29T02:16:00.000+08:00

It's almost unimaginable, 99 years. That's the extent of a leasehold piece of property in Singapore. 1 year less than a Century. 3 times at long as I've been alive.

That's how old my Grandfather is now. This past weekend was his birthday celebration. In traditional Chinese style, it was a 10-course birthday banquet in a restaurant that Grandpa likes. In true Family style, people that haven't been heard from in years come out of the woodwork. In fine Empire style, our immediate family numbered 45 people (with at least half a dozen absentees).

In classic Grandpa style, he braved the walk with his trusty cane to go to every table, carry every great-grandchild, and smile and chat to every single one of his family. Even if the hearing aid is picking up noise that gives him a headache, even if it's way past his bedtime and he's feeling fatigued.

I wonder what goes through his mind on a day like this. Is he gratified to have had so many years? Is he comforted that his whole family is there, including all the black sheeps and self-exiled grandchildren and innocent great-grandchildren? Is this everything he expected he would have when he left China over 70 years to sail for the unknown waters of the South China Sea? Is he bitter that my grandmother is no longer around to see this?

Grandpa is one of the rare few that are alive in Singapore today, who can proudly call themselves pioneers of the country. He's not a world-renowned politician or minister, nor a well-beloved leader of a country, nor a colonial stoolie who was somehow feted as the father of a country instead of the working stiff that he was.

Grandpa is one of the millions that left the old country, in search of a new life, a new opportunity. He left behind a wife and child for this voyage, because to not do so may have meant they wouldn't survive. To arrive in a fledgling country in his 20's rubbing shoulders with the multitudes just like him, scrabbling against them after the few jobs available, finding something that required more than just mere brawn, proving himself to the mentors and teachers, establishing credibility with his neighbors and business dealers and finally hanging out his own shingle despite all advice against it. Maintaining the straight and narrow, keeping integrity and honesty when so much is tempting him to walk to easy path.

I can't talk about Grandpa in just one blogpost. His life is just too full and too long to be done justice with one entry. Stay tuned, more will follow about him.

Happy Birthday, Gonggong.

Grandpa (left) and his brother

Four Generations

A Pandemonium of Great-Grandchildren

See here for pictures from the Birthday Banquet.

Fighting Back

2005-05-28T01:56:00.000+08:00

These pictures made my heart clench when I think of the indefagitable fighting spirit of people when faced with insurmountable odds. They were inspiring to me, perhaps to you as well.

This year is the 30th anniversary of the Fall of Saigon. It was in March, but I've been unwittingly drawn to look at pictures taken of those terrible years. When delicate-looking Vietnamese girls carry their Soviet-machine guns to stand guard amongst the rice stalks. When a valiant soldier fighting for a cause stops for a moment to bathe in the beauty of his beloved's smile. Photo Credit: Mr. Thanh, and Mr. Nam.

Tai Long Wan, or Big Wave Bay, is one of the trickiest bodies of water in Hong Kong to manouver your kayak on. And this is a pronouncement made by no less than intrepid adventurer/photographer/writer Bruce Kirkby, in his article (it's an old one) in Outpost magazine. Just to remind people that Hong Kong is more than shopping and tall buildings. This picture shows a triumphant Christine (Bruce's partner) after beating the waves at Big Wave Bay. Photo Credit: Bruce Kirkby

U.S. soldiers are still there. Clinging to flagging spirits, hoping to make a difference. In the face of this sandstorm, perhaps it's just as well that they'll be patrolling the streets at the mercy of possibly another suicide bomber. Photo Credit: BBC Photographer, http://news.bbc.co.uk

Back to regularly scheduled programming ... soon.

2005-05-24T11:57:00.000+08:00

I've been quiet - for many reasons:

1. Had to see about a boy.
Somewhere within the madcap schedule of shuttling in between Hong Kong and Singapore, work and pleasure, quiet and activity, friends and family, pictures and movies, drinks and tea, meals and snacks, cities and country, mountains and beaches, it's even - gulp - fun, keeping this going. He is in Nias right now, also known as earthquake-tremor-central-off-the-west-coast-of-Sumatra, volunteering with tsunami rebuilding efforts. Acting on what he believes, the best way he knows how.

2. Death had a busy few weeks.

After my grandmother's passing, five more people left this world - some close to me, others close to others that are close to me. No justification, sudden accidents, long-running illnesses. Witness to grief, heartbreak, relief, shock, numbness, emptiness, love, support, patience, and empathy. I didn't think my heart could take more and another one would happen. Death is part of life, they say. I wonder if they forgot to mention that with each death of someone you know, a part of your living soul goes too. Not to mention the part that aches with burning emptiness when you are holding a grieving person in your arms. We'll just have to go about filling it with love, laughter and remembrance. Because all that they were, all that matters, they still are. In our hearts.

3. The road to Hell - and Motherhood - is paved with good intentions.
Mama visited me in Hong Kong for almost 3 weeks. As much as there were words that couldn't be said, a silent barrier to communication, it was the most heartwrenching, frustrating, molly-coddling, invigorating, conflicting and exasperating few weeks in a long while. The thing is, love has nothing to do with it. Daughter loves Mother, Mother loves Daughter. This basic equation has absolutely no impact on how a 3-week visit in a cramped Hong Kong apartment will go. People around us get to hear more about what we thought of each other, than what we were prepared to say out loud directly to each other's faces. Good intentions govern her actions - after all, motherly love is forever. Good intentions govern mine - after all, my mother is visiting and I need to show her a good time. Yet time after time, I still haven't learned the lesson that force of habit is formidable indeed. I don't think this trip was necessarily fulfilling for her - it was certainly a strange one for me.

4. Rai Lay

Went to Rai Lay, off the coast of Krabi, on the other side of Phuket. In the middle of monsoon season. What the heck were we thinking. But we did get in a few good days of climbing, which was the whole reason to be there, really. Awesome rock, I did some new things (like my first lead climbs! Woo hoo!), experienced some new trips (yes, with a capital "T"), and had to acknowledge that vertigo is going to be my archilles heel for a long while. But watch if I don't get over it. Cos no phobia is going to tell me what to do.

Seriously, more posts coming soon. Clearly I've been busy. Am back in the groove of business travel and the boarding announcement calls.

An Afternoon at Wanchai

2005-04-23T17:40:00.000+08:00

I'm at the wanchai pools. Little kids with matching swimcaps in two rows doing the backstroke, little orange heads lined up on electric blue water, strokes well-timed in syncopation with the encouraging shouts of their coach, splish splash like a rhythm in beat with the pounding of their hearts, to end at the other side with a resounding cheer that lifts the spirits of all watching.

Am seriously pissed off that camera batteries are DEAD. These were the only two pictures I got that day before Energizer bunny stopped drumming.

The Pool

An Alleyway Barber

More thoughts from an Insomniac

2005-04-23T01:30:00.000+08:00

A fascinating and horrifying account (linked from popagandhi), with some thought-provoking observations, and many leading questions. It is also a strange juxtaposition to my previous posts about my visit to a little part of Cambodia (Siem Reap). I now feel little chills run down by back when I remember the ubiqitous signs of the Cambodia People's Party.

Seemingly unrelated, I came across this letter written by a student from Columbine, Ohio:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers;
wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;
we spend more, but have less;
we buy more, but enjoy it less.

We have bigger houses and smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time;
we have more degrees, but less sense;
more knowledge, but less judgment;
more experts, but more problems;
more medication, but less wellness.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.
We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life;
we’ve added years to life, not life to years.

We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.

We’ve conquered outer space, but not inner space;
we’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul;
we’ve split the atom, but not our prejudice.

We have higher incomes, but lower morals;
we’ve become long on quantity, but short on quality.

These are the times of tall men, and short character;
steep profits, and shallow relationships.

These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare;
more leisure, but less fun;
more kinds of food, but less nutrition.

These are the days of two incomes; but more divorce;
of fancier houses, but broken homes.

It is a time when there is much in the show window and nothing in the stockroom;
a time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to make a difference .. or just hit delete.

So much death, destruction, heartache, anger, filth, paranoia, arrogance, bombast, selfishness, egoism in our lives.

Yet the sensibility and courage evident in these two links, give me some hope.

Life goes on, painfully but surely.

2005-04-23T00:24:00.000+08:00

5 years ago today, April 22, 2000, little Elian Gonzalez was seized by US Federal Agents and wrapped in a blanket, delivered to his father, and subsequently returned to Cuba, far from the deep waters where his mother drowned.

I remember watching this on the news when I was in New York. At the time, I was bitter about the long and tortuous process of my Green Card application. Reading about the legal and political wrangle on the fate of this kid, my reaction at the time was of deepest skepticism and barely concealed cynicism. Here is a 5-year-old child getting all the attention in the world, with the pro-asylum camp getting louder day after day, claiming to represent the intentions of a now-deceased woman, more and more convinced that her intention was to let her son have a better life in the Free World. Rhetoric upon rhetoric pointed out the "right" thing to do, while editorials and commentaries debated the prerogatives of the child's father against the deep schism between American and Cuban politics.

The U.S. courts ruled eventually that Elian should return to the custody of his father in Cuba. Then came the storming of Elian's relatives' house in Florida, and the now infamous clip of a US Federal Agent pointing a wicked looking machine gun at a male relative carrying a traumatized and crying Elian.

Photo courtesy of AP

Perhaps 5 years too late, I wonder now how he is doing. I was admittedly ignorant about what poor Elian had to go through on the waters before he was rescued by a fisherman all those years ago. I wonder if he has been able to come to terms with the terrifying flight from Cuba, squeezing on an overcrowded boat tossing around in the harsh waves, U.S. Coast Guards' inaudible warnings to turn back, frantic and desperate adults grasping at their last chance for a better life, a capsized boat and clutching with cold fingers at the inner tube of a tire to not drown in the deep blue sea, mind numb and soul dead from telling yourself to not let go, never let go.

Has he forgiven the insane American media and political pundits, who tossed his name around like a trophy to garner electoral votes and churn the propoganda machine?

Does he remember his Miami relatives, who showered him with gifts and attention and tried to fast-forward what they thought should have been his new life into the space of a few days?

Will he remember the crash course in the American Dream that they put him through while he was surrounded by reporters, supporters, detractors, police, agents, photographers, the incredible cacophony of Breaking News in America?

Does he remember his mother? Is he happy with his father?

Elian Gonzalez' life goes on. Sometimes painfully, but surely. Because politics are a function of the times, and when time passes, politics finds other battles to fight. But the fickleness of popular opinion and political fairweatherness are nothing compared to the bonds of a family, and I hope Elian is well.

Lo que no mata, fuerta.
Buena suerte, Elian.

Really Serious News

2005-04-21T00:37:00.000+08:00

Well if you REALLY want to fight over textbooks.... The Great Wall is still Great. So says the BBC.

And I think this gives a brand new definition to the term "Roadkill"...not likely that cars will be able to run over this.

And yes, in case you haven't figured it out by now, I get my news from the BBC. Cos they have a sense of humor with STYLE, not flash, like CNN.

Mothers and Babies

2005-04-20T23:50:00.000+08:00

Today started off on a wrong note - I left the house without coffee. Then was caught in traffic, which made me late for a meeting, which then continued at a frenetic pace with a lot of "thinking" type things to do. By the time 4 pm rolled around, a little mind-break was in order...

So I went down to the lobby patio where I work, and watched well-to-do "tai tai"s (slang word for "ladies") with their kids and their nannies enjoy the breezy weather today. As I sat there watching child and nanny and mother, I was reminded of what happened on a recent flight from Singapore to Hong Kong.

I was seated in the middle section, two empty seats between me and a man. One woman sat behind him, with one son; another woman sat on the other block of seats by the window, with his daughter. Both kids were toddlers. When I sat down, it was with a sinking heart because I really was not looking forward to screaming kids pounding on their tray tables which were attached to my seat back.

