I must have taken a Left where I generally take a Right … ‘cause I ended up in the Kingdom of Tieland. Which is an unsual name, because it’s too hot to wear one there.
So everything in Thailand seems to require officials filling out forms that are given to other officials that take you somewhere else for the form to get stamped, and then escort you to another official that eventually takes you to the … taxi.
And despite what the form says about the Department of Land Transport requiring the meter and any tolls to be paid, the cabbie will immediately negotiate. So after getting over the intial shock of the cabbie suggesting I pay $500 to get from the airport to the hotel, I start doing some mental ‘rithmetic.
It took a while.
There are a lot of zeros and decimal points when you’re trying to calculate and exchange rate of 0.042 … at which point I realized I was haggling over a $20 or $21 fare. 500 Baht would be fine.
The ride took over 2 hours. Who's a winner now?
Now being a little more oriented to run-down-shack-and-open-space, the immediate impact of the densely packed city of Bangkok was a little tough on the system. But once you give up the need for personal space and get on with it, there are some delights to be found.
Like when I thought the cabbie had dropped me at The Palace, but it turned out to be and incredibly fancy hotel (which charges the same rate as a Best Western back home). We’re talking serious gilding in gold, stunning lighting, those massive chairs with all the deep velvet colors, waterfalls, stately palm trees, and seriously fancy, ornate outfits upon the ever bowing and praying staff.
Although I thought they’d mistaken me for one of their deities (it happens … but usually only back at the holler), it turns out the bowing and praying thing is some form of respectful greeting.
So I’m feeling like a total stranger in a strange land, in an uncomfortably fancy-pants hotel, where not too many local people can speak a lick of English (well, my Hillbilly version of English), and then as I swing around the corner to find the lifts ... I was going to be all right.
On another fancy display, there are some elegant black and white photos of the rich and famous that have stayed in the palace, er – hotel.
Second photo at the top of the board … is The Man.
Ronald Reagan.
I'm gonna be all right.
(Normally I’d be a little put out that Ronnie was second, but since Maggie Thatcher was in first, I won’t be sending my complaint to customer service.)
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
On Reflection
So it is that time of the year when the commercial media dish up their top 100 and greatest 25, and bestest top 10 of 2009.
Well, as the mighty Dillon says … who am I to blow against the wind? So, after 6 months on The Island, here are the rights and wrongs.
Right: Moving to a place where the Claypot Frog bar is tossing distance from your condo.
Wrong: Leaving a place where the Narrabeen RSL is spittin’ distance from your front door.
Right: Moving to a country that you can traverse in 45 minutes.
Wrong: Leaving a country that you can get into your 4Wd and head out on the highway for two days without finding anything.
Right: Finding a blues bar with pool tables down at the Quay.
Wrong: Listening to Johnny Cash and the Eagles in Mandarin at the local cabana bar.
Right: Moving to a place where a jumper (“sweater” for you Mary Lou) is not required.
Wrong: Moving to a place in which the temperature has changed 3½ degrees in 6 months.
Right: Selling Mexican brews in the local gas station.
Wrong: $45 for a six pack of Coopers sparkling ale, available from both supermarkets on The Island.
Right: Selling beer and spirits at the local servo (the local “off license” to you, Sir Jim).
Wrong: I know why this would not work in Oz,
Right: Being able to take a taxi 20km to work for $8.
Wrong: Having to fork out almost $100k for any vehicle pushing 2 litres of capacity.
Right: Getting to the train (MRT) station so you are first in line to board.
Wrong: Not maiming the 80-year-old ethnic git that cuts in front of you to get on board first.
Wrong: Moving over 4,000 miles from your Mom, Dad, best friends, all of your colleagues, The Giants, and even from Baldilocks.
Right: Moving 4,085 miles from your sister.
Right: Moving to a safe and tolerant country that is a fantastic melting pot of Chinese, Indian, Malay, and European individuality and cultures.
Wrong: Finding out that the country you have moved to is more racist than the Narrabeen RSL.
Right: Enjoying a day off for Thanksgiving Day and Live Thursday night football on the Island.
Wrong: Learning that it is in fact a holiday because some feller in Sand Lands sacrificed his son for "Greater Eid" as an act of obedience to someone’s invisible Friend.
Right: Watching Kevin ’07 try to peddle his shallow attempt at a Climategate agenda through Parliament.
Wrong: Living on a Island in which every item is double-wrapped in plastic bags …
Right: Learning that driving is basically the same as where you hailed from in Oz.
Wrong: Learning (the hard way) that turning right into street involves selection of a lane using multiple choice, shaking of an eight ball or chaos theory.
Right: Continuing to pen this mindless drivel for my dear friends at home.
Wrong: Not a single postcard sent to my dear friends at home.
Right: Convincing the tatertots that Santa and his unicorns (whatever) will find them in Port Lincoln this year.
Wrong: Dealing with a 7 year old that insists it is pretty unlikely that a big, fat man in a red furry costume, gads about in a sleigh pulled by a few reindeer, delivering toys to other tatertots … gol’darnit chile … welcome to reality, kid.
Right: From one place to another, from home to home … the warmth and joy of Christmas will bring us closer to each other.
Wrong: Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of retail love.
Well, as the mighty Dillon says … who am I to blow against the wind? So, after 6 months on The Island, here are the rights and wrongs.
Right: Moving to a place where the Claypot Frog bar is tossing distance from your condo.
Wrong: Leaving a place where the Narrabeen RSL is spittin’ distance from your front door.
Right: Moving to a country that you can traverse in 45 minutes.
Wrong: Leaving a country that you can get into your 4Wd and head out on the highway for two days without finding anything.
Right: Finding a blues bar with pool tables down at the Quay.
Wrong: Listening to Johnny Cash and the Eagles in Mandarin at the local cabana bar.
Right: Moving to a place where a jumper (“sweater” for you Mary Lou) is not required.
Wrong: Moving to a place in which the temperature has changed 3½ degrees in 6 months.
Right: Selling Mexican brews in the local gas station.
Wrong: $45 for a six pack of Coopers sparkling ale, available from both supermarkets on The Island.
Right: Selling beer and spirits at the local servo (the local “off license” to you, Sir Jim).
Wrong: I know why this would not work in Oz,
Right: Being able to take a taxi 20km to work for $8.
Wrong: Having to fork out almost $100k for any vehicle pushing 2 litres of capacity.
Right: Getting to the train (MRT) station so you are first in line to board.
Wrong: Not maiming the 80-year-old ethnic git that cuts in front of you to get on board first.
Wrong: Moving over 4,000 miles from your Mom, Dad, best friends, all of your colleagues, The Giants, and even from Baldilocks.
Right: Moving 4,085 miles from your sister.
Right: Moving to a safe and tolerant country that is a fantastic melting pot of Chinese, Indian, Malay, and European individuality and cultures.
Wrong: Finding out that the country you have moved to is more racist than the Narrabeen RSL.
Right: Enjoying a day off for Thanksgiving Day and Live Thursday night football on the Island.
Wrong: Learning that it is in fact a holiday because some feller in Sand Lands sacrificed his son for "Greater Eid" as an act of obedience to someone’s invisible Friend.
Right: Watching Kevin ’07 try to peddle his shallow attempt at a Climategate agenda through Parliament.
Wrong: Living on a Island in which every item is double-wrapped in plastic bags …
Right: Learning that driving is basically the same as where you hailed from in Oz.
Wrong: Learning (the hard way) that turning right into street involves selection of a lane using multiple choice, shaking of an eight ball or chaos theory.
Right: Continuing to pen this mindless drivel for my dear friends at home.
Wrong: Not a single postcard sent to my dear friends at home.
Right: Convincing the tatertots that Santa and his unicorns (whatever) will find them in Port Lincoln this year.
Wrong: Dealing with a 7 year old that insists it is pretty unlikely that a big, fat man in a red furry costume, gads about in a sleigh pulled by a few reindeer, delivering toys to other tatertots … gol’darnit chile … welcome to reality, kid.
Right: From one place to another, from home to home … the warmth and joy of Christmas will bring us closer to each other.
Wrong: Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of retail love.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
On Howling
No, my discographically sharp, shiny-domed ex-neighbour – not a dissertation on the 1984 Ramones track that clearly should have been a top 10 hit … mind you any song with sha-la-la-la-la in the chorus should be a pop sensation. Nor is this a reflection on the benchmark werewolf flick from the early 80’s. (By the way Baldilocks, please trim the hedges or I’ll let your new neighbours give them the Crusty trim that you may well recall.)
This is in fact a discourse on the sounds of The Island.
It must now be winter on The Island. It has only been 29 – 30 degrees the past 3 days. (That’s about 84 degrees Jeb.) The effects of this cold snap are dramatic. Masks are back on in the work place. Natives mistakenly expecting sweltering, 33-degree heat, are forgetting their jumpers (those are “sweaters” for you, Daisy Mae) – and they are all coming down with terrible colds.
Now, I must digress for some readers. A literary citation is required, so I refer to the O.S. Dictionary: Hock a Loogie (v): “to cough up a phlegm wad. Loogie is pronounced with a hard G.”
And back to our story … so, despite their penchant for spotless parks, cleanly streets and tidy tubes (it’s a subway, Billy Bob), it would appear that it is perfectly acceptable to make the most horrific noises in public places. In fact I think it may well be encouraged to share with those around you the repeated, staccato, guttural attempts to extract a goober from the depths of the nasal passages.
Mind you, the most fun part of hocking a loogie is never shared. Apparently spitting is frowned upon here on The Island. In fact, it may well be illegal.
Speaking of things that should be illegal ... I can confirm that the shared nasal and throat harmonies are not the most offensive sounds that I have so far experienced.
There is a hawker centre affectionately known at my work as the “far away” food place. It is bloody hard to describe how to get there. But once you arrive at this bustling kingdom full of steaming hot, spicy chilli dishes, you encounter quite possible the best set of lungs on the planet. (No Cletus, I am not referring to her twinkies.)
I nearly had a heart attack upon my first visit when I returned to the table with my mystery fish fried rice dish, and what I mistook for the 400 year old cleaner came up and asked in broken English (well gestures) what I wanted to drink. “An iced lemon tea, please.” She stands up (not really much of a height improvement from when she was leaning over) and at the top of the most extraordinary voice screams out my iced tea order in screeching Mandarin to some poor husband – who I gather was 14 kilometres down the road. Although I am now deaf in my left ear, it was the best $1 that I have spent so far.
This is in fact a discourse on the sounds of The Island.
It must now be winter on The Island. It has only been 29 – 30 degrees the past 3 days. (That’s about 84 degrees Jeb.) The effects of this cold snap are dramatic. Masks are back on in the work place. Natives mistakenly expecting sweltering, 33-degree heat, are forgetting their jumpers (those are “sweaters” for you, Daisy Mae) – and they are all coming down with terrible colds.
Now, I must digress for some readers. A literary citation is required, so I refer to the O.S. Dictionary: Hock a Loogie (v): “to cough up a phlegm wad. Loogie is pronounced with a hard G.”
