Perspiring dragon

Reading again

2010-01-07T07:14:00.000-08:00

I've started reading again. I ran out of books about six months ago and have never found the time to go to Kinokuniya to get more. I kept thinking I'd find that copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five that has disappeared in my lounge. I suspect I've accidentally lent it to someone or it is languishing underneath the couch.

After procrastinating for such a long time I gave Haruki Murakami a go. I'd been put off by his chic minimalist covers, thinking that significant work could not possibly require such stylish covers - I was surprised. His work is very good. Leon proposed I start with Dance, Dance, Dance because that's the most linear and 'normal' out of all his novels.

It is enthralling.

His world is a Tokyo that I sort of know - I know the places, have been there and done similar walks to the protagonist. He 'shovels cultural snow', his term for writing commercial drivel, and made me wonder if I shovelled chemical snow for what I do for a living.

Dance, dance, dance describes a dreamlike world connecting all the unconnected parts of our world. A type of subconscious switchboard allowing us to make meaning out of meaningless acts in the real world. Murakami writes famously on themes of loneliness, isolation and alienation and some of his matter-of-fact descriptions are so poignant I almost cried:

There's nothing left here. Not one thing left for you.

I clamped my lips tight and stared at the bottle of soy sauce on the counter.

You live by yourself for a stretch of time and you get to staring at different objects. Sometimes you talk to yourself. You take meals in crowded joints. You develop an intimate relationship with your used Subaru. You slowly but surely become a has-been.

I don't know if it's because I'm currently living alone and take meals in crowded joints; however I don't own a car nor stare fixedly at mundane objects - I felt immediate connection to his descriptions of alienation and loneliness. He's described something I've felt at times but never been able to put my finger on. He's described what I feel others I know are going through.

Towards the end of the book he starts cooking more. This also inspired me, in fact it inspired tonight's dinner: Bacon and cherry tomato spaghetti; Tofu, sweet corn and lettuce salad with Japanese dressing.

The interconnectedness through the subconscious ethereal world is so all-permeating I start questioning my own world. Murakami introduces the father of a character, Hiraku Makimura - an anagram on his own name. I begin to wonder if the dreamscape he describes has started seeping into my own reality - I'm currently listening to an American-Japanese singer Hikaru Utada (Haruki, Hiraku, Hikaru).

Closing the book I'm too sensitive to the sounds of the night at 1:30am. The slightest clink could be a door in the hotel corridoor opening. The shush of curtains the shuffling of the Sheep Man's feet.

I hesitate opening my door. I'm afraid it will open out into blackness.

Eating

2008-04-19T03:32:00.000-07:00

I met a woman who only ate because she got hungry. She said that if those bothersome unger pangs weren't there, she'd quite happily not eat a thing. Her usual lunch was a Kashi bar; a health food bar sold in the US.

I wish I could divorce myself from food like that. For then I would have that svelte physiqe and forever-out-of-reach six-pack that I've all but given up on. Unfortunately for me I eat:

When I feel happy; to celebrate

When I feel sad; to make me feel better

When I'm hungry; to feel satisfied

When I'm full; because I like the taste

When I'm lonely; to distract and comfort

When I'm with company; to share the occassion

In short, I eat whenever there's a reason to. I'm trying not to eat for no reason. I've flirted with restricted calorie, restricted carbohydrate and all sorts of modified diets. Usually I end up craving the very things I'm denying myself. On one of these I used to daydream of a big bowl of steaming white rice with two big tablespoons of gently melting butter on top. I imagined the cold hardness of the butter mingling with the warm melted unctuosness and coating the delicate soft white grains of rice. I'd get a hit of the saltiness, the perfume of the fragrant rice and feel the waft of moist steam against my face.

I used to find myself odd as I thought I was preoccupied with food. All the fitness magazines and diet advice never seemed to address the issue that some people actually like eating and it's an integral part of their life. I mean, it would dead easy to lose weight if all we needed to do was eat Kashi bars instead of real food. Incidentally, this woman was bone thin. The problem comes when we're somehow left feeling unfulfilled by our meal replacement snack bar. For us, our lives feel incomplete without eating a proper meal. It's trying to get that balance between eating with restraint for our physical health but still eating enough for our mental well-being.

Part of eating for mental-health also means eating things we feel and remember as 'food'. There used to be a common complaint amongst Westerners that Chinese food "never fills you up". In China, they're experiencing this with Western fast foods, which results in an increase in obesity rates. It's because both aren't eating food that they subconsciously think of as a 'real meal'. It's all just snacks in each other's slanted and round eyes, respectively.

Mireille Giuliano extends on the concept of eating 'real meals' in her series of books beginning with "Why French Women don't get Fat". She advocates sitting down and eating every meal with a knife and fork, preferably a napkin and a glass of wine for lunch and dinner.

I wonder if that advice is translatable to a Chinese housewife accustomed to eating with a bowl of rice and chopsticks? Could you imagine your chubby neighbourhood Auntie sitting down to eat with a knife, fork and napkin? I wonder if she'd still feel full without rice.