I was not wrong - between the two kids, there were stomach upset, tantrums, alarm over the sounds from the airplane, noisy fascination at other passengers' seat belts, etc. There was plenty of tumbling down the aisles, a lot of passengers gritting their teeth, and flight attendants going "oh, so cuuuuuuuute!".

Eventually the tantrums boiled over and one toddler started crying, and the other caught on to add to the cacophony. The woman sitting behind was quite zen and kept her head buried in her reading material, occasionally glancing over at the squirming and sobbing boy who was trying to get into the front into his daddy's embrace. The other woman was very hassled and kept trying rub the back of the screaming girl who was also trying to get into daddy's embrace.

I was seated 2 seats away from Daddy. I kept my eyes closed, headset glued to my ears and kept repeating to myself, "woooooo--saaaah". Even when Hassled Woman had to take the girl to the restroom for a diaper change, by walking OVER me to get to the restroom on THIS side of the airplane. Then she tried to calm the kid down, who refused to sit by her side and wanted to go to Daddy, who was already trying to comfort the boy. Between the crying and whining and Daddy scolding, the seat belt sign came on, and we were on the descent into Chek Lap Kok airport.

Flight attendants ran up to the little family in a panic, "Please sir, your children must be seated while we are approaching." to which the girl responded with a resounding wail and buried her head in her dad's lap, while the boy threw up on the headrest next to mine, causing the Hassled Woman to go into a mild hysteria. The Flight Attendant stood there wringing her hands. Daddy turned around and barked at the woman sitting behind, still with her head in the reading material. "Can you please take him and calm him down!"

But the Flight Attendant wouldn't let her get up from her seat. Another argument ensued over my head, which I desperately tried to ignore. Somewhere between all of this, we touched down and landed in Hong Kong.

When the plane came to a complete stop, I leapt out of my seat desperate to get away from this family. But my luck being what it is, when I got out of the plane, this little family was already off the jetway. Perhaps now that we're not all cramped in a flying tin can, I was more disposed towards being charitable to the kids and I would actually HEAR what they were trying to babble.

"Mommy, mommy" they called to the Zen Woman who had her head buried in a magazine the entire 3 hours and 45 minutes of flying-with-kids-hell. They run headlong towards her, while she wheels her duty free shopping in a little trolley away from them, her eyes fixed on the Estee Lauder Travel Special 10 gates down the corridor.

Hassled Woman runs after the kids, calling after them in a now-obvious Filipino accent, and catches them one in each arm, before they crash into Mommy's duty free shopping trolley. She lifts them up while a sweaty lock of hair falls into her eyes, and as I walked past her, the universal smell of childcare reached my nose.

That mix of baby powder, sour milk, sweat, care and love suddenly made my heart ache. I felt incredible sadness for these 2 kids who were raised by their nanny rather than their mother. I imagined that I was barely 3 feet tall and I am running after that well-dressed beautiful woman whom I thought was my closest and dearest adult but I can't catch up. And as she becomes smaller and smaller in my sights, I feel a strong, dark and comfortable arm snake around my belly and I am picked up and hugged in another's embrace whom I know so well. Another's voice which I hear first thing in the morning and last thing at night, telling me stop running into things without looking.

As an adult, I remember that I've just had at least 6 friends have babies in the past 4-5 months. I hope they realize the blessings they have been given, and I wish with all my heart that they would, even at their worst moments, be Hassled Woman and never Zen Woman.

The Gender Gap

2005-04-18T21:23:00.000+08:00

It isn't just about the difference in compensation for men and women for the same job. Or about discriminatory hiring practices. Or about the glass ceiling.

This is more basic than that - about girls that don't have as much of a chance at education as boys. And the reasons for this anomaly are deeply rooted in poverty, survival, practicality, and economics.

UNICEF released a statement that "115 million children worldwide are missing out on an education - and most of them are girls." Full BBC article here.

excerpt:
Unicef executive director Carol Bellamy said: "Education is about more than just learning. In many countries it's a life-saver, especially where girls are concerned. A girl out of school is more likely to fall prey to HIV/Aids and less able to raise a healthy family."

Afghanistan and Pakistan have the widest gender gaps. For Pakistan to have the same number of girls as boys in school by 2015, it would have to increase girls' school attendance by more than 3% each year. In eastern and central Europe, there is cause for concern too. The introduction of fees for tuition, schoolbooks and uniforms has led to rising drop-out rates - and girls drop out sooner than boys.

I'm not sure about Ms Bellamy's comment regarding schooling as the definitive way to prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS. There are many paths to this problem, including educating the adults, not just the young. A society's view towards sexually-transmitted diseases is not easily altered just by teaching its young in the schoolhouse about unsafe sex, but it could start a shift towards a generation that is more aware of the perils around it, maybe even develop a mindset that is more open to other methods of cure and control. Ms Bellamy's method could take generations to get to its results, and the epidemic may not give her enough time.

But she is right about the root of the problem - girls are not receiving as much education as boys. I grew up in a society where schooling is not compulsory (as recently proven by an interesting dinner chat with a schoolteacher), but commonly available and more often than not, taken for granted. There is only one generation between those that were lucky to have finished secondary education, and those that keep adding alphabets after their last name. Broadly available government-subsidized education has produced batch after batch of Singaporean students that slowly but surely look beyond its borders to put their highly-educated minds to good use.

That being said, there are hints that Singaporeans are still living in a gendered world. Here is some food for thought:

Here in Singapore, when Community and State take precedence over Self, female babies must grow up with the burden of being wife, mother and caregiver. Women rebels - those who opt not to become mother or caregiver - are made to feel guilty in spite of their achievements in other sectors.. male babies are not exempt either. ... For as long as Amir is the strong one and Amira is the pretty one, both will be locked in roles that restrict their freedom to make choices for themselves, their families and society.
- Dr. Suzaina Kadir, Asst Prof of Political Science, National University of Singapore, contributing to "Her Story".

I've made it a point in my life to bust as much of the stereotypical roles as I can, but I think any career woman knows there are times when hiding behind these caricatures can sometimes be a bit of a respite from the constant fight to prove your own worth. Reading these two pieces today has got my mojo going and the battle continues.

On to lighter topics: IZ Reloaded continues to have the coolest links to Star Wars stuff, most recently, a Lego rendition of Anakin Skywalker's story...

Correction to Vroom Vroom

2005-04-18T21:15:00.000+08:00

My sister, who was present (actually IN the car) when I had that accident in Tasmania, has kindly emailed the following to me:

"Hey, just a correction to your Tassie accident...we were heading up to Cradle Mountain in Launceston....aiyoh, Hobart is in the south babe. And the car door was crushed on my side I had to crawl out your end. Yes, Yes, thank me for making you feel "better" . Just wanted to set the record right on your blog, that's all. And remember how fast the police arrived to direct traffic and how fast the tow truck came? The town was so small...word got round so fast!"

Thanks, sis :) Here is the original, incorrect post.

Vroom Vroom

2005-04-17T16:53:00.000+08:00

So my uncle mentions he is taking "Driving Refresher Lessons". In Hong Kong. He doesn't live close to his workplace, and at this stage in his career, it's getting a little awkward shepherding his clients into taxis. So he bit the bullet and bought a car, rather large one that can sit 7 (ok ok so it's more like a minivan) but it's really plush on the inside, and he's got a driver and everything. But Mr. Driver only works 5-half days a week, so Uncle's on his own on Sundays. To hear him describe his driving experience today makes me remember my spotty driving record.

I got my license in the US 13 years ago - and I'm a lousy driver. I think even my picture looks like one of a lousy driver - that bug-eyed-oh-shit-i'm-about-to-get-into-a-car look. I've had 1 incident and 2 accidents, funnily all in rental cars. The most serious was a bad swerve that rammed the car into the side of a bridge outside Hobart, Tasmania, on our way to Wineglass Bay. I think my brother got a sore neck, but that was about it, phew. I blame that one on Tasmanians driving on the other side of the road. So I say, self-righteously.

The "incident" was a little fender tap when the light turned green and the car in front of me didn't move. Somewhere in Southern California..the other side tried to stiff me with a mechanic quote for $700 for gluing the little Honda sign back on the decorative fender, when I was willing to settle it for $200 cash on the spot. So I told them to f%#@ off and let the insurance take care of it.

The last was a drunk driver who banged into us in Ottawa, Canada. Clipped the front left of the car, messed up the wheel. The most dramatic bit was trying to keep warm in minus-20 deg Farenheit in Ottawa while waiting for the cops to get there, and then watching the other guy getting escorted away in plastic cuffs cos he failed his breathalyzer test.

I've driven many times since, mostly as a designated driver, and always in someone else's car. But I wish my Uncle the best of luck, because HK traffic... man, you'd only get me to drive it at gunpoint.

So here are some tracks for you folks while you're driving, gets your shoulders pumping and head bobbing... see Wyjunkie's post.

50 Years on a Boring Saturday Evening

2005-04-16T22:08:00.000+08:00

This past Friday, April 15, McDonald's turns 50 years old. I remember when going to the Golden Arches was the epitome of teenage coolness, where pocket money was painstakingly saved to buy a small order of fries. I never learned to like the taste of biscuits, and until today am still a McMuffin person. I still have yet to find someone that does a hashbrown quite the same way. Whether it's a cliche of American consumerism (i.e. mcjob), or the grounds for offbeat lawsuits (the longest libel suit in English court history, the infamous hot coffee case, etc.) it's still hard to imagine that stupid clown with radioactive red curls and yellow dungarees is now 50 years old...

Howard Furness and his brother Kenneth are finally reunited after having lost contact for over 50 years. Generally I'm not one for big family to-dos, but even on my own self-inflicted little island, I still can't imagine being without relative contact for over 50 years. Sniff - makes me want to ring my family.

Here's something to make going back to work on Monday a little easier, all they need now is Corporate Bingo. I plucked this from IZ Reloaded, a pretty cool blog.

I am thick-skinned enough to want to be a better photographer, so I've been browsing the 2nd Annual Smithsonian Photography contest. Some of these were enough to make my heart stop. Such talent. If only my brain could function as a digital camera for what my eyes can see, with every twist of my left ear, my eyes blink and the image is seared forever in my memory. Then again, being thick-skinned...I think I could do better than that picture of Angkor Wat that made it as a finalist in the Travel section. Hmmmm...idea....

And, for the Star Wars fans who hang out with Chocolate fans, check this.

Sigh the weekend is half over.

The Depression Special

2005-04-16T20:01:00.000+08:00

Today has been an indoors kind of day. There was the kind of rain that doesn't pour down, but clings on. Plus I could actually open my 18th floor window and stick my hand out into mist. So it was time to resort to my "One-Day-I-Will-Relax-At-Home" plan.

The PLAN consists of the following: 1. A 3-DVD sequence, preferably with some thematic pattern; 2. Hot drink (today's beverage of choice is Moccono instant coffee, cos I'm a lazy bum); 3. Munchies (I've got roasted peanuts-still-in-shell).

My DVD sequence is what some would term the "La Especialidad de Depresion", or "The Drepression Special" in Spanish. Why? Cos the DVD's are: The Sea Inside (Mar Aldentro), Bad Education (La Mala Educacion), and Maria Full Of Grace (Maria, llena eres de gracia). How do you say in Spanish, let's make a movie about heroin-pellet-swallowing transvestites who support euthenasia in an effort to uncover the truth about their feelings of the Catholic clergy?

No, I didn't finish the sequence. In all honesty, it was just too damn depressing. After one DVD I needed to do something else to "cleanse my palate".

Luck or Providence?

2005-04-13T15:09:00.000+08:00

At the risk of angering any devout Catholics that visit my blog, or any sensitive Irish folk... this is an interesting look at the public sentiment.

