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.

The thing about Fish Spas

I am back after taking care of our first visitor (you know who you are!) and ready to write about our adventures. We took some time off and went to Malaysia for a week on the beautiful island of Langkawi were we spent a couple of nights in a swanky hotel on the east coast and then moved to a delightful boutique hotel on the west coast. Langkawi is really a gem with lush vegetation, soaring mountains and lovely beaches. If I had to be picky I just might say that the water was not really inviting as it was really murky but for all I know it could have been the season or just the area we were visiting. In any case a dip in the Ocean was always welcomed. During our stay we took a couple of tours and walks and I will tell you about some.
On our last day we walked along the beach looking at tourists scrambling atop banana boats and being whipped about. Why anyone would want to be subject to a 10 minute hard bounce in the water on top of a yellow long sausage like float beats me but then we all do silly things on holiday which is why it is a holiday in the first place and why it is so much fun!
Anyhow the day was a gray one and it drizzled on and off the whole morning so after a while we got tired of watching silly tourists and headed towards the village center lined with cheap sarong shops, massage parlors and restaurants. Max then spotted a Fish Spa.
Since I have arrived in Sing I have seen Fish Spas dotted here and there but I have been too chicken to try them out. I asked Steph to try them with me but she told me I was a banana and what was I afraid of so clearly I was not going to get any support there.
So when Max said we should go in the shop I giggled nervously and looked around me with wild eyes for means of escape but naturally mom immediately jumped up and down with glee and boldly entered the tiny shop so my hands (or rather feet) were tied.
In the shop there were 5 small tanks and above them some soft seating. The Spa owner made us take off our shoes and wash our feet , sit on the benches and then one after the other lower our calves in the tanks. Immediately our feet were attacked by hundreds of tiny black tadpole like fish that started nibbling at our dry skin and in theory removing all parasites (?) and rotten (?) skin, promoting our immune system (?) and longer life (???). This is at least what was written on the Spa brochure that I was reading with intense concentration to avoid thinking about those little hungry piranha-like mouths tickling my feet. I was finding it hard not to kick all these little vampires out of the tanks and had to concentrate hard because the truth is that I cannot stand having my feet touched, in the same was as I cannot stand the idea of a massage by a stranger, (clearly if said stranger were Hugh Jackman well then it would be a TOTALLY different story). I only had one spa treatment in my life and I hated every second of it wanting to escape the candle lit, harp music filled chamber but not being able to in view of a) being naked, b) being covered in black, smelly goo -supposedly algae of some sort- and c)being wrapped in film like a horrible turkey....never again I promised.
Now the fish thing was not that bad and though it felt more like hours after only 5 minutes the torture was over. My feet were still there and I suppose all the parasites have been gobbled up so all in all it was an adventure.

The importance of good store layout and math!

Dear readers,
following the sad news we received last week I have been off line as I did not have the strength to find humour and light in my days. However I would not be doing justice to and honouring a beautiful, brave and generous girl we were fortunate to know but now lost by feeling sad and empty so I decided to come back today.