And back to our story … so, despite their penchant for spotless parks, cleanly streets and tidy tubes (it’s a subway, Billy Bob), it would appear that it is perfectly acceptable to make the most horrific noises in public places. In fact I think it may well be encouraged to share with those around you the repeated, staccato, guttural attempts to extract a goober from the depths of the nasal passages.
Mind you, the most fun part of hocking a loogie is never shared. Apparently spitting is frowned upon here on The Island. In fact, it may well be illegal.
Speaking of things that should be illegal ... I can confirm that the shared nasal and throat harmonies are not the most offensive sounds that I have so far experienced.
There is a hawker centre affectionately known at my work as the “far away” food place. It is bloody hard to describe how to get there. But once you arrive at this bustling kingdom full of steaming hot, spicy chilli dishes, you encounter quite possible the best set of lungs on the planet. (No Cletus, I am not referring to her twinkies.)
I nearly had a heart attack upon my first visit when I returned to the table with my mystery fish fried rice dish, and what I mistook for the 400 year old cleaner came up and asked in broken English (well gestures) what I wanted to drink. “An iced lemon tea, please.” She stands up (not really much of a height improvement from when she was leaning over) and at the top of the most extraordinary voice screams out my iced tea order in screeching Mandarin to some poor husband – who I gather was 14 kilometres down the road. Although I am now deaf in my left ear, it was the best $1 that I have spent so far.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
On Huddled Masses
Panic not those ye that are worried that I’m about to recite the full poem from the plaque on the green copper lady in New York harbor. Those that know me are aware that I am more likely to sing the praises of the humble masses featured at People of Walmart. And full marks to Diz for pointing me to the website where my old high school has posted pictures of the reunion.
No unlike Liberty Island (or Walmart) this island has a predisposition for sudden rainfall. So there I was with kids in the back seat, steering the Syphilis to Upper Seletar Reservoir (more commonly known as the location of the Singapore Zoo), when a light shower reduced the stifling 33 degree temperature (about 90 degrees for those of you up north in my old trailer park), to a pleasant 30 degrees (around 85 degrees for you, Jeb and Cletus … well let me make it a bit easier for you boys – about as hot as the hinges of Hell).
Now those that have read some of the early work will know in fact that there is no such thing as a rain shower on The Island.
Within 30 seconds it felt like I was the captain of the Andrea Gail navigating the tempestuous seas of the Perfect Storm.
Ruing the loss of the Crustymobile for the 1,432nd time, I began to wonder whether the low slung Syphilis was able to keep forward momentum in the river, which a moment ago was the PI Expressway. The reaction from the tatertots in the backseat was slightly different – wild exuberant Oooooohs! and Aaaaahhhhs! as the buses pass us and giant waves of water surge over the mighty 1.5 litre Nissan powerhouse.
The fact that buses are passing us may give you a sense for the ripping pace at which we are driving … the correct verb may be “floating”.
So feeling a bit sad and sorry for myself all round, I am suddenly put in my place as we head under a flyover (“overpass” for you Jeb). Under the flyover there must be 150 motorbike riders and another 100 scooter riders. This impromptu assembly of the Singapore chapter of the Hells Angels is all off the bikes, huddled together, trying to keep dry. (Or maybe wondering how long a cubit is, and which animals to take on board.)
And then the heart string (yes, Diz - I do have one) was really yanked when we approach a pedestrian walkway that crosses over and above the expressway. Underneath the thin, two meter wide scaffolding, standing tightly shoulder to shoulder, next to their scooter, is a feller and his lady friend that must been riding on the back … absolutely, thoroughly soaked. I think the Irish hope for “walls for winds”, “tea beside the fire”, “laughter to cheer you” … but I think those two missed out on the “roof for the rain” part of that blessing.
No unlike Liberty Island (or Walmart) this island has a predisposition for sudden rainfall. So there I was with kids in the back seat, steering the Syphilis to Upper Seletar Reservoir (more commonly known as the location of the Singapore Zoo), when a light shower reduced the stifling 33 degree temperature (about 90 degrees for those of you up north in my old trailer park), to a pleasant 30 degrees (around 85 degrees for you, Jeb and Cletus … well let me make it a bit easier for you boys – about as hot as the hinges of Hell).
Now those that have read some of the early work will know in fact that there is no such thing as a rain shower on The Island.
Within 30 seconds it felt like I was the captain of the Andrea Gail navigating the tempestuous seas of the Perfect Storm.
Ruing the loss of the Crustymobile for the 1,432nd time, I began to wonder whether the low slung Syphilis was able to keep forward momentum in the river, which a moment ago was the PI Expressway. The reaction from the tatertots in the backseat was slightly different – wild exuberant Oooooohs! and Aaaaahhhhs! as the buses pass us and giant waves of water surge over the mighty 1.5 litre Nissan powerhouse.
The fact that buses are passing us may give you a sense for the ripping pace at which we are driving … the correct verb may be “floating”.
So feeling a bit sad and sorry for myself all round, I am suddenly put in my place as we head under a flyover (“overpass” for you Jeb). Under the flyover there must be 150 motorbike riders and another 100 scooter riders. This impromptu assembly of the Singapore chapter of the Hells Angels is all off the bikes, huddled together, trying to keep dry. (Or maybe wondering how long a cubit is, and which animals to take on board.)
And then the heart string (yes, Diz - I do have one) was really yanked when we approach a pedestrian walkway that crosses over and above the expressway. Underneath the thin, two meter wide scaffolding, standing tightly shoulder to shoulder, next to their scooter, is a feller and his lady friend that must been riding on the back … absolutely, thoroughly soaked. I think the Irish hope for “walls for winds”, “tea beside the fire”, “laughter to cheer you” … but I think those two missed out on the “roof for the rain” part of that blessing.
Monday, October 19, 2009
On Suspicious Kinds
No, my James-Squires-quaffing colleague, not an incorrect reference to the Presley tune that was well-covered by the Fine Young Cannibals, in that era of music that we share … of course, I’m far more partial to the Dwight Yoakim version which came out not long afterward.
The appearance and enforcement of Safety in Singapore is such a given that it came as quite a surprise to hear the two-toned wail of a siren while sitting in the Syphilis on the Expressway. To be fair, it is not unusual for the expressways (loosely used term) to slow to crawl. However, it is usually because the punkawallahs in the CDC suits that are trimming the bushes on the side of the road let the cross-eyed one lay the cones down. With little resemblance to straight lines, the safety cones variously take up 1 to 3 lanes – for no apparent reason - and with little regard for the room left for vehicular passage.
Slow traffic has never been too annoying for me. This time I was amusing myself by subjecting the Maid and Tatertots to 11 disks of Dwight Yoakim (and one Ramones CD) as we inched along the PIE.
After 40 minutes of inching (and 14 tracks involving at least one of the following: guitar, Cadillac, Honky Tonk bar, neon light, heartache, or a pick-up truck), we came across the source of the delay. From the clues gathered as we crawled past, I can only surmise that a motorbike driver decided to have a BBQ while in transit, and things must have quickly got out of hand.
Safety is key in Singapore.
And on the MRT (think train meets monorail – monorail pretty well wins that smackdown), most of the messages on the instructional side: “don’t eat here”, “stay behind that yeller line”, “we’re about to cross on to the middle track so grab on to a pole, hand grip – or your neighbor”, “fetch”, “lie down”, “play dead”, etc).
In fact playing dead is something the locals are darn good at on the train. I’ve just about finished my book: 1,000 ways to sleep on a train. You can sleep standing up. You can sleep in a chair. You can sleep by repeatedly falling on your neighbor. You can sleep listening to an iPod. You can sleep watching a movie on a PSP. You can sleep on a pole. You can sleep reading a paper. You can absorb words from a book with your forehead … as you sleep on your open book. You can sleep in your socks, with a fox, in a box. You can sleep anywhere. Except on Crusty.
So there are all these messages about safety. And one has had me on edge since I have arrived. Perhaps least in part because when the silver 1970’s aviators and old softy hat are adorned, I may well have a striking resemblance to Ivan Milat. So when the message “If you see any suspicious person or articles, please inform our staff, or press the emergency communication button located at the side of the train doors.” comes over the PA system, I start to get a little worried that a conscientious civil servant is going to head for the red button and have me nabbed by the officers of the Ministry of Truth.
Truth be known, I have little to fear. The red button lies well-hidden under the greasy quiff of the Indian feller that has fallen asleep on it.
The appearance and enforcement of Safety in Singapore is such a given that it came as quite a surprise to hear the two-toned wail of a siren while sitting in the Syphilis on the Expressway. To be fair, it is not unusual for the expressways (loosely used term) to slow to crawl. However, it is usually because the punkawallahs in the CDC suits that are trimming the bushes on the side of the road let the cross-eyed one lay the cones down. With little resemblance to straight lines, the safety cones variously take up 1 to 3 lanes – for no apparent reason - and with little regard for the room left for vehicular passage.
Slow traffic has never been too annoying for me. This time I was amusing myself by subjecting the Maid and Tatertots to 11 disks of Dwight Yoakim (and one Ramones CD) as we inched along the PIE.
After 40 minutes of inching (and 14 tracks involving at least one of the following: guitar, Cadillac, Honky Tonk bar, neon light, heartache, or a pick-up truck), we came across the source of the delay. From the clues gathered as we crawled past, I can only surmise that a motorbike driver decided to have a BBQ while in transit, and things must have quickly got out of hand.
Safety is key in Singapore.
And on the MRT (think train meets monorail – monorail pretty well wins that smackdown), most of the messages on the instructional side: “don’t eat here”, “stay behind that yeller line”, “we’re about to cross on to the middle track so grab on to a pole, hand grip – or your neighbor”, “fetch”, “lie down”, “play dead”, etc).
In fact playing dead is something the locals are darn good at on the train. I’ve just about finished my book: 1,000 ways to sleep on a train. You can sleep standing up. You can sleep in a chair. You can sleep by repeatedly falling on your neighbor. You can sleep listening to an iPod. You can sleep watching a movie on a PSP. You can sleep on a pole. You can sleep reading a paper. You can absorb words from a book with your forehead … as you sleep on your open book. You can sleep in your socks, with a fox, in a box. You can sleep anywhere. Except on Crusty.
So there are all these messages about safety. And one has had me on edge since I have arrived. Perhaps least in part because when the silver 1970’s aviators and old softy hat are adorned, I may well have a striking resemblance to Ivan Milat. So when the message “If you see any suspicious person or articles, please inform our staff, or press the emergency communication button located at the side of the train doors.” comes over the PA system, I start to get a little worried that a conscientious civil servant is going to head for the red button and have me nabbed by the officers of the Ministry of Truth.
Truth be known, I have little to fear. The red button lies well-hidden under the greasy quiff of the Indian feller that has fallen asleep on it.
Monday, September 28, 2009
On the Small Room.
And well done to those that had good money on me taking 15 posts to resort to toilet humor. For those that are easily offended or do not appreciate the refreshing sound of honesty, it may be time a great time to go and check out the latest post in the Grey Area.
