I Cried A Tear

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!

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

According to my eldest sis, the two ladies were rather inseparable. I believe that is what happens when you become sworn sisters.

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.

In circumstances like that, you'd wish to have your bosom pal with you through thick and thin.

Will I cry if my bosom pal died? Will I feel as if I am left alone?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

***********

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.

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.

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.

Not small tears but uncontrollable ones.

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!

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.

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 now cry.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

Link to 1971 Melody movie here. 

The next story: Singapore's First LARP

Dislocated Minds

Have you ever wondered how the mind works? Stuff like how it makes decisions or let you dream the things you do?

Well, these questions kept me up as a kid. (No, I kid you not!)

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.

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!

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.

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".

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.

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!

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!

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.

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)

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.

So, long story short, I've have had an interest in Psychology and Psychiatry for quite a while.

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.

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."

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.

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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!!!

"Why is it red like this?" she would ask, expressing her soiled napkin like some unwrapped bak chang (dumpling).

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!!!")

What's worse was that our neighbour manufactured chee cheong fun, which was a slang word for sanitary napkin. For a while, we couldn't bring home any to eat, dripping with sauce or not.

(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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Wait, erectile dysfunction as a mental disorder? Yup, think about it. Or don't.

The next story: I Cried A Tear

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

SAMH Rec Club - trip to Kusu Island

Some of the books I used to read as a teenager.

Stockholm Stand Desk

One of the more interesting PR assignments I have ever undertaken was to help a Swedish telecom giant organise a launch party in Stockholm. The thing to launch was a Technology Showcase Centre of innovative 3G handsets and applications. The good folks there wanted to open the Centre during a 3G Blue Sky (meaning endless possibilities) conference organised specifically for European users of their network equipment (i.e. the Telco operators in their own backyard). They wanted to give these customers a glimpse was what 3G mobile comms would be like after W-CDMA.

I was surprised that they asked our Asian PR agency to help them organise the event. Yes, we were international, but, er, shouldn't their own internal Communications people handle it? I think the reason could be that it was a huge (and important) affair for them and that they were also paying our agency a seven-digit retainer each year. In any case, my agency decided to send me over as I was the most senior person from the Telecom practice section and was rather meticulous in my event planning.
 
As usual, I saw a Road Blocks in that assignment, if I may borrow language from The Amazing Race.

Road Block 1: One, I had yet to comprehend fully Swedish culture. RB 2: I'd yet to comprehend fully Swedish CORPORATE culture. So now you see why even as I accepted the assignment, I knew it wouldn't be that straight forward a job as organizing a mere launch party.

In fact, one of the first culture clashes to crop up was the issue of drink. For some reason, the director of Communications (our client-boss) refused to have alcohol served during the mostly cocktail event. I asked him why but he would not say. All he offered was that no alcoholic drinks should be served during office hours. I could only conclude that 1) The Swedes don't hold their liquor well; or 2) They would go ballistic after imbibing some.

Well, I never really got that cleared up because the Swedes themselves confused me. I had a client-colleague there who would ask me out for a beer at almost anytime. And when I ate at their staff canteen - which, by the way, served up very good Swedish food! - all I saw were people drinking either coffee or fruit juice. They seemed pretty heath conscious, well-adjusted and showed no signs of any hangover whatsoever.

In any case, it was rather odd not to have alcohol during a corporate cocktail function. Beer or wine have always put people at ease through the millennial, so what's the beef? But more importantly, it's tradition or so I thought.

Naysayers probably felt better not to have alcohol at all, worried that the odd drunk might stand up on a table or something like that and make a fool of himself. The bigger the function, the higher the risk.

And with media folk around to see and report everything, I felt it was thus better to play it safe. Since my client had indicated his wishes (actually he was rather adamant about it), I agreed to go along with the No Alcohol rule. (Later, I would learn from another company director that the reason could be that some Swedish journalists tended to go overboard whenever there's free booze. Our client-boss director was afraid some might become drunk and behave like boorish louts. It had happened before apparently.)

Aside from drink, another thing I learned during my stay there was that you could furnish your office quite differently. I know, it sounds obvious. But don't we all have offices where we sit behind a writing desk and on height adjustable chair? It's the most typical of set-ups. But after working with this project secretary named Pia, I came to appreciate standing while I worked.