Premium Fat

2008-02-11T23:38:00.001-08:00

Ralf and I sat at a mediocre-to-bad Japanese restaurant discussing the taste of the ludicrously expensive toro (belly tuna) we'd ordered. Our first time with this delicacy, I enjoyed the melting fat and the savoury protein.

We're eating Japanese on account of my "massive weight gain" over the Christmas break. It's supposed to be lighter and healthier, although deep-fried soft-shell crab and tempura aren't exactly Friends of the Waistline. We're munching away and I recoil at the greasiness of the crab - it's a mediocre-to-bad Japanese restaurant, remember. I complain to Ralf about how I'm despondent at my fat and he comforts me.

"Your fat is not the bad one. It's the good one."

I reply, "Where got good fat-wan? Fat is all bad, wat."

"No, your fat is the high quality one, mah. Premium Fat, hor?"

"Premium fat?? What is this Premium fat?"

"Premium fat like the tuna belly, lor. $80 for five pieces, must be premium mah."

I'm entirely amused by the concept of Premium Fat, for I possess it and I'm eating it at the same time. My fat is treasure, it's premium; like special issue bonds. Now if only I could sell it.

The Call of the Pink

2008-02-11T23:37:00.001-08:00

There's a cake on our shared table at work: pink with soft, light whipped-cream icing and little rosettes at each wedge. It promises to taste of birthdays, celebrations and children's parties. I've already had a slice, but I want another one. I want to taste my childhood again, to reminisce through the Vaselined-lens of time.

The strawberries don't taste of much, but I'm not actually tasting these ones. I'm tasting the ones I remember. The ones on the Kellogg's cornflakes boxes; whoever thought of putting strawberries with cornflakes created an entire generation of people for whom the first taste of a strawberry was imagined, fantasised and built up for years before they actually had access to this (usually) air-freighted fruit from the West.

The cake is light but nothing special, really. I don't see balloons, streamers or fried noodles; hear the music for pass-the-parcel, musical chairs or statues. But the pink still lures me with its promises.

More Fat Fun

2008-02-11T23:36:00.002-08:00

"You grow fat, already hor?" announced Iris, the woman who works the cash register at my office cafeteria.

"Really?" I was surprised. I'd been on a diet of Hydroxycut [caffeine supplements] and tofu (well, mainly) for the last few weeks.

"Ya! I see your shirt and belly; all fat already."

Slightly disturbed, I pay and only eat half my lunch (vegetables and a chicken stew - I don't eat rice at lunchtime).

The following day I brace myself for another assault on my physique. She adds up my bill and declares, "And one papaya [slice] right? I see your face and I know you want already." She's right. I did want a slice of papaya - I didn't know it at the time, but my obviously my face did, and she read it.

Back at my office I ask my boss's secretary something. She doesn't answer straightaway but then it starts.

"Wah, people saying you put on weight. Fatty hor? What you eat? All the sweet-sweet, fry-fry things, ah?"

I answer in my best Singlish, "Where got fat, leh? Where fat?" There's an edge of desperation in my voice as I plead for her to deny what she sees.

"There, lor. Your belly fat lah! You don't exercise, ah? Must exercise, don't eat all the sweet-sweet things."

"I'm not fat, and I do exercise," I tell her.

I'm annoyed now. Who are these "people" talking about my fat anyway?

The following day I'm extra hungry - maybe I'm rebelling - so I load up my tray with noodles, pumpkin and a deep-fried chicken wing. Out of nowhere my fairy godmother of anorexia pops up and admonishes, "Fat fat, hor."

[Note: This incident occurred sometime in Sept/Oct 2007 when I was in the midst of a creatine cycle. My increased bulk must have confused the ladies.]

Going home: Business Class

2008-02-11T23:36:00.001-08:00

The woman checking the boarding passes at the gate stopped me. I thought "Oh no, what's happening." Apparently there was a seat change. Great, now I'll be shoved in the middle instead of the aisle where I wanted to be. I'm flying Qantas and my red boarding pass was changed for a black one.

I clear the queue and study my pass. It says "Business Class" - what's this about? Maybe they ran out of the normal forms so they're using the Business Class ones.

But dare I hope?

Well, it is. I'm quite excited. I get to turn left when boarding. The seats are grey and capsule-like. I try to act cool. Never mind that I'm worried that I won't know how to operate the tray table. Already I had to look behind me to find the plug for the super-comfortable noise-cancelling headphones. But I'm not the only one. My neighbour had to ask me where to plug his in.

Someone that looks like Billy Conolly sits to my right. Oh my god. Billy would travel Business, wouldn't he? He's also dressed in the most disheveled clothing possible. Of course the rich and famous do that - to remain inconspicuous of course. I mean, if you've that much money you can afford not to care about how you look sometimes.

The meal arrives and a white tablecloth unfurls over the tray table. It's a little bit over the top, since we're still eating with grey plastic knives (but metal forks). he menu is designed by Neil Perry (Rockpool) and the food is delicious. I have the Beef and Pancetta Lasagne. Also on offer is seared salmon with crushed white beans, basil pesto and lime.

