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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