What she had in her office was an adjustable table that's set to bar top height. Instead of a chair, she had a small sofa put against the wall across her small office. So in effect, she would be standing most of the time whilst doing her office work. She only sat on her sofa to think, enjoy a cup of coffee or chat with a colleague. Lovely idea, isn't it?

Later, I was able to adopt the same approach in one of my offices. Instead of against the wall, I used the bar top table like a center island. What I discovered is that my table functioned well as a meeting place too! Much like a bar top in a bar! I would quickly gather the people, discuss the issue and then disperse them. No need to "chope" a meeting room and that kind of fuss. And no need to bum around on seats wasting time.

And I found that people on their feet tended to think and work faster. Perhaps it is just the act of not sitting on their asses that gives that sense of Get Go!

Physically, besides avoiding deep-vein thrombosis, standing (and walking) enables better circulation and gives better definition to the muscles of the leg and butt. Pia, as I recalled, had rather nice assets in those departments. Sorry, I didn't mean to pay attention to such things but I was sitting on that sofa behind her quite a few times. With my own bar top table, I did feel better not sitting down that much.

As a matter of fact, recent research indicates that sitting down for more than three hours a day can shave off two years of your life. So, quick, get that office table changed now and throw out that chair! And what's a bar top without a mini-fridge full of beer? Or an expresso machine! See, the possibilities are endless and changes much the traditional idea of an office!.

Next story: Dislocated Minds

This table I designed consists of a recycled kitchen tabletop bolted to hollow tubes of clear acrylic (recycled). Artificial flowers have been placed inside to add beauty. Other things of choice may be placed inside, turning a normal office table into a changeable art object. The table top can be re-papered to a design of choice.

Bangkok Junket

Public Relations work is interesting. If you can write and communicate, you can probably work in a PR agency. But it does take more than that to succeed.

For me, I've always found PR work to be 'light', in the same sense that it is "not so serious work". I've worked in R&D Engineering before; it is considered more traditional and, serious.

Yes, Engineering work requires a level of concentration and skill in manipulating Math and Science, but the work environment itself can be incredibly dull. Imagine a bunch of people quietly verifying their designs or performing measurement analysis.

In PR, I usually found my colleagues to be more communicative and outgoing than in Engineering. And they were no less serious about their work. It is something I admire a lot about about these professionals.

So, going into PR work, I too tried to professional. And at the same time, to enjoy it as much as possible.

Before PR, I was (a journalist) on the other side of the fence where I got wined and dined. I was at the receiving end of what PR people planned and executed. These were mostly press conferences, one-on-one interviews and of course, press junkets. All journalists look forward to press junkets. It's when you get to go on a trip and be treated like royalty. Well, almost. But you get the idea.

The trips are almost always sponsored by corporate clients of PR agencies. An exotic location is usually selected; the invited journalists brought there; and a dinner is then hosted, often by a senior person of the client company. So you can imagine such press junkets to be expensive and only afforded by well-off MNCs with large Comms budgets.

For me as a journalist, more than just a good makan time, I view such occasions as opportunities to gain access to the top people of a Fortune 500 company. The CEO of Microsoft or Oracle, the CTO of Cisco or Intel, etc... decision-makers we would otherwise have a hard time meeting (or get an opinion from) under normal circumstances.

For large companies, such press junkets are often organised as part of a corporate retreat with stakeholders, i.e. the customers and partners. There they would learn of the company's future direction in terms of a product roadmap, marketing and channel strategy, changes in personnel, etc.

The Management types would often take time out to share their vision with the media so fresh news of the company can get out. But as such news are usually sugar-coated, I would try to get hold of a customer to talk to. But of course, the company or PR person will try to keep you from doing that. No one in their right mind would want a reporter to talk to a customer unsupervised. It would be like shooting yourself in the foot. But there are always ways if a journalist is so inclined. It could end up as a cat-and-mouse game.

Such trips cut both ways. It is the classic "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" kind of endeavor. But as a writer, I am always be mindful of the hard-sell these companies who invite you make. They rely on you to get their corporate message out to the industry and always want it to be as rose-tinted and positive as possible. But as a reporter or writer, you have a certain integrity to adhere to. Also a duty to your reader to remain unbiased.

One of the more elaborate press junkets I've been too was in Bangkok. I was invited by the kind folks of Canon. Back then, I was writing for a regional IT trade paper.

