Singapore drama!!

I am still in shock at the recent drama that saw myself and my faithful, if totally useless, sidekick Truffle being witnesses to a horrific event that unfolded in the Singapore skies.

Sunday started easily, with a long swim in the pool, a bit of yogurt and the decision to go and see my girl this morning rather than this afternoon. So, I got dressed, grabbed my rucksack and Truffle's, called a taxi and got to the animal pet lovers center in no time. Truffle was ecstatic  and covered me in kisses but we had not time for cuddles and I whisked her away for a walk. My intention was to walk to the reservoir, cool down and walk back, easy peasy lemon squeazy  as DOT would say. The walk to the reservoir passes along a wide open space that people use for their kite flying and model airplane flying excursions.

Truffle and I sat down to look at a solitary little white Chesna like airplane elegantly soaring through the air and plunging down in what looked like a suicide mission only to lift up again barely a few centimeters from the ground. We were very intent in watching this scene , or at least I was as Truffle was more interested in the dead skin of a lizard that had been flattened a few days earlier and she was trying desperately to eat it.

All of a sudden I see a dark shadow pass over me. An enormous eagle, regal, silent, and, as would turn out soon, deadly, glides over our heads. I look at her in full admiration, so beautiful, so majestic and I marvel at the way she dances in the sky. But instead of flying away she turns around and starts to fly in great circles above our heads. At first I am intrigued but then the circles get smaller and I start to get a sense of unease as this was the same behavior another eagle had shown one Easter day on Lake Garda while Kelly was sniffing around. Truffle is 5 times the size of Kelly and I cannot believe the eagle would attack us.

As it turns out however we were not the focus of her attention. From a lazy circling around the skies all of a sudden she darts down and attacks the Chesna grabbing it with her talons and then letting go. The little airplane is no match for the giant bird and the owner can only watch helplessly while the Chesna spirals toward the ground in a scene reminiscent of WW1 airplane combat.

Truffle and I are right below and we scramble to safety under a tree, not that that silly bag of bones would know what danger is if it stared at her in the eyes. The plane crashes and the owner runs to inspect the damage. The tail is split in two, the Chesna is dead, my jaw is dropping in disbelief, Truffle is inspecting a caterpillar.

We get out of under the tree and walk to the reservoir. We sit down on the steps, under the canopy in search for some peace and quiet,Truffle nuzzles me and at first I think she wants to find a way to calm my nerves but she only wants a nibble so I throw her a piece of chicken and all is well

Halong Bay 1- Vietnam

What a thrill is Halong Bay. About a 3 hour drive from Hanoi, which is a bit of a drag, but once the confusion of getting all passengers aboard their allocated junk has passed it is a wonderful experience. There is a multitude of boats to choose from, actually too many as it turns out, but I chose mine based on the fact they offered a chance to go squid fishing at night that I knew would make Max happy. I steered well clear of the fun filled activity boats for children or the disco by the bay options and decided for a lovely junk by the name of Indochina Sails 2. I loved the pictures on the website, the warmth and feeling of sturdiness that the oiled, dark wood planks conveyed so I was a bit miffed when the dark wood boat turned out to be white. And not only mine but all the boats in the bay. Raising an eyebrow in barely hidden disappointment I later found out that a Government official had ordered all the beautiful dark wood to be painted white, reason being, so it seems, that by painting it white they would look more like the cruise ships that adorn the Mediterranean or the Caribbean hence enticing the likes of the Titanic to cross these waters. My eyebrow rose even more in total disbelief to a level where I looked permanently botoxed while I surveyed the poorly painted junk, already showing signs of wear only 2 weeks after the brush had been hung up to dry.

The fact the infrastructure, a real port for example, and the ever so minimal detail of a shallow beach....ahemm...(remember the Costa Concordia?) make it impossible for the massive ship liners to even dream of approaching the bay clearly did not cross the Government official's mind but then... when it comes to Government officials ......

Anyhow, once settled in our beautiful cabin we are immediately summoned to lunch during which our tour guide starts listing the activities of the day.

Activities?

My idea was to lay on the upper deck and enjoy the panorama but I barely burp my last garlic prawn that I am tossed head first into a kayak and start paddling furiously.

A couple of metres from the boat I realize everybody is actually going their own way, the Brazilian ladies heading out to open sea, the American lads running in circles, a British couple doing their best to bump into us at every chance.

