the chicken wing episode

The first work of 2012

2012-01-06T13:58:00.010+08:00

Fabric paint 4 x $8
Fabric glue 1 x $7
Ribba frame 1 x $19.90
Scrap fabric N.A.

RESULT:
Hor gniah hor? - Mother
*grunt* - Father
i nearly read tt as 'family portrait' - Brother
see, my real toenail is over there~ - Me
grossss... T.T - Sister

To the Street 31 cat

2011-12-31T22:56:00.016+08:00

I am sorry you couldn't join us last night, even though you stood outside our door and meowed persistantly. I considered giving you a scrap, but there weren't yet any leftovers since dinner hadn't begun yet. So I could only send you back downstairs.

Next year is expected to be another lean year, so do take care not to get cat-napped by hungry and angry people.

Join us again next year - I'm sure everyone will be pleased to see you again!

NB. It seems she took up the invitation fast and have made the box outside our home her playhouse!

Communications error

2011-12-29T23:33:00.009+08:00

As expected, in the week after Cameron Highlands, a torrent of photographs started flowing onto the group's site.

Then an odd thing happened.

In one of the pictures, I am standing at the summit of Mount Beremban, my shoes covered in mud, my posture deplorable, and I apparently look lost. A person who didn't go on the trip and whose screen name I don't recognise tagged me in the picture. And he sent me a message, saying that my email doesn't work, and whether I would "care to" provide another. His face isn't in his profile picture either.

Huh? was my response. Have we met?

Turns out, he is a guy from the trek to Gunung Bunga Buah in September. He got the shits just as we were started the ascent and decided to sit it out. He also went on to describe the state of my feet after the ordeal. "Need I decribe more?" he asked.

Oh! I say. I remember you! But what did you want with my email?

In reply, I receive an overly polite message about how I seem to have "misunderstood" his intentions, he was just trying to send me pictures from the trek but the email address I provided had not worked, apologies if he "startled" me, see you again at another trek, merry christmas and happy new year.

Isn't the underlying message very clear? 'I am taking offence to your response to my overtures'. A I-NOT-HAPPY message if I ever saw one (certainly, it's true that it takes one to know one).

Huh? What right do you have to be pissed off? I am tempted to respond. If I were to reach out 3 months after the initial brief interaction, I surely won't assume the other party would remember me by playing some inexplicable Cluedo-style game. It'd only be reasonable to describe the circumstances of our meeting and state your intentions straight off the bat, possibly starting off with, 'I don't know if you remember me, but ...'

Pleeeeeease don't let me see this person again!

Cold, cold Cameron

2011-12-19T15:10:00.011+08:00

Prologing a trek by overnighting on the road is at best a hit-and-miss. The previous two to Gunung Datuk and Gunung Bunga Buah didn't turn out too badly, despite squeezing 15 to a minibus. It's pretty much a hit when a light sleeper like me manages to catch 40 winks in the bus despite the cramped conditions.

So one'd have thought that given a luxury coach this time around, especially with 18 people spread on a 36-seater, I would've fared much better. But me and the sleeping bag didn't fare well at all, and it was the tireless air-conditioning that triumphed.

And so it was that I was in a sour frame of mind on our first day of trekking to Gunung Brinchang (trail 1). No doubt it was compounded first, by lots of waiting around trying to check in to our lodgings (two 3-bedroom residential units in a building on a very steep hillside), then having to break out the rain gear sometime in the afternoon, and to top it all off, a very cold, damp, tedious and nauseating 9-km road walk back after summitting Gunung Brinchang. Therefore, I don't have any pictures to show for my efforts on Day 1, even though we passed by the lovely Boh tea plantations and even a strawberry farm featuring a very wet baby goat.

But here are efforts from Day 2, which saw the summit of Mount Beremban, crossing a couple of streams, people tumbling into mud, slipping in the undergrowth, stealing strawberries, and other muddy hijinks. At nights, I heard, there were even parties involving beer, durians and raw jagong. But I was too busy getting into bed.

In the end, happiness was finding a Ramly burger stand on the way down, when we stopped at the Iskandar Falls, even if it wasn't the 'special' due to a lack of eggs. It's still a Ramly burger.

Who do you want to look like?

2011-12-15T17:14:00.004+08:00

This week, I was introduced to someone at work I haven't met.

By way of introduction, the person who did the introducing said to me, 'Everyone thinks she looks just like you!'

Both I and the person whom everyone thinks looks just like me proceed to make doubtful noises over such an assessment.

I think I felt rather taken aback, even though in my 5-second once-over I could see some resemblance - crowded upper teeth that stick out, small ovalish spectacles hiding the eyes, frizzy long hair ...

But two peas in a pod? It's very troubling when "everyone" thinks you look just like someone who looks, to you, unattractive. Now, I really want to get braces! And maybe go for lasik too.

But it will pass, given my aversion to needless diminishing of my already unsubstantial coffers.

Do you want anything?

2011-11-20T13:09:00.006+08:00

I get this question on occasion, when friends go overseas. And I'm usually stumped. Then a few days later, or even weeks later, I'll think of something. Or I'll mention it to someone and they'd say, 'Did you ask them to buy ...?'

So for convenient reference, here's a list of eternally useful items I'd always be grateful for and am always on the lookout for myself.

Scarves. It somehow became a habit to always have one in my bag, since I usually leave the house under the scorching midday sun for a freezer of a workplace. No one can escape the buses and the cinemas either. So brightly hued cotton/silk accepted. Wool and neon colours excepted.

Toiletries. Lotions, shower foams, shampoos, toothpaste, in sizes that meet customs regulations - 100ml or under. I hoard these for my travels. Unfortunately, liquids weigh down luggage. On the bright side, local products always come with their own unique fragrances.

"Art". A lacquered Tin Tin picture worked in Cambodia, handcrafted earrings in Australia, a cotton-woven picture of a topless woman in India, a paper lamp of flower pressings in Thailand, handmade recycled paper in Africa ...

Food. From the bee farm, the fish farm, the milk dairy, the fruit orchard, the salt fields, the tea plantation ... and the Japanese supermarket!!!

Enabler

2011-11-15T12:40:00.006+08:00

People, for some reason, are very taken with tales of the macabre. And the recent spate of un-natural deaths involving a particular body of water recently, I daresay, is more closely followed than say, the progress of barrier-free access at HDB estates, or allowing strays to be adopted by HDB dwellers.

Maybe it's because incidences of suicides don't often make it into the news (or haven't you noticed?).

A senior newsman once told me the media typically refrains from running stories about suicide. This is perhaps more true for television than other forms. And the reason behind this, he said, is that the number of cases of similar incidents tend to spike after such a story is reported.

And it only takes one case to start the ball rolling.

Any doubts I may have had have been banished after the recent reportage, which seemingly, innocuously, started off as a missing persons story involving a mother and son pair. But that unfortunately took on an unhappy ending that led to even more unhappy endings.

And so, by now, the site has gained the unenviable reputation as, according to Mother, "a dirty place".

Once the ball gets rolling, it tends to just gain momentum, which inevitably forces authorities to try to head off the snowballing effect.

So did anyone notice then, a series of events and stories about the importance of mental health encouraging more concern for those who might be inclined to end it all?

The time has come!

2011-11-05T19:18:00.008+08:00

A week ago, I caught a movie in town with a friend.

As we prepared to depart - she for the train and me for the bus - she nodded towards my foot and said, 'Your toenail is going to fall off.'

Surprised, I was quick to ask, 'How do you know?'

'It's happened to me many times!' she exclaimed.

I was shocked. Just from my single experience, I'm fairly certain that injuring your toenail to the extent that it'll fall off is no mean feat.

'From wearing shoes that are too tight,' she added.

There was nothing left to do but accusatory finger pointing. 'Toes abuser!' I crowed.

For the record, how I got to this stage was a complete accident and not anything to do with footwear. I try to be kind to my appendages. But having a loose nail flapping on your toe is rather amusing too!

In the cab, episode 8: You know when

2011-10-06T20:49:00.003+08:00

First, it was in a cab driven by an elderly man with snow white hair.

As we neared our destination, I tried to give him directions. 'Turn right ahead,' I said. He made a small noise, but I couldn't make out what it is. No matter as long as he turned right.

A minute later - 'It's the next block, in front of the stairs.'

This time, the response was swift and louder. 'I know, I know!' he grumbled. Hm, looks like I've been in his cab before, this white-haired old man with the squeaky voice.

A few days later -

it was a younger bespectacled man this time. Don't think I've been in his cab before, but - 'Have you been driven by a lady cab driver before?' is the first thing he asks.

'Erm ...'

'The lady driver behind us, she told me that she has driven you twice before.'

'Erm ... lady driver ... I guess so, once?' It's not hard to remember a night time lady driver, they are a rare breed.

'It's that cab behind us,' he rattles off the plate number. 'She told me.'

It takes years of taxi-taking from the same place and time before the drivers start discussing you and know exactly where you live. Time for a change?

Strange encounters

2011-09-19T12:04:00.027+08:00

-- race issues --

'Are you Malay?' one of them suddenly asks.

I couldn't help but laugh. One minute there're people asking if I'm from China and the next there're those asking if I'm Malay.

'Because I heard them calling your name,' he quickly added. 'Sounds like a Malay name. I know some Indonesians with the same name.'

So I said my name properly in Chinese. It felt kind of alien, saying my own name in front of an audience at the foot of the Batu Caves limestone cliffs. They all laughed.

'That means he's been saying your name wrongly!' the girl exclaimed. 'I heard him calling you that, so I just followed.'

I ended up explaining my name right down to how the characters are written.

But they still didn't remember it in the end.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-- taking ears hostage --

Someone was playing the piano, the sound of which I haven't heard in years. The playing was sounding constipated, seeing as he hasn't played in years either.

I went into the room armed with a KitKat. 'I'll give you a chocolate to stop playing,' I said. The girl in the room giggled.

He refused, so I upped the stakes - 'I'll give you two chocolates to stop playing!', while waving the KitKat under his nose invitingly. 'Take it, take it,' I egged.

He demanded an entire bag of chocolates instead, the greedy bugger.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-- charity for your pleasure --

He was sitting beside me in the backseat of an old Proton with no suspension, cruising KL.

On second thought, that actually wasn't when he popped the question -

'If I donate a million dollars to charity, will you shave your head?'

We were in a teksi, racing towards the KL International Airport. As fast as RM75 will get us from 1Utama, anyway.

As I considered the question, he continued, 'I mean shave it bald, with a razor - in fact, I want to do the shaving. I'll feel bad, but I think I will also derive a lot of pleasure from it.'

Eschewing my standard 'Sure, why not?' (previously often criticised as lacking enthusiasm), I said, 'Yes, I will - is that positive enough for you?'

Ignoring the gibe, he mused, 'This will give me more motivation to make my first million.'

'It's only hair,' I retorted.

I wonder if he thought this up after taking a knock in the old Proton the day before when the bottom of the car hit the tarmac as it rolled over a speed bump. Maybe his head hit the car ceiling.

But I'm looking forward to it too, even if only to remind you that you forgot.

Salt baked chicken!

2011-09-14T12:49:00.015+08:00

The people who ate the dinner I cooked last night are still alive.

Well, it looks that way anyway.

The menu:

Salt baked chicken stuffed with pandan leaves (my very first baked chicken!)
Braised bean curd with mushroom and mince
Stuffed peppers (capsicum)
Steamed ladies' fingers with anchovy sambal
Cuttlefish with onions and sweet-spicy sauce
Red bean soup

The last two items were contributions by mom. In any case, people who cook, I presume, will know these are all easy dishes to make. Therefore, if I can cook, so can you!

A special occasion, you say? Well, we bid farewell to a friend from faraway who's going faraway today, so I suppose it was. Because I loath flying, I won't be visiting that faraway place. So bon voyage and may we meet again, someday ... older, wiser, but still entertaining, I hope.

Do you appreciate your toe?

2011-08-20T13:59:00.015+08:00

It looks like my toe has stopped bleeding. It had been bleeding on and off since an unfortunate encounter with a sandbag about two weeks ago. While it seems the nail isn't going to fall of anytime soon, it appears to have proven true that you don't appreciate the things you have until you lose them. Or lose the use of them. (Although apparently, the appendix might be the exception to the rule.)

If you have your toes in such a state, you'll find yourself changing your gait so other parts of your foot bears more pressure. And within days, or even hours, those parts of your foot will begin to hurt too. Then, you'll also put more pressure on your other foot (i.e. limping) and the ankle on that foot will begin to complain as well, particularly when you go jogging.

I'm looking forward to that nail coming off. Maybe I should frame it, since people have been suggesting that I should keep it as a souvenir. I'd prefer to think of it as a battle scar I can hang on the wall.

July Q&A

2011-07-25T23:52:00.007+08:00

Q: When's your birthday?

A. It was the day friends treated me to a Japanese buffet and my stomach went on strike the following two days. Prob'ly not such a great idea to have raw fish and deep fried food first thing in the day.

B. It was the day we went to the Chinatown hawker centre and I sat on something that left brown stains on my light blue shorts. Does it smell? - No? - Then it's not shit. Hahaha!

C. It was the day the waiter tipped a strawberry mocktail down my back. I don't blame him since he's just a trainee and the glasses they used were awful - heavy and wide on the top, only supported by a small base. However, minus points for assuming my clothes weren't wet since there's no apparent stain. Where did they think the entire mocktail went? Most of those polled felt my bill should have been waived. But it wasn't me who picked up the bill in the end.

(Thanks to my loverly friends for the treats!)

Q: So how come you decided not to go to Krabi?

A. I had work, which is true, I did go to work, sometime during the duration of the 4-day outing. (But notice I didn't say 'had to'.)

B. I'm the extra limb. It seemed most in the group knew one another, except me. When I said I can't sleep if someone in the dorm snores, the organiser says, 'We'll just get you drunk so you sleep all the way.' I politely declined.

C: Initial reluctance towards getting wet and sunned festered. Haven't been climbing much lately and so will just be an embarrassment in Krabi. On top of that, hadn't bought my air ticket and the airfare had increased substantially. Then, a 2-day trip to Malaysia's Gunung Bunga Buah on the same weekend surfaced and I was sold!

Q: How was your trekking trip?

A. Ironic. Didn't want to get wet in Krabi but it started to rain heavily just 2 hours into the trek. Trails turned into gushing streams of mud, got all wet and cold. And if you thought I could at least enjoy the fresh air - a few members of the group smoked during the trek - The air is so fresh I have to pollute it a bit. I'd rather get bitten by a leech than inhale second-hand smoke in the middle of the jungle. Guess that's why the leeches gave me a break.

B. Hard. The gradient wasn't bad, but I didn't realise it was an energy-sapping 10-hour affair. Read the fine print carefully next time!

C. Hassle-free. The organiser had hired a comfortable 12-seater mini-van that picked us up, dropped us off, waited for us, basically at our disposal for the entire 2 days. Thumbs up! Unfortunately, I think I lost mother's camera in the van. More online shopping, August!

倒退走

2011-07-21T21:49:00.004+08:00

又一个炎热的夜晚，晚饭吃饱了，老爸老妈在客厅里看电视。我正好在抹地板。

抹着抹着，看到老爸走进了厨房喝水。过后他又拿了一块面包，咬上了一口。

突然，他失去了平衡，开始倒退走。

其实这不是新现象，而是已经变成日常生活的一部分。一个人平常向后失去平衡的时候，那种不平衡的脚步声会变大，所以这个事情发生的时候，家里人应该听得到。只不过他通常不会倒退到那种跌到地上的那种情景。这次就没那么幸运了。

他向后一直退，似乎没办法恢复。他的屁股撞上了餐桌台角，接着就转移了方向，开始向下朝。

我大声喊道，‘你在做什么！’赶紧冲了过去。

放面包的盘子喧哗地甩在地板上。还好在人落地之前扶他一把，结果他只是屁股着地，而且手还紧握着那块失去一口的面包，嘴巴还在咀嚼着。

后来问他发生什么事，他像小孩内疚地笑了。呵呵，他说，我跌倒在地上。

Sparring

2011-07-03T17:29:00.013+08:00

Last Thursday was the day a coupon for a local spa expired. Naturally, I (along with a whole gaggle of like-minded people) had to use the voucher on that day. So, even though I didn't have an identity card (accidentally on purpose) to verify my identity, they put me through the massage mill anyway.

The small size of the Malay masseuse isn't an accurate reflection of her ... abilities. While she made it just a tad less excruciating than my encounter with the China-born 推拿 demon, I reckon she didn't have the technique. By that, I mean the skills to inflict much pain without leaving evidence. In this instance, the bruises that linger for several days on my back, my calves, my thighs and even my butt-cheeks.

'Why didn't you ask her to go easy on you?' a friend asked. I wonder that too. Some days, I just lack courage.

She's apparently known by the spa staff for her "power". Curious that an established spa would retain a masseuse who inflicts bruises on customers. Some of these people must be into S&M. If they simply had to get her in to cope with the crush of the coupon's last day, it would defeat the purpose of an exercise to entice new customers to buy hundreds of dollars worth of spa visits.

Another odd thing about this charade - how marketing people succumb to the temptation of pointing out a prospective customer's flaws, in trying to convince them that their beauty treatments will do wonders for them.

'You can also try our facials, I see that you have some pimples.' I almost laughed out loud. She should've seen it a few months ago, when the zits were running riot across my forehead in permanent jubilee. What would she have said then?

HK again, 3 months later

2011-07-02T20:51:00.030+08:00

Didn't actually plan it as a Hong Kong gastronomy outing, but since I did enjoy the food a lot more than I remember from my first foray 7 or so years ago, that's how I'd like to remember it! I'd like to blast your eyeballs with delicious food pictures too, but there is none to show. Lots of photos of birds, though. Live, not skewered.

Day 1: I love 三多's wanton meen, which also happens to offer great chilli. Business must be good if it's located in the middle of Central (just off LKF) and doesn't open on Saturdays ...!

Day 2: I love Dim Sum ... but not when it's packed to the gills with both locals and tourists. Be prepared for a fight at Lin Heung Tea House!

Day 3: I love Yung Kee roast goose ... but you've got an hour-long dinner queue (of tourists) ahead of you if you don't have a reservation (which locals know to make).

Day 4: I love congee! Came across a place I forget the name of by chance at Northpoint on a rainy morning, something of a HK "fastfood" chain serving great breakfast staples (comfort food) like congee, cheong fun, dough fritters, etc. Ahhhhhh!

Day 5: I love 双皮奶, but why didn't I have any in Macau, from where it apparently gained popularity? At least we did have some Macanese 'fusion' at a small eatery opposite the fire station. If you have a thing for firemen ... the firemen eat here too.

{On a side note ... if you put people in an inn with cramped rooms for days, they can better appreciate hotel facilities (once in a while). This is the day they love Ole London Hotel, heh.}

Day 6: I love 牛腩面 right on the doorstep of YesInn! I love Peking duck too, but evidently not in HK because I've been spoiled by Beijing. I'd still visit Peking Restuarant though, for a traditional (and tasty) HK dining experience - it did seem to have quite a few local fans (and foreign ones) filling its large round tables even on a Tuesday night.

On a parting note - remember the milk tea in Shenzhen? It evidently costs about the same as in HK, even though food in Shenzhen is much cheaper. Let's make informed choices now!

In the cab, episode 7: Over-qualified

2011-05-30T23:18:00.002+08:00

What level of education might you expect your regular cabbie to have?

I think I might have met the most highly educated one I might ever hope to meet. He's got a double degree from the States, and was apparently even a US president's scholar (I didn't even know America has those too), and was working in the US for over a decade before his return.

He was quick to inform me that he's got just about a week's worth of taxi-driving under his belt, so he doesn't exactly know his way around.

The obvious question had to be asked: What are you doing driving a cab?

It seems it all started with the financial meltdown. He was retrenched by his US employer and was unable to secure employment despite being in possession of the hallowed Green Card (which he whipped out his wallet to show me at the end of the journey, to prove it isn't actually green in colour).

Then he apparently attended a seminar conducted by the Singapore government to entice overseas talents to return. Lots of jobs for them, train the PMETs, overseas experience will stand them in good steed, they were apparently told.

Thus sold on the promise of jobs, he returned to good ol' Singers ... and apparently looked for one in vain for a year before taking up driving. As one can imagine, he wasn't exactly full of praise for the government - labeling them liars and such.

Unfortunately, I forgot to ask him if he was perhaps pricing himself out of a job (assuming US employers pay more). Still, more fuel for the anti-foreign talents camp.

Perhaps they can take it out on the presidential polls (if someone besides Dr Tan Cheng Bock steps up). Apparently, the citizens are now itching to exercise their democratic rights more than ever. It's what happens when people get a taste of intoxicating power.

Let's petition!

2011-05-10T12:22:00.004+08:00

'Did you see the petition?' I asked excitedly.

'Which one?' he responded. 'There a petition to kick out Tin Pei Ling. There is one to reinstate George Yeo, and another to reinstate Chiam See Tong, and I don't know what else?'

I actually hadn't even heard about that many, only the first one.

'Did you sign the petition? You should sign the petition!' I was on a roll.

A look of irritation crossed his face.

'Why should I? These people, they don't understand the seriousness of voting. They can't just vote for one side and later decide they don't want so-and-so in Parliament. You made your choice and you have to live with it.'

Methinks it's partly due to the fact that most the people have never participated in the voting process before and thus, do not grasp or fully understand the gravity of their choices. That and their inflated sense of entitlement. It's an attitude fostered by the ruling party with the constant coddling, dangling of carrots and suppression of alternative voices.

The problems of high costs, cramped public transport, expensive flats, influx of cheap foreign labour and so on, affect cities all over the world. If they could be solved just by changing policies, you'd think the best minds in governments the world over would've come up with a solution by now. I don't believe a solution can be arrived at just by voting the ruling party (for the safety voters) or the opposition (the vote fuelled by hope and anger). Sure, they could probably cut taxes or employ other financial tools to help citizens deal with costs. But surely, it'll only work for the short-term, like putting a band-aid over a serious wound.

So, for a person who's pretty contended with her lot - Lift-upgrading? It was a great annoyance to me personally, but I can see how it benefits the elderly. Transport? Avoid the daily crush by working odd hours. Home buying? Save! If someone can afford a new iPhone, iPad or whatever new gadget or branded $300 or $3,000 bag every few months, I really don't see how they're entitled to complain about "rising costs" -

I see the event as a contest, and contests should be played out on a level playing field. Therefore, I voted against inequality, unfairness, fear-mongering, gerrymandering, arrogance, oppression and pork-barrelling. I guess cynics can be idealists too.

'How about a petition to abolish the GRC system?' I asked, hopefully.