That function in Bangkok began with an expensive dinner cum traditional dance. It was held at the 7-star Oriental Hotel by the Chao Phraya River. Afterwards, we were then taken on a slow boat ride where we sipped wine, ate finger food, and made small talk with Canon's people. They got to know us better and we, them - all in a casual and non-threatening setting. Non-threatening to a point. After all, we were kept in a boat and could not run away!

The next day, we travelled to Canon's new inkjet printer factory in Ayutthaya, that ancient kingdom of Thailand. I was very impressed by what I saw there.

The production line processes were novel and innovative. They were not your typical linear type of operation. The time and personnel required to assemble a printer were greatly reduced. Work for production workers was also less repetitive and more varied, factors that could help reduce job burn-out and absenteeism. Canon's new and revamped production lines were certainly operating very differently from what other manufacturing folks were doing then.

I should know because I had worked in an advanced factory of almost 3000 people in various capacities before going into Journalism, and so could appreciate what Canon was trying to do. Besides, Canon's factory in Ayutthaya was the biggest employer in that area. It thus should play a greater role than just make printers.

As a matter of fact, they did.

The factory put in place pro-Community policies after much consultation with its workers. One such initiative led to the setting up of a supermarket on its premises. The supermart allowed the majority population of female production workers there to buy things before heading home after their end-of-shift, which could be late and the shops closed. The set-up was especially good for the mothers amongst the workers. I was told that shampoo and baby milk powder were the two most popular items bought at the supermarket. Not surprising, really.

After the factory visit, we journalists were led to room where we could ask more questions of the new manufacturing setup. In our group were quite a number of journalists from India. What I discovered about them was not pleasant.

For one, they were rather gruff and rude. They behaved as if they should be feted like VVIPs all the time and showed it. During question time, they did not even bother to introduce themselves nor precede their question with a polite Mr So & So. They sounded bored and appeared as if they much preferred to be somewhere else.

That was not the first time I had seen them behave in such a deplorable manner. They were the same during our first-night dinner. At times, they were so rude that you just want to punch them in the face on behalf of the hosts. Little wonder that the PR and Communications folks preferred to deal with us reporters from Singapore, Malaysia, HK, or the Philippines. We seemed to have better Asian sensibilities and etiquette than those ill-mannered blokes from the land of the Maharajahs and Untouchables. Perhaps they were channeling a bit of both, so proud and insecure they were. Or they could be exhibiting unsavory traits learned from their colonial past. I know in their work culture there, the bosses still preferred to be called "Sir". In any case, manners aside, I considered their behaviour to be very unprofessional. I wondered then if the PR folks even had to give them "cha (tea) money" to run a press release!

In the afternoon, my group of journalists were treated to a tour of the ruins of Ayutthaya. They were impressive, but I rather see the ones in Europe. You see, because the weather there is usually dry and cool, the ruins look better. They are not moldy and covered with algae or some damp patch. They also do not smell of mildew and dog urine, which was quite bad at Ayutthaya. A couple of times, I saw much worse. You could say the visit to Ayutthaya was a 4-D experience: 3-D structures with the additional dimension that assaults your sense of smell.

Therefore, as much as I wanted to appreciate the ancientness of Ayutthaya, its more recent foul additions made the visit wholly unpleasant. Nice to look at from a distance but terrible to explore up close. A solution would be to mask your nose first with lots of Tiger Balm or Axe Brand Oil!

Next story: Stockholm Bar Top

March Madness 3 - Pulau Sibu 3

This story continues from: March Madness 3 - Pulau Sibu 2

When I woke the next day, it was still early and the sun had not yet risen fully. I took to the footpath and walked that short distance across the island that led to the beach on the other side. It was strangely still and deferential  I looked at the dead corals again and was reminded of the killing fields of Cambodia. Here, instead of piles and piles of bones, were piles and piles of dead coral. I wondered what it would take to revitalise the whole marine zone.

I skipped a few stones into the sea and retraced my steps back to the footpath. The kitchen should be serving breakfast soon and the rest of the fellas would be up and waiting.

The second day was all sand and sea. A few of us tried canoeing and windsurfing. I either laid on the beach or dipped into the sea. I had canoed quite a bit in my youth and so had no more interest.

But windsurfing was catching on in Singapore at the time and so I was keen to try it out. However, the winds that day were not very cooperative. I decided to just laze about and get tanned. Later, we all got together and played volleyball on the beach.

