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.

Fish market in Jimbaran

While in Bali I asked our guide and factotum Putu to take us to the local fish market. I was only too aware of how much both Max and his dad would have appreciated visiting the local market and taking home some prized specimen to whack on the BBQ. He looked at me quizzically and asked me if I was sure. "Well naturally I am sure, why wouldn't I be?". He replied that in all his years of serving visitors staying at the villa nobody had ever asked to go to the fish market preferring the glitzy shopping centers of Kuta and Seminyak . "Sorry to disappoint you but nothing could be less interesting to me than wandering through endless tourists traps buying useless trinkets" said I and once again I was left wondering if I am normal though after all this time I should know the sad truth.
So early on Sunday morning we hopped in our car and sauntered off to the small village of Jimbaran located at the end of a lovely bay and garnished by rows and rows of small fish (really, no way?!) restaurants hanging off the fish market.
Fondly remembering my beloved Billinsgate in London I imagined a refrigerated building with rows of white tiled displays and fish mongers in white overcoats.
Well, I did not really get that but I got so much more.
Colored little boats filled the bay and when one would move close to the shore the men would run to it and spend the following 10 minutes transporting wicker basket heaving with fish to the stalls. The stalls were either overturned wooden fruit crates where the fish would lie in a neat row on a plastic sheet on the beach or, if you were really big in the fish world, concrete tables in a dark, dingy, hot, low ceiling-ed (as Max pointed out on more than one occasion after banging his head a couple of times) corrugated-iron sheet covered structure where the fish mongers would sit with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths waiting for punters and small babies would laughingly play with slimy water made bloody red by fish heads and severed tails.
Rows and rows of tuna, mahi-mahi, barracuda, snappers, groupers, prawns, crabs and lobsters adorned the tables and we could not wait to lay our hands on such a bounty. In the end we left with 4 lobsters, 2 snappers, 2 Kg of giant cockles and a small tuna for sashimi feeling very satisfied with ourselves and eager to get our treasure as close to a BBQ as we could. Putu, always close by, took the fish to the car and we wandered amongst the boats and stalls, admiring the nets heavy with silvery sardines and rushing over to see what the next boat was bringing in.
A walk on the beach and then back to the villa ready for a mouthwatering feast.

Bali adventure!

This time Max and I have decided to tempt fate and have invited our parents to Bali for 2 week, I mean 2 weeks!! No worries, we are still alive and we have not succumbed to parentcide instincts so no harm done there.
I found Bali beautiful as one would imagine and as all the guides describe it. The land of smiles, the land of the gods.
But I doubt I will go back and it will not be one of the first places I will think of when reminiscing about past holidays in fact quite the opposite, I think I will forget about it quite soon and not because something bad happened but because nothing remarkable did.
The best Bali had to offer was probably the fact that as a family we had a terrific time together and enjoyed every minute -bar the sweet Bali belly moments-. To be together this way in a villa that was as homey as it was stunning and have the possibility of swimming in a cool pool looking at the heaving waves crashing on the shore, go to the fish market and grill our own lobsters, visit beautifully decadent temples and bask in the glory of lush jungles and impossibly tall bamboo trees and to do it as a family was just too good.
But in the end the thing I remember most of the island is the traffic, the interminable queues of millions of scooters weaving in and out in front of cars and trucks, the danger of crumbling sidewalks, the war torn look of half built buildings and the smell of millions of food and flower offerings left to rot after they had fulfilled their godly mission.
I had just finished reading Eat, Pray, Love by E. Gilbert before I left for Bali and I was disappointed by the book and mostly by the author who gave me the idea of being away with the fairies and had failed to come back to earth rather than being a person in search of herself after going through a painful divorce. Her depiction of Bali is romantic and seen through rose tinted glasses and if I could just strip down the island to its ideal bare bone I might see it this way as well. But fat reality is never too far away and I cannot endorse spending countless hours preparing dainty little offerings, throwing flowers and pouring water on everybody's head in a cleaning and purification frenzy when rubbish and waste collects at the sides of the roads.
Still one moment stays in my memory and brings a smile to my face. While driving to Mengwi and the temple of Taman Ayun we started talking about reincarnation and what a sweet idea it is. We asked each other what we wanted to be in our next life and while my father-in-law and hubby both opted for becoming a fish -to give something back they say, having depleted the ocean's pantry says I- and the rest of the family choosing other more or less opportune creatures I asked our driver-cum-guide-cum-butler Putu what he wanted to be. He smiled and said "me again because I am happy to be me". How refreshing, somebody who is actually content with who they are and does not ask to be rich, famous, successful, a bird, a lion or a fish fry. I guess this is the best thing I am going to take home from Bali, the sweet memory of a look of pure contentment on a good man's face.