The Loo.
The Can.
The Bog.
The John.
The Dunny.
The Latrine.
The Library.
The Quiet Room.
The Thunder Box.
The Outhouse.
The Porcelain Castle.
The Powder Room.
The Bathroom.
The Lavatory.
The Restroom.
The Washroom.
The Mens Room/The Ladies Room.
The Public Conveniences.
… and of course: The Head.
To be fair, I wanted to round out a top twenty by slipping in a few of the more salacious terms. And you know that slipping the phrase “Turd Aquarium” into a blog is a bit of fun, but doesn’t seem all that appropriate. And that seems like the right time to slip in a quick “Hi Mom!” which should let her know that she done dragged me up real good.
So, on The Island, I think they should this room the Shower Room. And it does get hot here. But I’m not sure that warrants having a full shower in the hand basin of The Small Room.
Serious relief is when you go to “drop the kids off at the pool” and as you walk into The Facilities, the mirror is drenched in spots of water. That was close!
But the flip side is that you cop serious collateral damage when you mistakenly walk into The Pisser while an overheated islander is performing a fully clothed wet-dog-shake in the hand basin.
Now, moving seamlessly from dogs to cats, I am a fan of habit. You find a stall that is clean, generally has paper and you’ve got yourself a few quiet minutes of effective reading time. And you like to go back to that stall. Preferably at the same time each day. But there must be 50 or 60 people on my floor at work. In the office Lav there are only two Cans (these are Latrines for you military personnel, or you northern hemisphere folk). Needless to say, after lunchtime it can be busier than a one-legged cat trying to bury a turd on a frozen pond. And when duty calls … well let’s just say that the other day I’ve had to select my non-preferred stall.
And so I have discovered The Squatter.
Unfortunately, this is not another colloquialism. As I walk into the stall it looks as if a Wookie has sat on The Crapper and squashed it into the ground.
Now, as a feller who has only really experienced the post 1596 era of flushing toilets, I am also unfortunately handicapped by being part of the post 1900’s era of the invention of paper Bog Roll. I have to confess to being little lost when I’m on level thirty-something of a modern office complex, and I’m confronted with “Honey I Shrunk the Pisser”. And a hose.
So there are no directions on the walls of the stalls (not even any graffiti to tell me to “Fart if I love the Lord”). No guide in the pocket on the back of the door. No instructions in the back of the seat in front like on airplanes. No signs to indicate how to begin. And although I could probably have worked it out, I have to admit conceding to a careful and deliberate walk down a few flights of stairs to Level 26.
And, Mom, the good news that I’m just about out of toilet jokes.
The Loo.
The Can.
The Bog.
The John.
The Dunny.
The Latrine.
The Library.
The Quiet Room.
The Thunder Box.
The Outhouse.
The Porcelain Castle.
The Powder Room.
The Bathroom.
The Lavatory.
The Restroom.
The Washroom.
The Mens Room/The Ladies Room.
The Public Conveniences.
… and of course: The Head.
To be fair, I wanted to round out a top twenty by slipping in a few of the more salacious terms. And you know that slipping the phrase “Turd Aquarium” into a blog is a bit of fun, but doesn’t seem all that appropriate. And that seems like the right time to slip in a quick “Hi Mom!” which should let her know that she done dragged me up real good.
So, on The Island, I think they should this room the Shower Room. And it does get hot here. But I’m not sure that warrants having a full shower in the hand basin of The Small Room.
Serious relief is when you go to “drop the kids off at the pool” and as you walk into The Facilities, the mirror is drenched in spots of water. That was close!
But the flip side is that you cop serious collateral damage when you mistakenly walk into The Pisser while an overheated islander is performing a fully clothed wet-dog-shake in the hand basin.
Now, moving seamlessly from dogs to cats, I am a fan of habit. You find a stall that is clean, generally has paper and you’ve got yourself a few quiet minutes of effective reading time. And you like to go back to that stall. Preferably at the same time each day. But there must be 50 or 60 people on my floor at work. In the office Lav there are only two Cans (these are Latrines for you military personnel, or you northern hemisphere folk). Needless to say, after lunchtime it can be busier than a one-legged cat trying to bury a turd on a frozen pond. And when duty calls … well let’s just say that the other day I’ve had to select my non-preferred stall.
And so I have discovered The Squatter.
Unfortunately, this is not another colloquialism. As I walk into the stall it looks as if a Wookie has sat on The Crapper and squashed it into the ground.
Now, as a feller who has only really experienced the post 1596 era of flushing toilets, I am also unfortunately handicapped by being part of the post 1900’s era of the invention of paper Bog Roll. I have to confess to being little lost when I’m on level thirty-something of a modern office complex, and I’m confronted with “Honey I Shrunk the Pisser”. And a hose.
So there are no directions on the walls of the stalls (not even any graffiti to tell me to “Fart if I love the Lord”). No guide in the pocket on the back of the door. No instructions in the back of the seat in front like on airplanes. No signs to indicate how to begin. And although I could probably have worked it out, I have to admit conceding to a careful and deliberate walk down a few flights of stairs to Level 26.
And, Mom, the good news that I’m just about out of toilet jokes.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
On Fiscal Control
The photographic film companies must be ruing the day some enlightened spark figured out how to store camera images on hard disks. I mean floppy disks. Removable disks. Thumb drives? Whatever.
A truly stunning number of people with an even more astonishing array of cameras are constantly capturing digital images to memorable sticks every minute on The Island.
Why you would want to preserve a picture of Kitty eating a hoagie at the Subway, or capture (in eight megapixel clarity) a shot of Shuva sitting on the bench next to a bin at a bus stop is all a bit beyond me.
And while the locals are snapping shots from their digital cameras, phone cameras, and Dick Tracey watches, there are thousands of CCTs quietly humming, tracking and generally recording all the movements of the inhabitants and tourists milling about. Which Orwellian person is viewing the footage beamed from all the security cameras is a mystery. But if he’s a native of The Island, then I will wager that he is not a Big brother.
However it is not the electric eyes that keep the natives, tourists and one Hillbilly in check. You see, this is a cloudy but fine locale. (A bit like a Coopers, but a lot warmer.) Well, not that type of fine. Not fine like a "fine Coopers", or fine like "Demi Moore is fine".
No, these are the big fines. Fines like $500 for eating (or drinking) at a train station. Or $1,000 for smoking in an air-conditioned venue. Or $5,000 for pressing the dirty great big red call button on the train when it is not an emergency.
So knowing the amount of mischievous imp that’s packed into The Boy, I’m fairly certain that I will be parting with at least 20 Large across the next 2 years. Ah yes, the great love versus money debate. I think it was Lord Tennyson that said: “Tis better to have loved and lost, than paid for it and not liked it”. And a big Cheerio to my 10th grade English Lit teacher in West Virginia.
A truly stunning number of people with an even more astonishing array of cameras are constantly capturing digital images to memorable sticks every minute on The Island.
Why you would want to preserve a picture of Kitty eating a hoagie at the Subway, or capture (in eight megapixel clarity) a shot of Shuva sitting on the bench next to a bin at a bus stop is all a bit beyond me.
And while the locals are snapping shots from their digital cameras, phone cameras, and Dick Tracey watches, there are thousands of CCTs quietly humming, tracking and generally recording all the movements of the inhabitants and tourists milling about. Which Orwellian person is viewing the footage beamed from all the security cameras is a mystery. But if he’s a native of The Island, then I will wager that he is not a Big brother.
However it is not the electric eyes that keep the natives, tourists and one Hillbilly in check. You see, this is a cloudy but fine locale. (A bit like a Coopers, but a lot warmer.) Well, not that type of fine. Not fine like a "fine Coopers", or fine like "Demi Moore is fine".
No, these are the big fines. Fines like $500 for eating (or drinking) at a train station. Or $1,000 for smoking in an air-conditioned venue. Or $5,000 for pressing the dirty great big red call button on the train when it is not an emergency.
So knowing the amount of mischievous imp that’s packed into The Boy, I’m fairly certain that I will be parting with at least 20 Large across the next 2 years. Ah yes, the great love versus money debate. I think it was Lord Tennyson that said: “Tis better to have loved and lost, than paid for it and not liked it”. And a big Cheerio to my 10th grade English Lit teacher in West Virginia.
Monday, September 7, 2009
On Malnourished Spectres
Unfortunately, “no” my follicle-challenged former neighbour, this is not an update on the incarcerated enigmatic producer from the 60’s.
A funny thing happened on the way to work (and stop me if you’ve heard this one before), over the past few weeks. There are all sorts of cakes, fancy drinks with burnt sticks in them on the sidewalks. This is very noticeable in the City of Finery. Well, city of fines, anyway.
Adhering to my law of not letting the truth get in the way of a great story, I won’t profess to fully understanding it. And rather than do my research I will string together my understanding from a few disjointed conversations in coffee shops and pubs.
So it turns out that this is Singapore’s version of Halloween. Without the Jack-O-Lanterns or corn candy. Somewhere around about seven months into some calendar that has a whole lot to do with the moon, someone nutbag opens up the doorway to the underworld and lets a whole lot of famished ethereal folk into the land of the warm bodies. The devout and spiritual warm bodies are on their game – they leave offerings to mollify these wraiths that have the munchies.
All pretty harmless stuff.
Except for the burning bit. You see there also seems to be a belief that burning some paper cash will appease the angry apparitions, and bring prosperity to the merchant … at least until the feller with the short memory opens up the gates of hell again, around seven moon months into next year.
Those tortured souls that read my earlier treatise on just how much wind there is on The Island (there is none) will be connecting the dots about now. You see when the majority of the population starts burning incense, lighting up real money, torching fake money and - in some cases – setting alight to whatever you can stuff into a 10 gallon drum, on a Island with no wind … well you get the picture. Speaking of stuffing whatever you can into a 10G drum, a big Cheerio to my favorite Irish ship painter (your 10G drum story beats my 10G drum story by a wide margin).
So I’m going to bring myself some good luck and put the left over pizza and what’s left of the Coopers Stout out on the side walk for the hungry hillbilly ghost. And I’ll burn a few bob (from The Maid’s purse, of course) on a stick.
Or you can bring good fortune upon yourself like my boy did last weekend (in a moment when he wasn’t channeling Stink Fly or Kevin Leven), and you can just reach up to the display that is perched above the ‘do not touch’ sign, and take the money from the mouth of the jade tiger.
A funny thing happened on the way to work (and stop me if you’ve heard this one before), over the past few weeks. There are all sorts of cakes, fancy drinks with burnt sticks in them on the sidewalks. This is very noticeable in the City of Finery. Well, city of fines, anyway.
Adhering to my law of not letting the truth get in the way of a great story, I won’t profess to fully understanding it. And rather than do my research I will string together my understanding from a few disjointed conversations in coffee shops and pubs.
So it turns out that this is Singapore’s version of Halloween. Without the Jack-O-Lanterns or corn candy. Somewhere around about seven months into some calendar that has a whole lot to do with the moon, someone nutbag opens up the doorway to the underworld and lets a whole lot of famished ethereal folk into the land of the warm bodies. The devout and spiritual warm bodies are on their game – they leave offerings to mollify these wraiths that have the munchies.