Around late afternoon, we went on an excursion to "big brother" island (i.e. Pulau Sibu Besar). In size, it was about six to seven times larger than Pulau Sibu Tengah (aka SIR) and about 2 km away. We visited one of the five resorts there. Unlike SIR, they were the backpacker sort each served by its own flimsy jetty.

Some guests we saw there were sun-bleached, wiry and wore headbands. They looked very much like the seasoned hippies of the 60s. I remember thinking they were no different from "harm yu" or salted fish laid out in the sun too long. It made us wonder how long these over-tanned folks had been living on the island!

========

On the second day, we learnt from those who had canoed a sea eagle's nest around the left side of the island. It was nestled in some rocks quite near to the beach below. The cliffs on our island were not high, roughly six to eight storeys tall. Only the top of the right cliff was accessible via a narrow footpath.

From up there, we could get a good panoramic view of the ocean as well as the sea route our ferry had taken in from the mainland. Although the cliff was small, its stony facade somehow injected a natural sense of ruggedness and adventure to the place. They bear an inscrutable testimony to outdoor life.

The reason that the eagle's nest was so low is that the place was isolated and free from human encroachment. The nice beach there could only be accessible by boat.

We knew it was nice because the owner Hassan had told us during that first-night conversation. He was describing the new kind of clientele he was targeting at and related the story of a well-off Indian couple who were there for their wedding anniversary.

Wanting a private beach moment, the couple had approached him for help. Hassan then picked out that familiar spot of beach where the eagle's nest was, knowing full well that no one else could get there on foot.

"That Indian couple then had a late night picnic with champagne and stuff. We picked them up later when they were done. It was, however, much much later," Hassan said, winking as he did so.

I saw the beach the next day, not by swimming but by board canoeing. That's when you sit on a windsurf board and canoe with a paddle. I was bored and wanted some adventure and so set off on my own. I figured I would be safe as the windsurf board would not sink!

The beach was indeed nice. White sand with clear waters walled in by some rocks which gives it a private, lagoony feel.

The waters were surprising shallow for quite a distance, and colorful. There were many big rocks that somehow  gave off colors like the underside of an oyster's shell. Pretty. The shallow shoals made me wonder if they stretched 2 km all the way to the bigger island like a place I've once seen in Sabah. Over there, at low tide, one could wade some 500 m to an opposing island.

The sheltered bay of Eagle's Beach (as we named it) made the island feel near and safe. But once I got to the turn, that's when the sea really opened up. It made me feel as if I was in a paper boat bobbing in a large ocean. In such a situation, it is hard to keep faith with a flimsy surfboard but I held fast, convinced that it would not break whatsoever.

With a canoe, I alone could not right a capsized one. Trust me, I've tried that many times during my canoeing days. You would need a buddy in another canoe to help you. With a surfboard you could even paddle without an oar! That's the reason I went 'sightseeing' with it.

Now facing the open sea, I began to think about sharks. Are there any? A Big White has been known to taken a chunk out of a surfboard before. So, maybe my smart idea wasn't so smart after all! I decided to paddle on and keep my eyes open just in case. Big Whites were known to roam the Gulf of Thailand which was yet many miles away from where I was. Still, one should be wary. Stories of rogue sharks attacking swimmers in coastal waters surface from time to time - kind of like how car park wardens turn up from time to time to remind motorists to pay up!

========

Having made that turn, I now find myself along the back of the island. The familiar sight of chalets and those dead corals (undersea) gave me comfort. I didn't go too near to the beach though, but stayed a comfortable distance out to see if I could spot any still-alive corals. Sadly, there were none.

As I paddled on in this little adventure of mine, the island became bigger. I guess the reason was that much of it was inaccessible and hence not factored in. Also, that short footpath through its middle between the beaches also gave the false first-impression that the island was small. I mean you cannot judge a woman's assets by her small waist alone. Look at Dolly Parton.

And just like Ms Parton's curvaceous outline, I eventually reached another turn and came up against a big lump rising into the sky. It was that same eight-storey high rocky precipice I had seen arriving on the first day. Looking at the same cliff now up close and from a flimsy surfboard, my feelings became different. It's not so much awe-inspiring as bleak. It was a cliff no one could climb. It was simply an absolute obstacle.

That thought reminded me of one of my favourite movies, Papillon. It is a 1973 movie about a man of the same name (Papillon is French for butterfly) who refused to surrender to the harsh prisons he was sent to after being convicted of a revenge killing he claimed he was wrongly accused of. After several near deaths, escapes and recaptures, he was eventually sent to Devil's Island, a place so ensconced by sheer cliffs and rocks and buffeted by strong waves that no one could ever dream of escaping from. But escape Papillon did, and in quite an ingenious way too.

