tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25001197123680874812024-03-13T16:01:06.118-07:00Ex-pat Wife or Have you eaten yet?Have you eaten yet is apparently what people say to greet each other in Singapore. The ex-pat wife bit is an unoriginal joke. Join me in my voyage into the well trodden expat path! Join my mother in being one of the very few people to read this!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-31701940584908831072015-07-07T02:40:00.003-07:002015-07-07T02:40:56.822-07:00Black Fingers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have an unhappy history as a gardener. A history which leaves behind blackened, withered plants, shriveled from lack of care. My father once gave me an orchid as a birthday present. I tried to keep it alive, but erratic watering and my evil charm with plants did not do well for it. A few months later it was very poorly. When my parents came round for dinner I asked my father whether he could take it home and revive it (as he had in the past with an almost-dead African violet.) 'It's dead' he announced dryly.<br />
<br />
My parents, my father in particular, are excellent gardeners. He is often found wandering in their garden around breakfast time in his '#1' yukata, teapot in hand, lovingly checking on each plant as though they were sleeping babies. It seems they thrive for him from love and attention as much as water and bone meal.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile my green genocide continues. I bought plants for our roof terrace. Hardy plants. Difficult to kill. Chosen expressly for their resilience - bamboo and leafy palms. Several months in they were still alive. So far, I thought, so good. Though withered at the edges, still alive. Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
Recently, guilt, and Sunday, sent me up to water my neglected charges and I noticed that the sprouts of green from one pot of bamboo were coming from the thick bamboo poles the bamboo plant had been tied to to keep it upright. Up and down the pole sprouts of green were escaping, bursting out. The dead bamboo pole had come back to life. The original bamboo plant, unfortunately, was dead.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-10017780858134042192014-05-26T20:15:00.002-07:002014-05-26T20:15:26.269-07:00Cleaners<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We have a new cleaner on my floor at work. I'm worried that his predecessor might have died. There is no welfare state in Singapore so old people do the jobs that no one else wants to: clearing the tables at hawker centre and cleaning our offices.<br />
<br />
Well, I say cleaning. The cleaners don't do very much actual cleaning. They empty the bins, occasionally hoover and mop parts of the floor, never the whole thing but patches. This is considerably less cleaning than was done my last company and says a lot about this place, an organization where to send a letter you need to fill out a form and get the HOD (Head of Department) to sign it. Not for something to be couriered mark you, I'm talking about the price of a stamp. Crazy. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, I have bought a squirter of Cif, sponge scourers and ant traps for my desk. The last cleaner was so withered and wasted that he looked as though he might snap when he bent over to empty the wastepaper baskets into his binliner. It was clearly painful for him. His gratitude when I emptied mine into his binliner for him was embarrassing. His replacement is mildly disabled but far more sprightly though still well over the age of 70. When I try and empty my bin into the liner for him he won't let me, so I'm reduced to nodding and smiling, my most reliably fallback until the Mandarin lessons kick in.<br />
<br />
This will take some time. My teacher (laoshi) is also an extremely old, shrivelled man. Last lesson someone asked him what would happen at the end of the course. Could we move onto Conversational Mandarin Beginners Level 2? He looked extremely surprised and said no one had ever asked him that before. Usually, he said, he just goes back and repeats Conversational Mandarin Beginners Level 1 over and over. No one ever wants to continue. This isn't very shocking. He's a rubbish teacher and the class is extremely dull.<br />
<br />
You know that stage babies get to when they chatter conversationally without any actual words but it almost sounds as though the chatter means something because they've got the cadences and rhythms right? Well I'm a really long way from getting that advanced with my Mandarin. I need to find a better teacher. I need to learn fast. Half my students are Chinese I need to understand as a matter of urgency. The comments that float. You can understand why.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-59895202917922040582014-03-18T04:00:00.001-07:002021-05-30T17:42:34.239-07:00Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The rain has finally come. Singapore, parched since January, is drenched.<br />
<br />
In England, home, people live and die by the weather. It levels us all. It's more democratic than our democracy. The British are governed more by the rain, the cold and their resulting effects on the garden, than anything the Government do. In the end. This is why, unlike the rest of Europe, we've never risen up in revolution against our ridiculous monarchy.<br />
<br />
In Singapore the niceties are framed around food, have you eaten yet, have you tried this place or that? Unsurprising when the weather flattens into hot or wet over months. We've had the haze again too. The smoke from Indonesian fires burning in the back of Singaporean throats. The horizon blurred. Reality is softened. A taste of burning in the air. People complain. I rather like it. Shhhh.<br />
<br />
Work is busy. Often stressful. Often wonderful. It's an old truism, but teaching is a privilege and I am falling in love with my students. Less so the accompanying paperwork. There's a lot to fix. It leaves less time for everything else. Less headspace. I haven't been here since December. My writing in general is suffering. My hard won habit of writing every day has disintegrated. The battle with my head is hard for me.<br />
<br />
But so many aspects of life now are good, very good. So much better than they have been for years. I love this job, warts and all. I want to stay in it and change things. Make a difference. Don't we all?<br />
<br />
It's amazing how a job can change your whole perspective on a place. My view of Singapore has altered. I feel at home here. I like everything about it more. The people, the weather, the possibilities.