'You can ... but they won't listen,' he replied blandly.

Let's vote! (incorporating In the Cab, episode 6)

2011-05-05T13:43:00.011+08:00

Last weekend and most of this week, I thought apathy was alive and well.

I went to class and when the teacher asked about the coming polls, the only two audible responses were 'I don't need to vote 'cause I live in Tanjong Pagar' and 'I don't need to vote 'cause I'm not Singaporean'.

I apparently belong to the demographic categorised as the "Gen Y voter", who make up some 28% of the electorate. Under 34 years of age, we're said to be more adventurous at the ballot box. I reckon most of my classmates belong in the same group, but the lack of reaction doesn't bode well for adventuring.

It was disconcerting, as all I've been hearing and reading about over the last two weeks was election buzz. Thousands at the rallies! Granted, 4 figures at some, up to 5 figures at others, but still, thousands actually crawled out of the woodwork? Mother even asked, 'What entertainment do they have there? Singing and dancing?' Maybe she had it confused with a Justin Bieber concert.

But who would be adventurous, if not the Gen Y-ers? Who else would rebel against the constant refrain of 'You should do this' and 'You should do that'? Who else would flick the finger of choice at dire warnings (or threats) like 'You will regret it' and 'You will repent'?

Among the never-ending supply of comments on the WWW, I came across one that asked, 'What more can the opposition do for my lovely Bishan?' The question came after a description of how lovely the Bishan estate is. Another that I overheard along the office corridor: 'She said, I want the baby bonus, of course I will vote for ...'

Well, what a conundrum. Who do you vote for if you want someone who has proven ability to manage the everyday upkeep of your neighbourhood, and still have different voices in government so no one party has absolute control over the nation? Who's going to be the brave ones willing bear the possible sacrifice of lift upgradings, baby bonuses, stat board job promotions and who knows what else fear has instilled in us?

Some are optimistic.

'People are not asking for a total take-over of the government, they are not ready for that,' the cab driver said. 'They just want more voices in government to balance and check.'

I asked him how many seats he thought the opposition would win.

'Four GRCs,' he replied. That adds up to 20 seats out of the 82 contested. That's a 10-fold increase from the two seats currently occupied by opposition members.

So I asked him if he'd be staying up to catch the results.

'Maybe I will start work a little earlier, and after that, stay at home for the show,' he answered. 'I already have a bottle of champagne at home. Tomorrow the balloon will burst and I'll pop the champagne!'

'You don't believe me?' he asked.

'As a cab driver, I hear many things,' he said. 'The level of hatred has grown high. One of my passengers even said not to let the Old Man leave. Let the Old Man stay and see the ruling party be crushed.'

As I exited the car, I bid him enjoy his champagne, and he laughed and replied, 'Do you want to join me?'

Over the Hong Kong border

2011-04-08T22:34:00.004+08:00

If you went to one of the many Hong Kong-style 茶餐厅 in Shenzhen, you'll find a mug of Hong Kong-style 奶茶 milk tea is priced at between RMB10 and RMB15 (approximately SG$2-3). You may find your bowl of noodles or plate of rice costs about the same. A disconcerting discovery, if you're used to your drink priced at maybe about half the cost of your food. Or teh or kopi from the hawker centre at 90 cents.

In a few months, I may discover how much the Hong Kongers are actually paying for their milk tea. I hope it won't be too shocking.

But other than that, it's a nice jaunt over the border from Hong Kong to Shenzhen, even if only for a day. Lots of Hong Kongers do it - so much so that the Chinese have built a massive shopping centre (a la Lucky Plaza) right beside the 罗湖 Immigration Checkpoint.

For those who need to escape the bustle and crowds of Hong Kong on an extended basis, Shenzhen is convenient too. What works in its favour is a good (and still developing) and fairly new public transport network of buses, subway and relatively congestion-free roads. Relatively smooth roads! Except maybe around the old roads around 东门. But then it's well-serviced by the underground, so really, no need to travel by road.

And you want to go there because even the locals flock there for its cut-throat prices and wholesale markets for everything from shoes and fashion to textiles, toys and electronics. Quality, of course, is not a given - I purchased a pair of amazing super-shrink-in-the-wash trousers for all of $7.

But if you've got money to burn - the culture vultures will suss out the enclaves of the uber chic and arty-farty in double quick time. The highly-rated youth hostel I bunked at is exactly in one of these spots, called 华侨城 or OCT. Uneven cobbled streets, smokers puffing away at cool coffee joints, bars with live music, art galleries, avant garde boutiques, spacey furniture shops peddling mono-coloured home accessories, the Museum of Modern Art and more! Get with the programme - Sotheby's is moving Chinese contemporary art at US$10 million a piece now!

It's too bad I brought too-tight shoes this time around, so walking around all day like I usually do was a real and present pain. Besides that - you know your shoes are too tight when the tips of your toe nails take on a never-seen-before polished glint after several days of walking. Although I can't say if that also had anything to do with what the shoes are made of. Highly unrecommended method of polishing the toe nails.

Tourists II

2011-03-28T12:13:00.004+08:00

How could I have forgotten the local tourist?! (In my defence, they are a bit of a rarity in Cambodia on a weekday.)

These ones appeared on our organised tour to Ream National Park. The young couple (in their early 20s?) were on the van that came to pick us up, but were later dropped off at Boston Hotel nearby. (Looks nice and new on the outside, but step into reception and that feeling will soon go away!) Which is to say they did not join the 20-or-so of us foreign tourists for (a very plain and time-wasting) breakfast of a baguette and jam with tea or coffee in the dilapidated front porch of an old house compound. How clever.

As if by special arrangement, they were picked up again on our way to the park. I admit I felt rather envious. We could've been picked up in similar fashion and that'd've given us an extra hour or so to enjoy a better breakfast.

Unlike other local couples we have encountered, this was an affectionate couple. It's hard to ignore when you're sitting behind them in a 2-hour long boat ride. And both of them continued to receive telephone calls through the day, despite the somewhat remote location.

That's because mobile phone coverage has rapidly expanded in the rural areas. While land lines are available in the capital and other cities, they are a complication when it comes to the land mine infested rural areas. The World Bank even provides the country funding to expand mobile communications networks.

The guy, in particular, appears to be a very busy man - and part Chinese. This prompted some pointed remarks from the European tourists. "Even in the middle of the forest, he is talking on the phone."

And in true local style, they were togged out in slippers for the trek. It's commonly seen also in neighbouring Vietnam and China. Keep your eyes peeled and you'll even spot some ladies in open-toed heels (with stockings, of course!).

Tourists

2011-02-16T23:47:00.010+08:00

I can't remember the last time I saw so many tourists (besides the dodgy ones). Maybe it's because Cambodia has the Angkor historical park and even turned their sites of horror into tourist attractions. But there're crowds of them at any one attraction on any one day, and a good percentage of them seem to hail from Europe.

But I'm also a tourist, so let's start with me!

I'm the road menace. I rent a bicycle and cycle with all the other traffic. Not really the best way to travel considering the sheer number of potholes and motorcyclists raising clouds of dust on the sandy road. On one occasion, I was wearing a baseball cap, which was a bad move. Sure enough, it flew off my head just as I got over the crest of a hill. The brakes come on as a reflex action. The groovy combination of brakes, downhill slope and sand on the road accumulated into a skid. I jump off the bike as it goes crashing down, dumping everything in the basket onto the road with a clatter. I landed on my feet with nary a scratch! Instead of applause, my great escape incites laughter from watching locals in a nearby shop. They must sorely lack entertainment.

We were looking for hilltop restos Chez Claude on one of these bicycle trips, when we ran into an Englishwoman. Half of what I assume to be a fairly well-to-do middle-age couple, since we ran into them while trying to ask for directions at a high-end seaside resort that's got its own private stretch of beach and beautiful chalets over the water.

She hailed me as I rode past, wanting to know where I got the bike. So insistent was she on getting similar bikes that she got the address of the shop off us, even though it was all the way in town. The concierge was trying hard to meet her needs with various bikes, but she rejected them, as her husband looked on with a pained expression. Only bikes like ours will do! Ouch, customer service is hard!

You know what else is apparently hard? Trying to get a photograph at attractions overrun by tourists. If you are sitting in a large tree, one of those that have invaded one of the Angkor temples, just minding your own business, a group of tourists, mostly large middle-aged Caucasian women, will appear on the other side of the pond. What they're going to do is they are going to start shouting across the pond at you. They holler at you to remove yourself because they want to take a picture and you're in the shot. Their Cambodian tour guide joins in. And when you get off the tree and out of their picture, they applaud, making you wish you'd stayed where you were and gave them a finger instead.

There's another breed of photographer - the lone wolf. We caught one lurking around the countryside - or rather, he caught us as we rolled past on our remork moto - he was huffing and puffing away on a bicycle. Our driver regarded him and his straw hat with distaste and distrust - apparently they'd already met the day before, at the same pepper farm. He was apparently flirting with the two Australian girls who'd hired our driver. It might be your lucky day if you actually catch him in the act of photography.

If your luck doesn't hold up, you're bound to run in the more evolved specimen of the photographer - the videographer. He is all geared up - right up to the furry muffler for his microphone. He videos the Killing Fields, with its scraps of tattered clothing in the dirt that used to belong to people who died in mass graves. He videos the skulls all stacked up in transparent plastic boxes for the world to see, the exhumed graves now just holes in the ground, the signs instructing people not to walk across the grave, the rows and rows of pictures of those murdered by the Khmer Rouge. God help you if you stand in front of him.

One might think there's an escape from all this in the quiet of a spa. That works until a clueless French couple arrives and starts talking loudly to each other through the walls after being placed in separate rooms. I suppose it's easy not to realise that there're other people in the neighbouring rooms too. But that bit of entertainment quickly ends when the spa staff run to shush them. And then the tinkling zen music reigns again.

I come from Kâmpŭchéa

2011-02-05T20:31:00.020+08:00

Yes, yet another country where I get mistaken for a local.

Apparently, Cambodia is a constitutional monarchy operated as a parliamentary representative democracy. I always was under the impression it's something of a communist state or a military-ruled state. Guess I really should read the front bits of LP rather than skipping the lot of them.

I know, though, that Siem Reap used to be under French control. You can't actually miss it, given the number of French tourists trawling the city. This is actually a new phenomenon to me, until I arrived in south India's Pondicherry, and not something I really understand. If it's because of the language hurdle, then it would seem to apply more to Cambodia than Pondi. Some Siem Reap hotels and restos even advertise with "French is spoken here!", while I didn't get the sense that French was all that popular in Pondi.

There're also many French businesses in Cambodia, including guesthouses and cafes. Not sure if it's French sensibilities, but I'm unable to reconcile the fact that the French owner of the cafe from which we rented bicycles from will not let us return the bicycles because the rental business closes at 5pm, while the cafe very obviously remains open! Madame, madame! We are closed, he says! I can't trust him, cause he gives off a mob boss vibe, the way he orders his employees about. He has my passport!!!

Siem Reap, in particular, strikes me as a city that relies heavily on the tourist dollar. Most cities are said to by throbbing with life - the Siem Reap heartbeat could possibly slow to a deathly crawl if all the tourists were to suddenly disappear.

Phnom Penh, in contrast, is a heaving mass, much like nearby Ho Chi Minh City (only 6 hours by bus!). Their motorcycle gridlocks are so alike, they could be twins!

Another misconception - that Angkor Wat is just a temple. It turns out, it''s just the southernmost temple of the Angkor historical park's main group of sites. And it's a very large park indeed - if you are a temple fanatic, you can purchase a pass that allows 7 days' worth of drooling over centuries-old ruins for US$60. The cheapest, a 1-day pass, costs US$20. Imagine how much the millions of tourists who flock to the site are contributing to the Cambodian economy! Meanwhile, conservation efforts are undertaken by international groups with aid or research money. It's like collecting toll on a highway built by the US or some other country, with the added benefit of UNESCO accreditation. Kaching!

Between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, we stopped by several popular towns on the coast. Sihanoukville, with its white sand beaches and crystal clear water, is the playground of sun-worshipping Westerners. About 3 hours away, Kampot, a sleepy riverside town, is apparently popular for its sunset cruises (and pepper). A bane for yours truly, who's not worn off that 7-hour sampan ride in Vietnam yet. And finally, Kep, the hop-off point to the white sand beaches of Rabbit Island. Kep beach can't rival those of Sihanoukville, but is popular with local tourists, apparently. And it's here that we run into something sinister.

We're walking along the quiet seaside promenade that goes to Kep beach, when two fellows zoom past on a motorbike. They stop in front of us, and the pillion rider hops off and heads in our direction. He is carrying an axe and not hiding it very well. It's not of the big variety, perhaps about the size of a small kitchen chopper. Meanwhile, the driver, still with his engine running, is looking back towards us, as if watching for something to happen.

Suddenly afraid, we quickly cross to the other side of the road and walk away from the pair. I can't help but feel a crisis was averted.

Another feeling hard to shake off - something seedy going on among tourists. You've got hotels that need to be certified "child safe". You've got the usual list of rules and regulations in your guest room, except at #1, you're being informed that sex with children is illegal. And you've got middle-aged Caucasian men chatting up school boys by the riverside, or in the park. And you've got ads urging you to report anyone you find suspicious - with his full name, no less! Excuse me, sir, I see you're chatting up this school boy, would you tell me your full name, please?

Did you see the dolphins? No, we didn't see the rare Irrawaddy dolphins, even though they're said to frolic on the fringes of the Ream National Park (about 20km out of Sihanoukville). Well, if you're headed south of the country, Kratie might be a better bet ... I heard.

And here are the pictures~

生肉

2011-02-03T21:40:00.007+08:00

前言：由于事发的时候本人出了远门（柬埔寨之旅-详情尽请期待！），这段故事是 The Great Vine 听来的。

有一天，老爸自己一个人坐在厨房里。他用汤匙吃着小饭碗里的食物。

这时，老弟踏入了厨房。他觉得奇怪，怎么来了一碗吃的东西。仔细一看。。。竟然是一碗肉，而且还是没煮过的肉馅。

你在吃什么？他问道。

老爸没回答，继续咀嚼着。

你在吃什么？他又问道。

哈？老爸有了反应。

你知不知道你在吃什么？

哈？老爸似乎不了解。

知不知道你在吃什么？老弟重复。

老爸还咀嚼着。。。不知道，他终于回答了。

你吃了几口？

老爸说吃了三口碗里的东西。

当老妈来到厨房的时候，发现她准备要煮的肉馅少了一大半。

过一阵子，他们又把那碗生肉拿给了老爸，问他要不要吃。他拒绝了，他觉得不好吃。有没有拉肚子就没人知道了。

Incendiary Ipoh and other matters

2011-01-08T17:46:00.013+08:00

It's a week into 2011 - what, CNY buying is already in full-swing? Indeed, it is. I had my first pineapple tarts last night.

Prob'ly belated to be discussing the year past, but then again, I haven't much to report. It seemed to be mostly filled with me shouting at Mother, and major creasing of the brow. The years I didn't speak to her seem placid and peaceful in comparison.

This noise is also worlds apart my Beijing days of solitude, filled with lots of quiet and a line-free brow. It perhaps means I should be plotting a great escape to days of a hermit, or at least footloose and fancy-free.

Case in point: Ipoh. Last trip of 2010. Some parts fun, some parts aggravating. A laid-back resort on the banks of the murkily gurgling Sungei Kinta. In hindsight, I prob'ly organised the wrong type of accommodation holding the wrong type of expectations. The people who run the place don't even seem accustomed to letting people in and out through the gates.

Did you ever wish you met someone or were at some place under different circumstances? Yet, if the circumstances were different, you prob'ly wouldn't have met them or been there in the first place. It's not even something you can regret - I'm a big proponent of regrets.

The lack of food pictures (except bananas and toast) is perhaps a testimony to ... how tasty it is?

Next stop: Cambodia!

Shopping

2010-12-19T20:40:00.023+08:00

'Tis the season, but I don't feel any compulsion for it. Certainly, it helps that I've not been automatically entered in one of those baffling secret Santa gift exchanges.

Mostly, it's because I've been hitting the stores constantly over the last two months. It all started with the search for new MadRocks (Made in China). I'd found myself back on the erstwhile Chinese site 淘宝 after locating a very reasonably priced shipping service.

By the first week of November, I'd spent some 200 dollars, which translates into about 900 Chinese yuan. Granted, more than a quarter of that went to financing the spanking new red Concept MadRocks. Those Science Friction soles turned out a little thicker than I'd hoped, but I guess that just means they'll wear down slower than my old ones did.

The rest of the monies went to the usual suspects - clothes, shoes and a leather bag. 13 items for me, seven for the venerable sibling. And yes, they do look pretty much as shown in the pictures.

I'm very happy with the sturdy brown bag because it's neither too big nor too small. Likewise the two pairs of shoes, which are of a good low height (4cm and less) and don't impart blisters.

Clothes are usually more prone to missing the mark than other products, since there are no virtual fitting rooms. I've had more luck with knits but didn't get any this time. With the exception of a frilly, billowy printed top from UK label atmosphere, the rest weren't too bad. Nothing a little alteration can't fix!

But can anything fix this moment of madness, short of a personality change or a completely new and taller body? Regrets can be valuable lessons too, even if they do come cheap. Ho ho ho.

The left eye

2010-12-07T11:27:00.004+08:00

Father became half-blind yesterday.

It was just after lunch. He stood at the entrance of the kitchen, and said that he could not see. Mother made him cover his right eye and questioned him about what he could see. Nothing.

I waved my hand vigorously 5 centimetres away from his eye. The murky grey iris just stared ahead dully, reaction-less.

He had just visited the eye specialist last month. The doctor had not detected any problem then. I asked Mother when they would visit the hospital again. Next year, she said.

Diabetics either have their limbs amputated or go blind, didn't you know? Mother added.

Father has had Type 1 diabetes for over three decades. Even though he has had to suffer injections twice a day, I obviously never dwelled too much on it. They say Father used to play basketball, drink many cans of soda and was fat, before he got sick. But the Father I knew as a girl was thin, drinks teh-o kosong, and played squash.

Serious long-term complications include cardiovascular disease, chronic renal failure, retinal damage.

So he'll be blind forever? I asked.

They've already done the laser surgery, she replied. There's nothing they can do.

But his major past-time is watching TV, and how will he walk?

Choppers

2010-11-04T15:17:00.005+08:00

I've been wondering about choppers, knives and bulky sharp objects in general. How do you carry these items around with you when you go hang out with your friends at the neighbourhood fast food restaurant, for example? Didn't you wonder that when you read this?

Oct 31, 2010
Teen slashed to death

HALLOWEEN horror became real on Saturday night at Downtown East.

A 19-year-old youth repeatedly hacked by a group of youths in full view of a crowd died in hospital hours later. The violent attack and subsequent attempt by the youth and his friends to flee left a 500m long trail of blood at the Pasir Ris resort and amusement park.

The story goes on to say that "it is believed Darren's attacker produced a chopper and slashed him several times", while another story said "at least two of the young men were wielding kitchen knives".

Assuming these youths are not the bag-carrying types, how do they keep a chopper or knife hidden from view? Hide it in their jacket? (Who wears jackets outside in such weather?) Hide it under their t-shirt? Stick it down their waistbands? Where else is possible? How does one not look suspicious with a chopper under their shirt or in their pants?

Some people who've responded to these articles say they've seen such weapon-wielding characters around, especially in their youth. It seems in my youth, I have either failed to identify them, or failed to hang around the right places at the right time.

Methinks there're several factors that make delinquents dangerous. Firstly, hanging out in packs results in peer pressure and a false sense of bravado. Secondly, being youths, most are not quite able to comprehend or accept the concept of responsibility, and act before they think. Thirdly, that sense of youthful ignorance means they are capable of any degree of violence. Whether or not they regret it after the deed is irrelevant. Fourthly, if they think you and them are peers, that's one less reason for them not to bully you. That's when not looking your age becomes a very bad thing.

Of course, some of these people may simply be sociopaths. I only say this because I've been watching too much of Criminal Minds. In one of the episodes, it was found out that two serial killers were using the names "Sunny" and "Holden" to communicate. To explain the significance, the investigators pointed out that the names are from characters in Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, and that many sociopaths tend to relate to the characters' sense of detachment from the world. Then, I remembered that someone once said Holden (or something Holden said) reminded him of me. Well. We don't really want to draw any conclusions from that, do we?

In the cab, episode 5: A fairy tale

2010-10-10T18:21:00.011+08:00

Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a king, a queen and their children.

How many children did they have? Most of their subjects would say they've got three happy, healthy children, because that's all they can see of the princes and princess. But under the town bridge, a troll whispers, 'Four.'

The fourth child, the whispers say, is slow-witted, and thus, locked away from prying eyes in a land far, far away, where the queen makes secret visits each year.

So, the years passed. The little kingdom prospered and the royal children grew up, intelligent and articulate. The princes wed and royal grandchildren were born. Alas, the elder prince's consort did not see her children grow up. She was dead, weeks after her second child was born.

'Heart trouble so young!', the people sighed and shook their heads.

But the troll, the troll was mumbling in its sleep. 'A queenly order,' it muttered. 'Death for the birth of a white child ...'

But the people went on with their lives and soon forgot.

The crown prince became the king after his father grew old, but the people still called the old man 'King'.

One day ...

Ding Dong! The Queen is dead!

Thousands flocked to the wake, and after that, they lined the streets as a great cortege rolled down the streets accompanied by a full cavalry. They wept and described her as the Kind and Great Mother of the Kingdom. The King, too, wept, and presented her with one last flower as the crowd looked on at the end of the Kingdom's Great Romance.

That night, as darkness fell, some peasants retired to bed with a heaviness in their hearts. Others fell asleep uncaring, and yet others gathered under the town bridge, laughed and drank a toast.

In the cab, episode 4

2010-09-11T16:12:00.011+08:00

The other day, I think it was last weekend, I barreled out of the office as usual and was surprised to see a vehicle at the taxi stand. But it turned out not to be a taxi. It was one of those big black SUVs.

The male driver was waiting for his lady passenger, who appeared to be buying a drink at the dispensing machine. In a few seconds, though, a taxi came rolling up. The SUV just continued to idle where it was, right in the middle of the two taxi waiting lots, and right in the middle of the two lanes that make up the taxi stand. Which means, first, that the taxi is unable to make it past the railings into the taxi stand proper to pick up a passenger. Second, it is also unable to make it past the SUV to get out of the taxi stand once his passenger has boarded.

Needless to say, the cab driver wasn't happy. I'm sorry to say the consideration campaign hasn't succeeded.

But he appeared to put it quickly behind him. 'Did you hear the bad news today?'

I answered in the negative.

'You didn't hear the bad news?? Wasn't it reported??'

