tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41755990017501519612024-03-19T03:07:19.772-07:00A Singaporean Story BoxTC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-9017827923042638702021-08-03T07:47:00.004-07:002021-08-03T08:41:02.594-07:00The Riser Mummy<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5901499312506710761" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGi7woW_PioCrZNdPeeW5Q0XiSmTzYtIujskTNL6PD0IEIKNaEGQGdzcXaLYAfh-gBhve-zGFFmELiZ4dsjf8BYe3oMCFKSAxmoLCpSzloZu_utw71-JYwDJg7lx7tb0K2yLqg_1wZ7c/s503/Riser+Mess.jpg" style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="503" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGi7woW_PioCrZNdPeeW5Q0XiSmTzYtIujskTNL6PD0IEIKNaEGQGdzcXaLYAfh-gBhve-zGFFmELiZ4dsjf8BYe3oMCFKSAxmoLCpSzloZu_utw71-JYwDJg7lx7tb0K2yLqg_1wZ7c/s320/Riser+Mess.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.32px; text-align: center;"><span><i style="background-color: #ece1cb;">A typical dry riser outside a HDB flat: full of junk.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><br />When a mummified body was found in a HDB riser, serious questions were raised. How come a resident can be so dehydrated and skinny when NTUC were giving out food vouchers in the area? Second, are residents avoiding state sanctioned columbariums to make their own closer to home? And were the residents so green conscious that mummification was preferred than to be cremated in an (often useless) coffin?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Many questions were raised, and kopitiam talk bounced about like a steel ball in a pinball machine. No simple answers were found. One thing for sure, HDB residents had been using their risers as their 2nd or 3rd storerooms after the main ones in their homes. Often, husbands were asked to throw away their 'toys' only for them to feel unwilling at the last minute and stuff them into a riser for later "consideration" - often forgetting that they'd left stuff there.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And young parents were guilty too, often stuffing dirty and sandy stuff into the riser then bringing them home. Things like spade and pail, sandcastle building materials, etc. Beach stuff. Picnic stuff. Sports stuff.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">A hurried investigation by the HDB unearthed many strange things people were keeping in their riser cabinets. Many items had nostalgic value, or TV resale, such as those Ab Busters, HappyCall frying pans, Power Juicers, etc. There was even one air mattress that somehow inflated itself into the confined space. Folks wondered if a certain Ms Josephine Teo and her hubby had used it to heisho-heisho, given their penchant for making love in tight spaces. With the mattress inside, the space was even tighter. People wah-say and acquired new respect for the oft-beleaguered ex-Manpower Minister.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"They should put her in-charge of family planning!" someone said. "Then we'll have a Riser Generation... One that can rise up to anything!" Malaysia might Boleh-kan. But Singaporeans can show they are even more Boleh kan-kan. Hokkien people can be forgiven for sniggering at that. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Turns out, many cyclists also kept their spare tubes and tires in the risers too. And those who cycle and cook, pots and pans.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Recalled Mr Ayer Sampah, a HDB water meter reader: "I tell you ah, very jialat. Often we open the riser cabinets not knowing what will fall on us. If soft toys, fine. But one time, I had a ten-piece frying pan set king-klang king-klang fall on me, waking up the whole neighbourhood. Damn paiseh. Turns out the makcik dared not tell her husband she'd bought the set - macham maha like $300, and so she hid the set in the riser thinking to recover them after her hubby had gone to work. Guess what? Her sister kenna Covid and she plain forgot all about the matter!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Another meter reader, Mr Dian Shi-nee, too had a similar encounter. "I've found bottles of medicine, pills...viagra, placenta, etc. Even protein powders...You know those huge black plastic containers of muscle building powders/shakes. That's how I become so buff and my hair... see, still black black and shiny. All thanks to these residents who treated their risers as their medicine cabinets. I've not felt better in years! I've also learnt that expiry dates don't mean a thing. As long as the stuff smells ok, I eat. See how the companies are cheating us by making us throw away stuff well before their actual expiry dates? Sure, I get skin rashes sometimes but that's a small price to pay for total wellness. And I also lao liao. Where got money buy from Guardian?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The discovery of the mummy, cloaked in school uniform, national flag and a final layer of saffron robe - in that order - also stoked consternation within the Buddhist fraternity here. Which branch of local theological thinking supports mummification? Certainly not the Om-Padmi-Om-Mercedes Benz one? And is the mummy really Buddhist, despite the saffron robes? Is there plagiarism at work here? Who can we sue???</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Was the mummy making a statement with the school uniform? A long demolished government primary school in Mattar Road with the enviable record of having the first ever aircon library (with terrazzo flooring as well). Why was such an elite school torn down? Oh, the building of the CTE. At this, people recalled fondly the old National Library that was torn down for the same reason. Cannot move brick by brick to another location one meh? The still-bitter ones complained.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">To date, many who have gone there to pak-tor or draw on the toilet doors still reminisce about the place, obviously still a venerable spot of learning for many.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Recalled Mr Dick Prodigee: "I did call one of the many 'referral' telephone numbers listed on the toilet doors and got a great lesson in human sexual relations. I wouldn't have passed my A-levels bio if not for the old national library."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Another former library user was not so enamored: "Every time I smell old books, I want to berak. Every single time. Why I can recall intimate details on those door panels, including much original 'student art'. I knew from an early age that Singapore has much artistic talent!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">National philosopher of Singapore, Mr Pickam Saydem, mused that "maybe this is a moment of existential awakening for all Singaporeans." </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"The ascetic nature of the mummification is antithesis to our current consumer buy-and-throw nature. Perhaps this person is yearning for a return to minimalism and the non-desire for patented goods. But isn't an adherence to a theology a selfish desire too?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">With this remark, Mr Pickam Saydem received many brickbats. "Apa cakap orang goondu ini? Say one thing mean another....?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Then there was the greater matter of what to do with the body, or bodies. A total of 50 more riser mummies were discovered including 10 of cats and dogs.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Was there a movement going on here? An underground movement of sorts to depart this world and yet not?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In Thailand and Japan, mummified bodies of priests seeking such a path to nirvana were royally worshipped. Did the Singapore mummies sought the same? As there were no names nor any sort of ID on these mummy persons, folks could only guess at the intention of these perpetrators.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Did many of these folks just want to be enshrined in a place they only knew their whole lives, aka the HDB flat? And their encasement inside the riser is a way to reach out, to escape (to rise above even) their human condition.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">So, don't say the Singaporean only knows how to eat, sleep, and shop. They also know how to transcend. Transcend dying in an old folks home. Even a riser is the better option.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end<i> (by TC Lai, 28th July 2021 (original date))</i></span></p><p><i>Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/i-married-ghost-bride.html">I Married A Ghost Bride</a></i></p></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-37943116197550573922021-08-03T07:44:00.003-07:002021-08-03T08:37:05.282-07:00I Married A Ghost Bride<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2589269226691909113" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmMKt97Do-XBXgzDzkjBmxJwAobnWAD2V9LRL7NDPqqtTGvQ08156OlSQk5T1HTSRHQqbyTSWLvoG3ynfRkD_mVkG8dQZqX2HrX_6QPKxyvRM39sFpFzZ5BUStow1ydrDF9VitPhEmiY/s500/Ghost+Bride+Pix.png" style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #993300; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmMKt97Do-XBXgzDzkjBmxJwAobnWAD2V9LRL7NDPqqtTGvQ08156OlSQk5T1HTSRHQqbyTSWLvoG3ynfRkD_mVkG8dQZqX2HrX_6QPKxyvRM39sFpFzZ5BUStow1ydrDF9VitPhEmiY/s320/Ghost+Bride+Pix.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><br /><br /></span><div><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I had not intended to, but I married a ghost bride. It was for the same old reason why every 7/10 Singaporeans do it: to apply for a HDB flat. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At the counter, the HDB staff handling my case was taken aback. My bride was exceptionally quiet and pale. She also had dark circles under her eyes. "Oh, sorry, wedding make-up... It was quite the emotional affair," I lied. Thereupon I spitted on a tissue and pretended to remove whatever mascara that had melted away by that aforesaid emotional distress. The staff visibly recoiled at my very open display of affection. My "wife" reached to stroke my face and a nail fell off. "Fake nail for the wedding," I hurriedly lied once more, before picking it up and pocketing the somewhat ghastly cuticle for "fixing up" later.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Fixing up" is what you must do for a ghost bride. Maybe it had to do with being jittery over being a new bride, a new daughter-in-law, and pet owner. I had no time to find out if she was a cat or dog person. My dog of five years gave me a look of contempt and left.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It also left a pile of shit in my loafer. WTF?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">There is no manual for living with a ghost bride. I was also at a loss as to whom I should appeal to. The Taoist priest who solemnized our "marriage"? Or the matchmaker lady who put our bazi together? "Aiyah, you otaku-type one, she's stay-at-home type, very matching lor!" - and that was that. I wanted to give her hell money as angpow, but ever the realist, she said "Half real, half bluff one, ok?" $800 was pretty real (and painful), I'd thought.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">One night I woke up to find a paper figure effigy sitting on the sofa in my living room, the TV showing late night static. Where did she go? It's weird to be possessive about a ghost bride, but as they say, if a woman does your laundry well and presses your shirts to military precision, you'll want to hang on to her! (I think that's what my grandpa used to say. He was always so presentable even when taking out the garbage!) Besides, sitting in a room with a paper figure that's more tubes than boobs is kind of eerie, no? I only wished the matchmaker had commissioned a better-looking one. "Standard model," was what that mu-yan por lady had replied when I later quizzed her. And I couldn't really fault her. After all, she did go to the best paper-joss craftsmen in Blk 34, Upper Cross Street.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Note to self: I will commission a better-looking effigy next time. 34-24-36. Only 34? I'm not greedy. Give me Dolly Parton and I'll start smiling like Joaquin Phoenix's Joker... - cracklines extending from both ends of my mouth. Pain, sia! </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Next time? Will there be a next time? The thing about ghost brides is that polygamy is not frowned upon. I could have a harem of them although imaging them all sitting in my hall looking sullen and not all sun-healthy can be quite the sight. At least playing Pictionary would be more exciting, no? </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Circle...wheels? Multi-storey carpark!!!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Eighteen-levels of hell. Oh.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Pictionary with ghost brides, I believe, can be challenging.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">So, every time my ghost bride went back to the in-laws, I was left with her inanimate effigy. That kind of leaves me rooted to the spot unsure of what to do. I'd usually move her to the bed and cover her with a blanket. By the time she re-appears pre-dawn, she would be both cold and tired.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">While waiting, I would go back to being an otaku. Turn on my computer and game a bit. Funnily, I'd had lost all interest in porn. Somehow, those women appear too frisky, too wet and all too "noisy". I kind of like my ghost bride and her quiet ways. I could sit and stare at her all day. Is that love?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end <i>(by TC Lai, 6 Jul 2021 (original date))<br /><br />Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/geylang-sims-avenue-house.html">Geylang (Sims Avenue) House</a>; next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/the-riser-mummy.html">A Riser Mummy</a></i></span></p></div></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-27500835039620025302021-08-03T07:41:00.005-07:002021-08-03T08:33:49.243-07:00Geylang (Sims Avenue) House<p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshLSSDNT_PDc4AEVTct3j26lZVp7ceVEjuawShFyif9H6my6LiWcdZeqgPBCfsY9tQq7vFqVMZOOFWPKneJSNEdEIG4e_HVuHx7cb-GsTxeq0aN-t7AZFsJxHhmNwj3saMjWVRcViMzg/s700/Sims+Ave+140-B.jpg" style="color: #993300; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshLSSDNT_PDc4AEVTct3j26lZVp7ceVEjuawShFyif9H6my6LiWcdZeqgPBCfsY9tQq7vFqVMZOOFWPKneJSNEdEIG4e_HVuHx7cb-GsTxeq0aN-t7AZFsJxHhmNwj3saMjWVRcViMzg/s320/Sims+Ave+140-B.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">It was the only encounter with the supernatural I had till this day. Believe me, I've tried my darnest to meet ghosts, esp during Army and Reservist days, but all I got were crickets chirping louder and louder and frogs making loud horny calls especially during the rainy season. Or parked cars testing their suspension springs. That usually brightened up an otherwise boring ambush exercise.</span></p><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7126668359071040723" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Even the time when I organised a treasure hunt in an abandoned colonial-time barracks (rumoured to be haunted) on Sentosa, in the dead of night, for my engineering classmates, did not turn up any strange stuff. The only pale-face beings there were my classmates who loved scaring themselves shitless. Know that the barracks were large and had been abandoned for many years. The property had no lights whatsoever, so it was eerily quiet and goosebumps inducing. We hid clues in the day and at midnight we set ourselves loose to go look for them, with either candlelight or flashlight.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">A memorable sight under those circumstances was always the toilets. There, you will see all manner of previous human activity. Even writings on the wall. Sadly there weren't messages from the spirit world asking if at the next Qing Ming, one might "Eh, can kindly burnt some toilet paper down here, can or not?" I'm pretty sure during this pandemic, well-meaning folks have done that.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">This treasure hunt was a cumulation of an end-of-semester BBQ and camping trip on Sentosa we organised for ourselves. Everybody had a blast and I must thank all my ex-mates for being so sporting. No one batted an eyelid, but hell, some were genuinely scared wandering about in that dusty and rubbish strewn abandoned barracks in the dead of night.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">This old colonial-time barracks was later spruced up for use as a set piece in that Master of the Sea TV series. I believe it masqueraded as the mansion of the "cockroach" lady (the matriarch played with evil glee by Margaret Chan)</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Now, you might wonder why a young man like me at the time had such guts to go around traipsing about a place with such long and (probably) sad history? The answer is that I've seen ghosts before and was thus not afraid.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The ghosts I saw were not the ones out to scare people with their long hair, long tongue or even longer moans. They were pretty spectacular.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It must have happened when I was about six or seven. I couldn't sleep and was thirsty and heard some noise at the door. My first instinct was that rats were once again gnawing at the door.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">My mom heard the same thing and was awake too. At the time, we were staying in one of those three-storey terrace units commonly found in Geylang/Sims Avenue, you know, the ones with the spiral staircase leading down to a back lane. If you look closely, the kitchens are all "open plan" and folks back then had to use roll-up bamboo blinds to shield it from the elements, In the morning, roll up to let fresh air in and at night, roll it down to prevent bats from flying into the house. Because my neighbour's open plan kitchen faced us, we would also string a pulley system across so we could share dishes or simply dip into each other's condiments when we run out.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">On the night of the door noise, I was thirsty. It was a balmy night and my mom was also awake and in the kitchen to fetch me a glass of water. It was then we heard the noise at the door. We both thought it was probably rats gnawing at the door again. I went to open it slightly but could not see anything. It was pitch black. What I saw afterwards stayed with me for life. Know this: at the time, we were staying on the uppermost floor. Each floor held two units facing each other. There was no way to go further up. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But that was what I saw in that pitch blackness. The sudden appearance of two individuals (a couple, actually) shimmering and holding hands and fleeing upwards. Imagine a pitch black void on a wall and two characters fleeing as if climbing up a set of stairs.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I watched the scene for a while till it faded and closed the door. I then told my mom what I saw. "I think I saw two persons "fei siong hue" (Cantonese meaning "fly up there"). My mom took a look and then locked the door. She didn't say anything. My mom was quite fearless and not the "easily scared" type. She usually took such phenom at face value. She always told us kids: "This world where got so many ghosts one." - She had a point. So many millions die each year, how come ghosts are few and far in-between. At least every 17 years we get a cicada harvest. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Anyway, after my mom locked the door (as we often did before going to sleep) we discovered some cockroaches in the kitchen. I smacked a few with a wooden clog; my mom simply caught them with her bare hands and threw them out. My mom was fearless with cockroaches like that, but see a tiny lizard she'd melt into a damsel in distress. I could never understand that.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The few cockroaches we took care of were just the beginning. We found a flock (a "flock"?) of them hanging onto the back of the blinds. Imagine that!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Yes, imagine that. A blind-ful of cockroaches. Since when was that a thing???</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">So that night was made the more memorable because me and my mom stayed up all night to smack off the cockroaches. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Years later with much regret, we moved out of that Sims Avenue apartment. But guess what? Our across-the-open-plan-kitchen neighbour told my mom that our apartment was "very, very" haunted. They often saw a spirit old couple wandering about in that empty house. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">An old couple we never saw. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But for a couple of years when we lived there, we shared the apartment with my grandma and her kids. Amongst them was a bright young lad. Sadly, because the family disapproved of him having boy-girl relations with a girl, they both went to Hokkien Street and jumped. Hokkien Street was a popular location for suiciders in the 60s back then because of the Lim Yew Hock era-built flats there. They were the tallest buildings to go jump.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It is a sad story with these two kids (they were about 16 or 17 at the time). Both looked to have a beautiful future ahead. I still pay my respects to them during Qing Ming at Pek San Teng.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">There's been much demolishment and rebuilding in Geylang all these years, especially when old houses gave way to more lucrative apartment multiplexes. Geylang, after all, has about 44 lorongs in all. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Our abode at Sims Avenue withstood change for many years. Our apartment is still there but has been rendered "lansai" (shitty) by the turnover of migrant Chinese workers over the years. The unit address is 140-B, opposite a famous durian stall. I hope to go back and buy it someday. no matter its "haunted" history. I had a wonderful childhood in Geylang... Despite that cockroach saga and seeing those shimmering beings. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end (<i>by TC Lai, 25th April 2021 (original date</i>))</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><i>Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/the-mediums-son.html">The Medium's Son</a>; next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/i-married-ghost-bride.html">I Married A Ghost Bride</a></i></span></p></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-3258550871130676002021-08-03T07:39:00.004-07:002021-08-03T08:28:37.560-07:00The Medium's Son<p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"> </span></p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;"></h3><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5139052113108395648" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrISvp6FleMbGCA0B2WFUc5B4PJKjFq07PDaMcSNe2RH8ezl9Kf4bt3djP3u1WKIKjbQcrevuL2SdAfI1yTTKvu6fNIAm_D3mqD48SmpBo_-oqpRR-5EgNVwCk5t3NCdhO3dPi-nnvaYk/s500/Bus+1970s.jpg" style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrISvp6FleMbGCA0B2WFUc5B4PJKjFq07PDaMcSNe2RH8ezl9Kf4bt3djP3u1WKIKjbQcrevuL2SdAfI1yTTKvu6fNIAm_D3mqD48SmpBo_-oqpRR-5EgNVwCk5t3NCdhO3dPi-nnvaYk/s320/Bus+1970s.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.32px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: #ece1cb; font-size: x-small;">I believe the actual service no. was 70 or 72</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb; font-size: 15.4px;">One of the most alarming ghost stories I've heard is from a medium's son.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">When I was a kid (I was the typical ignored middle child, easy going) , my mom would inevitably take me along when she "goes out". Going out meant going to South Bridge to shop for jade (to resell) or to the goldsmith shops (like Lee Oon or Poh Heng) to goldalise the nicer pieces into pendants, brooches and bracelets to resell at a higher value. That's how my housewife mother supplemented her allowance to raise the seven of us.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Sometimes one of these trips would take us the other direction, towards Upper Changi. The bus ride there would be thrilling - a <i>siao</i> rollercoaster ride.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At the time, the area around Kaki Bukit and Bedok were being cleared. What was left would be a narrow two-lane road leading to and fro town. Back then, buses were few so bus drivers drove like hell to make more round-trips. They could care less if you were scared, peed in your pants or got flung out. This vehicle (unlike today) had only one doorway - in the middle - with no door. No door? Yes, deal with it.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It was your duty to hold on tight if you want to reach your destination. Hold on to your marketing basket too if you didn't want it sliding and flying out of that void.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I loved sitting just beside the doorway to see the ground rush past at speed. There was so much land clearing at the time that the dust and sand screeching under us made it seemed as if we were in some rally race. Or safari adventure.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It wasn't as death-defying as those on some ulu South American plateau. But bounding along, there was definitely some Looney Tunes madness going on.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Our destinations up that far east were usually two. A lovely Chinese kampung made out of light-blue houses nestled around a cul-de-sac up on a hill, If you had taken a taxi or "<i>bawang che</i>" (not onion car, mind you), it would drive up, let the ride alight, turn around and go back down. That kind of cul-de-sac. The same kind of island-less roundabout found outside Sultan cinema in old Chong Pang Village.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">This Chinese kampung along Upper Changi Road sat high up. It was cheerful, clean and a joy to be at on a bright sunny day, Many a times I felt as if I was in some kind of Camelot. Trust me, I've been to some shitty kampungs before where the attap houses had stone floors that were cold, damp and infested with mildew. This was from buying <i>chapjikee</i> for my mom. An 'intermediary" lived in one. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The other destination along Upper Changi Road was a Chinese temple.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Back in those days, temples were wooden affairs painted mostly in fire engine red. Side walls were usually made of tall wooden planks slotted together. If you needed more open space, you simply remove these and put them to one side. Come nightfall, you put them back and sleep in a more secure enclosure.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">This Chinese temple was probably the length of a HDB flat, medium sized and with living quarters at the back (as was often the case back then). They all started this way before $$$ from the patronage of Mercedes Benz owners turned them into monstrous concrete complexes with dragon sculptures and large stone tablets with sayings such as "Benzes hao, bai ma ma ma hu hu" (I think). Or they could actually be words of wisdom from some Taoist analect. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Going to that temple in Changi was much like Army topo in the Ulu Sembawang plains much later. It sat desolate on sandy ground near a tree (that always seemed to want to run away like) . The few obligatory feral dogs that would woof-woof to announce approaching visitors and then flop down again in exhaustion from our unforgiving tropical sun. Like the rest of the area nearby, the kampung around this temple was being cleared. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The sand raised by the wind only confirmed this fact.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Why my mom and I would bear such a life-threatening bus ride to be at this temple was because of one skinny lady there. She's a well-known medium who would help you consult with, especially, the deity Tai Zi Yeh who is actually the spirit of a well-loved Chinese Emperor from the Tang Dynasty.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I was bequeathed to him as a godson, so more the reason for me to be there, even if it was to say a cursory 'hi'. As a godson, I'd always hoped to be rewarded with angpows, but what I got pocketed away were mostly yellow talisman papers that I should burn, mix with water and drink. And rub a little of what's left on the forehead three times.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Later my exam results would be stellar or that my hernia would subside and I could jump the tallest building like Superman. Without this talisman water for long, I would become weak like Ultraman, blink blink in the chest and reach out my hand for the clouds. In the kitchen, that would be some marshmallows. More White Rabbit likely. Either way, they were just as restorative if not delicious.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In any case, a female medium is quite the surprise for me. I had thought they were all male. With a rotund belly and commanding voice such as those you'd find around Geylang.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Indeed her slim frame, smiling eyes and soft smoky voice were very comforting. And she always welcomed me as a favourite child, which took away my fear of those fierce-looking deities on her altar shelf. That they were smoke-charred black only added to their look of disdain for the human kind.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I do not know how my mom got to know this medium from such an ulu place, but given her outgoing personality she would have probably sussed her out from casual conversation, just as she did this hyper-accurate palm reader lady at Siong Lim Temple in Toa Payoh. Your first visit to her would send shivers down your spine. She would even know how many children you have had aborted or which kid in your brood wore spectacles and needed special care. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Years later when this Changi temple ground was razed, this skinny, chain-smoking lady medium would, like the rest of the residents in the area be relocated to spanking-new, Marine Parade Housing Estate. It thus became rather easier to reach her, or so I thought.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But by then we had moved nearer to JB than your uncle in Lim Chu Kang. It's what you'll say in Army-lingo, "lumpa-palun" - a kind of existential palindrome. No matter, I would same-same go along with my mom on every visit.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">This lady medium, as you can imagine, continued her trade in the new flat, a three-roomer, I think. Altar, offering table and her "dragon' chair draped over with her quintessential golden threaded medium's cloak. She would wear this cloak whenever she conducted her seances.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I remember one time my mom consulted her on some personal matters and I was sent out of the room/hall/flat. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Outside, squatting hunched over was her youngest son. We were a little apart in age but he was friendly. He spoke Hokkien but we somehow managed. Kids in those days learnt a smattering of dialects from the playground.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">There was something that bothered me that I needed to clear up. Every time me and my mom visited this medium, we would notice more slippers outside than actual people inside the flat. Where did the people go?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It was then he gestured to a NZ Apple cardboard box nearby. It was full of slippers of all kinds.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"They come and consult her, and leave."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It took me a moment to realise that the owners of those slippers were from the spirit world. The boy then went quiet and continued to doodle on the ground with his twig, lost in his own thoughts.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Many questions raced through my mind that day. All the what, why, when, etc., all the <i>kenninehs</i>. How was life with a medium mom like? Did he inherit her special skills? Did he have a "third' eye? Ooh la la.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I decided then to sharpen my Hokkien to ask him more questions the next time. But what I learnt from the playground were just more swear words. "Super white!" <i>Kennasai</i>.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end (<i>by TC Lai (27 April 2021 (original date)</i>)<br /><br /><i>Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/one-balmy-night.html">One Balmy Night</a> ; next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/geylang-sims-avenue-house.html">Geylang (Sims Avenue) House</a></i></span></p></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-631544498308031662021-08-03T07:36:00.003-07:002021-08-03T08:24:39.825-07:00One Balmy Night<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8952469926468656364" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1JFFz-qNXE6K0Esg4VC1oAjAKUJTBiczB0Ft59ovj5sVEEteodkjpp20o8TMUVRdMBq6wiU0xfizGEt4PSPP1oo7kRjDrt1dK_FTTYlqlrPvPOM83qXu3ViUYDoEUl2MDMnySBxXqoU/s638/HDB+corridor.jpg" style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #993300; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1JFFz-qNXE6K0Esg4VC1oAjAKUJTBiczB0Ft59ovj5sVEEteodkjpp20o8TMUVRdMBq6wiU0xfizGEt4PSPP1oo7kRjDrt1dK_FTTYlqlrPvPOM83qXu3ViUYDoEUl2MDMnySBxXqoU/s320/HDB+corridor.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><br /></span><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I was cooling off at my HDB corridor one balmy night when a lady with long hair, white gown and questionable make-up glided up towards me. Ok, maybe that was because a bead of sweat had also glided into my eye, blurring my vision and causing me to wink excessively as well.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">That "graceful" apparition saw and winked back. Oops, did I just make a chance connection? </span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Immediately, a chill blew over me. Quite typical, no? of this kind of "strange" encounter. It was then I realised the next door aunty had moved herself out of her flat with stool and KDK fan to cool herself off.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">She saw me and scoffed. "Harrumph!" Not very Singlish, I thought, but that was the sound she made. She was probably unhappy that was I dating a ghost girl again.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"TC, why don't you go find a proper girl like everybody else, huh?" she once told me.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Aunty, they are really nice girls lah. And if they want the 5Cs from me I can get them under $30 at the joss shop. Maybe throw in a pack of facials as well. They are selling those things now. Estee Laodee, SKII++, Revlong, etc. You want?"</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">That usually shuts her up. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"You siao ah?" she would retort, and stomp back into her flat, not without turning to also give me her usual (and disapproving) harrumph. "Harrumph!" She has a knife sticking out her back, but since she didn't mind, I didn't say anything.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At the corridor, me and the ghost girl would hold hands and stare straight ahead. Her hands would be cold and clammy. At times, slimy. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"> "Sorry ah," she would apologise. "Slime very popular with the tweener kids now. They learn to make them on Youtube and then sell online. The pearlescent ones are especially very pretty!"</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">She stares at her hands and seems lost in thought. At length, she would not elaborate further, just grip my hand tighter. Adversely, that drains blood from my face making me very compatible with her. At this, we would look at each other and smile. She squeezes harder. I look more pale. Couple happiness moves to another level.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At the opposite block people sometimes gather to stare at us. Many a time they would take pictures and post to a hantu FB page. Because my corridor has been updated to those movement-control lights, the pictures these people take often appear dark, unclear. Mightily tinted with a hue of skepticism.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- "Eh, too dark lah."</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- "Why ghost picture always dark dark one?"</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- "Wah, is that ghost couple last time jump from same spot one?"</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- "I think they waiting for Grab Qing Ming (GQM) delivery service, haha" Ha... ha.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Maybe we shouldn't have jumped. Did I? Did we? But who can decide what Fate might bring. The moonlight fades and we are gone.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Till the next time.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end <i>(by TC Lai, 8th May 2021 (original date))</i></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><i>Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/a-night-at-white-house.html">A Night A The White House</a>; next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/the-mediums-son.html">The Medium's Son</a></i></p><div><i><br /></i></div></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-16470348849452008392021-08-03T07:33:00.006-07:002022-05-17T23:48:44.946-07:00A Night At The White House<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-4540842452245274648" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyxO5pN-pfoZigciBRJw70NgcBwdYUu-DrH6NXi71u1Gumef1vTmbyU1jPOBhm7V3AffDn11R1x4S2H7e4jFURCfhcOsdg6r4pnuIW13iIozWt8APA-zXw4IS7j9Wi7LS3TyYFkJszYY/s600/White+House+Kluang.jpg" style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyxO5pN-pfoZigciBRJw70NgcBwdYUu-DrH6NXi71u1Gumef1vTmbyU1jPOBhm7V3AffDn11R1x4S2H7e4jFURCfhcOsdg6r4pnuIW13iIozWt8APA-zXw4IS7j9Wi7LS3TyYFkJszYY/s320/White+House+Kluang.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.32px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: #ece1cb; font-size: x-small;">The White House hotel in Kluang</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb; font-size: 15.4px;">I once spent a night at the White House and came away with a ghost story.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I know what you are thinking: The White House? Sure, since it is an old building there has to be an odd story here and there. Persons too significant to fade into the night, events too important to not replay. What did you say? You heard soldiers marching in the courtyard in the dead of night? A painting that keeps hanging itself askew as if to make a point? Always a wet patch on the carpet as if to indicate something buried beneath?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The White House is a veritable icon, more so because it stands out quite prominently at the crossroads of a busy junction. There in bold white letters on a red board, White House. Not red, not blue, but WHITE House.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In Chinese, it reads <i>bai gong</i>. Yes, from time to time you see PRC tourists about. But that was before the pandemic hit and the Movement Control Order kicked in.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">What? MCO also have over there? </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Yes lah, because Kluang is in Malaysia mah, and the White House is a very prominent traveler's motel there. Tired of being on the road? Just check in and have a laydown. Get a decent breakfast the next day and continue on with your journey, wherever that might be.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Had a lover's spat and by the time you made up, it is too late and past midnight? The White House looms large then Bill Clinton and Monica, you both think. But more likely, it is make-up sex that is on both your minds. You squeeze each other's hands and giggle unabashedly at being so in-sync with one another, like soul mates should. Same idea, same thought. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Heheh...</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">We are so compatible! You both concur with smiling eyes.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">How did we quarrel in the first place? That's history!!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">You park, check in and make glorious love. In the morning the car is gone, carjacked. In your haste last night you had forgotten to apply the steering wheel-lock, a must when driving in Malaysia. You two quarrel over it, oblivious to the wet hair both of you still spot from the we-shower moments ago.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">People gather and whisper. "Hiaz, young people these days. Little bit thing also quarrel... And stand in the street with towel on some more. Really no shame one!