All pretty harmless stuff.
Except for the burning bit. You see there also seems to be a belief that burning some paper cash will appease the angry apparitions, and bring prosperity to the merchant … at least until the feller with the short memory opens up the gates of hell again, around seven moon months into next year.
Those tortured souls that read my earlier treatise on just how much wind there is on The Island (there is none) will be connecting the dots about now. You see when the majority of the population starts burning incense, lighting up real money, torching fake money and - in some cases – setting alight to whatever you can stuff into a 10 gallon drum, on a Island with no wind … well you get the picture. Speaking of stuffing whatever you can into a 10G drum, a big Cheerio to my favorite Irish ship painter (your 10G drum story beats my 10G drum story by a wide margin).
So I’m going to bring myself some good luck and put the left over pizza and what’s left of the Coopers Stout out on the side walk for the hungry hillbilly ghost. And I’ll burn a few bob (from The Maid’s purse, of course) on a stick.
Or you can bring good fortune upon yourself like my boy did last weekend (in a moment when he wasn’t channeling Stink Fly or Kevin Leven), and you can just reach up to the display that is perched above the ‘do not touch’ sign, and take the money from the mouth of the jade tiger.
Monday, August 31, 2009
On STD Travel
To be fair, I’ve seen some pretty odd named vehicles over the years. Way back in the ‘70’s (and long B4 SMS lingo), Chevy was selling the Luv. This was in fact a truck. Well, a Light Utility Vehicle anyway. And while Grunge was all the rage in the pubs during the early to mid 90’s, Nissan had the delightfully bounding name of Prairie Joy ... which was about the only upbeat thing about the minivan that had more in common with a doorstop that a motor vehicle.
Now I’m not sure if Fiat are still making their Panda, or Suzuki still flog their Cappuccino … but the cars here on The Island are definitely bearing monikers from the same Happy Hello Kitty marketing company. Even the 3 year old boy (when he is not channeling Ben Tennyson or Humungosaur) can play along with Dad on the “match the Sing Sing name to the Aussie model” game. And the names are special ... so the Nissan Pulsar is a Nissan “Sunny”. And Toyota’s minivan is the “Wish” ... and you’d probably like to make just that if you owned the pimped out one that cruises the neighborhood (who pimps out a minivan?). Then there is Renault’s Kangoo ... What is that all about? They couldn’t afford the extra syllable?
The commercial vehicles have gone for names a little less on the cheery side and a lot more on the practicality side: the Nissan Cabster (yep. it's a dual cab.), the Peugeot Partner, the Renault Trafic (now we can't even afford the extra letter?), the Suzuki Carry ... and yet there is the Fiat Doblo. I suppose Diablo may not have sold well given all of the invisible friends that are paid homage here on The Island.
This brings me to the fact that we have caved in. We will be purchasing a vehicle for my Maid. Don’t get me started on how many GQ Patrols I could have purchased for the same amount of Pesos. The lead to coin ratio is way out of whack when it comes to car sales here on The Island.
But you can all rest easy knowing that I will continue to pay my penance for lugging a two ton jalopy across metropolitan Sydney for 13 years, as I remain a public transport rube. Meanwhile, back on Wisteria Lane, the Maid will be setting off to Bambino’s and Happy Hour at the Pool in fine style … in her second hand Nissan Syphilis.
Now I’m not sure if Fiat are still making their Panda, or Suzuki still flog their Cappuccino … but the cars here on The Island are definitely bearing monikers from the same Happy Hello Kitty marketing company. Even the 3 year old boy (when he is not channeling Ben Tennyson or Humungosaur) can play along with Dad on the “match the Sing Sing name to the Aussie model” game. And the names are special ... so the Nissan Pulsar is a Nissan “Sunny”. And Toyota’s minivan is the “Wish” ... and you’d probably like to make just that if you owned the pimped out one that cruises the neighborhood (who pimps out a minivan?). Then there is Renault’s Kangoo ... What is that all about? They couldn’t afford the extra syllable?
The commercial vehicles have gone for names a little less on the cheery side and a lot more on the practicality side: the Nissan Cabster (yep. it's a dual cab.), the Peugeot Partner, the Renault Trafic (now we can't even afford the extra letter?), the Suzuki Carry ... and yet there is the Fiat Doblo. I suppose Diablo may not have sold well given all of the invisible friends that are paid homage here on The Island.
This brings me to the fact that we have caved in. We will be purchasing a vehicle for my Maid. Don’t get me started on how many GQ Patrols I could have purchased for the same amount of Pesos. The lead to coin ratio is way out of whack when it comes to car sales here on The Island.
But you can all rest easy knowing that I will continue to pay my penance for lugging a two ton jalopy across metropolitan Sydney for 13 years, as I remain a public transport rube. Meanwhile, back on Wisteria Lane, the Maid will be setting off to Bambino’s and Happy Hour at the Pool in fine style … in her second hand Nissan Syphilis.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
On Hired Help
So we have now settled into our house in Singapore. And they have very creative ways of fitting 4.5 million people on to the island.
To be fair, that is actually a picture from Austria. It was a gimmick for the opening of one of their major cultural events. I can only guess that it was the Austrian NASCAR touring series, or something similar.
So we live in the East, in one of the "lower rise" areas. Or as it is affectionately known: District 15.
Ours is a fairly traditional suburb. There are many Muslim eateries (and despite the prejudices belted into me from growing up in fairly right-wing western cities, the food is quite good). And this appears to be the second-hand motorbike & auto-parts shop centre of Singapore. Bikes and Scooters are a serious business for students and Singaporeans that cannot afford the fluctuating and wildly prohibitive costs of owning a car on the island.
There are a stack of auto shops that stopped worrying about the appearance of their business or buying new parts around 1981. I am trying to figure out how they are fitting the 1981 Pontiac Trans Am parts into the 2008 RX8’s and Nissan GTR’s out the front.
However, the culture for me is best summed up by the shop next to the 1981 auto parts shop. Which is a maid shop. And to my previous next door neighbor, this is not a shop where one buys a French Maid outfit, or whips with pink feather tips. Not that I would know about furred and feathered accessories.
No this is a shop with a dozen or more young ladies standing out the front. These khimar-clad ladies (well, they could be wearing a hijab, or even a burqa for all I know … all I know for certain is they ain’t French) have been plucked from remote rural places in surrounding countries. And our maid shop proudly has over 6,000 of these lasses placed with gringos like me all over Singapore.
Of course, I can’t get one.
And no, JP Giant, it is not because Lia won’t let me. It is because in the instructions on owning, er – employing, one of these ladies (who has never seen a microwave oven or dishwasher), it says that “exercising patience, tolerance and understanding” is a requirement.
That rules me out.
Well, that and Lia won’t let me employ one.
But as the local maid agency advises “A well-rested worker is more productive and better adjusted. Hence, you should ensure that your worker has sufficient rest, especially during the night and sufficient off days, which is mutually agreed upon between you and your maid.”
So I have sent Lia upstairs obtain sufficient rest … and to put on the French outfit that comes with the fluffy pink Love Cuffs.
To be fair, that is actually a picture from Austria. It was a gimmick for the opening of one of their major cultural events. I can only guess that it was the Austrian NASCAR touring series, or something similar.So we live in the East, in one of the "lower rise" areas. Or as it is affectionately known: District 15.
Ours is a fairly traditional suburb. There are many Muslim eateries (and despite the prejudices belted into me from growing up in fairly right-wing western cities, the food is quite good). And this appears to be the second-hand motorbike & auto-parts shop centre of Singapore. Bikes and Scooters are a serious business for students and Singaporeans that cannot afford the fluctuating and wildly prohibitive costs of owning a car on the island.
There are a stack of auto shops that stopped worrying about the appearance of their business or buying new parts around 1981. I am trying to figure out how they are fitting the 1981 Pontiac Trans Am parts into the 2008 RX8’s and Nissan GTR’s out the front.
However, the culture for me is best summed up by the shop next to the 1981 auto parts shop. Which is a maid shop. And to my previous next door neighbor, this is not a shop where one buys a French Maid outfit, or whips with pink feather tips. Not that I would know about furred and feathered accessories.
No this is a shop with a dozen or more young ladies standing out the front. These khimar-clad ladies (well, they could be wearing a hijab, or even a burqa for all I know … all I know for certain is they ain’t French) have been plucked from remote rural places in surrounding countries. And our maid shop proudly has over 6,000 of these lasses placed with gringos like me all over Singapore.
Of course, I can’t get one.
And no, JP Giant, it is not because Lia won’t let me. It is because in the instructions on owning, er – employing, one of these ladies (who has never seen a microwave oven or dishwasher), it says that “exercising patience, tolerance and understanding” is a requirement.
That rules me out.
Well, that and Lia won’t let me employ one.
But as the local maid agency advises “A well-rested worker is more productive and better adjusted. Hence, you should ensure that your worker has sufficient rest, especially during the night and sufficient off days, which is mutually agreed upon between you and your maid.”
So I have sent Lia upstairs obtain sufficient rest … and to put on the French outfit that comes with the fluffy pink Love Cuffs.
Monday, August 17, 2009
On Tiny Urns of Burnt Bails...
So we still await the boat load of kit from Oz, awaiting the day we can stop living out of suitcases … albeit some 6 weeks into this journey. Luckily, there are just enough bare essentials in our hut on the island to get me by:
1. There's a fridge stocked with grog.
2. Don’t tell my landlord, but when the importers have run out of Coopers, I can open the lids of the crazy Mexican brews on the edge of the counter (and big thanks for that technique go out to Watto - I'll try your eye-socket-bottle-cap-removal method when I grow up to be a man).
3. We have a stubby holder (thanks, Queenlsander - never has the HTFU message been more required on a daily basis).
4. And what I though was an enormous window in the living room turns out to be a thumping, great big TV.
The result being that I can watch what is arguably one of the most un-watchable sports put to air. And I don’t mean NASCAR. I’m talking Cricket. Or for my North American readers: Baseball on Valium. (Sorry about the NASCAR joke, Jethro.)
Yessiree, the Ashes are on, baby.
It’s Cricket season.
In England.
Where apparently they don’t have summers.
I’m finally a couple hours closer to the northern hemisphere, so I don’t have to stay up until 3am to see the final session of play. I can now sit up until a much more civil 12am ... watching the rain delays.
But one of the most extraordinary things about watching Cricket on cable here in Singapore is not the commentary. Nope, all good on the commentary front - got Nasser, Beefy, Gower, Michael Holding and the ever amusing Casual Kenny (Warnie). No it's the commercials that have got me stunned. Apparently our feed comes from Bombay. Every advert has Indian voice overs, for Indian products: papadums, mobile phones, lemon drinks, 2-minute chilli rice dishes for all 25 of the family at dinner time … and my personal favorite: deodorant.