I was becoming alarmed, since weekends are typically quiet.

It turned out that he was referring the closure of a section of the train line. Apparently, it caused a big inconvenience to lots of people despite the free bus shuttle services provided. The roads in the vicinity also got congested with stranded passengers calling for cabs.

I was somehow annoyed he referred to it as 'bad news', since the train lines were in fact being upgraded to serve more passengers. On top of that, I had personally been 'inconvenienced' by the closure that same morning. I'd gotten out of bed early, packed a huge bag and rode my bike to the train station intending to head to the vicinity of Little India. Faced with the prospect of getting on the train and then switching to a bus before getting back on the train, I'd unlocked my bike and returned home. I can only refer to my deteriorating memory as 'bad news'.

So, thus annoyed, I retorted, 'The train line is being upgraded - why is this bad news? It's already been announced in the news a week ago that there would be disruptions this weekend.' No witty comeback.

Guess what, disruptions in-store again next weekend. This time, they've even been handing out leaflets and visiting residents in the area to inform them of the pending inconvenience. Obviously, complaints were received after last weekend because people do not follow the news or read notices. Just how much coddling do people need? You're going to become like those people in WALL•E if you don't be careful.

Vietnam mysteries, updated

2010-08-15T02:11:00.013+08:00

A. The motorcycling market
As mentioned, there are some 5 million motorcyclists in Ho Chi Min city alone. Thusly, there are certain items you can sell or buy a lot of. In particular, devices to combat pollution, skin cancer and head trauma - face masks (specially tailored ones with cutesy designs even), long gloves for the ladies' arms and helmets with cutesy designs (and more). And of course, they've got the ponchos for the rainy season. I actually considered purchasing a polka dotted one, myself ...

B. The shutters all come down.
That happens at around 11pm for hotels and guesthouses. Of course, I don't mean the 5-star establishments. In any case, this seems to come as a rather huge shock to foreigners. After having tea with the superior Swiss, it ended up being me who walked him back to his lodgings. Which had all its shutters shut (you know, the kind of metal ones which you pull down from the top). Oh, your hotel is closed! I said, rather needlessly. Are you kidding me?!?!?! he said, and started to freak out and hit the shutters. After several minutes of observing that - Why don't you ring the doorbell? I suggested. He did so, someone opened up and he quickly scurried inside. On my first day in Vietnam, a Chinese girl and her Australian internet boyfriend already told me about how they were similarly shut out of their hotel on their first night. They each told me the same story separately, so I heard it twice.

1. Who plans the towns and cities?
The buildings are oddly narrow and elongated. And seeing as they're pretty much always stacked up against each other to form a block of buildings, you've got to wonder how dark it gets in one of those places, right smack in the middle between the front door and the back door. My theory is that they were trying to make it so that everyone has a slice of the main road (however thin a slice it may be). If they divvy up the land into two rows with wider facades, for instance, they'd probably have to build two roads to service the block, rather than just one.

2. Group make-up for girls.
On the day of the wedding, the girls (eight bridesmaids) get out of bed and start piling on the make-up. Yes, I can see how it's useful in hiding those skin blemishes and creating the illusion of large soulful eyes, but it's an outdoor wedding. It's 38°C out there. One of them says to me, 'You should put on some make-up, you'll be more beautiful.' Couldn't muster up the derisive laughter, so settled for a weak decline instead. People keep telling me there're lots of pretty girls in Vietnam. I'd rather hear which country has the handsome men, y'know.

3. Time is truly elastic in Vietnam!
The tour desk tells me the bus journey from Saigon to Mui Ne takes 5 hours. I get on the bus at 4.30pm and reach Mui Ne at almost midnight. Two days later, I buy a bus ticket for a noon bus to Da Lat. The bus ambles up close to 1pm. (But I'd be waiting for 2 hours 'cause checked out at 11am.) Yet another 2 days later, I decided to save on a night's lodgings by taking the night bus back to Saigon. The lady advises the midnight bus, as it will reach Saigon at 7.30am - a good time, she says. We reach Saigon at 4.30am. I didn't even realise it is Saigon, in the darkness. Was reluctant to get off the bus, insisting that I wanted to go to Saigon. It was an hour before it dawned upon me that the shops opposite the drop off point look somewhat familiar.

4. Sure, as punctuation.
Some people in the travel industry pick up some wonderful linguistic skills. The word 'sure' seems pretty popular. In some random conversation or inquiry about a tour or a bus schedule, for example, it will pop up quite shockingly (the first time). 'You can take this tour SURE!!!' the person suddenly shouts. Or, 'This bus reaches Saigon at 7.30am SURE!!! It is a good time for you SURE!!!' Guess it is pretty handy as a exclamation mark ... SURE

5. No sweat to the airport.
Compared to other countries, Saigon's Tan Son Nhat International Airport is unbelievably close to the city centre. Two hours before my flight, I was still in town, waiting for a bus to the airport. Cursing, as usual, because I was sure I'd be late. Well, the public bus arrived, picked up and dropped off passengers along the congested way, and still made it to the airport under 30 minutes. Shocking (another example of elastic time?)! And best of all, the ride only costs about 20 cents. But hate the immigration counter (unsurprising). Asked me why the customs declaration/departure form was torn at the edge. How would I %$@!ing know, it was given to me like that by the flight attendant! (I said, 'I don't know.') 'No way you don't know,' he replied, but let me through anyway. What, are these people specifically trained to be asses?

That hurts, that hurts, that hurts!

2010-07-24T20:23:00.011+08:00

Fate turned vicious yesterday.

I'd asked for the day off because some friends wanted to meet, but one of them gave birth unexpectedly early (it's a girl!) so that was scrapped. Why not go for a massage instead? So it was, a traditional Chinese massage.

I'd actually gone for a traditional Vietnamese massage just a few days ago at the Ho Chi Minh Association for the Blind. But it just wasn't robust enough. Same thing at another spa place a few days before at the seaside town of Mui Ne. I thought the Chinese massage would fix things.

Well, she did try. Way. Too. Hard. "Does it hurt here?" she'd ask, while digging into my back/neck/shoulder blades/base of my spine. "Yes!" I'd yelp. Then she'd just keep at it with more gusto.

"You're using too much force," I complained at one point. "It's not that," she scolded. "It's because your shoulders are unbalanced, your back's all knotted up and your waist isn't aligned!" Like a dog with a bone, she was determined to iron out all the kinks in my back, shoulders, neck, and so forth. "And you're so young!" she kept repeating. I knew it was impossible, since pain only brings more tension. I thought I was going to cry.

Interestingly, she noted that my right arm was beefier than my left. It's true! Surprisingly, hadn't noticed myself. Her work on my arms and legs was a welcome relief from the beating my back took. But that didn't last long, since apparently there're only two kinks in my four limbs.

Luckily, the ordeal lasted just for an hour. No wonder they make you pay for it before and not after. I've never felt more physically battered. It's a totally different kind of pain than stretching your limits with physical exercise. And I knew the next day, I'll feel bruised in all the places she targeted mercilessly (except no actual bruise will show). I was right. And guess what, I feel more mis-aligned now than I ever did. Can't even sit comfortably since my butt-cheeks and tail bone didn't escape the onslaught.

Technically, it's not a traditional Chinese massage - it's physiotherapy, the Chinese medicine way. Utilised for medical purposes instead of relaxation, Tui Na works to correct the patient's problems, from musculoskeletal conditions, to diseases, cancers and even minor and major headaches.

Let me just lie in bed until these unjust pains and aches go away!

Waiting for the 11pm bus to HCMC

2010-07-18T17:51:00.008+08:00

I am pretty much done in Dalat.

The day had started at an outdoor adventure store, awaiting the arrival of 3 people who'd signed up for a biking tour but never showed up. Apparently, they all felt ill and will go biking tomorrow instead, which leaves me and the mountain bike (too high) and a Vietnamese fellow (guide).

These things are usually 2 minimum to go, but I s'pose they had no choice but to take me since the other tourists were behaving badly. Unfortunately, this meant (I suspect) he took me on a route guaranteed to tire me out (uphill, uphill, more uphill!!!) so the whole thing would end early. Being a hater of uphills, I'd never imagine I'd manage to stay on the bicycle on all the uphills, and not get run off the winding road by buses and trucks.

Maybe it's because the bike had a good range of gears - take the path of least resistance and pedal like crazy (like a hamster on a wheel, somehow, but cover very little distance), or y'know, do some really hard cycling. I expect some form of hobbling is in store tomorrow. Even my nether regions hurt.

Rewind. Dinner yesterday was at a bakery/restaurant that seemed popular with the locals. I was headed for an empty table when a fellow with a crew cut strode in front of me and took the table I had set my sights on. I sat at the next table instead. Then, for some reason, the crew cut turned around and spoke. A Vietnamese who grew up a Swiss, as it turns out. Invited me to go to a nightclub later. I decided that was a bad idea, but didn't want to be a stand-up-er, so ended up going to drink tea instead, during which he laughs at my accent and says 'I can't imagine how you write the news in English', but yet don't know common words like 'convenient', 'biased' and 'flood'.

Apparently on a journey to learn to be alone (although, no doubt girlfriend would come if she could), and claims to be becoming more open-minded by talking to the likes of me. Goodbyes at 11.30pm - and no offer to send me back to my lodgings were forthcoming. I do not like Mr Superiority Complex.

Rewind. I was sitting next to a short potted shrub on the steps of the guesthouse in Mui Ne, waiting for the bus to Dalat. Not really happy to be leaving a pleasant, reasonably priced tatched-roof room behind, but the hot-sun-beating-down holiday isn't really my thing - didn't even bring swim wear. Then, a guy exiting the place spotted me, and gestured like he'd been looking for me. Turned out to be the guy who'd shouted a greeting out to me as I walked past the sitting area the day before. An American soldier, taking a break from Afghanistan. Mui Ne is cool and windy (high 30s), Afghanistan is baking (45!!!). One man's poison ...

During the chat, a sentence like this was spouted: 'I wanted to go to Bali, but I heard there were too many whores, too many tuk tuks ...' Stuck at the word 'whores' - possibly the first time it's being said to me in actual conversation. Didn't even correct him about the tuk tuks.

The bus turned out to be almost an hour late and the ride was the most bumpy I've been on in a very long time. Gigantic potholes up the mountain and poor suspension conspired to slowly injure my insides. Funny, I don't remember this bit from the last time.

Rewind. Ho Chi Min City is a seething mess. A population of 10 million people and 5 million motorcycles. I'd escaped here after spending 3.5 days in the Mekong Delta. The Delta hadn't been kind - by the time the Vietnamese wedding concluded, I'd been fed on by at least 30 mosquitoes, mostly below the knees. Somehow the tactics of these insects remind me of the Viet cong. I'd meant to make my way further into the Delta to a town called Ca Mau, but the travel guide described the mosquitoes there as the size of "hummingbirds" that can only be killed by shotguns. Also, it's a high risk place for malaria. Not very keen on acquiring that. Apparently they've got a special medicine you drink for that. Not very keen on that either.

I took a 7-hour sampan ride on the Mekong. Alone. It was mind-numbing. A plan to go see the storks was subsequently skewered thanks to the lack of reasonably priced transport options. The Delta's not for the independent tourist, only groups in busloads. So I beat a hasty retreat and consequently got stuffed into a packed tourist mini-bus headed for HCMC, sandwiched between the driver and the tour guide. The Cambodian guide wasted no time in professing his love for Vietnam (don't know why). Asked me if I liked Vietnam. I wonder.

Why wheat?

2010-07-03T17:31:00.002+08:00

It's a cruel story, Wheat. No conceivable happy ending whatsoever.

Not exactly the kind of uplifting film someone'd want to watch after being stood up. For a second time. By the same person.

To exacerbate matters - receiving an immediate and loudly delivered review as the credits roll and the lights come up. The arrogance of cinema-goers these days! Everyone's an expert - except they were brought up on a healthy diet of Hollywood blockbusters and idol dramas. This somehow makes their opinions grate on the ears. I beat a hasty retreat. Of course it wasn't because one of the voices sounded like a colleague of mine. Of course I didn't swivel around to check if it was in fact him as I scurried out of the cinema.

The following day, I am up bright and early at 7.30 in the morning, and got to work by 9am. I haven't realised I've missed the morning air and the morning sun, and all the things that used to be a daily fixture when I worked 10pm to 6am.

Unfortunately, one day on 9 to 6 is quite enough to get reacquainted with everything else I dislike about it.

I do love to nap on the bus, but the Malay girl directly behind me was whispering sweet nothings to someone on the phone. "Don't embarrass me, I'm on the bus," and such. My ride was more than half over by the time she hung up.

But not a minute later, she was whispering sweet nothings to someone else on the phone. A different fellow, I presume. "I want to know how she feels about you." "What do you call her and what does she call you?" "I want to know what you talk about." And she kept repeating this stuff several times, either because of a poor connection, noise or because the person on the other end was employing evasive tactics. Devil help the unwitting commuters. Alternatively, how about a person playing heavy metal loudly on his ipod?

Oh, that reminds me - I'll finally be able to escape from waking up to construction racket in exactly a week. For 10 days, at least. If I'm lucky, I won't be swept away by a flood in the Mekong Delta. It's the season for getting caught in a storm in the middle of a run and ending up like a drowned rat. Oh happy days! I'm going to take pictures of the storks. I'm going to bring a big hat do they don't shit on my head.

It's the school holidays ...

2010-06-07T00:39:00.004+08:00

... do you know what that means?

Well, besides that it's exponentially more expensive to go out of town, especially to nearby destinations. But that's for the kids with moneyed folks.

It means, for you and I home-bound folks, that there're more delinquents than usual hanging around the neighbourhood, well into the night time. It means when you go downstairs the following day, there're empty beer cans and bottles lined up or better yet, scattered around your void deck.

It also means something will happen to your bicycle if you park it downstairs. I park my trusty and rusty old bicycle downstairs for months on end and nothing ever happens to it - except during the school holidays.

The last school holidays, it had its wheel punctured. I suspect foul play because wheels don't just develop holes by themselves.

And just one week into the current school holidays, its entire front wheel has been snatched. A rusty 20-year-old front wheel, stolen. Even though it's parked right beside a bunch of newer, shinier bikes. How laughable. I really should learn my lesson.

But right now, I wish irresponsible parents could be neutered without trial. I wish their delinquent kids could be rounded up and locked up for the duration of the holidays. Maybe they should be forced to do some hard labour. Then maybe they wouldn't have the energy to be swanning around getting into mischief, or better yet, committing crimes.

I need to buy a wheel, goddammit.

In the cab, episode 3

2010-05-11T13:45:00.005+08:00

I thought the week of later than late nights was over, but ended up on overtime again last night. Not by much, but I do love to complain.

As luck would have it, I got into the cab with a $10 note, a $50 note and some coins.

And as luck would have it, the cab driver was a Mat Rocker wannabe unkker with curly locks to his shoulders. I can normally get home on a $10 and a couple of coins, but not with the midnight surcharge tonight. I didn't think it's unreasonable to expect a driver to have change for $50 on a $15.30 fare, but of course he didn't have any, because obviously, "everybody" has been giving him $50 notes all night.

So, the so-called "customer" (s'posedly sometimes known as "king") has to go to a nearby 24-hour coffeeshop to beg for change, even though I really don't understand why it must be so.

Surprisingly, a few of the tables are actually occupied by customers. Not surprisingly, the young Malay dude manning the drinks counter refuses to break my $50. The grin on his face seems plastered there permanently, making it highly irritating to look upon.

'Buy something lah,' he grins, 'then can give you.'

I return to the cab. 'Unkker, you must buy something, then they will give you change.'

'Aiyah, coffeeshops are always like that! OK lah, you help me buy a kopi lah.' I've apparently become a coffee girl.

Back at the coffeeshop with $50 in hand, I order a takeaway coffee. The grin-y dude takes his time to make it, and then I hand him the $50.

Still grinning, he says, 'It's 90 cents. Don't you have $10 or something? We don't have change.'

I'm almost hissing by now. 'You said you would give me change if I buy something!'

So he asks his colleagues if they've got any change. Of course they don't, but they don't want to take the coffee back. 'Nevermind, you come and pay tomorrow.' Like hell I will.

Scowling, I leave the coffee at the counter and leave. I can't believe I'm dealing with this kind of sh!t at one in the morning.

Stomp back to the gratuitously smiling cab driver, reject his offer of driving to a nearby gas station to get change, and tell him I am going home to bring him the cash. Was tempted to not go back. But of course I did.

Where're the soap suds?

2010-04-15T10:33:00.010+08:00

I haven't had a haircut in almost 2 years.

That may sound like a long time to those who go for a trim every three weeks, but it really isn't, in terms of length - only something like 10 inches.

The last time I left it alone that long, it rebelled with split ends. But then, that's prob'ly got more to do with environment - Beijing is dry as chalk. It's also cold, so having all that hair is sometimes useful.

This time, I haven't found a single split end. However, I've been contemplating a trim since December, mainly due to the heat. Australia is notoriously hot in summer. But that obviously didn't work out. I was re-inspired recently when I broke open a new bottle of shampoo, purchased at the lavender farm in Tasmania.

Hard as I tried, I couldn't get it to lather. An entire heaping handful only generated a weak alliance of suds. I've never felt so annoyed with soap.

So, the other day, I try to enroll my mother to the snippy task. That's despite her less than spotless track record (she once cut someone's ear). But she was reluctant.

It's a pity, she said, before launching into tales about how she had hair up to the waist in her youthful days. She would wear it in braids, 'like an Indian girl', was how she described it.

Who has so much time to mess with their hair? I retorted.

I only washed it once a week, she continued.

Oh.

Oh dear.

Guess I'll be going to the hairdresser's, then.

PS! I've reached new heights (or depths, as it may be) in penny-pinching! $3.80 for a haircut!

A bloody Fools' Day

2010-04-01T22:16:00.007+08:00

This afternoon, I visited the clinic for one of my regular blood tests.

Technically, it's just a blood drawing exercise and not the actual test. But still, you've got to wait in line for almost an hour. And you'll invariably notice that most of the folks before you are the wrinkly sort. Some have been made to fast for hours before their appointment. They jump the blood drawing queue because they are starving. Behind the curtain, one lady cried, 'I'm hungry!'

The blood drawing didn't last 5 minutes. The needle was stuck in, blood gushed into the test tube, the needle came out, and a plaster put over the resultant hole in the crook of my arm. I was then sent off to counter 1 (payment, of course).

'$12,' says the cashier. As I got my wallet out, something else was happening. By the time I looked, trails of blood were flowing down the crook of my arm.

'Oh my god,' exclaims the cashier. All the cashiers stare. I stare back. I know I don't have any tissue in my bag, so I am waiting for someone to give me some. I eventually received 2 pieces and am dispatched back to Diagnostics.

'It's because you're carrying this heavy bag!' they say. Now I am given a large piece of gauze to stem the flow. I have to keep it in the crook of my arm for 10 minutes.

While the sight of all that fresh flowing blood was interesting, I was actually more concerned none of it got on my white skirt.

Later, it reminded me of the recent bizzare episode in Thai politics. Blood spilled for democracy isn't too far-fetched, but when it's all collected so civilly with people wielding disposal needles and then splashed on the gates of government house, it just screams 'bio-hazard'.

Hard road Hainan

2010-03-30T12:21:00.007+08:00

My vacations somehow seem particularly arduous. Maybe I need to learn how to take relaxing ones. The ones people imagine when you tell them you're going to Hainan 海南, China's tropical tourist mecca, and they say, 'Sounds relaxing!'

Not being a beach devotee, the first thing I did after a day at the banks in Haikou 海口 was to head for the hills, or rather, the Five Fingered Mountain 五指山.

But the mountain was particularly treacherous, with a trail like a never-ending uneven set of stairs. Some sections even had ladders to scramble up. I can't remember the last time I was on a trail this hard. Gradual, even paths were few and far between. My knees suffered.

By noon, after a 3 hour climb, the clouds descended. Although I was just an hour shy of the summit - I could see it! - I decided to head back. Water was running short and hunger pangs were growing because I had nothing to eat for breakfast. With a whole lot of obstacles in the way, I'm unable to careen my way downhill on gravity like I usually do. My knees, my knees!

Did I mention it's an hour's walk just to get to the nature reserve? On the walk back, an SUV containing two guys offered me a ride. I'm about to expire, but no thanks.

Over the next couple of days, I hobble my way through the crowded beachside hotspot Sanya 三亚 to the laid back kampung-style coconut grove in DongJiao 东郊椰林, which is also by the sea.

I know, it's hard to be impressed after shimmery shiny Tasmania. But interestingly, one needs to cross a body of water on a ferry to get to the coconut plantation, even though it's shown to be connected to the mainland on the map. Missed a photo opportunity of fisher-folk and their catch of the day during the crossing. But hey, check out those ships!

Daytime Drinking

2010-03-06T18:24:00.019+08:00

To the friend with whom I watched Daytime Drinking:

I wonder if you remember the adventures of the protagonist Hyuk-jin, even though we saw it ... well, I'm sure it was at last year's SIFF.

He'd just broken up with his girlfriend and was somehow convinced by his friends to take a trip out to the Korean countryside as a sort of consolation. Only his friends never show up. What follows is a strange sequence of events, where he meets all the characters the countryside apparently has to offer, and in the process has everything taken from him. Except his underpants, it seems.

I remember, in particular, this bit where he gets picked up by a man driving by in a sort of pick-up truck. The man thought he is one of those runners who train up in the hills during the summer, wearing only their shorts. Except it's not summer.

It's a great relief, when you're in a bind in unfamiliar territory, to receive help from a kind stranger. But this can all go very wrong if the stranger turns out to be kind for a reason. The bit where the kind stranger tries to join him in the shower and later, hug him while he's asleep had me squirming in my seat.

It was an anxiety-inducing reminder of the beginning of my trip to Xinjiang (almost 2 years ago now). I'd been waiting by the side of the road for a bus away from Sayram Lake 塞里木湖 in the Tian Shan range. But a storm started to roll in, so I got my umbrella out. It didn't actually provide much protection against the biting wind.

Shortly after, a Kazakh man rolled up on a motorcycle. He offered to give me a ride to some shelter, but I declined. But then he said storms usually last quite long and I would get wet, so (assuming locals know best) I reluctantly agreed. We drove to a little farm shed where he appeared to have misplaced his keys.

Within minutes of our arrival, the storm blew over. So I begun to make my way back to the main road, which wasn't far off. The man, still trying to locate his keys, called after me, 'Wait, I'll get this door open in a minute! You can change your wet clothes in there!'

I wasn't even particularly wet.

Unfortunately for him, I already had my guard up (but apparently still not enough) because the day before had been a terrible day.