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">===</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">As you can imagine, the White House in Kluang must have seen its fair share of residents. Some on legitimate business, others maybe not. Some loitered on a temporary stay, others a week or more. A refuge perhaps for husbands kicked out of bed. A place of solace for that bar girl who had had enough of lecherous men and just want to be alone to think of her next steps.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">===</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I was once like many folks out there clueless of Kluang - much less that it had a White House over there.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But a good friend hailed from that place and we would drive in once a month to play golf. Kluang had a small country club in town, a nine-holer. It was more a place for old-timers to putt a few and catch up with friends over coffee or beer. The country club is so small, your primary school is probably larger in comparison.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The serious golfer in Kluang would head over to PAMOL, a palm oil plantation that curiously had a recreational hall and a nine-hole golf course built smack in the middle of all 'em money-making trees.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Although a nine holer on paper, this PAMOL golf course was much larger than most 18-hole ones. Such an anomaly could only come from a distant past and it was. The PAMOL golf course was a leftover from Malaysia's colonial days when real estate was carved out with little regard. Especially when it had to do with leisure, the Brits would OK it without a second thought.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Any bit of leisure and comfort to make up for the "blasted humidity" that the tropics bore on them.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And thus, PAMOL golf course was born. And as with any backyard recreation, foremost on top of the hill beside the course was the plantation manager's bungalow. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It was a magnificent setup. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Playing at PAMOL, we always fantasized about owning that bungalow. How sweet, if at the end of a day, we could just strut onto the golf course and play a few.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Or just spend the rest of the hot afternoon relaxing in the recreational hall nearby to play some pool with a cold beer in hand. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And eat a gorgeous plate of nasi rendang (the caretaker's wife cooked a mean one served with rice dumplings or ketupat - very Malaccan style). Afterwards retiring to the bungalow once more to see the evening out with a Cuban cigar and Scottish whiskey (single malt, no less). The next day, start the cycle again and repeat.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Wah, what a life that would be!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">However, if you can forgo a weekend of golf and simply explore Kluang, you will find that it is a nice town with a few satellite neighborhoods. Kind of like a North Bridge Road do if, within a short distance, it is linked to a very much downsized Siglap, Sin Ming, Chai Chee or Boon Lay, you know, quieter places that you head to to get other other things done. In town, you might visit the Chinese medical hall or babyware shop. But at an outlying neighborhood, you could get your car fixed, your body massaged, etc... That sort of thing.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In our case, we'd head out to get a haircut, as well as buy a bottle of Kluang's superb black sweet sauce. Malaysia's famous Black Hokkien Mee would not be the same without this splendid Kluang concoction.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">On food, Kluang had plenty to offer, from Hakka style beef noodles to a turquoise-colored thunder tea rice. Why that color? A Japanese tea, I was told. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">From curry noodles to kaya and toast and soft-boiled eggs - a set of which had been served since 1938 at the coffeeshop at Kluang's very intimate railway station.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">If you fancy a very good wanton mee, you could get it on the way to the PAMOL golf course. It was served from a roadside shack that doubled as a home as well. Eat wanton mee and watch a shabby baby crawl in its own playpen.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Kluang was of course not the first Malaysia small town I had fallen in love with. There were others. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I love driving into Malaysia to visit them because they have all given me a kind of comfort missing from living in Singapore for so long. The old Singapore ambience that has been swallowed up by ever more glass and concrete, and that something called "progress".</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">When the old National Library was torn down, I think a bit of my soul went with it too. I had spent quite a bit of time there to improve myself, explore other worlds. It being torn was just as if someone had thrown away a pair of my fave shoes without telling me. The shared memories, the journeys we had together. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The same with the mom and pop shops along North Bridge Road/South Bridge Road. Without them, without the families to add life to the area, the shops and their attached upstairs units simply became just economic barter for higher profit. Familial real estate to be traded for more expensive office spaces.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I tried to relate to a present-day shop selling industrial pumps once. It wasn't very successful. I didn't even know how to begin to say hi, ask how's your day, your children.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Will they all one day grow up to be big and strong and pump out world-changing sludge? CB.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Of course, with everything good, one must "<i>jio</i>" others to enjoy.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Of Kluang, this is what I told a girlfriend:</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"If you sit at the kopitiam, a lady will bring you a platter of kueh. You know, those Chinese kuehs we love so much that is now being sold at Bengawan Solo? Same same. After you have had your coffee...and mind you, Kluang coffee is one of the best in Malaysia. Even Penang and that Mark Lee one cannot fight. You pay for whatever kueh you had eaten. How sweet is that? They just leave it there for you to pick and choose!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"You mean they would just bring it on a big plate?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Yes, you know the enamel metal ones your Ah Ma use for prayer outside to the sky god Tian Gong? The one-size-fit-all kind that's usually pink with some rose flower motif?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Oh yes!" </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Yes, that kind. And do you remember the family sized dum briyani we had at Upper Changi Road? That Pakistani one where a huge portion of rice is scooped onto that rose patterned enamel plate so a Tom, Dick and a few Harrys could just dig in with their hands? Yes, that kind of platter. But slightly smaller."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"I see."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I could see my GF being intrigued. She had a mole on her upper lip and as was often the case, a mark of someone regarded as very "<i>tam chiak</i>".</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In fact, friends call her Ms Tam Chiak, more in affection than "eh, don't touch my food in the pantry."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The next Friday night, we decided to set off. I often drove into Malaysia at night. It's cooling and the traffic jams much less; or even non-existent.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">As usual, the drive there took about 1.5 hours. Once you reach Sungei Renggam, Kluang is not far off.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">We hit upon the White House soon after entering the township and crossing under the arch that read, "Selamat Datang di Kluang".</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In my previous trips, I would bunk at my friend's house. He had a spare room that came in 70s decor as well as plenty of mosquitoes perhaps nostalgic for Sgren blood.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I didn't think my GF could stand for that. She would complain to no end and demand I do something about it.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I also did not want to bring her there knowing that my friend's sister was interested in me. Best not to cause hurt when there's no reason to. Plus, I still like to feel welcomed at my friend's home. His mom cooked a mean Hakka meal.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Until I know that this sister has not mastered any of those timeless dishes, I would then be more forthright with her about my feelings. At the moment, best to keep the one bird in hand and the other singing happy in the bush. I think there's one saying to that effect.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Or, don't cut off your exit route, that sort of Sun Tzu wisdom.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Although we arrived late, there was someone to check us in. But before we made any commitment, I asked if we could check out out the rooms first (knowing how finicky Sg girls could be about hotel rooms. I felt it was best to get her approval first.)</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The room turned out to be quite decent. Clean and not too cramp. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">There wasn't a private bath but since it was a step or two away, we didn't mind. It was clean, the heater was working and the water flow rate better than a child's pee.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Sure you don't mind the bathroom being out there?" I asked my GF just to be double sure.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"No, it's fine. Not like we need to use it tonight. Besides, I've got plenty of wet wipes," she winked as she said that.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">That got me aroused a little.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The check-in clerk then proceeded to turn on the air-condition. It was one of those old fangled window units that rattled to start but afterwards would give off a mighty blast of cold air.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Wonderful, and it was pretty quiet. Says a lot about the maintenance effort this hotel must be putting in.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Do you want to see the other rooms?" the clerk asked, a bit superfluous I felt, as he had already turned our room's air-con on.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Er, no need," I said, and added, "But are these rooms empty as well?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Yes." </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Great, I thought. Peace and quiet throughout the night.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">So me and GF unpacked the essentials from our luggage and fell into bed soon fast asleep. The wet wipes untouched.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In the middle of the night, I was awakened by my GF who seemed a little concerned.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"TC, wake up, I hear voices!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Whaa..what? Where?" I was pretty much getting into REM sleep and felt groggy having been awoken up so unceremoniously.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"A couple talking!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">True enough, I could hear the muffled voices of a couple deep in earnest conversation. But at this time of night?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Maybe the walls here are thin," I suggested.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"But didn't they say the room beside ours is empty?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Yeah, but..."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I could see now that my GF's eyes were wide open and very alert. I didn't think I could sleep again if something was not done.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Look, just ignore it. Maybe they have just checked in."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Cannot be," my GF reasoned. "I was awake the whole time and nobody came up to check them in. No key turning in the lock, no doors opening, etc., etc."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At that moment, the voices suddenly stopped. Not a single word.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"See see, it just goes away. Where got people talk like that one?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I thought about what my GF said and found it funny. I laughed.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">She quickly gave me a smack on the shoulder.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Eh, serious leh, is this place haunted?" Once more her eyes were wide open and very very curious.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Just then water in the bathroom ran.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">My GF gripped my arm harder. "Hear that? People in the bathroom. Where got people bathe at this hour one?"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Er, people with dirty dreams?" I ventured.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Once more a smack on the shoulder.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I've seen ghosts before as a child and since then, had always wanted to see more just to affirm that in this world, we are not alone. I mean for some people, want to see ghost also kang kor. Don't say once. Many times: never.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">So I opened the door to our room and peeped out. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The outside toilet/bathroom was still the same. Door ajar, lights off. Just as how it was when we first checked in. Only the incandescent bulb outside shedding some thin light in. You could assume nobody was using it.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But that's the cruncher. I could hear someone splashing water inside as if taking a bath. Yet no water flowed out into the drain hole that was clearly visible by the door.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I closed our room door and calmly assured my GF that somebody new had checked in.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Really?!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Really." I said, clearly stating a lie.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In another part of the same night, the conversations started up again. But by then my GF had fallen asleep.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I stared at the half-opened wet wipes on the side table and thought hard.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Truly, who the heck is up at this time of night. And who would once again bathe?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I didn't get any answers that night, nor could I make out what that conversation was all about. It was just something earnest between a man and a woman. It almost sounded the same, as if recorded and replayed again and again.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Before dawn arrived, I too fell asleep.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The next day, my GF was adamant that the place was haunted and refused to stay another night. No need.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Kluang wasn't so big as to bother with another night unless you go hiking at two of their very popular recreational hillsides and streams. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Well, with this GF and her fear of mosquitoes, that's definitely out of the question. I enjoyed her fair skin too so keeping her out of the sun was fine by me. I've climbed enough mountains and beachcombed enough seasides for the two of us. But hey, what about golf? PAMOL was just such a sweet sweet place.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end </span><i><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">(by TC Lai, 2nd May 2021)</span><br /></i></p><p><i><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/the-gate.html">The Gate</a>; next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/one-balmy-night.html">One Balmy Night</a></span></i></p></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-68180043185825327232021-08-03T07:32:00.004-07:002021-08-03T08:14:56.439-07:00The Gate<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2272585297530079699" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCMaNLnN-3EAo014ys_iC0mOBXxBZy4ZI56BhhBIEUKSRr1gwiGKcwERxpfpiwLB4mB0xnbY_cSseQBfjzmKtqDKz7gVxZ5Ef0dfgVr0fIegMYtSsn8PcGAjb9a9zMp6bW_NH5uo2srs/s345/Ghost+gate.jpg" style="background-color: #ece1cb; color: #993300; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCMaNLnN-3EAo014ys_iC0mOBXxBZy4ZI56BhhBIEUKSRr1gwiGKcwERxpfpiwLB4mB0xnbY_cSseQBfjzmKtqDKz7gVxZ5Ef0dfgVr0fIegMYtSsn8PcGAjb9a9zMp6bW_NH5uo2srs/s320/Ghost+gate.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">When you see ghosts often, you can get fed-up. Fed-up with their skin tone (often pale), fed-up with their wardrobe (<i>macham</i> cut from curtain), fed-up with their posture (often hunched), fed-up with their attitude (often morose). You would hope to find one with at least a "glass half full than half empty" attitude, but no. They all seem to hang on to some grudge, some unfulfilled wish, like waiting long outside a LiHo bubble tea shop only to be told they have run out of your favourite order. <i>Nabeh</i>.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Isn't death a release? Isn't that why people commit suicide? To end it all and ascend to that place with the fluffy clouds and harp music? Or 72 virgins (who must be pretty aged by now) standing next to a K-Y Jelly dispenser that is still expecting its first token?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Apparently suicide isn't all that sweet a way out. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I know because I asked one. He was standing on the other side of a gate of a driveway whose house I was tasked to look after. My friend Ben's old family home.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The ghost young man said: "With suicide, you are in limbo. You cannot be somewhere until they figure out if you have offended Heaven's Mandate. If your fate is to be the next LKY of Sg and you suddenly decide on your own to be just as dead as he is, then Heaven will not be happy and will punish you. If they find out that your ambition was to be the next Anabelle Chong, then they will say "C'est la vie", or <i>suanleba</i>. Coz there's already too many Anabelle Chongs out there for you to matter."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"But why the sour face?" (I had to ask.)</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"When you first die, your human functions are still pretty much intact. These urges will only slowly fade over time. You still pee, you still <i>pung sai</i>. And do you know how frustrating it is to reach for that toilet paper only to see it slip through your fingers? Obviously being dead we lose connection to the physical world. So, our first shit, no toilet paper. Many then walk around afterwards with a dingleberry hanging on like some dear friend. As you can imagine, not very comfortable. -This is also why some prefer to wear gowns with an open crotch. And why many a place with spirits often have that pungent smell. You had come along when "somebody' was doing his or her "business".</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">So now you understand why we all just-died-one spirits have that "look" on our faces. We are not constipated; we are just <i>tulan/paiseh/boh pian </i>all rolled into one. I was a very good graphic designer before I decided to take my own life. Even I could not have designed an emoji to reflect that...that look!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">A certain Disney animated movie came to mind. But quickly, I was like Wow, that was some sharing! I did not expect that. Meanwhile the gate beside me groaned as more spirits appeared on the other side. I checked if the lock would hold. It rattled but held firm.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Is that all?" I said, not sure what to ask next.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Well, after your final dump, that's not much of any earthly attachment left. You feel a sense of relief actually, so much so that you feel as if you are floating. That is why some spirits you come across have their feet off the ground. That is why you don't have to be frightened like some girly taxi driver along a deserted road. No need to be scared scared one. Laugh if you can because that ghostly bugger had just pung sai!"</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Hahahaha, this young man ghost chortled. If he had space, he would have just collapsed on the floor ROFL. But the driveway was getting crowded. The young man soon corrected himself because the other spirits were giving him their best death stares. He soon became morose again - just like them.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Sorry, got out of character there just now."</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">What? Did he say he just got out of character? I was beginning to think there was some conspiracy afoot.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I stepped back to have a think about that. Meanwhile, I kept a raised eye on the gate. Through the slits I could see plenty of bodies and shadows moving about. All waiting as if there was going to be a Black Friday sale.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">According to a Taoist priest who came, asked for the toilet and then disappeared, he told me that my friend's house was along a spirit highway of sorts. And that the longkang river behind was actually the River Styx of Chinese mythology. You know, a place to wade in and forget what your life used to be. A total reset.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">A famous bridge (guarded by an old lady) spanned it.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"If you ask your friend, he would have seen that old lady walking about sometimes," said the Taoist priest, a tad too nervous for my liking. That was when he excused himself, went into the toilet and never came out.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">That was before I told him that I had already seen one old lady. She used to drop by quite often to ask if got old clothes, old newspapers and old radios. A <i>karang guni</i> kindred who pushed a trolley cart full of discarded cardboard. I asked her once how much per kilo for the newspaper and she said, "Forgot liao." Typical.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end (by TC Lai, 18th May 2021 (original date))</span></p><p><i>Previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/ghost-girl.html">Ghost Girl</a>; next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/a-night-at-white-house.html">A Night at the White House</a></i></p></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-65925495149991157512021-08-03T07:28:00.015-07:002021-08-03T08:17:37.144-07:00Ghost Girl<p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5wjW7U6H1js_wt5jd6UCX2yZNy6k29d09Wm5Y22w9pBOS4PkhD9uvHNtIRdztitEcyG2j-qlLWtxyv8WiOD3sqb0kh3P0ZiLlP_vbd-BT9I2RClQY6Ilw3e_MwnoIDpPXqZ8MIJWJj0/s240/Ghosy+Girl.jpg" style="background-color: #ece1cb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="210" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5wjW7U6H1js_wt5jd6UCX2yZNy6k29d09Wm5Y22w9pBOS4PkhD9uvHNtIRdztitEcyG2j-qlLWtxyv8WiOD3sqb0kh3P0ZiLlP_vbd-BT9I2RClQY6Ilw3e_MwnoIDpPXqZ8MIJWJj0/s0/Ghosy+Girl.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">A Thai kuman thong amulet.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-1552018072373739400" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"><br />I've been making love to this ghost girl for the third time now. I know, it all sounds quite impossible, right? </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But when you are weighed down by the weariness of a day's work (that consisted of three jobs in this gig economy), fuzzed up by the edge of REM sleep each night, then what's real and not soon become a blur.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Besides, she is at that sweet age of her mid-20s, not too young and importantly, not jaded by life yet. Or death, in her case.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I never quite got the chance to really ask about her death. She would appear, we would cuddle and then it is on to passionate lovemaking. Afterwards, I would fall asleep (as most guys do) and by the time morning crows, she was gone. Only the slight indentation on the bed reminded me she was once there.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The first time it happened I thought it was a dream. But as evidence on the sheets mounted, I knew it wasn't just a wet dream like when I was a teenager. I'm already in my 30s and already tutored by some of the best MILFs around. Giving home tuition has its perks, is all I can say. The Kumon Method? More like the Cum'on Method of seduction by desperate housewives. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">You might think a ghost girl to be frightening to behold, much less cuddle. But the long hair, white gown only served to remind me of an ex-GF who had the habit of practicing her seamstress skills on extra plain bedsheets. She even sewed me a cover for my motorbike once. It was funny undressing her as it would seem like I was just getting my 1200cc Suzuki beast out out of the garage. But instead it was she who was the beast that rode me hard.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;"> "Come on, TC, rev me up," she would say, pinning me down and pinch-rolling my biceps as if they were bike handle throttles or something. She would then grind me at the other end like she was turning and banking on some MotoGP track. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Or on an arcade racing machine at TimeZone.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">That she also had a license to ride my big bike only added to the excitement. Vroom, vroom ba ba vroom! Sadly this relationship did not last. We ran out of fuel after a year. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Many a breakfast morning, I tried to imagine what this ghost girl was like. I knew she was pretty, her cheekbones accented by, as usual, questionable make-up her kind were apt to deploy. At least she acquiesced to not wearing garish lipstick that pierced the night!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I hated kissing girls with any form of lipstick. It's akin to asking me to savour paint. Since three years old, I had stopped doing that. A wall in my ancestral home still bear marks of my pudgy hands there, no doubt as an inside family joke for "posterity". I wished I had the sense to pee all over their shoes at the time, but the place was laid over with plastic sheets and they rendered my baby walker pretty much immobile.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Without lipstick her lips were deathly pale. It only encouraged me to want to breathe more life into her. Ardent kissing fueled by a sense of altruism?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Kissing this ghost girl was interesting. She didn't have a long tongue like a <i>pontianak</i> (thank god!) but it was not short either. But tongue gymnastics aside, this ghost girl would swallow my tongue over and over again without me feeling "tugged" or strained. The feeling is not unlike trying to hold on to trout leaping over and over again to get back upstream. Your tongue only feel desire over and over again. Actually, it felt like it was being wanked.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At the other end, she would work the same with a free hand of hers, soon erecting the necessary 'tentpole' to climb on to.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">As a guy, being worked at both ends like that was especially satisfying. That I did not have to coach her was even more golden. Soon I would come inside her warming what must be a hollow that was once an uterus alive.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At this her belly region would glow green as if my seed radiated some kind of power. The power of life, I suppose. That was satisfying somehow. I felt I needed to return her a favor anyhow.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Why this ghost girl would want my seed, I do not know. And as a single man, I was glad to have any sort of sexual liaison in the middle of the night without any romantic preamble. I counted myself extremely lucky.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And ghost girls do not (or cannot) rob you blind after you have fallen asleep, unlike some social escorts with questionable ethics.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And just as quietly as she had arrived, she would slip away before the morning crows.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The morning after our third liaison, I met my friend Pang for breakfast at the downstairs kopitiam near where I lived. Pang was an old friend who had an unusual profession. He's a temple consultant. He teaches temple folk the necessary Taoist practices to get their temple going as a neighborhood concern. What joss papers to burn, the important festivals to observe and carry out, how to raise funds during Qing Ming, new baby blessings, etc.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Pang was as sensitive and attuned to such matters as they come. And after nursing our first cups of coffee, he noticed something unusual with my hands, especially the fingers.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Your nails have a dark edge," was all he said, matter-of-factly. I stared at them and true enough, the side edges of my nails were stained with a creeping darkness. They looked like they should belong on a corpse. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I didn't know what it meant at the time. Maybe just a lack of nutrition and rest from working three jobs a day?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In reality, my work life has been sucking all the energy out of me. I often wished I could do something about it. But the bills and credit letters keep piling up.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">"Did you encounter anything unusual recently?" Pang asked. Knowing him, he was implying if there was anything supernatural.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I know I was being selfish, but I loved this 'arrangement' with my ghost girl. Well, not so much an arrangement than me being a willing victim, you know, in the middle of the night, just over the cusp of REM sleep and getting laid whilst in a wonderful dream state. It's been a while since I slept with such bliss without the influence of alcohol or sleeping pills. And I hated using them both for that purpose. One's addiction in life should be the person you cuddle with.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I shrugged my shoulders to indicate indifference and Pang did not pursue the matter further. "Just watch yourself," was all he said. We then moved on to our favorite topic: food. This time it was about a new briyani rice place nearby. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Two nights on, the ghost girl came again. I could tell simply by the sweet smell that preceded her. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Instinctively, I would reach over to hug her. Of course, I would first get a mouthful of her long hair. Laughing and brushing them aside, I would then stroke her long neck, wondering about the scar (or bruise) that shines there. I couldn't be sure in the dim light what caused it, and didn't feel I had the right to ask.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And if she had committed suicide by hanging, so be it. It was none of my business. She wasn't an aggressive spirit so she couldn't have been an aggrieved person out for revenge. Nor did she give out the vibe that she had old scores to settle.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I know I shouldn't be this laissez faire about the whole affair. And I wasn't out to "take advantage" of her. Truth be told, I felt more "nursed" than anything. At a time when I was desperately trying to make ends meet and also to navigate a devastating pandemic, she was coddling and giving me much comfort, if not actually love.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">She also did not need to wear no mask, and I was glad.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">On this particular night, I decided to drink <i>kopi-O gau</i> to keep awake. As usual, at around four, she came. One moment a shadow outside my window, the next a demure nymph beside me in bed.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Her sweet scent was overpowering, rendering me speechless. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Soon, she was ardently and earnestly kissing me again. A new hunger in her this time, I noticed. Her hands were equally urgent, working my manhood into a stiff member that soon strained against the fabric of her gown, like a lance suddenly falling onto a curtain and stretching it to a point. A long, eager point.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Quickly, she lifted her gown to make way, and I was soon inside her moist insides eager to explore further.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Again she rode me like rodeo, her perky breasts this time silhouetting against the light coming in from the corridor.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I reached out for them, closed my eyes and began rocking to her rhythm. At a certain point I would climax and leave my seed inside her. She would sigh, satisfied. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">This time, however, she didn't get the chance to lie beside me. Often she would do that until I fell asleep. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">On this night, however, she was simply yanked away like a piece of paper snatched out from thin air, vanishing in a puff of vapor.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">As a matter of fact, a shepherd's hook did appear from nowhere around her neck. One yank and she was gone. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Instinctively, I reached out to grab at her but to no avail. She was taken away way too quickly, only leaving a faint trail of green... what's left of my seed.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Soon the scene jarred back to normal. That of an HDB estate getting ready to wake up and go about its business.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">That she was so suddenly whisked away this time shocked me. Was it always like that the previous times even when I was asleep? No one, I mean no ghost even, should be unceremoniously exited like that.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I tried to think more about it but was simply too goddamn tired to go on. I soon fell asleep - a sleep that was both deep and uneasy.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">The next morning happened to be my day-off. It was already near lunch time and I decided to explore a new town that had sprung out next to where I lived. There was a new briyani stall Pang had suggested I should go try.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">It was situated in a kopitiam together with a row of spanking new shops.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Interestingly, the shop at the row's end sold Thai amulets. The man inside was dressed in a casual yellow shirt not too dissimilar to those worn by Taoist priests under their robes. His hands were busy making a wooden doll with black hair and a white gown. A bit crude, I thought. Perhaps he would add finer finishes to it later and place it amongst the gold and brightly colored deities that often took residence in those four-sided altars popular with such religious practices. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I also noticed an unusual staff (pole) leaning against the wall at the far corner. A staff with a hook at the top not unlike those used by Western shepherds of yore.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I didn't think too much of that at the time, being much more taken aback by the vast array of amulets this shop had on offer. But the smell of briyani rice had also wafted in to remind me of my original mission. After a night of passionate lovemaking, I was ready to eat a big plate of mutton curry rice.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Back home, I soon got online to find out more about those Thai amulets. They were such mysterious objects yet rumored to be very powerful in changing one's destiny.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Could they help get me away from this pointless gig economy into a more permanent job with good prospects?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Maybe also establish a long term relationship with someone to start a family with eventually?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">What I found out about Thai amulets was a bit shocking. Basically, there were two kinds: one that radiated Buddha's blessing, the other was to cast a spell. In other words, black magic.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And there was this "kuman thong" - an amulet that contained the spirit of a baby or child. It could be used either for good or bad. But often it was used for evil deeds at the command of a 'master'.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">At that I recoiled in horror. I put a hand to my mouth in shock at the sudden realization that perhaps my ghost girl was being used as a mule, much like the drug mules (girls) deployed by drug lords in Columbia to smuggle drugs across bothers. Drugs that were either carried in their stomachs or as a tampon.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Was my ghost girl being used to harvest human seed to cultivate some kind of kuman thong to do evil?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Was that why she was yanked away so unceremoniously after each job was done. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I gagged and vomited there and then, the room quickly filling up with the warm stench of recently ingested briyani rice.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">I looked at my nails and found the dark edges having crept slightly deeper. What would happen if all my nails become black? Would the dark rings under my eyes get severe as well? Would that spell the end of me?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">But my thoughts quickly turned to my ghost girl and if she was in such a bondage. If she was compelled under threat of spell by some evil Taoist priest to do what she was doing?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">And what can I do to free her? Would I even see her again?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">In panic I grabbed my phone and called Pang. If anybody knew what to do, it would be him.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #ece1cb;">- the end (by TC Lai, 9th May 2021)</span></p><p><i style="background-color: #ece1cb;">Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2021/08/the-gate.html" style="color: #993300; text-decoration-line: none;">The Gate</a>; previous story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.com/2020/09/a-surprise-visit-from-very-old-friend.html">A Surprise Visit from a Very Old Friend</a></i></p><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); color: #666555; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 12.6px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 20px -2px 0px; padding: 5px 10px;"></div>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-60833657992670446852020-09-15T08:51:00.007-07:002020-09-15T08:53:00.732-07:00A Surprise Visit from a Very Old Friend<p>A Surprise Visit From A Very Old Friend<br /><br />I was utterly shocked on Saturday when my 83-year old friend came to visit. He's almost blind and requires torchlight to move around at night. </p><p>Thankfully, he caught a cab and not ride the mrt as he usually does when he was "working" at the kpt where I would usually sit, read and scratch my balls (not in that order). 🤣</p><p>"Working" because he used to "pao jiang-hu" (weather the world) with the boss of Koufu who, at the moment, still pays him a salary even though this old friend no longer works as the "tou shou" (coffee brewing head) at his kpt. It was all because of his failing eyesight. This was already a few years back. </p><p>But up till last year, my old friend, Ah Goh, felt bad for taking an empty salary and he would still make his way to the kpt to start his late-night shift. I was mightily impressed with his work ethic, and even more so when he said he fainted a couple of times on his way there from the nearby Semb mrt station.