Last Saturday Max and I decided to go looking for plants to decorate our flat and the closest garden centre I could find was about 10 minutes away by bus. So, full of expectations, we hopped on n.15 bus towards Marine Parade, the avenue closest to the beach where most expats live and where the big, swanky condos are. The beach however is not really usable due to the presence of stinging fish and jellies and transport is a bit iffy if one does not have a car which is why Max and I have found our flat in a different part of town. The garden centre is just at the end of the street and we were greeted by luscious palms and massive orchids, cheap as chips but I was a bit disappointed by the lack of variety. In reality in the UK you have a choice between garden plants and house plants and also conservatory plants so you can almost cover any possibility but here there is one choice, tropical semi shade or tropical full sun which really reduces the offer. We only wanted to get an idea of what was available so after 20 minutes we thanked the owner and walked to Parkway Parade, a nice shopping mall just perfect at 12pm with 35 degrees and 90% humidity out in the open.
Max wanted to check out a DVD reader and a table fan before lunch so we crawled upstairs to the 3rd floor to visit Best Denki, a rather big appliances store. We aimed for the electric fan section and walked right in front of a cooking demonstration. The chef was promoting a new teflon covered pan and gently frying sliced garlic. Clearly the consequences of such operation had not been assessed properly and as the cooking area was right in front of the fans area, which, to our delight were ALL working, within seconds we were cloaked in burnt garlic fumes. Teary eyed and a bit intoxicated we left in a hurry and came to rest in front of a big supermarket on the same floor. For reasons unknown to god and men said supermarket carries durian fruit so we actually went from bad to worse in a matter of seconds. We ran to the escalators and finally found some respite within the arms of a Dim Sum restaurant where we managed to get into even more trouble.
To all math detractors, please remember than numbers are important and actually essential to life. Numbers are unique and universally recognised, a language in its own right. Numbers are there to count items and also to identify them like barcodes do or the numbers that appear on multi language menus in a Dim Sum restaurant close to the name of the dish.
Having scrolled down the whole menu in seconds I dutifully wrote n. 14 on the slip of paper provided for such use. N. 14 identifies roast duck and those who know me also know what a sucker I am for duck. Max went back and forth through the menu changing his mind constantly until the waitress appeared and in a hurry jotted down n.16 = roasted char siew and Manchurian pork, a delicately roasted belly of pork with juicy crackling .
After our rice order a strange looking dish with grayish, tubular, diagonally sliced boiled grub appeared and we both looked at each other a bit miffed. It certainly did not look like roast duck or pork and we immediately started having a go at the photos on the menu and the way the real thing always looks a million times worse than the picture you use to choose your order. Then my roasted duck appeared and we agreed the abnormal dish was actually the pork Max had ordered. Vaguely piqued we decided to eat it anyhow as by now we were hungry but at the end of the meal I could not help but ask the waitress if she really thought the dish she had served was roasted pork. She looked at me strangely and said that in fact it was boiled pig intestines. Fuming I sternly told her we did not order pig intestines but roasted pork n.16 on the menu. She then produced the order slip and funnily enough the number written by my deranged hubby was 15 equal to ...pig intestines. In his hurry he had gotten it wrong and confused the whole thing. So once again, to all those who despise math please be aware of how numbers can deeply affect your life and foodie happiness.

The Durian experience

Well, as promised some time ago, now that I have my own home I decided to try a Durian fruit. Luckily for me (not!) there is a little stall that sells the offensively smelling fruit just round the corner so Max and I decided to buy a small packet of freshly peeled fruit from the vendor who was trying to sells us 5 packs for the price of 3....wonder why!
The knobbly and spiky fruit is cracked open to reveal creamy coloured segments, like those of an orange about 15cm long. The segments are covered in a very thin membrane. I thought the smell would vanish once the fruit was peeled but when we entered the lift the smell managed to saturate the air within seconds and we had to hold our breath until the 5th floor.
We were feeling very guilty when we got out of the lift and hoped nobody would use it straight away.
I immediately took the packet to the maid's room (might as well use it for something if only to store Durians) and we went back to the lounge to decide our strategy.
Not much of one as Max was still reeling from his tummy ache (see previous entry) so he decided I would try it and let him know what it was like.
I took the wrap off and prodded one segment with a knife. The texture was like soft butter or cream cheese and cannot really be cut off as it become mush when sliced. So I took a little piece with my fingers opened my mouth and.....ate.
Well, the smell of vomit and sewage is not representative of the flavour so this is an improvement however the texture is a cross between cream cheese and curdled milk and it sticks to one's mouth in a rather unpleasant way. There is a hint of sweetness and a sickly vanilla flavour, you know which one right? The artificial vanilla that just tries too hard to be like the real thing and it's just not good!
But apart from that it really is tasteless and nothing to shout about. The smell however lingers in the mouth and you must drink something strong to cleanse the palate.
Max clearly supported me during my culinary adventure by making faces and telling me I was smelling like rotten meat and inching a little further away on our sofa bed which is not that large to start with meaning he ended crouching on one end and giving me dirty looks.
Needless to say the rest of the packet was duly disposed of down the rubbish chute.
And.....I am inclined to say that my Durian days are over.