I place my order for breakfast and hang it on the coathook, like they do in hotels.

After eating I watch a bit of Beowulf, but then recline my seat flat and have a snooze.

My neighbour turns out not to be Billy Conolly as he has an American accent. I think he's just a badly dressed American. I notice the others in Business and I think most of us in this section were bumped up from Economy. My neighbour to the left (headphone guy) certainly was. He must be as he's Australian, so going home, but didn't know where the headphone jack was. That is, he didn't travel business TO Singapore (or Frankfurt). We stick out a bit as we're the single travellers (young) and look like we're trying to look like we do this all the time. So far the tattoo artist pulls it off the best. He could be a rock star, you see (maybe he is?).

What makes it Wellington

2008-02-11T23:35:00.001-08:00

Capturing my experience on film seems so inadequate. True, Wellington is exceedingly beautiful; breathakingly picturesque spots on the harbour, scenes of people enjoying public spaces (an urban developers dream-come-true), weird scruptures designed to showcase the exposed and gale buffeted shores. But all of this is mere backdrop to my remembrance of my hometown.

Do I feel 'at home'? Have I come home? Well, to be honest, no. I'm familiar with Wellington, I know my personal axes of Cuba St, Lambton Quay, City-to-Sea and Oriental Parade. But it is not home for me.

What makes it Wellington are the lack of crowds, the easier pace of life and the omnipresent wind; the tattoos on every second forearm, the grunginess of Cuba St and the disheveled hospitality staff.

Something about New Zealand brings out the best in people. I forgot my contact lenses and tried to buy some without a consultation (a bit of a no-no). I was prepared to pay $75 for one, just to get the free trial pack. As I walked out of the shop the optometrist, a young English girl, ran after me, thrust the free trial pack in my hands and said, "Here, just take these. Forget we said anything." I got five pairs for free, just enough to cover my time away.

I bought a smoothie from a juice bar and the girl making it overestimated the milk and yoghurt. So I got one-and-a-half cups. In Singapore I've seen the staff pour the excess down the drain rather than serve it to the customer.

I think it's being allowed the time to think, to reflect and to consider what's going on around you. The high level of education helps too. Yes, I know you don't need a degree to serve juice, but intelligent people can't help but think about stuff when bored behind a counter; sometimes with good results.

Pillow talk

2007-10-19T23:58:00.001-07:00

Ralf, the sweet guy I'm dating, speaks in a mixture of Singlish and Sindarin. It's a local patois that I find quite intriguing and very grassroots/blue collar. He's teaching me some Hokkien tht I hope to use for comic effect one day.

Sometimes I use English words that he's not entirely familiar with. He's always wanting to know what I mean, so will keep bugging me until I explain it in a way he understands. The other day I wrote on my facebook that I was "feeling ironic". He wanted to know what "ironic" meant. He said that he thought it meant "something a bit strange." So I tried explaining it, "It's like when something happens that you don't expect and it takes you in an unexpected direction."

He asked for clarification. I struggled to find an explanation for "irony". Perhaps I could draw something from literature, or modern poetry.

"It's like rain, on your wedding day," I ventured. What other examples could there be, I wondered.

"It's like a free-ride, when you've already paid," the words sprung to my mind brazenly.

"It's like good advice, that you just didn't take." Oh yeah, these were good examples. "And who would have thought, it figures," I finished.

I looked around cautiously, in case the literary gods would strike me down.

He seemed to understand the examples though.

Tattoos

2007-09-29T01:43:00.000-07:00

I went to a tattoo exhibition a few months ago. This had photos of various Singaporeans showing their tattoos and a brief story about them. The whole exhibit was about the stories behind the tattoos; why they got them, what they meant (if anything). Through the tattoo, you got an insight into their lives.

Several of the people shown had their tattoos done purely for decorative reasons. They liked the designs, or created them themselves. It was art for arts sake. The most moving photo was of an old man showing some blurry blue-black lines on his shoulder. You'd almost miss them if they weren't pointed out.

He grew up during the Japanese occupation of Singapore and his brother tattooed their initials on each other so that their family could identify their bodies should they be killed or mutilated. I was stopped in my tracks by this story - I remembered my grandmother's and aunt's stories about living during the occupation; huddling under the bed in a corner while the soldiers swept under with their bayonets glinting in the dim light, their father making a false wall so they could hide behind when they came looking for women, my aunt losing her only treasured photo of her childhood because the Japanese soldier threw the frame on the ground, broke the glass and urinated over it.

There's a bartender with heavily tattooed arms, full sleeves Japanese-style but with more Chinese motifs. He talks about getting out of prison and his tattoo for enduring/tolerance: the Chinese character made up of a knife above a heart.

A mother tells of recovering from a bad marriage breakup and she sought to express her inner emotional pain through the physical pain of a tattoo. She chose her starsign Libra watching over her son's Leon. A father tells of a raging sun on his deltoid as his light-of-his-life, the son that died in childhood.