</p><p>That was how I got curious about him. He used to rest a while below my block before continuing his way. Before, I had seen him at Toa Payoh and wondered why a kpt guy in TP would work so far in Semb.</p><p>When at the kpt, he would usually sit by himself, clear the tables, read his newspaper, or take a nap. Come 5.30 am he would leave.</p><p>That's some dedication for a man who's old, almost blind and best of all, did not need to be there!</p><p>Anyone would be curious as to why. 📷</p><p>In our talk yesterday, he again stressed that honesty and dedication to a job were key. In the past, when the Koufu boss called on him to do something, he would always get it done even if it was setting up a nasi lemak biz to supply his boss' clientele in River Valley. (Back then it was as happening a nightspot as today.)</p><p>One suspects this guy would still be at his post even when bombs fall. He said the Koufu boss was a good man and he would do anything for him.</p><p>This old man grew up in Jalan Cheng Hwa (Bukit Panjang). His parents were well known in the area as jiang-hu medicine people. His mom was an eye "specialist" whilst his father was a mat-on- the-floor snake oil/snake wine medicine man. Ah Goh must have had an interesting childhood. He grew up poor and his education up till P5 was interrupted by the war.</p><p>At 15 his father found work for him at a nearby kpt emptying spittoons - for that he was paid $30 a month. He said he hated that start. Who wouldn't? As a kid I had to empty my dad's urinal pot each morning. An odorous task hated by my mom also. In the end, my dad had to give up that habit. </p><p>It was around that age that Ah Goh met the then Boys Town director Bro Vincent (also Founder) who was trying to get him to enrol into his trade school and also to go there to learn English at night. Ah Goh remembers him well because Bro Vincent spoke to him in English; Goh was mightily impressed. Bro Vincent, like most of the BT priests then, they were all Canadian French. </p><p>I attended the sec sch in Boys Town some decade and a half later and led many parades on Founders Day with Bro Vincent standing on the dias as VVIP. He's a well loved man. Ah Goh also remembers Bros Emmanuel and Roger, the latter whom loved to go around taking pictures. I met Bro Roger some years back when preparing an anniversary dinner. Yes, Boys Town owed Bro Roger many of the old pictures of place when it was founded and built. In fact. many of the giant trees you see standing in BT were indeed planted by Bro Roger himself in the 50s. It's awe-inspiring just standing next to them.</p><p>So, unwittingly, a slow old man sitting below my block has a connection with me. Looking at him, people will generally assume he has dementia or something. His movements were slow and seemingly forgetful. He was anything but. His movements were deliberate due to poor eyesight.</p><p>In the past I would chat with him whenever I was at the kpt. He was quiet but seemed a nice fellow. And I was always worried if some of the more nefarious characters there might take advantage of these old folks, like one time selling them placenta longevity pills that cost $500 a 30-pill bottle. These pills don't work and make one very heaty, Ah Goh told me. He was wise to just try a sample.</p><p>(There's a current trend of post-natal women collecting their own placenta to make pills - believing it would help replenish body estrogen levels. (Making your own is cheaper than buying off the shelf ones which are very expensive and usually made from deer. Placenta pills are not difficult to make if you have an air-dryer. But do note that you can suffer from anxiety or depression or worse, vagina bleeding. It is better to just take regular supplements!)</p><p>At one time Ah Goh was always dropping his pen. The reason was a hole in his pocket. An easy fix, so I went home (which was nearby), got out my thread and needle and helped him sew it up. Haha, it was the first time I ever sewed anything with a person in it. In primary school we all learnt to sew, embroider, knit, crochet, etc. - it was indeed a very unusual but rich experience!</p><p>On another occasion, it was just helping him to get a proper elderly phone or bright torch. Or getting him a proper carry-all bag. Small little gestures that made me wonder how come his kids never did all those things for him. Buying a bloody Nokia phone with screen lock that he couldn't even get past. Really ter nao (pig brain) and also WTF.</p><p>That night I met his three daughters at the door. Again wtf. Aren't daughters supposed to know better?</p><p>I could understand perhaps Goh was a good provider but not a great father, prefering to run around jiang-hu then hang about at home.</p><p>He's now deaf in one ear and can only hear partial in the other. He needs eye drops daily to see. His eyes are clear so likely the problem is with his retina, the sensing cones hardening and becoming useless. Docs have told him we will go completely blind in three years. Just the thought of that must be terrifying!</p><p>Ah Goh regrets not seeking consultation early. Now, in dim places, he needs bright torchlight to feel his way - why I was so damn surprised to get his call on Saturday. I was really gobsmacked. 📷</p><p>We finished our catch-up in the kpt at 10:15 that night. Naturally he was curious as to what changes had taken place at the kpt since he left. I then sent him home by cab back to Bishan. The Malay driver gave me a big discount as he said I was doing a good deed. I said I was just doing what I could. 📷</p><p>It was as much an education talking to Ah Goh as it was for me helping him out. Old people are time capsules and since my time volunteering at the Singapore Memory Project (now defunct), I find I enjoy talking to them . Their recall of the past is just like time travel to me. Many a times, I learn very surprising things.</p><p>At the door when I was explaining to Ah Goh's daughters how I came to be bringing their father home. They let slip that they didn't even know that their grandparents were from Jalan Cheng Hwa. I think I need to go visit Ah Goh and educate these kids... And "wake up their idea." KNS. <br /><br />- the end<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b4p1L3M2JUWOcf4JFzUftMqjGTTImfjhnRE1PjOE_nYL13O68a73EKDXe30SyzIMbgiCwJg4tYltwXkJSUqoFy1kAnxsKGW6CsEQWZpe4bwCxr0ktQGPIbCoeZCeigKkgJ_y5GFBoPw/s506/Ah+Goh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="341" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b4p1L3M2JUWOcf4JFzUftMqjGTTImfjhnRE1PjOE_nYL13O68a73EKDXe30SyzIMbgiCwJg4tYltwXkJSUqoFy1kAnxsKGW6CsEQWZpe4bwCxr0ktQGPIbCoeZCeigKkgJ_y5GFBoPw/s320/Ah+Goh.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah Goh (Hoo Sin) - half blind but still made his way from Bishan to visit me. I'm humbled.</td></tr></tbody></table>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-88321019555858028442013-12-12T10:12:00.000-08:002017-03-01T07:47:13.289-08:00Appreciating Nudes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1206AZGp8JFw1xrW0AuW4BFg2eHV5SDK7aZeHJBUn2CjVho8s8YE2MTFzXXp6-Wg4ggJEly9ZfgZzSka9lZvsk1qU4Qjk3X__TI3QH5SeThG8elFvctorkjppX4_3EHjflsvYeXxzRc/s1600/Nudes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1206AZGp8JFw1xrW0AuW4BFg2eHV5SDK7aZeHJBUn2CjVho8s8YE2MTFzXXp6-Wg4ggJEly9ZfgZzSka9lZvsk1qU4Qjk3X__TI3QH5SeThG8elFvctorkjppX4_3EHjflsvYeXxzRc/s320/Nudes.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Nudes. I started to like nudes when I was a very young kid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I think that topless Iban woman who regularly delivered fresh fruits to my family in Kuching had something to do with it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There she goes, jaunting up our garden path in all her natural bounciness! She had huge breasts that hung low... probably the lovelies had not seen material support since, what, puberty? Forest folks like her didn't indulge in fabric support (and maybe still don't). And she had such wonderful copper-tinted skin that sunlight would glint off it making my recall of her look even more sepia and dream-like. That's how I recall things these days: in sepia tones and at times, Gaussian Blur.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">From that encounter, I realised that we human beings had been hiding behind clothes all along. So I did what most kids hit with an epiphany at that young age would do: I rebelled. I, of course, went overboard to make a point. I walked around as much as I could without my trousers!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I was three years old so no police were called in to arrest me for indecent exposure. Most people thought I was cute. And if that day was my birthday, they would even use my little pecker to pick up numbers. Luckily no one struck any prize and won, else my thumb-sized of an appendage would have been extremely busy... Put on a pedestal even!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No boy or guy should grow up thinking his willie has such awesome power. It's never good for a guy to think he has THAT much influence! It's enough for a guy to be blessed with Morning Flag Pole Syndrome or MFPS, or what working women all call "morning di seow" (morning disturbance), all dressed up ready to leave when the hubby wants his honeymoon all over again!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ok, so I had an understanding of nudes when I was a little kid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Trying to draw them was another matter. If you were Chinese, you just didn't. You would be caned for being "ham sup" or sleazy. Worse, you could be labelled a "sik long" or sex maniac.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Understandably, I had to suppress my desire at that early age to draw naked figures. I dared not even try to do it in the privacy of my own good self least one of many siblings should uncover my artwork and tattle-tale.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I would then observe and try to draw in my mind, which was a success every time! I at times marveled at my own faithful reproductions. Ridiculous, really!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But my mind-nude drawings would at times create misunderstandings. Kindly aunties would wander over and say, "My, what huge cute eyes you have!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">They didn't know I was underessing them all the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But it all got rather tiring after a while. I then decided the best way to draw nudes was to focus on animal bodies. Dogs, cats, fish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then came a spider. It was tough, full of apprehension. Would it keep still? Would it sprint at me? The session would eventually end with one of us running away. Or at one time, I had to kill my 'model' as it got really close and personal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I think artists killing models was not new even then, but still, it was traumatic. And after the spider was smashed, its beautiful body outline lost all symmetry. So sad it was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Snails. I then decided to draw snails, which were excellent subjects given their penchant for loitering and their 'I've got the whole day' attitude.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But snails with their hard shells were not what I was after. I liked the body form, the soft curves. Up till then I was only fascinated with the female form. The flowing hair, the high cheekbones, the svelte waist, the slim ankles, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A kid with a keen mind can see a lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then Incek Osman turned up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He was a fisherman who brought us fish. He too was top naked like that Iban woman. But oh, what lean muscles he had!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Up till then, my male human body template had been my dad's on his weekends shirt off. And he wasn't exactly Adonis; not even close. He had a slight beer belly.... A body like any other middle-aged man content with after dinner naps and TV on the sofa. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So I was surprised to learn that there were such things as muscle and sinew.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My young mind went into overdrive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When Incek Osman came near, I had to poke him to make sure. Hmm, hard flesh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Incek Osman laughed. "Eh, lit-tah boy," he would say each time he saw me, clicking his tongue at the 'little'. Afterwards, he would speak in Malay with my mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">From that day on, I started looking at men, the end template of which I would grow up into. Of course, I didn't know anything about the relationship between solid body and exercise, just that the natives were all leaner than the angmohs who worked with my dad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Perhaps they didn't have enough to eat, or that they ever only ate fish and not meatier stuff like pork.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I also started scouring for pictures of people and bodies, which was difficult given the place we lived in It was on the outskirts of Kuching town. The only books I could reference were some religious text that my brother brought back from his Sunday school. Not much help there; only semi-nudes like Jesus on his cross and slaves working in the grain fields.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But my interest in drawing nudes (and people or animals) soon waned after we started catching butterflies and moths to put into picture frames. In unspoilt Kuching then, butterflies were a dime a dozen. All kinds, you name it. They were different in size, wing pattern and color. There were also huge insects like the stick insect, horn beetle or the noisy cicada.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">These days, we balk at catching any butterfly so rare they are. But back then, the situation was very different. We could do it day after day and there was still no shortage of them to frame up. But of course, back then, the climate and environment were both so different from today's. Such delicate creatures thrived then!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I got to primary school, I had very interesting art and craft lessons. We not only drew and painted, but we sewed, embroidered, knitted and crotcheted. We also made miniature furniture, weaved mats and created stuffed animals.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then one day, we were taught portraiture. Memories of my early childhood interest in nudes resurfaced.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Would I dare draw something?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">By then my 12-year old self had learnt and seen much. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At 6, I had seen my dad's stash of naughty playing cards he had brought back from Vietnam, no doubt meant for those lonely GIs over there fighting an unfamiliar war so far from home. They showed guys and gals posing in the nude. Nothing alarming there except they all had salon-done hair. The ladies would be wearng flaming red lipstick and six-inch heels. If I have to take my clothes off, my hair and footwear would be the least I am worried about. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At 9, I had watched Sex and The Animals in the cinema and seen all manner of bestial intercourse (within their own species, of course). Some coital unions were alarming, some sweet, and some, wholly ingenious!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At 12, I had stolen glances at a couple making love in their bed, tenants of our room for rent. They were a young but odd couple that did not follow the usual routine of normal folks. They spent most of the day in bed and went out only occasionally at night. My mom thought they took drugs and terminated their lease not long after. They did look rather unhealthy. Even their lovemaking was unenergetic. (You cannot blame a boy for spying when he comes home from school and hear strange noises!) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That year, I also saw a woman give birth. It was played out in glorious technicolor video right next to the main entrance of the old National Museum - the one with the whale bone hanging over its main staircase inside. In the video, the camera was right smack where the baby would emerge, pubes and all. I don't know why the museum would choose to showcase something like that and to the public some more. Was it to encourage them to have more babies? Or scare them? Some men get traumatised watching a video like that. "Watching my wife's pubes become deformed like that was like watching my favourite pub burn down!" a famous male singer once said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, when protraiture came around during art lesson during primary school, I was kind of jaded and lost my eye for the body beautiful. Mind you, sexual connotation hadn't come into the picture as yet. My male hormones hadn't kicked in. The human body was still the mirror of the one I had, all innocent and underdeveloped. I saw it as that, what the good Earth gave. Or what mom managed to bake in her 'oven'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My return to appreciating nudes would be much later when I took an interest in photography and started looking at pics that were stylish and highly technical.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But in those days, people's attitude with nudes were still pretty conservative, no doubt influenced by religious and puritan biases. They often failed to separate the cultural and social elements from a nude work of art.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A nude photo or art celebrates more than just the body beautiful. It's about what goes on in our heads and hearts at our most vulnerable and private moments. We've all been there in the bathroom, tap full on, water running down our backs trying to make sense of the world or trying to make an important life decision.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I don't think anyone can be anymore naked and exposed than that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">With clothes back on, we lose that nudist honesty about ourselves. Clothes, in a sense, become our body's mask once more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Nope, I don't think I have any more ambitions to draw or photograph nudes. One, getting anyone to pose nude still presents a challenge. Two, it is a highly technical art requiring special equipment and setup (talking about photography here). Three, I'm more interested in buildings and architecture.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Interestingly, buildings when bare look unfinished, abandoned. When we are bare, we are ready to start anew. Or simply, take me as I am.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2011/12/monster-to-live-with.html">A Monster To Live With</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNgmKMjlIBeK8JedIjbMpnKp8EomgOU_mwalY16AfQ9dmimmdKAACxjBVFL9U5HZciEH_od9PmtQlxREIKU324zqbkdwU6PkXsHgHvw84rAa-uwrytcOV3iVXj6FR2RztgpHAtZ6QLbY/s1600/Ren+Hang+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNgmKMjlIBeK8JedIjbMpnKp8EomgOU_mwalY16AfQ9dmimmdKAACxjBVFL9U5HZciEH_od9PmtQlxREIKU324zqbkdwU6PkXsHgHvw84rAa-uwrytcOV3iVXj6FR2RztgpHAtZ6QLbY/s320/Ren+Hang+9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ren Hang - China's provocateur photographer and poet. RIP 28 Feb 2017. Some of his less X-rated works below. <br />Last photo (sundial) my own humor piece. ;-)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHaMgVBysivTaF_HqjRfGBRRLLFRI0gft7CzENLXO8HsrdTxjKaXVMx3XQ6PmBPvpO-CPeU1ctQynxfPhNzyjuY1_AKaNSWFcDlR6VjipK6ja1IMhvmVAEH9yHfc_bQHKV2v_0yB9CLk/s1600/Ren+Hang2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHaMgVBysivTaF_HqjRfGBRRLLFRI0gft7CzENLXO8HsrdTxjKaXVMx3XQ6PmBPvpO-CPeU1ctQynxfPhNzyjuY1_AKaNSWFcDlR6VjipK6ja1IMhvmVAEH9yHfc_bQHKV2v_0yB9CLk/s320/Ren+Hang2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcTy2FkXI5GlVn2-VWY6k7Qg2l3HtQjf_auCPqQtjzC5Ahbpjbv_EUnRh2_zJljGwQtDX5mZ0PKuwTJ_gI5a1xdL36-GDO7GHcH-Ct4esvbk-WFv1hz1w-4S6dgsv32j-X5Glo-7fgrU/s1600/Ren+Hang3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcTy2FkXI5GlVn2-VWY6k7Qg2l3HtQjf_auCPqQtjzC5Ahbpjbv_EUnRh2_zJljGwQtDX5mZ0PKuwTJ_gI5a1xdL36-GDO7GHcH-Ct4esvbk-WFv1hz1w-4S6dgsv32j-X5Glo-7fgrU/s320/Ren+Hang3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFCv5vasNtzuI3h4ZXhAnjQIrGW9xIChKK1bF8HDaiv3FpnxZgh6j1pl9LGWhYJ6FLEYLpzPCWbQr9jkfFBjTySP8Zs5F9ot4PffNIsebMRdRnscPYJHWovj5y7aHR_gJjtuWMNjikD-A/s1600/Ren+Hang4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFCv5vasNtzuI3h4ZXhAnjQIrGW9xIChKK1bF8HDaiv3FpnxZgh6j1pl9LGWhYJ6FLEYLpzPCWbQr9jkfFBjTySP8Zs5F9ot4PffNIsebMRdRnscPYJHWovj5y7aHR_gJjtuWMNjikD-A/s320/Ren+Hang4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcA9lf_Ii8A3mJ48B9YPIevkuV2K4NL1t4yMR8wn0lqaL-iYLjGsHqMSbHCpOr-xJq36a7aUbYbH7zQxsQarvKK6cU38HlkUWBO6ULgTefVRNewiPCJvaJ-lL3zgafe1cDYTIcEjmBg4/s1600/Ren+Hang5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcA9lf_Ii8A3mJ48B9YPIevkuV2K4NL1t4yMR8wn0lqaL-iYLjGsHqMSbHCpOr-xJq36a7aUbYbH7zQxsQarvKK6cU38HlkUWBO6ULgTefVRNewiPCJvaJ-lL3zgafe1cDYTIcEjmBg4/s320/Ren+Hang5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCQiXDIRR8M_XrlxZxKwZKk0wSfFWx5CHm9l2FmDj_l1jD0-h7o4fj-CF5oF24KUzG86PRv5PgIa_7_UmTKEcWJL46__ENhADIauE0gFOBwmJJiOjFy7XDhIvvFauGzUdnCddksT5d5A/s1600/Ren+Hang6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCQiXDIRR8M_XrlxZxKwZKk0wSfFWx5CHm9l2FmDj_l1jD0-h7o4fj-CF5oF24KUzG86PRv5PgIa_7_UmTKEcWJL46__ENhADIauE0gFOBwmJJiOjFy7XDhIvvFauGzUdnCddksT5d5A/s320/Ren+Hang6.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-mXFo2uJO-YTaqdFK-o7vixO2uWcD0igKy556_lkwEzcg3we-FCynDVRCqgVWQISEx8lzTpUShe9yREMM9vpZLPAb8jX0uloARUPZwTw5Wu2x9yJ13GxUQOEm6BmxamAow2T8aFXo1k/s1600/Ren+Hang7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-mXFo2uJO-YTaqdFK-o7vixO2uWcD0igKy556_lkwEzcg3we-FCynDVRCqgVWQISEx8lzTpUShe9yREMM9vpZLPAb8jX0uloARUPZwTw5Wu2x9yJ13GxUQOEm6BmxamAow2T8aFXo1k/s320/Ren+Hang7.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WcWk4nlfBJ2r_zkUUZlUJGIFAyVET-6lv5kxMGFnWwtS0ViraQVrLJ9qtG0lI83U9uCKxdeW0166lYdR1Ly_aAfrbJclpmLbaGVA-A5g5h_RtyHMW-k8vaoDB7JDPI5Ug05C3rVsE7E/s1600/Ren+Hang+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WcWk4nlfBJ2r_zkUUZlUJGIFAyVET-6lv5kxMGFnWwtS0ViraQVrLJ9qtG0lI83U9uCKxdeW0166lYdR1Ly_aAfrbJclpmLbaGVA-A5g5h_RtyHMW-k8vaoDB7JDPI5Ug05C3rVsE7E/s320/Ren+Hang+8.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbb-uZ1Tt6iDU_EZzlbL-YC-1-OhNCmyToKe7Sso_iEoM-kI9QpeWGIHbjlKcXE6I3E7hvDpC2LFunVAXe8LCWS8BrQsaynzr8tugYWmJ58detsjEX4wYegrBAe7GHZtDFJxiFpBrWi4/s1600/Ren+Hang+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbb-uZ1Tt6iDU_EZzlbL-YC-1-OhNCmyToKe7Sso_iEoM-kI9QpeWGIHbjlKcXE6I3E7hvDpC2LFunVAXe8LCWS8BrQsaynzr8tugYWmJ58detsjEX4wYegrBAe7GHZtDFJxiFpBrWi4/s320/Ren+Hang+1.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-12072319779154326202013-12-12T10:03:00.000-08:002015-01-27T03:45:32.999-08:00A Life of Jeans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiLlLsXZ-3HhcDiwpzrVJ4GnOxbrI979g1P341y9IPXYGvpNYHQlZn9uGq-fNVGpIpkgwBmzwkDydRUhHarCXIxPW0YVng5jlpS4nzVhZypmvfY8127Spa5u01jjw0zW3c-un89C0ysU/s1600/Jeans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiLlLsXZ-3HhcDiwpzrVJ4GnOxbrI979g1P341y9IPXYGvpNYHQlZn9uGq-fNVGpIpkgwBmzwkDydRUhHarCXIxPW0YVng5jlpS4nzVhZypmvfY8127Spa5u01jjw0zW3c-un89C0ysU/s320/Jeans.jpg" height="320" width="293" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Don't mean to sound odd but in a way, jeans are very much like girlfriends: you seldom forget the first one you meet and fall in love with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Growing up in the 70s, Levi's was the must-have jean. Failing that, you bought some other brand like Lee Cooper, Texwood or Lawman.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I remember correctly, Coopers were for those with shapely behinds; Texwoods for those who were slim and tall; Lawmans were, well, more Asian in cut and size.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I, like how I would choose my GFs later in life, opted for one called Jenkins. It was green in color and altogether rather different. What kind of green? Imagine the color of broccoli with underlying yellows; kind of green-fresh like sea moss, kind of yellow-cheery like the morning sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You can tell I related a lot to the color and mood that that jean brought about. And its fabric wasn't thick. It was a denim that felt cottony soft, almost like seude. The cut was piped at the ends (i.e. not flared) and that suited me fine. I was very skinny then.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Altogether, a Jenkins denim was thin and light, very slacks-like.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From that green pair of jeans I finally wore a blue colored one, albeit a stonewash. I've always worn them stonewashed. I didn't quite like the solid blue ones because they reminded me too much of dye. I loved the stonewashed fabric with its "lived in" pathos. It even has an ethereal quality reminiscent of girls with fair and angelic faces. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Mind you, that's by looks itself. Whether the girls have anything upstairs is another matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just like how some jeans look tough but would give way upon the slightest of rough outing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I tore my first jeans riding a motorcycle. No, I wasn't thrown off like a whipped catapult. Thank goodness!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A pick-up truck had inadvertently backed up against me as I was riding past. I did not fall over but wobbled for control. After I stopped my bike and checked the pain on my thigh, I found a short gash along its length. Fortunately, no skin was broken, only a heavy bruise. I could count myself lucky in not suffering worse.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I got that jeans sewn up again and it was serviceable once more. I guess that's the nature of denim. Takes a beating and keeps on going! Why, I suppose, it is a fabric first worn by miners and railroaders.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That pair of scarred jeans accompanied me on most of my motorbike rides in that mostly student phase of life. And I did ride far, often travelling from my home in Woodlands to Changi Airport to fetch my air stewardess GF home after each international flight. She lived in Tampines then, so the ride home for her wasn't too bad. But my return journey would be another matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Having missed her for a week or two, I would want to spend as much time with her as possible, By the time I bid my adieus, it would be late, around 2am+. At that hour, the ride along some of the expressways was cold, especially along BKE where forests flanked both sides for long stretches. Global warming wasn't a buzzword then, so the ambient temperature at night must have been much lower than it is today. Also, there was like 50% less cars than now. Less carbon emissions, less greenhouse effect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Later, after I broke off with this GF, I retired that pair of jeans. Wearing it was just too painful. Plus, we had bought it from a factory outlet at Rochor Centre, a favourite hangout place of ours. The jeans was branded Hoko's and by the time I retired it, it had faded much and frayed. And became snowy white with only flecks of its original pale blue colour remaining.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After that came another pair of green jeans. Why that particular color, I don't know. I can only guess that it was my favorite and hence gravitated towards it. Or perhaps after breaking off with my GF, I had to return to my roots. That I needed something to cheer up my mood might explain the sun-cheery underlying yellows of the fabric as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That new pair of green jeans was a Hara, bought from OG at People's Park. I think Hara was also commonly sold at that popular tee-shirt outlet called Heshe (i.e. "he, she"). Do you remember the Heshe stores? I visited the outlet at Parkway Parade quite often.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Hara brand had a motif of a Red Indian Chieftain sewn near the lip of the jean back pocket. It signified adventure and that's what I did. With my Hara jeans, I was single again and went out to resume my hiking/trekking ways.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The first place I hiked to was Mount Ophir. It was with a couple of army buddies. Well, one army buddy and two lady JC friends. I think my friend was trying to set me up with one of them. But I remember thinking it was all too soon. And the girl he was trying to set me up with had a funny laugh. Why I did not kindly let her know about that, I don't know. Politeness? Maybe. Telling her would be awkward, like saying someone's nose was too large. Right thinking folks are supposed to look past stuff like that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But keeping silent would be like letting a friend walk about with a pant zipper down. Someone has to say something!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Till today, I regret my inaction. Something like this can affect a girl's fate for life. She could continue to turn people off with her snorting, flatulating kind of laugh. She was after all a very sweet girl like that pair of jeans just fresh from a clothes dryer you just want to snuggle up to. Until she laughed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From Mount Ophir, that Hara jeans followed me on to various island trips around Malaysia and even on trips overseas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I drove my first left-hand drive car in that pair of jeans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I took off that pair of jeans to make love for the first time on a large continent, right there in front of a lovely fireplace in a very charming little cottage inn.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I tell you, images are powerful reminders. Especially when you remember folding that pair of jeans into your luggage and thinking that the trip should have gone on for much longer; perhaps never ending. Is that how honeymooners feel? I dunno. That was just a side trip from work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I also started my Reservist in that pair of jeans, a rather traumatic re-introduction to Army Life after an absence of six years since ROD. Ops Orders? What Op Orders??? Oh...that. What are the steps again?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Haiz.... When I changed out of that green pair of jeans, I would think what a long in-camp it was going to be. Army was a different green back then and not that Hara green. That pair of jeans was good while it lasted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some years later, I had to, with sadness, retire it. I had started my career as a journalist and unlike my more taxing Engineering work, I had begun to put on weight (from all that sitting down to write). I was no more the skinny me. An inch can made a lot of difference to the waistline of a pair of jeans and I had advanced by a couple. That's when my age also matched my waistline - not a good thing! But I think this sort of phenomenon only happens to guys than girls. And that Hara pair of jean wasn't really the stretchy, accommodating sort. So into the "has-been" bin it went.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The pair of jeans that came after was a tougher, more regular sort. It was a Lawman's. I wore that everywhere, including winter time in Hanover, which made realise jeans aren't the best option in that weather. Once outdoors, they felt wet and cold. My crotch never felt so vulnerable. But bore with it I did. And because the jeans was fitting, I couldn't wear extra clothing like thermals underneath. Oh, what a bummer!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fortunately, I had a long winter coat and that kept the cold winds from snapping at my family jewels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Another problem was wearing normal office shoes and socks as I would in my home country, which had a tropical climate. Nope, such shoes weren't exactly winter wear either! But who could blame me when my travel there was to work? I think a guy would tend to forget to buy the right shoes to wear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But then again, even in wintry conditions, women could still be seen in skirts and high heels. What's that Chinese saying about "valuing beauty above death"?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I liked the Lawman jeans for its fit and "jeaness", so when this pair of denim trousers became torn and ripped from overuse, I had to retire it and buy another. I remember my mom complaining each time she saw me. "Like a beggar," she would say. "Can you please go buy a new one?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But procrastinate I did. We all know how comfy an old pair of jeans can be. But a ripped pair of jeans doesn't show up well at smart casual events, so I had no choice but to say bye bye to it. I mean bits of my my underwear were already showing through!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My next pair was another Lawman's and that would be my last pair of jeans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Why? Because I had gotten into PR work and wearing jeans wasn't the thing to do. We all wore tailored clothes to look smart. And frankly, cloth is always more comfortable than denim. Cloth pants don't bite as much at the crotch and don't give one hip stress. They are lighter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So what memories did my last pair of jeans give me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It followed me on a backpacking trip to Europe that lasted 35 days and covered 24 places. Yet another pair of very special and memorable pair of jeans. Much like this ex-GF I am thinking about now!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/appreciating-nudes.html">Appreciating Nudes</a></i> </span>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-10308001792471126592013-12-12T09:59:00.000-08:002015-01-26T21:50:49.826-08:00Tailor Made (Mistakes)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkArqey-5rbghwlF11O5asHQKVfxcPUU8TZvNxOQz6QmZDq-CGU5tlF2EOmZRs5I_k6f7JLuh_-d7c_Ncu7MITYNXW4tlnrfG7LuZGuuqFXld03N2lJs6kNGlVah40ql6DjP-4RFDzI0/s1600/Tailor+Pants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkArqey-5rbghwlF11O5asHQKVfxcPUU8TZvNxOQz6QmZDq-CGU5tlF2EOmZRs5I_k6f7JLuh_-d7c_Ncu7MITYNXW4tlnrfG7LuZGuuqFXld03N2lJs6kNGlVah40ql6DjP-4RFDzI0/s320/Tailor+Pants.jpg" height="320" width="181" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a teenager, I think going to the tailor is a sure sign that you have grown up, joining the ranks of adults.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unless, of course, if your family was wealthy and your clothes were mintly tailored every Chinese New Year. A friend lived that...clothes tailored since he was three. He has a photo of himself in a tiny waist coat looking very much the Little Master he was called by his two amahs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was until his father's business took a dive and he had to wear hand-me-downs. He suddenly realised that clothes could last! And in his case, they did. His father's business took a while to recover. But although he was economically challenged, he did not buy clothes off the rack. He'd always found those ill-fitting, he said; and continued to have them tailored whenever he could afford it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I suggested if it was all in his mind this need to tailor. He smiled and said maybe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I then told him that although I had my clothes tailored once, they didn't fit. It was during my student days at Pre-U college. It was the beginning of the new school year and the school thought they could do the students a favour by hiring a tailor and have the uniforms made en masse, just to help the students save some money. It was after all a mission school and saving money a desired virtue. Besides, the students' families might appreciate the gesture. Maybe there were a number of needy students in our school that year!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I decided to sign up. For me it was just a matter of convenience. No need to go to a tailor and afterwards having to pick up the clothes there myself. Everything would be done at school. I also needn't worry if my uniform would be of the right shade of school color. Nobody had ever heard of the Pantone color-coding system at the time yet, let alone SCOTDIC the one for textiles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Surprisingly, even though it was a centralized effort, our school uniforms took longer than usual to finish and deliver. Were there too many orders?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In any case, on the day itself, I was very excited. I couldn't wait to wear my uniform and begin life at the new school. Pre-U sounded exciting and vastly different from secondary schooling. The Pre-U kids I've seen were more like young adults than pimple-challenged pubescent kids in shorts. I couldn't wait to be part of their cohort!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally, the Day of the Uniforms arrived. My classmates were just as excited as I was. My new classmate Long was also eager. He came from a kampung in Nee Soon (Yishun) and never had his clothes tailored.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But alas, to the disappointment of everyone, the uniforms came back very poorly made. How bad? Well, the inside seams of the pants didn't match for one. They were impossible to align when ironing (that's two!). The seamline would always be different each time and end up being crooked!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For someone who grew up with NPCC and smart uniforms, such awkward pants were rather off-putting. How could I wear these, I wondered?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I made a report to the school. It turned out that I was not the only one. The school was inundated with similar complaints and getting flak. The girls too were affected and had skirts with A-lines that were anything but. One classmate kept pulling at hers. The situation was so comical that we could only laugh. How can a tailor get such basics so very wrong? It was not as if they had to work with a difficult material such as silk! I mean all they had to do was sew straight, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We all wondered who made those clothes. It turned out to be a professional tailor. Really? We were all incredulous. We suspected that the shop subbed them out to other less-able contractors. Maybe the pants were sewn by two blind midgets taking one pant leg each. Sigh....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As with young adults, the reasons came fast and thick as did the inevitable jokes. Someone suggested that were our school uniform a sarong, things might turn out better. No sewing required. And we could change into our PE gear real quick without having to go to the changing room. At sports meets, we would have a flag to wave about, etc, etc. We could use the sarong to snap at each other. My classmates were not very book smart, but heck, their heads were always full of crazy ideas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, even though we might have become young adults, our thinking then was still very teenager!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I looked at myself in the mirror in my new school uniform. A young man in ill-fitting clothes stared back. The shirt was tight at the shoulders making him look hunched. The backside looked out of shape. The lower left leg seam was crooked. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wished the mirror to be a trick mirror but it wasn't!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I presented myself to my sister who laughed out loud immediately. "Yau mo gau cho ah!" she exclaimed in our dialect Cantonese. "That's really messed up! You better go get it changed!" She was still laughing as she exited the room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so the next day, I took my school uniforms (three sets) back to school. It turned out that we had to liaise with the tailor ourselves. And as the queue was long, I decided to live with it. After all, it was only for a short two-year course, barring me failing and having to repeat. After college I would be called up for National Service and can say goodbye to school. No more school uniforms for me! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">During NS, no one complained about mismatched seams and strange hemlines; we strangely fitted into our clothes rather well. Perhaps the "botak" haircut took away more than just hair. It also took away our critical nature. We all just blended in like apples in a barrel. And no one wanted to be labelled a Complaint King in that first three months. You could get "blanket partied".