In this 60 second golden nugget of televised cinema, a feller sprays on a little Axe Antiperspirant under the pits ... and turns into chocolate. The remainder of the ad is Chocolate Man striding around offering bits of himself to the Ladies (with Kamal singing some serious sexual chocolate tune in the background).
And the finale, is also gold. As Chocco Boy strides across the AXE Deodorant Spray logo, some Indian bozo turned up the mic when he reocorded the fade out. So the first couple of times the ad came on I almost spilled beer all over me and fell off the balcony as some subcontinent lunatic booms out “AXE DEODORANT SPRAY VOTED #1 ANTI PERPSPIRANT IN INDIA BY …” and to be honest, thanks to the power of the Mute button, I’ve never heard which part of the rice gobbling demographic gave the thumbs up to the chocolate deodorant spray.
Go the Aussies.
1. There's a fridge stocked with grog.
2. Don’t tell my landlord, but when the importers have run out of Coopers, I can open the lids of the crazy Mexican brews on the edge of the counter (and big thanks for that technique go out to Watto - I'll try your eye-socket-bottle-cap-removal method when I grow up to be a man).
3. We have a stubby holder (thanks, Queenlsander - never has the HTFU message been more required on a daily basis).
4. And what I though was an enormous window in the living room turns out to be a thumping, great big TV.
The result being that I can watch what is arguably one of the most un-watchable sports put to air. And I don’t mean NASCAR. I’m talking Cricket. Or for my North American readers: Baseball on Valium. (Sorry about the NASCAR joke, Jethro.)
Yessiree, the Ashes are on, baby.
It’s Cricket season.
In England.
Where apparently they don’t have summers.
I’m finally a couple hours closer to the northern hemisphere, so I don’t have to stay up until 3am to see the final session of play. I can now sit up until a much more civil 12am ... watching the rain delays.
But one of the most extraordinary things about watching Cricket on cable here in Singapore is not the commentary. Nope, all good on the commentary front - got Nasser, Beefy, Gower, Michael Holding and the ever amusing Casual Kenny (Warnie). No it's the commercials that have got me stunned. Apparently our feed comes from Bombay. Every advert has Indian voice overs, for Indian products: papadums, mobile phones, lemon drinks, 2-minute chilli rice dishes for all 25 of the family at dinner time … and my personal favorite: deodorant.
In this 60 second golden nugget of televised cinema, a feller sprays on a little Axe Antiperspirant under the pits ... and turns into chocolate. The remainder of the ad is Chocolate Man striding around offering bits of himself to the Ladies (with Kamal singing some serious sexual chocolate tune in the background).
And the finale, is also gold. As Chocco Boy strides across the AXE Deodorant Spray logo, some Indian bozo turned up the mic when he reocorded the fade out. So the first couple of times the ad came on I almost spilled beer all over me and fell off the balcony as some subcontinent lunatic booms out “AXE DEODORANT SPRAY VOTED #1 ANTI PERPSPIRANT IN INDIA BY …” and to be honest, thanks to the power of the Mute button, I’ve never heard which part of the rice gobbling demographic gave the thumbs up to the chocolate deodorant spray.
Go the Aussies.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
On Patriotism
So it was National Day here in Singapore this weekend. Now, to describe this to my loyal readers (and a Cheerio to both of you – Howdy Jethro & Cletus!), and to try and apply the correct corresponding holiday, well National Day in Singapore is like: Australia Day, 4th of July, or Gay Forkes Day (sorry Smurf, I tried … the only bit of Pommie history I was learned was something about whipping the Red Coats in the 1776 Super Bowl).
The build up has been weeks in the making, with flags hanging from almost every window, high rise, gate and public door way. And on the day (9-Aug-09), the parade and celebration were … well, let’s just say that it is what you would get if Kim Jong Il and the winner of the 1998 Eurovision Song Contest were to put on the half time show at a Sydney Swans match.
There was so much Gold that I don't know where to start mining. It was an extraordinary sea of national colours (red and white), with amazing stage shows (perform by unsuccessful contestants from “So You Think You Can Dance”), wonderful singing (from those that didn’t feel confident making the trek over to the Singapore Idol try outs), powerful military showcases (military marches, military bands, bagpipes [?], tactical response teams, F16 jets, Apache Choppers and what looked like a Leopard Tank and a few of its siblings), green UFO lanterns (helium “baby birds”), a national Pledge at 22 minutes past 8, and culminating in a brief and yet massive fireworks display. Then you overlay those performances with an odd historical 6-part play … which I think was the end of term performance from one of the public school’s Year 2 classes.
The highlight for me was the simulated terrorist attack, which caught wifey a little unawares. When the pretty newscaster interrupted proceedings to announce bombs had gone off in Singapore, the testy voice from the blonde goddess called me into the living room. Of course, it was just a chance for Singapore to demonstrate its military might to the few thousand lucky punters that had waited 3 years to buy their National Day tickets to sit in the stadium down at the marina. Upon realisation, wifey murmured something about “small man syndrome” and stormed off for another Sav Blanc (which probably cost me as much as one of those 1978 F16’s cost the Singapore government). Mind you the give away for me was that each time said pretty newscaster came on to announce a new phase of the terror attack, the Singapore dollar on the right of the ticker kept going up … when it hit $4.50, I figured something definitely weren’t right.
Setting aside my facetiousness for a brief moment, I have to say well done to Singapore. As a 44 year old country (which I think makes it a tweeny on the global scale), you have mustered a heck of a lot of pride for such a diverse joint. I reckon you are almost ready to go on a date with Australia, which is still pretending that it is a teenager.
For more details, head here: http://www.ndp.org.sg/
The build up has been weeks in the making, with flags hanging from almost every window, high rise, gate and public door way. And on the day (9-Aug-09), the parade and celebration were … well, let’s just say that it is what you would get if Kim Jong Il and the winner of the 1998 Eurovision Song Contest were to put on the half time show at a Sydney Swans match.
There was so much Gold that I don't know where to start mining. It was an extraordinary sea of national colours (red and white), with amazing stage shows (perform by unsuccessful contestants from “So You Think You Can Dance”), wonderful singing (from those that didn’t feel confident making the trek over to the Singapore Idol try outs), powerful military showcases (military marches, military bands, bagpipes [?], tactical response teams, F16 jets, Apache Choppers and what looked like a Leopard Tank and a few of its siblings), green UFO lanterns (helium “baby birds”), a national Pledge at 22 minutes past 8, and culminating in a brief and yet massive fireworks display. Then you overlay those performances with an odd historical 6-part play … which I think was the end of term performance from one of the public school’s Year 2 classes.
The highlight for me was the simulated terrorist attack, which caught wifey a little unawares. When the pretty newscaster interrupted proceedings to announce bombs had gone off in Singapore, the testy voice from the blonde goddess called me into the living room. Of course, it was just a chance for Singapore to demonstrate its military might to the few thousand lucky punters that had waited 3 years to buy their National Day tickets to sit in the stadium down at the marina. Upon realisation, wifey murmured something about “small man syndrome” and stormed off for another Sav Blanc (which probably cost me as much as one of those 1978 F16’s cost the Singapore government). Mind you the give away for me was that each time said pretty newscaster came on to announce a new phase of the terror attack, the Singapore dollar on the right of the ticker kept going up … when it hit $4.50, I figured something definitely weren’t right.
Setting aside my facetiousness for a brief moment, I have to say well done to Singapore. As a 44 year old country (which I think makes it a tweeny on the global scale), you have mustered a heck of a lot of pride for such a diverse joint. I reckon you are almost ready to go on a date with Australia, which is still pretending that it is a teenager.
For more details, head here: http://www.ndp.org.sg/
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
On Speed
Sorry Stewie, this one isn't about finding a local den of iniquity and indulging in illicit substance abuse.
But to my former football coach (Hey Paul!), I would like to tell you how disappointed I am that you did not move me to the Singapura League earlier in my brief and spectacularly unsuccessful gridiron career.
So when out and about, the locals move about at a distinctly deliberate pace. In fact I’m not sure that “pace” is even the correct word. I think something like “amble” or “drift”. And when I say drift, I mean drift at roughly the same rate that a small acorn takes to progress into a towering sixteen foot shady oak.
In fact, I am a little surprised that the island is not overrun with tortoises. This place would do wonders for the ego of a tortoise as they eclipse tall homo sapiens across a 40 yard stretch.
The real issue of people meandering about (what appears to be aimlessly) is that they are so densely populated into sidewalks, trains, malls, shops, walkways through the parks, corridors, lifts, aisles between the cute little cube farms at work, the kitchen (er, “pantry” … I keep looking for a bone or the bones of Mother Hubbard in our tea room), or the “wash room” (or to try and explain for the various demographic of readers: the Small Room, the Library, the John, the Pisser, the Restroom, the Lavatory, the Toilet, or as I like to think of it – the Powder Room) … anyway so densely packed that you cannot get past if trying to move at a clip.
It is hard not to think of the wandering local as lazy when they walk so slowly you wonder if they will start going backwards. (And maybe some of the less svelte ones are in fact moving at their top rated speed … after all a four-chambered heart in an enormous vessel in 33 degree heat at 85% humidity is only rated to half-tortoise pace.)
If only I could find the local Singapura Gridiron team. I would finaly get that shot at running back.
To be fair, I have come to the conclusion that the locals have it right. If you are caucasion and move at anything that rhymes with “brisk” then you will melt into a small puddle (which will be promptly mopped up by an Indonesian feller who appears out of thin air whenever anything that resembles rubbish or waste hits the ground).
So of course, I am trying to defy nature, my surrounds, and not to ease into the gentle way of life by briskly pacing about, bumping into relaxed locals and crushing tortoises. The secret? You have to plan a duck into an air-conditioned venue every 20 yards or so. Otherwise you join the Wicked Witch of the West.
And just a quick shout out to Sis for helping me correct that address that I had listed as “Telok Karua” when it is in fact “Telok Kurau”. And you are correct “Kurua” as in “Prease may I have ice with that Kurau and Coke”. Love your work, Sis.
But to my former football coach (Hey Paul!), I would like to tell you how disappointed I am that you did not move me to the Singapura League earlier in my brief and spectacularly unsuccessful gridiron career.
So when out and about, the locals move about at a distinctly deliberate pace. In fact I’m not sure that “pace” is even the correct word. I think something like “amble” or “drift”. And when I say drift, I mean drift at roughly the same rate that a small acorn takes to progress into a towering sixteen foot shady oak.
In fact, I am a little surprised that the island is not overrun with tortoises. This place would do wonders for the ego of a tortoise as they eclipse tall homo sapiens across a 40 yard stretch.
The real issue of people meandering about (what appears to be aimlessly) is that they are so densely populated into sidewalks, trains, malls, shops, walkways through the parks, corridors, lifts, aisles between the cute little cube farms at work, the kitchen (er, “pantry” … I keep looking for a bone or the bones of Mother Hubbard in our tea room), or the “wash room” (or to try and explain for the various demographic of readers: the Small Room, the Library, the John, the Pisser, the Restroom, the Lavatory, the Toilet, or as I like to think of it – the Powder Room) … anyway so densely packed that you cannot get past if trying to move at a clip.