The BBC reports that Paddy Powers Bookmakers in Ireland have several books running on the odds on who the new Pope will be.

Does placing a bet on your favorite cardinal mean one believes that Cardinal So-and-So is a true representative for the Roman Catholic faith and indeed the spiritual leader of the Catholic world? Or does it mean one subscribes to the less biased but sometimes freakishly applicable theory of gaming and numbers?

I thought the table of odds was very funny - will the Cardinals with less favorable odds feel a bit out of sorts? There's even a book on the duration of the conclave, and the name of the new Pope. Paddy calls these "novelty" or "non-sporting" bets.

I also read the comment about "non-campaigning" with a grain of salt. I am not an expert on the Catholic church, far from it actually. However, cynicism and the incredible power/wealth that accompanies the position of the Pope (directly or not) compel me to imagine that the process is far from the purity that was originally envisioned. Those who want to read about this further, albeit fictionalized and probably somewhat biased, may want to try this book by David Osborn.

Taking our minds away from the religio-political world for a second, seeing as how I was in Cambodia less than 3 weeks ago, this article made me very sad.

Where is Eddie Gibson? What are the odds that he will be found? Maybe some prayer time can be taken away from the papal election, to be given to Eddie's heartbroken parents.

Cookie vs. Fruit

2005-04-12T07:09:00.000+08:00

Times they are a-changing. As I sit here at 7 am munching on dry toast and sipping black coffee, I was browsing the news to distract my inner urge to go for a bacon cheese sausage egg sandwich. And as if to remind me of my creeping waistline (creeping upward, not down... bloody not down), guilt trips over not going for my used-to-be-regular-3-km-run-at-sunrise flashed through my brain. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to a new article on BBC.co.uk:

Cookie Monster curbs cookie habit

Excerpt:

Each episode of the show's new series will begin with a "health tip" about healthy foods and physical activity.

A Sesame Street representative said the popular character would be "broadening his eating habits" in future.

"We are not putting him on a diet, and we would never take the position of no sugar," said Dr Rosemarie T Truglio, the show's vice president of research and education. "We're teaching him moderation."

New characters such as talking aubergines and carrots will be introduced, while guests stars such as soul singer Alicia Keys will talk about the importance of a healthy lifestyle.

I suppose it's a saving grace that Cookie will "never take the position of no sugar". Because it's already a slight shock to see Cookie being friends with aubergines and carrots (aubergines are eggplants, for my American friends). The colors don't even match, for crying out loud.. dark blue, deep purple and orangey red..

Oh Cookie Monster. Maybe by eating more vegetables and fruits you'll perservere to a ripe old age, and continue to bring many more laughs to healthy, un-obese and aubergine-munching kids in future. I'll miss your crumb-flying-growling-frenetic-eyeball-rolling-crazy cookie binges though.

What To Do When You're Sick At Home

2005-04-10T13:12:00.000+08:00

So I came back from Beijing with a wicked stomach virus. The type that makes your mouth crave juice, but your throat can't swallow it and your stomach rebels against it. After sleeping for 12 hours straight I'm feeling a little better, but I'm a wimp and I don't dare to face the outside world. So it's a day of pj's, web surfing and watching DVDs. Don't underestimate the recuperative powers of a day of vegging out.

During the veg process, came across several interesting links across the broadest spectrum possible of emotional and intelligence quotients...

Xiaxue's entry about the Singapore Fashion Festival NOTE AS OF APRIL 14: I have removed the hyperlink as this post has not been permalinked and it's no longer on her home page.

I'm not a big fan of her blog, but every now and then I go on to see if she's got another new rant against people that go off about how good she looks. So this time I stumble across her entry on the Singapore Fashion Festival, and more importantly (for you boys) the TRIUMPH FASHION SHOW (ahem - boys, triumph makes women's underwear). Knock yourselves out, boys :)

Mr. Brown's Very Moving Entry
I have my fingers and toes crossed and I am so heartened to see such improvement. The love will perservere, I am sure of it.

Celly's Job Hunting Tips
All you newbies who are just starting out in the job market and haven't made it past the "send-cv-to-hr-department" stage, check out this post. Although I have an inherent rebellion against people judging others by appearances, and requiring a picture to be submitted with your cv can even be illegal in some parts of the world.

Let's Watch DVD-Subtitles Tonight
On occasion, reading the movie subtitles can be more fun than watching the movies itself. Really makes you wonder, though, whether or not the ones that subtitle Foreign Movies into English words, are in fact doing it correctly?

Quote of the week:
Good-looking men are not good in bed, because they never had to be.
- Carrie Bradshaw (played by Sarah Jessica Parker), Sex and the City

Siem Reap Pictures 6: The Bugs

2005-04-10T04:18:00.000+08:00

Here's the answer to the multi-million dollar question: What In The World Possessed Me To Eat Bugs In Cambodia??!!

well, check out these suckers. Who could say no?

Kdaam-Tuk

That was an eventful trip to Siem Reap. Following highlights are some pictures from little sojourn into the land of bugs and stone relics:
Siem Reap 5: Temple Visitors
Siem Reap 4: Defiant Against Time
Siem Reap 3: Les Enfants du Paradis
Siem Reap 2: Faith
Siem Reap 1: Tonle Sap

For a complete picture album, you can go to any of the links below:

Temple Visitors I and II
Defiant Against Time
Arches and Columns and Spires and Steps
Food and Khmai Life
Les Enfants du Paradis
Coral and Me

And here are some more thoughts on my visit:
Cambodia IV: Lok Lak, Sony Ericssons and Fried Cockroaches
Cambodia Dispatch III: Phalli's Day From Hell
Cambodia Dispatch II: Trokalok
Cambodia Dispatch I: Chong Kneas

Siem Reap Pictures 5: Temple Visitors

2005-04-10T04:13:00.000+08:00

In addition to 2 very cute Singaporean girls (ahem - wink wink), there were busloads of Japanese, Korean and Chinese tourists visiting the temples. They were well prepared for the weather, in name-brand golf-shorts and visor shades, protective gloves and bottles of mineral water around their necks. Complete with the tour guides, of course. I have to give the Japanese groups due credit though - most of them were of retirement age, and were out having a good time in their golden years. They gave it their best shot clambering up the steep steps of the Angkor spires, and in most cases, made it down with no harm done. Ganbatte!!

The Technicolor Scramble

Debriefing Session Before Scramble

Korean Tourists Watching Sunet over Tonle Sap

American Girl Taking a Break from Heat

Coral at Angkor

Next: Siem Reap Pictures 6: The Bugs

Siem Reap Pictures 4: Defiant Against Time

2005-04-10T04:03:00.000+08:00

Much has been written of the ruins that we visited: Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom, the Bayon, Ta Promh, Banteay Kdei, etc. I won't waste space introducing them to everyone - you can do a google on your own. I will say this as my own experience of these places:

Angkor Wat: Sunrise is overrun with sleepy tourists clutching tripods and mugs of coffee. If you're not that keen to catch the obligatory tourist shot of the sun rising behind the spires, you're better off spending the morning sitting on the ledge of the top spires.

Ta Promh: My favorite by far. A sense of peace, sanctuary, quiet contemplation. Hidden in the shadows of the trees, unlike Angkor Wat which is exposed to the elements. Met the Lonely Planet Old Man! He is 83 years old.

The Many Faces of Bayon

Angkor Wat Spires at Sunset

Sanskrit Text on Angkor Column

Ta Promh Archway Caving In

Terrace of Elephants

Column within Column

Tree Roots Invade

Lonely Planet Old Man

Next: Siem Reap Pictures 5: Temple Visitors

Siem Reap Pictures 3: Les Enfants du Paradis

2005-04-10T03:55:00.000+08:00

I named this bog post Children of Paradise because where these kids live is a strange dichotomy of paradise and hell. (And in French! To celebrate some of Cambodia's past)

Paradise when they're enjoying their screaming games among the grass, on the water, or around the temple columns. Hell, when they are scrambling for US dollars from tourists. The mercurial shift from childish delight to sad monotone whines of begging despair.

Lady, you buy my postcards for one dollar?

No food, no mommy, no daddy...

I want 100 rel! Give me 100 rel!

Lady, you want guide around Angkor? I know all about Angkor. I be good guide.

There was one remarkable 12 year old boy that we were chatting with, while sitting on the ledge off the side of the tallest spire in Angkor Wat. His name is Mat, and he sells souvenirs by Phnom Bakheng. He has such intelligence, and streetsmarts to match. The obligatory pitch, of course, to buy some of his stuff - but he was sweet enough to give us a bracelet off his own wrist. "For good luck". And when he saw us balking at the price for a cheap guide book, told us in an undertone (after stealing a quick look behind at his bosses to make sure they weren't paying attention) that we would get better prices in the town bazaar. Mat is a smiling, cheerful, gutsy, charming, adventurous boy and also very clearly, a survivor. I hope good things come his way, he deserves nothing less.

Start Driving at a Young Age

Tour Guide at Phimenakas

Three-Way Water Fight (Chong Kneas)

Winner of Water Fight sees better opportunity

Ring Around the Column

Getting Ready for Prayer

Next: Siem Reap Pictures 4: Defiant Against Time

Siem Reap Pictures 2: Faith

2005-04-10T03:25:00.000+08:00

These iconic ruins, Hindu or Buddhist, are so much a part of people's lives here. Among the busloads of tourists that are beginning to make a farce out of some parts of this beautiful destination, locals still make the daily pilgrimage to certain statues in one corner of the huge temple complexes. They offer flowers, money, rice. They ask for blessings, seek to know their fortunes, or sometimes, just close their eyes with head to the ground in devoted prayer. I didn't want to take any pictures of people in prayer, it seemed a terribly rude and intrusive thing to do. The shots below are of various people that either live, or work, or have visited these temples as a symbol of their faith - in either spiritual redemption, or simply, in being able to make a living.

Aged Female Acolyte (Banyon)

Security Guard at Phimenakas

Visiting Monks (Angkor)

Dash of Vermillion on Grey (Angkor)

A Sense of Humour (Angkor)

Aged Male Devotee (Angkor)

Next: Siem Reap Pictures 3: Les Enfants du Paradis

Siem Reap Pictures 1: Tonle Sap

2005-04-10T03:05:00.000+08:00

Tonle Sap is the largest body of water in Cambodia. It is a lake that runs the lives of a significant portion of Cambodia's population - during high tides (in the wet season), the catch is bountiful, homes float and boats travel, the earth is lush and fishes leap. In the dry season, life becomes hot, dreary, without the waters to cool off, clean up or feed the hungry. But by travelling another hour ahead on bumpy roads that 4 months ago were flooded with lakewaters, we could hire boats to take us out to the remaining homes that were built far enough into the lake to still be "floating" even during the season of no-rains. It was here that we watched the sunset, day 1 in Siem Reap, in the floating village of Chong Kneas.

Sorting out Fuel

Fuel Kept Dry

Sunset over Tonle Sap

Sun over the Bow

Next: Siem Reap 2: Faith

Have a Beer on Me

2005-04-07T22:50:00.000+08:00

So I'm in Beijing again - it's another work stint. Am going to check out the Great Wall for the first time... will post about that soon. I know my Siem Reap pictures are overdue - well it takes a long time to fix pictures on Photoshop :) Seriously I'm just running very short on time and I promise to post them soon.

It's been an eventful few weeks. I have finally found my emotional legs to write about my grandmother's passing, but them legs aren't strong enough for me to post that entry. One day I will. Not sure when - but one day. As an ironic parallel, there have been several passings that have affected people in my life. Parents and spouses of friends. Relatives. Causes ranging from peaceful old age, drawn-out tortuous terminal illnesses, and sudden freak accidents. So if you haven't hugged the ones you love today, and told them you love them, please do.