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And since school was mostly a half-day affair, our time spent in that lousy uniform would be minimal. Besides, I was involved in a few school activities that required me to change out of my school uniform, so, I really can't be bothered with it at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A consolation was that my school uniform was not the worst. Fellow classmate Ding's school pants were all poofed up at the crotch making it seem as if he had a small pillow tucked in there. It looked as if there was no difference whether he worn his back or front. Yet others had ill-fitting pocket openings that had extended openings like some bovine's inverted vagina. Good luck with keeping a wallet in there!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Man oh man, how could a tailor (or a bunch tailors) get their orders so very very wrong???</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My first tailoring experience was at a tailor shop named Brazil in Bukit Timah Shopping Centre. I used to school around that area and when I served my NS in SAFTI, Jurong later on, that place opposite Beauty World became a journey mid-point back-and-to camp. So naturally, I would hang out there for coffee and to do some window shopping. I remember spending quite a bit of time at a ground floor electronics shop that also dealt with hi-fi.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A few years earlier back in secondary school, BTSC was already our regular hangout place. We used to go to a nearby sch for Technical Studies. Even though encumbered with our T-squares and drawing boards, we still hung out at BTSC. We watched Jackie Chan's Drunken Master there when the cinema at the top floor was still active. There was also the rather "atas" (expensive) The Ship restaurant for business meals and first dates!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The reason I had to tailor my clothes at Brazil was that I needed a suit for my Officer Cadet School graduation. I also needed something for a farewell party so I added an additional pair of pants to the order. For that private function I was expected to bring a date so there was incentive for me to look better than usual. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And I did want to impress my date!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The pants turned out very well. They felt like a second skin and was in a color that I really liked - a kind of water green with barely visible threads of brown, gold and green to make the fabric look interesting up close.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The suit was similarly very well done. It was in a nice grey-blue material with inlaid threads of black. Oh my! My very first suit! I guess most guys would remember their first suit... whether it was made for work, a wedding or even a funeral. Especially if the latter's their own.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back in the 80s, I had a neighbourhood family friend who was a tailor. He and his fellow tailor brother ran a shop nearby. It was around that time that I realised the profession was going the way of the Dodo. He (the elder brother) knew it too and started leasing out part of his shop for other business. My mom was the first to take up that space to sell her small jade and silver jewelry pieces.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was then that we had more conversations with him and come to realise that departmental store ready-to-wear clothing was killing both his business and profession.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How to save it? we asked. But the older brother was resigned to his fate and started to trade in stocks and shares - a booming profession at the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the end, trading in stocks became so addictive that the elder brother decided to sell off his shop to concentrate on that. The younger brother also stopped making clothes to help out at a nearby hawker center.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">======</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You know, I thought my tailoring misadventure ended at Pre-U college, but no. When I started work as an adult, I needed work pants. At one time, the trend was to make three pairs for $100. Not a bad promo, I had thought then. The first set I got made was at a stall in the hawker centre opposite the ferry terminal (beside the old World Trade Centre). The pants turned out excellent and I took pleasure in wearing them for many years. I also liked the jean-style pockets in front, not something one could find easily off the rack; and this old man tailor did make them very well!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Many years on, with pants worn down to bare threads, I decided to revisit the same tailoring promo idea and went to a stall in Marsiling that charged only $88 for three pairs! Instead of being more expensive as time passed, tailoring new pants got cheaper!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It must be the competitive nature of the business that drove prices down. Or the downward spiral of material cost, no thanks to China or India dumping their surplus textile products on their neighbouring trade partners. Either way, we got to enjoy good cloth at pretty low expense.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so from good cloth were those $88 pants made. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At that price they were even better than the ready-to-wear pants sold at John's Little or Chinese Emporium. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have gone to Marsiling (near my home) to make those pants. The guy seemed rather nervous and did fumble with the measuring tape. He also seemed shy measuring my crotch area. Was it that intimidating? I wondered mischieviously. In the end, his wife took over the measuring task. No, she wasn't young and she wasn't taken in by my good looks and prominent crotch bump. She just couldn't tahan her hubby.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">======</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I did eventually collect the pants, two of the them had major mistakes. One pant leg was shorter than the other. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I checked my own legs, they were not at fault at all. Nope, they were very much in the manner I was born with. Same length albeit a little bow-legged. (Was I a cowboy in my past life?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I highlighted the error to the tailor guy trying to be as gentle as possible so his ego would not be hurt. He was, after all, older. But instead of apologising, he tried to make up an excuse for the mistakes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What excuse could he possibly give, I wondered, jaws dropping and eyes opened wide in an "Are you serious?" look.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Wear already no problem," he said, in Mandarin and matter-of-factly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What??? Wear already no problem?!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wanted to tell him that I was no magician who pulls optical illusions on unsuspecting folks walking by. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If a pirate had a wooden leg, HE HAD A WOODEN LEG!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The gall of him to tell me to just go with it. Wah piang! Wah lau eh! was echoing through my numbed mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I steeled him an eye. "Ah chek (old man), what are you going to do about this?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The man was utterly lost for words and a solution. He could only stare at the handicapped pantleg perhaps willing it to grow a few inches longer. Honestly, I couldn't tell if he was sorry, mulling or thinking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally I said: "Come, I teach you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"You have to hemp here at the leg end. Unfold it and you will get back roughly two inches. To replace the hemp, just fold the edge less. Alter the other side to match too."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In my mind the solution was pretty obvious. I had learnt to sew in primary school (all part of the regular Art lessons) and was a designer of sorts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the tailor guy looked at me as if I was speaking Yiddish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was starting to get angry. Look man, here I am trying to fix your mistake. Could you be a bit more contrite, and maybe also a little bright?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At that point the wife came out of the shop. I explained to her again what happened. She looked at her husband and then at the pants, anger rising. I proceeded to explain to her what could be done. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Ok, I know what to do," she said, giving her husband a really chilly look that asked "Am i seriously married to you?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The following week I collected the pants. They were altered and they fitted. What a relief!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The tailoring shops I first knew as a kid were the ones at Peninsular Hotel where a visiting family friend and her family always stayed. There, the tailors were those who were often called upon by visiting tourists or dignitaries for a cheap but good suit. Pretty much the same as what was happening in Hong Kong then in the 60s and 70s.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the 80s and up till now, it was Thailand and their tailors' magical skill with silk (and sometimes batik) that pulled fans over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a kid growing up in Geylang, my aunty's first BF was the son of a tailor whose shop was along the main road. He would always turn up for a date dressed in what looked like expensive and immaculate duds. His shiny pants always made an impression - the kind successful pop stars wore. His shirts were no slouch either. All in all, he came across as quite the happening dude. And he drove a Mini then, another in-fashion statement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But surprisingly, my aunt, who was pretty in her own way, did not go further with him, Instead, she picked a rather dour fellow to be her future husband. Maybe his strong chin had something to do with it. Or that she, despite being a quick wit and motormouth, was actually quite conservative at heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My best memory of her BF family's tailor shop was the sign above their shop. It was very iconic and made in a style of that era. It featured a model's head and letters painted on zinc sheet and mounted on a backboard made of long wood strips. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Beside the shop was a small home-factory sewing hats and bags out of plastic drinking straws. The (sun) hats were actually quite prickly to wear. You don't see these kind of products anymore, just as we have stopped making door curtains out of rolled up calendar strips as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But today, we continue to go to a tailor for that one-of-a-kind outfit. Nothing fits better than a tailored piece. Girls should know what with their tailored Coming Of Age gowns. And I am glad that some tailors have up their ante with fashionable designs and interesting materials.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't like calling a good tailor a tailor. It's like calling a good hairstylist a barber. No disrespect to barbers out there, but a hairstylist has a greater degree of styling and professional skill. A couturier? A dressmaker? A clothier? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the news recently, someone designed a bullet-proof and stab-proof suit. Incredible, no? A skill is a skill is a skill. It all depends upon how one applies it. And cooks and chefs best illustrate that as well as artists and sculptors in the interior design space.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/my-jeans-and-me.html">A Life of Jeans</a></span></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-35373064497079174242013-12-12T09:54:00.003-08:002013-12-19T01:52:17.949-08:00Mt Kinabalu 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitC921Ym_CfqiE4jWOIvNe1Xr-y_cAH6oQ93ypoIEMFxfLvI_0lKYt94j-yVW2LP6ISbx2fGuDGc1GCV4uA1cZGeTrvV5ij4HIT0URJzpvSbLdjDP1JIUm3Ko9RMbJDPlUEEuet6IZwcg/s1600/KK+River.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitC921Ym_CfqiE4jWOIvNe1Xr-y_cAH6oQ93ypoIEMFxfLvI_0lKYt94j-yVW2LP6ISbx2fGuDGc1GCV4uA1cZGeTrvV5ij4HIT0URJzpvSbLdjDP1JIUm3Ko9RMbJDPlUEEuet6IZwcg/s320/KK+River.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Having reached the summit of KT Kinabalu, we couldn't linger about long. Our guide told us that there would be others coming up. I think we eventually stayed there for just an hour - enough time for the sun to fully rise and reset the day. The date was May 1st. The last part of the climb was indeed laborious, what with the altitude affected breathing at the last stretch. (It surprised me even, that every 10m required deep gulps of air!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But we all made it. Our guide said we were very lucky to not meet rain, which was often. This time, everything was dry and pat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just as we were finished talking, full daylight arisen. We could finally see everything around (and below) us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was still that floating layer of cottony clouds but now it seem less frothy and more settled. In parts where the clouds parted, we could see towns and padi fields and ribbons of road connecting them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Looking down from that great height, I thought how wonderful it would be if one could parasail or glide from the summit. In fact, some people did do just that at the time. How fantastic the feeling must have been!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As usual, as with any trip, the return journey was faster than the forward one. I was amazed at the short time we took to descend Mt Kinabalu. In fact, it was so eerily fast that I wondered why we took as long as we did going up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With a skip and a hop, we were soon back down to those service roads that meandered from the Ranger HQ. I'm not kidding; it really seemed that fast! (Like some 2.5 hrs?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For me, the quick descent brought on a fever. It must have been the change in weather between altitudes. The usual fit me was surprised but there was little I could do than to bear and grin it. It was a bad fever but given my history with flash fevers, it would go away after 24 hrs. But in the meanwhile, my body would be wracked with pain! That's the trade-off I had to bear with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember bunking over at the Ranger HQ for the evening before heading back down to town. I was really in bad shape and moaned about it, alarming my climbing mates with my distress. I had to tell them that I wasn't dying and that I would feel better afterwards!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And as expected, I did feel better the next day, but I was still not well enough to join them for the Tree Canopy Climb. Instead, I went and soaked myself in the next door hotspring bath. There was nothing natural about the bath though. It was just a handful of tiled rectangle bathtubs set in a row and served by some taps that channeled water from an underground spring. But (unlike the local Sembawang hotspring water) the H2O here in Sabah did smell of sulphur. At least that should do some wonders for my fever-wracked, tired body!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The baths were really old-school and reminded me of those found in homes in the 60s. They were rectangular in shape and had those familiar light green tiles. My neighbour who lived downstairs in Geylang had one. But theirs was larger and waist high. And the workers would scoop water out from it to bathe or into basins to wash things with. The whole affair at the hotspring was thus rather nostalgic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the water was hot, I did not soak for long. When the other guys appeared from their canopy walk, we all washed up and took the transport back to town.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As it was near sunset, our guide brought us to Tanjung Aru beach to walkabout a bit. It was an excellent idea as the sunset there was great. Better still was the big expanse of beach acessible during low tide. It seemed that one could explore the mudflats for two kilometres or more!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next morning, the Fourth Day of our trip began. It's when we would start our land adventure proper. The first thing on the agenda was River Rafting. Our adventure tour guide arrived and met us at our budget hotel in town. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For breakfast, he brought us to eat "kon lo meen" or dry, non-soupy noodles - a popular way of eating noodles in Sarawak and Sabah. It was quite similar to our own wanton noodles except the noodles were more wheaty in color, curlier and "QQ", i.e. springy - best to be eaten with minced meat actually,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The noodle shop was situated in a long, raised wooden shophouse with verandah and zinc roof. A short flight of wooden steps led up to it. It looked like a throwback to those shophouses we would find in our own little Chinese villages in Singapore back in the 60s and 70s. I absolutely love such buildings. I dunno; such architectures speak very well to my psyche </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(that and wooden rooms that jut out from walls supported by struts). I sometimes wonder whether my past lives have anything to do with it!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After breakfast, we drove to the railway station that would bring us to our designated angry river. It was supposed to be a Cat 4 one, a waterway that foamed and would toss unsuspecting tourists into water if they were not careful!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Along the way, we stopped at roadside stalls that sold 'todi' - a moonshine made from fermented coconut juice. It was alcoholic that tasted sour - not exactly pleasant!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After this, bad news. The way to the fast river was blocked by a landslide. The train could not get us through. We stood at the simple railway platform feeling rather deflated. We were all rather looking forward to a river rafting ride. None of us had done it before.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our guide, sensing our disappointment, decided to bring us to another river. But he said it wouldn't be a Cat 4 angry one, more like a Cat 2 or 3. We all jumped at the chance as we were already imagining wet heroics.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the river turned out to be as calm as my fish tank back home. Dang!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No matter, we went gamely along and raised our arms in mock danger each time the raft slipped past rocks and into an eddy pool. Haha...what losers we were that day!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next day was much better. We spent it on an offshore island called Pulau Sapi. It wasn't a big island but the waters were very clear and the sand white.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We swam and ate water melons. I liked going to islands to relax and would rank this as one of the most enjoyable and relaxing. Richard and his wife dug for clams to eat, which I felt was rather cute.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But really, what more could one ask after scaling a mountain and then relaxing by a beach with pristine waters? I think all of us felt recharged afterwards.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On our last day, before we left Sabah, we visited the National Museum. At the time, it was hopelessly short on exhibits. That made me appreciate our own museums even more and got me thinking about museum Renewal, Upkeep and Upgrade. Not easy if a country doesn't make it a priority or treat museums as serious tourists destinations.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The one thing we all enjoyed at the museum were the longhouse exhibits outside. They reminded me of the one I visited as a child when I was three years old and living, at the time, in Kuching.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was the central cooking place in the longhouse. The rattan weaved carry baskets; and the gourd water containers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That night, before we flew back to Singapore in the morning, we all visited the one and only shopping centre in town. We all sat on the front steps eating ice cream. That was the last take-away picture we took.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And rightly so, a very happy and satisfied group of climbers and travellers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If there's one regret about the trip, it was the missed chance of seeing a real Rafflesia flower in full bloom. Yes, that giant of a Stink Plant.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh well. Better to leave Sabah on a high 'ice cream note' than with the smell of dead rotten flesh! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So all in all, our trip to Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, achieved a few things:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1) We visited Signal Hill Observatory;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2) Jumped on a few suspension bridges;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3) Ate Kon Lo Meen;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4) Reached the summit of Mt Kinabalu;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5) Did the Canopy Walk;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6) Soaked in a hot spring;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">7) Watched a beautiful sunset at Tanjung Aru;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">8) Tried river rafting;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">9) Went to a pristine island for snorkelling;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">10) Visited the National Museum.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yes, I would definitely go there again. And thank you Richard and Peck Hong for doing such a wonderful job organising this!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/tailor-made.html">Tailor Made</a></span></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-334625102136857522013-12-12T09:30:00.002-08:002014-01-01T01:47:23.654-08:00Mt Kinabalu 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1b61AucRXFgeF6MSWd2I1PiXUkqKsz6wy1uB9Wpe_DQJi-t0UlA-VLB8Ej4VA84737mCPwUO1O5IJnuCzc92qLQreybkoOICBhml9mhipvcPZ_re9Em7HUNGJgsO0O1hO3cxsQVOPjA8/s1600/KK+Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1b61AucRXFgeF6MSWd2I1PiXUkqKsz6wy1uB9Wpe_DQJi-t0UlA-VLB8Ej4VA84737mCPwUO1O5IJnuCzc92qLQreybkoOICBhml9mhipvcPZ_re9Em7HUNGJgsO0O1hO3cxsQVOPjA8/s320/KK+Bridge.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next day after our arrival, we woke up early and had breakfast at the hotel. It was a simple affair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our tour guide then arrived to show us the city.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He was of medium built, strong and very tanned. He seemed to be in his 30s and was a local. Dressed in a safari suit, he looked every bit the outdoors guy as well as businessman!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our guide Jack was friendly and spoke good English. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He brought us first to Signal Hill Observatory, probably the most famous landmark in Kota Kinabalu. It was a lookout point that gave us a bird's eye view of the city. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Afterwards, Jack brought us to various places that had suspension bridges. It was fun. And there were many of them all seeming to span across mangrove swamps or green colored rivers. Most of the bridges were made of steel cables and laid with wooden planks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At some bridges, we struck fun poses and took pictures. These suspension bridges reminded me of the ones Indiana Jones would inevitably run to escape across one, chased no less by bloodthirsty natives waving machetes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the evening, we had dinner along a food street and retired for the night - all ready to begin our ascent of Mt Kinabalua or Mt K for short.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">======</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Early the next day, we made our way to the base of the mountain to start the climb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But first, like everybody else, we had to register ourselves at Park HQ - a large wooden building with a patio deck built at the back for campers to make last-minute preparations. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We also met our guide for the climb, a skinny and seasoned-looking chap. It was mandatory to climb with a guide. Once we settled the administrative stuff, we adjourned to the patio to redistribute items in our backpacks (like food and cold weather gear) so they could easily be accessed when needed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Richard kept a bunch of bananas in a plastic bag tied to his backpack. He would later feed us that along the way, which caused our group to be named the Banana Group of 8. (Oh, by the way, bananas are a great fruit to bring along when outdoors. It provides energy and allows one to pass motion (i.e. shit) more easily even if dehydrated.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After some mutual body checking and making sure our shoelaces were firmly tied, we then set off. Not far off was a metal swing gate. Once you pass that, you are well and truly on your way to climb Mt K.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The initial part of the journey was not too difficult. It was like climbing our own Bukit Timah Hill. The paths were narrow but easy to follow. We also crossed a few service roads going up the mountain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The morning was bright but not too sunny. The wonderful weather put us all in a good mood. There were two couples in our group. The other four were all singles. I buddied up with Dave Wong, who was a reserved but cheerful chap who smiled easily. My friend Cecilia partnered with Jee Yong, who was much older than the rest of us but just as enthusiastic. I decided to look out for her, just in case.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The lot of us were not alone that morning. As we climbed, we met others going up or coming down. Those coming down were also full of spirit and did not look at all tired. That made me think the climb up the peak was easy, which was encouraging! But unbeknownst to me, there were many levels to this National Park. You could climb sections of it in high heels if you prefer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At 1900m the paths became a bit more natural, lined with bramble or veined with protruding tree roots. Climbing became a little more countryside-like. The paths were in surprisingly good condition and made climbing easy. Perhaps the Park authorities had some sort of maintenance regime in place. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Along the way, we caught up with a large group of geriatric old men from Japan making their way up. They looked about in their 70s and all had walking or hiking sticks with them. On their foreheads, oddly enough, a kind of miner's headlamp. I would later learn (to my chagrin) what they were for. Though the group was bent with age, they looked a familial and determined bunch. I wondered if they had climbed elsewhere together before. That would have been nice, wouldn't it? For a bunch of old friends to still travel and explore together!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Travelling with this group of old folks were women porters. They were not young nor old but middle-aged. They rather impressed me with their strength and industry. The loads they carried were not light. And not carried with modern equipment too. These women porters used a kind of traditional, large pointy-ended rattan basket to carry their stuff. No backstraps but a simple rattan-fibre band across the forehead - the kind you see on Iban tribal folks in nearby Sarawak.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The pointed bottom of the basket helped it stand quickly on the ground or be leaned easily against a tree. I remember these baskets coming in a set of three and were all made from rattan. The large pointy bottom one was for larger goods; the smaller cylindrical ones were employed like backpacks. Growing up, my family kept one. It was twice the size of a quiver. It was bought from Sarawak during a year's stay there when I was very young.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over the subsequent years, we often used that round rattan basket as a carrier for a ground mat whenever we went to the beach. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In Asia or Africa, tribal folks seem to like carrying things with their heads. The neck does have powerful muscles and can carry seriously large and heavy objects (such as a large bundle of laundry, for example)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Beyond 4500ft, the weather around the mountain forest palpably cooled. The paths also widened into 2m ones, both landscaped and large-stepped. The steps were reinforced by short stakes to prevent damage and soil erosion. The many visitors to Mt K every year probably necessitated that sort of measure. From this cooler height, the flora and fauna of the place also changed. There were signs pointing to scenic diversions such as a mossy forest, a stinky Rafflesia plant, a waterfall, a cave, etc. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Naturally, we stopped at the crossroads to decide where to go or who to do and see what. Cecilia and I decided to visit the Mossy Forest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A good decision it turned out to be. The place was truly enchanted! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was filled with morning mist that gave the place a heavenly or surreal look. One could walk in and disappear from sight!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cecilia and I took the chance to snap some beautiful photos.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Derrick and his girlfriend Jean went off to see the waterfall. I wanted to see the Rafflesia plant but changed my mind. Choosing the Mossy Forest over the Rafflesia was like choosing Beauty over Stink - not that difficult a choice. It is well known that the giant Rafflesia flower (some 2m tall) gives off an odour like rotten fish or a dead corpse. I had smelt a dead corpse up close before and the memory was still fresh. Nope, maybe I could see a Rafflesia plant at a city botanical garden later. But the only Rafflesia plant I ever saw later was one sculpted out of concrete. The dimensions and color were all correct but there wasn't any foul smell. But why name`such a stinker of a plant after Raffles? Was he that obnoxious?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">===</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From an open spot near the path to the waterfall, we could see the summit. It looked like a collection of giant stones piled next to one another. Sabah is called Land Below The Wind and the wind had certainly swept the top of Mt K clean of vegetation. To be fair, much of South-east Asia sits on a bedrock of hard stone with millennia-old forests carpeting its surface. Sabah with its Mt K was no different.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Looking at the peak, the guide pointed out its prominent features. "That's the Rabbit Ears," he said. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I didn't need any further explanation; I had seen that silhouette many times on tee-shirts and mugs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After our visits to the side-tracked attractions at the crossroads, we continued with our climb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At 9000ft the weather turned noticeably cooler. It was like being in Cameron Highlands or any place that had outdoor air-conditioning. We also reached the first rest point, which was a large flat rock area dotted with a few dormitory buildings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We entered a spacious one for some hot cocoa and a chance to rest our weary limbs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Looking at the accommodations, we wondered if we would rest there for the night. But our guide informed us that our rest station was still some 2000ft further up. The reason was so we could climb the remaining distance of 1500ft to the summit to catch the sun rise. It had all been timed to perfection! But that meant starting our climb at 3.00am!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We all wondered about that, i.e. climbing in the dark but our guide assured us that with the moon out, the journey would not be difficult at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That settled, we looked around the spacious kitchen for a table to sit at. There were already a few people there and we took the opportunity to rest and chat a bit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The climb to our hut at 13,000ft was rather uneventful. Sad to say, nothing much interesting happened. We reached the place at roughly 2.30pm after threading through some narrow paths that were surrounded by bushes and shrub. It was no different from climbing Marsiling Hill back home before it got all 'parked' up. And after a climb and turn, there stood the small zinc roof hut we were looking for. It looked only slightly larger than an outhouse toilet from first impression.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yes, the hut was small but it contained a couple of double-decker beds and a foldable table so commonly found in Asian homes. Well, I guess it was sparse because it was meant to be just a way-station. On the other side of the zinc wall was another hut. So essentially we had one hut for the gents, the other for the ladies. The name of the hut was Waras.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After choosing our bunk beds, we emptied out our packs to make lunch. Richard, our leader, finally told us what he was cooking up special: Nasi Lemak. We saw the remaining fingers of the bananas we had lugged all the way up from the base HQ and was glad it was not more of that stuff. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Richard then took out a small gas stove and cooked away. Soon the irresistible smell of fried ikan bilis filled the air. Man, after privations along the way, we all swore that was the best food ever. Period. The sweet sambal belachan chilli was authentic, so you could imagine how rapturous we were feeling!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What Richard had done told me two things: 1. Do not scrimp on enjoying food even when on an adventure such as this. 2. Learn to cook.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the Waras hut, there were bathing facilities. But none of us were inclined to clean ourselves as the weather was very chilly and no water-heater. Who in their right mind would wash up?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In any case, most of us have cleaned up at the hostel facilities earlier on; and the climb up to this hut was not tiring at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After our lunch (cum dinner) we sat outside the hut to chat, to while away some time. I took the opportunity to know my buddy Dave a little bit better and discovered that we were both interested in the game of soccer. He was really a nice, friendly albeit soft-spoken chap!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before light faded, I took the opportunity to take a picture of myself outside the hut. I certainly stood out in my yellow and white ensemble, resembling some Swiss hiker in knee-length pants!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At 2.45am in the dark of night, the guide came to look for us. We had all set our alarms and so was already waiting to start the climb with him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fortunately for us, the moon was out. The sky, though cloudy, didn't look too brownish like it was going to rain. We thanked our lucky stars (there were many stars out that night and visible!) and plodded on, not sure what we would face in the semi-darkness ahead of us. But soon our eyes adjusted to the night and we could all move along quite nicely without the need for torchlight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The route up the summit began easily enough. I only remember a difficult stretch when we had to hug some boulders to go round, holding on to a length of anchored rope. Other than that, the spaces slowly opened up as the landscape became more slate-like and stony. Mt Kinabalu, like most of Southeast Asia, sat on a giant slab of rock.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At one point, we overtook the group of geriatric folks we met earlier. Annoyingly, they were still wearing the miner torchlights on their foreheads, this time lighted and glaring. The lights blinded us and took away our night sight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">However, I practiced a trick I learnt long ago. When faced with a bright light, don't close both eyes, just close one. In this way, the other eye is not affected and can still see in the dark. It is a very useful trick to use when driving along dark highways.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Near dawn, my bowels started to act up. It was a habit that returned after National Service, i.e, to clear my bowels every start of the day. By then we were straggling a bit as the air up there had thinned out a lot. Every 10m became a mighty struggle and we would pant very hard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the toilet beckoned, I couldn't wait and so went to the side to take a quick crap. That side turned out to be a sheer drop of a few hundred meters over the ledge! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even in the half light, I could see several planes of jagged rock sticking out like bloody knives ready to slice anybody up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I took a step back in slight alarm and checked for wind speed. I wouldn't want a gust of wind to toss me over and be sliced like carrot on a mincer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In any case, I was worried about being missed and quickly took my crap. Thanks to the bananas, it all came out rather nicely. I even gave myself some seconds to moon the world. Not everybody can often claim to have done that at 14000ft above sea-level. Man, it felt good!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crap done, I rejoined the group. Although I was quick about it, the guide noticed I had gone missing and gave me a gentle stern reminder for straying. I felt a bit stupid but was glad to have seen the other side of the mountain. Apparently there were folks who preferred to climb the hard way from that direction. Folks from the military, and folks, I presumed, to be a bit thick in the head to even attempt that!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the time we all struggled to the summit, the first rays of the sun peeked through the clouds. It was all timed to perfection! Even the summit was suitably small and narrow, giving us the impression of having reached the pinnacle of a mountain. As we sat down, our guide removed a tin container from a rock cover and took out a log book. We all signed in and was proud of the moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sun continued to rise, sending out golden rays of light that skimmed over that a layer of cottony clouds. We were so high we were above the clouds! It was like being on the outside of a jet plane for once. And with the shadow of the mountain on it, the clouds did look like ground, albeit soft and willowy like being on a bed of marshmallows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the other side from whence we came, the ground sloped for about 300m and rose to another high point known as Low's Peak. Because the summit was devoid of vegetation and just slates of granite, the place did indeed look like some desolate valley in some sci-fi film (or nurb space on a curved gravity well). I took a lovely picture of David and his girlfriend Jean who really stood out in her red jacket in all that grey. The photo captured them well, arms raised in jubilation. We all felt like that. The climb up Mt K was not difficult, only long.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That picture remains one of my favourites from the many places I've traveled to since.