So, in view of all that Papillon went through, my own round-the-island adventure was really child's play.

========

From the cliff, it was a matter of minutes before I paddled myself back to where I had started: the front of the resort. But not before battling some strong currents.

I was hoping to just slip unnoticed into the verandah and sit down for a drink but some of my friends rushed out to ambush me. One of them was pretty livid. "Where the hell were you? We thought you had drowned or something! We looked everywhere for you!"

I felt sheepish then about going out on my little adventure without telling anyone. I came to realise that I shouldn't be taking my friends' concern for granted. I apologised to them and explained that I had gotten carried away. It was true in a sense; I had wanted to see the Eagle's Nest. Fortunately, the matter was soon forgotten. The guy who had made the most noise was Yew Meng, my OCS platoon mate during NS. I thought he should have known better that I could take care of myself. We were in OCS together! But would he have approved if he knew?. Probably not. But Yew Meng is a mother hen like that.

But for an hour or two that morning, I felt like Robinson Crusoe or Tom Sawyer going on a grand sea adventure. Sometimes a guy gotta do what a guy has gotta do in order to experience new things. Else, you wouldn't be reading this story now, would you?

Next story: PR Tale 1 - Bangkok

March Madness 3 - Pulau Sibu 2

This story continues from: March Madness 3- Pulau Sibu 1

As told, the sea journey was relatively short. Surprisingly, none of us got sea sick. As the ferry slowed its approach to the Sibu Island Resort, we noticed something unusual. There wasn't a jetty in sight!

Instead, two resort workers were seen pulling pontoons out. We could ride on these with the rest of our 'barang-barang' or jump into the sea and wade ourselves in. Most of us opted for the latter. It was a great way to immediately start our new beach holiday! Besides, with such clear waters and white sand, who could resist?

The front of the resort looked to be in a lagoon. The beach itself was surprisingly short even if covered with alluring white sand. Beside it was the raised verandah of the resort's Admin building, a dark wood construction that reminded me of resorts in Bali and elsewhere. Not cheap, not expensive, just typical. The large verandah gave a 180-degree view of the sea and beaches. We found out later that below the verandah were the rooms for karaoke and storage for canoeing and windsurfing equipment. How convenient was that!

========

After deciding who to bunk with whom, we checked into our chalets. The ones we had booked were essentially 'couple' affairs. Each had a bedroom, a verandah with coffee table and chairs, an attached tiled-bath with instant hot-water heater and a flushing seat-toilet.

We noticed that there were indeed few chalets on the island - just 22 of them, and they were all standalone affairs. The bigger units could be found on the back beach, a short 5-10 mins walk from Admin. The path to that place was not paved out but natural and surrounded by shrubs and short coconut trees. We were told we could request for fresh coconuts every morning - quite the novel idea to us young folks then!

The beach at the back turned out to be just as pristine as the one in front. But it was much, much wider. There were corals too, but sadly, all of them had died. It was all quite the pity because there was evidence of a wide swathe of them all along the beach front. Near where I stood in the waters was a path cut right through the middle. I would have loved to walk this path when the corals were alive and well.

At low tide this sight of dead corals was especially poignant. It can make a grown man cry. If these corals had not suffered from the dreaded "white coral death" (a cancer of the ocean) this part of island would have been a wondrous scene to behold... Not the graveyard of porous stone it is now. White as skeletons and just as eerie.

After the short tour, we quickly put away our things in the chalet and changed into our swim gear. The sun was still burning and the sky cloudless. By dinner time, we had all gotten wet and burnished with a tan. But only just!

========

Dinner was a strange affair.

Unlike the kind of cheap, fast-to-cook food one typically got from seaside island resorts, SIR actually had a menu typical of a Malaysian mainland Chinese restaurant. There was hor fun, mui fan, steamed fish, sambal kangkong, venison meat with ginger, etc. - Not at all the fare we were expecting.

We were pleasantly surprised (and hungry) after having just arrived and exerted somewhat. So we ordered what each of us liked. A couple of us did not have any preference and ordered just to see how good the cook could be.

That done, we put the menu aside and chatted as we sipped on our soft drinks and fruit juices.

Half an hour passed. Then one. Then one and a half hours.