Oceans and prairies may separate us, but our hearts will speak to each other in whispers. -- Annonymous

It's also National Girlfriend and Sister's Week. So please also hug your girlfriend and/or sister, and remember this: I am only as strong as the coffee I drink, the hairspray I use and the friends I have.

Which brings me to my final bit on this post: the picture below came from my cousin who is now living in China, both she and her husband are teaching English and are having a grand adventure. Clearly the job gives her enough time to cultivate her sense of dry humour... here goes:

Cambodia IV: Lok Lak, Sony Ericssons and Fried Cockroaches

2005-03-27T16:21:00.000+08:00

In observance of the new world order and that Cambodia (particularly Siem Reap) is stepping into the 21st Century, here is quick introduction of Khmer terminology to whet your appetite for this really curious language.

PREFACE: As is appropriate, this is typed on a super duper whizzy Pentium M PC (manufactured by a local "reproducer" for sure) complete with 56X CD/DVD burner, gajillion USB ports for digital CF cards and a kickass sound system. In an air-conditioned internet cafe, charging US$1 per hour of computer use and US$2.50 per CD to burn your pictures if you run out of memory on CF cards. Not to mention the connections are WIRED i.e. ethernet lines, rather than the some shaky broadband system. This is more advanced than parts of Europe, man.

Tuk Tuk - similar to the little jipneys all over South East Asia, these carry anywhere from 2 to 6 passengers, really a hooded wagon towed by a scooter. Some have comfortable seats, others are a little shaky... but all accompanied with a smart-mouth driver who would love to drive you to the nearest mass-market restaurant that serves supposed traditional Khmer food. They're fun to bargain with - distance has nothing to do with price, and any protest about prices are bound to be accompanied with a huge grin and an incredulous "Ah.. Dteh, dteh (no, no)" as if the price would not feed his family of starving children.

Then again, it may not. Hmm.

Lo-uhng Tuk Tuk - Tuk Tuk Driver. After reluctantly agreeing on a price, they set off at a slow chug-u-lug pace to where you want to go. One lo-uhng who drives a particularly shaky tuk-tuk whips out with one hand a FLASHY hi-style gleaming color screen blinking polytonal ring-tone Sony Ericsson mobile, and talks away while manouvering the scooter with the other. We barely felt a bump, such was his skill, even with one hand driving. Other tuk-tuks were kind enough to provide a wire hanger twisted around the wagon hood, wrapped with soft styrofoam as a safety handlebar. We even saw one lo-uhng with a helmet - which was rare around Siem Reap.

Lok-Lak: A fried egg, served on top of Chah Setko (See "Char" and "Setko" separately), sometimes with chips. Very satisfying breakfast, especially with some local sweet chili sauce.

Kdaam-Tuk: An incredible wicked looking cricket type insect, normally found in paddy fields, these suckers are at least 2 - 3 inches long, and 1-inch wide. They are stir-fried in soya sauce, and are normally sold 3 for the bargain price of US$1. To eat them, you have to peel back the shells, pull off the little creepy legs, and suck out the insides. They sort of taste like a gamy soft-shell crab heavily laced with soy sauce, actually not as bad as I thought. Which I suppose is why it's called Kdaam Tuk - Kdaam means "crab"in Khmai (see Khmai).

Teh-long : Similar to Kdaam Tuk, except the bugs are black critters the size of cockroaches. These taste like dried shrimp - or "heh-bi", as the Singaporeans know them. Best served when the consumer's eyes are closed, with shells already peeled, two fingers pinching the last feeler of the bug that serves as a good handhold to pick out the insides with a toothpick (cos us foreigners don't have the skill to suck out the good stuff like the locals do). Recommend removing all the wings cleanly before consuming, and to eat with your eyes closed.

Ch-ngain - Tasty. which Teh-long and Kdaam-Tuk were not, really.

Chah - Fried, or stir-fried.

Set-ko - Beef. As in: Chah Set-ko Mee - Fried Beef noodles. Remember it, it will keep you nourished for less than US$1 on a daily basis. Very important survival phrase.

Khmai - the local pronunciation of their own language. Not KH-MEH-ER like the Americans like to say.

Pahn - bread. A take of the French pronunciation of "pain". Best purchased off the baskets in the street market, its oven-baked warmth kept inside by the sun's warmth beating down on its outside. Crusty on the outside, warm and fluffy on the inside. It was indulgence munching on mini baguettes as we walked around the street market and around the town.

Continuing our culinary adventure later on tonight :)

Cambodia Dispatch III: Phalli's Day From Hell

2005-03-26T19:55:00.000+08:00

My name is Phalli, I am one of the many registered tour guides in Siem Reap. Today I went to Monoreach Hotel on Airport Route 6 to pick up 2 visitors from Singapore, both on my package roster.

The day started oddly... they went out to find the driver when I was waiting for them in the lobby. When I caught up with them, one wanted to smoke a cigarette before getting in, while the other is still munching on breakfast toast slathered with something that looked radioactive red. Strange girls, these.

Little did I know what I was in for.

Although we set off with the prerequisite small talk in the car, when we got to the South Gate of Angkor Wat I realized we had past the first picture point... and we walked backwards to it. The thin one in the tank top was interesting to talk to, she was quite cute I thought. The other with the glasses and the bandanna was all over the place - snapping the oddest things like an Apsara Authority security guard having a smoke, original carvings instead of ruins, sometimes almost sprawling on the dirt to get a shot of the right light on the moat. Puh-leese, I see hundreds of these a month, if not more. Everyday I say the same damn thing to the same goggle-eyed tourists about the same archeological wonder, no need to get all excited showing me the oh-so-wonderful shot you took on your oh-so-advanced digital camera.

We stopped at Phineakas - where the top of the pagoda provided a good view of the surroundings, if these foreigners can stand the heat. The skinny one wanted to go up the safe way... with handrails and so on. The stocky one went up the steep way - climbing with hands and feet and went up like a monkey, cheered on by fat German tourists who were seated on plastic chairs, admiring the view. Why she chose the difficult route I don't know. I have a feeling that stocky one is trouble already... she has a tendency to wander off and take pictures while I'm reciting my archeological fact speech. Maybe she has a Lonely Planet and read it already.

As expected, the stocky one caused trouble instead. At the Royal Baths, I was talking to the skinny one (maybe I'll get a shot at something in Singapore) when Stocky wandered off to other side of the Female Bath and said she'll meet me somewhere. I said to meet at the South Gate.. Skinny and I continued to chat, and then she disappeared! We peered hard at the water... I hope Stocky knows how to swim, there are water snakes and leeches in that water. Oh god I can't deal with it if people were to find out I lost one of the two tourists I was guiding... that's a 50% loss rate, destroys my reputation for sure. Did she drown? We showed pics taken of her to local kids - have you seen this gal. Skinny was just laughing... does she know my career is at stake?! She said Stocky can swim well, but who knows what those leeches could have done to her foreign blood and anyway, if she gets wet from the Bath and complains to the agency... oh god better find her quick.

We went to the South Gate, and waited and waited. I started to panic - called the home office for Hong Kong country code so I could try her mobile. Then Skinny gets an SMS, says she's at the Elephant Terrace. We walk to the top - and no sign of her. Skinny calls her... and we hear Stocky's voice floating up from the dry grass... oh for god's sake, these tourists. Someone better tie a leash to the Stocky one.

The rest of the day was more of the same. I said to them meet me at the bottom of Angkor Wat at 4.30 pm, they show up at 5 pm. All flushed and thrilled and adrenalin-driven because Stocky talked Skinny into clambering down the steep steps without the benefit of a handrail... apparently a first for Skinny.

Then after Phnom Bakheng's sunset shots, which as expected they were also 30 minutes late in coming back, those two decided to buy souvenirs from street kids. No matter that these kids were talking to them at Angkor and gave each of them a bracelet and made paper cranes and paper boats and chatted for 2 hours, it's late, I'm fedup with these 2 and my dinner is waiting at home.

Then the Skinny one crosses the road, I yelled "One Second!!" as there was oncoming traffic from the other direction, but she still didn't listen - WOOSH and a van swipes by her leaving barely 2 inches to spare between skin and metal. Stocky was standing by the road in shock, her mouthful of bottled green tea unswallowed for fear of choking. Skinny was all jumpy from her recent brush with death, the guys that were waiting for tuk-tuk passengers all started calling out "How lucky she is!!" She should head to a monk tomorrow to get herself blessed - at a close brush like that, Good Luck is coming (cos it was a CLOSE BRUSH as opposed to TRAGIC TOURIST ACCIDENT) and Bad Luck must be chased away. Stocky said it had to be done or no way was she getting on a plane with her.

I can't take it. These two could bloody well end my career. As we sit in rush hour traffic in Siem Reap, leading from Angkore Wat, I couldn't wait to drop them off. Even if Skinny is cute and Stocky has a weird sense of humor and clambers up pagodas like the best of them, NEVER again. I'd rather host a group of Americans.

Cambodia Dispatch II: Trokalok

2005-03-25T21:28:00.000+08:00

After a surprisingly efficient hour at the internet cafe, we went for dinner at one of the street side food stalls. Amazing how quickly they run up when they spot a foreigner, waving English menus that describe in too simplified ways their local street food. We settled down in a spot where locals seem to be arriving at with their scooters, buying food to go - albeit at a price that was probably half what we were paying.

Interesting note: The same person must have printed the menus for all the stalls. They all had the same foods, and the same typographical error... "DRINGING" instead of "DRINKING".

A combination of sign language and broken English brought Coral and me a lovely and simple bowl of Mee-lion-sup-beep (yellow noodles in clear broth and beef slices, garnished with pieces of fried garlic) and fried yellow noodles in a sauce that tasted like a mix of ketchup and soysauce. Plus an Angkor beer, which was a very very very light lager. Plus a super super drink called TROKALOK - which is in essence fresh fruits blended with ice and condensed milk into a shake. So refreshing, rich but not too heavy, sweet but just cut by a bit of sour. It was a little plastic mug of heaven.

I exchanged cigarettes with the cook, and had a chat about what trokalok is all about. The language barrier exists for the sole reason for me to learn how to point and express myself with my hands and face, because my English was apparently not getting through. An enjoyable evening though.

On the way back, Coral was twisting around her seat on the tuk-tuk. She says she was looking to see how the seat cover was stitched to the seat frame... yeah right. I think she was trying to find a seat belt.

Tomorrow... Angkor Wat.

Cambodia Dispatch I: Chong Kneas

2005-03-25T18:24:00.000+08:00

It's dry season in Cambodia, the waters of Tonle Sap have receded and left behind its bouquet that makes your nose twitch and wonder who's drying fish around here. We were sitting in a tuk tuk, bumping and thumping our way over a dried riverbed that is overrun with air-conditioned buses and dusty pickup trucks. Doesn't take much to guess which carries the tourists, which carries the locals.

It was an hour's ride on the tuk tuk to get out to the waters, so we could check out the floating village of Chong Kneas (pronounced "Chong kh-nee-uhs"). When the lake waters are at their height during the rainy season, the villagers move upwards closer to the hill of Phnom Kron. There is a temple on top of the hill, so when the rains come and floods threaten everyday lives, people seek refuge in the embrace of this hill. In the dry season, however, the earth is naked, cracked, and all its insides seem to be turned on its outside. The thatch huts where people live in display their stilted undersides. The debris and rubbish that used to calmly sit underwater are now bared in the sun. Dogs and cats and chickens run wild, pecking and tearing at any possible food in sight, while kids run naked, covered in dirt and dust, waving a finger in the air at anyone carrying a camera, for the vain hope of a U.S. greenback. Their little legs pump hard and they scurry after the tour buses, squeaky noises screaming "hello hello" and when told "Dteh" ("No", in Khmer), they scream something else that sounds less polite, then smiles nicely and waves that finger again and say "hello".