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Story continues with <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/mt-kinabalu-3.html">Mt Kinabalu 3</a></span></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-52038019681067827352013-12-12T09:27:00.000-08:002013-12-31T06:58:03.195-08:00Mt Kinabalu 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPTWb1PuJx1rNi2qLtAkzZ4HxGW-QEkiF9AbyBKIlk0KdsE-EttmRPLiNNtERuSzQW06yIsEscLfRXDZoBwYhsYIi9KE1QJBhZFD7QH_0VkM6mg2xwPwVrbtYzK7nkMgkAegEvHEvuNQ/s1600/KK+Lows+Peak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPTWb1PuJx1rNi2qLtAkzZ4HxGW-QEkiF9AbyBKIlk0KdsE-EttmRPLiNNtERuSzQW06yIsEscLfRXDZoBwYhsYIi9KE1QJBhZFD7QH_0VkM6mg2xwPwVrbtYzK7nkMgkAegEvHEvuNQ/s320/KK+Lows+Peak.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The photo above is one of the best I have ever taken. It juxtaposes a speck of red against a sea of dull rock making the subject stand out like that little girl in the movie Schindler's List (which debuted a year later). It also captures well the joy we all felt reaching that high summit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had not intended to climb Mt Kinabalu at all that year. I was a committee member of the Recreational Club where I worked. I met some outgoing types there. A friend of a friend knew someone who was planning a trip and looking for like-minded kakis. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I did not know anything about Kota Kinbalu/Sabah at the time, only that it was some sort of timber port and that things there were rather expensive - even more so than Singapore. That timber bit I'd learnt while working as a student-labourer in a timber yard in Kranji one school holiday. The cost-of-living aspect I had learnt from a family friend who lived in Miri/Sarawak. Like my family, they were also into the ship repair business and traveled often to Sabah. Okay, in retrospect perhaps I did know something about Sabah after all. But of its cities and people, not much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That friend of a friend who rang me up was Cecilia. She was working in TCE Audio at the time. TCE was the French Thomson Consumer Electronics company and its audio plant in Toa Payoh North at the time was making cassette recorders and hi-fi equipment. It's the same building now occupied by Singapore Press Holdings. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Besides making social visits to friends at the factory's R&D department, I played tennis with some blokes there as well. My two partners were very good hard hitters whose powerful ground strokes could literally burst balls. I sometimes wondered why they were not representing Singapore at major tournaments. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That tennis court at the back of the factory was not the best location to play the game. As it was located next to a busy road (Braddell). Balls would fly over the fence and be eaten up by the heavy traffic there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cecilia's kakis were not from Thomson. Most of them were from NTUC Income. It turned out that there would be eight of us going, led by a guy named by Richard, a late 20- or early 30-something. His wife Peck Hong would join in as well. Both - looking like a well-settled married couple - did not seem the most gung-ho of outdoor types (they were rather fair). I guess they were both looking to rekindle some kind of adventure spirit they once had back in their school days. They were certainly experienced going about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I liked them as they were rather emotionally mature types. Richard did become our de facto head and helped plan the trip and logistics. His wife Peck Hong assisted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't remember being asked to help out much in the prep-work except to cough up money for the airfare and accomodation. Everything was well taken care of and Richard also promised a surprise during the trip.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like everybody else, I did my own preparation for the climb. At the time, the highest mountains I ever climbed were those in South Taiwan during my National Service and the occasional Mt Ophir in Segamat, Malaysia. But Mt Kinabalu was a different proposition altogether as it was way higher. The air would thin out at the summit and that could make us suffer from some kind of altitude-related sickness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It could also be very cold!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, I knew it wouldn't be snow-cold so I decided to bring just one winter jacket, the soft nylon/cotton-filled type from Taiwan that was popular with SAF soldier-boys at the time. They were cheap and easily bought from those army surplus stores above the Golden Mile Food Center (better known as Beach Road Hawker Centre).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For the other clothes, I decided to buy some cheap ones from a factory outlet and then leave them behind in Sabah. There was an excellent outlet at Rochor Centre that sold so-called "factory rejects". The clothes ranged from $2 to $10 only. A GF used to buy me nice jumpers from that store when I was an Engineering student freezing in over-air-conditioned lecture theatres. Going back there brought back strong memories with this pretty and leggy girl.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That factory outlet sold a variety of clothes. They were made of cotton as well as wool and many were actually defect-free (with the label cut off as usual). I decided to pick out a few for light cold weather. The summit would be cold but snowless. And the stay at the top (we were told) would be short. Hence there was no need to be over-zealous with extreme winterwear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before heading home, I popped over to the shoe store next door to pick up a pair of high-top hiking shoes. They would protect my ankles from the granite rocks I was told were plenty near the summit. The shoes I eventually bought were cheap but good ones from China. (They eventually lasted me many years! Old, reliable Chinese manufacturing methods still evident obviously!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For a backpack, I used a tall yellow nylon one with a frame. It was something I had used when I climbed Mt Ophir nine years back. It was a good decision as it really helped to preserve my posture and prevent backaches from carrying a heavy load. It came with a waist strap that kept everything snuggly fit and tight. I could jump and hop without jangling the backpack about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Because of the way I climbed, Cecilia and the rest would later nickname me Mountain Goat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To fly to Sabah's capital Kota Kinabalu on the cheap (I think it cost us each about $400 both ways), we took our flight from Senai airport in Johor, Malaysia instead of from our very own at Changi. However, that meant crossing the Causeway at Woodlands. Thankfully, there was an express coach lane and we passed Johor Customs after only a short delay. We didn't even have to disembark from the bus!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At Sennai, we boarded a small MAS Boeing plane from the tarmac and were soon on our way. That way of boarding reminded me of my first plane trip back in the '60s. I was just 3+ years old then. Airports at the time did not have aerobridges; they used either push cart stair-ladders or motorised ones mounted on a truck. It was all very Casablanca movie-like in terms of nostalgia.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't remember the flight to KK taking very long - probably about 1.5hrs. I think all of us were kind of nervous as none of us had climbed a mountain that high before. We were all newbies and did not know what to expect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After landing, we took cabs to our accomodation in the city, which was a budget hotel called Hotel Asia. As it was late, we decided to just settle in and head out for breakfast early the next morning, which was a Monday. Yup, we all took four days off with the Labour Day holiday (May 1st) sandwiched in the middle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That would be the day we reach the summit. How sweet! I just hope we wouldn't labour much getting there! But it would prove prophetic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Story continues with <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/mt-kinabalu-2.html">Mt Kinabalu 2</a></i></span>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-24649092756161553032013-12-12T08:54:00.000-08:002015-01-26T22:16:06.894-08:00A Brown Belt Affair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjh70KmGjvdfw4i2ZVf7gfhfHKQT38Z-YzSr2GF24a8_6o-FyFWg_4EYOOP-4fAspTW55rPnjxmgd9FlJ8MD_w2nxW4lGNlRafLrYO9cUgC5GlGfNFKdGeIqZ4n5NOVTZUilXAUYg8QI/s1600/karate-do.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjh70KmGjvdfw4i2ZVf7gfhfHKQT38Z-YzSr2GF24a8_6o-FyFWg_4EYOOP-4fAspTW55rPnjxmgd9FlJ8MD_w2nxW4lGNlRafLrYO9cUgC5GlGfNFKdGeIqZ4n5NOVTZUilXAUYg8QI/s1600/karate-do.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the last four years since the release of Ip Man the movie starring Donnie Yen, there has been a slew of Ip Man biopics. There's even an inane one called I Love Wing Chun produced jointly by HK and Malaysian investors. It was so bad one critic said it made previously bad films look good. The only saving grace, according to him, were the hilarious but bad subtitles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nevertheless, all Wing Chun movies remind me of my own kungfu past. I did not take up anything fancy... just karate-do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't remember exactly why I took up the sport. It was probably my dad's idea so I could beef up a little. As a kid, I was skinny and light as a feather (not bone-heavy at all). Kungfu or any form of martial arts, my parents felt, would give me better 'chi' and a certain gravitas. If not, at least quicker reflexes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was skeptical I would ever become a good fighter as my wrists were skinny and looked weak. But I played badminton well with them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">However, I also often imagined breaking my wrists like chopsticks if I should ever block a blow. Just as I would never be able to spar with my bare hands the way Jackie Chan does in his kungfu films with that wooden sparring dummy with the arm spindles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Another reason for taking up martial arts could be that it was a new thing then. Community centres back in the '70s encouraged it. I still remember the green forms I took from a CC admin counter to fill up. That CC was at the corner of Blk 18, Marsiling Lane - a simple louvre-windowed hall with a small office inside, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">unlike the country club setups of today. We neighbourhood boys would hang out at this only CC to play carom, ping pong and watch communal TV, especially during the weekends when school was out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the time, martial arts was considered a weapon and all practitioners had to register with some government agency. How efficient (or kiasu) they must be to even want to monitor folks with such deadly skills! I mean a karate chop can break a man's neck, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We kids grew up with a lot of kungfu movies in the 60s and 70s and would secretly wish to acquire some if not all those skills. Well, actually one main skill in particular.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was the "heng-gong" (Cantonese) or lightness skill. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In Chinese mythology, this skill is about leaping up imposing cliffs or chasing each other over rooftops and tree-tops like in that Lee Ang movie, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And why that one scene in Stephen Chow's Kung Fu Hustle movie is so poignant for me. The one with the small boy wanting to buy a secret kungfu manual from a faux beggar monk. It is so true to our own boyhood dreams that it touched a nostalgic nerve afterwards. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Further more, there was also that familiar Cantonese orchestra tune that accompanied most celestial-themed kungfu movies in the 60s, movies such as <i>yu loy sun jeong</i> or The Heavenly Palm Technique.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We (in any case, I) had learnt - mostly through movies or stories heard over Rediffusion - that to achieve <i>henggong</i>, one must practice <i>qi</i> or internal strength - the kind of breathing exercises that taichi made popular. In addition, one must lead a pure and virtuous life so as to be clean in both spirit and body. Apparently, being a vegan helps. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In kungfu movies, you seldom see a fat-ass person leap tall buildings and cliffs. They often ride a horse or donkey. Or be all pedestrian and go about on foot. So, are kungfu and that lightness skill only for the lithe and agile?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, I did eat my fair share of veggies to achieve henggong. But my mom's pork-rib-lotus-root-black-bean soup was most times too irresistable. I kind of became a "gao yoke wo seong" or Dog Meat Monk. A less than pious worshipper!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I tried to be virtuous in spirit as much as possible. The thing which made that difficult was a girl in secondary school who kept pulling my hormones this way and that like a chick magnet. At one time my qi actually went south, telling me it is possible to have a member of my body go hard as bamboo. Well, almost. It went away as quickly as it came - unless the girl in question was still around. Then my "hardness kungfu" lasted a little while longer, much to my embarrassment. Instead of henggong. I had mustered up teenage hormones!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In any case I tried my darnest in the breathing exercises. At one stage, I thought I had succeeded, somewhat able to leap onto a chair. A solid teak table was next. Then a boulder. We had quite a few of those along Marsiling Drive where I had spent my teenage years, and where the first roadside bus terminus was in that new housing estate. The terminus was next to some remainder rubber trees whose seeds we would pick up and rub on concrete floors to make pain on someone's arm! Try it. It works everytime!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was only when I started my karate-do classes that I realised that qigong was not necessary. In karate or karate-do (a sort of combination of karate and taekwondo), a good stance is more important. You will need that stability to execute a punch, connect a kick and withdraw a limb in quick time. When you throw a kick, it is better to be quick. Getting your foot or leg caught by an opponent is a major no-no. You can get your knee busted or your family jewels pummelled!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, one has to be solid and not fall over easily. I mean what good is a martial arts exponent if he is an easy pushover literally? Not good, I would imagine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Karate-do and most other Japanese martial arts were considered 'hard' back then. Only aikido was thought of as 'soft' with its many limb twists and bends. I found it at times ridiculous! Should I ask my opponent to stand still?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I saw most aikido practitioners as sadists. They liked to bend and twist an opponent's fingers and wrists to submission. A female cousin of mine went to learn. She came back soon after with a sprained wrist. After that it was a twisted ankle. My aunty expressed serious concern (i.e. nagged) and my cousin decided to give up after that. What's the point of injuring yourself learning?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I found aikido to be like judo with a bit of edge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember this one story that circulated as true back then. A story about a aikido master who managed to singlehandedly dispatch 10 gangsters in a backalley. I dunno. Was the story made-up to popularise the martial art?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Come to think of it, moves in aikido are very similar to those in Wing Chun. You know, those quick action punches and blocks made popular by Ip Man. But unlike Wing Chun (which is more defensive) aikido could leave someone very badly hurt. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">During my youth, aikido was new and favoured by the ladies as it was considered a soft martial art. There are simple moves to disable an assailant, moves such as pinching of the thumb, striking the nerve points, backheeling the crotch, high-heeling and backstabbing the top of the foot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After I picked up karate-do, I started reading up on judo too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I liked the way the judo fellas could roll on a concrete floor without getting hurt, so I taught myself that. It took some courage to translate a book paragraph of action into actual practice, i.e. throwing oneself on the floor. You have to tuck in your chin and then roll forward with a somewhat stiffened and arched arm. I remember I got it right the very first time. But it took courage to launch yourself on a hard concrete floor. It's against instinct!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That judo book was a small slim one with a pink-purple outline on its cover. It was part of a self-defense series. I had bought it from a neighbourhood bookstore in the estate where I lived.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In school, I found schoolmate SK (a neighbour and scout) a kindred spirit. We would spar behind the boys' toilet just outside where the scout den was. We stopped after a while as we would really hurt each other. And SK was a year older and more muscular. I was in many ways not suitably matched. But the experience taught me that fighting is really a scary and lethal experience. And I guess why kungfu masters always tell their charges that it is better to 'ren' - tolerate - walk away from a fight than engage in one. It is just too easy to kill someone with a well-aimed punch or kick. There's no undo button like in some video game.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A pal of mine in secondary school was Peter. He had a shocking head of auburn hair and was rather fair/pinkish. In any case, he and Henry from Mandai were the two tallest chaps of our school cohort. (Peter also introduced me to Vitalis, a hairstyling lotion vital to keeping his stubborn hair in place!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't precisely remember how Peter and I ended up learning Karate-do together - we probably had a discussion and signed up. Our lessons started at the old YMCA premises along Stevens Road near the old Equatorial Hotel. Back then, it was just a large Chinese bungalow with an open front courtyard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Donning our karate gi (training robes), we soon learnt why Karate-do was different from the organic Karate. We used our legs more as in Taekwondo - why I supposed the name has a 'do' in it. How did it come about? Probably someone got kicked in the balls and went "doh!" like Homer Simpson, heheh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">During our first few classes, if we thought we were going to learn killer moves soon, that wistful thinking was soon lasi to rest. We spent the better part of the morning - 8.00am to 9.30am - just doing warm-up exercises.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Those warm-up exercises were not simple at all. In fact they were downright tiring and excruciating. It was like being tortured during NS BMT bayonet lesson time. Peter and I wanted to give up after the very first session.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Imagine this: One particular exercise required us to sit with the soles of our feet touching and then the knees pressed down to touch the floor. It was the Lotus Position without crossing the legs. Sounds reasonable, but wait. I discovered that I couldn't do this exercise at all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My knees would hover a few inches above ground like opposing magnets. Our instructor Steven was not amused and thought he could simply press my knees down, which he did. Imagine the pain!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Ow, ow, ow!" was my instant reply, tears forming involuntarily in the eyes. I felt as if someone was deliberately trying to break my hip and adjoining sinews.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our instructor Steven was a nice but tough-looking Chinese chap. He was in his early 40s. Like any karate practitioner worth his salt, he had fearsome misshapened kunckles from trying to punch-break one too many wooden board and brick.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But Steven, despite his age, was very nimble. Besides being able to do what I couldn't, he could even do a full leg-split. It left us kids all in awe and wonderment. How could a man his age do what we youngsters could not?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That inspired me to put in more effort into learning Karate-do, which was weird now that I think about it. Being able to do the full-split was not the killer move I had signed up to learn, right? Isn't that for dancers? Folks in girly tights and tutus?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Was I supposed to laugh maniacally at my enemies and go: "Let me kill you with my double split, BWAHAHAHA!" I was certainly no action-man like Van Damm!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In any case, the warm-ups also consisted of much stretching and one-leg kicking. The latter was the worst exercise of the lot. It consisted of standing on one leg and snap-kicking out with the other (like kicking out at someone's groin). We would do many repetitions. As a result cramps set in in either leg. What a crappy way to learn a martial art was what Peter and I thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The other tiring warm-up exercise was the double punch. A quick succession with the left and right fists.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the time, I tired easily as I was very skinny. I had little muscle and no fat at all. But I had good endurance (which is bad). Peter was better built but not by much. He was tall and ungainly and would soon tire out too (at least I had some benefit from my school team badminton training!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there were the more complicated moves like stepping forward and kicking and punching. And then the return to the 'ready' position fists upturned, elbows tucked in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For a while after we joined the Karate-do class, Peter and I wondered if we would learn real self-defence moves. We got disillusioned with all those punishing warm-up exercises.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then one day, out of the blue, we were taught a block-grab-and-thrust move. Wow, now we are talking! The move our instructor Steven taught was a block and grab technique to pull an assailant forward so as to destabilise and then punch him again. Wow, a complex kungfu move finally!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From then on, we learnt more, even using our knees to block and side-swipe an attack. That's the essence of karate-do: Start with defence and then attack.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In any martial art, using the legs is very effective. It is only common sense coz legs got better reach. It is something preached and encouraged by the late Bruce Lee himself, why his Jeet Kune Do is quite similar to karate-do but only faster and even deadlier. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">JKD's counter-moves are lightning fast and meant to hurt pressure sensitive points on our bodies and limbs. I now wonder if "jeet" is the Cantonese word for 'merciless'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our karate-do instructor Steven actually told us the leg-to-fist action ratio should be 70-30. When we fight, we are supposed to use 70% leg action. I think taekwondo is the same but with less arm action, why I liked karate-do more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Haha, I think Wing Chun is the opposite: 30-70 ratio. After all, it is a martial art form that evolved from women fighting - all that cat-paw slapping and hair-pulling sort. Alamak, where got kick? (*pun intended, haha).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From single blocks and counter punches, our karate-do lessons progressed on to doing sets or kata. These were movements performed in ordered patterns, just like in Line Dancing actually!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The kata was more performance than actual sparring. There was single-person kata and a four-person kata that started with four practitioners with their backs to each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I still remember one such kata set-peice. Four would start in the middle of the mat, kick and punch to the four corners and then return to their original positions. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Besides grade promotion, katas were used and judged at competitions then and perhaps even now. The most aggressive and synchronised set-piece would win. Because I was skinny and had a smiley face, it was hard to convince the judges that I was serious about my art. At each grading session I would worry if I would ever pass a grade. There was no fun in repeating a class. It felt like being retained in school. Rather dumb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like all beginners, Peter and I started off with a White belt. After a few months, we graduated to Yellow. The next color was Red, then Green, Blue and then Purple. We were learning Brown Belt when we eventually stopped. That was the stage before the awe-inspiring Black Belt. In many instances I was double-promoted and would skip some colors. Peter was the same. But we both stopped at Brown. It had taken us four years to earn all those color belts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For a while, I kept all my karate-do stuff in my mother's carved "loong" (Cantonese for wooden chest). I later gave them all away. No point in keeping white stuff that turned spotty and yellow over time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Note: In karate and karate-do, practitioners do not stop at Black Belt. They would move on to achieving "dans", i.e. 1st Dan, 2nd Dan, etc. At each level of dan, there would be a weapon to learn. Weapons like the double sword (sai), stool-leg (tonfa), red spear, nunchukas, etc. One time, instructor Steven went for his dan upgrade. He came back to class with a black eye. He was using a nunchuka weapon then. We wondered if he hit himself or got hurt sparring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Actually, Peter and I would have carried on learning karate-do if we were allowed to exit the Kids' group and join the Adults. But we were deemd too young. The Adult group started at age 18.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At 16, we were physically the biggest kids in the group (Peter was even taller). There was no one else to spar with but ourselves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As friends, Peter and I disliked fighting or sparring with one another. The sessions often left a bad feeling afterwards no matter what, why we asked to switch to the Adult section. But it was not meant to be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">=====</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From Stevens Road, the YMCA moved premise to Prince Edward Road in the Tanjong Pagar area... to where the old Singapore Polytechnic used to be. For me, this new location was madness to travel to as I was still staying up at Singapore's North, right next to JB! Every Sunday morning I had to wake up super early to make that long bus commute. It was very tiring and extremely hard on the backside. I still remember Trans Island bus service 180 that took me from one end of Singapore to the next, cutting through the North-South divide of the island. That journey was so long that 'chong' (boils) would develop on my backside from sitting down too long on those impermeable vinyl bus seats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At times I would meet up with Peter along Thomson Road (his home at Lakeview) just to change the routine and give my backside a break!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, in a way I was glad that Peter and I couldn't continue with those karate-do lessons. I could once again sleep in on a Sunday morning!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You might ask how I benefited from all these karate-do and judo (book) lessons? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, for one thing, I thought I could skip Taekwondo classes during National Service. But no. Like the rest, I had to go through the same darn PT routine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I know I learned discipline doing the karate-do katas. Ok, it was no diferent from learning drill during secondary school NPCC but martial arts and self-defence in general are just that: It gave me the skills to protect myself in instances of unarmed combat. I especially liked the knife disabling moves that that little Judo book taught me. I learned not to be afraid of close-quarter combat, like what happens in Wing Chun sparring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There were also other quick disabling moves I learned, stuff that were so simple even a skinny girl could execute them. Life-saving moves such as squeezing of the thumb (bending at the joints to hurt); stamping the foot with shoe heels; a quick chop to the throat, etc. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The best move for a girl when a guy holds you in a bear hug? Cup your hands and slam them onto his ears. That will cause a minor concussion. Or dig your nails into his eyes. Hey, it could be your life at stake so fight like a caged animal and use whatever necessary means at your disposal!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And unlike in the movies, once your assailant is down, beat the hell out of him until he is unable to get up. Don't give a chance. Go for the groin, nose, throat, knees, etc. Any place that is sensitive to hurt. Side of the head. Look around for a weapon. Don't be passive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Other things I learned in that Judo book? Use your keys like claws (by sticking them between your fingers). Or swing your trusty handbag. If yours has a metal hinge, the better it will hurt your assailant. And did you know that someone recently launched an Apple iPhone case with a built-in pepper spray? But that kind of chemical defence can work against you, so just clench your fists and throw a punch!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">========</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the end, even though I did not learn "heng gong" (levitation skill), I learned quite a bit about martial arts. And I managed to teach some self-defence moves to my five sisters. So, all in all, the effort was not a total waste even if the travel and journey to that YMCA dojo was tough. My backside did develop minor boils a few times on those long journeys. I had to use "pak york go" (Nixoderm cream) to cure each time. Nix cream was very effective indeed!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I really liked that trick of rolling on the concrete floor and not hurting myself. It is actually what stuntmen do when they fall out of cars, leap from a high floor to land, etc, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yup, I cycle a lot. I imagine using that same technique should I get knocked to the floor of the road and rolling away to safety. Well, at least I got something up my sleeve, heheh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/mt-kinabalu-1.html">Mt Kinabalu 1</a></i></span>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-36667567008723933962013-12-12T08:51:00.000-08:002013-12-18T23:21:37.743-08:00The Pantsuit Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFI4XegvezH6E9N_xkD0veER2CLZgd7PNlrAn_HfdENUwlobjuePtZfJ8ozlnpQFcqL6fGeVrrnHQC_7_T3orxidGmYzUcZiF5xt5-gbHUqPRFkiv4b-BmOUCuL_a8ZgrxU2mmHs7YfFs/s1600/Pantsuit+Lady+(small).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFI4XegvezH6E9N_xkD0veER2CLZgd7PNlrAn_HfdENUwlobjuePtZfJ8ozlnpQFcqL6fGeVrrnHQC_7_T3orxidGmYzUcZiF5xt5-gbHUqPRFkiv4b-BmOUCuL_a8ZgrxU2mmHs7YfFs/s320/Pantsuit+Lady+(small).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was having lunch with my old pal Jane the other day when she pointed out with her chopsticks a lady seated two tables away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Look at her," she said, sounding a little agitated. "I simply dislike women like that."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"What's wrong?" I responded, tilting my head and trying to swallow food at the same time. In that awkward angle, I saw who Jane was referring to: a lady in her 30s dressed in a light-colored pantsuit. She had wavy shoulder-length hair and was decent looking. She was eating a bowl of noodles. From the looks of it, a mee-pok ta or Asian flat noodles in non-soup version. Kan (Mandarin) or 'dry', that is.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Look closely. Observe how she eats," instructed Jane. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I turned to look again, the pantsuit lady was about to pick up some noodles with her chopsticks. She did it rather coquetishly, weighing them first in the air and then putting some into her mouth. I noticed something odd the way she did it, but, I was busy trying not to choke on my own food. In my subconscious, a red light went off. The Pantsuit Lady didn't have to do what she did as she was eating dry noodles and not soup.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jane went on. "See! See! How she is chewing on them now!" she said, more annoyed than excited.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I looked again. True enough, there was something unusual about the way that Pantsuit Lady was consuming her noodles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Amazingly, it seemed as if she was giving someone a BJ, which is short for "blow job". Technically, it is called a fellatio. My amused grin grew into a huge silly one at the funny scene unfolding before me. In all my years of eating out, I've not seen a woman eat her noodles quite like that. She could well be pleasuring her husband or boyfriend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Pantsuit Lady angled her head, kept her loose hair back with one free hand at the neck, and then proceeded to cup her mouth over the noodles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">'Cup over' is the operative phrase here. Whereas you and I would lean in and at the same time shaft the noodles into our mouths, this Pantsuit Lady didn't. She simply held her noodles up and with her chopsticks level, put her lipsticked mouth over it. Very unusual. It was as if some imaginary person was holding the chopsticks for her instead. -Holding it just out of reach. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Seeing this unusual display I was beginning to wonder if this Pantsuit Lady was of another nationality. I had watched the Jap movie Tanpopo before and had seen folks in that country eat their noodles with gusto and in their own peculiar way. But it was in no way the same as how this Pantsuit Lady was imbibing hers. She looked and sounded local. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As she ate, taking one mouthful after another, a ball of food would form in her cheek. Unlike a normal person, she didn't fill her mouth with noodles. She simply took a small ball of it, chew, swallow and then another. If you looked at her cheek, you would see: ball, no ball, ball. It really reminded me of that common BJ joke bitchy girls make against one another - the one with that shoved fist and tongue against the cheek to simulate BJ action - an example of which you could see in the Wayan brothers' movie, White Chicks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Amazingly, the Pantsuit Lady ate her noodles without break, i.e. she did not bite off the noodles and then chew on them. She merely cupped her head/mouth over that column of noodles and ate and chewed until the whole thing was finished. Incredible!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can you imagine the action? Woman lifts up noodles, presses her hair back, angles her head, puts mouth over the noodles, suck in a ball, chew, swallow, suck in another ball of noodle, chew, swallow... until the rest of the noodles on her chopsticks are gone and slurped up. All the time her chopsticks remained AT THE SAME LEVEL.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was incredible to witness. What a feat! And, WHO WOULD EAT NOODLES LIKE THAT???</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Being a technical person, I noted all that down mentally. I wasn't sure, but the information could be useful somehow. It was all rather intriguing. You know how we engineers are, or if you have watched enough shows about animals in the wild, you'll understand the need to note all sorts of creature behavior and then later recall their eccentric displays in lurid details. More or less what I am doing here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, guys who have taken head from a lady with long hair would recognise that signature move with the pressing back of the hair and angling of the head. You won't want all that strandly bits of hair to get in the way of a good fellatio.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That action is actually very considerate and lady-like. A man would be so lucky to have such a gracious lady give him head. With such a lady, you'd clean your dick first, lie back and not dare lay a hand on her head as to appear uncouth. A lady like that deserves respect. Because, what she is offering you is a privilege, not a lustful deed. Kind of "up there" like geisha service. (Not that I've had the pleasure of a geisha before and that they all engage in this kind of 'Geylang' activity!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jane wasn't so kind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"See, she's eating like she's giving someone a BJ," she said, voicing the obvious, and still sounding annoyed and a little disgusted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"And look, her bowl is not even centred in front of her."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I looked again and could see that Jane was right. The Pantsuit Lady was eating her bowl of noodles with it placed to one side. Kind of strange since she did not have another dish in front of her to pick at.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Is that why she is cocking her head slightly," I asked, intending the pun. Jane was too livid to notice my feeble effort. I wondered why she was getting all worked up, so I asked her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"So why are you being so upset with her?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jane looked at me as if I should have understood. "What?" I said, rather defensively AND too quickly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Show-off," Jane replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Huh?" I was scratching my head. "A show-off?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"It's no different from a girl wearing a low-cut blouse to show off her breasts." I was reminded then that Jane had modest breasts. She caught me staring at her chest and raised a fist in mock anger. She flared her cute eyes too. I pretended to shy away in defeat and jokingly laughed at her feelings of inadequacy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Look," I said. "Maybe that woman over there has been eating like that her whole damn life. Perhaps since the time of kok-kok noodles, you know." Haha, another pun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jane got it this time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Haha, fun-nee (*sacasm). Someone should tell her to stop. It's embarrassing." Saying that, she sulked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I found Jane's response strange. Jane was usually confident about herself. She had above-average looks, abilities, etc. - quite the liberal sort, actually. So why was she acting funny and letting a total stranger affect her in such a manner. I mean, why bother?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I could make out that the Pantsuit Lady was rather tall and on the womanly side. Jane was slim and rather girlish. Is that the reason? And Jane was perhaps a decade older than the Pantsuit Lady. Female jealousy and cattiness?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Women. Is it true that they all react the same when a better-looking or better-dressed woman walks into the room? That scratchy claws will all come out?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Look, would you feel better if I tell you I knew a colleague once who ate funny too? She did not like gravy on her rice and drinks only piping hot soup. She ate only with a fork, except when having soup. She claimed it helped her to think while she masticated and picked at her food. She later confessed that it was a habit left over from eating salads too often."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Masticate. I was quite pleased to have used that word.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jane shot me a look, a look that accused me of siding with a stranger. But it soon passed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Hah! Still no excuse to be eating this weird," she said, her gaze again returning to the Pantsuit Lady. "And who would eat holding chopsticks like that as if in suspended animation?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then Jane suddenly exclaimed and gesticulated with her chopsticks again. "Look! Look!" This time, her aim was directed slightly off to the right at the older lady opposite the Pantsuit Lady. She appeared to be the lady's mom. They had the same facial features, cheek bones and even hair type. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The older lady was picking up her noodles and weighing them in the air before tucking them in. Chopsticks level, same BJ motion with the noodles. Daughter and mother act.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jane and I turned to look at one another other and burst out laughing, almost tipping over the tall sugarcane drinks in front of us! A most unforgettable lunch it turned out to be!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/a-brown-belt-affair.html">A Brown Belt Affair</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>More humour here: <a href="http://asingaporeantalkbox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/the-singapore-little-india-riots-iii.html">The Singapore Little India Riot</a></i></span>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-53418641494449597912012-12-13T00:21:00.002-08:002015-02-24T09:22:44.812-08:00Once Upon A Spider<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mCGfcpFcMTkSiRNmAuCmuUiu6_k-lIfhpCrh0XlxtMUm9feX8ulBtzKFKWWfr0e9O6n45yweCw9T2zKRMFTjWJd7Z8AUDQPtCLvfnWt7QY4FNuSvZAaK_1dMvJxqLmrdoLeSBAU3Do4/s1600/Alfa+33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mCGfcpFcMTkSiRNmAuCmuUiu6_k-lIfhpCrh0XlxtMUm9feX8ulBtzKFKWWfr0e9O6n45yweCw9T2zKRMFTjWJd7Z8AUDQPtCLvfnWt7QY4FNuSvZAaK_1dMvJxqLmrdoLeSBAU3Do4/s320/Alfa+33.jpg" height="320" width="259" /></a></div>