I stop paddling and start mumbling curses! Then the guide appears and shouts at the strays pointing in one direction and the straddlers are meekly brought back to heel and we all head towards a cavern in the mountain. The closer we get the more we realise it is not a cavern but an opening that will take us to a hidden lake. Once inside it is wonderful to look at the limestone peaks and greenery and we stare in awe at the beauty of it. Then a rapid flutter of electric blue and a kingfisher darts in front of us clearly worried about the rapidly falling level of fish stocks in the world hence in a hurry to get hold of the last fish. He is beautiful and incredibly fast, a real treat.

Alas, it is time to head back to the ship and to my horror I realize the fact all the ships are white and most of the time nameless presents a bit of an issue. Finally by a process of elimination (our does not have palms on the deck, ours has a staircase coming down the side etc) we manage to board the right one and all is good

Well, so it goes that after hearing Max whine and whimper about his lack of photo opportunities in Singapore I felt sorry for the guy and behind his back organised a long Easter weekend in Vietnam and more precisely in Hanoi city and Halong Bay.

When I told him about it he hopped around like a puppy and happily bought himself a humungous new Canon lens that he would traipse around the bustling streets of Hanoi and use to immortalise every wooden plank of our cruise ship for 4 activity packed days.

Claiming to know everything about Vietnam he was mightily miffed when we did not land after 1 hour as he thought but after 3 and a half as I had told him but got over the annoyance immediately and after having (me!) the usual meltdown-kill-this-bunch-of-morons moment at the ridiculous bureaucracy of visas and passport stamping we finally headed to Hanoi.

Never had we seen such a sea of scooters and even the scary experience of scooter filled Bali did not prepare us for the stampede of intertwining motorcycles carrying everything from enormous bales of clothes, to chickens packed 50 to a crate and even the occasional bull.

We headed for the old quarter where our hotel was booked and where the taxi would pick up us the following day to take us to our cruise ship and took possession of our room. But there is no rest for the wicked and immediately we headed off to visit the old town.

Now, old Hanoi city is a mix of faded French colonial grace and a multicoloured garbage heap and while it might sound ghastly it is also very real, human and sweet and miles away from sterile Singapore.

Scooters....scoot out from and to every direction and road rules are really pointless guidelines while the constant use of the horn is king. After a first moment of panic we realised that there was a certain flow and order to the manic, noisy disorder and also that closing our eyes and stepping out to cross the street would be more effective and less dangerous than relying on the faded zebra crossings last painted back in 1960.

Stores spill out onto the streets that become a sort of extension of businesses, homes, kitchens with punters and owners sharing a meal, a game of chess or a hair cut while sitting on plastic toddler stools. Women shred vegetables and cut meat sitting on the pavement while toothless grandmas stir fry strange concoctions on a portable gas hob and gossip with other toothless grandmas shaking their head in visible disapproval at the youngsters and having a jolly good time in the process. With everybody looking at the two of us (usual giant freaks in a region of the world filled with pint sized people) and offering food at every corner I jumped with glee at the sight of what looked like a suckling pig roasting on the fire but at closer inspection I recoiled with a mix of horror and acceptance of different cultural practices when I saw what usually sits on ones lap after a long walk and does whoof being basted with oil and spices.

Still I realised sadly that I was a bit hungry and we decided to stop at a corner bar and watch the world go by. We ordered a stir fry with fish (just in case!!!) and a coke as an attempt of prevention of food poisoning. 10 minutes later a guy arrived by scooter with a bag containing two Tupperware filled with what looked suspiciously like a stir fry and strange but true two plates appeared soon after...hmmm!

Who cares, it was good and filling! With a full stomach I started to relax and look around only to be miffed by the sight of a sign at the side of the cafe mentioning Internet and Wife.....

Not quite sure what this was about my endless analytical mind concocted within a second the idea of an internet dating service and I was immediately enraged by the fact it was only meant for men and did not take into consideration the need of women and people with other sexual preferences. I almost got on my usual soap box only to realise that the word was spelt incorrectly and that it was actually Internet Wifi service. I immediately deflated realising I did not have a war to start but laughed uncontrollably at the result of an over active mind in front of a misspelt word.