A young girl with a whole scene from a storybook on her left arm and shoulder describes the inner world that she escapes to. She's talking to a cat in a fantasy landscape as she prefers animals to people.

Then there is the guy who wanted a bar code tattoo because he thought it was "unique". He wasn't sure what number to get, I guess he didn't want to accidentally set off the supermarket scanners with "Bananas $1.99". So, he chose his girlfriends NRIC (Identity Card) number. She paid for it for their anniversary; how 'romantic'.

I wonder if he'll ever realise the irony in doing what he did in a country like Singapore? It's a militaristic one-party state that fortunately has a reasonably benevolent ruling family in charge. Nevertheless, it's highly monitored and everything is cross-linked to your identification number. I heard that all you need to apply for a mortgage is your NRIC - they can pull up your entire credit history, asset listing, etc. with just that.

My tattoos also tell stories. Most of them complicated and interwoven with previous and past events in my life. There's more detail to what I'm about to describe, but in the interest of keeping things interesting, I'll tell them to you in person.

Here's a brief description anyway. My koi (Japanese carp) is about serenity, peace and quieting the mind. It swims up because it strives to do better. Carp swim up-river to spawn. There is also the Chinese legend of how dragons are born when a carp swims up river and jumps through the Pearl Gate. Perhaps one day my carp (me) will reach the gate and jump through and I will finally be the dragon I could be. In case you don't know, I was born in the year of the dragon and my surname is the character 'dragon'.

Detail

The bamboo was suggested by my artist after a visit to a tattoo convention in Sibu. I thought it was cool as I wanted something big and long to show off a bit. This signifies for me growth and flexibility; to be able to bend and flex, adapt to change but keep still keep growing.

To pre-empt questions:
Yes, it hurt. It's like small needles scratching your skin until it bleeds. But he knows when to lift off so you get about 2 seconds to catch your breath before he continues. The pain is proportional to the sensitivity of the skin in that part of the body.

The koi took three 2-hour sessions: outline, shading 1 then shading 2. The bamboo was meant to be completed in one 1-hour session but I fussed with the original drawing and he got tired as it was the end of the day, so it took two 2-hour sessions. There's still a touchup session to finish off the koi's eye and perhaps correct some of the leaf detail.

The Statistician

2007-09-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

My colleague, TC, is a dour looking statistician. He's quite tall, just over 6ft, with a boyish soft flat-top haircut and glasses. He looks about 40, which is probably accurate, but the boyish haircut just makes him look so academic-young-lecturer.

He's got a really cheeky sense of humour that no one notices underneath the quiet exterior. But I work with him quite closely and I get little peeks into this lighter side of him. We've both been on a leadership course at work; lots of sharing of thoughts, activities and other soft-skill activities. One of the 'penalties' for being late back from breaks is the 'ZOOM'. This is when the late person has to trace the word 'ZOOM' with his butt facing the audience.

Yesterday someone was late and the facilitator asked us, "Should we make him do the ZOOM? Or shall we let him off?"

TC, in a loud but directionless voice boomed quietly, "No!" If I weren't sitting next to him I wouldn't have known that the loudest "No" came from him. The hapless late-person traced out the ZOOM and sat down.

"Next time," warned the facilitator, "We'll make you do a longer word, like 'elephant'."

"Hippopotamus," ventured TC quietly. He was obviously tickled by this embarressing show and wanted to see more.

"How's the weather?" In control.

2007-08-12T00:17:00.000-07:00

We all know that the Singaporean government practises social engineering on a massive scale through its subtle propaganda, baby bonus schemes and other nefarious non-detectable devices. But little did I know, it also controls the weather.

Last Thursday was National Day here - I dislike nationalism as I believe in a Global Community - high ideals, I know, from a priviledged upbringing. But the red & white flags hanging on many HDB balconies testified to the pride of this nation (or at least not wanting to be seen not to have pride).

Around 5am, there was a horrendous downpour seemingly out of nowhere. I'd previously checked the forecast and a sunny day seemed in the offering. Nevertheless, it was one of those tropical downpours that came and went quickly.

Then another one at 7am and the rest of the day seemed to promise grey and cool skies.

Our afternoon sunbathing at Sentosa didn't didn't look good.

I find out later from Ralf (the local I'm dating) that the government induce rain before any big parades. It has never rained on any official parade (National Day, Chingay, etc.) in Singapore. Always before, sometimes after, but never during. The cool and cloudy weather also make it comfortable for the crowd to sit and watch the parade - no fainting in harsh sunny climates.

How...modern - and a little bit scary. But practical, yes, dreadfully so.

Seen on a t-shirt

2007-07-18T06:17:00.001-07:00

Department of Redundancy Department

Animal nitrate

2007-07-02T10:37:00.001-07:00

Animal nitrate
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

I bought a new bag to use for the gym.

hehe, look at all those zonked out animals.

Cute Singaporeanisms

2007-06-19T07:31:00.001-07:00

They pronounce 'Ross' as 'Rose' much to the consternation of a guy at work. They pronounce 'Ian' as 'Yen', as in Chinese fang bian. They have difficulty with the 'woo' sound, leading to pronunciations like '...ooden ladders'.