One thing I like about writing is that it can bring you unexpected experiences. One of these involved a spider. (No, not your typical house-spider but one that was made by Alfa Romeo, that Italian car maker better known for overheating cars in the 80s (e.g. the 33) that petrolheads liked driving. I particularly enjoyed the 147 (the 2003 model), which was very good at diving into corners and swinging you back out.<br />
<br />
Fortunately for Alfa Romeo, that poor reputation of theirs was put to bed when the company was bought over by Fiat and rationalised into a luxury marque together with Maserati in the 00s. Since then, it has been able to stand alongside BMW and Audi. At home in Italy, bigger and more luxurious models of Alfas have been used by Italian prime ministers as staff cars.<br />
<br />
I like Alfas for their avant garde styling (such as the Brera by Giugiaro) and sporty personality (I only ever driven manual). If I have a villa in the Alps, I would stock it all with Alfas and drive a different one each day.<br />
<br />
The mountainous geography of Italy (a third of the country has ranges over 700m) has certainly defined the character of the Alfa. It is a great performer on winding roads. In the James Bond movie Quantum of Solace, 007 was pursued by bad guys in an Alfa 159 (a 3.2-litre V6) along very narrow stretches of a mountain road. That the Alfa was able to keep up with his V12 Aston Martin (not saying it is a great car), insinuates much about what the marque can do. And you don't need deep pockets to own a mountain rocket like the Alfa.<br />
<br />
Although the car came to a dismal end in the movie, that chase scene along the mountain road has got to be one of the best ever filmed!<br />
<br />
Alfas in Singapore were popular in the 80s and early 90s. But by then the Japanese had made so much headway with their reliable, fuel economical and better integrated cars that Alfa and its European brethren were later ignored. By 'better integrated' I mean the air-con, power windows and stereo decks. The electronics were a huge improvement over the European cars. Using CAD and robotic technologies, the Jap cars were also better seamed and put together and better reflected Asian sensibilities.<br />
<br />
Honda and Toyota were in particular the more popular marques. Nissan was not far behind. Remember the 2nd and 3rd generation Honda Accords? Almost every other car on the road was one. Toyota upped the ante with their popular hatchback Corolla. Nissan carved out market share with their Sunnys and Preseas. Their NX coupe was also popular with the Ah Bengs and childless couples. I liked that it had a hole to conveniently stow an umbrella away!<br />
<br />
The 90s was a period when Jap cars were seen as cheap, reliable and luxurious. European cars were thought of as idiosyncratic, and servicing them usually cost a bomb - reasons why many people turned to Japanese marques.<br />
<br />
However, European cars did elicit a loyal following.<br />
<br />
A girlfriend's uncle used to swear by one. His favourite was an executive Lancia saloon. It was dark green and looked a little like a Rover. Kind of bland, if you asked me. Lancia and Alfa Romeo used to be grouped as one company, but has since gone their separate ways. Both still belong to Fiat though.<br />
<br />
I don't know why people would bother with a Fiat in the '90s. They weren't what they used to be in the '70s. In trying to compete with the rising Japanese auto industry, they somehow ended up short in the long-term quality area. Parts would inexplicably break down after just a few years.<br />
<br />
In the late 90s, I had a friend who was an editor at Female Magazine. Knowing that I wrote with a sense of humour, she had me write some articles for the rag to mostly reflect the male perspective on certain issues. I remember contributing a few short pieces to the He Says, She Says column. One piece in particular explained why I liked the Spice Girls. Her fashion/make-up editor Gemma would often contribute the counter, female perspective.<br />
<br />
I didn't write freelance a lot in those days (I had a full-time job). Female was my longest association and the humble payouts simply contributed to mere pocket money. I used it to treat my friends to meals.<br />
<br />
My first actual freelance story happened many years prior and was about the misadventure of one plundering and blundering Eric The Viking. I was glad when it got published but not so later on. The magazine was called Glamour Backstage and was supposed to be a magazine about the glamour life and of beauty pageants. In actuality, it was a gay mag. And they weren't coy about it.<br />
<br />
Nobody suspected anything at first. But after a few covers of men with naked torsos in skimpy trunks, folks caught on to its drift. At the time, gayness was just starting to come out of the closet. It was about the same time that I was accosted by some gay chaps in the East Coast Park McDonald's (of all places!) They were giving me the once over and come-hither looks outside the toilet. Like most folks who frolicked at East Coast Park then, I had gone to the Mac washroom to tidy up.<br />
<br />
But really, gay guys hitting on me? Me, the most heterosexual of men?<br />
<br />
In any case, I wasn't interested. The reason was that they reminded me of those young, ugly gay men who hung around pubs like '+' (plus sign) or Sugar, along Mohammed Sultan Road. The waitresses all wore nurses uniforms there. The idea being that the pub was a "First-Aid" station. (Resuscitation, get it?)<br />
<br />
The reason I visited that pub was not because it was a gay joint. An expat German friend liked to bring his girlfriend there as Happy Hour was the cheapest among all the watering holes along that strip. Trust a German to sniff that out.<br />
<br />
After some visits, I managed to convince him to switch. There's only so much ugliness one can take from gay guys (who's not even a quarter metrosexual). I wouldn't like to be in a pub with ugly women, so why torture myself with gay men who could have auditioned as dwarves san beard for Peter Jackson's The Hobbit?<br />
<br />
I much rather enjoy the company of people with 'character faces' - folks whose countenances are shaped by their life experiences and maybe, yes, by the sole love of their mothers. A pretty face with a vacuous mind is as attractive as an empty beer mug during Happy Hour.<br />
<br />
In any case, I was at one time hanging out with the editorial staff of Female at one cigar party (somewhere in Clarke Quay) that my editor friend asked if I was interested in cars. I said yes, which guy isn't?<br />
<br />
She then confided that she was thinking of doing a car review piece. A car review column? On a regular basis? Wow, that would be my dream job! But my heart sank when she told me it would only be a one-off piece.<br />
<br />
"The catch is this," whispered my editor-friend Joyce. "You test drive this sexy sports car and try and see if it is a babe magnet for you!"<br />
<br />
"So folks are not so much interested in what the car can do?" I said, disappointment heavy in my voice.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, but weave that in if you want. But mostly, we just want to see if babes react to you in the car." Having said that, Joyce took a suck on her ash-laden cigar and blew out some smoke. She made a face. I didn't think she liked the taste. An intern did the same with her cigar and promptly coughed her eyeballs out.<br />
<br />
It turned out the assignment needed me to wake up early, which is not the thing I would normally do on a Saturday. But for a sports car, I would. Afterwards, I would test-drive it and then do the social experiment in the afternoon, preferably somewhere along Orchard Road and Holland Village, or at places where "easy" babes could be had, which left me rather clueless. For some reason, we didn't think of going to Geylang or outside Orchard Towers.<br />
<br />
Strangely, I also didn't equate easy babes with SPGs (sarong party girls). I guess the reason could be that I wasn't "angmoh" enuf. Not at all!<br />
<br />
So early that April morning, I went to Alfa's showroom along Ahmad Ibrahim Road to pick up the brand new Alfa Romeo Spider. It was a beaut, to say the least. Red in color and with sweeping lines.<br />
<br />
(Note that Alfa opted to spell their Spider roadster with an 'i' rather than the more common one with the 'y'.)<br />
<br />
A Spyder by definition is a roadster; typically topless, and this Spider was. The salesman who handed over the car emphasized how the canvas top should be opened.<br />
<br />
"Never in any circumstance should you open the top when it is moving" was what he said. Just a moment ago, he was demonstrating how one must first release the two catches in front, just above the sunshades of the windscreen. Even though that action was manual, the opening of the canvas top was auto-mechanical. At the press of a button, the unlocked canvas top would then collapse out-of-sight behind the rear seat and into a metallic cover.<br />
<br />
That was sweet but was not what impressed me at first. It was how unnervingly quiet the car was when idling. I got into the car and wanted to re-start the engine!<br />
<br />
Once away from the showroom the Spider proved itself an easy drive. And like most Alfas, it had power to tap on. Unfortunately, the easy revs were immediately limited once the needle touched the red zone. It quickly fell back to about 4000 rpm, which was rather annoying. The pick-up speed of the car was quick. Very quick! So if you were not light-footed, the RPM needle would just seesaw back and forth between 'red' and 'safe'!<br />
<br />
Another winning point of the car was its stability. You could turn sharply into corners and not spill coffee. It was true then that the car was positioned for women who wanted a powerful set of wheels but not any "wrangling in the handling". <br />
<br />
Outside the sun was shining with the sky only slightly cloudy. So, this is what's it's like to drive topless! My dad used to drive an open-top Triumph, something I rode in often as a kid but never drove. That experience made me want to own a Mazda Roadster, but each time, I would settle for a practical choice. In our kind of tropical weather, it is hard to justify owning a topless car or one with a slashable canvas roof. You would either drown in monsoon rain or be sunburned from the noonday sun. Or have your belongings stolen by opportunistic car park thieves. It happened often in the Orchard Somerset car park area. (Back when there was still an open car park.)<br />
<br />
That's how I felt after test driving the topless Alfa Romeo for a while along Jalan Ahmad Ibrahim. I was dressed East India Co light but was still roasted by the sun. It would get worse came noon. But I was enjoying myself too much to notice.<br />
<br />
After a while I decided to call my friend Set for a second opinion. He was a car aficionado like me and once owned an Alfa. He also once fixed a Skyline engine into his dad's Volvo, sending it to the stratosphere at each traffic light race. Only in Malaysia can you build crazy stuff like that and get away with it. Or race along unmonitored B-roads..<br />
<br />
Set and I took the car a longways to Changi's quiet Nicoll Drive to test-drive it. Set was elated to get behind the wheel. Not many software engineers in their day jobs get to test-drive a sports car. In a way the Spider test-drive was to reward him for the many March Madness (see other stories) outings he once initiated. He loved his cars (he owned two '70s Minis as a hobby) and was a very good driver. What's that saying about friends sharing good times? That's basically what I did.<br />
<br />
Set's verdict of the Spider was that it was a good car. Not a wild sports car but one that was refined. We both wished the RPM limiter to be switched off but the showroom owners must have decided to play it safe. I was sure we weren't the only ones to test-drive this new seductress from Alfa. There could be other journalists waiting. We both felt the Spider crying out to be let loose and was disappointed that we couldn't let it fly.<br />
<br />
I asked Set how much of the Alfa DNA was in the Spider. He said the major characteristics were still there. The hurry to get somewhere and the note of the engine. It always sounded fun and flirty.<br />
<br />
Set gave the Spider longing looks upon parting. I knew he wanted to drive it some more but I had an assignment beckoning. Time for me to go flirting instead of being flirted with. The Spider, with its passionate ruby red color and somewhat feminine sleek lines, was indeed seductive. It worked on us guys but will it work on the girls?<br />
<br />
My first stop was Holland Village.<br />
<br />
I parked next to a cafe to see if any hot babe would come check me out. Heads turned but they soon returned to their conversations. I was actually feeling rather amused as I had never done anything like this before. And it wasn't like me to go picking up women anyhow.<br />
<br />
An elderly Chinese lady in a sunhat came by. "Ah tee, ler eh chia jing sui," she said, in Hokkien, meaning my car was pretty. Great, not only was I not attracting the young ladies but older women were taking an interest. Much older women at that.<br />
<br />
"Er, OK lah, aunty," was my embarrassed reply.<br />
<br />
I turned on some music and pretended to tap along. It only got annoying stares from the people at the cafe.<br />
<br />
I then decided to exit the car and bum-lean on it looking like I was waiting for someone. From under my sunglasses, I was spying to see if any passerbys would take notice of the red-hot Spider. No one seemed bothered. Not with the car, not with me.<br />
<br />
I was a strapping chap then weighing some 56kg. I would know because I had lost like 10kg the months prior... All because I got a bit laggy during Reservist. I was struggling to get out of a two-door coupe during one in-camp. I am sure it wasn't all that bad a weight issue but I had always been tops in my fitness and that one occasion finally convinced me to do something about it. That and the delicious ox-tail stew someone cooked up that Christmas prior in Bedok. It was either more of that and fat, or less of that and lean.<br />
<br />
I decided enough was enough and went on a diet. The diet was simple: avoid all carbohydrates and sugar. Eat fruits as snacks and run 15km every week. More, if time allowed.<br />
<br />
It worked. I lost 10kg in three months and put three back. What, put three back? Yes. At the next in-camp, I found myself too light. All the army stuff I had to carry on my person was biting down on the new fat-less me; I needed more meat to buffer all those sharpy buckles, straps, etc. Still, at 56kg I was very lean, and it felt good.<br />
<br />
Truth be told, a strapping me standing next to a hot car would be more ideal in the 00s. It better conveyed youth and dot-com success, not the year after a financial crisis. Folks probably thought me silly (or a show-off) to even buy a new sports car!<br />
<br />
Or maybe ultra-rich.<br />
<br />
In any case, the Spider's styling wasn't as aggressive as a Lamborghini or as futuristic as a Ferrari. It was kind of gentle, so maybe that's why it didn't really catch anybody's attention. Besides, unless you were a petrolhead, Alfa Romeo wasn't a sports car brand you would recall off the top of your head. Porsche, more likely.<br />
<br />
Later, the situation was the same along Orchard Road. People glanced at the Spider but no one sidled up to chat with me.<br />
<br />
All in all, I had spent the whole morning driving the car with the top down and the better part of the afternoon hanging about kerbside like a prostitute waiting for customers.<br />
<br />
It's kind of sad to treat your body like a taxi where everybody with some money can jump on for a ride. Kind of difficult to hold on to your self-esteem when that happens. The same can be said for actors/actresses in the adult movie business. It's an emotional fracture that's not easy to heal. Just ask Annabelle Chong. Even goal-setting (that gang-bang fest of hers) did not make - what she was doing - agreeable.<br />
<br />
Agreeable was the word. I wondered if what I was doing was 'right'. Could I pretend to be a cad, who is by definition a guy who has no qualms about bedding any woman? Cat or dog, for that matter.<br />
<br />
All that was running through my mind sitting in that red Alfa Spider. I was no cad and so decided to treat this whole thing as role play. After all, the whole affair was like a guy's dream to be given a hot car to attract hot babes. But I worried about what to write if the social experiment failed. I decided help was needed and called my friend Jane. As expected, she was again in town shopping. Finally, I was going to have a hot babe in my car!<br />
<br />
Jane was a career girl and not a bad driver. Although well off, she loathed to own a car as she viewed it as a bad investment in Singapore. If she needed one, she would drive her dad's (or one of her boyfriend's). What was her verdict of the Spider? Well, she didn't find the foot pedals too close together like in the old Alfas (they were positioned such for fast heel-to-toe action. A practical idea for fast drivers but a pain for girls with heels!) She also said the Spider was built like a Saab. After a while, I could tell that Jane was becoming addicted to the vehicle. As I prised her fingers off it, I noticed that her nails were polished the same ruby red. I think she liked the way the car gave her that Pretty Woman image: top-down car with shopping bags in the back seat. Or a very Hollywood Rodeo Drive kind of thing.<br />
<br />
After my time with Jane, I met up with Gemma in her open-top Ford Escort at the Goodwood Park Hotel car park to take pictures together. It would be a pix of a guy and a gal in their respective topless wheels.<br />
<br />
The picture spread eventually looked good in the magazine, my red wrinkle-free shirt from East India Co. complementing the red Spider very well.<br />
<br />
Even though I did not hook any girl for a ride that day (which was actually a relief personally) I enjoyed driving the Spider. It was towards the evening when I returned the car that I realised I was suffering from borderline heatstroke, so engrossed I was driving the car top down! Needless to say, I came down with sunburn as well.<br />
<br />
My girlfriend May arrived to fetch me home. She was in good humour about the whole social experiment knowing that I was doing it more for the car than anything else. And I realised something else getting behind her Honda Civic hatchback: it was a damn soft drive compared to the European-made Alfa. Speeding up the car was like stepping onto tofu!<br />
<br />
Well, that's a Japanese car/engine for you. At that moment, I realised why some folks could be so loyal to their European brands. The difference in drive characteristics was like night and day. Ok, the Spider was a sports car and it wasn't fair to take that as your everyday typical, but I was thinking that in general, continental cars had more oomph and power. A Jap car was smooth and refined and not at all angry even at the high revs, which made them agreeable especially with no-fuss drivers.<br />
<br />
So on that day, my affair with the Alfa Spider lasted from 7am in the morning till 6pm in the evening. I was half-dead from sunstroke and half-amused with the failure of our social experiment. But I was one happy petrolhead given a chance to drive a new breed of Alfa Romeros out to charm a new generation of drivers. For that, I would be forever and eternally grateful to Joyce, my editor-friend from Female then. On another occasion that gratitude would be reserved for another editor pal of mine. That time, it was an opportunity to edit a newsletter for Saab car owners. Heheh, who was it that said "Have pen will travel"?<br />
<br />
<i>Next story:<a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2013/12/the-pantsuit-lady.html">The Pantsuit Lady</a></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNNV3SCyGvL06f39GZQTKRP2a3yzIuLZkzmepe2SMRq2paTcMUsUtQZvattawmFjH3pPXEUgZdK3v3U40DugJhyphenhyphen7rJK9daDdWRH0WYmFRijiRXdKZrRhNZxqC9Sr9ssfyZcLNIMxsbR8/s1600/Female+1998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNNV3SCyGvL06f39GZQTKRP2a3yzIuLZkzmepe2SMRq2paTcMUsUtQZvattawmFjH3pPXEUgZdK3v3U40DugJhyphenhyphen7rJK9daDdWRH0WYmFRijiRXdKZrRhNZxqC9Sr9ssfyZcLNIMxsbR8/s200/Female+1998.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMh15_iLwQfn-n_j9I9PGAQkYhmJUq_05pfKCZ-2YlRyoW-oCsyCPtpOebNsuKdU6cWCmifiHKcq_E4AEm_WceXUmoZQnnBJsLNMMQlpPEzebF3XsjVRF7qoXvDsdhXMhnYISUNhCcKc/s1600/Alfa+Spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMh15_iLwQfn-n_j9I9PGAQkYhmJUq_05pfKCZ-2YlRyoW-oCsyCPtpOebNsuKdU6cWCmifiHKcq_E4AEm_WceXUmoZQnnBJsLNMMQlpPEzebF3XsjVRF7qoXvDsdhXMhnYISUNhCcKc/s320/Alfa+Spider.jpg" height="111" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-20303671289596532832012-12-05T09:38:00.004-08:002013-11-14T09:07:05.657-08:00In The News 1<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8MBPk3Rf0KvaYcce-Vpnimsk4ygW4Ptq8Ov4S5CmmT55xnXdaCREVlosm0rbVC_6vPuL_-vnSBt-LRlGOM7Gjk0ql9TddnOhuSvCC0Ylrz1BxDd91WaQVXnOhmfyyrv0hs-Hbj74TNg/s1600/DX4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8MBPk3Rf0KvaYcce-Vpnimsk4ygW4Ptq8Ov4S5CmmT55xnXdaCREVlosm0rbVC_6vPuL_-vnSBt-LRlGOM7Gjk0ql9TddnOhuSvCC0Ylrz1BxDd91WaQVXnOhmfyyrv0hs-Hbj74TNg/s200/DX4.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
As a Technology reporter, you get to be at the forefront of the Tech Industry. In my case, I started with IT and then moved on to serious R&D science reporting.<br />
<br />
Reporting IT during the Dot-com Era was exhilarating: There would be something new to write about every week. The press releases we received piled up as thick as a loaf of bread!<br />
<br />
Back then, the IT industry was as a whole (i.e. on a worldwide level) nascent: hardware, software, applications, etc, - all were new, mostly driven by new PC/server releases and internetworking products. There was LAN then WAN. Conference meetings on the PC platform went from audio to video. Video feeds evolved from analog to digital. The whole PC platform got hijacked into a mobile phone. And thus was born the smart phone and 3G network.<br />
<br />
In a gist, that was what happened. But, of course, the Dotcom Era was more than that. It was a time of intense competition. The reason: everything was new. Products, as well as network speeds.<br />
<br />
Ethernet crawled from 10MHz to 100MHz to 1GigaHz beating Asynchronous Transfer Mode or ATM to the desktop. It was cheap and legacy friendly. But ATM's 52-cell data stream format was later preferred serial streaming for fiber-optic WANs. Remember all the many ATM Forum meetings and conferences we used to have? The wonderful thing about a cell-like data stream is that it can weave its way through various router paths and yet arrive at the same destination. Mobile comms data follow the same schema. But the 'cell' term in mobile telecoms also refers to how an area is divided into a mesh of honeycomb cell-like transceiving areas. So, please don't confuse between the two!<br />
<br />
When I first started reporting IT, a PC running on a 80486 DX4 processor was considered high-end. The toaster oven-shaped Macintosh was competing for desktop space in homes and editorial offices, not so much for business. Remember Apple's Lisa business computer? It failed miserably.<br />
<br />
It's no wonder because Steve Jobs never felt comfortable in a business suit. He and his products were just not that sort. He much preferred the "smart casual"!<br />
<br />
Having both Apple and Windows products in the office in that era was a pain in the ass. Each required a separate IT network to link up. Interoperability was still the Holy Grail. In the 80s and early 90s, there was the Apple vs PC debate; but it applied only to the personal PC arena.<br />
<br />
Besides each spotting a different OS and physical look, inside, there was also hardware battle. At the time Motorola (the semiconductor giant) was aligned with Apple. Intel sided with Bill Gates and Windows. It was 68000 architecture vs 80x86. As training engineers in the 80s, we learned to deploy with both - the schools did not want to take sides. We also learnt something better: microcontrollers. These were touted as the processors of the future for Control Systems, stuff that controlled everything from intelligent buildings to washing machines. Back then, each microcontroller needed supporting role chips such as a digital to analog converter, I/O ports, timers, EEPROMs, etc. These days, you'll find everything in one solid integrated package.<br />
<br />
After the 486 came the Pentium ones from iteration 'I' to 'V'. In terms of Windows, it was from version 3.0 to 95 to XP in 2001. That year, I was invited to the Microsoft Redmond head-office to witness the launch. I was, as mentioned in a previous blog, invited to be part of a press junket consisting of prominent journalists from Asia. I was executive editor of two prominent PC magazines then, one dealing with Windows user problems....so naturally, I was on the PR media 'Priority List'.<br />
<br />
I was excited, of course, to go to Microsoft's campus in Seattle. Anybody would, even if you were entering 'Borg' territory. You know that joke about 'Resistance being futile, and that all will be assimilated'? Yes, Microsoft was huge and intimidating back then. Given its rivalry with Apple, it had that "it's either me or them" mentality.<br />
<br />
Apple in 2001 was still largely a niche player. Their fast 'G' series of Power Mac computers (with their good displays and slightly more powerful processors) were mainly used by the advertising and graphic design agencies. But by then the PC makers were already introducing new architectures and speedy motherboards (especially with faster front-side buses) and improved graphics cards. It was around that time when graphics cards started sporting their own GPU or graphics processing units with their own memory banks. This offloaded a lot of work from the main CPU, freeing it to do more important computational tasks.<br />
<br />
The publishing company I worked for used Windows PCs instead of Macs to design and layout their magazines. It was rather unusual but they weren't disadvantaged at all. Another much larger publishing house was doing the same.<br />
<br />
In fact, the advantage to using a PC has always been that it is a Commodity Product; an off-the-shelf purchase that can be bought anywhere with components mixed and matched. Unlike Apple, which was proprietary. That's one thing I couldn't stand about them. Buying an Apple printer meant connecting only to an Apple machine. What a waste!<br />
<br />
As a practising engineer before, we seldom thought of using an Apple machine. With a DOS-based PC, it was so easy to design an interface system or write a driver. You just had to know C++. And you could literally 'plug & play' - why so many equipment manufacturers of oscilloscopes, signal generators and digital analysers were on the PC-Windows bandwagon. The learning curve to deploy them was so much shorter. It was economical too. Imagine having to buy all your PC paraphernalia from just one Apple company. They wouldn't be able to cope with all that hardware and driver demand as well as upgrades and partner issues.<br />
<br />
Till this day, the Windows PC remains the choice of engineers everywhere. They even have one that runs on Ubuntu Linux, what with the programming community so strong on that one. The introduction of Android has further increased the community's expertise tremendously.<br />
<br />
Till today, Apple's PCs remain undeployable to engineers as an interface machine. (1) They look too pretty. (2) They are not intended for that use. Unless Apple suddenly come out with something like the Raspberry Pi (a bare bones computing unit for rural projects and hobbyists) I don't see the situation changing. Or if they create something more professional. It will never happen with Jobs...Wozniak perhaps.<br />
<br />
But what Apple did right was to come up with certain products that were easy and friendly to use, such as the iPhone and iPad. These portable machines have encouraged engineers and hackers to crack into their OS shells to let them do stuff their OS did not intend them to. In Android, this is called "rooting". In iOS (Apple's OS), the same is called "jailbreaking". Rooting can allow your Android smartphone to be used as a Wi-Fi tether. Jailbreaking lets you manipulate an iPhone's icons and menu display... among other things. All you have to do is look around and fiddle. Or join a tech forum for tips.<br />
<br />
You might wonder why the popularity of the iPad and Apple's laptops has not translated into bigger market share for the company. It's because the Windows PC world is much bigger than what we see on our desk and laps. Discounting the corporate market, it is due to the use of the Windows PC in other areas. Specifically, a huge market exists for the "industrial PC".<br />
<br />
Not sure what that is? Well, it is basically a PC made to fit an industrial use. As such, these machines come in all shapes and sizes. In technical-speak, that's "form factor".<br />
<br />
Say you need a slim PC to fit into an equipment rack. No problem. Someone can offer you one that is 2U in size ('U' being a unit shelf of 1.75 inches in gap). How about one that can be used in rugged conditions such as rain and snow? No worries, companies like Grid Computers have been making laptops that folks could bring with them to the desert or to wars. Such laptops can be dropped from a metre height and still function. Or slid on the floor and be stamped on. The present-day Panasonic Tough Book is an advanced example. You would probably have seen their funny (and impressive) ad featuring an elephant and a monkey.<br />
<br />
A more common example of an industrial PC is that found in a car park payment machine. That PC runs the currency reader, the LCD display and the ticket reader. It is also connected via LAN to a server and via RS-232 to a barrier gate control system at the entry and exit points. It is a busy little PC (no pun intended) often tasked to run under very hot conditions. If you think your PC is puffing hot air on your desk, imagine it being cooped up in a walled box with few air slits. It is the reason why your change from the fare machine would always feel warm each time, ditto the $1 coin refunded from an SMRT ticket machine. At times, the returned coin can be too hot to handle!<br />
<br />
Other industrial scenarios where special form factor PCs are used include the inside of a petrochemical plant, an aircraft or even a battleship. Many point of sales (POS) cashier machines now are PCs running on Windows. It's easier to hook them up via Wi-Fi to a backend wireless server.<br />
<br />
Why are there so many different PC form factors?<br />
<br />
A PC is, after all, just a collection of chips and I/O ports and connected devices. They can take any shape and form. Not necessarily to be put into a rectangular box (desktop) or one that looks like a pizza flat-box (e.g. laptop). In the past, much was decided by the inflexibility of printed circuit boards or PCBs. But since then, these PCBs have become multi-layered like kueh lapis but still much thinner. Different PCB materials let you do that.<br />
<br />
My favorite PC has to be the one that comes on a backplane. A slim one no thicker than two inches that slots into a rack (what you see in most spaceships in a sci-fi movie especially when the hero has to enable or disable something behind an instrument panel). There are those that run not on hard memory but flash ones instead. The Compact Flash memory card format (remember this one?) was popular back then as they were the only format capable of providing high and speedy memory storage. But I am sure they would have graduated to the smaller SD cards by now, if not the micro-SDs.<br />
<br />
Imagine a computer whose OS and start-up software all run from memory cards. There's no need for a hard drive even, or PCB-mounted memory chips. Industrial PC makers have been doing that since 10 years ago; tablet PC makers are only just doing that recently. To be fair, it had all to do with cost. A consumer is only willing to pay so much for a retail product. With industrial PCs, user companies don't mind paying extra for custom features as long as it does its job well in the stipulated environmental conditions. In such cases, the higher quality components do cost more to produce, test and qualify (like the MIL spec).<br />
<br />
Also, SSD (solid state device) memories have come a long way in terms of capacity and cost. It used to be a dollar a MB. Now it is $2.5 for a GB. How times have changed! I think of the 21MB Hitachi disk drive in my 1985 XT PC and laugh. But it was such a solid disk drive that I am inclined to put it on an alter to be worshipped. It withstood a major electrostatic shock and kept on working. Many would have expired at first spark. (I was at the time building a PC interface card to trigger a weather warning system.)<br />
<br />
What does having a drive-less PC mean? Well, you can store all your programs on a smart phone and have it connect to such a PC (like a drive-less backplane computer, for example) and run apps off it (via a micro-B USB port). It's a hacker's dream. A scenario like this was played out in Aliens (1986, the second Alien movie), when the robot Bishop had to use a handheld computer to hack into the facility's IT network to call up a spacecraft to bring him, Ripley, and the young girl home. A computer with a hard disk cannot be small, like the trendsetting HP 95LX palmtop.<br />
<br />
One of the more interesting PCs I've seen ran as an emulator machine. It's no big deal now but 11 years ago, it was. That particular emulator machine (from Celoxica) allowed software from old game machines to run off it, old game machines like the Commodore 64 and Atari. But that PC was actually built to run complex 3-D biological simulations to aid drug discovery. Emulating old games was to demonstrate a point.<br />
<br />
(And I've seen an old BBC Micro 8-bit computer being used to control a one-legged hopping robot in the early 00s. British engineers are nostalgic that way. It proved that you didn't need much in terms of hardware to accomplish something very complex.)<br />
<br />
Do you know that there's a free Nintendo DSi emulator floating around on the WWW? Download it and you can play all the DSi games on the PC. It does expand the gameability of a netbook (one that is dual-core at least). And there are many free downloads of Nintendo's DS games online (one popular site in particular). I don't encourage piracy but the prices Nintendo charge per game at the shops is just plain ridiculous. $45-$75 per single game card? No wonder pirate game cards that use micro-SD memory cards to store games exist. With these 'R4' or 'R4i' cards, you can store multiple games limited only by memory card capacity. A typical one requires only 4GB and it can store some 80-90 games depending on game file size. The solution is a godsend for parents wanting to save money on games. Let's face it: there are only a handful of engrossing titles out of a few thousand. Are you going to spend a fortune to find out which one? Game reviews offer limited help.<br />
<br />
But not all Nintendo games are for children. If you feel you are getting senile, I suggest playing one of Nintendo's many puzzle games for adults. Brain Age is one, Soduku is another.<br />
<br />
Probably one of the most earth-shaking bit of news in the IT industry in the last decade (no, not Jobs dying) has to be the switch of Apple hardware from Motorola to Intel. It's like Richard Dawkins suddenly embracing religion; it was that weird. But I think the winners in this were Apple and the PC user. No longer do we PC users have to worry about interoperability issues any more. Microsoft Office files can finally be easily interchanged. That's quite remarkable, isn't it? And with greater general acceptance, Apple went on to sell more Home <i>and</i> Office computers. Apple became the bling PC to have in the office. Quite a change in fortunes for this little company, no? I mean who could have imagined the proverbial Montaguts and Capulets getting along like that?<br />
<br />
With speedy PC machines these days (i.e. dual/quad/dual-quad cores), software emulators perform just as well as hardware based ones. They used to lag behind so much, especially when 3-D graphics are involved. All those vector computations can really slow an emulator program down.<br />
<br />
Speaking of multi-core PCs, they really killed the market for parallel processing ones. I remember a local company in Singapore used to do that. It was run by a Taiwanese physicist doctorate. They built their own parallel processing boards out of Intel processors. They sort of piggyback on one another and were intended for the server market where computing speeds (in MIPs) mattered most.<br />
<br />
Of course, nothing prepared me for the PCs in Japan. This was before multi-language capability (in an OS like XP) was introduced to a desktop PC. In Japan then, they wrote their own OS and all their PCs worked in Japanese. NEC was a big player then, like how IBM was the same in the US. They created mainframes, client stations and also desktop PCs.<br />
<br />
It took the Japanese many years to switch to Windows and be more compatible with the rest of the world. The multi-language functionality of XP really helped the World Wide Web to be truly international. All of a sudden, we could all type in a foreign language without having to download a driver or buy some special keyboard.<br />
<br />
With Google Translate now, we have certainly come a long way. Ten, twelve years? It's been a blink of an eye compared to the way other new stuff get introduced, such as pharmaceutical drugs for example. Their introduction can take decades.<br />
<br />
But OS technologies have come a long way. Just look at Android. Since 2010, four or five new versions have been introduced and it's all open source! Expect more innovations to come in the next couple of years. (I knew a guy once who wrote an OS for a local shipboard communications system. That was in the early to mid 90s. Singapore do have the talent in this software area.)<br />
<br />
And which technology will next make a big impact?<br />
<br />
Well, I cannot wait for the day when speech recognition in a machine becomes natural. Things will happen in a split second or as fast as you can speak. Or as fast as the machine can infer what you actually mean. Hearing is not the key; inference is. And that has been the harbinger to speech recognition. But hey, didn't they used to say the same about video? These days cameras can discern the 'intentions' of people they film... to ascertain whether they are friendly or hostile.<br />
<br />
It's important because flying drones in the battlefield need to know if they should shoot at you or simply ignore. I've seen flying drones that are like small helicopters equipped with machine guns. Run like hell or carry a 'friendly' mask to wear. One of Bill Clinton maybe. Ha ha.<br />
<br />
But really, cameras like these are already deployed in London to pick out rabblerousers and hooligans in crowded places.<br />
<br />