I'd arrived by bus, and within minutes, was surrounded by Kazakhs. They want to know if I am staying the night. Then, a Chinese old lady grabbed me by the arm and tried to drag me away, claiming I am a relative. Soon, she is joined by several other Chinese. Bewildered, I resist and an argument starts up between the Kazakhs and the Chinese. The Chinese group is made to leave after it is ascertained that I am not related to them. (Think back to this incident again when the story ends.)

That's when the different Kazakhs start trying to convince me that their place was the best place to stay. Keen to get away from the crowd, I chose a yurt a little further away from the main cluster. It belongs to a large family comprising a set of grandparents, parents and a flock of children, mostly in their teens.

To cut a long story short, one of these teens convinced me to take a horse ride up a nearby hill for something like 5 bucks. Along the way, he squeezed into the saddle behind me. This wasn't pleasant, but I had no idea if it was the norm for 2 people to ride in one saddle.

When we reached the top of the hill, this boy tries to put his arms around me. I manage to escape his clutches, but he grabs my arm. I demanded he let go and he eventually did. Needless to say, I walked back to the camp.

After that incident, spending the night in the family's yurt wasn't a pleasant prospect. This structure is really just a large glorified tent made of animal skins. It simply smells bad. And the covers and bedding smell bad too because they are not only unwashed, they are generally placed in a stack to be used at night by random members of the family - who do not shower. Plus, like any tent, the doors do not lock. I did not sleep well.

When I recounted this story to a friend back in the capital, he said, 'You should've told me, I know some of those people and they are wild.' Not really the best way to find out he hadn't been reading the blog.

To end - y'know how the mantra goes about living without regrets? I reckon, in life, there'll always be times when you wish you could go back and somehow, make better choices. Assuming different choices will lead you to happier endings.

Doubtfully yours, !P

CORRECTION! I previously referred to the people living there as Uighurs. But I had a nagging feeling it wasn't accurate so I did some research and it turns out the ethnic minority living in that particular region are the Kazakhs, a Turkic people from the northern parts of Central Asia who were initially of pure Caucasian origin.

The "standard"

2010-02-24T22:57:00.019+08:00

Recently found myself browsing the Sydney Morning Herald for work purposes.

Then, something caught my eye.

The casual sex dilemma
February 3, 2010

Is the zipless romp the problem or the solution in the search for true love, Sam Brett asks.

This piqued my interest because last month's Australian encounter made me wonder about the Australian dating culture. The so-called expert quoted in the article says "women should set the standards and the men will co-operate."

So, the author decided to not have casual sex for 30 days. Apparently her solution to finding true love. A whole month without casual sex. Must be a real sacrifice for those of the generation. But I think that's s'posed to be some kind of test to see if that's the problem. I think.

Journalism, as well, has apparently evolved into a very odd creature indeed. We should just stick to the funnies.

What are you waiting for?
You.

That's the standard we should be setting.

Happy jumper

2010-02-23T10:45:00.009+08:00

I did it! Albeit less gracefully than I'd like, but let's not complain.

The Tarzan Swing, featuring an almost sheer 7m drop, is part of the grand rope course at Forest Adventure. It is slightly easier than the parachute simulation contraption at Sentosa, for a few reasons.

One - there is a rope to hold on to, two - you can push yourself off from a crouching position, and three - there is a huge net right in front of the jumping platform that's going to catch you. On the pheriphery, there is also no impatient person standing behind you spouting kindly words he doesn't mean.

The key, I reckon, is not to over-think. Do it as soon as you're hooked up. It's a case of forcibly overriding your better instincts. Most people, it seems, go off with a scream or shout, but no, not me. I apparently swing away with a deathly cry. Reviewers say, "You sound like you're being strangled." Fitting isn't it, being all roped up. Thing is, how do they know? Have they at some point had the dubious pleasure of being stuck in a room where strangulation was going on?

Generally, this 2.5-hour course offers slightly more fun (and dirt) than the ParaJump, which is pretty clinical as far as being outdoors go (but if you're looking for a bigger challenge, that's where you'll find it). They've got 4 zip lines across the Bedok Reservior offering soft landings and lots of sand in your pants where the sun don't shine. You're made to be responsible for your own safety by hooking up your own carabiner and pulley device at every obstacle, and of course, you get up to the platforms by way of rope ladders.

So what's next? This looks like fun.

Don't picture me

2010-02-20T17:25:00.009+08:00

I recently put up a profile picture on one of those so-called "social networking" sites, just so people who find me know it's me (and laugh).

When Slave #1, who took the picture, saw it ...

Slave ... Hey! You're using my picture!
!P ........ No, it's my picture!
Slave ... You shouldn't use that picture. It doesn't reflect your age!
!P ........ So which picture reflects my age?
Slave ... Don't worry, I'll take one of you when you're asleep!
!P ........ (?_?) Nooooooo.

This is the sort of reply that, as usual, sends all the wrong implications. I'm not sure what he was really implying, but whatever it was, it's just wrong.

15 again, naturally

2010-02-14T23:01:00.013+08:00

Part 9 (Melbourne, 4 days)

Somewhere in the wilderness that is Tasmania, we'd gotten a call from the airline telling us that the flight we had back home from Melbourne has been cancelled and thus have to be moved to the following day. And, they say, there'll be no compensation for the extra night's lodging this will cost us.

I call to complain about the turn of events. The random customer service chap who picks up kicks off the conversation by whispering to his colleague nearby, apparently under the impression that I am unable to hear him if he whispers into his mouthpiece.

When he was finally ready to talk, he tells me I would receive travel vouchers in lieu of compensation. I'm easily fooled, as usual. My advice? Avoid Jetstar if you can, there're other budget airlines that fly Australia. They seem plagued with late flights, scheduling woes and, if the news is to be believed, tons of customer complaints. Suddenly, I remember that I forgot to put in a good word about this fellow in my survey form (yet another one I actually wanted to fill).

Shockingly, the lady who greets us at our lodgings guesses I am 15 years old. It's been some time since this happened. I don't know if this is better than being told I am "like a guy", except for a perceived too low level of interest in sex. People who've never had to face being thought of as a 15-year-old by strangers all through their 20s and even on the wrong side of 30 seem to think it's all fun and games.

But back to Melbourne - it's actually quite refreshing to live opposite the city's largest cemetery. We missed our tram stop on 2 consecutive days despite the unmistakable landmark. You can also ponder the rows and rows of gravestones while doing the dishes, searching for the elusive answers to questions like why Asian ghouls are more terrifying than Western ones.

NB. Look left for pictures from Darwin before the bird licked my lens <_<

Down under Down Under

2010-02-08T21:58:00.053+08:00

PART 8 (Launceston to Hobart, 11 days)

People seem to find themselves very witty when they refer to Tasmania as "down under Down Under". I first encounter this in the kitchen of our Launceston lodgings, attempting to start breakfast for my apparent Flock for the next 11 days. It came from a middle-aged Melbourne man vacationing with ... his mother.

Now, to save you the trouble of reading, and me of thinking up witty things to say, I present pictures from Slave #1. If you look closely, you might find some lucky numbers!

1. Cataract Gorge, Launceston --- 2. 41 degress South Salmon & Ginseng Farm, Deloraine --- 3. Stream near 41 degress South Salmon & Ginseng Farm, Deloraine --- 4. Field near Ashgrove Farm Cheese, Elizabeth Town --- 5. Launceston City Park --- 6. Under the old oak tree at Bridestowe Lavender Farm, Nabowla --- 7. Pyengana Cheese Factory --- 8. Echina on Halls Falls trail, The Blue Tier, Pyengana --- 9 & 10. Halls Falls, The Blue Tier, Pyengana

ABOVE: 1. The Village Store, St Helens --- 2. Sweetwater Villas, St Helens --- 3. On the way to Binalong Bay --- 4. Binalong Bay --- 5. Bay of Fires --- 6. Sea anemones, Bay of Fires --- 7 & 8. Bay of Fires --- 9. Back to St Helens --- 10 - 12. Fungus, Evercreech Nature Reserve --- 13. Tallest White Gums in the world, Evercreech Nature Reserve --- 14. The Blowhole, Bicheno Foreshore Footway --- 15. Glass bottomed boat, Bicheno --- 16. Moonrise, Bicheno Foreshore Footway

BELOW: 1. On the Wine Glass Bay trail, Freycinet National Park --- 2. Wine Glass Bay, Freycinet National Park --- 3. Cape Tourville, Freycinet National Park --- 4. Failed attempt to get to the Saltwater Lagoon, Friendly Beaches, Freycinet National Park --- 5. Salamanca Market, Hobart --- 6. Quoll, The Tasmanian Devil Park, Taranna --- 7. Wallaby, The Tasmanian Devil Park, Taranna --- 8. Tasmanian Devil, The Tasmanian Devil Park, Taranna --- 9. Port Arthur penitentiary --- 10 - 12. Eaglehawk Neck --- 13. Tasman Arch, Eaglehawk Neck --- 14. Hobart from Mount Wellington --- 15. Bouncing Pillow, Discovery Holiday Park, Hobart --- 16. Richmond church

You know Tourists

2010-02-03T09:37:00.010+08:00

PART 7 (Adelaide to Melbourne, 3 days)

Actually set off on the tour looking forward to filling out the detestable Survey/Feedback Form. A long complaint about the poor management regarding the pick-up service that stranded me in Adelaide for 2 days is in order.

It's a mixed bag of 10 passengers this time around, consisting mostly of Europeans.

1. An adventurous fat and squat lady from Slovenia who climbed out of a taxi in an orange skirt ensemble. She wears short slingbacks with crocheted socks! Long-sighted spectacles not-withstanding, she wades into the sea in a bikini. I was fearful there'd be some sort of wardrobe malfunction and so averted my eyes from her bosom.

2. A thin and short lady from Argentina. An English teacher, I heard, which I don't doubt since she speaks crisply and looks like a disciplinarian. Does not hike, which makes little sense for her to be on the tour.

3. A loud Hong Konger who speaks suspect English. Nothing wrong with that, except he's looking for a university teaching job in Australia after apparently completing his PhD and research work in Sydney. Goes by the mantra 'If it's wrong, you can't accept it - You've got to fight for it!' Thinks the Chinese in Malaysia should fight for their rights. Yes, well. The guy caught a cold back in the furnace that is Alice Springs by not wearing a shirt to sleep in an air conditioned room.

4. A quiet bookish-looking Swiss girl. Gets some sort of eye infection but insists on not getting medical attention. Apparently, women's tennis is too boring, but men's tennis sometimes gets so exciting one's heart might explode. Going to Melbourne to cheer on Roger Federer. Poor Andy Murray.

5-8. A big balding Frenchman. Seems to be trying to endear himself to the Dutch woman, a geologist (PhD). His friend and rival seems to be a hulking Dutchman, who may only be just friendly towards his fellow countryman and not actually vying for her affections. Another possible contender is an Englishman who appears to be in the know of party places in Melbourne, where he's been living with relations for a while. He's invited the Dutch lady to a house party on the beach.

9. A very pale person from Perth with short red hair. On the tour, she's officially a girl, but the Frenchman and the Dutchman apparently spend their spare moments speculating otherwise.

For this leg, we go up the fabulous Grampians and then down to the spectacular Great Ocean Road. I've got myself a seat right at the back. Comparatively, I have to admit the seat right at the front boasts the best views but is a lot less conductive to falling asleep. The backseat is excellent for catching a nap and examining the back of the heads of the other passengers.

One afternoon, there we were, standing on the beach at the Loch Ard Gorge on the shipwreck coast. The bay is partially blocked by a rock pillar, which until June last year had been part of an archway. On the right is a cave, but the only way there is to pick your way through the slippery rocks hugging the cliff face. So a few of us do it, simply because we've got a mad tour leader. Much to his delight, a few random tourists started to follow us and get their clothes wet in the rising tide as his derisive laughter echoes across the bay.

No sunset (again) at the Twelve Apostles but everyone was all agog watching fairy penguins coming in to shore. Even though they looked more like specks of dirt all the way from the top of the cliff. You know tourists (lah).

Cruddy Cannon

2010-01-22T20:43:00.007+08:00

PART 6 (Adelaide, another 2 days)

The Cannon Street Backpackers is a hostel converted from what looks to be an old warehouse. To make it look festive, they have painted the frontage in bright colours, crayon drawings popular with youths. The ground floor features, besides reception, a table tennis table, a travel centre and a smallish soup-kitchen-type place that serves free apple pie every day at precisely 8pm. With fresh cream.

On the second level, there is a small space housing 4 computer terminals, a sectioned-off area with table and chairs, followed by a large 'living' area containing ... nothing much. Then, rooms begin to line both sides, separated by a middle block of toilets and showers. Although carpeted, everyone who walks on the hallway sounds like they are stomping, and although room doors are s'posed to close automatically like those in offices, they sound like they are banging all the time. It is a cruddy place that appears to employ working-travellers to do the so-called cleaning. I lived it up here for 2 days after my tour to Melbourne left without me.

Apparently, I was s'posed to board the tour bus somewhere else instead of being picked up from where I was staying. However, it'd been stated on my travel voucher: Pick up at YHA Adelaide (and meet at a secondary location in brackets). Yes, I woke up at 5am for this nonsense. How typical this should happen the day after I wrote postcards to people saying this odyssey would end in 3 days.

So, they try to book me in at the YHA for a further 2 nights (free of charge, of course). But the YHA, being a clean, efficiently run place complete with anal receptionists (Ma'am, you can't lay on the couch here) who're evidently deficient in other ways, is fully booked. Cruddy place it is, then.

Must've sat on the free City Loop bus at least 10 times over 2 days. Thought I'd visit Port Adelaide on the second day on the train, but the line's being renovated, so hopped on a bus instead. Turns out, you have to stick the bus ticket into a ticket machine after paying for it. I found that out after the bus driver hollared at me for 10 minutes, only I didn't know it was me he was shouting at and was looking around wondering what's the matter. Meanwhile, the other passengers are looking around wondering what kind of idiot I am.

From wet to dry

2010-01-17T15:25:00.014+08:00

PART 4 (Alice Springs to Adelaide, 6 days)

To conclude the previous story -
it could've ended with less angst, but I'm not sorry.
Left a 20 and a note for the guy with the beat up car -
he might burn it but more likely spend it chasing girls in a bar.

On to King's Canyon to walk on the rim,
the French lady obviously hasn't spent time at the gym -
although she almost didn't make it to the top,
she wasn't the one who made us all stop.
That was when another lady had a fainting spell
apparently because it's hot as hell.

Then we're all rained out at Uluru -
the European passengers are crying boohoohoo!
It's just like back in Germany (or Denmark) at this time
and we wouldn't even have had to spend a dime!
And while rivelets of water were coming down the Red Rock,
flowing pools led to the road to Kata Tjuta being blocked.

Then on to Flinders' Ranges and Warren Gorge to find rock wallabies and kangaroos
Along the way, the loud English girl got pictures of roadkill too!
But I say animals shouldn't be roadkill -
delinquents in Quorn more fit the bill.
They harrassed me at the playground
and then followed me like hounds.
Sometimes you wish you were taller with more strength and might,
so bullies wouldn't try attacking you in broad daylight.
But other times it's words that wrench,
like when the English and Germans laugh at the finicky French.
They'd be perfect as banshees at a zoo -
no doubt if you weren't there they'd laugh at you too.

PART 5 (Adelaide, 1 day)

The group had dinner last night at a Malaysian restaurant. I am not sure why I went. Prob'ly because I was asked and it seemed awkward to say no. They spend half the time slagging off the trio referred to as the "Frenchies", who obviously declined the dinner invite. They seem to have a particular dislike for the French woman, who is unfortunately pudgy ("massive" is the word of choice) and unfit. She also has a queenly attitude, with her smaller sized (and younger) husband waiting on her hand and foot. The couple is travelling with the husband's old school friend, which is odd for a honeymoon. The three of them tote huge cameras and have apparently snapped "millions" of pictures over the 6 days.

I'd been sharing a room with the trio and a pair of Danish sisters for two nights back in Quorn. They'd complained about having to help prepare food, wash dishes, share rooms with strangers, go on tough hikes and see Uluru in the rain. Claimed they didn't know it was part of the tour (perhaps the word "adventure" is too foreign), and that A$900 is too much to pay for such a tour. Perhaps one good thing that might have come out of this is that one of the single Danish sister seems to have developed an interest in the single French guy. Unfortunately, he didn't seem that interested in her.

At the resto, I order a "curry laksa". Minus points for the pieces of chicken breast and squid. A German orders Gado Gado, but asks for oyster sauce to replace the peanut sauce. Later, she asks for soya sauce too. Kind of a massacre there.

It's s'posed to be warm here, but the wind is a killer. Hoping to buy a jacket or something, but the op shops in town are all closed on Sunday. Luckily I know Glenelg, which, being a seaside spot, is bustling on a Sunday - volleyball competition on the beach and the like. Hurrah! A cardigan for just A$9, a pair of jeans for A$20 and two tops for A$20! Admittedly, a cardigan doesn't do much against a wind like this.

A group of teenagers are crowded around the middle section of the tram back to the city. Made it look like the entire tram is crowded, but it turns out there are even free seats in other sections of the tram. Later, the conductor comes along and herds them to my section of the tram, and one of them exclaims, There's lots of space here! I wonder if they are idiots, since they don't appear to be blind.

Did I already mention the Australian landscape is stunning? The kind of stunning that makes you wish you could paint. I'd gladly do another road trip. But prob'ly minus the tour group.

NT goes swimming

2010-01-09T17:23:00.012+08:00

Well, folks, things are going swimmingly in NT. Read on to find out just how swimmingly.

PART 1 (Kakadu National Park and surrounds, 3 days)

Flight 62 to Darwin is delayed by 30 minutes, but will still be able to make the tour when it lands at 4.30am. Good to have buffer time after all. The plane is only half full, so got the entire row of 3 seats to myself. Still couldn't get any sleep despite the good fortune.

Upon arrival, I get stopped at customs and questioned like a criminal for trying to bring in a packet of washing powder they think could be drugs. This, after I had to discard my packet of pea chips for fear of being held up at customs. The last time I was passing through Australian customs, it wasn't pleasant either. I now officially hate Australian customs.

I decided to jump into a cab as I was worried I would be late for the tour. Turns out I wasted the money - ended up waiting for the tour to show up for something like an hour.

Realised my mistake of taking this tour at the height of summer, and evidently monsoon season (no one told me that!). The state is apparently swarming with flies, some of which have painful stings. Camping with those, coupled with the swarms of mosquitoes? I don't recommend it. For one, it's kind of hard to get any sleep in a stuffy tent in a sleeping bag.

We are travelling in a 4WD type vehicle. It's like a lorry for transporting people. I got a seat up front, on top of the burning engine and right beside the driver/tour leader. She seems to be worried cause I am not socialising. Sigh.

My camera decides to conk off after lunch. Every picture turns out over exposed. Sorry folks, no pictures unless I manage to get the damned thing fixed somewhere along the way.

Didn't manage to get into Litchfield National Park on the last day because the roads are flooded and impassable. Common occurance, apparently, during monsoon season.

PART 2 (Darwin to Alice Springs, 3 days)

We depart Darwin in a mini tour bus lugging a trailer. I got a single seat towards the back of the bus, but then a group of Americans/Australians on a company outing grab the adjacent seats. Decide to get the seat in the front again as the group seem to talk rather a lot. So I end up sitting next to the tour leader again, this time a skinny bearded chap. He informs his passengers about the various places like he's reciting from memory. Also makes passengers play ice-breaking games. You know I was rolling my eyes, right? The guy also seems intent on making me chat with him while he drives.

I'm still not able to get any sleep in those dreaded 2-man tents, despite my best efforts. I just lie there in a pool of sweat from 9pm and check the clock after a long while, hoping it's time to get up, but it's only 1am.

Into the second day, the tour leader suggests I should go to dinner with him when we get to Alice. I am non-commital. Later, he asks the kind of question I thought shouldn't be within the boundaries of Q&A for people who just met. I get offended the second time he asks and ignore him the rest of the way to camp. That seemed to put him in a bad mood, and he loses his cool with the group later when they talk when he recites a story about the place. The A/A company group have started threatening to throw me into the pool if I persist in not swimming.

We spend the night at the Juno Horse Farm. It actually has horses. It also is swarming with flying ants. Orangy ones. But the night sky is clear and blanketed in stars, so this time I get to star gaze in bed instead of just stew in perspiration. The sky actually takes on a surreal jelly-like quality when looked through the window mesh, it almost wobbles.

On the third day, it seems the tour leader has assumed I will go to dinner with him and starts to ask me what I would like to eat. He also says I should meet him at 4pm on Saturday and we'll go do something before dinner. He also seems to have realised his mistake and keeps his lewd questioning in check.

PART 3 (Alice Springs, 2 days)

There is nothing (much) to do in Alice. It is pretty small and this weekend, it seems the #1 past-time for the locals is watching the Todd River flow. Apparently, this river only flows during the monsoon and this is the first time it is flowing this year, so it's somewhat of a big deal.

Found a camera shop and asked to get my camera fixed, but was refused. This camera is more than 3 years old and apparently not worth fixing, according to camera shop uncle. I wonder if he was hoping I'd buy a new camera at his shop if he tells me that. Sorry mate, I don't have any money to spend on new gadgets.

After walking around town about 3 times, I still can't find any of the bloody op shops I'd found listed on the internet. But I did find a second-hand bookstore where I purchase a second-hand book for A$14 (was hoping it'd be something more like A$5) and then at lunch, spilled tea down my white top and returned to the hostel to change and wash it. After that, I am bored and decide to make the 4pm meeting. I guess I have time to find out what he expects out of it before dinner actually happens.

We end up going bowling. I'm still terrible at it after 2 games. That took up an hour of our time, and we go to Anzac Hill next. Unfortunately, he refers repeatedly to going back to his place and getting "hot and sweaty". I make it clear it's not going to happen. He accuses me of using him to while away my time and I admit it. We're both pissed off at this point, so I decided to make my exit.

When I get to the bottom of the hill, he comes driving up alongside but I ignore him. He zooms off in a huff, like in a movie. Good grief.

Now I feel nauseous. And kind of embarrassed.

In the cab, episode 2

2010-01-02T02:16:00.007+08:00

40 minutes into New Year's Day. There is a huge crowd on its way out. Had to hail a cab from the main road. Got a blue one to stop, but had to go through an interrogation before being allowed to board.