Bey was our tuk tuk driver. He was paid US$10 to spend 3 hours with us, one to drive us out, one to wait for us, and one to drive us back. He was a gracious driver - stopped when we asked him to, so we could hop out and take pictures of things he must find so mundane... paddy fields, Phnom Kron hill, sleeping old man in a hammock under a thatch roof. Superb skill with the tuk tuk because neither one of us tumbled out of it, and invaluable when we needed a translator.

Bey tells us that the road out to Chong Kneas boats is long, because the dry season means we have much more ground to cover before we reach water. But reach water we did. The villagers of Chong Kneas make their lives temporarily on dry land at this time of the year, piles of dead fishes are placed on canvas sheets, to be sold together with the flies on top of them. The poverty is sobering - little shacks that are no bigger than an office cube house an entire family, all crouched around a little butane flame, some helping the others pick off lice in the hair. There are few lights - the ones that do have them are the center of activities. Any electrical power around here seems to be directed to the odd black and white TV, which flickers with local programs, its disembodied light adding a gleam to the black black eyes of the local kids.

Ironic as it seems, there were two snooker tables under a thatch roof in the middle of the dried riverbed, while stray dogs run around and nip at the ankles of little kids, still waving a finger and yelling "hello, hello".

The floating village itself, on the water, was charming... in many ways very similar to other floating villages I have seen. Our timing was good though - in time for sunset, the golden hour, where even the poorest and most destitute little shack looked charming under the amber sun. We had a fun time taking pictures of 3 kids in the middle of a tub war -- each was sitting in a tub, floating around the river,
splashing enough water into the othér's tub so it will sink. Defense weapon is a cut up liter container that used to hold soft drinks... a prime tool for bailing water out of one's own tub. The loser has to pull his tub out from under him, turn it upside down to empty it and then with admirable agility, scramble back in, and round 2 begins. It was a three-way war... which ended when one of them was called back to carry a huge python so Korean tourists could take pictures.

As dusk settled, the boat took us back to the sandy temporary village. As the smell of Tonle Sap drying in the heat wafted up to our nostrils, we turn our heads instinctively towards the water as if it could be avoided. And saw the most beautiful full moon coming up over the horizon as the sun was setting on the other side. There were several kids on the grassy banks of the lake playing a makeshift game of soccer, the moon glowing in its intensity like a god-like presence while they scream and kick away. The moon's pure brilliance and sheerness was a jarring contrast - a cold impartial and emotionless observer while such poverty and destitution barely manages to eke along, scrabbling for any chance to hold on to a dollar. I found its presence a mocking one - such beauty overlooking such sadness. Then the darkness settled in, the fireflies came out, and shadows covered the nakedness of the people's hard lives.

Tour buses with headlights on snake their way along the bumpy riverbed back towards Siem Reap, past more delapidated shacks that are invisible to tourists in the dark. A cortege of commercialism that is glad to have finished this day because a hot bath is waiting, to be followed by a dance show with a traditional Khmer style dinner. The children of Chong Kneas are still yelling "hello, hello", waving their fingers at the air-conditioned coaches whose wheels spray a cloud of fine dust from the riverbed, its mocking presence still hanging in the air long after the tourists have gone.

Help the new minority!

2005-03-23T02:06:00.000+08:00

Finally! Someone on OUR side.

Eyelids Drooping

2005-03-22T17:27:00.000+08:00

I was up late last night... doing nothing really, chatting online, organizing pictures, browsing the news, generally doing anything but productive work. My brain shut down around 9 pm and wasn't even turned on when I woke up this morning, swearing a blue streak because I slept with my finger on the snooze button on my PDA-doubling-as-alarm-clock.

So now, at the napping hour of 4 pm, I'm having trouble staying awake. After getting a triple-shot-tall-skim-latte from the Starbucks corporate monster, am browsing the news again. Not many of the crew that reads my blog subscribes to the Asian Wall Street Journal, and frankly most of the time it's full of hooey anyway. But two things pop out in today's (March 22, 2005) paper:

1. With U.S. Election Over, President Bush's Message Takes On a New Accent. - John D. McKinnon

This is a short article about the change in Dubya's speech mannerisms, which apparently has refined and improved compared to his cowboy bush-ism days post-nine-eleven.

"... Last month, addessing European leaders in Brussels, Mr. Bush spoke precisely, with only traces of his twang. He paid homage to the continent's political legacy, such as the Magna Carta, and flawlessly pronounced the name of Albert Camus. ... He is enunciating more clearly and dotting his remarks with more literary references. Gone is much of the verbal swagger, which produced such memorable first-term phrases as "bring 'em on" (said of Iraqi insurgents) and "dead or alive" (said of catching Osama bin Laden). Some linguists even say they detect a dialing-down version of Mr. Bush's Texas accent, at least in his formal speeches."

Does a refinement of speech also reflect a refinement of thought process? Or is this another case of sing sweetly to your victims while you crush them with all the subtlety of a demolition stone. In a way I find President's Bush's supposed sophistic-izing a little unsettling - instead of a bumbling Texan playing cowboys-and-indians with U.S. military as his props, now he sounds like a refined statesman playing cowboys-and-indians with U.S. military as his props. Surely the latter is a more malevolent scenario?

2. OpEd: And Now Kyrgyzstan - Editors

How many people know where Kyrgyzstan is? And how many of us have been following the pro-democracy protests that have been occuring there recently. I sheepishly hang my head and admit to not following the news on
this. But an old friend and her husband are there (last I heard, doing missionary work) and when I read this OpEd column, I got worried.

"The democratic ideal, once unleashed, appears to know no bounds. ... Pro-democracy demonstrations are now rocking Kyrgyzstan, a crucial juncture where the Russian sphere of influence abuts China and Afghanistan's neighbors. ... The difference with Kyrgyzstan, and one not to be overlooked, is that while the massive protests in Georgeia and Ukraine were peaceful, the central Asian republic is hanging on a knife's edge."

Here is an updated article from BBC.

I hope she's okay. Going to start the grapevine to find out what's going on with her these days.

Okay enough of a diversion. Back to the salt mines....

Still Got My Sea Legs

2005-03-19T00:24:00.000+08:00

I spent today on a boat. [PICTURES HERE]

Hong Kong's corporate junket normally includes some kind of a company yacht, or in this case, a "Chinese junk". Before you conjure up images of majestic sails fanning out and the theme from Tai Pan playing in the background, these days a "junk" really means a retrofitted trawler with some kind of "Chinese" wood (I think teak? not sure).

So a friend was able to get his paws on one of these tubs, boat is named "Basic Law" (haha - friend is a lawyer). After a round of frantic emailing, a group of 14 trooped onto the junk this morning, with the intention of setting out to Cheung Sha beach, southwest coast of Lantau Island.

Snacks galore - home-made dip, veggies, cheese, crackers, chocolates, cookies, grapes, lots and lots of chips. U2 Greatest Hits 1980s-90s blasting away. Lying in the sun. Gossiping and chatting. Snoozing with one ear open to catch the lastest gossip floating by. Sun rays tempered by the slightly cool air. Trying to not roll from side to side as the boat rocks with yet another wake. It was beautiful - even when the waters got remarkably choppy and some people were starting to regret the momentary forgetful lapse that made them leave their dramamine at home.

But when we got to Lantau, it was too choppy for the boat to dock at Cheung Sha beach. So we made a slight u-turn to Cheung Chau instead, where we were still keen on a seafood lunch, a walk around the place, and hunt for a bakery that was supposed to sell some of the best custard tarts in town.

Cheung Chau is one of the most populated outlying islands in Hong Kong waters. There are loads of bicycles carrying locals and tourists alike, struggling to make way through the narrow lanes. The fisherfolk are well and alive here, some living on boats, others might as well be. What's left of the day's catch that is not sold is now drying in the sun, haphazardly placed anywhere, on the sidewalk, on a stool by a tree. Impromptu barbeques pop up sporadically - a family brings out a steel barrel, lights up a few pieces of coal, sits themselves down on several foldable stools, fish-cakes and chicken wings on wooden skewers, and there starts a round of "keng gai" (chatting).

There is a lot here that is reminiscent of life in simpler, older Hong Kong. Houses, shops, people, all seem to be living in a village 20 years behind. THe only jarring effect was the Park&Shops (Hong Kong's largest supermarket chain), Watsons, 7-11s and (god forbid) a McDonald's. The administration is expanding the current ferry terminal where Central boats would stop - so there's a lot of construction going on, an ominous forewarning that there'll soon be more commerce here than life.

Missed photo opportunies (sniff. Sometimes I just want to rub salt on my wounds.)
- A stray mongrel with a mouth restraint trotting after Ophelia's gently bred city-dog Pico. [Oh the horror!] Reason for MPO: Camera stuck in bag, wasn't quick enough.
- 6-7 middle aged men lunching at a table, all on their feet, avidly staring at the big screen TV in the restaurant broadcasting a tense moment in the horse races. Hands raised, all of them with a finger pointing at the TV, cigarettes hanging from their lips. Reason for MPO: Batteries died. Forgot to charge them before I left the house.
- Old grannies gathered around in tables of 4, playing a local version of cards which were red and blue, smaller than your average players. Intense look of concentration over the coins they have on the table, pot of hot water on a little stove on the floor, ready to make more tea. Reason for MPO: Old ladies immediately protested by covering their faces with their hands when they saw me with my camera.

We got lost several times, hunting for the perfect egg tart. We didn't realize the first bakery we stopped into was not it - but we were so excited to see freshly baked tarts we didn't care - and gleefully munched into them. The amount of street snacks we consumed - the boat must have sunk a little lower when we got back on later that afternoon. We DID find the correct egg-tart place, and with a little arm-twisting, made room for some more. After all, desserts go into a separate stomach.

The boat had some challenge docking when picking us up. Since we didn't have a first mate, Kintun and Brandon were called upon to perform some acrobatic feats... not with rope, but with some desperate yells of "catch! catch!" and a grappling pole. To those who haven't seen landlubbers in their late twenties-early thirties precariously balancing on the edge of the boat while trying to not let the grappling pole drop a second time, with the rest of us laughing hysterically rather than concerned for their safety, check out THIS PICTURE.

Set off home slowly, with the sun behind us, the rocky coast of Hong Kong's green islands backlit with a rich orange hue, a slight chill in the wind.

Another satisfied day of the Good Hong Kong Life. :)

Memorable quotes:

"Wait, I haven't had that much wine - why is everything moving?" "Cos you're on a BOAT."

"Are we there yet?" "See boat here. See land there. See water in between. NO."

"Doesn't mushroom stock taste like beef stock?" "I think you need to get a different brand of mushroom stock."

"Can Pico eat [fill in the blank]?" (repeated MANY times that day)

"Can Pico swim?" "All dogs can. Here, let me prove it right now."

"Lai Niu Har translates into 'Pee-in-the-pants Prawn'." (Only people that speak Cantonese will get this.)

"The captain must be laughing at us." (when we got excited over the boat riding some large swells and it felt like we were on a roller coaster)

"Wow, he can really parallel park!" (one of our party who shall remain nameless, when the Captain was trying to dock the boat)

Thanks to: Kintun for organizing the boat, everyone else for bringing food and wine, Kitty and Brandon for communicating with the captain, Cindy for the egg tart place, Ophelia for bringing Pico and letting us make fun of you being a vegetarian - we love you anyway :), Eric and Tseyi for ordering lunch, Kelvin for letting us crash and watch DVDs at your place after on your big projector screen (even if it was some dumb horror movie and we all got freaked out at every little sound from your rear speaker), and Jin Ne, Susie, Gerald, Kelry, and Coral for making the day fun.