All the while, we turned to look at the kitchen doorway ("hole" we called it) to see if food was soon coming out. But none. Oh, we could hear banging and clanging in there alright, but to what end, we were completely mystified. No one came out to tell us all was going well.

Then suddenly, the food came. There was no explanation why the delay. The staff were locals and did not seem to comprehend English very well. We decided to not pursue the matter. One cannot expect too much when in Malaysia. It's just not as efficient as Singapore, we consoled ourselves. The next time, we decided, we'll order ahead.

Interestingly though, even if the wait was tough, the food wasn't. The dishes were excellent! They really tasted like dishes back home. Never before had any of us gobbled up island fare this good and in such a wallop manner, but that's what we did. The only setback was wondering whether we should order more, but if we had to wait another eternity, no.

========

Just after dinner, as we were lounging in the dining area (which was next to the main verandah area and the sea view), the owner of the resort turned up.

Up till then I had not met anyone up-close who owned an island resort... let alone an island, so I was rather intrigued by this person. He was a big-sized Malay chap aged about 40-ish with an air of a "Datuk" about him. In other words, he radiated wealth and connections. That evening, he was dressed casually in khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.

The owner - let's call him Mr Hassan - had dropped by to say hello to Kim. He and Kim had become fast telephone friends through the many bookings Kim placed on behalf of her expat colleagues (she being the department secretary and all that). Even Kim's boss had been to SIR too! So Kim was a VIP in Mr Hassan's eyes.

After the obligatory introductions, Mr Hassan asked us how our dinner went. We confessed it was surprisingly good and then politely mentioned the rather tardy serving time. Mr Hassan apologised and said his staff was still coming to grips with what was expected of them. He also confided that he had spent considerable effort in hiring a good Chinese chef to whip up both Chinese and Western fare. His reasoning was that a good resort should be matched by good culinary experience. On that note, he was right on the money. I mean there is little point in setting up a 4-star resort with crummy food.

I was curious what the island was before SIR, so I asked Hassan. He said,

"Oh, it was just a rock. I bought it from the government and spent money developing it," he said, sounding more like a technocrat than businessman.

"It wasn't just about building these chalets. That was the easy part. The difficult part was making sure the island had a good source of water and could handle the future sewerage. We couldn't run this place on bottled mineral water alone."

I found that statement rather funny. To many Singaporeans, bringing mineral water on an island trip was as essential as bringing toilet paper. In fact, probably more important, especially for the girls. To some, taking care of the hair was paramount, not to mention skin on the face too.

We boys who had been through National Service was less bothered. We just made sure we didn't imbibe anything unclean and catch diarrhea. Swimming with a weak stomach is definitely a no-no. 'Dark pools' could form unwittingly.

Through further conversation with Hassan, we found out that he had spent more than half a million Malaysian dollars buying and redeveloping the island. It didn't seem like a small sum nor was it an astronomical one. Monies involved in island purchases typically ran into the millions at the time, or so we thought.

A couple of us wondered how much more "under table money" he had to pay to smooth things along what with Malaysian government officials known to take kickbacks. But we decided to be polite and not open that can of worms. I doubted he would even tell us!

Before Hassan left, he joked with Kim that she should have her honeymoon on SIR; he would give her a special rate. Kim, who was unattached, turned red and gave an embarrassed laugh. With that, Mr Hassan bade us good evening and wished us a memorable stay.

Later, when we got up to pay, the staff told us Mr Hassan had halved our dinner bill. It was to make up for the long waiting time. We thought that was rather decent of him to do that. He didn't have to but he did. He really was sincere about making the island resort work at a higher service level.

Suitably fed, we then sat around the verandah a little longer to discuss what we would do the next day. Some wanted to laze around, while others wanted to learn windsurfing. An instructor was available on the island free of charge for that. We simply paid per hour - or per day - for equipment use.

Later that evening, the girls went and entertained themselves in the karaoke room. They found it equipped with the latest song management system and had a blast till late. I sat and read a book by Robert Ludlum by the verandah and listened to the soothing sound of the sea waves lapping.

All through, I could tell that the resort was rather absent of people, just as the owner had intended. I thought how wonderful that is for a change. SIR might just turn out to be the resort game changer Hassan had hoped for after all.

This story continues with: March Madness 3 - Pulau Sibu 3

March Madness 3 - Pulau Sibu 1

Another March/April long weekend public holiday, another island adventure. This time, Pulau Sibu. There, I engaged in a death-defying act and met Death. Death? Yes, eerie. But if you were there, you would feel the same.