But the most useful native phrase I've encountered is 'free thinker'. As in, "So, are you a Buddhist? Christian?" "No, I'm a Free Thinker" meaning of no particular religion but with an open mind to all practices.

--update--
Ian works at the cafeteria and tried to correct the pronunciation of his name.

Ian: Wo de ming bu shi "Yen", shi "Ian". [My name is not Yen, but Ian.]
Loud Chinese girl: Ee-yen?

NDP

2007-06-18T02:32:00.001-07:00

They play movie trailers on the MRT advertising screens all the time. Lately they've been showing one full of pomp, soldiers marching, militaristic parades, soaring jet fighters in formation, jubilant mothers holding babies; all to thundering drums and a dramatic choir singing Carmina-Burana-style.

The faces are "pan-asian" and could be anywhere in South East Asia. It looks like a trailer for a docudrama about a totalitarian Asian regime, wealthy and full of promise at the start, but ultimately collapsing leaving ruin everywhere. Perhaps Indonesia, I thought, maybe Cambodia? The faces are too Melayu to be Vietnam.

It concludes with Coming Soon and a few sponsors; looks like a teaser campaign, I figure since theres no mention of the movie title at all.

I'm watching it for the umpteenth time when the words NDP and Marina Bay leap out at me. There are ads for the National Day Parade in August.

At least I got the first part about the plot right.

Yogyakarta Part One

2007-06-17T23:03:00.000-07:00

I read about the "amazing parade" that happens during Wesak Day at Borobudur. So I decided to go to see the festivities as I could time it well during the public holidays in Singapore.

Lonely Planet Indonesia is a very very thick tome. I think they should split it into three parts so you don't have to carry the whole thing with you all the time.

I worried about not being able to get accommodation when I got there, so I rung up and booked ahead. A wise move for Borobudur as the accommodation was nearly booked out on that weekend. I got a place at "Hotel" Bhumisambhara after a slow conversation in English with the receptionist. This was the second-to-last place on the Lonely Planet list and I couldn't believe they still had rooms. I had to confirm the date to be sure, and given the language difficulties, I dug deep into my past and asked her, "So you have a room for me, on 31 May - tiga puluh satu, Mei?"

Throughout my stay I was amazed at how much Bahasa Melayu I recalled - it helps quite a lot when asking for things and I think it reduces the aura of "wealthy foreign tourist to be milked". I used "Berapa? [How much?]" a lot, and "Sedap! [delicious]" But I later found out through my phrasebook that they prefer to use "Enak!" which explained the numerous politely smiling blank looks I received for "Sedap!"

Hotel Bhumisambhara is down a quiet lane, described as tranquil. The room was supposed to come with hot water, and it does - just that the heater doesn't work. The bathroom light didn't either, but perhaps it was for the best. I have a private theory that bathrooms in Muslim countries tend to be quite clean because of the religious emphasis on ablutions. I hoped this extended to rental accommodation too.

I'm also deathly afraid of mosquitos, so bought some lime-leaf scented mosquito repellant to slather myself in, but also brought along the mosquito mat vapouriser and adaptor (they use European style plugs) just to ensure freedom from any incognito mosquitos.

After arrival at Yogya airport, I kinda panicked about getting to Borobudur in time - I worried about missing the last bus, etc. etc. so forked out 225,000 rupiah (GBP 13) for a private car to drive me the hour and a half or so from the airport to Borobudur. I arrived on Wesak eve so wanted to catch the sunrise and bits of the procession if possible. Usually it's around 20,000 rupiah (GBP 1.2)on the bus.

It was so refreshing to be in a natural, organic (as in organism-like) city. The centralised autocratic planning of Singapore kinda dehumanises the built environment. I liked the graffitti, the litter and the general laid-back craziness.

The "Hotel" is very rundown but as the Lonely Planet describes, set in tranquil surrounds. It's very basic but totally serviceable. At 65,000 rupiah a night I wasn't complaining. I looked forward to an early night, rising early and getting the cool morning to explore the temple.

Fried chicken
.

I scoured the local streets, buzzing with scooters and offers of rides to Mendut temple, sampling the delicious fried chicken and a few banana fritters. I loved the atmosphere of relaxed village life preparing for a festival. Several push-carts lined the intersection selling all manner of snacks: thick pancakes with peanut,

Village atmosphere

chocolate or banana (known as bang chang kuey in Singapore), hamburgers and other varieties of delicious smelling snacks. I thought I'd try some of the local Nasi Padang, but then realised that Padang whilst well-known in South East Asia is not local to where I was. The two Padang Raya eateries I saw lay empty with flies buzzing round the bountiful food displays. I passed.

I walked back to the hotel thinking to check out a food stall I saw on the way to the temple entrance. A gang of layabout teenage youths lay sprawled on the benches idly picking at their food. The looked like a pack of junior Malay gangsters - a little thrilling for me but probably harmless. The woman had a spread of spicy fried tempeh and peanuts, vegetables, spicy catfish, chicken cooked in coconut milk and banana leaf and other things. The popularity of the stand won me over and after a protracted discussion on what the different foods were in my halting Indonesian and her valiant attempts to inform me I chose the dishes you can see on the top right.