Cabbie .. Sorry about that. I had to ask because I have a booking at Dempsey Hill at 2am.
Me ....... (bemusedly) It's okay.
Cabbie .. Don't you get regular taxis that wait at the taxi stand?
Me ....... Yes, but they don't queue here on days like the weekends. They say they can easily pick up a fare around town.
Cabbie .. Ouch! That's true. So, you went to a party in there?
Me ....... No, I was working.
Cabbie .. Ouch! But you're off today?
Me ....... No, I will still be working.
Cabbie .. But you get paid double or triple?
Me ....... No, I get paid the same.
Cabbie .. Ouch! Then, why do you still work on a public holiday?
Me ....... Well, someone always has to work. Like you, and I ...
Cabbie .. Haha, that's true! I started work today at 7am!
Me ....... (incredulously) Wow! You've been driving since 7am?!
Cabbie .. Yes, since 7am! And I have a booking at 2am, 5am ... I usually work during the daytime only. But because tomorrow will be my off day, I want to work now.
Me ....... Aren't you tired?
Cabbie .. Yes, that's why it's best for midnight drivers to talk to passengers to stay awake! Haha!
Me ....... But some of them don't like to talk ...
Cabbie .. Haha, that's true. So, you always work this shift?
Me ....... Yes.
Cabbie .. Ouch! Then you won't have time to go out with your friends and socialise!
Me ....... Off days?
Cabbie .. That's not enough!
Me ....... (sniggers) It's okay, I don't like to socialise.
Cabbie .. Married? Boyfriend?
Me ....... No?
Cabbie .. Then you need to go out more often!

I wonder why I can't remember what I said at this point. It's possible I just grunted non-commitally. Ouch! Tee hee hee!

The new year sojourn

2010-01-01T13:20:00.022+08:00

Everyone seems incredulous I am able to get 5 consecutive weeks off work, and still have managed to go for several holidays in the past year. It's because of a twin-headed serpent known as the mandatory no-pay leave and the mandatory common leave day that tend to rear its bawdy heads when the levels in our collective coffers head south.

Those, coupled with working public holidays and hence, amassing more days off, mean I had the luxury of planning my impending sojourn months in advance. Alas! I'm heading Down Under as my gold continues to diminish. It will, hopefully, begin to pile up after my return since it appears the serpent has been banished (for now).

At dinner with a friend and her other half a couple of days ago, I said I was going on holiday alone. (Although technically, only half of it is alone.)

Friend's husband .. (with a whiff of distaste) Why are you going alone?
Friend .. What better way to meet desirable backpacking foreign guys?
Me ........ (with disbelieve) Desirable???
Friend .. Okay, okay, what better way to meet [deleted] backpacking foreign guys then ...
Me ........ (smugly) Oh yes, what better way to meet a handsome Frenchman?

Her husband's a French whom she met on her travels. He claims to be handsome. In our conversations, the person I'm going to elope with tends to be a handsome Frenchman, even though my preferences veer regional.

In any case, I've armed myself with the relevant travel guide. Or rather, a few city maps photocopied from a travel guide picked up at the library. Also checked out 3 books of fiction, one of which is the first half of a Chinese novel 《兄弟》. It's making the trip with me and thus, will be overdue by the time it gets back. Yes, even with that great NLB invention called Renewing Your Books Online.

Other pre-flight preparations:

!P > YAWN ... tomorrow must get up early so can sleep on plane
aL > wa... what time ur flight
!P > 9.55pm
aL > get up early?
!P > yah, so i will tired by then. cause the flight is not that long so i got to sleep fast. see?
aL > ... sleep ... fast ...? speed sleep?
!P > YEAH!
aL > d'logic

You're all welcome to use it while I'm gone.

The new flooring

2009-12-19T18:30:00.010+08:00

It appears public works are now favouring a new kind of tile. "Now", of course, is relative to when I fathomed this.

It's easy to see why they like these tiles. They are rough on the surface, thus helping to prevent slipping accidents. (Where were they when I went crashing down in public last week?)

They also dry fast, thus helping to prevent even more accidents. This might also mean the cleaners will have less of a problem with footprints.

Unfortunately, there's always bound to be something unfortunate about something fortunate. The roughness makes them all the more difficult to clean as they pick up specks of dirt easily - not just from dirty shoes and feet, but also from the cleaning implements used to clean them, like mops and squeegies and even a broom with stiff bristles. Talk about ... y'know, irony. Ineffectiveness. Something.

Probably less noticeable if its of a dark colour, but ours happen to be of a lighter shade of ... what looks like orange or peach. Apparently the closest match to our brownish-greyish bathroom tiles. Or someone is colour blind.

You see, our bathroom floor got a makeover courtesy of the housing board, because our pipes were apparently causing our downstairs neighbour some distress. We got a new toilet bowl, new pipes - raised instead of recessed, new floor tiles and a house covered in construction dust. Not for free, of course.

Something else that's different - the cement. Instead of white, it's now actually of a similar shade to the tiles. I'll reserve my applause for when it's found to be grout repelling. Grout is our greatest enemy!

Or maybe second greatest.

In the cab, episode 1

2009-11-27T13:26:00.007+08:00

I've been in more cabs in the past year than I've been my entire life. I guess that's what happens when one works the night shift.

Some of them have the unmistakable scent of a smoker. Others smell of stale perspiration or cheap air fresheners, or an amalgamation of the two. Then, there was one that smelt like a Starbucks.

Some drivers are chatty. Others like to sing-along to songs on the radio. Then, there are those who are completely silent, except when they snort/sniff/cough with regular frequency. I don't like to be trapped in one of those.

I also don't like those that have the info-adver-tainment panel in the backseat , just like I don't like the mobile televisions inside buses. The good news is that the ones in the cabs can be turned off. One chatty driver told me they were installed for free, but the installation took half a day. His grouse - the compensation for the lost time was a measly amount ($20? $50? I forget).

Sometimes, when the stand is empty, people go to the main road to hail one. This requires a walk along a dark street lined by big gated houses. One of these contains a dog that scares the shit out of unsuspecting passers-by in the night-time. It was at it again last night, and I still have no idea what it looks like.

Hailed a yellow cab the night before last. The driver turned down the music when I boarded - ah, a chatty one.

Mentioned it was Singapore Idol night. That set him off into a semi-monologue about the deplorable standards of local television offerings - the ones they used to churn out in the 80s were much better, he said, I can only rely on Hong Kong dramas now. I pointed out the popularity of the recent show involving people in kebayas. Apparently thhe ending wasn't good enough for him (where've I already heard that before?).

Another thing he's not a great fan of - passengers who won't talk to him. The arrogant ones - can't avoid them if I'm in a queue, he grumbles. But I'll avoid them if they're just flagging from the roadside, he added somewhat smugly. Just 5 seconds ago, he'd been grousing about how hard times are and the diminishing number of passengers.

Still, it appears more and more cabbies are on the roads. Last night featured a brand new blue cab. The driver, a balding white haired grandpa, hadn't even taken off the plastic covering the headrests. Gramps must be fairly new as well - he almost took a wrong turn, and following that, completely missed a turn altogether! Nights must indeed be dark if even grandpas are forced to ply the roads.

The fake double eyelids

2009-11-15T19:19:00.005+08:00

It might've happened in China.

Shortly after I returned, my mother asked me if I'd gone under the scalpel. Of course not! I'd retorted. It's just drooping eyelids! Drooping eyelids! (Repeated so as to banish those doubts.)

I like to tell people I've aged, living in China. See, I used to be mistaken for a secondary school student. Post-China, I get mistaken for a university student.

Drooping upper eyelids, known as ptosis, are caused when the eyelid's "lifting" muscles begin to sag. It's a condition you can be born with, or it can develop from aging, after cataract surgery or from an injury. Although I found that on a completely random website, I'm sure, as mentioned, it's aging that's causing my fake double eyelids.

I've never really linked eyelids to anything, so imagine my confusion when people link it to beauty, for example. Double eyelids prettier than single eyelids - what's that about?

I was speaking to a stranger at a wedding last week, and I was told I didn't look like a local. When I mentioned this to a friend, she blindsided me by bringing up my fake double eyelids. Nationality is linked to eyelids - what's that about?

Well, I'm not expecting my droopy eyelids to get worse any time soon. But when they do, I apparently have a couple of options (that don't involve any loss of blood).

I can either tape them up using see-through, hypo-allergenic bandage tape (apparently conveniently available at pharmacies). I can also wear custom-made spectacles. My optometrist or optician can apparently solder a padded wire on the inside frames of my eyeglasses to hold up a fold of skin. And it's s'posedly even flexible enough to move when blinking! I'd like to see how that works!

Look what else the website threw up! The most common type of under-eye circles are usually an inherited trait like varicose veins and have nothing to do with underlying disease or how much sleep you get. O-HO-HO-HO. O-HO-HO-HO.

The entitled

2009-10-01T11:36:00.009+08:00

The owner of Cirque du Soleil has blasted off into space. It's news because the billionaire is only the seventh space tourist - and the first clown - to visit the International Space Station. And why not, if he's willing to fork over the US$35 million.

But the interesting bits come after the red noses and Rocket Man sing-along.

Poetic Social Mission countdown begins as Guy Laliberte prepares for launch of Expedition 21 aboard Soyuz-TMA 16 spacecraft

BAIKONUR COSMODROME, Kazakhstan, Sept. 29 /PRNewswire/ - Guy Laliberte announces confirmed participation of additional world-renowned celebrities and musicians in his Poetic Social Mission, as he prepares for the Expedition 21 launch. A 120-minute global event featuring musical performances by major international artists and the reading of a poetic tale by well-known celebrities, the Poetic Social Mission seeks to raise awareness through artistic illustration of the humanitarian struggles and solutions associated with water.

Huh? It's to spread awareness of the growing shortage of clean water, then? How did that come about? Hmm, I have everything money can buy, I've travelled across the globe, where shall I go on my next vacation? Wait - I haven't been to space! And it'll only cost 35 million! But what if the news hounds find out? I don't want to look like just another bored rich person. I know! I'll read poetry while I'm up there and have a bunch of other rich people back on earth read along, put a Good Cause on it, and I'm all set!

I'm all for artistic endeavours, but somehow I think those millions could be better spent. In 2004, for example, the US city of Brownsville built a desalination plant at the cost of US$21.1 million. It has a capacity of 7.5 million gallons of potable water per day.

Here at home, a Newater plant in Changi that will be able to supply 15% of Singapore's current water needs at full capacity costs S$150 million to build. If I'm not mistaken, it churns out more than 15 million gallons per day.

And over in water-starved Africa, the Makivenzi Water Project in Kenya cost some US$$14,000 to build. The 60-foot deep well and 100,000 litre water tank benefits over 2,000 people in the community.

Of course, that's just number crunching - it'll take more than one entry to discuss the environmental impact of desalination and water renewal. My point is, who knows how many affected by the lack of clean water can benefit if those funds were well spent. But I s'pose if the idea is just to make sure people know that clean water is running out, you wouldn't want to be building new water sources. You'd want to deprive them of it. Maybe it'll be a reading of parched poetry. But that's really only based on the misguided belief that people who know will do something about it, not continue to soak in the jacuzzi and build swimming pools in their backyards and indulge in other water-wasting habits.

Opps, not politically correct to criticise rich folks who need to justify their expensive hobbies by promoting Good Causes, is it?

But heck, they don't even have any qualms supporting Bad Causes.

Polanski faces harsher U.S. justice system than 1977
By Alex Dobuzinskis

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - If Los Angeles prosecutors succeed in extraditing Roman Polanski from Switzerland to face sentencing for having unlawful sex with a 13-year-old girl, the film director will find that U.S. courts treat his crime more severely than 30 years ago.

If he did do the crime (he did plead guilty, afterall), why should he be let off? Because he won an Oscar? Because he's now "too old" to go to jail? He only managed to become "too old" because he skipped bail and fled to France in 1977 and has been living the high life since then. Why should he enjoy such privileges? If he didn't win an Oscar and have rich and famous friends, would we still be having this discussion?

So his victim has forgiven him. Imagine how much tax payers' money can be saved if perpetrators can get a free pass out of jail if they manage to get their victim(s) to forgive them!

Or maybe his rich supporters are operating on the belief that people with talent, people who can contribute to society, shouldn't be treated the same as other criminal low-lives. That's why those bankers, those people who triggered the global financial crisis are still, somehow, safely ensconced in their nice offices in their nice buildings, right?

The mega non-leap

2009-09-25T15:17:00.005+08:00

Well, I failed to step off.

It was at Sentosa's new MegaZip Adventure Park on its Open Day and I had free entry to try out its rope course, parachute simulation and megazip.

But I failed, utterly and completely, to step off the parajump platform. That's even after watching two girls do it and survive the ordeal.

I didn't get that vertigo feeling looking down at the square of gravel, which serves as the landing point, three storeys down. My heart wasn't racing. I didn't feel like I would pee in my pants, or throw up. I know I wouldn't like to bungee jump or skydive, but I'm pretty sure I can make this mere 15-metre leap.

Still, I didn't step off. It's just not a natural act, stepping into thin air. It didn't help that the chap manning that station had a less-than-reassuring platform-side manner - you could feel the impatience emanating from him in the way he spoke.

Maybe I just didn't feel any pressure to perform. Maybe I just need more time to enjoy the view. Prob'ly I just needed to be shoved.

Still, the rope course was fun - except for the nefarious swinging steps, which left a series of bruises on the underside of my upper arms. Of course, going climbing the night before didn't help.

As for the top draw, the MegaZip from the top of Imbian Hill all the way down to Siloso Beach, the best way to enjoy it is to have the right weight. Too light and you'll either get stuck towards the end where the line levels out, or you'll be strung together with someone else. Too heavy and you'll get whipped by the trees on the way down, and after that, you'll still get stuck towards the end cause all that whipping you received has slowed you down. Either way, as you wait for a rescue line to pull you in, you'll just have to hang like ripe fruit - not really the best position if you have sensitive reproductive organs or a bad back.

You've been warned.

Prejudices

2009-09-17T22:34:00.011+08:00

This afternoon, at the bus-stop ...

I am standing behind a pair of girls. The black-clad one is obese. She is eating an ice cream as they chat - Wall's Solero, the green one I like. A pang of disgust and envy. She has unwrapped the thing such that she's holding on to the stick using the wrapper. Helps to keep your fingers cream free.

I look up at several buses that've pulled up. None are mine. But the girls up and board one of them. The buses pull away.

A man arrives at the bus stop. He takes the now-vacant bench in front of me.

What time is it? I try to sneak a peek at the man's watch, but can't make out the hands thanks to the complicated watch face. Stupid watch. I look away, and catch sight of the ice cream wrapper.

The obese girl left it on the bench! More feelings of disgust.

For all the endless articles, letters and forum posts touting graciousness and consideration, it's a losing battle. All those words - I highly doubt they are reading (or listening). And even among the readers and forum trawlers, there are those who remain resolutely unapologetic and self-righteous. Change them? Hah! Pigs will fly and I'll start using a mobile telephone.

Finally, the bus arrives. How nice, I was afraid it'd be crowded with dull morning session students refusing to move to the back of the bus. There's even a loverly kingfisher along Bukit Timah road adding colour to the passing scenery.

Tapping out of the bus, the time displayed is 14:57. Wahay, right on time!

The fight with the tooth

2009-08-25T23:06:00.005+08:00

It's perhaps best described as a backroom operation (not quite seedy).

A small clinic tucked in a row of shops, it has one tiny backroom, in the middle of which is one dentist's chair.

I wasn't the least bit bothered by the lack of space. My regular dentist also operates out a tiny little room on premises shared with a regular GP. Don't ask why I didn't go to my regular dentist for this, though, I'm not quite sure. I got the impression she didn't do that procedure but after giving it some thought, I wouldn't bet on that impression being accurate.

Anyhow, what was weird was how the Chinese dentist and the Indian dental assistant were so ... loud. Do aunties like them generally occur at the dentist's? Those I've been to tend to be rather quiet and clinical. The dental assistant even persisted in engaging me in conversation after the procedure - when I couldn't feel the lower left half of my face, and was apparently bleeding from a gaping hole in my mouth caused by the unceremonious exit of a fairly large tooth.

The longest needle that's ever been stuck in my very conscious flesh appeared without much fanfare. It struck (3 times) without much fanfare either. The problem with long needles, I reckon, is that it's easy to let it stray off the straight and narrow on the way out. When that happens, the tip scrapes against the flesh, causing more pain on the way out than in. Woe is me.

After that, I lose all feeling in my lower left jaw (including half of my lips). A metal spade-like implement is produced and the dentist digs in, complete with scraping sounds echoing in my head. When that's done, a pair of pliers is used in what seemed like a tug of war with a stubborn nail. The dental assistant's daughter had even been recruited to hold my head down. Can't really complain about the lack of pain, but the labourous pulling caused my tongue to pushed back into my throat, thereby impeding the breathing process. Fortunately, the tooth gave up the fight before I suffocated.

That night, I swallowed a painkiller and applied ice to my jaw when all feeling returned.

The next three days, I have trouble swallowing as I've apparently sprained my tongue in the Fight with the Tooth. Even had trouble yawning - they tend to be extinguished by pain halfway through. How thoroughly unsatisfying. But I can swallow much better now, so no doubt the yawns will be back in force.

Exercise won't make you thin

2009-08-19T13:38:00.009+08:00

My suspicions have been confirmed.

If you're a loyal, valiant soldier of the losing battle against the bulge, this Time magazine article may have the answers. But I'm pretty sure most of you already know at least one of the reasons.

One of those people who've never lost weight through exercise - me. And I do exercise regularly (but stubbornly remain a tofu de beast). I might have had some success losing weight by watching my diet, but I have to say the effects don't last long.

But I unknowingly (gradually) lost some 4 kgs the second year I lived in China. The thing is, I wasn't exactly exercising that much then, for various reasons (polluted air, too frozen stiff, odd work hours).

I did find myself doing loads of other things. Daily, mundane activities you get saddled with when living alone. Topping the list - cleaning the house, doing the laundry (hand washing winter clothes are a real pain), buying the groceries and cooking. On top of that, I cycled to work (15 minutes away), to the supermarket (30 minutes away, at least once a week) and most other nearby places.

I also started on an odd regiment of working part time on Saturday mornings at least 3 times a month. That means after getting off work at 6am, I cycle home, grab some breakfast, the catch a cab to a school across town, where I'll work till about noon. Then I generally like to go for lunch, and maybe walk to the shopping area near the school. Then I go to bed at 5pm and get out of bed at about 8am the next day. That adds up to about 21 hours of wakefulness followed by 15 hours of sleep (always gives me a backache).

Food-wise, I use very little oil cooking because I like steaming, stewing, soups, and also love porridge - very convenient for packing to work. In the large supermarkets, there's always a wide range of mushrooms, tofu and vegetables, so I ate loads of those (because I actually like them). But I also had my fair share of snacks each week - giant bags of Cheesy Doritoes, Lays original potato chips, ice cream, Kinder chocolates, etc.

Then, there's the horribly bitter winter - I'm sure that can take some credit for burning up the calories.

The moral of the story - get off your collective butts and do stuff regularly. Walk the dog. Take the stairs. Buy groceries. Wash the car. Use public transport - not because it's cheaper, but because you'll walk more! Walk or cycle to nearby places. Do the household chores at shorter intervals. Eat homecooked food - again, not because it's cheaper!

Most importantly, do it regularly. And exercise, if only to build your stamina.

Indeed, I should practise what I preach. Heck, I already do 3 out of the 7 listed above anyway. (Thankfully, no dog to walk.)

The Pangkor party

2009-08-11T13:04:00.012+08:00

I'll admit it. I thought it was just another resort-island type place. Y'know, beaches, beaches, people trying to sell you boat rides, beaches, and very little else.

But that's not really the case. Hornbills live on Pulau Pangkor. Not sure why this isn't a more heralded fact about the island, but it isn't. It's so not heralded, even me, the conscientious planner, missed it. Maybe that says something unflattering about my planning skills.

Back to the hornbills. They are the Lesser Hornbill, the smaller cousin of Sarawak's Giant Hornbill (apparently you can find those on Pangkor too, but we didn't see any). Apparently, they nest at three locations on the island, and one is Nipah Bay, where our lodgings are conveniently located. What a stroke of luck that we can even see the big tree they nest in from our room windows!

These birds, all dressed up in their black jackets and white trousers, appear to be curious birds, unafraid of getting close to humans. That's perhaps because where humans are, food's aplenty. In the mornings, you'll find them shovelling up thrown-away rice behind the seafood stall with their big yellow beaks, while a cat watches from behind some foliage.

Something else we saw while hanging out the window - the white bellied sea eagle (according to our resident nature guide). We first spotted it gliding around the bay area, but later, in the evening, it was perched on a very tall and very bare tree - save for what looked like a large messy nest. Binoculars - that's what you forgot!

The King of our tribe says when he came to the island decades ago, they used to see turtles nesting. We didn't see any, prob'ly because we were at the wrong beach. Apparently, 4 of the 7 known species of marine turtles that breed in Malaysia breed on Pangkor island. There's even a turtle breeding station, which we didn't visit since we didn't know of its existence.

We did venture out to an uninhabited island, though. The 10 minute ride cost us RM10 per person in a little speedboat. At Coral Island, just opposite Nipah Bay, schools of colourful fishes frolic among soft corals. Boats regularly ferry beach-goers to swim there. Our drop-off point was a small white beach from where you could hike across the island to get to the rocky outcrop where the colourful fishes swim. Along the way, you'll meet new friends from mosquitoes swarms and giant red ants lines. Corals are all around the island, so the sea bed is not particularly pleasant to step on. The worse were the soft squishy stuff. Let's just assume they were sea cucumbers, for peace of mind.

Pangkor is surprisingly hilly and prob'ly quite painful to cycle. We did see one brave caucasian couple attempting it, though. It's also got a bustling fishing industry, away from the tourist spots. Countless fishing wharves sprout from the shore, and on them, thousands of captured sea creatures are left to dry in the sun - the smell is over-whelming but you soon get used to it. Then, there're also ship builders, where it's entirely possible to while the day away observing the proceedings.

For sustenance, you'd think we'd be having seafood feasts. But no, with more than half the food stalls closed on weekdays, it's hard to be impressed with the offerings. What little seafood we had was pretty run-of-the-mill. The food stand at the end of Nipah Bay doles out greatly delicious Ramly burgers, though!

After three days, we leave Pangkor for Ipoh, where the Queen of the tribe purchases a large array of fruits and vegetables, and even a tray of free-range chicken eggs. Can't tell you how those eggs taste since they did not make it past Singapore customs. But it didn't seem so bad compared to the car beside us - it was being relieved of all the pots of beautiful orchids that filled its boot.

Loathing a famous person

2009-08-04T12:35:00.003+08:00

I have developed a somewhat irrational fear and loathing for Japanese actor Kimura Takuya.