It is hard not to think of the wandering local as lazy when they walk so slowly you wonder if they will start going backwards. (And maybe some of the less svelte ones are in fact moving at their top rated speed … after all a four-chambered heart in an enormous vessel in 33 degree heat at 85% humidity is only rated to half-tortoise pace.)
If only I could find the local Singapura Gridiron team. I would finaly get that shot at running back.
To be fair, I have come to the conclusion that the locals have it right. If you are caucasion and move at anything that rhymes with “brisk” then you will melt into a small puddle (which will be promptly mopped up by an Indonesian feller who appears out of thin air whenever anything that resembles rubbish or waste hits the ground).
So of course, I am trying to defy nature, my surrounds, and not to ease into the gentle way of life by briskly pacing about, bumping into relaxed locals and crushing tortoises. The secret? You have to plan a duck into an air-conditioned venue every 20 yards or so. Otherwise you join the Wicked Witch of the West.
And just a quick shout out to Sis for helping me correct that address that I had listed as “Telok Karua” when it is in fact “Telok Kurau”. And you are correct “Kurua” as in “Prease may I have ice with that Kurau and Coke”. Love your work, Sis.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
On the Local
One of the pre-requisites for a Crusty dwelling is a pub within 250 meters. The last dwelling was neatly positioned 150 meters from the Narrabeen RSL, which is the "Friendliest Little Pub on the Peninsula" (this actually translates into the most parochial, provincial, and if you ain't one of the locals then don't expect all that much friendliness, little redneck club on the peninsula). Mind you, once we got the Coopers Ale stocked behind the bar, it could have been a gay bikie bar for all I care. Oh and speaking of gay bikies - a big shout out to Blakey. And completely unrelated to bikies, hello to Carly, Scottie, Ad's, Stretch, Pete, Azza ... and all the others that put up with my shenanigans during the Narrabeen era.
To be fair, I am aware that it is very unlikely that I will ever again strike such gold of having sport on cable, Coopers and punting within 2 blocks of my home.
So imagine my surprise when I discover that my apartment is in fact two blocks from an establishment of drinking!
My new local is the Claypot Frog.
I kid you not.
When I tried to ask what is the significance of the name, I am told "seafood cabana bar". Interesting. Not sure I would have classified a frog as seafood, but there you go.
The Clay Frog serves Guinness and has a spectacular water view.
Of a twenty foot wide sewage drain.
Which is mainly empty.
So really the Cement Frog has a view of a dirty puddle, or as it would be described from where I hail: a crick.
But they serve Guinness. And have a TV. And $3 meals. So I'm giving the Ceramic Frog high marks: 7 out of 10. Gold.
To be fair, I am aware that it is very unlikely that I will ever again strike such gold of having sport on cable, Coopers and punting within 2 blocks of my home.
So imagine my surprise when I discover that my apartment is in fact two blocks from an establishment of drinking!
My new local is the Claypot Frog.
I kid you not.
When I tried to ask what is the significance of the name, I am told "seafood cabana bar". Interesting. Not sure I would have classified a frog as seafood, but there you go.
The Clay Frog serves Guinness and has a spectacular water view.
Of a twenty foot wide sewage drain.
Which is mainly empty.
So really the Cement Frog has a view of a dirty puddle, or as it would be described from where I hail: a crick.
But they serve Guinness. And have a TV. And $3 meals. So I'm giving the Ceramic Frog high marks: 7 out of 10. Gold.
On Hair
Well it looks like I’ve become a native, got a local mobile phone (which has more features than all of the electronics in my house back Sydney), and an address (which I cannot pronounce … which would make for a tremendous reality TV segment, as I try to explain a destination that I can’t pronounce to the taxi driver (Mista Chop Suey), who only knows three English words himself. Gold.
And for those that are putting up with this spam, the good news is that Ep. 3 of the upcoming working title “When Hillbillies Migrate North” is a brief one.
Once again, to the perverts on this mail thread – bad luck. This is about hair above the neckline. And while I'm mentioning perverts a "Cheerio" to you Shippy.
So those that know me well, understand that one of my holy grails (I have a few) is the $10 hair cut. The aim is to take back the glory days of the mid 90’s, when one could get a short back + sides at the traditional barbershop in Clarence Street, Sydney at the most excellent investment of $8. Then GST came in and stuffed up the sub-$10 haircut market.
To be fair I achieved something of a Nirvana in my last vocational life, in that I could get a $12.50 haircut from Morris (well, he is actually I-talian, and his name is Maurice) who runs a tobacco shop in Eastlakes. Then you could score a $7 kebab (with garlic sauce) from the Turkish yiros shop next door. You could be back at work (albeit a little stinky on the breath front … and shedding) within the hour. Glory Days.
So the quest began in Sing Sing for the sub $10 haircut. From early scouting it became apparent that a sub-$10 hairy was not going to be a challenge. In fact, if you pay the full $10 and don’t get a wash and massage, then you’ve been robbed.
No, the real challenge was going to be to get that sub $10-hairy, and not come out looking like Cyndi Lauper (circa 1985), or Sinead O’Connor (circa anytime throughout her career). During scouting on one evening I watched a Chinese feller get a #2 on the sides. He kept insisting it wasn’t evenly matched, to which the hairdresser’s solution was to keep trimming away at both sides … freehand. And to her credit, when she and Ching Chong Willywong finally agreed to disagree – he had an even cut on both sides (only because he had a head with flat sides, there was no hair remaining on the left or right).
So I’ve picked my venue after some careful scouting. Well maybe also due to the cute smile from the lass near the window. I go in and quickly realize English ain’t a form of communication in this establishment. Neither is West Virginian. And given that the only Mandarin I’ve managed to master in almost 40 years on this rock we call earth is “Knee Haw” … I’m in trouble. So cutie who is cutting away at the window chair is smiling away at me, and I’m feelin’ pretty special. Then I realize why she is smiling.
For those that have seen Jack Black’s character in Kung Fu Panda, you will appreciate the shape and size of the lass (I think) that squeezed her way out from the back of the establishment. Well Miss Po has about as much English as I have Mandarin. She doesn’t see this as a problem, and through a continuous stream of Singlish or Minglish, she is keen to impress me with her remarkable lack of command of actual English. On my part this involved a judicious combination of smiles and concerned looks as I tried to judge from her facial tic’s whether she was relating something funny or sounding off a the local government for imposing far to heavy taxes upon enormous hairdressers. Luckily we choose the universal medium of clipper blades (#1, #2 or #3). Although I had to provide 400 “no’s” before she accepted that I did not also want a wash, conditioning, product or a massage (Yikes!) … I can report that the sub-$10 hairy can be found in Singapore. If you are up this way, let me know and I will guide you to the $8 cut at Miss Po’s hair dressing salon in Tanjong Pagar.
And for those that are putting up with this spam, the good news is that Ep. 3 of the upcoming working title “When Hillbillies Migrate North” is a brief one.
Once again, to the perverts on this mail thread – bad luck. This is about hair above the neckline. And while I'm mentioning perverts a "Cheerio" to you Shippy.
So those that know me well, understand that one of my holy grails (I have a few) is the $10 hair cut. The aim is to take back the glory days of the mid 90’s, when one could get a short back + sides at the traditional barbershop in Clarence Street, Sydney at the most excellent investment of $8. Then GST came in and stuffed up the sub-$10 haircut market.
To be fair I achieved something of a Nirvana in my last vocational life, in that I could get a $12.50 haircut from Morris (well, he is actually I-talian, and his name is Maurice) who runs a tobacco shop in Eastlakes. Then you could score a $7 kebab (with garlic sauce) from the Turkish yiros shop next door. You could be back at work (albeit a little stinky on the breath front … and shedding) within the hour. Glory Days.
So the quest began in Sing Sing for the sub $10 haircut. From early scouting it became apparent that a sub-$10 hairy was not going to be a challenge. In fact, if you pay the full $10 and don’t get a wash and massage, then you’ve been robbed.
No, the real challenge was going to be to get that sub $10-hairy, and not come out looking like Cyndi Lauper (circa 1985), or Sinead O’Connor (circa anytime throughout her career). During scouting on one evening I watched a Chinese feller get a #2 on the sides. He kept insisting it wasn’t evenly matched, to which the hairdresser’s solution was to keep trimming away at both sides … freehand. And to her credit, when she and Ching Chong Willywong finally agreed to disagree – he had an even cut on both sides (only because he had a head with flat sides, there was no hair remaining on the left or right).
So I’ve picked my venue after some careful scouting. Well maybe also due to the cute smile from the lass near the window. I go in and quickly realize English ain’t a form of communication in this establishment. Neither is West Virginian. And given that the only Mandarin I’ve managed to master in almost 40 years on this rock we call earth is “Knee Haw” … I’m in trouble. So cutie who is cutting away at the window chair is smiling away at me, and I’m feelin’ pretty special. Then I realize why she is smiling.
For those that have seen Jack Black’s character in Kung Fu Panda, you will appreciate the shape and size of the lass (I think) that squeezed her way out from the back of the establishment. Well Miss Po has about as much English as I have Mandarin. She doesn’t see this as a problem, and through a continuous stream of Singlish or Minglish, she is keen to impress me with her remarkable lack of command of actual English. On my part this involved a judicious combination of smiles and concerned looks as I tried to judge from her facial tic’s whether she was relating something funny or sounding off a the local government for imposing far to heavy taxes upon enormous hairdressers. Luckily we choose the universal medium of clipper blades (#1, #2 or #3). Although I had to provide 400 “no’s” before she accepted that I did not also want a wash, conditioning, product or a massage (Yikes!) … I can report that the sub-$10 hairy can be found in Singapore. If you are up this way, let me know and I will guide you to the $8 cut at Miss Po’s hair dressing salon in Tanjong Pagar.
More on Driving and, well, other Stuff
This island is constantly under construction. And I mean constantly. As I put quill to electronic letter, it is minutes to midnight, pitch black – and yet the building workers completing site next door (another the massive skyscraper of condo’s) are still going strong. There are 9 similarly massive constructions visible from the apartment we’re temporarily stating at. When I was scouting for a dwelling, each day I would visit 5 or 6 potential places. 5 out of 6 were next to construction sites.
I think I’ve figured it out. Anything that is older than 1990 gets decked and rebuilt. Apparently the Government takes over the building, turfs out the tenants and sends off to some newer HDB (high density buildings) and then builds a new enormous high rise block of condos, or a park (which will be condos in 2 years).
The 1990 rule applies to anything: roads, water pipes, even churches (I have seen two temple like dwellings for an invisible friend of some local congregation with this sign out the front: Not for Sale). Given that I fit into the 1990 rule, I do not stand still for very long.
Now the labour used to build these state of the art monstrosities is from India, Indonesia and any other country starting with “Ind”. So as you are being chauffeured down the freeway in your air-conditioned taxi (roughly the temperature of the interior of a Westinghouse refrigerator), these construction site fellers wobble past, with about 7 or 8 of then sitting on the back tray of the truck. Which would be dangerous enough in itself. However, I think part of their brief is to hold on to the pipes, lengthy 2x4’s of wood, bags of concrete, and anything else that might fall off the truck (think Millennium Falcon).