This was one of the most delicious meals I had in Indonesia. These stands are multipurpose as whatever the woman does not sell the family eat for dinner later on. So you're actually eating home-cooked food made with ingredients fresh from today's market made to a standard that a mother would feed her family.

The crunchy peanuts and tempeh were a little hot to my delicate palate but delicious. The sweetly aromatic chicken had the subtle sweetness of banana leaf fragrance touched with the delicate floral richness of fresh coconut milk. The deep-fried catfish was lightly stewed with an oily and spicy fragrant mix bursting with flavour. I remembered this archipelago's history and involvement in the spice trade - fitting that such a cuisine with such sophisticated spicing should develop consequently.

I left feeling full and round and looked forward to a lovely night's sleep. The meal cost 9,000 rupiah (50p) including a fresh lime juice.

A call to prayer with disturbingly increasing volume stiffenned my back as I neared my hotel. "How could it be," I asked myself. I distinctly looked for minarets, domes and other tell-tale signs of "mosque". After my visit to Jordan I'm well aware of the incessant calls to prayer at all hours of the morning emanating from the towers. There wasn't a mosque anywhere near the hotel but a thoughtful neighbour, seeing this moral deficiency, had set up three sets of loudspeakers in his courtyard and that's where the local Islamic study group would meet. They'd sit around thoughtfully listening to the Islamic radio broadcasts; commentary, analysis, Koran reading, etc. His beneficent invitation was extended to the whole community by setting the loudspeaker settings at high volume.

I did not sleep early that night although I managed some fitful rest. My headcold made me tired enough to nod off periodically only to be woken by the cries of a dramatic Koran passage. Later on after all that had subsided, the innkeeper's friends decided to visit; buzzing in on their scooters and chatting loudly to his unit next to mine.

Bubur Ayam

Nevertheless after a damp night's sleep (the mattress is grew moist with my night sweats, or perhaps it just didn't breathe very well) the 4am call to prayer thoughtfully provided by the same neighbour woke me one hour before my desired rising time. I snoozed for an hour then rose and prepared to go to the temple. I missed out on my complimentary boiled egg as it was too early. I'd spotted a closed Bubur Ayam (chicken rice porridge) stall last night and hoped it would be open for breakfast. It was, and I had a delicious bowl of creamy rice porridge, freshly roasted peanuts, curry sauce and chicken shreds all for 2,000 rupiah (GBP 0.11).

Papaya Sale

Nearby, a papaya sale was about to take place with the fruit stacked on the roadside. I like the look of the old woman preparing her papayas for sale. I know it's just her ordinary life, but this scene is so far removed from my own ordinary life it seems exotic.

hehe - I like this book title!

2007-06-10T06:28:00.001-07:00

I've yet to read it, but I like this book title.
Hard Sell: Evolution of a Viagra Salesman

The Rest Room

2007-06-10T06:17:00.000-07:00

I walked past a karaoke bar on Circular Rd called:

The Rest Room

Funnily enough, it looked nothing like a toilet.

French Festival in Singapore

2007-05-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

I like this neologism.

Singapore scenes

2007-05-05T23:40:00.001-07:00

Bottle juggling
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Sometimes several of them will practise on the lawn outside Raffles' Place. Quite cool.

View from Sentosa
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

There's nothing more relaxing to look at when at the beach then the plume of an oil refinery's gas flare.

National Museum
Originally uploaded by daveyll

National Museum
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

"You cannot be sure he is not a child molester"

2007-05-05T23:34:00.001-07:00

"You cannot be sure he is not a child molester"
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

I'm unsure what the exact translation is, but there are similar posters in English with skanky men offering to carry toys across the road for a child.

I think the expression on the guy's face is hideous.

Jewellery Shop

2007-05-05T23:06:00.001-07:00

Jewellery Shop
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Need I write more...?

Hokusai's The Wave

2007-05-05T02:58:00.000-07:00

The image is almost clichéed but I still like it. Leon's got a Hokusai mug with The Wave on it. I wanted to buy him a pair of Japanese underpants with the same print. They were so cool. They even had little blue and white Swarovski crystals tastefully dotted on it.

But they were out of the right size. So I just have to write about it.

He would've looked so...cool...in his Hokusai undies, drinking out of his Hokusai mug, sitting under the giant Hokusai print above his bed.

Moral Family Serice Centre

2007-04-21T03:42:00.001-07:00

12042007(001)
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

This shopfront is at the bottom of one of the blocks I live near.

I've never seen them open, but perhaps moral people only work 8 hours a day.

I hope they don't do spot-checks. My life can be a bit amoral at times.

Seen on a T-shirt

2007-04-18T21:24:00.001-07:00

"Who needs a fairy godmother when you have botox?" - New Urban Male (a brightly coloured clothes store staffed exclusively by fit and singleted young men between 16 & 22.)

