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.

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.

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.

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/

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.