Back then, Pulau Sibu was a newly minted four-star resort. The first isle besides Pulau Tioman to offer true "first class" facilities. First class as defined by a flush toilet with seat, air-conditioned bedrooms and a hot shower. In other words, honeymooners can go there without the new wife complaining of how cheapskate the new husband is.

Or she be bothered by mosquitoes and sandflies when making out on the beach. A place they can take snapshots of themselves singing karaoke, windsurfing or buddy canoeing... not just play the usual carom, UNO card game or Scrabble in a leaky and smelly thatched lounge.

The Sibu island I am talking about was where the very first Sibu Island Resort was built. Since then, it has been upgraded beyond recognition, tacked on with a cocktail pool even. With the new look, it was given another star to its former rating. Five stars now.

Pulau Sibu was small then and it still is. Very small. You can throw the proverbial stone and have it land on the other side of the island. Or a coconut would fall and somebody will hear it.

If it is so small, where's the charm then? Thankfully, Sibu island is narrow at the width but longer in length.

I remember the island being surrounded by sparkling waters and white sand. Plus, the resort had few chalets. Meaning as a guest, you didn't have to fight anyone for a patch of beach space. And if no other guests turns up, you can jolly well be the only ones on the island. Wonderful, isn't it?

I first heard of SIR from Kim, my regular tennis partner. During a break in a game she had told me and our two other tennis kakis, Julie and Pauline, about this newfangled resort her German expat colleagues were raving about.

"Oh, they say it is really nice and cozy," she had cooed.

"Sibu Island Resort? Isn't that in the Philippines?" one of us offered.

"S-I-B-U, not Cebu," said Kim. "Apparently it is part of an island chain called Pulau Sibu. Sibu Island Resort is actually the smaller, middle one. And the best part is, it doesn't take long to drive there. We can spend more time on the island."

Er, drive there?

"I mean drive to the ferry terminal. Apparently Pulau Sibu is very near to the mainland unlike Tioman," said Kim.

At the time, Pulau Tioman was the most famous island along Malaysia's East Coast. But the ferry journey to that place was a long, some 2.5 hrs chugging along with sometimes choppy seas. With SIR, we could be there by 11am. Enough time to unpack and still catch a tan.

========

I might not have known of Pulau Sibu but I knew of the other islands nearby such as Pulau Tinggi and Pulau Aur. They were rustic and visited mostly by people who liked to fish. One of them was my NS staff sergeant, Francis Lee, who went there often to spear fish. He invited me once but I wasn't keen on punching holes in anything, let alone fish - creatures I could easily get from a supermarket. After a stint in the Army, Francis went into missionary work. Last I heard, he's running an NGO in East Timor. Way to go, man!

Back to the tennis court.

"Wait, how many days are we thinking of for this holiday?" I asked Kim. I hate to feel comfortable in a resort and then realise it is time to leave.

"Well, how about over the Good Friday hols? Four days?" suggested Kim. "The best part is my boss is also on leave. And he has left me the company car." Kim grinned her biggest grin. That was good news instead. A big and spacious European car! And our transport problem solved.

Just as I was thinking how unusual it is for a guy to go on an island holiday with three girls, Pauline chimed in. "We could ask Kum Fatt and Yew Meng."

Both these guys were my buddies from NS (i.e. BMT and OCS). In fact, I had gotten to know Kim and the rest through Kum Fatt my BMT buddy. All these other folks were from St Andrews Junior College. I was from CJC, a sister school. Our colleges were - at the time - better known for sports than academic excellence. They were also hotspots for boy-girl relationships (for the first year at least).

In the end, Kum Fatt couldn't make it but Yew Meng could (he and his girlfriend). With two other guy friends, we managed to round up a total of four guys and four gals; quite the neat pairing, I thought.

In the end, we had two cars (one from Fred) and went round Singapore to pick up everybody in the early hours of dawn and then headed straight over to Malaysia via the northern Causeway. There was no Second Link then. I was staying next to the Customs at the time and was the last to be picked up. That's one thing I liked about living there in Marsiling: its proximity to Malaysia!

The road journey to the ferry point for SIR was smooth and uneventful. I remember we driving along curvy kampung roads and passing villages that harked back to the 50s and 60s. It was really a pleasant drive except for a couple of instances when we had to overtake some road-hogging lorry that were packed to the brim with oil palm fruit or pineapples.