The Night Rush

2007-04-14T20:13:00.003-07:00

Shops close at 930pm most nights in Sg. In effect, this creates a second rush hour as shoppers and retail workers go home. You'd think this would mean there would be extra buses to cope with the load; but no, it's still officially 'off peak'. The buses get so packed that the drivers can't let anyone on. Once I waited 20 mins whilst three full-to-the-brim double length buses drove past without stopping. Sometimes the driver 'kindly' lets us squeeze on, cramming ourselves on the no-standing steps, whilst dodging the door closing sensors.

Taxis, of course, now never pick up off the street. Every single one is on call for the most convenient and profitable fare.

I'm lucky tonight. The first bus is only just full. No one is standing on the steps yet. Phew.

Of course everyone shuffles the smallest amount possible to make room for more passengers. I think there's a secret selfish thought that "If the driver thinks the bus is too full, then it won't stop at all the stops and I'll get home earlier." I know this because I've thought this myself. But of course I'm ever the courteous passenger.

Today's bus driver is fond of tailgating - something not entirely appropriate on a bus full of standing passengers. Already I've had one poor soul fall into me from a sudden stop. But we're on the highway now. I'm thinking about what I can get from the food court for dinner.

East/West

2007-04-14T20:13:00.001-07:00

Leon: Why did u get a washer-dryer? You live in a high rise block. Your landlord has to provide you with a dryer, surely.
Me: <smiling> No, she doesn't. But like everyone else, I have a long wooden pole I can clip my washing to and stick it on the holes to dry outside if I want to. She said she'll give me more poles if I want.

Still A-wake at night

2007-04-13T19:18:00.000-07:00

It's the second night and tonight's the Taoist ceremony. It's a case of "we're not sure what we should do, so we'll just do everything, appease all the gods and then we'll be fine".

They're singing in Chinese opera style with er-hu and tick-tock whilst walking over a small bridge. They 'pay' for the departed's passage to the next world with coins put into a small box. They finish at 2245 with a short round of mahjong to follow.

My 'front yard'

2007-04-13T19:13:00.001-07:00

11042007(003)
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Those private condiminiums behind my HDB estate (securely fenced off with barbed wire to prevent interlopers from going in to use their facilities) look really futuristic and cool. They reminded me a bit of Chiho Aoshima's artwork at Gloucester Rd tube station. Of course my buildings don't have faces, but I like the tall streamlined elegance.

It's 2230 and the chanting has stopped. They're still milling around tidying up and chatting.

A-wake at night

2007-04-13T19:09:00.001-07:00

11042007(002)
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

There's a Buddhist wake of some sort going on under my apartment building. They've been chanting non-stop except for a quick break for lunch since I got home tonight.

At first it was in Mandarin, but I think now it's in Cantonese as I can understand a little bit of it. I hope they stop soon as I want to go to sleep. My landlady says that they have to stop at 10pm as it's the law.

But since the dead don't sleep, who knows what's going to happen.

Good Friday

2007-04-10T02:36:00.001-07:00

Multicultural Singapore apportions out it's public holidays along religious and ethnic lines. Each major group gets two. So we enjoy the two Muslim Rayas, two days of Chinese New Year, Wesak and Deepavali.

Christians get Christmas and Good Friday, but not Easter Monday. I wonder if it's significant that Singapore chooses to celebrate the death of Christ but not his rebirth.

today I look like this

2007-04-06T22:10:00.001-07:00

today I look like this
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Just testing out the mobile blogging setup. I look tired, and the fluorescent light and hat shadow aren't flattering.

A stink in the CBD

2007-04-06T22:01:00.001-07:00

There's a stink in the cbd. But it's of the literal sort, not underhand quasi-legal trading with Indonesian banks. Three trucks with septic tanks and pumps are parked in Raffles Place. Something serious has blocked.

Canberra - Wee Jasper

2007-04-06T19:29:00.001-07:00

DSCF1829
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

You couldn't ask for a more countryside Aussie scene.

I went to a friend's wedding in Wee Jasper. The reception was held in a country house. It was such a wonderful laid back affair. She organised and catered the whole event. Just easy finger food and then later on a barbecue. Nothing fancy but so nice.

She wore a beautiful Thai silk coral pink dress that she made in Wellington.

If you could extract the essence of a wedding and distil it down, you would have got this day: a celebration of union, friends and family. Nothing pompous, just the triumph of a quiet love.

Dusk at Elizabeth Bay

2007-04-06T18:53:00.001-07:00

Dusk
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

James's apartment in E-Bay has spectacular views.

Dusk
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

And such a picturesque neighbourhood.

Dusk
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Karaoke

2007-04-06T18:52:00.001-07:00

Karaoke
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Karaoke during the day is fun. The rooms are dark and air-conditioned, perfect respite from a hot sticky Sydney summer's day.

Robbie's very emotional when he sings. Tuneless, but heart- (and ear-) wrenching.

From way back then...