31 years and I've Learned Nothing

2005-03-18T00:25:00.000+08:00

You were born an original. Don't die a copy. --John Mason

Someone once said “A year older, a year wiser.” Well, I don’t know about the wiser part, but my 31st birthday was celebrated the way I wanted it done – health and friendship, life and love.

The best thing was it wasn’t just one day – oh no, my birthday needs to be bigger event than 24 hours. After all, my mother was in labor with me for longer than that. So it was really more like a birthweek. Which means I get to celebrate and do fun stuff during the days before, and after, my birthday... as long as I can say it’s within one week of March 5th.

After the angst-ridden months leading up to my 30th birthday, and subsequently having a fantastic year, I made a secret (well, not anymore) resolution to myself – all my birthdays from then on were going to be a celebration of me, my friends, my home, my family, my body, my soul, my LIFE. That day is the one day that is truly mine. That one moment I came into this world is special because there is only one of me, the moment is unique, I am unique.

There is no more life-affirming, self-defining moment, than that of one’s birth.

Then again, it’s all another reason to party down so maybe I’m ascribing deep reasons to a shallow event. But heck who cares, I had a lovely time and I’m looking forward to the next one already.

Here’s what happened during my 31st birthweek:

1. After driving me mad by not telling me when he was going to be in Hong Kong, Johann showed up on – surpise! – Wednesday. Final giveaway clue: background noise on his mobile phone, sounds like Cheng Muht Kao Gan Cheh Moon which means Please Stand Clear of the Train Doors in Cantonese. He stayed a fantabulous 8 days, yay!

2. My dad sent me a text message, which he does every year, with a pearl of wisdom. This year’s: "Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have."

3. Office gals Gloria and Elise brought me out to lunch, Xiao Nan Guo Shanghainese restaurant in Central (Man Yee Building). Awesome greenhouse theme, delicious food, lots of leftovers which very conveniently fed my houseguests. :)

4. Made a new friend, Cindy, from Singapore. She is an attorney on secondment in Hong Kong, making the best out of a luxury corporate service apartment and the oh-so-confusing array of shops in Hong Kong. Yes, I’m being sarcastic.

5. Dinner with my new Hong Kong friends in Greenlands Indian Restaurant, Lan Kwai Fong. The food was delicious but it was nothing compared to the 3rd degree I got from Ophelia (yes, Ophie, I am naming names) and the ruckus over a pair of kissing-cows-mobile-phone-ornaments. They have been immortalized in my birthday pictures – note the little white bits in my hand.

6. Had my first mahjong lesson. This is a confounding but curiously addictive game that challenges the mind and speed of hand-eye coordination. A mix of gin rummy and poker, with a score-keeping system that requires quantum mathematics, and the Chinese penchant for all things colorful and whimsical, mahjong is a true Hong Kong pastime. It also gives you a lot of chances to say "Puhng!" in all the dramatic styles you wish to experiment in. I lost HK$86 to Sensei Kintun that night, consider it a tuition fee, and don’t expect it to ever happen again! Hmph. (Of course these are famous last words since I’m a complete loser and Kintun plays with “flair”)

7. Mom and sister called to tell me they got me a handbag, a set of earrings, a pendant with my name on it, and delicious cookies from Malacca. Yay, one stop shop!

8. Dinner with my Uncle Charlie, Aunt Janet, cousin Yippy, Aunt Esther, her husband (who doesn’t have an English name), Johann, Penny and Mark in a rather exclusive Suzhou/Zhejiang Resident’s Club Restaurant. Is it any surprise the food was delicious as well. And I got my birthday cake!

9. A couple of days later, we went climbing up Lion Rock. The level of difficulty was harder than we expected, and the dizzying heights! Oh dear I had not felt vertigo like that in a LONG time. It took me longer than expected to get up the first pitch, after scratching my arms to shreds and almost peeing my pants with fear when I fell and swung on a rope to crash into a tree, all of Kowloon and Hong Kong in a dizzying whirl in front of me while I try to reach and hold on to something, anything.

I suppose it’s a true test of how much wiser I am when, after Johann offered to lower me, that I stubbornly insisted that I could climb this. And I did get up, scared as hell and refused to open my eyes for the first ten minutes. But when I did, it was the most amazing sight that greeted me. Hong Kong in all its glory – it was most worth the pain and the fear.

Never mind that I looked like Wolverine just went mad giving me a bear hug, that this was my first rappel, that we were at a height that was equal to the top of the International Finance Center (100 stories? 120 stories?), that if someone had a hand cramp I may have died. The view, especially the one at night, was so fantastic I was just happy to be there.

So as I said in the beginning, 31 years and I’ve still learned NOTHING. Happy birthday to me. PICTURES HERE.

Go Green!!!

2005-03-17T17:10:00.000+08:00

I just realized today is St Patrick's Day.

A holy-day that became a drinking day, I used to have visions of green everywhere I walked around New York on March 17. Even if there is actually nothing green, my eyes just glazed over with this emerald glow, I could have sworn someone raised the gamma on everything on Paddy's Day.

Irish or not, this day in New York is a good one to cut loose and celebrate the ability to wear green, get drunk, and sing drinking songs out-of-tune while keeping time by banging your beer mug on the counter.

In my life today, however, you'd only see the occasional paper shamrock hanging from the top of a doorway to a pub in Lan Kwai Fong, I was curious about that - such low-key decoration for a nation-rousing world-wide head-spinning hangover-inducing special day?

If I was the pubowner, I'd realize this weekend (March 17-21)is one of bartending's biggest cash-runs of the year ..
- The St Patrick's-Night-Party-Hearty crowd;
- Followed by the pre-Rugby-Sevens-Prepare-and-Cheer-On-Your-Nation crowd;
- Followed by the Rugby-Sevens-Support-Your-Nation-Go-[Fill in country name] crowd;
- Followed by the Rugby-Sevens-Watch-The-Other-Team-Win-Sore-Loser crowd;
- Followed by Thank-God-Rugby-Sevens-Is-Over-Let-Me-Drink-In-Peace crowd.

This easily takes the average barkeep all the way to Monday, who if he/she was smart, would be wearing good shoes with absorbent socks, popping uppers so they can serve sloshy drinks for 4 days straight, and go home with a FAT gratuities pocket.

Now.. do I dare open that pub door under the solitary little paper shamrock and walk in? The door is vibrating to the bass beat of something that sounds suspiciously like stomping feet and banging beer mugs..

Happy St Patrick's Day, all! Go green!!

DON'T OPEN THIS AT WORK OR IN FRONT OF YOUR KIDS - Link Contains Adult Content

2005-03-14T23:16:00.000+08:00

TODAY MEN GET THEIRS BACK.

Well never let it be said that men are subtle. Happy S&BJ Day, boys!

P.S. Shouldn't someone start marketing this to Hallmark...

Shots of my life in Hong Kong (I)

2005-03-01T00:13:00.000+08:00

Enough questions from people already, about how I like my life in Hong Kong. I like it VERY VERY MUCH. It could, on occasion, feel very much like New York. It can have overtones of the Mediterranean, especially around the nature parks, beaches, outer islands and mountains.

It also has its own flavor that cannot be found anywhere else. Food, people, buildings, the unique mix of East and West, and the fantastic vantage points at various spots in Hong Kong that give you the best view of what this place is all about.

It's hard to describe it in words, because Hong Kong has to be felt. People whom I've discussed about Hong Kong, when they come in person, always agree words don't do it justice. You may love it, or hate it, but you'll certainly never forget it.

I like taking pictures of Hong Kong. Too many of them, actually, to be posted properly here without resulting in an irate email from the masters of Blogger's space... so I'll have to rely on the oh-so-useful invention: the HYPERLINK.

Just to share a little of what I see with the rest of you. This type of post will be updated over time... refreshed with new albums. You'll see earlier albums of touristy shots, exploration time, learning the most obvious aspects of Hong Kong. You'll see later pictures of people, life, streets, when I start to become more and more a part of this cityscape.

Hong Kong Aug-Sep 2004
Hong Kong: Hiking Dragonback Also see this old post.
Hong Kong: Causeway Bay and Victoria Park
Hong Kong: Kowloon Park
Hong Kong: Deng Xiao Ping Centurion Exhibition (Wanchai Convention Center)

The ultimate goal of all this, of course, is to get peope to COME VISIT ME. C'mon, no more excuses. Ticket prices are at an all time low, tons of discount airlines fly here. Even the premier airlines have that polar-ice-cap-route thing where you can spend 18 hours in a tin can without touching ground in between. I even have a spare room, and I promise to clean out the junk I've piled on top of the spare bed so that you can curl up and sleep on it.

So what are you waiting for??

A Piece of Heaven Down Under

2005-02-10T00:00:00.000+08:00

Some day I must visit Australia when there is bad weather. Because everytime I've gone, it's been spectacular - sun's rays comfortably bathe my face in warmth, breeze gently moves my hair, air smells sweeter, food tastes fresher.

I was in Sydney/Wollongong to see some family and friends in between work - don't ask me what I did for my work, because it pales in comparison to what I did for fun. The Highlight, aside from visiting my dad and catching up with my brother (and his girlfriend - nice girl :), was to see old friends I haven't seen in a while.

A delicious dinner by The Rocks with my old friend AJ, who when I first cast eyes on after a gap of 14 years, burst out with the same comment as I did "You haven't changed a bit!!"

And a fantastic awe-inspiring walk from Bronte beach to Bondi beach, with Kat. The 2 hour walk covered topics including the locale, religion, religious books, love lives, families, kids, Australian-born Chinese, politics, etc. Really everything except the meaning of life. Then again, I suppose we already covered the meaning of life. :)

The longer we walked, the more I was tempted to set my feet firmly on the path towards a real estate office to buy a place by Bronte beach. Azure waters, craggy oh-so-climbable wave-carved rocks, smooth sand, relatively well-behaved seagulls... it was so beautiful I almost forgot that real estate here would cost me something I may not ever be able to pay. But hey, a girl can dream :)

Yeah, this streak of good luck over my visits Down Under must come to an end at some point, because Murphy may not be alive, but his law is just rounding the bend to whack me in the face. In the meantime, the pictures of this visit document another breautiful break in the little piece of heaven down under.

In the Capital of the Middle Kingdom (I)

2005-02-06T16:00:00.000+08:00

Photo compilation from a long weekend in Beijing. Temperature a frigid -3 degrees celsius, stayed with friend Weelim, ate well and partied hard. It's a true capital city indeed. I have separated my pictures into themes... not necessarily in the order I took them, but the way I felt them. Such a strange city. There is a level of surreal I felt oddly intimidated by - one of the few places that I actually felt like I could get lost in. I never completely got my bearings in Beijing - it never left my consciousness that this is one of the largest land masses in the world, and that every person I see on the street is only one out of a billion.

Greeted with irony:
Immigration guards that were smiling and polite.

Young professionally suited men squatting by the luggage belt sending sms on little metallic mobile phones.

Airport exit, billboard of a frosty scandinavian blonde in furs and stillettos, slogan says in Chinese "XX-brand welcomes you home".

Passing a central govt munitions plant letting off excess fireworks, apparently common practice for leftover fireworks, at 10 pm on a snowy Wednesday night.

Snowflakes suspended in midair, not going anywhere. Featherlight but frozen in action.

Downtown:
Smog, haze.

Human crowding into other humans, rosy cheeks, inky black hair, smiling eyes, lifeless mouths.

Ill-fitting poofy winter jackets and bad haircuts.

People squatting at the bus stop, looking at luxury sedans chauffering nouveau riche.

Strong women, stern men. Singsong language.

Wangfujing – shoppers there are like a mass of kids that are slightly delirious over the many flavors of ice cream presented in front of them, and are in a hurry to try everything at the same time without caring about bellyaches or brainfreeze.