It happened after I watched the first episode of a drama called Sora Kara Furu Ichioku no Hoshi. That, in English, is apparently A Million Stars Falling From The Sky, but it's also alternatively titled The Smile Has Left Your Eyes. It's billed as a mystery, a romance and a thriller rolled into one.

The drama starts out with the murder is a young female student that was disguised to look like a suicide. The detective suspects a chef's assistant had something to do with it.

Kimura is the "enigmatic" chef's assistant. He develops a love-hate relationship with a rich and powerful man's beautiful daughter, who also happens to be the detective's little sister.

It seems "enigmatic" here is creepy dressed up in curly brown locks under a newsboy cap. In the beginning, he seems to be the kind man of a few words, one who helps old ladies move furniture and defends a colleague who's accused of stealing wine at a party the company was catering for.

Later, he rescues the rich girl from the amorous attentions of a persistent suitor. Her bracelet breaks in the scuffle, and he even manages to fix it on the spot. It's her birthday party, by the way, held on a big luxury ship.

When the fireworks go up, they are already locking lips.

Next morning, over breakfast, he sells her a story about how his colleague's mother is in the hospital and how they have no money to pay for her treatment. She finds out later that it's all a lie.

When confronted, the chef's assistant says it was just "a game" to see if she would fall for it. He helps her retrieve the money she had thrown into the sea in anger. Unbelievably, she is back in his arms minutes later ...

I am baffled by the psyche of female Japanese television characters. I once watched another dark Japanese drama in which a woman suffered under the control and abuse of her boyfriend. But I couldn't stop watching because I wanted to know what happened in the end. (Apart from other sub-plots, she left him to live with friends, he stalked her, raped her, committed suicide, she bore his child from the rape.)

I'm only writing this because I get the creeps everytime a white-suited Kimura stares out of huge posters at random bus stops. Prob'ly advertising some Japanese hair product I'm never going to buy. Meanwhile, I've sworn off the dark Japanese dramas and anything involving Kimura Takuya. Not that I've liked him much to begin with.

Tamil Nadu hot dey!

2009-07-02T14:53:00.025+08:00

A question was posed to me when I got back from India.

'So what revelation did you have?'

Revelation?

Evidently, it really annoys me to compromise on the convenience and comfort I'd planned on.

There's not much of that to be had when travelling on a budget to begin with, so the key here is value for money - the most convenience and comfort my budget can buy. And that is the point of planning and consulting travel guides and gurus.

Of course, there's budget, and then there's shoestring. It appears to be the latter when you're tagging along with a pair of 20-something guys. Think 4 more hours in a taxi after a 4 hour night flight, as opposed to checking into a guesthouse and getting a good night's sleep. Think impossibly crowded rides with your 7-kg backpack in a rickety bus in the height of a south Indian summer.

Once, I slipped on exit while lunging out of one of those and a small high-pitched scream emitted from the conductor who happened to be standing along-side. That was amusing.

What's amusing also, was how little children kept wanting to shake our hands while adults just gawked. Guess they don't get too many Asian visitors.

Don't know if the lost sleep and series of bone-jarring bus rides to Tanjore (Thanjavur) just to see World Heritage-listed Brihadishwara Temple was worth it. Granted, it is quite different compared to the other temples that tend to come in a riot of colours.

On hindsight, I think I'd've liked to visit Tanjore's Maratha Palace as well, since the only palace complex we visited (Madurai's Tirumalai Nayak Palace) was somewhat disappointing (the it's-under-renovation-but-they-still-charged-full-priced-entry kind of disappointment). Madurai itself didn't much impress either.

More interesting was Trichy's Rock Fort Temple, perched high atop a rocky outcrop. Not the temple itself, but its over 400 stone-cut steps to the windy summit, which affords a 360-degree view of the surrounds. As we waited for the sun to set, a parade of people and animals amused - a few camera-toting tourists, lots of gawking locals, a few sure-footed goats, stripy squirrels scampering over the rocks and eagles wheeling around the temple.

But when the sun eventually set, it was blocked by a wall of clouds (probably thunderstorms) in the far west.

We had somewhat better luck with sun rises. In particular, the one at Rameswaram, an island on the southeastern tip of India.

But it's the little village of Dhanushkodi on this island that provided the most fun. We were there to see Adam's Bridge, described as a "chain of reefs, sandbanks and islets that almost connects Sri Lanka with India" that comes attached with its very own Rama legend, but it was apparently too windy to drive out all the way to the tip. No matter though, since the most exciting bit was riding on the roof of the truck!

So, the little truck took us to (almost) the end of the peninsula, which is apparently sparsely populated by fishing shanties. The ruins here are all that remains of a village destroyed by a cyclone in the 1960s. The railway even extended up here back then, but now, it's all just a great big expense of windswept sand and fierce roaring waves. An end-of-the-world feel indeed!

And finally, there's Puducherry. It's apparently a great attraction for French visitors because it used to be a French colony. The old French quarter by the waterfront, in particular, is quaint. Unfortunately, bedbugs attacked at one of the (more expensive) restuarants here. I'm scarred and will now develop an aversion to chairs with cushions. Wasn't too crazy about them to begin with, but now there's a very valid reason.

Food-wise, I'm regretfully unenthusiastic about Indian vegetarian, so apart from the clear mushroom soup served at Trichy's Banana Leaf, nothing to shout about. I'm told, however, that Rajesh's mother whips up some mean stuff, including Chicken 65, Mongolian Chicken and some sort of mutton stew. You can find Rajesh's mother in the suburbs of Puducherry. Alternatively, you can find Rajesh in Bishan. Not that he can cook. Alternatively to the alternative, you can survive on the tons of fresh fruit that south India offers. In particular, mangoes, chikus, coconuts and even palm fruits (the outsized version of our humble attap seed).

Oh, wait. Tea. They've also got very tasty milk tea! It's sold piping hot everywhere in small little cups. Burned my tongue on the first cup, but proceeded to have another - it's that good.

It's in India that I saw the demise of my trusty sports sandals (purchased several years ago in Vietnam for a mere $10). And despite the hardships, I didn't lose any weight during the trip. Bloody it. Must be the coconut overdose.

The sweet smell of ...

2009-05-20T12:40:00.013+08:00

Why does the toilet smell of shit? asks the venerable sibling.

Because there's shit there, I reply.

Really? he says. But it's all flushed. Don't tell me it's stuck somewhere ...

It's actually a phenomenon that tends to occur in the late night. No, not the inane exchanges (those happen throughout the day), but the smell.

If you've ever taken time to observe the ceiling of your bathroom or even under your sink, you'd've noticed a U-shaped pipe that's part of the drainage system. That's actually a water trap that's supposed to block noxious sewer gases from rising into the bathroom.

It works with a grid and/or strainer (also known as the holey drainage cover) to block stuff that will cause clogs, and a vent pipe, which supplies air (for pressure) into the system to stop water in the trap from being sucked out. If you don't understand how that works, well, ask a Primary 6er. They might know. I was pretty horrified at how much a kid sitting for the PSLE is expected to know these days.

But back to the oh-so-sweet smell of sewage - it reminds me of the oh-so-cute flat I used to live in in Beijing. At first, I thought air fresheners would help. Nope. How about closing the bathroom door to stop the smell from pervading the entire flat? But the bathroom door couldn't actually be closed, so that didn't actually have the desired effect either. In any case, I didn't want to be hit in the face by sewage fumes everytime I entered the bathroom. Inhaling hydrogen sulfide is bad for health.

So the only thing to do was to cover up all the drainage holes. Thanks to the shoddy construction, the drainage pipe for the sink isn't exactly connected to the drainage system - it's just a shorn-off pipe ending just above one of the strainers in the floor, so that saved me from having to block up the sink too.

I suspect it's got something to do with the rise in air temperature when people take hot showers. Or all the sewer air that's heated up during the day having to go somewhere when the night cools. Hot air rises - I remember that much from science classes. They should teach more useful things in school. Plumbing, for instance, instead of hot air in balloons.

The moral of the story? One doesn't appreciate life's little conveniences until shit (or the smell of it) happens. I appreciate good drainage! Why is it not bestowed upon me, then?

In the KL oven

2009-05-14T16:38:00.011+08:00

Kuala Lumpur is as hot and muggy as ever, if not hotter. I'm only reminded of that when I get there, though. There isn't that much time for non-essential considerations when it's a last-minute decision.

But it's not the kind of heat we've usually got. It's the kind where, if you're lounging in a fifth-storey spa in the Ampang district after a 1-hour shiatsu, taking in the KL sunset through the floor to ceiling windows, the sun is a fiery circle with no clear edge. It's like being separated from your sunset by a veil. Or maybe those windows are dirty.

Later, when you've had enough of lounging around in an over-sized bathrobe, night has fallen and the moon makes its appearance. Again, looking up into the starless sky out on the street, it's the kind of roundish light you see without your spectacles.

I believe it's the result of smog over the city.

Plans to go hiking are abandoned, but not because of that. Bukit Tabur just seemed unsafe to hike alone. Prior research showed that the trails didn't seem to be marked and some sections involve climbing up rocks. More significantly, the area isn't accessible by public transport, which is to say, how will I return to the city after getting there in a teksi?

So I spend 3 days pretty much indoors. Specifically, inside several of the city's expansive malls, including Times Square (I'm not even sure how many levels of shops it actually has) and 1 Utama. The latter, located out in the Bangsar suburbs, is so big it has 2 different and separate cinemas (I find that out the hard way).

It also houses Camp 5, an indoor sport climbing centre. Even though I'd forgotten my gear back home, I go there to see in the flesh their automatic belay system. It's drool-worthy indeed. The centre even organises monthly trips out to the Batu Caves for some real climbing. Wahay, the itinerary for the next time I'm in KL has planned itself!

But for now, I'll just have to be content with a RM9 movie, several cheap tops and a pair of sandals, and several meals of chicken hor fun and Ramly burgers.

Next stop, next month, India.

Nudity

2009-04-27T12:10:00.009+08:00

It appears to be a potentially scintillating, titillating topic of conversation.

Especially with a member of the opposite sex (or whoever rocks your boat) and a relatively dishy one, at that.

But even more so if it's not carried out face-to-face, where even if you become a red-faced stuttering fool, no one knows.

I found myself in such an on-screen conversation one day, with a person of interest from a part-time job back in China.

We were simply extolling the joys of not having flat-mates, until it was revealed that he liked to walk around his apartment in the buff.

Then came the question, 'Don't you?'

Did I take two years of sewing classes because I enjoy lounging around unclothed? I think not.

I didn't phrase my answer quite in that conversation-killing way, but it was still somehow doomed. I tried, I really did. I talked about a friend who also liked lounge with not a stitch of clothing on around the flat she shared with her partner. I talked about nude colonies. I talked about how nudity must be difficult in winter, peeping neighbours, all to no avail -- it's not even funny how bland the conversation was.

Disappointingly, pretty much all conversations with this person of interest turned out to be bland, inadvertently proving that looks aren't everything after all.

But in all fairness, nudity isn't all it's cracked up to be. Having lived and travelled in East Asia, I've seen, and been seen by more naked people than I can remember or count. And they come in all ages, shapes and sizes.

It's mundane. You take off your clothes, take a shower, put them back on. You take off your clothes, get into the sauna, get a massage, put them back on. You take off your clothes, shower, jump into the hot pool, jump into the cold pool, rinse, put them back on.

The naked people chat as they shower. Naked children swim and splash in the hot spring water. In the sauna, there's nothing much to see beyond the condensation in the air; and vision is limited during a massage.

Except at a certain spa chain in the Xinjiang capital of Urumqi.

I'd been recommended the well-known local spa centre by a middle-aged cleaning lady at the youth hostel. It turned out to be one of those bath house kind of places people go to to lounge around in identical t-shirt-and-shorts ensembles. Like those you see in Korean dramas sometimes.

That was the general impression, until I found myself in a robe inside a red room. It contained a double bed, covered with red silk sheets and pillows, facing a mirror wall. There was also a large television and other furniture. Only one word to call this -- parlour.

Then the masseuse arrived clad in a brocade cheongsam micro-mini dress.

I began to suspect the massages are a service used predominantly by men. It was, in any case, the oddest massage I've ever encountered.

Besides the usual kneading, she folded and stretched my limbs into yoga-like poses. And thanks to the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I am able to report that some of these look like really bizarre sex acts.

So I can now safely say that I'll be sticking to the conventional spas involving soothing new age music, aromatic oils and a massage bed that limits the vision, thankyouverymuch.

Buying offsets

2009-03-30T16:13:00.016+08:00

I've been reading a comic strip in the Sunday papers for some months now. It's not my favourite strip -- sometimes I haven't even a clue what its message is.

Yesterday, however, it's energy to the light bulb above my head.

I previously never understood the significance of the cap and trade system applied on carbon emission limits. I read about Japan's plan to purchase carbon offsets from east Europe and wondered why it was news. Perhaps I never thought hard enough about it. But now it's quite clear, and it's nothing like people buying carbon offsets for their flights.

Well, if I were running the place, it'd be all cap no trade. Yes, I'm quite the tyrant. Kudos to Mr Rickard.

广东：迎接与告别

2009-03-16T11:47:00.024+08:00

欢迎来到我们的小岛！

你不懂吗？机场大厅涌上来的那股冷风是带着这么一个热烈迎接。里头还藏了个小提示：我国的冷气是世界第一哦！

你说什么？这忽冷忽热的感觉让你头昏脑胀，甚至病倒？那怎么可能，我们的市民过得很好呀！要是不把巴士里的气温往下调，那我们为巴士司机定做的夹克不是浪费了吗？反正现在全球气温逐渐上升，即使没有我们的超强冷气，忽冷忽热的现象也会变得越来越普遍，就像广州的春天一样。那个日本小子竟然因为刚到广州的那阵子“太热”而感冒了。真不像话。

他说他要跟着我去旅行，不过坚持不到两天就放弃了。（怎么突然觉得跟我一起旅行是一件让人难过的事啊？）他说他不爱旅游中国，因为看到的东西都是一样的。他说他喜欢感受当地的平日生活，结果下午我们到网吧、晚上去玩电动。出来的时候，又下雨了。

发现他会抽烟的那刹那，我的心似乎停了一拍、脑袋一片空。那是失望的感觉吗？还是意识到对这个人的了解原来不那么深的那种沉重？

告别的时候，我先上车了，也没回头微笑挥手。

我斗不过阴冷的天气，只能埋怨。有个中国小弟劝到：还是把该玩的都玩完吧，不然就后悔了。

我果然后悔了。后悔没多购物，没把行李都添满，没多吃，没把钱花光。虽然满载而归的计划失败了，但还有下次。你们等着吧。你们看着吧。我是说照片啦。

Wind whirl Guangdong 广东

2009-03-08T19:26:00.010+08:00

Guangzhou the city is plagued by a fine drizzle and mist for the duration of my stay. Just before I was due in the city, the mecury plummets from the 20s to the region's winter-like lows of under 15. I'd packed the grand total of one cardigan.

The drizzle seems to escalate into a brief shower every few days, but for the most part, it's so fine no one'd bother taking out their umbrella if it were to happen back home. But here, people whip out their umbrellas readily. The Guangzhou metro even has largish umbrellas for loan.

I forged ahead with my plan to see the various sights the Cantonese-speaking province had to offer. On my first stop, Zhaoqing 肇庆, I had an under-the-weather Itsuo in tow. We made it to the city's old walls and a mountain park 鼎湖山 just outside the city, within which there were a loverly waterfall, various lakes and a centuries-old temple built on the hillside.

Unfortunately sight-seeing doesn't amuse my companion, who readily took up my suggestion that he move on to his next destination further north the following day. Venturing out later that night, we chanced upon an excellent late night meal of grilled oysters and claypot oyster porridge for a mere S$11.

Thusly, I headed for Qingyuan 清远 the following day amid a moderate fog. This escalated into a moderate shower halfway to the city. That stopped sometime in the afternoon, even letting some sunshine sneak through before more grumpy clouds rolled in. Thus encouraged, I larked around for another day in hopes of visiting a nearby mountain, only to have them dashed.

Then, I had a brilliant idea. Or so I thought.

Since there's no sight-seeing or hiking to be had, I'll just spend my time riding buses from one city to another. What better way of seeing the province than by sitting in the comfort (and relative warmth) of a bus?

There was no bus to my next desired destination of Chaozhou 潮州, so I got on a bus to Shaoguan 韶关 in the north of the province instead. This city had previously already been struck off, as I'd planned it as a white-water rafting destination. Such an activity just wasn't that enticing in coat-wearing conditions. Not wanting to spend another night in another dodgy guest house 招待所, I thought I'd be able catch an overnight bus to Chaozhou from here. Shaoguan turns out to be a rather pleasant city with a wide river coursing through its centre, on which people were doing what looked like kayaking.

As big and pleasant city as it was, its bus offerings to the east of the province was paltry at best. Only one bus to Chaozhou a day, leaving at midday and arriving at about 10am the following day. I'd just missed it, of course. And that it'll take almost 24 hours is mind-boggling, since it should technically be an under 10-hour journey. Thus defeated, I hopped on a bus back to Guangzhou in hopes that there'd be an overnight bus there.

But of course there wasn't.

This is how I am resigned to spending the rest of my time in Guangzhou. On the bright side, there're things to do despite the miserable weather. I now have some new shoes (in addition to those I'd already pre-ordered online) and my stomach's swimming with a dozen oysters (steamed, this time) I purchased for a mere S$6.

It's more of a civilised city than those I'm used to in the north, smoke-wise. The bus driver on the way to Guangzhou told off a passenger for smoking inside the bus. "Who's been smoking in the bus, it's so smelly! Is this the first time you're venturing out on a bus? What if I get dizzy driving from the smoke?" Most won't smoke inside a restaurant too. Also, they've got dessert stalls everywhere selling such delights as steamed milk custard 双皮奶 and sesame paste 芝麻糊.

Hmm, it's getting chilly again. Time for more food.

The chips are down for fish

2009-02-08T17:27:00.011+08:00

I once shared a fish with a former co-worker at a Japanese restaurant. That's how it started out, anyway.

We weren't having a meal together, just a fish. A whole, but not large fish.

Without much ado, he plunged the pointed Japanese chopsticks into the middle of the fish and attempted to break it up.

It was a heart wrenching moment.

Because, of course, it spelt the end of a perfectly good fish.

It didn't help that he then proceeded to pronounce the fish unfit for consumption because it wasn't fully cooked.

But back to the wrenching of my heart -- that's just not how a fish is eaten.

I'm big fish fan -- I can scale a fish, gut it, cook it and eat it. Never tried my hand at fishing, though. I like it raw, steamed or grilled. My favourite candidates for the steamer are the golden pomfret and cod. For sashimi, I am partial to swordfish.

I've met a fair number of people who avoid fish because they don't want to deal with the bones. It's little wonder, if they massacre a fish dish like my former co-worker did. That, and perhaps sheer lack of patience.

Surely, surely, by simple deduction, anyone can tell that making a messy hole in the middle of the fish isn't going to make the bones disappear. It will, in fact, just make the bones embed themselves in bits of flesh they're not supposed to stick in.

You can actually eat a fish, with chopsticks, without needing to pick out bones. All you need is the simple knowledge of where the bones are likely to occur in a fish. And you can gain said knowledge by mere observation.

I s'pose, though, if a person was brought up on fish fingers and fish fillets, tackling a whole fish would be a challenge. I hope none of you think peaches come from a can. You don't really have much of an excuse if you're Singers-born and bred.

With my affection for fish, it's with much dismay that I found this out:

How Not to Save the Fish By BRYAN WALSH

Enjoy the grilled salmon on your dinner plate — it may not be on the menu for long. As the demand for seafood continues to rise, fueled in part by the now global appetite for sushi, we're in danger of fishing out the oceans. Once-teeming fishing territory like the Grand Banks off the eastern coast of Canada have gone fallow, and highly coveted species like the Atlantic cod and the bluefin tuna are becoming increasingly rare. An influential study published in 2006 in the journal Science predicted that if fishing around the world continued at its present pace, fish stocks would begin to decline, resulting in the final global collapse of wild fisheries, which could possibly happen as soon as mid-century.

Not to absolve myself of responsibility, but I couldn't help but wonder how much is being wasted making those de-boned fish fillets. I recently saw on the news just how much is wasted at a sushi joint. Fishes are purchased whole, but only the choice portions are carved out. The rest head for the dumpster. That adds up to 20 tonnes of fish wasted every month at a local sushi chain.

The information was from a story about recycling food waste.

A couple of co-workers who had been exclaiming over the amount of food being wasted followed up by heading off to lunch and leaving piles of leftovers on their plates. Applause, please.

The Ponyo Episode

2009-01-08T13:57:00.016+08:00

Earlier this week, I'd realised with surprise that I can actually catch an evening movie the following day.

I decided to seek out a friend who seemed to have as irregular a work schedule as myself, and interest her in animation great Miyazaki Hayao's newest offering, Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea.

The time and venue were quickly decided, but almost as an afterthought, she said she's quite sure she could make it, but might end up working late, and insisted that I call her before our agreed meeting.

This, despite being well-aware that I have no easy access to a telephone.

So I said, Sure, if I can find a public telephone.

I decided I would catch the agreed 8.30pm screening no matter how that turned out.

At 8.15pm, I found a public telephone on my way to the cinema.

She was still at work, had been waiting for my call, but could get to the cinema in 15 minutes.

Now I felt guilty about calling late, because 'waiting for your call' left the impression of being ready to leave at a moment's notice for ages (or since the wait started). But ...

I still have to one thing to do at work and I don't know how long it will take.

Isn't it a bit late for that? I queried.

And we don't know if there're still tickets, and I can't call you.

Even so, isn't it a bit late for that? I repeated.

So you're still going to catch it?

Why lie?

She ended the call with a brusque 'bye'.

Ah well. I have done all that I can.

NB. Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea turned out to be a simple fairy tale of sorts. It pales in comparison to Miyazaki's previous great adventures, but the art is expectedly adorable so go see it if you're in need of some light entertainment. Oh, and the theme song is going to stick in your head.

People rants

2008-12-12T16:25:00.014+08:00

There is a department at the office known as Graphics.

As its name suggests, Graphics is where people from other departments go to order graphics. The job can be as simple as downloading a picture off the Web, checking that it's good for use and making it accessible on the system. Or it can be as complicated as requiring illustrations and animation complete with bells, whistles and a nice shiny cherry on top.

Yesterday I walked into Graphics and asked if I could order a series of 4 pictures to be ready in 15 minutes.

It was a relatively simple order -- the pictures had to be downloaded off the Web and made accessible on the system. The only 'extra' in my order was for these to be pieced together so they could be accessible as a single file.