So I’m fascinated at why these human ocky straps are allowed to travel this way in such a fine based, and regulated society. One cabby (who was speaking Cantonese) told me (and I was speaking an hearing West Virginian, so I may have interpreted it wrong) that the local law turns a blind eye if it is necessary to make progress. Most interesting.
I think I’ve figured it out. Anything that is older than 1990 gets decked and rebuilt. Apparently the Government takes over the building, turfs out the tenants and sends off to some newer HDB (high density buildings) and then builds a new enormous high rise block of condos, or a park (which will be condos in 2 years).
The 1990 rule applies to anything: roads, water pipes, even churches (I have seen two temple like dwellings for an invisible friend of some local congregation with this sign out the front: Not for Sale). Given that I fit into the 1990 rule, I do not stand still for very long.
Now the labour used to build these state of the art monstrosities is from India, Indonesia and any other country starting with “Ind”. So as you are being chauffeured down the freeway in your air-conditioned taxi (roughly the temperature of the interior of a Westinghouse refrigerator), these construction site fellers wobble past, with about 7 or 8 of then sitting on the back tray of the truck. Which would be dangerous enough in itself. However, I think part of their brief is to hold on to the pipes, lengthy 2x4’s of wood, bags of concrete, and anything else that might fall off the truck (think Millennium Falcon).
So I’m fascinated at why these human ocky straps are allowed to travel this way in such a fine based, and regulated society. One cabby (who was speaking Cantonese) told me (and I was speaking an hearing West Virginian, so I may have interpreted it wrong) that the local law turns a blind eye if it is necessary to make progress. Most interesting.
The week that Coopers was.
The wife and offspring have successfully left the trailer park and joined me here, so the journals may become less frequent for the upcoming book with the working title “When Hillbillies Migrate North, and Dang – ain’t it Hot up ‘round these Parts”.
On Turning a Blind Eye
So on day 12 of staying at the hotel, I toddle off to work in the morning. It is a cool and pleasant 28 degrees, so it takes me 10 meters to break into a full sweat (rather than the usual 5 meters). And as I’m crossing the middle of the road, I realize I’m approaching 3 fellers leaning against a black (or very dark navy) 1979 Land Rover, which has Police written on it’s white roof. This sort of vehcile in this color scheme I have only seen on the news (usually involving words like massacre, revolt, uprising or ethnic cleansing). The combination of the Land Rover, colour scheme and the semi-automatic weapons slung over the shoulders … and the fact that feller #1 was not looking very impressed with me. I decide to keep walking. Which he responds by pointing back at where I’d crossed the road. (By the way, the same place I’ve crossed the road, every day I’ve been here so far.) So who puts up jay walking signs, anyway? In fact I didn’t even know that it was a jay walking sign … not that I’d really ever paid much attention to it. It looks more like a sign that is trying to tell police officers not to draw chalk outlines of dead people in the road. Apparently it means “no jay walking”. The dumb & apologetic smile that can only be produced from a West Virginian upbringing got me off this time. Sorry to those that had the early money on my being in detention or caned by now.
Ironically that same lunchtime, a colleague told me of a couple of locals that wandered across the road against the lights and got pinged by the awaiting constabulary. Apparently said constabulary was rather fetching young uniformed officer-ette (if you’re into that sort of thing).
On Successes
And let setting yourself goals be a lesson to those young readers out there. So this week I have located an Irish pub (tell you about that later), talked my way into a Fitness First, and found Coopers. And I found a Hooters. That is just a bonus. (Of course if you’re still reading young readers, then you should try to set your goals a little higher than me).
On Liquid Gold
And a big shout out to Bimbo, who laid some serious ground work tracking down the importer and the outlets for Coopers fine ales. End result is that Coopers can be bought at two supermarkets (you can buy anything from a toothbrush to a bed at these supermarkets). At $4.70 a bottle ($27 a six pack) … as a great man said “cheap at twice the price”. Hope Lia isn’t reading this. May have to sell one of the kids to fund my drinking habit … the blonde haired kid should fetch a good price round these parts.
On Irish
So I found the Irish pub: Dubliners. Not bad. A few Irish drops (Kilkenny, Guinness, Magners). Although small, it had a reasonably “pub” like feel. After a couple of pints (and a pizza), I felt I had to knock a couple of stars off my rating. I have to say that this is the first Irish pub that I have been in that played Cindy Lauper and whoever those gits are that sing “I’ve Got the Hots for You. Uh Huh. I Got the Hots for You.” They didn’t have any Johnny Cash, but I got the Corrs on. Close enough. On Sundays, if I’m brave, I can go back for Sunday roast ($28 with peas and mash). Not sure I’ll survive the Duran Duran, or whatever they’ll be playing then.
On Melons
I mentioned finding the Hooters. The hot dog, relish and Sam Adams brew all get the thumbs up … I could well have been in Pittsburgh or Boston. The only thing that I would say is that one of the cruelest things you can do is put a bar called Hooters into an Asian country like Singapore. Let’s just say that Darwinism hasn’t yet evolved the female species of this region with large cans … or any cans. So to then ask the local serving staff to wear low cut white T’s and to cover their nonexistent tushes with hot (normally) pants … it’s just cruel and unusual.
Peace and Out.
On Turning a Blind Eye
So on day 12 of staying at the hotel, I toddle off to work in the morning. It is a cool and pleasant 28 degrees, so it takes me 10 meters to break into a full sweat (rather than the usual 5 meters). And as I’m crossing the middle of the road, I realize I’m approaching 3 fellers leaning against a black (or very dark navy) 1979 Land Rover, which has Police written on it’s white roof. This sort of vehcile in this color scheme I have only seen on the news (usually involving words like massacre, revolt, uprising or ethnic cleansing). The combination of the Land Rover, colour scheme and the semi-automatic weapons slung over the shoulders … and the fact that feller #1 was not looking very impressed with me. I decide to keep walking. Which he responds by pointing back at where I’d crossed the road. (By the way, the same place I’ve crossed the road, every day I’ve been here so far.) So who puts up jay walking signs, anyway? In fact I didn’t even know that it was a jay walking sign … not that I’d really ever paid much attention to it. It looks more like a sign that is trying to tell police officers not to draw chalk outlines of dead people in the road. Apparently it means “no jay walking”. The dumb & apologetic smile that can only be produced from a West Virginian upbringing got me off this time. Sorry to those that had the early money on my being in detention or caned by now.
Ironically that same lunchtime, a colleague told me of a couple of locals that wandered across the road against the lights and got pinged by the awaiting constabulary. Apparently said constabulary was rather fetching young uniformed officer-ette (if you’re into that sort of thing).
On Successes
And let setting yourself goals be a lesson to those young readers out there. So this week I have located an Irish pub (tell you about that later), talked my way into a Fitness First, and found Coopers. And I found a Hooters. That is just a bonus. (Of course if you’re still reading young readers, then you should try to set your goals a little higher than me).
On Liquid Gold
And a big shout out to Bimbo, who laid some serious ground work tracking down the importer and the outlets for Coopers fine ales. End result is that Coopers can be bought at two supermarkets (you can buy anything from a toothbrush to a bed at these supermarkets). At $4.70 a bottle ($27 a six pack) … as a great man said “cheap at twice the price”. Hope Lia isn’t reading this. May have to sell one of the kids to fund my drinking habit … the blonde haired kid should fetch a good price round these parts.
On Irish
So I found the Irish pub: Dubliners. Not bad. A few Irish drops (Kilkenny, Guinness, Magners). Although small, it had a reasonably “pub” like feel. After a couple of pints (and a pizza), I felt I had to knock a couple of stars off my rating. I have to say that this is the first Irish pub that I have been in that played Cindy Lauper and whoever those gits are that sing “I’ve Got the Hots for You. Uh Huh. I Got the Hots for You.” They didn’t have any Johnny Cash, but I got the Corrs on. Close enough. On Sundays, if I’m brave, I can go back for Sunday roast ($28 with peas and mash). Not sure I’ll survive the Duran Duran, or whatever they’ll be playing then.
On Melons
I mentioned finding the Hooters. The hot dog, relish and Sam Adams brew all get the thumbs up … I could well have been in Pittsburgh or Boston. The only thing that I would say is that one of the cruelest things you can do is put a bar called Hooters into an Asian country like Singapore. Let’s just say that Darwinism hasn’t yet evolved the female species of this region with large cans … or any cans. So to then ask the local serving staff to wear low cut white T’s and to cover their nonexistent tushes with hot (normally) pants … it’s just cruel and unusual.
Peace and Out.
On Money
I am still betwixt worlds as to whether to open an account with the local "POSB" or "DBS" banks, or do what most expats do and get a Citibank or other such global giant account. A tin under the mattress is looking tempting at the minute.
The size of the coins in Singapore seems to be in proportion with the stature of the locals. My three year old (Cody) would struggle to dole out the tiny coins in his fingers. You know that irritating 5c coin that Australia is a about to phase out? The largest coin here ($1) is about the same size ... everything else is smaller!
So I have this strange little pile of coins building on my desk that I cannot figure out what I'm going to do with.
And More On Heat.
A dear colleague and his lovely wife (hello Willem & Simone!) were kind enough to give me a Lonely Planet Guide. In it refers to how Singaporeans do not seem to have the recylcling or green thing going on yet. To be fair, everything has to be airconditioned to get any business done. So the Lonely Guide refers to the cool sea breeze that you can get instead of turning on the air conditioner. This is a load of crap. There ain't no cool breezes here in Sing Sing. Those in Adelaide will know what I refer to when I describe that hot north wind you guys sometimes get - that's our sea breeze.
So I am going to have to break Crusty's Law #7. (Never own a hanky.) I am trying to justify this to myself, as I always said there were only 2 types of people that own hankies (old folks, and pompous gits that wear matching ones in their top left jacket pockets). Well the sweating thing that happens when you ove anything more than 5 metres here in Singapore has forced me to choose between carrying a sweat towel or a hankie. I am going to buy a hanky, and draw a Nike Swoosh on it, so I feel like it is somewhat a sporting tool.
On Spring Rain
The heat here is amazing. But the rain is even more impressive. Apparently nothing happens by halves around these parts. The other day I just made it into the office before it began to rain. It was amazing, and gorgeous sunny morning turned into full rainfull in seconds. Now, I ain't talking about the light, or constant, drizzle you might expect in a tropical locale. No, this was a sudden eruption of the skies. The sort of thundeous downpour that makes you reach for the ruler with the Cubits on it, and start to think about which animals to take onto your ark. By the way, I ain't taking 2 cats. Sorry to the pussy lovers.
The result of the rainfalls can be amusing. The office hours here are 8:45 to 5:45, but most people in Singapore seem to be 9:30 - 6:30 workers. The rain seems to happen at 9am or 3:30pm. So it is very amusing as the bedraggled workers, that got caught out in the rain, arrive at work. They spend the first 20 minutes of the work day in the John, drying their socks under the hair dryer. Gold.