Well-dressed yuppies buying street-side shao bing (pan-grilled crispy buns stuffed with a fried egg, cured meat).

Scale - everything's big...broad long highways of 10 lanes, separated by a delicate garden fence-like knee-high divider.

Wide walkways, palatial underground passages instead of pedestrian street crossings, gargantuan buildings with large footprints and tall towers at the same time. Space is NOT at a premium.

Shining sterile new buildings were dulled by dirt and sand into grey shell hulks, nothing organic about this city. Urban sprawl. Square grey buildings next to ornamental noodle shop roofs.

Crazy free-for-all cyclists cheek to jowl with bus drivers, everyone is fully confident that they had the right of way, including jaywalkers. Stalled street traffic.

Tiananmen Square:

Cold, hard concrete slabs, angles everywhere.

Grand, imposing, power of the authority.

Poor Red Guards to stand still for so long in the cold.

Nowhere to sit down – why? People stand around awkwardly – must look up with crick in neck to admire buildings and flags but nowhere to rest and properly appreciate.

Query: benches + square = park?

No green! No birds!

Ironic since the painting of Chariman is one that is a life-like oil representation of warm and fatherly face, half-smiling on the descendants of the dragon. But there is nothing warm about the capital. Reminds me of the reason the original architect designed Washington DC the way he did – to intimidate foreign visitors.

See: Beijing the City

Beijing the City (II)

2005-02-06T07:57:00.000+08:00

Collection of pictures taken of Beijing - literally, the Northern Capital.

URBANITES

Large buses run down broad boulevards

Flyovers kiss Skycrapers

Lanterns light up Ghost Street

See: Life in Beijing

Life in Beijing (III)

2005-02-06T07:46:00.000+08:00

Collection of pictures taken of Beijing - literally, the Northern Capital.

EVERYDAY

Remembering Glory Days

Remembering Down Days

Chatting about the Day

Commoners walk on royal grounds

End of our shift

Taking a break

Collecting scrap in scrappy neighborhood

Waiting for fares

You're my fare

See: Monuments to History

Beijing Monuments to History (IV)

2005-02-06T07:41:00.000+08:00

Collection of pictures taken of Beijing - literally, the Northern Capital.

MAN PLANS AND BUILDS

Tiananmen Square in Smog

Tianan Gate Columns

Foridden City no longer forbidden

Arch

People's Will

The Big Divide

Relics Go Commercial

Sitting Pretty

Standing Not Pretty

See: Beijing Trades

Beijing Trades (V)

2005-02-06T02:56:00.000+08:00

Collection of pictures taken of Beijing - literally, the Northern Capital.

TO MARKET

Bar is open

Fake Goods under True Blue sky

Waiting for customers

Produce stalls

Veggies are good for you

Big veggies are better for you

Pink Power

Mistress of her domain

Fried and Delicious

Calm amid the storm

Back to: In the Capital of the Middle Kingdom

It Comes To An End

2005-01-27T03:54:00.000+08:00

January 27, 2005. My grandmother passed away peacefully at 12.41 am, at home in Singapore surrounded by her family.

Goodbye. See previous post.

Indonesia 5: Friends in Hi and Lo Places

2005-01-04T04:18:00.000+08:00

* Pictures courtesy of Johann Annuar

I have known Grace since we were 10, over 20 years of classroom friendship. So when it was time for her wedding in Jakarta, a whole bunch of us who were all in that same class twenty years ago, headed out to celebrate her happy day.

It was an elegant Catholic ceremony with Grace and KK in traditional Javanese garb, held in a famous chapel in Jakarta. This was followed by a reception in the Sheraton, complete with another change in outfit to the classic ivory and black. The required set of speeches followed, with a very touching one by Grace’s father – about celebrating differences and staying together, and the glue that is love.

Speeches were followed with some serious Bangra – modern Indian pop music with infectious hip-shaking and shoulder-bobbing rhythm. Led by the groom, his brother, and the bride – it added a lot of laughs to the Sheraton ballroom that day.

Much happiness, Grace and KK! Glad to have the opportunity to celebrate with you – and if you can boogie down to Bangra music in the middle of the poshest hotel in Jakarta, then things are looking good ahead. :)

See Indonesia 4: It Takes All Kinds ...

Indonesia 4: It Takes All Kinds

2005-01-03T03:34:00.000+08:00

* Pictures courtesy of Johann Annuar

Within the short time period of 8 days, to see the ironic juxtaposition of rich and poor in a country like Indonesia. It does indeed take all kinds in this world, and one thing I can see is that the affluent ones may not be the happy ones.

UNDER ONE ROOF
Jakarta 5-star Hotels, with every imaginable comfort and your last fantastical whimsy met by obliging staff members, all for the price of a hefty bill at the end of your stay.

Maninjau, the average local home, complete with green hills and simplicity of life that accompanies the grace and hospitability of a people that stress a lot less and live a lot more.

SPLISH SPLASH
Jakarta – water spins around from a famous city-center sculpted fountain, of a horse-drawn chariot in such exhausting detail, you could almost feel the horse’s sweaty breath.

Maninjau – water lies calmly in the crater formed by Mother Nature’s own fury, fish traps quietly floating on the water, sometimes you can hear a splash as a fish makes a vain leap…

SKYLINE
Typical Jakarta high-rise: 4 corners. Grey. Concrete. Progress.

Typical Minangkabau building: Sweeping curves. Sharp Points. Wood. Tradition.

RELAXING
In Jakarta, floating around in opulence bliss, underneath a canopy of luxury at the Four Seasons Hotel

In Maninjau, having a cup of tea and mee goreng in a street-side coffee shop, looking at the greenest field I have ever seen.

FROM POINT A TO POINT B
Padang – 3 wheels are better than 2, when going to the market.

Maninjau – 1 paddle wheel is better than rowing 2 oars, when cutting across the lake to go to the market.

Jakarta – No wheels is better than this traffic snarl at rush hour.

Maninjau – rush hour.

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND
By the water with Mother (Maninjau)

Look there, Dad (Maninjau)

Spontaneous welcoming committee (Maninjau)

Students Raising Funds for Tsunami Relief (Bukittinggi)

Waiting for the big one to swim by (Maninjau)

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

Feeding (Maninjau)

Fishing in the lake (Maninjau)

Not the Tailor of Panama (Maninjau)

The Good Earth (Maninjau)

Open for Business (Maninjau)

COLLECTIBLES
A moth (Maninjau)

Souvenirs at Jakarta Airport Security Checkpoint (Jakarta)

See Indonesia 3: Market Day ...

Indonesia 3: Market Day

2005-01-02T03:32:00.000+08:00

* Pictures courtesy of Johann Annuar

I have always been fascinated by street markets. The variety of goods available for sale, how hawkers display their wares and the way shoppers pick and choose what they want – there are few ways that one can better assimilate and soak in the feel of a place and its people.

Whether it’s a street cart’s roti-bakar, or a handmade hoe-blade from the knife-stall, these are goods that I can’t find where I come from, or where I’m living in today. Ironically, the simpler and less sophisticated the lifestyle, the more unique the market goods are. Perhaps this is a function of returning-to-basics… in place of mobile phones, there are twenty styles of hoes and axes painstakingly sharpened by hand. In place of fast-food, there are handmade pancakes and freshly fried bananas. In place of pills and over-the-counter drugs, there are home-dried/pickled medicinal water eels.

Bukit Tinggi’s and Padang’s marketplaces were probably the most typical of commerce in this area of Sumatra. I slowly ambled along the stalls, engrossed with what was being offered. Local women, with brightly colored headscarfs, chatter about their day – with gigantic bunches of plastic bags roped around their fingers, swinging around like they weighed no more than a few ounces each.

Tending the stalls were mostly generations of females – mothers and daughters, grandmothers and granddaughters.

The cynic may interpret the presence of children as a ploy to generate “awwww… how cute” and therefore attract the buyer to potentially spend some money. Well, the cynic is half-right since I did spend money buying things.

Passing a stall that sold freshly-cut flowers, I sidled up to the stall that sold seventy-five different ways of deep-frying dough into crispy flavored snacks.

The lady presiding over her little tower of carbo-loading munchies was all ready to sell me her wares by the gallon-bag – that is, until I pointed out I really only liked the taste of her peanut candy. I walked past the storefront that sold dried legumes and rice, and tried to ignore the weevils that dotted the surface of each sack.

Even this extra garnish of protein pales in comparison to the next thing I saw being sold as a dried condiment with medicinal benefits… skewered and air-dried water eels.

These little suckers were caught by the netful, and slit from neck to tail-end. Their insides are cleaned out, and a skewer is poked through the cut side, coming out from the mouth on the other side. Ten or so of them can fit on one skewer, all these skewers are hung upside-down to air-dry, such that when it comes time to sell the water eels, their stiff dried carcasses make for easy packing. A grotesque contrast to their fluid movements when they were still alive. They are sold by the skewer, and should you prefer, the skewer can be recycled for future eel-use.

And of course, my martial arts bent got all excited when I saw a knife stall. The wonderful array of axes and hoes in so many different sizes was quite mind-bending. How many ways, really, can you chop a tree, or hoe the field?

Any self-respecting market would also provide a wide array of foodstuffs to feed its shoppers when energy flags. I certainly needed no justification to stuff my face. In Bukittinggi, there were freshly baked corn/tapioca muffins wrapped in banana leaves (which I have coined “indomuffin”), starchy thick pancakes stuffed with peanuts (“martabak”, nothing like the one we know in Singapore), grilled sandwiches of chicken and fried egg (“roti bakar”), boiled peanuts (kecang), and fried batter bananas (“goreng pisang”), and barbequed marinated beef/chicken like I’ve never had before (“satay”, complete with the most heavenly peanut sauces).

Not to mention the uncountable plates of gado-gado, mee goreng, lontong, nasi-padang… to be topped off in Jakarta with a satisfying bowl of mee bakso ayam, with chocolate-cheese toast as a dessert chaser (yes, the flavors actually work).

Not just sundries, the markets also provided everything ranging from the cheap-o haircut

or the stylish makeover,

intricate kebaya tailoring

or bulk-sold basic whites.

The marketplace in Indonesia puts people from all walks of life into the same place, where bargaining and commerce makes equals of everyone.

At the end of the day, the shoppers could ride one of the horse-drawn carts lined up waiting for fares,

or if more affluent, head home on their own steam.

Although on the surface a far cry from the suburban shopping malls and cavernous parking lots with gas-guzzling station wagons at the ready to bring home gigantic sacks of 12-pack 2-ply toilet paper, it’s comforting how across all walks of life, the process of shopping, paying and getting home, finds common elements anywhere in the world.

Go to Indonesia 2: Motorbike Happy ...

Indonesia 2: Motorbike Happy

2005-01-01T13:57:00.000+08:00

* Pictures courtesy of Johann Annuar

Most third-world countries tend to have an excess of two-wheeled vehicles: bicycles in China, scooters in Thailand, rickshaws in India, etc. In Indonesia it's no exception - even in an idyllic place like the village of Maninjau.

In Maninjau, the vehicle of choice is the motorcycle. Not the full splendor of the Honda Goldwing, or the stylish hipness of the Vespa, but a rag-tag collection of nameless spindly contraptions that have some kind of engine, no mufflers and barely enough brakes. One helmet was a courtesy, two helmets would be a dream come true. But they were only $5 a day to rent, so in the interest of not having to hike 70 km around the lake, we went for the bike.