Never trust a guide in Lombok

About a month ago Max and I went to Lombok for a week of relaxation and fun on the beach. As luck would have it Max caught the evil flu I was still nursing and was sniffling and coughing the whole week but we still managed to have a good time most of which spent reading, Max - Tony Blair's bio (booooring!!!!!!!) and Erica - Risk Management in the Finance sector - or the art of bending the rules, precipitate the world into chaos and still look innocent - (as I see it).
One day we shook ourselves out of our illness induced torpor and set out to explore the countryside along with a very friendly guide by the name of Amin recommended by the hotel. He was very eager to take us around and show us the beautiful sights and sounds.....(and smells) of Lombok so we hopped into his immaculate Mercedes and off we went. Lombok is a junior Bali, less chaotic and congested but it is getting there especially now that the new International Airport has just opened (one hour and a half away from where the resorts are, making one wonder who thought it out this way). I will not waste time talking about the disastrous experience at the airport that, by the way, caused a livid complaint letter to go out and.....resulted in an apology from the Ministry of Tourism.......I still have it guys!!!
Anyhow......emerald green rice fields, a 5 religion temple (the only one of its kind....thankfully) where everybody could get together and pray any god they liked, sacrifice goats, toss flowers and the likes, old women hand weaving silk sarongs and spices, rice and nuts drying out in the sun...these were the beauties our guide showed us. At one point after a very nice man offered us different varieties of peanuts to sample I asked Amin a simple yet...as it would later turn out....deadly question: "do you grow cashews and macadamia by any chance?".
"yes Madame, we grow, you like nuts? I show you market, yes?" Now how can you say no to such enthusiasm?! So off we went to the market walking amongst cascades of garlic, chillies, mounds of golden turmeric and bronze cumin. And then bouncing like an overgrown puppy Amin shows me a basket full of what looked like macadamia which, by the way, are my favorite. I ask for confirmation and the still bouncing human Tigger nods his head in ecstasy for making Madame happy. Eager beaver here buys half a kilo and starts munching away happily, ready to shoot any looters. In all fairness the nuts did not really taste like macadamia but they were still good and I thought it was down to variety just like the peanuts we had tried.
By this time it's past lunch time and we drive back to our hotel. Barely out of the car I notice a tight feeling in my tummy and feel noxious. I tell Max I need to sit and relax a moment (Lombok driving....not really smooth anyhow). After 5 minutes shooting pain goes through my stomach and I double up holding on to the chair wondering what is happening. I manage to move back to our room, get to bed, curl up like a baby and wail like one as well while my insides are ripping me apart. Half an hour of this and I start to feel slightly better though the pain has now moved to my lower abdomen. At this point I am worried and take my bag of macadamia to the chef just to make sure. " Madame, you buy candle nuts yes?". Ahem, actually I was told these are macadamia. "We call candle nuts, you call macadamia madame, happy?" Well actually no! So I crawl back to the room and scour the internet. Well, candle nuts ARE NOT macadamia, actually they are toxic and known for their laxative properties though definitive studies on humans have not been done.........what?! I barely finish reading this horrible news that I feel a sudden urge. Well I will not bore my readers with what happened for the following two hours but it was not pretty and by the end of the day I had lost at least two kilos, looked gaunt, crazy eyed and suicidal.
Moral of the story....never, ever trust an eager guide, however I can now say with all certainty that a definitive study on the laxative properties of candle nuts is now concluded. This is my contribution to science for which I am sure I deserve a Nobel for sheer stupidity.