2007-04-06T18:43:00.001-07:00

From way back then...
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Unfortunately, skin care technology for men has not progressed much further since this book was published.

Other than more expensive ingredients and accessible products, and that lash-tints (at that time very risque) are now more common-place, Lia Schorr pretty much hit the nail on the head.

I bought this at a school fete when in my teens. To think I could have ended up as a male aesthetician.

Overheard

2007-04-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

Boy Charlton pool:
"...well, he's a player, and players always lose." - fag to faghag
"...well, they're not really lies, they were just fibs." - same fag to faghag

First time back on Australian soil

2007-04-06T09:38:00.001-07:00

Sydney airport 17-Feb-07

It's been over a year since I've set foot in Australia. My first meal at Sydney airport whilst in transit to Wellington is:

Wagamama Yakisoba.

Can you believe it? A globally exported English pseudo-Japanese chain.

But I just can't face Eagle Boys' Pizza or a greasy toasted sandwich. My head and heart may be Western, but my stomach is still profoundly in the East.

A huddle of Asiana (Korean) stewardesses, distinctly not flight attendents, gather warbling over a stand of Mei Mei baby lotion. They look sleek and elegant in their immaculately tailored uniforms. Their distinctive hats have a cute little tail-fin which only adds to their bird-like appearance.

The tail gives every head movement agile grace. They buy so many bottles of this lotion that I figure it must be good. It's made from almond oil exclusively, so it smells nice. I figure what's good for Korean skin is good for Popo.

They leave the display a little worse for wear with fallen boxes akimbo.

Cafe Lounge - pre-Mardi Gras Sydney, 1730

2007-04-06T02:22:00.001-07:00

Cafe Lounge
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

There's just been a shower. The previously scorching sky pulled over its clouds and dumped water on us. The humidity is at stuartion limit but thankfully it's relatively cool. The cling of the air once again brings forth my nostalgia as I revert to my past life in Sydney.

I feel like I know Sydeny better than I know any other city I've lived in. Well, perhaps I know Wellington better, in that I could probably drive everywhere - I don't know the roads in Sydney well enough for that - but I like Sydney better.

I'm sitting at Cafe Lounge nostalgising my memories of Sydney. I think about the age of the city, how it was once new and how the ancient cities of Europe carry so much history. Is Sydney but a nascent reflective city about to obtain its critical mass of narrative?

Perhaps one day in the far future, after some defined narrative-germination, my counterpart in Shenzhen - that new metropolis springing from a fishing village in ten years - will be sitting down in a similar but different cafe thinking about Sydney as I do about London now.

Today I've shopped Paddington and Oxford St. The shops have been empty, the assistants alert and attentive. I love it. It's almost worth paying the GST for this extra service. I'm still going to claim it back if I can though. Those $440 Diesel jeans put a severe dent in my credit card for sure.

Cafe Lounge
Originally uploaded by daveyll.

Noel, who works at the Darlinghurst bookshop is frantic with Mardi Gras madness. He wishes me well but has a lot to prepare and finish. Cedric at Cafe Lounge stops to have a chat as I sip my ginger beer. The cold bottle sweats with the humidity, but the ubiquitous breeze in this part of town soothes many a shiny sun-screened brow.

Title explanation

2007-04-06T01:59:00.000-07:00

They don't say 'sweat' in Singapore.

One 'perspires'.

Just like one 'reverts' on email and conversations to 'get back to you'.

At Changi airport:
Flights are re-timed, not re-scheduled.
and one gives "way to aircrews" not "aircrew".

"Apparels" 50% off proclaims a sign.

And cutely enough, they tend to pronounce the names Roz and Ross as 'rose'. To the consternation of one of the angmohs at work.

Correct, or not?

Hello and welcome

2007-04-06T01:25:00.000-07:00

I've shifted from msn.spaces to blogger as this has more functionality with mobile and email blogging. I intend to make the most of my new Nokia E65 and do a bit of mobile blogging. It's gonna hurt my wallet, but I figure since pictures are worth thousands of words, this might be worth the 'postage' to let you guys know what's going on in my life and my head.

I'm having a little bit of difficulty adjusting to working in a corporate environment so there will be my frustrations vented here. I'll try not to make it too negative sounding - Singapore is very easy to live in and I've got a nice lifestyle outside of work. Just that work is not as cruisy any more. No more MSN, personal emailing, online photoalbum touching up, researching idle curiosities to make good dinner party conversation, etc. Not that I don't want to or can't do it subtly at work; but there just isn't the time to fit it all in amongst the infinite meetings, spreadsheets I'm analysing till I go blind.

I'm sure I'll get used to it and sail through - Leon has taught me well with coping with work stress. Perhaps I don't have quite the attitude that corporate giants require from their staff, e.g. loyalty and dedication. But I took this job to give me security, good standard of living and defined work hours (more or less); leaving behind the academic culture of Life is Work (if you want to be a professor).

So, hopefully the blogs will be more frequent, albeit rather snappy and brief due to the nature of txt msg posting. I hope to intersperse with longer musings when time permits, but hopefully the pictures help.