Of course, since we hadn't been to the island before, we had to rely on information from Kim's colleagues. They in turn relied on information provided by the travel section of a German executive magazine, now translated for Kim's benefit. Kim, at the time, had only a rudimentary grasp of the German language and was still undergoing lessons at the Goethe Institute.

The instructions to get to SIR were thankfully straight forward. There weren't many unfamiliar detours and we could simply follow the major road signs. But once we neared the coast, we had to turn off onto a rural farm road. That was the only time we felt kind of creepy. It always was back then when in remote parts of Malaysia. Probably less so today.

The road we were on was a dirt track with grass growing out in the middle. By the sides were fenced-up grazing grassland with no animals in sight. In fact, the simply wired fences looked kind of neglected. Sections of it were weighed down by wild shrubs and fallen trees. It seemed as if the farmers had found some other thing to do than plough land or nurse animals.

Malaysia's economy was booming then and tourism was on the rise. Folks like us (and expats working in Singapore) were making a beeline for their island resorts, star or no star rating. So many of the locals there joined the tourism industry for better income and economic opportunity.

========

As we drove along the farm road, I was looking out for coconut trees, a sure sign that the coast is near. I did indeed see them, and before long, our cars had to come to a stop. The road ended in a small opening right next to a ramshackle hut. We could also just see the sea right over a rise and some shrubs.

A skinny young Malay chap then arrived on a Honda Cub motorcycle. Young men like him all over Malaysia all seemed to like riding these 70-cc auto-gear two-wheelers from Japan. I was told they were affordable and consumed little fuel. In Malaysia, such a bike is indispensable for getting from one kampung to the next and to town. Waiting for public transport can cause hair on the chin to grow.

After an exchange of pleasantries, the young Malay chap instructed our drivers where to park their cars. He pointed to a squarish grass patch that was fenced up rather flimsily for our comfort. It was also gated by two hastily nailed-together planks that were chained to a post. It looked OK for fencing in goats but certainly not cars with superior horsepower and value.

Kim, who had large eyes, rolled them even bigger. "Er, he is not serious, is he?"

She did not appear to want to park her boss' expensive Audi in that make-shift parking space. Frankly, I wouldn't too. It was not even sheltered! The pressing concern was: what if the car went missing? Kim would have to spend the rest of her adult life indentured to her company, or maybe lose her job.

But what choice did we have? Turn back? Unlikely.

Seeing Kim a little upset, the girls gathered round her to give comfort and make conference. I didn't think it was a big deal because quite a few expats must have done the same thing in the recent past. So why should we even worry?

That was as much what I told Kim and the rest. The girls picked up on the logic and mollified Kim further with their sweeter voices. I could tell Kim was softening to the rationale. As added insurance we decided to pay the young Malay chap RM20 to look after the vehicles. That made Kim feel better and so, the matter was quickly settled.

The young man at first refused our offer saying it was his duty to his uncle. He only accepted after some persuasion. RM20 at the time wasn't a small sum and he didn't look the greedy sort. But it was better to have bought his allegiance than not. Back then, Johor had not picked up the reputation as a place where one could easily lose a car or be shot at beside a busy kopitiam. Or even have a purse snatched by a thief on a motorbike. All that would come a decade and a half later. Young men would also ask for money to do something - like cleaning your car windows.

With the cars safely locked up in the car park, we picked up our belongings and followed the young Malay chap towards the sea. He led us down a rocky slope and onto a backyard jetty just as a small ferry was arriving and sidling up to get us aboard. To those of us accustomed to formal ferry points, this backyard affair was quite surreal. But it was not exactly unexpected. Some kelong launch-off points were pretty much the same impromptu affair. Makeshift jetties all along the coast were used mainly by local fishermen.

We were not the only ones boarding the ferry. A couple of locals were bringing fresh produce to the island resort. We half hoped and joked that it included fresh lobsters and crabs!

The ferry that came was a wooden one with a small cabin typical of the many that plied between the islands in those days. It was painted green too. Back then, no one worried about life jackets and such. We got on board, kept our belongings away from getting wet and found a corner at the bow to sit in - a place free from trailing exhaust and where one could enjoy the fresh sea breeze (and spray) upfront. You know, the kind of things that told us we were finally on our way to an island resort and far away from the noxious atmosphere of city life.

Story is continued here: March Madness 3 - Pulau Sibu 2