We are actually farther into the future than most people can imagine. And it is always the space or military folks that lead the way. Folks with the money and wherewithal to explore and devise; usually not having to contend with commercial safety standards and ethical use. A prime example is "directed energy weapons" or DEWs. They can microwave-fry you from a distance. Ah, technology. After so many years, it is still fun to report about. But I will stand far far away, thank you.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Afternote: </b>In 2002, I brought a start-up company to the CeBIT IT fair in Hannover, Germany. We went there as an EDB contingent of promising companies. In this group was a company called Muvee. They claimed to have invented a software that could create an edited wedding video from a long one, with music accompaniment no less. They showed how it was done and was quite amazing. Imagine shooting a wedding and leaving a computer to do all that editing work!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/once-upon-spider.html">Once Upon A Spider</a></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkq8VML3v0H8m0r-k7CbrLOZal0y9OjkO3wEJcOks6o7_wQMTxca9mX9C9DICYgcsoygj_TAlJs85jMtmDQQzWeGsS8cFFq602NoDXVXVNdpq0kKJiJM1Mo1ljkGEFvfEzRvXhH9YHAPU/s1600/Apple+Mac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="76" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkq8VML3v0H8m0r-k7CbrLOZal0y9OjkO3wEJcOks6o7_wQMTxca9mX9C9DICYgcsoygj_TAlJs85jMtmDQQzWeGsS8cFFq602NoDXVXVNdpq0kKJiJM1Mo1ljkGEFvfEzRvXhH9YHAPU/s400/Apple+Mac.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n_3G4C7SPeii4YV4wNserpicmQtH7MwCQ_lEuGleJKPAbvpSn0r446w2zQWDn364PtP6nsqouAq4ZQBn5QAVkHmW0vsr4wIIm4VhJn9d4VFGjkXfKDWwAJAqarIYXBr8uI1lzmNXU9Y/s1600/MRT+machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n_3G4C7SPeii4YV4wNserpicmQtH7MwCQ_lEuGleJKPAbvpSn0r446w2zQWDn364PtP6nsqouAq4ZQBn5QAVkHmW0vsr4wIIm4VhJn9d4VFGjkXfKDWwAJAqarIYXBr8uI1lzmNXU9Y/s200/MRT+machine.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Inside a ticketing machine.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7QVnNcT7qZ5ldUAlvKbfLY2-dYuSHKW-iDenc7gt1TPCe_qDKmwcuKXUQk8tuAG_SoZtdy8Dzs6W_NISktShiW-Jf3UGvzp85htoj3USKpEquMtxOsPKSVIXK0DnsGDZWWduFjifqp0/s1600/Muvee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7QVnNcT7qZ5ldUAlvKbfLY2-dYuSHKW-iDenc7gt1TPCe_qDKmwcuKXUQk8tuAG_SoZtdy8Dzs6W_NISktShiW-Jf3UGvzp85htoj3USKpEquMtxOsPKSVIXK0DnsGDZWWduFjifqp0/s200/Muvee.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<i>A program that reads faces and moods and </i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>creates an edited wedding video from a long one. </i><br />
<i>With music! </i><i>(A Singaporean invention/product)</i></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-43432095919559780972012-12-03T22:44:00.000-08:002014-05-21T12:13:01.894-07:00Burnable Bling<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioG8v2biiEt0-XugDd6Rb-dusw5omlNtO14blORMoISnNJCnBo_O7hjisRZ4JYHhGYCXDbgjtjsmnpe6C9T9Vad3GULOslpOJll3EtSgc9LuP1OWtayUAqoUtK0wmWOeGqcbjMkPoY3aw/s1600/Funeral+blankets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioG8v2biiEt0-XugDd6Rb-dusw5omlNtO14blORMoISnNJCnBo_O7hjisRZ4JYHhGYCXDbgjtjsmnpe6C9T9Vad3GULOslpOJll3EtSgc9LuP1OWtayUAqoUtK0wmWOeGqcbjMkPoY3aw/s320/Funeral+blankets.jpg" height="320" width="185" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Speaking of funerals in a recent blog post, I must admit that I find traditional Chinese funerals rather alien and outdated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They are noisy and involve Taoist prayer stuff I don't fully comprehend. I have seen quite a few recently at HDB void decks (which instigated the opening of a coffin shop nearby) and they all looked the same to me. Strangely or coincidentally, they were all in Hokkien or Teochew. I am Cantonese, so, will my rites be the same?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pretty much, I think.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hate to die suddenly and be given such traditional rites just because I am Chinese and have not laid down a will nor put a religion on my Identity Card. It's like someone rapping at your funeral when all you desire is a good Gregorian chant. It is so disconcerting that I might just come back from the dead to right the wrong!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wonder if my peers of the other races feel the same. Will they be caught in an unprepared bind when they die? Not that it matters given that we would all be already dead. But it does irk to know that we can't say a proper goodbye to the world...to our friends and immediate neighbourhood in the fashion that we want. My nearby fave kopitiam kopi ladies would miss my humour and wonder where their regular 'teh-c gau ka-ler or-lange (i.e. teh-c gau siew dai c-sau (or "orange color)) and newspaper-reading' uncle has disappeared to.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Which makes me think I should plan early or be prepared to die in a din of "tong-tong chiang"! (i.e. the clanging of cymbals and gongs!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At a Chinese funeral, not understanding the rites is one thing; being taken for a ride by unprofessional priests is another. They come dressed in less than clean robes and utter what could be rubbish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there are the stainless steel frames and fix-ups. They look the same structures as used in lion dances and other celebrations. I mean, are they recyclable? Maybe I am mistaken.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And what's with the blankets (wool or patch work) hung at the sides. These days, they don't all carry condolence messages. Some spout Confucius sayings like "a virtuous life led is a life well-lived," or dire warnings like "life is short, make the most of it." They never say stuff like "rinse in cold water only."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Odd.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This big blanket as a message board is a mystery. How did it come about? Was it a matter of convenience given that the blanket is easily the largest piece of cloth found at home. As a kid, my siblings and I used to play teepee tent with one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Long long ago, someone must have suggested sewing letters on a blanket. And there don't seem to be any specifications about it unlike SMS or Internet protocol. At a Chinese funeral, you find all sorts of blankets being deployed. They are charming in a unique and mish-mashed sort of way (see collage pix above). But, I think the quality of production should at least matter. I've seen one blanket with words sewn with vanguard sheet instead of embroidery. I mean what gives? Does the sender not have respect for the dead? It's like sending a hurriedly written Post-It note instead of a proper condolence card.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As we age closer to the grave, we all tend to think of such funerary arrangements; or when our parents pass on. I consider myself still young and so am loathe to make any such preparations yet. We don't want to jinx it, do we?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the traditional Chinese funeral is altogether something, isn't it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a tourist, I would find it all very fascinating. The music, the decorations, the flower standees, the blankets with condolence words and sayings, the many tables filled with kua chi/peanuts/sweets and at times, mahjong and kakis, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A more elaborate one happened near my house recently and it was extremely noisy with the band and Taoist priests praying and chanting loudly for a few nights. Not a normal affair. The usual chanting and noise typically happens only on the last day of the wake when the coffin is moved on to a crematorium or burial site.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In Singapore, we are all 'trained' to ignore such noises all in the name of racial harmony. Do what you want, just clean up afterwards seems to be the maxim. Ditto for void deck marriages. (It says much for "pantang-ness" (superstition) when one funeral function exits a community hall to be replaced soon after by a Malay or Indian wedding. People don't seem to care. Or does the Town Council stipulate a period between events so the smell of the dead goes away first at least? If so, how many days should that be?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">East or West</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Many of us Singaporeans have been brought up with a great dose of American TV on our broadcast channels. CSI, NYC, Miami Dade, LA, Las Vegas... you name it; the former (CSI) being the most popular as in the rest of the world. In the past, it was all those police and lawyer procedural serials like Hillstreet Blues, NYPD Blue, Homicide: Life On The Streets, Cold Case, The Practice, LA Law, Boston Legal, etc. We do get a surfeit of these, come to think of it. My own favourite had been Hawaii 5-0 (Jack Lord version) and Barney Miller. I am glad Hawaii 5-0 has been re-imagined and made a successful comeback.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through these shows, we have seen many American-style funerals and wakes. They are mostly quiet and reserved affairs - very different from our local Chinese ones.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And like most Chinese Singaporeans of my generation, me and my siblings have been brought up to observe some kind of Taoism-like ritual such as the burning of joss sticks in the mornings and evenings; praying to our ancestors; going to the temple on certain occasions (like a deity's birthday, for example); the burning of incense during the 7th Ghost Month; etc. We did all that because we were told that that was our culture. It mattered not a hoot whether we understood the rituals or not. As kids we also bathed in flower-scented water every 1st and 15th of the month.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My first real involvement in a Chinese funeral was when I was very young and a grand-aunt had died. She was crazy and unmarried. With no child of her own to send her off on her afterlife journey, I was elected to "tam fan mai shui" - carry the yoke (and water cans) to buy water, loosely translated to mean "ease her way to the afterlife." In modern times, I think the equivalent would be to carry a picnic table. Or be the deceased's luggage porter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the wake, I was dressed in dark blue and had to wear that gunny sack material and white-cloth hood. I had to hold a white paper lantern and lead the troop carrying her coffin out. But before that, I had to go through the ritual of putting a coin in my aunt's mouth. This was to make sure her journey through the spirit world will be smooth. The coin was currency in case bribes are needed or so she would not say the wrong thing. Or that she would be reincarnated into a more luxurious life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I was young and uncertain I remember someone guiding my hand as I placed the coin into my aunt's rather dead mouth as she laid in her coffin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Was I afraid? A little. I think I was more curious about how cold the dead could get. But I never got to touch the body. I remember feeling rather disappointed. All that hoo-hah and little else.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Being more English educated than Chinese, you can understand my feeling of alienation to the traditional Chinese funeral. Furthermore, if it had nothing to do with my dialect and culture: the whole thing was just, well, foreign. You might as well give me a wake in Malay or Tamil. -Or Mandarin, for that matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Burnable bling</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Chinese funeral is not all lost on me though. There is one thing I like about it and it is the paperhouses. Over the years, as I road-cycled through HDB estates, I've seen quite a few different paperhouses at funerals in the void decks. They range in size and elaboration, kind of like in real life where more money would get you a decent piece of real estate with all the fancy fix-ups.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The most impressive paperhouse I've seen was about 15ft long and 9ft high. It was a massive mansion with a few storeys and a courtyard. Within the rooms and along the corridors were revolving picture scenes, paper servant figures, etc. The paperhouse was neon colorful all over (mostly in green and coral pink) and decorated with shiny and shimmering stuff and tassles. I guess paperhouses are our local Chinese version of burnable bling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is kind of sad to see all that workmanship go up in flames later as a funerary offering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a kid, I have always wondered why folks don't update the traditional Chinese funeral. I would later blame the Communists for stunting China's growth in this and other cultural areas. How do a people pick up the pieces after so many decades of living under a different ideology, one that banned religious or spiritual practices even?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In Singapore, the Chinese are mostly descended from ancestors who were born and bred in China and then travelled out. Afterwards, it was the local clan associations that pulled people together to help preserve their provincial and dialectal customs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My own was passed down from my family's elders.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How should a wake be?</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I feel a wake should be public where passerbys are welcomed to explore and pay their respects. It's already pretty open at the void decks/general function halls, so why waste the opportunity. The wake should have picture panels that highlight the dead person's life: his way of living, his hobbies, his career, his friends, his accomplishments, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Strangers from the street should be encouraged to come in, walk through the wake exhibition and say prayers or write "bon voyage" messages. Maybe I am saying all this because I used to be a professional conference organiser.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Example: "Look, I don't know you but I sure like your fashion sense! RIP - John"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Or: "Hey, I didn't know you invented chopsticks for left-handed people. RIP - Mary"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Such a wake is a person's last hurrah before everything gets burned, turned into ash, and left forgotten in an urn!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And don't lay the dead person down in the coffin. Just as in life you wouldn't want to look up at the ceiling for too long, you would much prefer to be sitting up in a deck chair surveying the scene in front of you. Is there a law against putting up the deceased up like that during a wake? Would it be disturbing 'public peace' as in the other sort of exhibitionism? I'd be surprised if there is such a thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sit that dead person 45 degrees up so everybody can have a last look. You'll be glad if that person was from your neighbourhood. There's instant recognition, not from some dodgy photograph from yesteryear that makes you wonder about the person inside. Change costumes at intervals if you must, like in some wedding function.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Look snappy, play appropriate music.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Music? Yes. Play all that person's favourites. If music is missing, play pieces from their favourite storyteller like Lee Dai Sor. I've yet to hear someone play LDS at a wake. Many old folks derived pleasure from listening to him in the 60s and 70s and they should relive those moments during their wake. Who knows, the familiar story arcs might bring back a smile, a chuckle or tear. Certainly, people with a sense of nostalgia will hang about the proceedings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Death should not be mundane. Death is our last chance at doing something impressive. Leave the world with a bang, a resounding note.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How about leaving a last video message? We've seen quite a few of those on Youtube already from people whose lives had been predicted short by cancer or leukemia or some other life threatening malady. But does it feel eerie to hear it at a wake?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think, as a kid, I would have loved to hear the dead speak. Because as a child, funerals for me were always for adults. The customs, the giving of 'bak kum' (condolence money), the gossips among relatives, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For us kids, we were often left to entertain ourselves with the soft drinks, sweets, peanuts and kwa chi. -Even five stones.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So a dead person talking would make a child wonder about many things. For one, what that person was like when alive, and if he/she had anything interesting to say. For relatives that these kids don't encounter often it is a priceless last meeting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What would I say at my own funeral?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Blah, blah, blah and if you want to know more, check out my blogs!" That's the Social Media generation for you. "And on Facebook, don't forget to thumb a 'Like' if you like it!" would be another last repose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A more happening wake is also a great occasion to get rid of personal effects.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For example, I could divide up my assets into a kind of treasure hunt game. Kids love treasure hunts. Besides, if you have only one child, what is she/he going to do with all your barang-barang? They would most likely be thrown out. Why not turn it into a game for kids living near or attending your wake? I would rope in the neighbourhood library for this by planting clues in their books. It will encourage kids to borrow or browse through certain books, know all the sections. Be acquainted with books on travel or books about food. Art and craft? Even dead, you can (through this treasure hunt) get the kids to know the books you once loved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That would be something, no? Kids looking forward to the next wake to score something. So, if you are a kid and living near my neighbourhood, pray I die during the June or December school holidays! You will have much to inherit! And if I die outside of these holidays, maybe the undertakers can keep me in the fridge till the time is right for mourning and flea market opportunity! Hmm, I wonder how they charge for freeze storing a corpse somewhere. Now I am wondering who holds the world-record for that. A customer of cryogenics perhaps? Questions, and more questions!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Always more questions in death than living. And that's a lesson in life itself!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/in-news-1.html">In The News 1</a></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6tHxrAmWOXINJMqfjyfpmSf0mTf-lvJQLhWqKmLM_HSXfsRA02k89pwgBpsVZsJVCb44-k8pdHXciAsaS_9Y5GTjRFlMMh6b7DXiZkiZdtEySCghwOubM1r7WyBEDa3TUsi2K-uKS6Mk/s1600/Corpse+Bike.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6tHxrAmWOXINJMqfjyfpmSf0mTf-lvJQLhWqKmLM_HSXfsRA02k89pwgBpsVZsJVCb44-k8pdHXciAsaS_9Y5GTjRFlMMh6b7DXiZkiZdtEySCghwOubM1r7WyBEDa3TUsi2K-uKS6Mk/s1600/Corpse+Bike.jpeg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Man in Puerto Rico immortalised on his bike at his wake. <br />Biking was his passion when alive.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /><br /></span></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-31977512341010616132012-12-03T22:14:00.000-08:002015-01-28T08:45:10.929-08:00Vicks On The Bum<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWb0Stn8maRw1PNfp_RKuEMo570Gu86-hUiU4UEnNkUNfqiB48KS9T3lWWV37HpGa07WtknN4eHDJYw1LtrHChRJplzajjvPcxPN8gR89dPy3dAqnFCVN3VAWoRptAOQjjC6QwyfDQek/s1600/bedroom+vicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWb0Stn8maRw1PNfp_RKuEMo570Gu86-hUiU4UEnNkUNfqiB48KS9T3lWWV37HpGa07WtknN4eHDJYw1LtrHChRJplzajjvPcxPN8gR89dPy3dAqnFCVN3VAWoRptAOQjjC6QwyfDQek/s200/bedroom+vicks.jpg" height="200" width="148" /></a></div>
I woke up one night with an itch on my bum. It started small at first but then soon spread. In no time my two rear cheeks were itching like a rash and I had to control myself from scratching it to shreds.<br />
<br />
Why would my bum suddenly itch so bad in the middle of the nite? It is convenient to suspect mites. But I keep a clean bed, so it was very unlikely. Besides, mites don't just bite a specific area, and the itch shouldn't spread like wild fire!<br />
<br />
My other thought was that I had eaten something wrong during dinner. I am not given to allergies, so that idea was soon dismissed.<br />
<br />
I then wondered about the supplements I had been taking for "strong bone and teeth" (in a manner of speaking). But it wasn't the first time; so any side effect would have surfaced long ago.<br />
<br />
Could it be something I was dreaming about? I mean I had woken up with an erection in the middle of the night before dreaming of old girlfriends. I cannot help it. A man's testosterone levels rise and ebb throughout the night, peaking at sunrise (surprise, surprise!). Most men can identify with getting a a boner in the morning. (For the ladies this could be a godsend as they can vouch that morning boners are the best!) Guys don't like it much as "doing it" with a full morning bladder can be uncomfortable. But it helps. (Hey, guys cannot really pee with a boner on during sex. But with effort, they can will it once in the can. Just make sure to be seated and facing the wall as the boner will sprinkle pee in all directions. We all know how water splays when a hose is pinched!<br />
<br />
So, there I was lying in bed in the middle of the night wondering why my bum itched so much!<br />
<br />
I told a friend the next morning and he said I should be thankful it was not my balls that provoked scratching. I told him I had that experience once, what the POWs in Singapore during WWII called "Changi balls". It had nothing to do with the Cinderella-glass-slipper kind of ball but one caused by eating rice and little else. It's a vitamin deficiency illness. I was on a crash diet once and developed Changi Balls. It was gone after I started eating more rice again.<br />
<br />
But that night, with a bum that itched so bad, I had to affirm that my butt wasn't bitten by any insect or parasite. So I turned to my girlfriend who was sleeping beside me and roused her up.<br />
<br />
"Jane, I need you to take a look at my butt. Something's not quite right."<br />
<br />
Jane was in her deep REM sleep phase and took a while to wake and register what I had said. "What? Look at your what?" she mumbled.<br />
<br />
"My butt. It's itching like mad!"<br />
<br />
Jane sat up and rubbed her eyes. I had already moved my pants down the waist, half-mooning her.<br />
<br />
"You got to be kidding, right?" Jane was a little, er, disbelieving.<br />
<br />
I turned on the bedside tablelight to highlight my derriere better. It was clearly visible in the dresser mirror opposite. I edged my pants down a little more in desperation.<br />
<br />
"Wait, where are my specs?" Jane asked as she fumbled for them. They were on the bedside cupboard. Jane had a high degree of shortsightedness and making love to her was kind of unusual. She said most of the time, I was just the blurry guy at arm's length, no diff from looking at me though the bottom of a drink bottle. Thank you very much Jane for that!<br />
<br />
"It was like making love to a stranger each time."<br />
<br />
Er, is that a compliment?<br />
<br />
I didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed. But she was a wonderful partner so I didn't take issue with that. And short-sighted people, I realised, grab on to things like a drowning person to a life jacket. Sometimes disconcerting, most times quite exciting after the fact!<br />
<br />
Jane finally surveys the damage and reports that my bum is like a car in a slight accident. Lightly scratched but otherwise OK. Is it red? I asked.<br />
<br />
"No, not even in this yellow light." If red, my bum would look a shade of dark brown, something we all learned watching Abyss, that James Cameron movie about aliens in the deepest part of the Mariana Trench.<br />
<br />
Can you smack it? I suggested to her.<br />
<br />
"Okaaay," she replied, somewhat amused. She did a couple of quick slaps that would have made a drummer proud.<br />
<br />
"There! Better?" she said grinning.<br />
<br />
"Yes, much better," I said, pulling my pants up before turning round. I took her hand and kissed the back of it. "Thank you, madam."<br />
<br />
"Why don't you put some Vicks on it?" Jane then suggested, worried that the itch would cost me sleep. "Here, let me put some on for you."<br />
<br />
And so, that's what Jane did that one late night. Put Vicks on my derriere. I must say I felt much better afterwards as my bum was like super cool. Quite a weird feeling if you'd asked me. But Jane was liking it (the Vicks, not my bum) as the ointment also relieved her of a sinus-stuffed nose.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, we couldn't sleep. We made love. Kind of strange, to be honest, to make love with a Vick's cooled bum. I was like a waffle served up with ice-cream: one side hot, the other cool. Jane was as usual, lapping up the warmer side of me.<br />
<br />
After the quick but ardent love-making, both of us fell asleep. By then, the itch was long gone to be replaced by a dream of tobogganing on the snowy slopes of winter Stockholm. My bum was wet, icy cold and snugged tight with someone in front. No prizes for guessing why.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/burnable-bling.html">Burnable Bling</a></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-26880681566302956962012-12-03T21:52:00.000-08:002014-04-26T08:55:21.178-07:00One Leg Left<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPc9z_pLnV9PXgxr7r5utSG3A70SDZIT6UwqXD0rg9zDHdfFsiWjSmhcpniv0J8iv9s-8vKqRGsue6f60HkSixzo1OA0CR21fsZgNbEnTcYImYP19blunNrB0YJu8xKW6DEDLoepFRVDk/s1600/Massage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPc9z_pLnV9PXgxr7r5utSG3A70SDZIT6UwqXD0rg9zDHdfFsiWjSmhcpniv0J8iv9s-8vKqRGsue6f60HkSixzo1OA0CR21fsZgNbEnTcYImYP19blunNrB0YJu8xKW6DEDLoepFRVDk/s200/Massage.jpg" height="200" width="193" /></a></div>
One of the things I think thin people cannot enjoy is a good massage. All those meatless body parts and sharp bone corners. It's almost like marinating fish or prawn and get poked here and there. I mean I would rather marinate a slab of three-layer pork. It is so luscious and "QQ" between the fingers.<br />
<br />
The same for girlfriends, I suppose, especially those chubbier than Barbie. They are more fun to apply sunblock on.<br />
<br />
When I was young, I was very skinny and viewed a massage more like a kind of paid molestation. I believe all skinny people still feel the same - that every touch is just too close to the bone. It's extremely ticklish too, which makes the whole exercise quite impossible to endure.<br />
<br />
How to lie obediently on a massage table and let the masseur work his/her magic?<br />
<br />
Given such reservations, it was thus no wonder that I seldom went out of my way to look for a massage before.<br />
<br />
Growing up in Marsiling, I had a neighbourhood friend who would ride his motorbike into nearby JB to get his 'fix'. I put that in inverted commas because in JB then, a massage came with 'extra services' - the kind that's usually provided by the back-alley folks in Desker Road under certain red lighting conditions. The word "massage" became an euphemism for that sort of thing, oft-used on clients in karaoke lounges even.<br />
<br />
My first massage did not happen in Singapore; it took place in Taiwan. I was there for my National Service and we had just wrapped up a two-week training stint and into our R&R (rest and recreation) break. All of us were expecting a three-day holiday in Taipei but for some reason, we ended up in Kaoshiung instead.<br />
<br />
Our hearts sank a litte because we had heard of how fair the ladies in Taipei were as compared to the ladies further south. We had trained in the mountains of Hengchun near the southern-most tip of the Taiwan peninsular and seen folks so sun-tarnished that they could pass off as Malays or even Thais. And so we thought the ladies in Kaoshiung would be the same.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, it turned out to be not true if the salesgirls serving us in the shops and departmental stores were anything to go by.<br />
<br />
Even the girls we had seen riding on their scooters in the city streets were fair - being protected by long sleeves and gloves and sunhats during their rides. It was quite the sight when a bunch of them stopped at a traffic light. On a windy day, their sundresses would billow and their long hair flutter. It was exactly like some Kao shampoo ad on TV! I remember a similar scene in Ho Chi Minh City of girls in traditional dress and on bicycles.<br />
<br />
Oh, before we SAF army boys were let loose in Kaoshiung, we were briefed by our platoon sergeant Staff Karu on what to expect and what NOT to do in that newly industrialised city. Or rather, what HE expected us not to do.<br />
<br />
"Don't let me catch you in one of those barber shops. You botak guys definitely don't need a haircut. If you want "extra services" just answer your door at night in the hotel. It's not me knocking but you know what I mean." Chuckles all round. We had all been told that "xiao jie" (lady/prostitutes) would come solicit for business in the middle of the night. It happened at all the hotels... 3-star, 4-star not withstanding.<br />
<br />
"And of course, don't forget to use this," added Staff Karu, holding up a packet of condoms for all to see.<br />
<br />
"What I don't want you to do is go insult some hardworking mom hairstylist in this fair city. Not all of them want to give you "extra service" or cut your cock hair. Kabish?" We had yet to earn our officer-rank bars so we all nodded furiously in 'kabishment'. Got it! Keep away from barber shops! Of course, we all laughed at the cock hair bit. Our platoon sergeant was Indian, plump and hirsute (hairy); he conjured up quite the funny image. God save the lady in the barber shop who has to cut his, um, cock hair. Where to begin and where to stop?<br />
<br />
Then again Indians were seldom seen in Taiwan at the time, so all things considered, they were exotic like the black negroes. Maybe even without asking, he would get an extended haircut and "extra service".<br />
<br />
Someone shot up a hand and asked: "Staff, how about massage parlours?"<br />
<br />
"I am going to one. If you see me, stay the hell away. I've seen enough of you guys for two weeks," said Staff Karu half in jest and half in murderous intent.<br />
<br />
The rumour going round the camp at the time was about the fights the previous batch of NS men had gotten into. One was at the famous President underground departmental store; the other was outside a massage parlour. The NS-men were unit-level "Hokkien-peng" (dialect-speaking soldiers) and thus understandable. They would often "'pak" (fight) first, then talk later. We were officers-to-be and thus expected to behave better. But the fact is that we were all bookworms from an A-level Pre-U batch, so we were more likely to walk away from a fight than get physical. But in a foreign country, you never know what can happen.<br />
<br />
So after reaching Kaoshiung and checking into our respective hotels, we each formed into our own pal-groups and went about exploring the city - Taiwan's second largest. The place looked neat and homey, so where were the barber shops and massage parlours soldier folks talked about?<br />
<br />
In my group were Eddy, Siew Chong, Yew Kuan and Tiah Ann. Eddy was the most talkative amongst the lot. Siew Chong had an angel face but in reality, a really filthy mouth like some Hokkien peng. He was usually a quiet chap. But step on his tail and he will bite like a rattlesnake.<br />
<br />
Yew Kuan was always reserved and contemplative but would laugh at our jokes. Tiah Ann was neither reserved nor gay (happy outlook). He was a sturdy chap and very helpful. He would go the distance without complaint. Tiah Ann was also the "koon king" (sleep king) of our platoon and would soon fall asleep whenever he stepped into an army three-tonner. It didn't matter where he was sitting - on the floorboards or on the bench - he would immediately fall asleep once the vehicle got moving, much to the annoyance of our platoon sergeant. Not even the threat of "signing extras" could change him. In the end, we just let him be and made sure someone else sat by the tailgate (whose duty was to keep an eye open to make sure no one fell out of the truck during transit).<br />
<br />
I don't know why we formed this group of mostly <i>kwai kias</i> (well-behaved kids). Perhaps they felt I was fierce and gang-ho and could take care of them. I usually got along fine with everybody and it didn't matter who was keeping me company. I could always chat somebody up - a trait that held me in good stead as a journalist later.<br />
<br />
In any case, the few of us wandered around the city streets to take in the sights as well as to do a bit of window shopping. A part of Kaoshiung was very new at the time and reminded us of Orchard Road with its big glass office buildings and shopping centres. We guessed that Kaoshiung was doing well and industrialising and turning into a financial hub. But it was in the old part of Kaoshiung that we liked better to loiter in, where the small shops and eateries were. Lest they soon disappear, like what was happening back home in Singapore at the time.<br />
<br />
In one old street, we came across an old zinc-sheeted warehouse that had been turned into a cinema. We were tempted to watch it but its promotional poster was half-torn leaving some words that confused us. We then asked a resident nearby what the movie was all about.<br />
<br />
"Na ge shi yi fu san ji pian," was the old uncle's reply. That's a Cat III film, was what he said.<br />
<br />
"San ji" meaning Category III, and "pian" meaning film. So it was a porno movie. We had heard of such "yellow" movie houses in Taiwan before. To come up against one was still gobsmacking. In Singapore, our film censorship was still the blanket type. The only cinema that came close to being nicknamed a Cat III one was Yangtze, where DOMs (dirty old men) would gather to watch "artistic" films screened there. Films that often starred Amy Yip and her famous frontal assets. The most popular movie was however "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" starring Daniel-Day Lewis and Juliette Binoche. I think the honest and explicit sex scenes did the trick, never mind the existential theme of the movie.<br />
<br />
Still, for a group of army boys to find a Cat III cinema on their first trip out into town could be ranked akin to a prospector finding gold on the very first try. But funnily, none of us were keen to waste our time in some old building that looked more like a make-shift factory painted in rust-red. It was surprisingly located in a congested neighbourhood of stacked residential wooden homes and narrow alleyways. Well, in any case, I thought what a bunch of kwai kias we really were!<br />
<br />
From the cinema, we emerged along a five-foot walkway by the main road. A couple of home eateries operated there. One sold beef noodles; the other sold the famous "mu gua niu nai" papaya milk drink. We ordered the largest cc one, which was huge, more like 500cc! That's how it was sold then, what was actually quite the novelty.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, we walked a bit and came to a massage parlor. It was located on the ground floor of a small office building. We looked at each other as if we had hit the jackpot again. Tiah Ann was quick. He had already leapt up the few steps and turned around to report. "Staff Karu is not here!" We all "Wa lau eh!" and laughed at him for taking our platoon sergeant's comment so seriously.<br />
<br />
"Hey, let's check and see how much they are charging," one of us suggested. We know we Singapore boys often got fleeced in Taiwan like any tourist in an unfamiliar place, so it was better to be sure first.<br />
<br />
At the counter, we all ogled at the price list. It all seemed rather proper and agreeable. Each massage was not only time-based but 'parts based' as well, meaning we could specify whether it was Upper Body, Lower Body, Head, etc., that we want smacked and kneaded.<br />
<br />
"Where's the charge for you-know-where?" someone joked, about a specific body part that was dear to us boys but not found on the list. I looked at the lady behind the counter to see if she understood what was being said. Nope, no reaction. As a matter of fact, she appeared rather impatient. I hoped no SAF unit soldiers had gone there before us to "spoil market" and her mood. We could then be in for one hell of a session. You know, bones and muscles cracked in furious and merciless payback fashion.<br />
<br />
"I don't think this one is that sort of place. Look at the uniforms." It was true, the girls had on some grey-white cosmetic girl get-up. It all looked pretty professional except for the expression on their faces. They could be mistaken for running a funeral parlor.<br />
<br />
"Look, Eddy, I think you have to do it yourself back in your hotel room," I smiled, as I ribbed him for making such a lewd suggestion. Eddy was actually not that sort; he was just being a smart-aleck.<br />
<br />
In the end, only three of us opted to try. Yew Kuan and Tiah Ann decided their time would be better spent shopping for music cassettes, and so off they went.<br />
<br />
I stepped into the massage parlour and took a sweep of the place. It was well-lit and quite spacious. It had about four tables side by side in a row. Above the head of each table was a TV set. Hmm, not bad customer service, I had thought then.<br />
<br />
Do I need to change? I asked the masseur assigned to me in halting Mandarin. I thought I had to be butt naked and in a towel or something. It always was like that on TV or in the movies. That's how the hanky-panky starts, no?<br />
<br />
I was in my OCS all-white PT kit. My masseur, a woman in her early 30s, told me I needed not strip. I thought it rather unusual but did not question her any further. In my mind, I was wondering what if she needed to oil me up. That would stain my whites, no? Platoon Sergeant Karu would not be happy about that.<br />
<br />
More questions.<br />
<br />
In any case, I lay myself down on the massage table as instructed. First prone and then on my back. The table was like any found in a doctor's office: rectangularish and cushion-wrapped in grey vinyl.<br />
<br />
She started with my neck, then shoulders, then arms, then back. Lying down prone, I couldn't see the TV at all. I wondered maybe they should have one on the floor as well, you know, one of those portable 7-inch type, angled so I could be entertained in that position. But it was rather unnecessary as I began to feel drowsy from all my masseur's rolling hand-action. The last thing I remembered was if I should keep my wallet down the front of my pants, near my crouch. It would be safe from pilfering in that location. Right? Zzzzz......<br />
<br />
I woke up to find that I was already flipped over. Did I...? Did she...? In any case, the masseur lady was already working on my right leg. She didn't seem in any particular hurry kneading it. In fact she was distracted by something in the ceiling. I look to where she was staring at and saw the TV that was there earlier. It then dawned on me that the TV was for her, not me. She was watching a daytime soap opera all the while massaging me 'blind'.<br />
<br />
I felt ignored. But never mind.<br />
<br />
Never mind that this was not an "extra service" massage parlour; the masseurs were not even particularly skilled nor customer-oriented. I think I could have done a better job massaging myself. I could have entertained myself too!<br />
<br />
I was not alone in thinking that as I looked across to Siew Chong and he gave me that "what-is-going-on" look and shrug, as much as he could lying prone on that cushioned table clone. It was as grey and dull as our mood.<br />
<br />
When my right leg was done, the masseur stopped and said, "Hao le."<br />
<br />
What? What <i>hao le</i> (OK)? I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yi ge cong tow dao le," she said, meaning my hour was up.<br />
<br />
I checked my left leg. It was the same one that I had walked in with. The same one that had become tense after two weeks in the mountains of Hengchun. Tense still from that long bus ride to Kaoshiung. And tense still from the climb of steps into that massage parlour.<br />
<br />
Mostly, it felt unviolated, untouched. I said this to the xiao jie: "Er, xiao jie. Ni hai mei you long je zhi qiao." (You haven't done this leg yet.)<br />
<br />
"Shi jian dao le," she repeated, saying time was up.<br />
<br />
"Ni na ni ke yi je yang zhou yi pan jiu ting?" (How can you stop halfway?)<br />
<br />
She looked at me and saw that I was determined to get my other leg done. I was more pissed that she was watching TV and did not concentrate on her job properly. How could she leave me three-quarters done? It was like getting an half-ass haircut or being shooed from the cookhouse with still half a platter of food left. Not in the army, and certainly not in some massage parlour that I am paying my hard-earned NS dollars for.<br />