Punggol or the art of photo editing

Last Sunday we jumped on our loyal scooter and whizzed through the HDBs of north-east Singapore to reach Punggol. Max had been going on for some time about visiting the area of Punggol due to having viewed some particularly handsome photos of it on Flickr. Photos taken at sunset or early morning by an enthusiastic photographer living in Sing showed a somewhat desolate but at the same time intriguing landscape of beaches peppered with round black boulders, wild flower meadows and swaying grasses and Max wanted to have a go as well. During WWII 1000 Chinese civilians were massacred on the beach by the Japanese in what was to be then remembered as "the Punggol Beach Massacre" (!) and according to local historians it was the oldest settlement in Sing famous for superb seafood and veggie and fruit market trading. So, braving the heat and armed with hats, mosquito repellent and a bottle of cold juice, we took the 15 minute ride to the beach of Punggol in search of wilderness and maybe a grilled sea bass.
In hindsight I should have seen the cranes, drilling machines and excavators as being the sign of something rather sinister but I firmly believed that at least an ounce of wild Sing still existed somewhere on this island and that the bricks-and-mortar-laying obsessed Singaporeans had forgotten this remote area. The newly constructed asphalt road leads to an almost finished elegant teak covered jetty. At both sides of the jetty two concrete paths snake along opposite sides of the beach curving gently to accommodate dainty flower beds all perfectly symmetrical and aligned to teak benches overlooking the stretch of sea that separates Sing from the handsome Malaysian shore covered in petrol refineries with their desalters, storage tanks, waste tanks and above all the romantic fire from the flaring towers. Max mentioned what a good idea it was for this area to be spruced up and utilised for cycling and taking the children out for a stroll, I retorted that a good idea would have been to leave the area as it was originally, just clearing the dirt pathways from time to time and managing the forest. We clearly have different ideas on nature care! A couple of people had walked down to the beach in the vane attempt to catch a fish and we jumped off the pathway as well to stroll on the sand. Plastic bottles, abandoned shoes, polystyrene boxes and remains of the usual food and incense offerings adorn the shore and after only 3 minutes we had to end our customary counting competition of washed up right-foot vs left-foot shoes due to having reached very high numbers (a sad habit, I know, started many moons ago while travelling through the Arctic but we still feel a compelling need to do it). Overall the visit was a disappointment, what must have been a beautiful wild landscape until 6 months ago has today turned cold and uninteresting. Clearly now only clever photo editing and camera positioning are able to brush over the sterile landscape, conceal the plastic and bring out what is left of wild Punggol. Clearly Max did not shoot a single photo.

Zen and the art of believing scales

I love my friend Sue,
she is funny, warm and crazy just as much as I am. We have been friends from day one, both just arrived in Sing and stuck at the lovely but slightly jail like Tree Tops apartments for about 3 months.
Having both been through thick and thin during this particularly difficult year I am always happy when we can meet for a light lunch and a heavier talk so when she called me last week to go to Weelock place and the recently refurbished Sun and Moon Japanese restaurant I could not say no.
After our customary slamming of Singapore (you need to vent out your frustrations once in a while) we started talking about health and fitness since I had been nursing and still am, 2 weeks later, a rather nasty cough and annoying cold.
The subject of weight and finding the strength to subject oneself to incredibly boring gym practices all in the name of slim thighs and flat tummies soon followed and this was when she introduced the subject of scales that can measure not only your weight but your water content, your fat mass, in short your fitness and health and therefore your resulting "age".
I was a bit miffed by this contraption but she went on and on about it and how the shocking news revealed by the scale had been sufficient to shove her sorry bum back to the gym. Worried I asked what had happened and slightly abashed she told me that based on all the pointers above, her "age" had resulted as being 53 when she is well below 40. In panic she went back to running, lifting weights, sweating like crazy and little by little her "age" has been reducing reaching a comfortable 43.
Then she said "why not go to Takashimaya and try one out for yourself?". Taki (as I call it for short) is a very nice department store with everything from clothes to kitchenware to groceries so we meandered through the different areas until we found the scale. It took some time to set up as it wanted to know my age, my height and other bits and pieces. During all this time Sue kept insisting that I should not worry about the initial "age", that it was going to help me move in the right direction, that it would be a push to do more and feel good about myself. By this time I feel a bit panicky and start regretting saying yes to this experiment. I take my shoes off to allow for the scale to bombard my feet with some kind of radiation (hmmm!) that will read my fat mass and water mass and wait anxiously for the result. The display starts to blink, it reads my actual weight, my water percentage, my fat levels and the numbers do not really mean anything to me , all I am waiting for is the only number that counts. Sue is by my side ready to console me when the horrible truth is revealed and all of a sudden.....age 27. Well, what a relief, I am so far away from "age 27" by now that I do not even remember what being under 40 is all about let alone under 30. I am beaming and grinning side to side but I feel a disturbance in the force...Sue's eyes have reduced to little slits and I can feel rather than hear the swearing and evil words cutting like blades through my fit self, with a couple also being addressed towards the useless scale and the world as a whole. I smile, hug her and take her hand saying it is not that bad, that this technology is for the birds and should not be taken too seriously, all marketing fluff after all as usual....but inside I feel a little nugget of warm and happy feelings spreading across my 27 year old body.