On Culture
So I have been to 3 or 4 "Cultural Sensitivity" training courses. Apparently my boss and my dear colleagues in HR don't believe that the transfer of knowledge is sticking to me. I have told my boss to save the money, because he may as well throw the money at a wall rather than send me again. I digress. I learned (!) in one of these courses that staring into the eyes for several Asian culures is a no-no. So I am dutifully avoiding long eye contact. Yet most of the locals are staring at me. In fact if their eyes were lasers, I'd be full of holes.
After a few days of the locals staring, even a feller with a healthy ego and a bit full of himself like me, starts to questions what is up. I had to make sure my fly was up, and that I didn't have a thumping great zit on my nose. You start to feel like an alien that just landed from Mars. Maybe I shouldn't wear that leather hat...
I have donned the 1979 silver, reflecting aviators to tack back the advantage. ($10 at the Narrabeen markets, if anyone is interested - the 3rd Sunday of each month.)
I am still betwixt worlds as to whether to open an account with the local "POSB" or "DBS" banks, or do what most expats do and get a Citibank or other such global giant account. A tin under the mattress is looking tempting at the minute.
The size of the coins in Singapore seems to be in proportion with the stature of the locals. My three year old (Cody) would struggle to dole out the tiny coins in his fingers. You know that irritating 5c coin that Australia is a about to phase out? The largest coin here ($1) is about the same size ... everything else is smaller!
So I have this strange little pile of coins building on my desk that I cannot figure out what I'm going to do with.
And More On Heat.
A dear colleague and his lovely wife (hello Willem & Simone!) were kind enough to give me a Lonely Planet Guide. In it refers to how Singaporeans do not seem to have the recylcling or green thing going on yet. To be fair, everything has to be airconditioned to get any business done. So the Lonely Guide refers to the cool sea breeze that you can get instead of turning on the air conditioner. This is a load of crap. There ain't no cool breezes here in Sing Sing. Those in Adelaide will know what I refer to when I describe that hot north wind you guys sometimes get - that's our sea breeze.
So I am going to have to break Crusty's Law #7. (Never own a hanky.) I am trying to justify this to myself, as I always said there were only 2 types of people that own hankies (old folks, and pompous gits that wear matching ones in their top left jacket pockets). Well the sweating thing that happens when you ove anything more than 5 metres here in Singapore has forced me to choose between carrying a sweat towel or a hankie. I am going to buy a hanky, and draw a Nike Swoosh on it, so I feel like it is somewhat a sporting tool.
On Spring Rain
The heat here is amazing. But the rain is even more impressive. Apparently nothing happens by halves around these parts. The other day I just made it into the office before it began to rain. It was amazing, and gorgeous sunny morning turned into full rainfull in seconds. Now, I ain't talking about the light, or constant, drizzle you might expect in a tropical locale. No, this was a sudden eruption of the skies. The sort of thundeous downpour that makes you reach for the ruler with the Cubits on it, and start to think about which animals to take onto your ark. By the way, I ain't taking 2 cats. Sorry to the pussy lovers.
The result of the rainfalls can be amusing. The office hours here are 8:45 to 5:45, but most people in Singapore seem to be 9:30 - 6:30 workers. The rain seems to happen at 9am or 3:30pm. So it is very amusing as the bedraggled workers, that got caught out in the rain, arrive at work. They spend the first 20 minutes of the work day in the John, drying their socks under the hair dryer. Gold.
On Culture
So I have been to 3 or 4 "Cultural Sensitivity" training courses. Apparently my boss and my dear colleagues in HR don't believe that the transfer of knowledge is sticking to me. I have told my boss to save the money, because he may as well throw the money at a wall rather than send me again. I digress. I learned (!) in one of these courses that staring into the eyes for several Asian culures is a no-no. So I am dutifully avoiding long eye contact. Yet most of the locals are staring at me. In fact if their eyes were lasers, I'd be full of holes.
After a few days of the locals staring, even a feller with a healthy ego and a bit full of himself like me, starts to questions what is up. I had to make sure my fly was up, and that I didn't have a thumping great zit on my nose. You start to feel like an alien that just landed from Mars. Maybe I shouldn't wear that leather hat...
I have donned the 1979 silver, reflecting aviators to tack back the advantage. ($10 at the Narrabeen markets, if anyone is interested - the 3rd Sunday of each month.)
On Humour
Apparently sarcasm is not a sense of humour. For example, when the shopkeeper asks if you would like one of her tasty pastries with that bottle of ginger ale, the incorrect answer is "Oh come on now, are you trying to fatten me up?". As this comment will be responded with a thousand "Sorry Mista's" ... although you get given the drink for free.
Monday, July 20, 2009
A small excerpt from the upcoming book with the working title "When Hillbillies Migrate North".
On Driving
Car manufacturers could save a lot of money by equipping vehicles shipped to Singapore without indicators. It would appear that turn signals (indicators) are optional items, and should only really be used when you need to cut across 4 lanes to make an exit ramp that will disappear in 25 meters. Ideally you should perform this procedure while talking on your mobile phone. You should also leave said indicator on for the next 10 kilometers, as apparently the other drivers take great delight in you driving around like this.
Lanes (and those silly little, white, dashed lines between them) are obviously just general guidelines. You are meant to use the voracious honking of the lorry you just cut off as a suggestion to drift back into your lane.
Oh and if you think watching teenagers text + talk & drive then try adding an Asian driver with spectacles as thick as coke bottle bottoms into that mix.
On Food
Apparently you can deep fry anything that comes from the ocean, and whack it on a stick. This is the equivalent of a hot dog.
There is a mix of western, pricey Asian food, and local food. Singapore food is a mix of Chinesre, Malay, Thai, and Japanese cuisine. The cheap local eats are served from bizarre hole-in-the-wall cookeries, which are tiny. The food is served on plastic picnic plates, which are chucked at you on plastic tables and chairs that are on the sidewalk.
You can get incredibly cheap eats. $2 - $3 for a meal. What I am ordering is a whole other story. Most of the negotiation involves a sweaty Ching Chong Willywong moving from his wok to ask for my "order". It sounds like this "wha ding dong wow goh?". So I point to a photo of a plate of something (this picture was taken around 1972, from the look of the colour left in it). What gets thrown onto the plastic table (I am sitting on a plastic deck chair in the middle of a sidewalk) bears no resemblance whatsoever to what was photographed in 1972.
On Space and Lines
Despite the fact that at 5 foot 11 inches you can see the entire length and breadth of any shop you go into, the locals have no issues with wedging a hundred of themselves into every aisle, corner or queue. It is like trying to walk through quick sand toward an oasis that you have spotted over ½ and hour ago.
The queue concept hasn't fully taken off here. Perhaps it is because the Lilliputians cannot see past more than two people due to there vertically challenged carriage, but they seem to look about aimlessly and then cut into the line. A good technique is to try an "Excuse me?" or "Are you right there?", ideally in a Johnny Cash bass or John Wayne deep drawl.
On Heat
For those that thought this section might be about hot flushes, you need to buy a DVD. This is actually about humidity, not heat. So I'm told it is "winter" here now. Temperatures range from 32 at peak in the afternoon to a really cool 25 at night. It is dang hot. But that is not the issue. The sticky, cloying humdity is extraordinary.
I can break into a sweat thinking about a multisyllable word. So a giant fat white feller trying to move about at pace in this heat + humidity ain't a pretty sight. And of course, my Protestant work ethic and upbringing requires that I must wear suit and tie at all times in the corporate day. It is a little bit amusing, because this place very serious about H1N1 (pig flu). The masks these people are wearing are just fantastic. There are even people wearing "fashion masks". These have patterns and designs on them (think Hello Kitty and Looney Tunes). So everyplace that I appear in results in the locals whipping on masks and scurrying out of the way. Clearly a bit, fat, sweaty Australian is walking Pandemic that has invaded their island.
Car manufacturers could save a lot of money by equipping vehicles shipped to Singapore without indicators. It would appear that turn signals (indicators) are optional items, and should only really be used when you need to cut across 4 lanes to make an exit ramp that will disappear in 25 meters. Ideally you should perform this procedure while talking on your mobile phone. You should also leave said indicator on for the next 10 kilometers, as apparently the other drivers take great delight in you driving around like this.
Lanes (and those silly little, white, dashed lines between them) are obviously just general guidelines. You are meant to use the voracious honking of the lorry you just cut off as a suggestion to drift back into your lane.
Oh and if you think watching teenagers text + talk & drive then try adding an Asian driver with spectacles as thick as coke bottle bottoms into that mix.
On Food
Apparently you can deep fry anything that comes from the ocean, and whack it on a stick. This is the equivalent of a hot dog.
There is a mix of western, pricey Asian food, and local food. Singapore food is a mix of Chinesre, Malay, Thai, and Japanese cuisine. The cheap local eats are served from bizarre hole-in-the-wall cookeries, which are tiny. The food is served on plastic picnic plates, which are chucked at you on plastic tables and chairs that are on the sidewalk.
You can get incredibly cheap eats. $2 - $3 for a meal. What I am ordering is a whole other story. Most of the negotiation involves a sweaty Ching Chong Willywong moving from his wok to ask for my "order". It sounds like this "wha ding dong wow goh?". So I point to a photo of a plate of something (this picture was taken around 1972, from the look of the colour left in it). What gets thrown onto the plastic table (I am sitting on a plastic deck chair in the middle of a sidewalk) bears no resemblance whatsoever to what was photographed in 1972.
On Space and Lines
Despite the fact that at 5 foot 11 inches you can see the entire length and breadth of any shop you go into, the locals have no issues with wedging a hundred of themselves into every aisle, corner or queue. It is like trying to walk through quick sand toward an oasis that you have spotted over ½ and hour ago.
The queue concept hasn't fully taken off here. Perhaps it is because the Lilliputians cannot see past more than two people due to there vertically challenged carriage, but they seem to look about aimlessly and then cut into the line. A good technique is to try an "Excuse me?" or "Are you right there?", ideally in a Johnny Cash bass or John Wayne deep drawl.
On Heat
For those that thought this section might be about hot flushes, you need to buy a DVD. This is actually about humidity, not heat. So I'm told it is "winter" here now. Temperatures range from 32 at peak in the afternoon to a really cool 25 at night. It is dang hot. But that is not the issue. The sticky, cloying humdity is extraordinary.
I can break into a sweat thinking about a multisyllable word. So a giant fat white feller trying to move about at pace in this heat + humidity ain't a pretty sight. And of course, my Protestant work ethic and upbringing requires that I must wear suit and tie at all times in the corporate day. It is a little bit amusing, because this place very serious about H1N1 (pig flu). The masks these people are wearing are just fantastic. There are even people wearing "fashion masks". These have patterns and designs on them (think Hello Kitty and Looney Tunes). So everyplace that I appear in results in the locals whipping on masks and scurrying out of the way. Clearly a bit, fat, sweaty Australian is walking Pandemic that has invaded their island.
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