15 minutes? No, we can't make it, they said.

Meanwhile, 5 minutes slipped past before someone deigned to start on the order.

The guy looks at the order form. There was a particular section I didn't fill up involving the picture format. Which one do you want? he asked.

I couldn't answer, since none of the options stated was what I wanted. I was perfectly happy with the format the pictures came in. But no, I had to choose one. So I picked 'landscape'.

That turned out to be the wrong answer.

He stood up, went over to his female colleague and announced, She doesn't know what she wants.

This apparently is her cue.

How can you not know what you want? Didn't the people over there teach you? Do you want me to give you a course?

I want these pictures to be put together into one file.

Why do you want to do that? Are you going to edit the pictures?

No, I just want them to appear one after another.

Why don't you have them as single files then, that's easier. (Apparently it'll take an even longer time to put the pictures together into a single file.)

Right. I didn't know that. So I amended my order.

But she went on. And on. And on. I didn't respond to anything she said, firstly because I was strapped for time (as she very well knows), and secondly, the way she just sat there complaining (while someone else does the actual work) and repeating 'I don't think she understands' annoyed me.

Presently, I left the room.

Thirty minutes later, a senior co-worker came along and squeezed himself beside me.

I knew what it was going to be about.

I have just come from Graphics, he begun ...

I spent the next 5 minutes nodding. I didn't want to accidentally on purpose say anything rude. Mostly, I have no interest in engaging in petty office politics. I'm just there to work and get paid. (But it doesn't mean I can't rant.)

Pictures

2008-12-01T10:35:00.008+08:00

Geepers, I've been lazy with the blogging lately.

I'd planned to regale you with some Xinjiang travel tales, y'know?

But ... soon, I will.

Meanwhile, go see the pictures!

Xinjiang, China

Osaka & Kyoto, Japan | Nara, Kobe & Himeji, Japan | Shikoku, Japan | Yokohama & Tokyo, Japan

Thinner

2008-09-27T23:45:00.015+08:00

A long long time ago, I watched a movie based on a story written by horror maestro Stephen King. In it, Mr King made awful things happen to some weight-obssessed individuals. It was aptly titled "Thinner".

Growing up, people always said I was skinny and some would even use the term 'underweight'. Technically, based on the ubiquitous chart detailing the so-called Body Mass Index, I was never under-weight and have always scraped into the normal category. Like many Asians, I am pear-shaped. Much flab occurs in my thighs, and this is evidenced in the jelly-wobble that can be seen in shorts. A so-called friend once unkindly used the term 'thunder thighs'.

I lost some weight in my second year in China. Clothes became a little loose, but I wasn't concerned. It wasn't after reading online that weight loss could be a subtle indication of the worsening of a pre-existing health condition that I got on the scale to ascertain the loss. I weighed in 3 kilograms lighter than usual, meaning I was closer to crossing the border to 'underweight' than ever before. Worried, I tried to increase food consumption.

While in Singapore for a visit, a number of friends were able to tell the difference. A surprise, for I'd not have been able to tell had someone I saw once or twice in the past year lost or gained that small amount of weight. A bigger surprise, for a few friends I never thought were watchers of others' weight turned out to be rather avid watchers. Some even opined that I look better thinner.

As it turns out, I had been operating under the following assumptions:

1. If I can't tell the difference, they can't tell the difference.

2. Weight watchers only watch their own weight.

3. Only weight-obssessed girly-girls can tell a 3 kilogram difference.

But now I know better. The truth is a tad scary.

Much eating and lounging around the house has occurred over the last 60 days. My pants felt tight the other day. Time to get some exercise. Normally this would involve going jogging in the evening. Now, at that time of the day, I've unfortunately taken to watching some tv drama or other, propped up on the sofa. By the time the television is turned off, it is night.

To get around this problem, I placed in my room an exercise equipment known as the 'Shape and Twist'. It is a low machine on which the user, in an upright position, moves up and down on two pedals, s'posedly twisting the body as they move the steps.

Several mornings later, I got out of bed and promptly tripped over the Shape and Twist. Comically, I had socks on, so it in fact was a trip-and-slip. No one witnessed its occurrence, and all I have to show for it is a poorly bruised shin. How tragic.

More string pulling

2008-09-18T09:23:00.012+08:00

Further to the previous post, I have solicited opinions from various parties to help unravel the mystery, because I obviously have tons of free time to obssess over puzzles.

Some were perhaps not interested enough to invest any real thought, but most reactions were along the lines of not being able to understand or explain such behaviour. Could he be a chronic liar, a sociopath, a manipulator?

A couple of respondents suspected romantic feelings were involved. Unfortunately, there were none on my part. I tend not to be interested in married men, and he identified himself as one from the very beginning. Could he be romantically interested in me? Seeing as he was already seeing someone, I'd hope not. And even if he was, surely anyone could see that continuing with the 'I'm married' charade wasn't going to make him more endearing or wrench things off the purely platonic track.

Could he have thought I was romantically interested in him and thus pretended to be married to nip the interest in the bud? That sounds reasonable, except I'm certain I didn't express any unnecessary interest, especially not at that juncture when I hardly knew him at all and he introduced himself as being married.

Then I got a bright idea. I polled a mutual acquaintance. He thought the story was 'strangely amusing', then proceeded to defend the person with 'he was prob'ly just having a giggle and didn't mean any harm' and 'he's just naive'. Apparently a bunch of 21-year-old Chinese students possess social awareness, understanding and maturity equivalent to a bunch of 16-year-old British students.

Quite enlightening, but a person in his late twenties who is soon to be married still stuck at that stage? Scary.

Embarrassingly, the debacle has exposed me as a person who would form preconceived notions about a person based on assumptions based on personal information such as age and marital status. I sought his opinion and advice on things like housing, interaction with Chinese people, Chinese law, Chinese food, travelling in China, because I thought being older, he would have more experience and knowledge and thus give better advice. Even when he proved not to be as knowledgeable or experienced as I thought, I just put it down to different spheres of interest between a local and a Foreigner.

Even when he kept harping on how the supervisor praises me, followed by "what's so good about you?", criticism "you're always late!", "you're so stupid!" when I would ask a work-related question, while I thought it was odd, I took them as jokes or just ribbing, always safe in the belief that he is older and have been at the job longer than I have and was thus entitled.

Yes, it appears you can get away with a lot of things if you just convince me you are somehow entitled. Woe is me.

Pulling the Foreigner's strings

2008-09-03T14:17:00.017+08:00

When I decided to leave Beijing more than three months ago, I thought I would miss it, somehow. Afterall, a place should grow on you after you've lived there for a better part of two years, right?

But yet ... but yet. I don't. I mostly don't.

Perhaps because I left in a haze of fear and mistrust. Perhaps it was anger and misery caused by recent events.

As one can imagine, life in China for the Foreigner is at once liberating and confining. Liberating, because your dollar now has a purchasing power five times more. Time to live it up. Confining, because of ... let's just use the blanket term 'security'.

Getting a visa is the easy part, since one can pretty much be 'purchased'. Many Foreigners get by by forking out for three-monthly visas.

The next part involves getting a temporary residence permit within 3 days of moving into your apartment (sorry, having a valid visa doesn't mean you have permission to live there). You'll need this document for a variety of purposes, such as opening a local bank account, getting a job, buying your new visa, random police checks and so forth.

This task can be easy or difficult depending on the level of cooperation you receive from your landlord or housing agent. Combined with a tax-evading landlord, this regulation is the pits, since it requires the Foreigner to show up at the nearest police station with identification, valid visa and the landlord's identification. Now, which idiotic and dishonest landlord would want to be registered as a rent collector? (The clever and dishonest ones will just find a way around it without inconveniencing the money tree.)

To clear the obstacle, you can offer to pay higher rent, pay the tax your landlord doesn't want to pay, look for another apartment, or do without the permit. I went with the last option in my second year in China. It worked fine since I already had a bank account, a job, a valid visa and I blended in with the locals.

It worked fine, at least until the Olympics security frenzy kicked in. Residents were required to register with the neighbourhood council, especially those who were renting apartments. People came knocking every couple of days, leaving notices when the door went unanswered. Since I didn't have a permit for living in that apartment, I began to live in fear and misery, creeping in and out of the house like a burglar, and refraining from making any noises inside the house lest I was discovered. I tried to deflect the pressure by demanding, through the housing agent, that my landlord registers his name since he didn't cooperate before, but of course that just fell on deaf and dishonest ears.

Two weeks later, I moved out of the apartment. It still had a month's lease left on it. Half the furniture and appliances I'd hoped to sell or leave to the less fortunate were left to the mercy of the owners of deaf and dishonest ears. I hated the Olympics.

At about the same time, something was festering at work.

I'd turned in my resignation recently without informing any of the colleagues. But of course word got around without any help from me.

Among the six on the team, I got to know one of them well enough to call a friend. As part of a team that operates round the clock, we were thrown together for the night shift. Over two months, I discovered he is in his 30s and married with a son. He lives with his wife in the city while his young son remains in his hometown, in the care of his parents.

Over the Lunar New Year week, we were again thrown together for the holiday shift. I asked him if he missed his son since he is unable to return home for the festivities. He responded that he could see his son often by using a web camera.

He had a taste for traditional ethnic songs, and didn't like the fluffy sounds of the modern day pop royals, nor crashing rocker riffs. He exhibited rigid dislike for groups of Foreigners, particularly South Koreans and Taiwanese. I assumed both had something to do with age and nationalistic tendencies.

As it turned out, it had nothing to do with age.

Two weeks into my month-long notice, we had a conversation about my travel plans.

- You're going to Xinjiang by yourself? I remember we discussed going there together.

+ Yes, well. You could ask the boss to let you go on leave so you can come along.

- Oh, I can't go on leave. I need those for my wedding at the end of the year.

+ (Thinks it's a joke, therefore laughs.) Your wedding? Aren't you married?

- I'll explain it to you when we meet for dinner.

+ (Whiffs rat manure) Sooo ... you're not married?

Revelations (had girlfriend, not married, no kids, in his 20s) were followed by accusations (You lied?!) were followed by denials (I didn't mean it, it was just a joke!) were followed by rants (A joke that lasted an entire year?! You didn't mean to make up stories about your fictional family, on separate occasions?!) were followed by further denials (I didn't lie! I didn't lie!). I wanted a reason for the "joke" but he had none, or wouldn't say. He couldn't seem to understand why I am upset.

Of course, did I really care how old he is or his marital status? It felt like a betrayal, nonetheless. I shed tears, lost sleep, ranted to anyone who would listen, but no one could explain why the joke was funny. I wondered if he was sharing his little joke with other colleagues over lunch.

If I felt sad to be leaving, I didn't after this episode. I felt embarrassed and stupid to have blindly believed and even considered the person to be a friend, so it was a relief to leave. Perhaps if I hadn't left, I'd still be the butt of that little joke. Horrors.

Ah, the Chinese. What a delightful people!

Japan: Last 8 Days in pictures

2008-08-11T21:20:00.026+08:00

(Because I'm lazy.)

(As it turned out, pictorials are pretty time-consuming too and not suited for the lazy.)

Days 14 and 15: I explore Kamakura with a friend; and the Yokohama Bay area with said friend's oka-san, a kawaii lady with snow-white hair and a baby face.

The Kamakura Daibutsu, apparently the most famous among Kamakura's many cultural sights. It used to have a roof over it's head and was also covered in gold leaf, but the former was washed away in a 1495 tsunami and the latter flaked or tarnished away thanks to the salty sea air. Although smaller than Nara's Daibutsu, it is s'posed to be artistically superior. For a small fee, one can enter the 11.4-metre tall Daibutsu and see how just how many bronze pieces were joined together in its construction.

Oiso, an hour or so from Shin-Yokohama, is fishermen's playground beside the Pacific Ocean. When there is an earthquake in the region, this pebbly beach is not where you want to be (this is when 'tsunami' should pop into your head). Stayed over at said friend's parents' apartment nearby. The Pacific Ocean Cycling Route passes through here.

And in case you were wondering: No swimming.

Spotted one of these curious contraptions on the roads near the Yokohama Bay area. Sort of like an uber trishaw.

Days 16 through 19: I waft gently through Tokyo.

Spent my nights in Tokyo at the Riverside Capsule Hotel located beside the Sumida River in Asakusa. It's that building on the right topped with a round green thing. This river is the "Sumida" in Sumida Hanabi Festival on 26 July. Patrons were barred from entering the hotel until the fireworks were well and truly over. Why? Because the louts downstairs are demanding to be paid for your passage, since the hotel, primely located by the river, presumably offers a good view of the proceedings. It ought to be illegal, of course, but the policemen, standing mere metres away, do not bother the louts. They are more concerned that not one of the thousands of people gathered gets through their barriers. They have in fact cordoned off the prime viewing spots: Sumida Park, Sakura Bridge, Kototoi Bridge, Azuma Bridge, most of the roads surrounding the area and possibly all the other hashis along the river. Envisioning a fun and romantic Hanabi Festival by the river? Stick to your anime.

Izakaya (traditional Japanese pub) in Asakusa. Great place to shoot the breeze if you enjoy your sake. And yes, guys carry tote bags in Japan. And they mostly carry it under the arm too, not sling it over the shoulder.

For between 500 and 900 yen, enjoy a bowl of fresh sashimi don at Ueno's pasar-malam-like Ameyoko Market, one of my favourite places in Tokyo.

Days 20 and 21: I attempt to explore the Fuji Go-Ko region, without a map.

Mount Fuji, as seen from Fuji-Yoshida, the town in the area closest to the dormant volcano. Before you get the wrong impression, between here and the town of Kawaguchi-ko (one of the five Fuji lakes), there is a large amusement park complete with death-defying rides and a grand hotel. Also, according to information gleaned from the guidebook, there is a souvenir shop at the summit of Mount Fuji.

Hiked a couple of hours to the Koyo-dai to get this picture of Mount Fuji, which resulted in my missing the last bus and subsequently walking 2.5 hours in the dark back to the Kawaguchi-ko train station. In effect I walked halfway around Sai-ko and Kawaguchi-ko and then some, it's possible the route topped 20 kilometres! The lack of a proper map of the area meant that I would've been unable to locate the train station (if or) when I reached the town, if I hadn't come upon two affable Japanese housewives walking their dogs, who decided to show me the way.

The following day, I am in Singapore nursing a tense left jaw and not chewing well at all. Not exactly a fairy tale ending but who believes in fairy tales these days? Bah (humbug).

Taking the Escapade to Shikoku

2008-08-02T14:01:00.011+08:00

Days 10 through 13: More sweating

It is hot. And bright. But mainly hot. And very humid. When I was warned by the good Itsuo that it is extremely hot and humid in summer, I brushed it off, thinking it would be somewhat like back home, which isn't half bad. But this, this humidity, is ridiculous. Perspiration beads on my chest, collects on my nose, rolls down my back, and I've only been outside all of 15 minutes, just strolling. The enlightened locals have towels wrapped around their necks.

This doesn't occur only in Shikoku, of course, but across Japan, in summer. Except Hokkaido, I reckon, which is only hitting the mid-20s when other bits of the country hit the mid-30s. (Why, oh why, didn't I go to Hokkaido?) But after more than a week of enduring, it's perfectly reasonable to rant a little, right?

The heat and light are perfectly endurable - it really isn't too bad when one's been inhaling desert sand just the week before. Besides, it's not hard to find some respite, in the shade of a tree, a set of traffic lights or an umbrella. A sun umbrella, not one of their uibiquitous transparent rain ones. This begs the question: Just what is wrong with making umbrellas that function in both weather conditions, then? A sun umbrella, by the way, appears to be made of cloth, and if you fancy yours with ruffles with polka dots and frills and feathers, may you receive a good whack over the head by a particularly hideous specimen. Two whacks if you plead 'Lolita'.

But the humidity? Short of spending half your time half-naked in the sea/pool and the other half in an air-conditioned room, all one can really do is to wear clothes that (sweat)stain well or a good undershirt. And don't forget that towel to go around the neck (the trendy ones don a light cotton scarf but whether it also serves the purpose of a towel is anyone's guess). It's hard to even say if anti-perspirants work. Highly doubtful.

So I sweat my way through Tokushima, through the hills to the seaside, to the Naruto whirlpools, to Awaikeda where I spend an afternoon with a dog named after Jackie Chan, and to Oboke, where there are marvelous gorges and waterfalls and swallows' nests, but still no where I could describe as 'the wilderness'.

Somewhere along the way, I came across a book that suggested that there was not a place in this country that is unpopulated. Granted, Shikoku is more lightly populated than Kansai, but still it made me sad. Thankfully, there are places here you can not get to on a bus; a hostel in a temple on a hill, where the stars shine the best they can in a night sky that is grey instead of black. Maybe all is not lost.

More on the Escapade: 4 Cities, 3 Days

2008-07-31T00:25:00.017+08:00

Days 7 through 9: Nara - Kobe - Himeji - Okayama, in a flash

Arrived in Nara in the late afternoon and headed straight for the tourist information centre in search of nearer, cheaper accomodation than the one I'd booked. Mainly because I didn't feel up to walking up a steep hill with luggage. Saved by a newish guesthouse run by a young Japanese woman, quite likely overseas educated. Did not know that torture in another form awaited (prob'ly sniggering and rubbing its hands in glee).

The first level of the place is fronted by a cafe of sorts where (mostly male) westerners lounge, with dorms on the second level. It was a bit like a large attic with neither windows nor air-conditioning, a veritable oven. Cosy in winter, I reckon, but this toasty feeling just isn't enjoyable in summer. I'd rather bake outside where it at least isn't stuffy. What luck, then, that various Nara attractions are lighted up in the night-time. I go a-walking.

This turned out not to be the favoured activity among visitors to Nara, and I find myself wandering lonely roads and dark temple grounds. Thus discouraged, I head back after walking just five of the listed sights.

The following morning, I discover Nara's main attraction - deer, herds of tame spotted Ibaraki deer! These frolick in Nara-koen (park), which apparently covers a large area encompassing many of Nara's famous sites, including Japan's second tallest five-storey pagoda in Kofu-ji; the largest wooden building in the world, Todai-ji (the main hall), which in turn houses one of Japan's largest daibutsu (buddha); and one of the country's top three shrines, Kasuga Taisha. Deer everywhere - one tries to eat a random piece of paper sticking out of my bag; another makes a stab at me with velvety antlers. Ah, those doe eyes can really make a fool of you!

I may be plan-less, but the seaside was still wholly unexpected. It's pleasantly comforting to be standing knee-deep in the west Kobe waves, though. I'm spending the night near the sea and within walking and viewing distance of the world's longest suspension bridge - Akashi Kaikyo. A magnificent structure that's also prettily lighted up at night. Wish I could say I crossed it but the JR line doesn't so I didn't. And you thought a Japan Rail Pass didn't have limitations.

Thought I'd ride a cable car to see the night-time cityscape at Shin-Kobe, but it was closed (at what time that happened is anyone's guess). Running up to the ticketing station didn't help. Maybe I shouldn't've queued for the bento. Good meal, though. Later unwittingly came upon a surprisingly lively Shin-Kobe night scene and made a quick retreat.

Next, Himeji. Appears to be a city built around its castle. Technically, it is, this being how it was back in the samurai days - it's just less apparent in other cities. No surprise, in any case, with Himeji-jo being Japan's ichi-ban castle. Deservedly so too, as it is extremely well-preserved and maintained. Unlike Osaka-jo, the interior of the castle comes complete with original (and replaced) fittings, including creaky wooden floorboards on all seven levels, weapons racks, defence platforms, steeeeeeep stairs (more like ladders) and assorted decorative fittings and furnishings. Very impressive, and please, remove your shoes.

Himeji's Shosha-zan is apparently "a popular sightseeing spot" where some scenes of The Last Samurai was filmed, but turned out to be a rather quiet hill that saw more hikers than tourists. The tourists might all be hiding in Shashazan Engyoji (temple) (where the movie set was, specifically), but I decide I didn't want to meet them.

For the night, I'd made a booking with a place in Oboke, Shikoku. However, it turned out that checking-in after 6 pm is a big no-no as the manager/owner had other plans. Having no impression of being informed of this when I made the booking, I was indignant, but to no avail. Was thusly forced to spend the night in Okayama (from where the JR line will make the crossing into Shikoku), in a ryokan near the station, with a room and television all to myself, that was out of the usual budget. Unhappy with the state of affairs, I made the most of the free internet available at the lobby to rant about the unfairness of it all to anyone who would listen.

The Escapade Continues: Kyoto in 4 Days

2008-07-18T09:11:00.014+08:00

Day 3: Shimogamo vs Shimogorio

Still in Osaka. The hot hot sun was beating down from Osaka-jo (castle) to Dotombori in Minami. Unfortunately the heat doesn't let up after the sun goes down, meaning one doesn't want to confuse the Kyoto shrines Shimogomo and Shimogorio after dark with a 10kg bag. I called for help.

"You had better take a taxi, it is not so far," said the Uno House comb-over man. So I obediently shelled out 880 yen for a 10-minute ride in a cab with an automatic door when I could have easily hopped on bus 4 stopping near the ryokan for 220 yen.

Uno House turns out to be a creaky wooden Japanese house sandwiched in a row of (shop)houses, boasting a curious number of interconnected tatami rooms. My room is located on the second floor and appears to be part of a larger L-shaped room which can be divided into three separate rooms through the use of the Japanese sliding doors. At the back of the house is another set of steep stairs, which different groups of Japanese youngsters thunder up in the evenings and down in the mornings, but they evidently do not lead up to my section of the second storey. Perhaps they lead to a third storey, or some other secret rooms and corridors that appear and disappear. Very curious indeed.

Have an American named Matt Potter (he oddly reminds me of the other Matt I used to know) in tow for the day, who was appointed the day's map reader. Safely navigated Nijo-jo but hit a snag in south-east Kyoto. While a tad loud, the American is intelligent and humourous, although not particularly suited to map-reading. Or perhaps its just that his inability to read Chinese makes it more difficult to recognise the kanji (traditional Chinese words). In a strange coincidence (or fate), he has been teaching in my former adopted city for 3 years and is also making his escape, via Kyoto and Taiwan.

While strolling the Nijo-jo gardens, I am educated on the harvesting of maple syrup, which apparently isn't unlike the harvesting of latex from rubber trees. The harvest can even be consumed without any processing. Amazing. I wonder why people do not harvest syrup from maple trees that grow in the parks and gardens as they picnic, with slices of bread on hand.

I also learn that Caucasians like to be in the sun because it "feels nice on the skin", and because they think a tan looks healthy. In Japan (and China), the women are all wrapped up in long gloves, long sleeves, big hats, sun umbrellas and long trousers in a bid to maintain a pearly white skin tone. The American sports a red neck by the end of the day.