<br />
In the end, the xiao jie relented and massaged my left leg. She did it in so perfunctorily a fashion that she might as well have just dug her nose. That would have required more time and effort!<br />
<br />
After the session, the three of us gathered outside the parlour and exchanged notes. "That was some session, wasn't it?" I said. Siew Chong let out an expletive; he felt cheated. Eddy simply shrugged.<br />
<br />
Later, when we met up with our other fellow cadets, our massage session became "incredible" (that the masseurs were so blase), "arousing" (only our intense displeasure), and "one-of-a-kind" (never again!) experience.<br />
<br />
In a way, it was all true, which makes us wonder about all those "extra services" that the other guys bandied about. Perhaps they too were too embarrassed to say that they had been taken for a ride!<br />
<br />
<i>The next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/vicks-on-bum.html">Vicks On The Bum</a></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-47258279658342477702012-12-03T21:15:00.000-08:002017-12-12T23:47:07.108-08:00Singapore's First LARP<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMU1Ez-BCauqprkRJGYLUnTTsClC1UI2XYbyxJVP4BIxc1q4nYygxs5qqUjgoxojIR18OWlRRSpQ6KXuqnFGwNWa8NLDRyWdvqIk3dvKQz4MvjS7KbvhuPz9H9PnowclX-QJ2A120M1uc/s1600/COTWQ.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMU1Ez-BCauqprkRJGYLUnTTsClC1UI2XYbyxJVP4BIxc1q4nYygxs5qqUjgoxojIR18OWlRRSpQ6KXuqnFGwNWa8NLDRyWdvqIk3dvKQz4MvjS7KbvhuPz9H9PnowclX-QJ2A120M1uc/s320/COTWQ.JPG" width="237" /></a></div>
What's a LARP? you may ask.<br />
<br />
It is Live Action Role Playing - a kind of game. Just in case you think Singapore is too boring or staid to be having such great outdoor fun, think again.<br />
<br />
In 1990, many people came dressed as knights, fairies, adventurers, witches, warlords, etc., to do battle on Fort Canning Hill where a medieval village was built complete with a tavern (with beer), costume shop, apothecary (spell merchant), sword maker, slave auction site and gladiator arena. There was even a maze.<br />
<br />
The whole of Fort Canning Hill was converted into a ghoul infested medieval country where the righteous did battle with the wicked; the latter nursed and encouraged by a Witch Queen - a tall and imposing figure reaching some 12 feet in height.<br />
<br />
The Curse of the Witch Queen LARP opened and closed the Arts Festival Fringe activities that year; it included dance performances from Africa and a traditional drumming outfit from Kelantan, Malaysia.<br />
<br />
The COTWQ event was planned, run and executed by the Science Fiction Association, Singapore, better known as SFAS. I was one of its past presidents. SFAS still exists today but only as a Google Group (no admin compared to being under the Registry of Societies).<br />
<br />
At COTWQ I was its chief builder in charge of making everything that was on Fort Canning. I was not alone in that. I had great help from a number of fellow enthusiastic volunteers, many of them students, full-time NS men and mostly avid RPG PnP (role playing game, paper and pen) players from our sci-fi society. They came forward to spend many weekends and week-nights at two workshops in Bedok Vocational Institute to saw, hem, paint and paper mache various props. We shuttled back and forth, drank lots of coffee, and went days without bathing. So committed we were!<br />
<br />
The Art Council gave us funds and Black & Decker sponsored the necessary power tools. Wood was bought from timber yards in Kranji and food was "tapowed" much from Bedok Central hawker center.<br />
<br />
The COTWQ demanded a lot from all those who were involved but never mind. It turned out to be a huge success and ultimately a most unforgettable event in the annals of Singapore's literary and role-based gaming history. Now, I have to ask: Were you there? Heh-heh.<br />
<br />
<i>More photos here: <a href="http://public.fotki.com/Galaxygypsy/curse-of-witch-queen/">Curse of the Witch Queen</a> The next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/one-leg-left.html">One Leg Left</a></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAgVR9sPHrHy9ZEchS8EUEOMWwLUlIgAFszM0JAGodiW58o2qmipE_EFkN2Rhsgnh7JadgiBibQlRZ1TfvzhfFv07Ux2tro7gwDzetErdVBBN2dRX9ZNJ_XtwnT2Vec7X5kJL24nBG_8/s1600/Curse+of+Witch+Queen+(small).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAgVR9sPHrHy9ZEchS8EUEOMWwLUlIgAFszM0JAGodiW58o2qmipE_EFkN2Rhsgnh7JadgiBibQlRZ1TfvzhfFv07Ux2tro7gwDzetErdVBBN2dRX9ZNJ_XtwnT2Vec7X5kJL24nBG_8/s400/Curse+of+Witch+Queen+(small).JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKBQn6VC2wGFmqSz2gPDdCP6T4MQCux-54jSuY0ts6tN2VyrhEmYo4QTfb5zABpJ6y3H_-OCvKzm0SnGvaMQ2c6B2BkTxAWrF4N9rRp8E1crHdaskQOn_EFDXvFJr5tjqvnhHCCmNHH8/s1600/COTWQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKBQn6VC2wGFmqSz2gPDdCP6T4MQCux-54jSuY0ts6tN2VyrhEmYo4QTfb5zABpJ6y3H_-OCvKzm0SnGvaMQ2c6B2BkTxAWrF4N9rRp8E1crHdaskQOn_EFDXvFJr5tjqvnhHCCmNHH8/s320/COTWQ.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me figuring out how to build the maze.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfGhBXSv1wZjwm_3o1rYgn35BHGHOVaaJZIGvNBROtZUQKBPFeuLrixDM-cl0kvpnQOgM4x4HVKY013L8wy0WHuij2yYI3h59qBJpSKTOSWEdZhm83loBhB9Vo9qK3l3Wu1sFaDQJFrY/s1600/COWQ1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfGhBXSv1wZjwm_3o1rYgn35BHGHOVaaJZIGvNBROtZUQKBPFeuLrixDM-cl0kvpnQOgM4x4HVKY013L8wy0WHuij2yYI3h59qBJpSKTOSWEdZhm83loBhB9Vo9qK3l3Wu1sFaDQJFrY/s320/COWQ1.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We (volunteers) spent about three months at a workshop in Bedok VI making costumes, props and furniture. What a time we had! Those with jobs came after work, stayed over and left in the morning to return in the evening. Weekends were especially special as we all stayed overnight from Fri evenings through to Sunday!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOzPoTH4hG7A9wqtFORM0S6AheuHcpKXyattqllWIhUln_dMb8XnSBIwSHsfzdawJMHDad4t1kGuQea6HxGLxU_eE5sSw7eqIySZw311BTWtefnov-T1M9Xwt2wcdLZa3OGdpPIwvsWM/s1600/COWQ2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOzPoTH4hG7A9wqtFORM0S6AheuHcpKXyattqllWIhUln_dMb8XnSBIwSHsfzdawJMHDad4t1kGuQea6HxGLxU_eE5sSw7eqIySZw311BTWtefnov-T1M9Xwt2wcdLZa3OGdpPIwvsWM/s320/COWQ2.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We at the Bedok VI workshop. Between making props and stuff, we indulged in some Dungeons and Dragon stuff. I mean the LARP was helmed by the Science Fiction Association of S'pore. Many members were also role=playing boardgamers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJkSzJVonj1a2e8jaXcYeXqxqQGQOSLGNo-s2oaJa3gKNqhp2h7OZX99JZDDUIfOjrj7OQS8pze88sOA0rQwz7DQ3JcY_9hE5IaWzqyi_eDSXRic082Aef8N7eupYuFmr1bobQR2GJvU/s1600/COWQ3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="993" data-original-width="897" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJkSzJVonj1a2e8jaXcYeXqxqQGQOSLGNo-s2oaJa3gKNqhp2h7OZX99JZDDUIfOjrj7OQS8pze88sOA0rQwz7DQ3JcY_9hE5IaWzqyi_eDSXRic082Aef8N7eupYuFmr1bobQR2GJvU/s320/COWQ3.jpg" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top left: Man Loon, our chief props maker and artistic head (in glasses). Bottom left: Drummers from Kelantan. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ-RXYHlIjSSrwWhelbNN5zAfSsJMVYEBiVq03KPVZ2evz3QM9u-5HJVZTgij_hYDyRiXHlpyT7jtdH2IpzpoJCeupL2XmOoO-WNxZuFIQYdQqh7rTJCk5xCoxBldSH60o85wCOiGgGs/s1600/COWQ4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1276" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ-RXYHlIjSSrwWhelbNN5zAfSsJMVYEBiVq03KPVZ2evz3QM9u-5HJVZTgij_hYDyRiXHlpyT7jtdH2IpzpoJCeupL2XmOoO-WNxZuFIQYdQqh7rTJCk5xCoxBldSH60o85wCOiGgGs/s320/COWQ4.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Queen" giant puppet. Forces of good and evil do battle. Red (bad), Blue (good. ;-)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGkeu-Pv8mZDBAaHd1tLfjyeT2n8vDORtJTNKhOUOMLEzf-QRpZOKrGO1YjaudHScuTVVCCYxzap5HIKFQm0zt5pXWXxQcPxfnIFC4jpfbsH1X6TAf5XB-E4bkTgUVSLi44Wpxwp9bCk/s1600/COWQ6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGkeu-Pv8mZDBAaHd1tLfjyeT2n8vDORtJTNKhOUOMLEzf-QRpZOKrGO1YjaudHScuTVVCCYxzap5HIKFQm0zt5pXWXxQcPxfnIFC4jpfbsH1X6TAf5XB-E4bkTgUVSLi44Wpxwp9bCk/s320/COWQ6.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were part of the Art Fest Fringe event.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAkSOhyphenhyphenbp-zeJyMQS0eEFOBBolATUo4iN_sYvbBd_6QEV77YsaMAJ83jkUp50ekq7KZjVZTNXCgTfjFLVD3Ok5_xxX-Q6vPpSc5eLA1iVKY3cjk5NH1u-rMMYgkrfjn0Xjx1Ieh-hfSs/s1600/COWQ7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="896" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAkSOhyphenhyphenbp-zeJyMQS0eEFOBBolATUo4iN_sYvbBd_6QEV77YsaMAJ83jkUp50ekq7KZjVZTNXCgTfjFLVD3Ok5_xxX-Q6vPpSc5eLA1iVKY3cjk5NH1u-rMMYgkrfjn0Xjx1Ieh-hfSs/s320/COWQ7.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top left: Me planning the maze. Volunteers helping each other with make up and there's Dawn in-charge of costumes making. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ngMgNwYlE3thzfX_BFPmRUgtgcNcEjuPTPtstvoxYgTWE-5j1EVxaabK3qjJZVSLyTe5tSVcJ5BLHRNAhGMVj4AOcnOdm_Ai-lAXDX4rV4LErYmYUGHZkClRyJ3x4rYBYOdUn21lqi4/s1600/COWQ8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="867" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ngMgNwYlE3thzfX_BFPmRUgtgcNcEjuPTPtstvoxYgTWE-5j1EVxaabK3qjJZVSLyTe5tSVcJ5BLHRNAhGMVj4AOcnOdm_Ai-lAXDX4rV4LErYmYUGHZkClRyJ3x4rYBYOdUn21lqi4/s320/COWQ8.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had dancers at the tavern, volunteers helped to make the costumes, etc.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJmGCQ2-FEz9gpyvjjVKClBJuKkLQ3TIzq1YbxP-nIP7YgMCeZcx3Vis6Ys-4hB-i7tUhQ5M7gxwkLRA1B77n0-pBt9yguxKI0yE5A38Ed-kIcCXF3emM-dzuAXDDxiLdNrIbDpSNvsw/s1600/COWQ9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1007" data-original-width="871" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJmGCQ2-FEz9gpyvjjVKClBJuKkLQ3TIzq1YbxP-nIP7YgMCeZcx3Vis6Ys-4hB-i7tUhQ5M7gxwkLRA1B77n0-pBt9yguxKI0yE5A38Ed-kIcCXF3emM-dzuAXDDxiLdNrIbDpSNvsw/s320/COWQ9.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had weapons, costumes and masks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG5NjjBZz2yK5fHQmLc4Bj0HBwXzfwrm835QZm_D86Qw7ftUYDbDOd0sf0-CaPu2SHOSOxqZu6iSpYv04Z8rqk_DrUggk0St10HSAI2LFwLi_VPKvOGNmzTg1yCB3uB_4gnci9JS-USY/s1600/COWQ10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="871" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG5NjjBZz2yK5fHQmLc4Bj0HBwXzfwrm835QZm_D86Qw7ftUYDbDOd0sf0-CaPu2SHOSOxqZu6iSpYv04Z8rqk_DrUggk0St10HSAI2LFwLi_VPKvOGNmzTg1yCB3uB_4gnci9JS-USY/s320/COWQ10.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had tents and built structures for the apothecary, armoury, etc. Even a tavern! Bottom right: Alicia, our make-up head. Loved her laughter. Years later I discovered that she was my primary school classmate's sister!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6i8CA8HVEeHiq_qOvwqEJNNZ86o-poZBTFgIwW-eojz3xImrOOAbDGqX9tmEdQ2aMP1l_H15RjXQXdvYvzZ3fi5fhDQC_Bh8nAG5sRTfsQPhT5K_HSMflPHgmlSKnGiULYLPWTIATQ8/s1600/COWQ11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6i8CA8HVEeHiq_qOvwqEJNNZ86o-poZBTFgIwW-eojz3xImrOOAbDGqX9tmEdQ2aMP1l_H15RjXQXdvYvzZ3fi5fhDQC_Bh8nAG5sRTfsQPhT5K_HSMflPHgmlSKnGiULYLPWTIATQ8/s320/COWQ11.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gladiator fight rehearsals. Right: Slave auction (two volunteers (both very fetching SIA gals) acted as the slave girls up for auction. Very sporting!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXsBgZXLjIFZugmAs-_WpThRY62AgZkpfxXjRetd1pFXP33o3AvldP221uWinELBwa0U4diLnI0oAesbLyyxhIHWo6dfKJXG3BgmBK41u0hgQyqklnxYOSYNBJ5OWOlDbyeAoCIIwg38/s1600/COWQ13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1193" data-original-width="901" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXsBgZXLjIFZugmAs-_WpThRY62AgZkpfxXjRetd1pFXP33o3AvldP221uWinELBwa0U4diLnI0oAesbLyyxhIHWo6dfKJXG3BgmBK41u0hgQyqklnxYOSYNBJ5OWOlDbyeAoCIIwg38/s320/COWQ13.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Gladiator Arena (which we built).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JuWxajFRBuzLFriFzgLuhA9-c5BWxXT53HEqE-MJ2Xlgq3yQZ7Q5EEvWtQRDruo7IhF6I6C4Bd-eaX9fRB8sjE2SpGyaquXTdMIR9n7Q2yVQQvci4pnUOAU_bJv7DaRzd_VA-f7UsgE/s1600/COWQ14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1079" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JuWxajFRBuzLFriFzgLuhA9-c5BWxXT53HEqE-MJ2Xlgq3yQZ7Q5EEvWtQRDruo7IhF6I6C4Bd-eaX9fRB8sjE2SpGyaquXTdMIR9n7Q2yVQQvci4pnUOAU_bJv7DaRzd_VA-f7UsgE/s320/COWQ14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Finale - Did Good win over Evil?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-67484374722723923242012-12-03T21:03:00.002-08:002013-02-16T00:07:44.270-08:00I Cried A Tear<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5mS5-OGE_6MglBG7M9WOjMraMyb0nSyvNqM5ibG4tUxQ9rU4TUZWrVwkAamnqED0Njd3w8REbHuohPIUIkBXGECIRk-Wqa4bTr7j3uy5ARfIgIGZgpaHsVVCbegmNT8-XXajF__Wems/s1600/Aftershock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5mS5-OGE_6MglBG7M9WOjMraMyb0nSyvNqM5ibG4tUxQ9rU4TUZWrVwkAamnqED0Njd3w8REbHuohPIUIkBXGECIRk-Wqa4bTr7j3uy5ARfIgIGZgpaHsVVCbegmNT8-XXajF__Wems/s320/Aftershock.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
I have never been one to cry easily, not since I was caned as a kid for coming in second in an exam (in mid-term, I was first). I told myself then that it would the last time. No more tears. I swore all that standing on the back balcony of my Geylang Sims Avenue home at the time. A pigeon flew away as if to say, "Do what you want, kid. It doesn't really matter a coo to me." I imagined the pigeon dropping poop on me as the coup de grace, but it never did. It always happened to someone on TV at their worst moments!<br />
<br />
So I stopped crying even when I was next punished. I also stopped crying at funerals. Not that I ever did in the first place. I just stopped trying. What's the point when tears don't come naturally?<br />
<br />
In fact, my thinking then was that people should celebrate the dead, not moan. If I die, I would want people to have a party to start my journey on a positive note - not bawl their eyes out wishing I was still alive or something.<br />
<br />
Well, that was all before I grew older and realised that people do miss people. I mean you would want people you like to live on forever. Your parents, for example.<br />
<br />
But since a kid, I have always considered life on Earth as a journey. If we hung around for a while, fine. If not, "bon voyage" and till we meet again. It's the reason why, in the past, I seldom said my goodbyes at parties. It was a phase in my life. More about that later.<br />
<br />
Just the other day, I was at my mom's place looking over some old photographs. There was this picture of my adopted grandma and her bosom pal, Ng Ku (fifth aunt), taken in a studio. They were young, in nice outfits and laid back on some lounge chaise. Their lives looked full of promise.<br />
<br />
According to my eldest sis, the two ladies were rather inseparable. I believe that is what happens when you become sworn sisters.<br />
<br />
Looking at the picture, I realised that the death of Ng Ku in her early 40s from cancer must have been hard for my adopted grandma. Doubly hard when she had to raise her sworn sister's seven children that were left behind.<br />
<br />
In circumstances like that, you'd wish to have your bosom pal with you through thick and thin.<br />
<br />
Will I cry if my bosom pal died? Will I feel as if I am left alone?<br />
<br />
I did feel like that once when a good friend of mine left for further studies in the UK. I gave him something personal and precious to remember me by. Strangely, I did not feel compelled to correspond with him. So after some time, we lost touch. Maybe I was expecting him to do his thing and then return. More likely, I myself was being propelled along my own growing up path with studies, National Service, more studies, etc. What I learned is always give a thought to your friends, no matter how emotional independent they might be. They too can fall off the wagon and get into trouble.<br />
<br />
This kind of expectation that friends would just return is the same reason why there was a phase in my life that I found it unnecessary to say goodbye to friends.<br />
<br />
At parties, I used to just leave and not say anything. Not that I wanted to be rude. I guess it was to let the party host continue to enjoy himself/herself. I did not want my early goodbye to ruin the atmosphere for the night. Considerate much? Yes. Odd? That too.<br />
<br />
Perhaps if I had adults show me the way earlier on, I would have been more typical in my social graces. Parents used to take the trouble to inculcate such social graces into their kids. How to speak, how to hold a conversation, etc. How to say goodbye.<br />
<br />
During my generation, our parents simply left it to our own discretion growing up. They were too busy making a living. Sure, there was strict observance in the addressing of the elders, table manners, saying goodbyes, etc. but the rituals were mostly about the elders and not so much of our own peers. Perhaps older siblings could better point the way.<br />
<br />
And there's also this struggle between Western and Eastern social graces. Still, redardless of which part of the globe we come from, good manners are good manners. And I also believe being able to make conversation is an important skill.<br />
<br />
Another reason for me not saying goodbye was I thought we could always meet again, and it's true. I only did that to folks I interacted with often. Saying goodbye was deemed kinda unnecessary.<br />
<br />
So, at parties I didn't say goodbye; at funerals, I didn't cry. It doesn't mean that I saw the events or people as any less important. It was just that whatever role I played in their lives, they could always count on me, come what may. I might have appeared flippant but what I wanted was for them to treat me like an old friend that could just waltz in and out of their lives. I'm casual like that. Does it make sense to you? Come to think of it, it is this one quirk of my personality that has enabled me to fit into a new environment very quickly, especially a new office. Two weeks in and people would think I am as old as the office furniture!<br />
<br />
Maybe I am just personable and comfortable with whomever. Whether here or overseas, colleagues would naturally assume I've been part of the establishment for a long time. It could be the confident way I have always conducted myself. I think learning martial arts helped.<br />
<br />
In any case, it was all a phase. After I worked more and became involved in greater social situations, all this changed. Also, friends would chastise me if I left without saying a word. One must thank friends like that who make you feel that you matter in this world, even if you yourself think your role is superficial like that of a journeyman's.<br />
<br />
***********<br />
<br />
Ok, so I wouldn't cry easily as a kid and as an adult. But things would change dramatically when I hit my middle-age in the 40s. And when my hormones started to mix in new and surprising ways.<br />
<br />
I was watching Afteshock, that 2010 Chinese movie about the big Tangshan earthquake in China in 1976. More precisely, it was about its aftermath and the despairing choice a mother had to make in the rescue of her children. Which kid to pick if one has to die? And so the mother picked thinking her other child had died. But miraculously, that child did survive. However, she would grow up bearing a grudge - that lump of hatred stuck in her throat that became the proverbial big rock in the stream diverting her fate as well as that of her mom's. They would later meet in the most heart-rending manner.<br />
<br />
But that's not the saddest part. The most heartaching part came in that scene where she thought her only child would be taken away by her in-laws. When that mother cried out, my tears just came.<br />
<br />
Not small tears but uncontrollable ones.<br />
<br />
I glanced at my movie companion to see if she noticed my crying. No, she was too wrapped up in that moment of the movie and her own copious tears. Surprisingly, I did not feel ashamed like I would be when I was younger. I just let the tears come a little longer, for my eyes to "empty out". Of course, I did scold myself for crying afterwards. Men don't dry, they rationalise!<br />
<br />
That scene in the movie was not the only one that brought on the tears. More scenes would follow. It's one of those movies where revelations upend your preconceived notions. Yes, it was indeed a five-hanky weepie! And I've never cried so much in a movie nor in a situation since I was a kid home with an irregular report card.<br />
<br />
Since Aftershock, I began to get more emotional watching movies that touched or moved. The tears would come involuntarily. I began to wonder which prior movie I have seen that would move me as much, that I might <i>now</i> cry.<br />
<br />
How about Mon Rak Transistor? That Thai movie about a young farmer who sought the bright lights of a singing career only to leave behind his young bride and child in the most unanticipated fashion? Events that conspired to have him end up poor and running from the law in the city. Perhaps I could shed a tear for his young wife who was left defenceless and in a difficult situation (pregnant) back in the countryside. Even her journey to look for husband was fraught with danger and uncertainty.<br />
<br />
Or how about Melody? That cult movie from 1971 that features a poignant Bee Gees soundtrack and two in-love 10-year old runaways. Would I shed a cynical tear for their innocence about love and marriage?<br />
<br />
There are a few more moving movies I can name, especially those weepy ones from Korea such as Il Mare, A Moment To Remember, You Are My Sunshine, Sympathy For Lady Vengeance, The Classic, CJ7, etc. Or what about Jap ones like the Grave of the Fireflies (animation), Nada Sou Sou, I Give My First Love To You?<br />
<br />
A movie that really moved me one time was this Chinese story set in ancient times. A town physician was tricked and betrayed by someone in the royal court and beheaded. Helped by the kind executioner, he was able to use a prayer-chant to guide his own spirit back to his village. At home, his wife thought he had returned from the palace, not realising that he was now nothing but a living corpse. As days passed, the physician decayed a little by little. All the while, he was trying to finish his encyclopedia of medical knowledge as well as endeavour to be with his wife, child, and wait the birth of his unborn child. ('Try' because slowly but surely, he was beginning to smell like the stinking dead!) But unbeknownst to the good physician, palace henchmen and an evil Taoist priest were rallying to finish him off. If they get to him, then he would never ever reincarnate again. He would be sent to eternal damnation so the royal court secret would be kept secret.<br />
<br />
Faced with the tough choice of helping her husband finish his work, keeping him by with the family for as long as possible, and making sure he would reincarnate, the wife had little choice but choose the latter. But to do so, she would have to relinquish her love for him and call him "to return to the other side." You can imagine the tear-jerking scene: Wife kneeling and wailing out the chant; husband most reluctant to go. All the while, the bad guys on horseback are trying to get there fast as they can to do the dirty deed.<br />
<br />
I remember that scene very well and it was utterly heart-wrenching, not unlike that scene in Aftershock. I only wish I remembered the Chinese title of the movie. Back then, I didn't cry. I couldn't. I was brought up to be tough. And watching TV as a kid, I took examples from idols like John Wayne, Chuck Connors, Mannix, Paladin, etc. Or super suave spy James Bond who faced everything with a steely eye, stiff upper lip and a corny joke.<br />
<br />
So, maybe if I watch that Chinese ancient story again in my middle-age and stirred up hormonal state, I might just cry non-stop. And unlike other bodily changes during this phase of my life, it might not be such a bad thing. Just pray I don't go effeminate and become a sniffling aunty crying buckets into her hanky at the next movie!<br />
<br />
<i>Link to 1971 Melody movie <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktZHbfw00eE">here</a>. </i><br />
<br />
<i>The next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/singapores-first-larp.html">Singapore's First LARP</a></i>TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4175599001750151961.post-43917839598882881662012-12-03T20:56:00.001-08:002013-03-03T07:30:33.482-08:00Dislocated Minds<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpt0PCaw1v-wChdsRSiaC80CRgr3108v3fxInyC6MkO4W7rz1JBBK9yw0pYzu50pEME6Px8hXdXfWyX_QEXi4sTDRXU6v_GToU4LOHxKtlXUjW1ftiCoD26r7Kxf5g1ubM43XDLKvRlwE/s1600/Mental+Illness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpt0PCaw1v-wChdsRSiaC80CRgr3108v3fxInyC6MkO4W7rz1JBBK9yw0pYzu50pEME6Px8hXdXfWyX_QEXi4sTDRXU6v_GToU4LOHxKtlXUjW1ftiCoD26r7Kxf5g1ubM43XDLKvRlwE/s320/Mental+Illness.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
Have you ever wondered how the mind works? Stuff like how it makes decisions or let you dream the things you do?<br />
<br />
Well, these questions kept me up as a kid. (No, I kid you not!)<br />
<br />
Not that I got curious after seeing a psychiatrist. It's just that my dad liked to read a particular magazine called Book of Life which had many articles about Social Science, Psychology and Biological Life. It's one of those collectible editions where a new issue would come out every month and you were given a giant folder at the start to keep all the issues in. Same as the Tank Warfare ones now being sold at newsstands and neighbourhood "mama" or "mamak" stores.<br />
<br />
In our case, we did not have to wait. My dad simply went and bought back issues from Sungei Road Thieves Market. They were a few years old and going for a song!<br />
<br />
On the back cover of each issue of this BOL was a running series of 'A-Z' science terms, some illustrated with pictures of insects. At the time, our family was into collecting and preserving these creatures and so the magazine (even though second-hand) was rather timely and educational.<br />
<br />
My first paperback book about the mind had to do with dreams and their meanings. The next one focused on phobias (published at a time when self-help books were popular). I recall a discussion on two cases: 1) A woman afraid of spiders; and 2) A man afraid of riding the elevator. The experts were split on giving shock treatment (getting acquainted with the spiders quickly) versus incremental gains (a breakdown familiarisation with things hairy, spindly, multi-eyed, etc.) I thought the latter approach was much better as it saw the problem in a more complex light. Not everything could be cured quickly or the proverbial "club to the head" or "shock to the system".<br />
<br />
Of course, as regards to books on the fractured mind, I can only recommend Oliver Sacks. Remember the movie Awakenings starring Robin Williams? -That's the doctor. He also wrote a very illuminating book called The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat. Yes, a man actually did do that. It had to do with something called facial aphasia, a kind of mind cock-eye illness.<br />
<br />
Other books I read as a kid were the handwriting, palm and face analysis ones. I wonder if you remember all these being fashionable at the time, how curious folks were about their character and fate being discernible by features on paper, hands and on the face!<br />
<br />
Even the HR people got into the act by requesting job applicants to write sample essays in their own handwriting. I don't think it says much about a person. All of us are trained to write in a certain way. And with the common use of keyboards, much of our handwriting has become atrocious!<br />
<br />
There was also fortune-telling by Tarot card. My interests in this were piqued by books I saw at MPH and also my mom's own experience with a very good fortune teller in Toa Payoh. That lady was eerily accurate about details of our family. She used only normal playing cards though.<br />
<br />
Later in school, my reading interests graduated to Helping Troubled Children (by Michael Rutter), Games People Play (by Eric Berne), A Layman Guide to Psychology (select editors, Penguin publishers), The Psychology of Thinking (also from Penguin), and Six Thinking Hats (by Edward de Bono, the first famous Bono before that Irish rock singer)<br />
<br />
More than just knowledge (trying to figure out my role as middle child, for example), I think I actually liked the way these books were written, i.e. the language and vocab. Little wonder I also enjoyed Technical Writing later.<br />
<br />
So, long story short, I've have had an interest in Psychology and Psychiatry for quite a while.<br />
<br />
The thing that troubled me later was not doing something with what I knew. So sometime in the early 90s, after I got a certificate in Suicide Counselling, I decided to volunteer my time with SAMH's Recreational Club for ex-Woodbridge patients. SAMH stood for Singapore Association for Mental Health. It was located at Blk 69 in Lorong 4, not at all near where I was living then, which was in Singapore's north.<br />
<br />
Truth be told I was actually introduced to the club by a friend who was a counsellor there. She had studied in Canada and majored in Psychology. I once asked her why she had chosen that field. Her reason was one of laziness. "My dad spent a lot of money to send me there to study, so I had to return with a degree. Psychology seemed the easiest program then."<br />
<br />
She also later confided that her father had sent her off to Canada because her mom had died and he didn't know how to handle her. I thought what a terrible excuse that was, especially when the daughter was obviously still grieving. I don't like to judge people but sometimes, you just wonder about the decisions they make.<br />
<br />
In any case, this counsellor (Doreen) went to high school and university there. So, in a way, she was, by the time she graduated from there, more Canadian than Singaporean. It is a wonder that she returned to Singapore at all. Doreen's explanation surprised me. "Singapore was more dynamic. Back then, there was a recession in Canada and unless you want to brain-rot over there, it was better to come back."<br />
<br />
But the best part was that Doreen's personality was actually very suited to counselling work. She was very patient, caring, sweet and rarely in a temper. Some people might perceive her as slow to react, but she was actually very intelligent and analytical. I think she just had snail blood in her that's all.<br />
<br />
But even though she was trained in the matters of the mind, she too had her own quirks. One of them was eating a lot of something that she liked all at one go. On one occasion, she polished of a whole basket of longans at one sitting! At another time, it was M&Ms. She just couldn't stop or say "I'll keep some for later."<br />
<br />
I had thought at the time that her actions were rather compensatory of the affection she did not get when she needed it most as a teen. Obviously, she and her dad still had quite a bit of unresolved issues to deal with.<br />
<br />
As a volunteer at the Rec Club of SAMH, my duties were simple. All I had to do was join their activities and be a partner, player, etc. For example, since I played badminton well, I could do that with the members on Badminton nights. During outings, I was the extra pair of hands, eyes to the counsellors. At the most basic, I was simply there to chat and be social with the members. It'd make them feel normal interacting with an Everyday Joe like me.<br />
<br />
By now, you must be wondering what these ex-Woodbridge patients are like. Well, the public at the time had this impression that the mentally-ill were crazy people. Crazy folk who frothed at the mouth and wielded meat cleavers. Not helped by constant portrayals of such stereotypes in HK '80s movies or TV serials.<br />
<br />
At the time, I also didn't know how an ex-Woodbridge patient would behave. But since I had some coloured belt in Karate-do, I felt prepared. Also, growing up, I lived with a crazy aunt. She was pretty unhinged. I mean we all wished she would run around with a meat cleaver so we could commit her. But no. She would rather go around waving her sanitary napkin instead. Not a new one mind you, but one that's still in use!!! <br />
<br />
"Why is it red like this?" she would ask, expressing her soiled napkin like some unwrapped <i>bak chang</i> (dumpling).<br />
<br />
My mom would go "Choi choi! Nei mo hai ngo g kan fan!!!" (Cantonese for "Damn damn! Can't you see that I am cooking here!!!")<br />
<br />
What's worse was that our neighbour manufactured <i>chee cheong fun</i>, which was a slang word for sanitary napkin. For a while, we couldn't bring home any to eat, dripping with sauce or not.<br />
<br />
(Note: Another Cantonese slang word for sanitary napkin is ma (horse). When a woman is having a period, she is said to be "riding a horse" or "care ma". Btw, chee cheong fun is a breakfast food steamed from rice water and turned into white roll resembling a Kotex pad without the wings).<br />
<br />
As regards to the SAMH members, if you can imagine a bunch of drugged and spaced out penguins waddling aimlessly about, that's them on a bad day. On a good day, they either made small talk or were quiet by themselves. Many were simply subdued by the drugs they take. You see, quite a few of them suffered from Schizophrenia. Without drugs, they would hear voices, feel persecuted, manifest self-importance, etc.<br />
<br />
Take Tan, for example. By appearance he looked a harmless chap who could be a Line Supervisor at some factory. Without his meds, he would call up companies (usually MNCs, go figure) and inform them that there's a bomb on their premises. One time, he barged into the office of a friend and told him to get out as there was a bomb nearby.<br />
<br />
Another fella was Chan, a rolly-polly chap with a large face who was once an ex-New Nation newspaper reporter. Once off his meds, he would become very erudite, boisterous and argumentative all at the same time. He would also get aggressive. When I first met him, he was all normal and friendly-like, sounding confident in that deep voice of his. You wouldn't know that he was an ex-Woodbridge patient.<br />
<br />
The women were more docile. Perhaps it was just this batch of ex-patients... I don't know. To me, they were more of a worry especially since they could easily be taken advantaged of (sexually), especially in their drugged state. When like that, a few couldn't even handle their own appearance let alone more private matters like their menstrual periods.<br />
<br />
As far as I could tell, the meds these unhinged folks took were necessary. But they were a double-edged sword. Many suffered from side effects like dry mouth (where the tongue would go all white and rough), missing teeth (from exacerbated tooth decay), skin rashes (eczema-like), falling hair (resulting in bald patches), etc.<br />
<br />
So, for these people struggling to arrest mental illness, it was a choice between 1) Acting crazy and not have a life; 2) Have a life but look progressively broken.<br />
<br />
Hanging about them then can be rather depressing. But if one wants to volunteer into such circumstances, one has to acknowledge their medical condition and hope better medicines get made. That's how I overcame it and tried to offer what I could to make them comfortable. It is hard for someone to have a friend and keep a friend when his mental state swings from two extremes. Even more difficult when he cannot fully control what happens to his appearance. If a person has bad breath, body odour, scraggly hair, etc., would you stick around much? I guess not.<br />
<br />
As you can guess I had nothing but full praise for the counsellors who were doing their jobs then at SAMH. Besides Doreen, there was another counsellor called Magdalene, who was a local grad and staunch Christian. Both were nice folks committed to their charges. But I did sense a tension between the both of them. I think it boiled down to being educated in different ways. Doreen's approach was more fundamental and liked to tackle problems as they were. Magdalene saw them as more systemic, which made her impatient sometimes. I think the local education system focused too much on Social Science. There could also be too much knowledge cramming leaving her little room to question.<br />
<br />
For example, if the drugs were making their patients ill, might not the drug companies and authorities be informed and alternative medication pursued? Magdalene would respond in a defeated way whereas Doreen would make noise.<br />
<br />
I thought then that a Western education produced graduates with a mindset for change. The local one was more so to oversee change. (I could be oversimplying everything, but it was just an observation at the time.)<br />
<br />
At the personal level, working with the counsellors, I learned the distinction between Psychological Disorders and Behaviourial Disorders. One concerns the disruption of thought, the other the disruption of relationships. There were also the classic mental illnesses and new personality disorders. Some more serious, others less so.<br />
<br />
If you are so inclined, you can find over 400 different types of mental disorders in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) of the American Psychiatric Asssociation. It is the bible from which counsellors and psychiatrists take reference. If you think you have a disorder and it is published in there, you can get an MC from a doctor provided he certifies you first.<br />
<br />
You know, these days, many people feel the need to always check their Facebook page. Is that a disorder then? It could be Facebookie Mania or something else. After all, psychiatrists do recognise excessive online game-playing as a form of addiction (in China, addiction is defined as four hours or more spent online). The same with online shopping and porn.<br />
<br />
At SAMH RC, we did go out on a couple of excursions. They were to East Coast Park and a boat trip to Kusu Island. At East Coast Park, we all played ball, frisbee and group games. It was fun and 'normal'. The SAMH RC members even joked about boy-girl relations seeing how that park was then known for that sort of thing.<br />
<br />
At Kusu Island, everything went smoothly as planned even though the counsellors were at first worried about taking them all on a boat trip. But the members cooperated and took their meds, so there were no major incidents except for a few school bus-type arguments in the ferry. Someone was playfully hiding someone else's purse.<br />
<br />
My final contribution to SAMH was to work with artist friend, Man Loon, to make a giant styrofoam sculpture that rotated on its own axis. He designed the artwork, I designed the electronics. The sculpture was for a national exhibition on Mental Illness, one of the last events at the old World Trade Centre Expo Hall.<br />
<br />
I welcomed such an exhibition. The public at the time needed to learn what mental illness was all about and not be frightened by misinformation and taboo. The brain and mind do misfire and people need to recognise that, not victims of evil spirits or black magic.<br />
<br />
The sculpture my friend and I eventually turned out was a giant head with a brain exposed. It had arrow signs pointing to it, signs that read 'Depression', 'Schizophrenia', 'Insomnia', 'Stress', 'Erectile Dysfunction', etc.<br />
<br />
Wait, erectile dysfunction as a mental disorder? Yup, think about it. Or don't.<br />
<br />
<i>The next story: <a href="http://asingaporeanstorybox.blogspot.sg/2012/12/i-cried-tear.html">I Cried A Tear</a></i><br />
<br />
<i>Unhinged (see pix below) is a confessional book by a top psychiatrist why the drugs we take may not be in our best interest. Hard pushing by pharmaceutical companies play a large part, as well as doctors beholden to their handouts. - TC</i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-53DwQwuvMmIU067BrjvMvsyLVC_KGow9jErtdqnK7cIYpB2DJGS00xNCApO9x8Y4uKm5W3FSSxwLIV3EHX-JiWXwTLtX4MxV6kFhA82hs-Z7dm9amdsHcyOTo5-fLuwom4LubH3JYs/s1600/SAMH+(Kusu+Island).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-53DwQwuvMmIU067BrjvMvsyLVC_KGow9jErtdqnK7cIYpB2DJGS00xNCApO9x8Y4uKm5W3FSSxwLIV3EHX-JiWXwTLtX4MxV6kFhA82hs-Z7dm9amdsHcyOTo5-fLuwom4LubH3JYs/s320/SAMH+(Kusu+Island).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SAMH Rec Club - trip to Kusu Island</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7C56w_1o85-ZvlbyiC-NJm329qeh9b6j2HLwXlTFNE0-4k0R8Jq7QKtIyreEFVQVsWAYMUax_RJ_A7nXty3XjwzczivGTgSFUKrtdmwxc-BWpTZ1SCj8wBSPq3mdHNJmhSlQe1mqYfis/s1600/Unhinged.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7C56w_1o85-ZvlbyiC-NJm329qeh9b6j2HLwXlTFNE0-4k0R8Jq7QKtIyreEFVQVsWAYMUax_RJ_A7nXty3XjwzczivGTgSFUKrtdmwxc-BWpTZ1SCj8wBSPq3mdHNJmhSlQe1mqYfis/s200/Unhinged.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfFkJBBI20bKDary0vnrbDZoYMeXJGq1TUqW7B1OlHuk3lJN3ejBlHQha5JYSk4epZaOh1NquG3jOAgKAkBSkHzHM8xFsFm6jqDMtkSzodXBqPxEFGcxKrZvkf8SxI0_DM-WkfA65OTQ/s1600/My+Teenage+Books+(smaller).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfFkJBBI20bKDary0vnrbDZoYMeXJGq1TUqW7B1OlHuk3lJN3ejBlHQha5JYSk4epZaOh1NquG3jOAgKAkBSkHzHM8xFsFm6jqDMtkSzodXBqPxEFGcxKrZvkf8SxI0_DM-WkfA65OTQ/s320/My+Teenage+Books+(smaller).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Some of the books I used to read as a teenager</i>.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />TC Laihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12308647123287028981noreply@blogger.com0