Fishing trip with Pepe

I have always loved fishing. As a child my grandpa would take me down to the pier and "allow" me to skewer a unsuspecting worm bought at the local bait store or dug up from the garden on a hook tied at the end of a 3 meter line. A red and white round floater and a bamboo stick would complete my sophisticated fishing gear but at the time I was on cloud nine and had the best fishing tackle in the world. Perch and bass would be our catches, about 15cm long and these would be tossed in flour, fried by my grandma, served with coleslaw and cottage cheese and I was happy..... those were the days!
So it's with great unease that I agree to go out on a fishing trip and mount what I think is little more than a empty plastic jello cup with an engine and no toilet (sorry but for us fishing girls out there it's a big deal being sadly unequipped for communing intimately with nature). As usual I am the only girl and with Max and his dad and a 4 strong crew I feel like ...a fish out of water ha ha, well actually I feel awkward. So hungry, thirsty (no toilet= no drinking) and miserable (at 4:30 am I dare you to be happy ) we leave the safety of the Bali shores and head out into the Ocean. Pepe, our French Captain from Marseille, shows us the equipment and I start feeling a bit panicky. The gigs (it took me a while but then I understood that the 25cm lead sticks with eyes painted on them were actually lures....) are heavier and bigger than the fish I ever caught and the belts look alarmingly like chastity belts from medieval times and I feel the sweat starting to drip down my arms and a little voice whispering - can we go home now? - .
Too late, the shores are long gone and this is when I remember the name of the Balinese god of the Ocean whose name my loyal Putu had written down on a scrap of paper so that I would not forget it. Symbaya Baruna, Symbaya Baruna, this is the mantra that will accompany me for the following 6 hours when I think I will probably die at sea from sea sickness or from being pulled into the watery depths by a sea monster...and all I wanted was a bass for the barbie!!!!
The stars are still out at this time of day but we can see the sun rise on the horizon and black, pregnant clouds ready to burst. No wind and it's quiet but out of the bay the swell starts to mount and long, slow waves pick us up and slam us down with sickening regularity. I start to feel green and my stomach heaves, Max does not look much better, staring lifelessly at the horizon. His dad looks even worse and he will suffer for the whole trip. We stop after what seems like an eternity and the captain teaches us how to use his equipment. We will use reinforced fibre glass rods, thick lines that can take up to a 300Kg pull, shiny, steel reels, the pretty squid-like gigs and hooks big enough to hang a half beef carcass on.
The line must drop 80m and touch the bottom before being pulled up little by little with jerky movements upwards in order to fool a passing tuna or mahi-mahi to think he is looking at a fish in distress. How a lead, colored stick could fool a fish....fools me but this seems the way to go. Pulling a heavy line from the bottom of the sea takes it out on you and my arm starts to hurt after only 10 minutes so Max and I decide to alternate our efforts and take turns holding the diabolic contraption. Luck would have it that during my watch a violent tug pulls me out of my sea sickness induced reverie and I realize in an instant I caught something big. I shout for help and in a second Max and the Captain are around me, the crew disappearing in view probably of the colorful expletives soaring from my mouth. Before I know what is happening I feel Pepe playing around with my midsection while glancing nervously at my husband. The chastity belt is hooked on to me and the fight starts to pull my sea monster 80m up. The fish tugs and relents and this is when one must wind up the line, then he tugs again and relents for a second and a second is all you have to bring him closer, to tire him, but your arms scream in pain, your heart pounds and I moan and swear both in English and in French in honor of our Captain. All that is around you vanishes and while I had initially told Max I would pass him the line if I felt I had caught something, in that moment I don't, it's mine to catch, it's my fight and after the longest 5 minutes ever a 4Kg tuna appears on the surface. With one last effort I pull him up to the side of the boat and Pepe lowers a net and it is in. Pictures are taken and congratulations are in order but I sit in a corner of the boat empty and lifeless, my arms shaking with the effort, and adrenaline pumping wondering how I managed to do this. The fishing trip is finished for me, I did what I set out to do but have no strength left to do it again so all that is left to do now is to bring it home and make lovely sashimi for the family.