Winter in Singapore

What a relief to get back from a 2 week stint in Bali and find that winter has finally arrived in Sing!
Gone are the hot, steamy days when even breathing seems too much of a hassle and feeling like a jellyfish washed up on a rock, slowly melting away in the sweltering heat is the best description I can give of how I have felt in the past 6 months.
All the shops have geared up for this and put on display their best winter frocks ready for the first snow flurries and walks in the forest in search of chestnuts to roast on an open fire.
Zara was the first with its knee high boots and long, warm knitted coats but Armani was soon to follow with fur trimmed jackets and thick sweaters and one after the other all the designers shops have stepped up and mittens and woolen scarves now adorn the glossy display windows. What a treat!
There is only one small detail that seems to have been missed by this shopping Mecca, a minor thing, maybe really barely noticeable and I should probably not make such a fuss about it.
Still it niggles in the back of my mind and I cannot get rid of it.
The point is that while in one hemisphere or the other there is always a winter , often with snow and sometimes cold, slimy sleet there is no such thing here, a blink away from the equator where seasons do not change in a significant way.
Yes, I admit losing 2 degrees in the past week has been bliss moving my melting jellyfish status to that of a soon to be chilly crab minutes away from the pot but the grim reality is that it is still a hot place to live in, no matter how many mentally challenged teenagers walk the streets in Uggs and leather jackets giving off that slight corn chip aroma so typical of sweaty feet. Older shopaholic steer clear of winter wear but I can see a slight look of panic in their eyes and the horrible realization that summer clothes are miles away. Fingers clutch and release Visa cards almost maniacally and I suppose shrinks have their work cut out in this period as many ladies - and gentlemen as well- feel the crippling sense of loss from lack of swiping . Winter tis' the season to be jolly? Doubt it or at least not here, a stone throw away from the equator.
Maybe then there is a reason why expats rush home at Xmas as soon as the international schools close up and it is not to see their families or friends, to carve fat geese and plump turkeys and slump heaving on the sofa saying, as they do every year, "I ate too much". I do not want to start a rush of family recriminations but I just wonder if the siren call of unused Platinum cards has something to do with it

Tree houses in Borneo

My sister and niece have recently been to Sing to visit and during this time we took a couple of days off to holiday in Borneo.
We stayed at a rather basic but interesting resort called Permai Rainforest Resort near Kuching chosen by yours truly because they had tree houses and the thought of sleeping among the tall trees was just too good to miss. So was the noise of the birds and crickets who also live high up in the canopy and have to let everybody know what they are doing at any given time. Clearly I had not taken into account the endless chirping, buzzing, hissing and whatever else these little critters do so the result was a string of sleepless nights made almost delirious by the itching caused by sand flies, nasty little creatures, almost invisible that feasted on my sister and I and totally ignored my niece and husband. Now I am looking at websites to see how their bites can be prevented but it seems that covering up and avoiding going out at night are the only things one can do. I would imagine that having conquered the technology that allows us to go to the Moon a ridiculous bug bite would not be too much of a problem but, as usual , I am wrong.
The tree houses are built on stilts, 15 m above ground and one must climb 3 flights of stairs to get to the top which is a bit tricky when pulling luggage behind you and even more of a nuisance when you realize you have hauled the baggage up the wrong tree house one being a double room and the other a twin room on account of my nocturnal wiggle worm niece. So after spending a good 15 minutes exchanging luggage under the bemused watch of the locals we headed off to the Rainforest cafe for a good dose of pineapple rice served in half a pineapple and a snack of dry salted small fish and peanuts. After lunch a rest was in order. The tree houses have one bedroom, a small table with a fridge and coffee making facilities and a bathroom. The best part was the balcony overlooking the sea, half hidden by leaves and branches. One afternoon a group of silver leaf monkey camped right outside our window and we spent a good half hour taking pictures and enjoying their antics. One of them had a baby that is bright orange in color when born and gradually turns gray after 4 months. In the morning we would wake up and just spend some time looking out of the French doors towards the sea, bliss!
We only had one doubt regarding the tree houses. They wobbled a bit causing a bit of sea sickness and this was especially bad when one person was in the shower or brushing their teeth. The mere action of moving left to right and back with a toothbrush would cause the whole tree house to shake and while this was not felt by the shaker, the "shakee" would cling to the bed trying to avoid falling on the floor. Geckos were always present, guarding the house like miniature police dogs and pouncing avidly on mosquitoes and the like.
Food wise the resort always seemed to had "pinished item" causing us to have at least 4 alternative options from a rather limited menu when ordering food but when we did get it it was good and plentiful if at times wrong due to the fact the chef spent his time singing while listening to his music instead of listening to the order. Still I would definitively recommend this resort if simple and cheerful are your thing.