Found a bus back to the ryokan thanks to a pair of helpful Japanese aunties, who tried to communicate in Japanese and then remarked to each other that I look like a Japanese when I fail to be able to respond to their satisfaction.

Day 5: More of the city

Have to get to the Nishijin Textile Centre by cutting through the Imperial Palace Park, and return by 11 am for check-out. Cursed the Japanese penchant for laying the wide park roads with gravel (or little grey pebbles). I am late for check-out by 15 minutes, but am not fined, although one of the many Uno House edicts proclaimed I would be.

The temptation to purchase a great number of goods both at the textile centre and at the Nishiki Market is great. There is a big float of white lanterns being constructed along the 2-lane Shiji-dori shopping street in preparation for Gion Matsuri, a festival which will see a large parade of floats along the Gion streets on 17 July. The lanterns of this particular float seem to be sponsored by the shops along the street. It incites the masses to whip out cameras and the traffic to bottleneck.

Day 6: Down Hozu-gawa

My feet are tired. It is thus a good day for a 2-hour boat ride down the Hozu-Gawa out in the Sagano mountains. Three men man the boat - two in front and one at the back. In front, one rows with a large wooden paddle and the other pushes the boat along with a long bamboo stick, and the fellow at the back steers (I presume).

Two of the three men are old uncles, and one is a young chap with the requisite dyed hair who also functions as a guide (but not in English). He wears funny shoes that seem to be styled after the Japanese socks worn with Japanese clogs!

I am the only foriegner in the boat, which holds 20 to 30 sight-seers. This boat-load of Japanese tourists exclaim "woooooohhhhh" everytime the boat goes down some light rapids! It's tickling!

Rain in the late afternoon. For a free bus ride with my Japan rail pass, I single out the JR 3 bus bound for a place called Syu-zan, but as it is already evening, I am unsure if there will be a return bus. A question for the tourist information counter, surely?

What do you (want to) do there, I am asked. Just to see, I shrug. It is very far, 1.5 hours, I am told. Yes, but when is the last bus back to Kyoto station? It is the countryside, you cannot stay there, I am further informed. So when is the last bus back to Kyoto station, I persist. "I do not understand why you want to go there." I give up and leave. I get on the next bus anyway. It turns out to be a cool (literally) hillside suburb.

Day 7: Ohara

I am due for Nara tonight, but I decide to visit my friend Itsuo's favourite Kyoto temple, Sanzen-in, out in Ohara in the "far northern outskirts". It is in fact only an hour's bus ride away, in the tranquil Ohara hills.

Hungry! There's food in my bag, but I dare not eat it. My suspicions are confirmed when a monk tells a couple eating some sushi that eating within the compound is not allowed. The same monk tried to educate me on the flowering plants when he noticed me picturing them. Alas, would've liked to be able to reciprocate conversationally but am reduced to the usual nodding and smiling stupidly.

There are various other shrines and temples spread across the neighbourhood, but I have to leave for Nara. Wish I discovered Ohara sooner! Console myself by consuming my sushi at a hidden playground near the forest of pine trees.

The Escapade Continues: Osaka Day 2

2008-07-10T15:16:00.008+08:00

11:00

I try to give the cashier 7000 yen to go up to the Floating Garden Observatory. She only wants 700 yen. The madness has begun.

After viewing the city from all angles 35 stories up, I set off for the railway station but was waylaid by a shop selling bento boxes. I buy one consisting of pickles, rice, egg macaroni, fried fish and fish cake for 200 yen. I realise I have discovered a money-saving tactic, as an average eat-in meal costs at least 600 to 800 yen.

Tip of the Day, courtesy of free monthly Brand-New Osaka:

How to make omuraisu (European-style [yoshoku] rice wrapped with omelet)!

1. Pour beaten eggs into frying pan and stir with chopsticks to aerate the eggs.

2. Sautee rice seasoned with ketchup together with other filling ingredients and place on top of the fried eggs.

3. Tilt frying pan and as you wrap the rice in the egg, shape the omuraisu into a leaf.

18:30

More elevation. I get on the Tempozan ferris wheel (purporedly the world's largest) with a half-eaten 500 yen tiramisu crepe. From there, the setting sun, warehouses by the Osaka Harbour, Osaka Aquarium, the sprawling city, suspension bridges and distant mountain ranges. (And apparently even a little slice of Kobe that I could not identify).

21:30

Japanese friend calls the hostel's main desk, to chat. I have the honour of my room number and nationality announced over the intercom. This does not seem like a common occurance, the staff are hovering, looking perplexed and curious.

Tried to buy a bed for tomorrow at two hostels near the Kyoto Station. Failed! Success with the third - it is out-of-the-way in southwest Kyoto but apparently the cheapest place in the city. I reckon this is what happens to people with no Plans.

The Escapade Continues: Osaka Day 1

2008-07-09T22:44:00.006+08:00

22:00

Today I have both feet firmly planted on the inevitable side of 30 and I am sitting in the cafeteria of a youth hostel located on the 10th storey of a building in Shin-Osaka (or New Osaka, as it were) called Koko Plaza, without anything resembling a Plan for the next couple of weeks, just several stacks of Chinese cash (if you know Chinese money, you'll know it only sounds like a whole lot). I am told this is unlike me.

Today I have both feet firmly planted outside my adopted country of residence (finally) and I am breaking my teeth on a hard-as-rock Urumqi pastry while my sun-addled brain floats on the meloncholic Xinjiang strings and gruff voice of 刀郎. I spent too much of the past couple of days flying, and it seems the rest of me has not caught up. I wish I am lying in a warm bed under a skyful of stars.

In the Chengde Hills

2008-06-13T03:29:00.032+08:00

Last weekend saw the Dragon Boat Festival 端午节, one of two 'new' three-day weekend public holidays introduced by the Chinese government.

While I didn't actually consume any that particular Saturday, when I made my way to the post office, dragging more than 20 kilograms of belongings, I was pleasantly assaulted by strong whiffs of freshly steamed glutinous rice dumplings. Tempting, but I rather prefer my dumplings packed with savoury or sweet fatty pork and chestnuts than red beans, green beans, or a meagre sliver or two of lean meat, which appears to be what the Chinese offer. Alternatively, I will accept them all rice and no filling with a generous dollop of sugar, thank you very much.

One of the Americans in Chengde 承德 received some unexpected dumplings. A Chinese lady who lived in his building walked into his apartment, dumped a bag of them on his kitchen table and left without saying a word. No small talk, awkward questions, smiling stupidly, and still there's free food. A perfect neighbour for me, methinks.

The American told this story at a local restaurant where we had dinner. The restaurant's speciality (and name) is 干烧鱼, which appears to be a sort of fish dish that's been deep-fried too long. Tasted like it too. The Chinese constantly revolved the lazy Susan such that the fish almost always stopped in front of me. She was of the opinion that I should eat it since I ordered it. Admittedly, I was seduced by the notion of fish, but the dish came highly recommended by the Americans, who even made certain it had been ordered. But of course their palates are too delicate to be made to endure that crisp disaster of a fish.

Strangely, although we were a party of five, the Chinese thought three dishes were sufficient. Having spent lunchtime that Sunday in a 4-hour Chengde-bound bus inhaling cigarette smoke and the entire afternoon hiking in the Chengde hills in search of oddly-shaped rocks, I suddenly missed my ex-colleagues. My first colleagues in China, the ones who would go as far as to order to a 1:1 ratio at lunch. I ate well back then.

One of the party was vegan, so the Chinese picked a dish of green peppers, because she liked spicy food, in spite of the waitress explaining that that particular dish took a while to prepare. The other order was 鱼香肉丝, a dish of pork slivers and shredded carrots in a salty, spicy sauce. Apparently her favourite dish, and thus a must-have.

As the food quickly ran out, three of us were forced to ask for a bowl of rice each. To salvage the situation, an additional order of vegetables was also made. It thankfully turned out to be a plate of stir-fried zucchini.

Dinner was split 5 ways, and the group adjourned to a residential compound and kicked a Chinese shuttlecock around until two American-accented Filipino girls, friends of the Chengde Americans, showed up. The group then made its way to the other American's flat, where the three of us from Beijing were afforded the night's lodging free of charge.

There, I proceeded to take a shower and then got into bed, while the rest put a movie on loud, drank beer and the Americans chain-smoked. Smelt like it, anyway. A couple of hours later, the two Filipinos left and the Finnish went to bed, leaving the two Americans and one Chinese to partake in more alcohol, movies and cigarettes. I know this because Chinese flats have thin walls/doors and I am a decidedly light sleeper.

A couple more hours later, one of the Americans knocked over a bottle of something in an attempt to find a glass of salt water to make himself feel better. I imagine he then fell asleep on the couch. Afterward, the sounds of vomitting and weeping began. The Chinese was weeping because she was having trouble "releasing" herself, and vomitting because she had had too much to drink (this second point is pure speculation on my part). The American was consoling her with "no one can help you if you don't let them", which would sound fairly reasonable if it wasn't followed by hee-hee-hees.

It was light when the television was finally switched off and silence reigned. Didn't last long. Light meant people would get up and about, so doors started banging and I was treated to snatches of conversation as people walked past the ground floor flat. Guess it was a good time as any to make my way to breakfast and the massive Mountain Resort (of Emperors KangXi and QianLong) 避暑山庄.

The Finn and I met up at the Mountain Resort and we spent the entire day walking around lakes, up and down a mountain, through a valley, past tame spotted deer and was overtaken countless times by mini-trams of Chinese tourists.

I was also enlightened: Last night was apparently a typical young-single-American weekend. Learning that and seeing Chengde in two days, not half bad eh? While you'll've to nab yourselves some young single Americans to experience the sleeplessness, here's a glimpse of some loverly bits of Chengde, the city in the green mountains of the Hebei province.

Random sections of the Great Wall can be seen during the 4-hour bus ride to Chengde.

Lots of agriculture going on in the Hebei province, being a little further away from the desert sands than Beijing.

Pule Temple 普乐寺, built in 1766 during Emperor Qianlong's reign, is a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site.

油松: One many old pine trees found within the temple's compound.

Built in a mixture of Han and Tibetian style similar to Beijing's Temple of Heaven 天坛, Emperor Qianlong named it Pule Temple, "implying universal happiness, unity and peace".

The main dome is a smaller copy of Beijing's Temple of Heaven.

To the east of the temple are the Sledge Hammer Peak 磬锤峰 and Toad Rock 蛤蟆石.

Which are a long, long way away.

But we got there eventually, of course.

Chinese visitors come armed with sticks of red incense, which they wedge on the Toad Rock for health. Or luck, or some such.

Above the various doorways of the main hall of the Mountain Resort 避暑山庄 hang four poems penned by one of the emperors, each written during his visits to the resort.

One of many pavilions dotting the massive Mountain Resort, which is the largest imperial palace garden in China and a UNESCO world cultural heritage site.

One of many temples in the resort. The 5.64-million-square-metre resort has a palace area, lake area, plain area and mountain area to reflect the characteristics of north and south China.

Unfortunately, Chengde is located in the northern region, which suffers from water shortage, so many of the little rivers and streams that used to be presided over by "gates" such as this have all but dried up.

The Great Escapade I

2008-05-30T01:50:00.016+08:00

I have a cunning plan.

Having tendered my resignation, time is now well spent plotting my escape via Xinjiang (or s'posedly the "New Frontier") in northwestern China over approximately 15 days (or what time's left on my Chinese visa). Much of this time will be spent on buses, since the rail tracks neither cross the Taklamakan Desert nor go over the Tian Shan range.

. . .

To heighten your appreciation, a little background on Xinjiang, courtesy of Wikipedia, our favourite non-official source of information! (Alas! I would also have included a map, but couldn't locate a suitable one.)

Xinjiang 新疆 is an autonomous region (Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region) of the People's Republic of China. It was militarily captured and annexed by China and is a large, sparsely populated area (spanning over 1.6 million sq. km) which takes up about one sixth of the country's territory. Xinjiang borders the Tibet Autonomous Region to the south and Qinghai and Gansu provinces to the southeast, Mongolia to the east, Russia to the north, and Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and the Pakistan- and India-controlled parts of Kashmir to the west.

It is divided into two basins by Mount Tianshan. Dzungarian Basin is in the north, and Tarim Basin is in the south. Xinjiang's lowest point is the Turfan Depression, 155 metres below sea level (lowest point in the PRC as well). Its highest peak, K2, is 8611 metres above sea level, on the border with Kashmir.The Tian Shan mountain range marks the Xinjiang-Kyrgyzstan border at the Torugart Pass (3752 m). The Karakorum highway (KKH) links Islamabad, Pakistan with Kashgar over the Khunjerab Pass.

. . .

It should begin innocuously enough with a 4-hour flight into Xinjiang's captial, Ürümqi 乌鲁木齐. The largest city in the western half of China, Ürümqi has won a place in the Guinness Book of Records as the most remote city from any sea in the world. Four hours later, we'll be on a west-ward flight bound for Yining near the Kazakhstan border. A "leafy and friendly" city, says Lonely Planet.

Granted, all that flying detracts from my usual mode-of-travel, but time is short and the fastest train to Ürümqi will plod along for all of 40 hours and 6 minutes, not to mention only save me a paltry Y104 on a soft sleeper. Most importantly, energy needs to be conserved.

While in Yining 伊宁, my backpack and I are going 120 kilometres north into the Tian Shan range to see the Sayram Lake 塞里木湖, "especially colourful during June and July, when alpine flowers blanket the ground". If the alpine flowers bit fails, we will at least get to spend the night in a Kazakh yurt near the lake. Maybe.

The actual reason we're going to Yining is to sit in a bus, bound for Kuqa 库车, for 24 hours. This course of action is based solely on LP's "spectacular trip crossing the Tian Shan range" description. If the spectacular bit fails, we will at least get to see, mid-way, a Mongolian village-closed-to-foreigners called Bayanbulak.

Although once an oasis on the Silk Road, apparently not much to see in Kuqa, so we will promptly get on with a 9-hour train journey heading west for Kashgar 喀什, sited west of the Taklamakan Desert at the feet of the Tian Shan mountain range. Kashgar is home to an important Muslim community (Uyghurs). The area does not have the same high level of Han Chinese immigration as does Ürümqi.

Lots to do in Kashgar! A lively Sunday Market and Livestock Market, mosques, tombs, ruins and Uighur food at the night market ("bring your own fork")!

And, "if you'd like to see the Karakoram Hwy 中巴公路, Karakul Lake, a glittering mirror of glacial peaks, makes for a good destination". That's where we're headed, then. The Karakorum Hwy, gateway to Pakistan, is a centuries-old route used by caravans going down the Silk Road, passing through "high mountain pastures with grazing camels and yaks". If the camels and yaks fail to make an appearance, we will at least get to spend the night in a Kazakh yurt near the lake. Second attempt to, anyway.

(The Kite Runner movie was filmed in Kashgar! Haven't seen it, but it's an excellent novel, read it and ... at least sniffle?)

A few days in Kashgar and it's off to Hotan 和田, another 9-hour journey possibly split into two parts by way of the old town of Karghilik on the Silk Road. Hotan is included in this escapade, again, because of a bus ride. This ride, lasting 15 hours, plods 500 kilometres on a highway through a "rippling ocean of sand" that is the Taklamakan Desert to reach a small town called Luntai 轮台 on the other side. "The slightest bit of bad weather can stop traffic for days". Hmm, getting delayed for days can't be good. This bit may need further research.

Onward! From Luntai, it's an hour and a half on another bus back to Kuqa, followed by 13 hours on the east-bound train to Turpan 吐鲁番, the second lowest depression in the world (after the Dead Sea) and the hottest spot in China, just 2.5 hours by bus from Ürümqi (from where we fly to Beijing and onward to the loverly Japan, but that's not yet ripe for elaboration). Ye gods! I trust it won't hit the highest temperature mark of 49.6 degress C while I'm there. Although, this bit of the journey may not happen due to time contraints.

And so, it all adds up to 15 days (hopefully), 9.5 hours in the air, 22 hours in trains and 52 hours in buses. Sounds gruelling, even for a pared-down version of an even more ambitious plan involving the neighbouring Gansu Province that pushed 21 days. Curses to the HR department for robbing me of leave days!

Again, touch-and-go isn't how I usually travel, but with no foreseeable plans to revisit the region, we do the best we can against time. Will we make it? Stay tuned ...

NB. If you've got some very important information I've somehow missed (the sort that will get me a free pass to a Chinese jail/ginormous fine for reasons such as over-staying my visa or patronising un-PSB-authorised yurts), drop me a note!

It's Quaking Rants

2008-05-27T02:08:00.014+08:00

School children death toll sparks tough questions in China
AFP - Thursday, May 15

JUYUAN, China (AFP) -- As more children were pulled Wednesday from the rubble of their schools, questions emerged over whether corruption and shoddy construction were to blame for taking such a heavy toll of young lives.

Not to sound callous, but I had to snicker when I got to "corruption and shoddy construction". It's just not something that escapes notice, even if the earthquake didn't topple all those buildings.

I live in an old building. Perhaps it really isn't that old, just dismally maintained. Same difference? In any case, a new notice board was recently installed at the lift landing. Not a great notice board, but functional, with a single-coloured frame and a glass panel. Maybe not so much a notice board as a poster frame. Well, this thing, whatever it's meant to be, would be pretty decent if the glass panel wasn't broken. Let's see, we've got a brand new poster frame, which we carelessly broke in the process of delivery / installation, but whatever. Someone removed the broken glass several weeks later. Now it's just a sad empty frame in a dark and dank lift landing. Already forgotten, and never been used. No, wait. Someone came along and rubber-stamped on its cardboard backing (in red ink, no less) an advertisment for ... something. Served its purpose, then.

Meanwhile, upstairs in a little flat on level 14, the occupant heard something that sounded suspiciously like dishes smashing into a million bits. Uh-oh, I don't remember placing any dishes in precarious positions. But nothing was amiss in the kitchen.

The bathroom, then. Two tiles have free-fallen off the bathroom wall. One landed unharmed in a bucket, delivering 2 mortal holes. The other, not as clever, perished, leaving its broken body scattered across the bathroom floor.

Remember, back in art class, when you used to just squeeze two dabs of glue instead of spreading the glue evenly across the surface? The construction worker must've attended the same art class. Sat right beside you, in fact.

Oh, and you also used cheap water-based glue that dissolves away when your masterpiece got wet, didn't you? Must've shared it with that construction fellow.

Gravity is a funny thing. Gives things weight. Then some clever chap invented sliding doors. That glass door may be heavy, but it just slides. So smooth a child could move it. Well, maybe not that particular sliding door in the place I previously lived. It was a pleasant compound comprising several low apartment buildings, even has a proper car park, clean stairwells and a 24-hour ... er, fellow (before that incident involving the adjacent dark alley and a psycho, I might've called it "security"). Adjacent to my big airy room was a nice balcony. Hard to get in there, though, with that ill-tempered glass door. I s'pose I'd be ill-tempered too, if I had to spend my life upside-down, being dragged to and fro on my head. Imagine the migrains.

Perhaps "shoddy" just means "not very knowledgable". Even the best materials will crumble if there is a lack of knowledge and appreciation. And what does "corruption" mean?

It means the "local officials are very XXX", to quote a friend living in Guangzhou. He wants to "adopt a kid", any kid who had been left homeless and parentless after the quake, I assume. He would provide the child with monetary assistance, while a friend of his would take care of the child in terms of housing and daily needs. Impossible, it seems. "If you have been to Sichuan, you will know what I mean", he said in reference to the XXX-ness of the local officials.

They stand around waiting for help, instead of thinking of how they can rebuild homes, he elaborated. His suspicions (shared by not just a few, I suspect) are that they might actually be happier post-quake then pre-quake because of the large amounts of money pouring in to assist the region (and perhaps line their pockets).

I rarely make monetary donations. Pre-China, Test Subject 1 (under coercion) and I used to make annual donations to The Boys' Brigade Sharity Gift Box, which seeks to "bring cheer to the less fortunate by collecting food items and fulfilling Christmas wishes of the beneficiaries". The project encourages donors "to go beyond purely financial giving and are instead challenged to make the extra effort to buy gifts for the less privileged in our society". I remember buying school supplies and/or food supplies and depositing them at the Sharity booth downtown. On hindsight, I s'pose it was because it felt better knowing what your hard-earned money was being spent on.

And then! And then you read something like this:

Myanmar cyclone victims getting low-quality supplies
AFP - Thursday, May 13

YANGON, Myanmar (AP) -- Many cyclone victims are getting spoiled or poor-quality food from Myanmar's junta instead of the enriched supplies being delivered by foreign governments and charities, victims and aid workers said Tuesday.

A longtime foreign resident of Myanmar's biggest city, Yangon, told The Associated Press in Bangkok by telephone that angry government officials complained to him about the military misappropriating aid.

He said the officials told him that high-energy biscuits rushed in on the World Food Program's first flights were sent to a military warehouse. They were exchanged for what the officials described as "tasteless and low-quality" biscuits produced by the Industry Ministry to be handed out to cyclone victims, he said.

Misappropriating biscuits. One of those things that makes you want to either laugh or cry. Although here in China, they'd rather you cry. You need to suffer collectively when something tragic happens, nothing too entertaining now!

China takes playoff games off air

Reuters, Wednesday May 28 2008 (adds NBA China statement in paras 9-10, byline)

By Nick Mulvenney

BEIJING, May 28 (Reuters) - NBA playoff games have been taken off air by China's state television network because they are considered too entertaining for a nation still recovering from the Sichuan earthquake.

All entertainment in China was stopped last week for three days of national mourning for the victims of the 7.9 magnitude quake that struck the western province on May 12.State TV sports channel CCTV 5, like most other stations, returned to normal programming last Thursday and showed the Western Conference finals game between the Los Angeles Lakers and San Antonio Spurs on May 22.

But subsequent clashes in that series and the Eastern Conference playoff finals between Detroit and Boston were not shown."These games are not in accordance with the atmosphere of the nation after the devastation of the earthquake. They are too entertaining" Jiang Heping, director of the state TV sports channel, told Reuters.

Methinks it's time to air those Korean melodramas. No better way than playing a Winter Sonata to incite collective weeping (although some may argue that it's more entertaining than watching the NBA playoffs). It beats imposing a nation-wide three-minute-long silence. I mention this only because I was at the supermarket when it occurred and while the supermarket staff stopped what they were doing, it's quite obvious they were not being mournful. Neither were the many Chinese shoppers, who continued pushing their carts, picking their vegetables and poking their meat.

Granted, I followed suit, but then I'm just a cynical, hypocritical, critical foreigner doing as the Romans do, innit.