Maninjau in the day was like a pretty but slightly moody lady in her prime, a study in greens, browns and yellows. The prettiness was evident - a bucolic setting of lake, mountains, quaint houses, people - all welcoming visitors with open arms. Everywhere we passed on the motorcycle, with every speed bump and little dip and rise, the mountains greeted us with a different face, the foliage turns into another village, we see a different set of people. I was delighted with how life goes on in such simplicity and purity. The bike more than paid for itself in the pictures we could take along the way - nothing like trying to catch a shot of foliage while on a moving swaying bike, one hand preoccupied with holding the camera steady and the other clutching the rear to keep myself steady.

Lady Maninjau was also slightly moody because the mist and clouds never completely go away. Even at the peak of midday, the sun's rays penetrate through the clouds but never burn them up. The air alternates between a pleasant cool and a sticky humidity, and the sky could be a periwinkle blue or an impenetrable grey that lets loose rain of such gentleness that you barely feel it on your skin . Which made for some interesting biking, as you could most definitely feel the rain under the bike's wheels. Seeing as how there was one helmet between two riders (with no rain cover) and muddy roads, this was all a good reason to stop at coffee shops along the way for snacks and drinks.

Maninjau felt like a woman in her prime (not to be sexist or anything) because of the amazingly lush and verdant feel of the place. Not just a thousand shades of green that we saw in the grass, the rice stalks, the bushes and the trees, but also the profusion of flowers that are not seen anywhere else, the abundance of fruits, dogs and cats and chickens having puppies and kittens and chicks, shapely women delicately balancing grainloads on their heads, kids with younger kids in tow. There was such an overwhelming feeling of luscious fertility that everything seemed to resonate on a different wavelength than normal. Greens were greener, water was clearer, yellows were brighter and light was sharper. Basic instincts awoke and became more attuned to the change in temperatures, the purr of the motorbike engine, the tear of the wind in my hair, the smell of damp earth, burnt wood and cut grass. I wanted the bike to keep going and carry me deeper and deeper into this strange parallel universe.

Oh yes, the motorbike was most definitely worth it.

Go to Indonesia 1: Where Time Stopped

Indonesia 1: Where Time Stopped

2004-12-31T18:25:00.000+08:00

* Pictures courtesy of Johann Annuar

Have you ever stepped into a place where you felt time stop? Where the figures on your watch/PDA/mobile phone were meaningless, where the days and nights were marked by the rising and setting of the sun? Where minutes and hours passed not by the creeping tick-tock of the hands of a clock, but by the clucking of chickens, the rustle of the wind, and the lapping of waves?

Down the infamous 44 hairpin turns that lead from the town of Bukit Tinggi, in the middle of Sumatra, to the village of Maninjau, is such a place.

Each hairpin turn seemed to raise a little more the curtain that covers this beautiful place, and when you reach the last turn, you would have passed a portal that brings you to a haven of peace and quiet. A layer of mist lightly covers the village when you enter, you see the paddy fields and Minangkabau-style houses through a hazy screen, almost as if this is a place in your dreams. Twisting and turning you go down into the crater, and the full panorama of Danau Maninjau (Lake Maninjau, in Bahasa Indonesia) slowly appears before you in all its subdued elegance.

There are several backpacker-style places to stay in, and we took the chance of "walking in" -- there must had been some providence at play here, for we did find a room despite this being New Year's eve season. The guest house we stayed in was rudimentary by many standards, but the hosts were gracious, the rooms were clean, the beds had sheets, and the local chickens were friendly. With a balcony outside that overlooked the crater walls circling the water, a lounging area that let us step directly into the lake for a refreshing dip, what more could we ask for?

We checked into the guest house in time for sunset. The clear lakewater quietly lapped against the steps leading down from the guest house, it was too good an invitation to turn down. Floating in the middle of the calm waters of a crater lake, created by Mother Nature's own fury and beautified by her soft touch, evident in the layers of clouds above, lined with whimsical silver edges. The lake was soothing and balmy, and as the waterline crept from my ankles to my thighs to my chest and finally to my neck, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the embrace of Maninjau until I was finally lost to its spell and enfolded in the arms of the crater walls that cut off the rest of the world from me.

Time and air and space in this place moved along its own rules. With only my head above water, I looked at the sun setting in the groove between two hills - the gentle "V" a natural nook for the sun to go to bed in. Purples, blues and pinks were alternatively mixing and matching into the most amazing profusion of colors - or was the humidity trapped within the crater walls playing games with my vision?

The crater walls were majestic hills, dark silhouettes under the sun, trimmed at the bottom with little villages, paddy fields and the occasional coconut trees. The water was rimmed with fish traps, kelongs, and little huts on stilts with boats lashed to them. The boats rocked gently on the water - lazily moving in a rhythm that was hypnotic and beautiful. I found myself treading water and breathing to the rocking of the boats, my movements unconsciously propelling me in a slow turn that let my senses drink in 360-degrees of Maninjau's beauty. I heard no sounds beyond my breath slowly hissing through my nostrils, my heartbeat echoing dully in my eardrums, the water trickling around my armpits and lapping around my chest. I was lost, and I didn't want to be found.

When my arms finally got tired and the slight chill in the air reminded me I was 800m above sea-level, I climbed out of the water and sat by the lounge to watch Maninjau go to sleep. Our cameras could do no justice to this place, but we tried our best - trying to capture moments when it seemed only right that we were there. When a little dragonfly, or a tiny flower, seemed to be the biggest star in this amazing interlude of nature's creation.

Hours may had been spent that night watching the lake, but time had no meaning to us then. I went to sleep that night already dreaming.

Go to Indonesia 2: Motorbike Happy

Kitty

2004-12-18T17:21:00.000+08:00

In an average child's life, how many pets would have died under his/her watch? And does that number include the ones our parents flushed down the toilet but told us "The fish has gone to live with his mummy and daddy"?

Last month, I put my cat to sleep. Some people may feel I killed my cat. Others may feel I had put my cat out of its misery of kidney failure. All I know is I looked into her eyes, listened to her plaintive and weak meows of pain, felt her legs tremble under her skeletal frame, wiped off blood-stained vomit from her whiskers, and my heart broke into pieces.

I still don't know if I made the right chioce. How can one tell if it is the right thing to end a life? All I know is it was a decision made out of love. My most loyal companion, my bestest friend, and one whose love I know I had without prerequisite or condition.

Since childhood I have had many pets. Or rather, my parents took care of my many pets. We had a lot of dogs -- my favorite, when we were living in Malaysia, was Lucky, the timbermill mongrel who bore lots of puppies and created a dynasty ruling the west end of Penang, Malaysia. There were also several bunnies, chicks, little goats and a fat guinea pig. That was when we had the luxury of cheap land.

Then we moved to Singapore, where three kids squeezed into a 10 by 10 bedroom. The pets shrank accordingly and we fostered little chicks, terrapins, and guppies. My class was bought a hamster, whose coat was so luxurious we named her Velvet. I seem to have the good fortune of being acquainted with fecund animals, as Velvet seemed to have no problem finding a mate everytime she twitched her little hamster whiskers. Velvet was the matriarch of a hamster empire that managed to provide a pet to almost every one of the 30 kids in my class.

Subsequently we moved to a larger house, and we adopted a dog from the pound (which was an excuse, really, for us to visit the nearby pound to oooh and aaah at cute dogs). A cross-dacshund we named Lady, she was the epitome of stylish elegance. The way she folded her body into a neat bow before she sat down, the way she raised her chin when our mean neighbor walked by, the way she would stand alertly when she knew we were coming home just by the sound of my father's car coming round the bend. Lady seemed to know more about our lives than we did ourselves. I always thought she was the smartest pet ever had, and it was proven to me one day. We let her out for her daily walk, and she never came back. Our parents told us she decided it was her time to go, and she'd rather go away then let us see her last day.

After college in New York, I did have, for a short time, a pet albino hamster named Dante, as its red eyes reminded me of the seven levels of Hell. After which Kitty came into my life. She was picked up from a warehouse during a snowstorm, with the vain intention of bringing her back to the warehouse after the snowstorm was over. She stayed for 10 years, through five different apartments in New York City, living on a boat for a year, heat waves, snowstorms, cement yards, fire escapes, a short stint with another cat, another short stint with a Siberian Husky, and one bout of bladder infection.

Kitty moved with me to Hong Kong, and earned the high praise from the pet transport agency as "the most poised cat we've ever transported". She sat through the cross-pacific trip with admirable endurance, with very little disturbance. In our new Hong Kong home, she found her own little nook in a hideaway shelf in my living room cabinet. She continued to sleep by my back as was her habit in New York. She still refused to drink from her dish, but daringly lapped at water in my glass, soup in my bowl, and jumped on the bathroom sink to look at me expectantly when I went to wash my hands, hoping for a chance to drink from the bathroom faucet. She could tell whom I liked or disliked, and was friendly enough to let the ones I liked pet her back and rub her forehead. She liked to sleep in the same bed with the people I liked, which was great praise, I suppose, in cat-world.

Kitty was 13 years old in human years when she left. Kitty's ashes are now in a stylish marble urn, back in the little hideaway cubbyhole that was her favorite spot. My flat is no longer covered in cat hair, my clothes now need less brushing. But there is a big hole in my heart where she used to be, the bed is less warm now that she's not there sleeping by my back,and my flat seems emptier than before. I miss her unconditional acceptance and uncanny ability to know when I'm feeling blue, when I'm happy, and her stubborn reluctance to let anyone tell her what to do.

I fill the gaping hole in my heart every now and then when the little bell on her collar, which is still latched around my bag, tinkles sharply. I am thankful that she spent so much time loving me, and I hope that she knows I will miss her forever.

Nightime on the Promenade

2004-12-16T22:27:00.000+08:00

So I came back from hanging out with my friends listening to a lousy girl band that think they do grunge music, they're uni kids from China that are in HK for a holiday - I don't know how my friend got to know them, but they sucked. Think that weirdass Japanese girl band in Kill Bill 1 when Uma goes into the Japanese bathhouse to kill Lucy Liu.

Then I got too wired to go to bed so I went walking along the promenade and I started to write. A real letter on paper with pen and stuff. Realized my handwriting was such chicken scratch and would be horrible for anyone's eyesight to read, so instead it's been transcribed into a blog entry! So in a way readers of this blog post will be the lucky recipient of a letter from me in these many years.

"Lucky" is subjective and debatable, I guess. I'm most likely going to write about nothing at all - just random thoughts as I sit here, with the breeze on my face, the night silent and comforting, like a good friend that sits there and says nothing, the mere presence enough to soothe and calm. I love nighttime for this reason. There are no harsh sunrays to show you the ugly realities of the world. You know they're there, but for these few hours the bad and undesirables have gone to bed with the sun.

All you see is purity - the clean lines of the moon, crisp scattering of the stars across the sky like diamonds, mute clouds that cushion the background as pillows for these nocturnal jewels, all divinely arranged on a velvet canvas.

All is quiet, at rest - except for the boats. I'm looking at Aberdeen Fishing Market, from which fishing and gasoline boats continue to ply through the water like so any busy ants in their watery hive, strangely making barely a whisper of a splash. There must be some reason for their industry, I'm just not sure what.

The twinkling stars are reflected down below, not just on the water, but in the multitudes of blinking apartment windows and the lights in them. Funny how I never see the same effect in New York and Singapore. All these skyscraping condominiums that HK is (in)famous for fade into the dark night, their only trace the blinking lights visible from residential units. From afar, they look like columns of starlight. Twinkling and blinking, they dazzle me, because I know behind each star is a home, with people and lives and a story waiting to unfold. Every night these "stars" arrange themselves into a different constellation because time doesn't stop and every day, the story is different. Our mundane everylife, in its own way, reflective of the greater story that is the cosmos, the universe, the earth, the sky, the wind, the stars.

Have you reckoned the earth much? asks Walt Whitman.

I just gaze at the stars above, look back down at the stars below, breathe in the sea air, listen to the waves and am happy to be here.

I am starting to, Mr. Whitman.