<br />
I have booked to come home again in the summer and am looking forwards to it, but not with the desperation I've had in the past. I need to find better ways to manage my stress levels and make sure I write. To keep balancing priorities. But on the whole, life is good.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-11144409774183822472013-12-13T02:42:00.002-08:002013-12-18T08:46:42.289-08:00Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If Eastbourne is the
place old people go to die, Wimbledon is the place middle class
people go to breed. Like my parents. And my friend S*** (two
children) who I met earlier this week.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Unfortunately because
of the booming baby population she has to move to Epsom because they
can't get their kids into either of the schools just around the corner,
both C of E church schools, because they aren't religious. I think
that's dreadful. Apparently church schools are now all powerful
and demand that people attend church and do volunteering if their
children are to get in. I suppose the going to church bit is fair
enough, except that they get 50% state funding and there's no school
place for my mate's child.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I am amazed how I am
back and immediately step into the old ways. I potter around,
visiting the same people, shopping in the same shops. Of course there
are changes. Wimbledon seems to be getting posher each time I come
back, as though the village is seeping down the hill.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I go to the theatre and
in the daytimes I meet up with friends. I am able to do this because
they (almost) all have small children. (The DFP can't come because of work,
but this is not a schedule that the DFP would enjoy so it's just as
well I'm travelling solo.)</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Sunday I went to the
soft play centre in Raynes Park (the horror) with A***** (two
children) who thought she had escaped from Wimbledon but has been
sucked back in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Tuesday I went round
to S***'s (two children) house and we talked non stop for four hours.
Soon I will meet up with P*** (five children), J**** (two children –
twins) and hopefully with G***** (two children). I probably won't be
able to make it down to Warwickshire to see M*** (one child) but I am
going up to see my brother in Scotland (three children) and my old
friends H**** (three children) and M***** (three children) will come
and meet me there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A few years ago they
would all have been at work during the day, so this does well for my
holiday plans. Though some are starting to go back to work, which
won't work well for my holidays at all. The arty types (largely no
children, yet) I have to see in the evenings because they are busy
working during the days.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've had a wonderful
run of theatre. I can recommend 'The Curious Incident of the dog in
the Night-time', 'Jumpers for Goalposts' and 'The Elephantom' and, if
you haven't seen a Punchdrunk show before and are feeling flush, 'The
Drowned Man' is worth a visit.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I find it very
emotional being back. Seeing people I love and miss, hearing the big
things which don't travel well, and small things which don't either.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I realise I miss the
quality of the light. The variations you don't get in Singapore. Life
here altogether seems more piquant, in good ways and bad. Walking home
from the theatre on Tuesday night I looked down onto Villiars street
from the walkway onto the Hungerford footbridge. Police cars lined
the street and a man with a bloodied nose was being held in a doorway
by two police, garbling about not wanting to fight anyone. When I
reached Waterloo it was swaying with festive drunkards.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now I'm on the train to
Scotland with the countryside tumbling beautifully past the window
and plenty of layers packed. It's hard to put into words what these
trips mean for me. Suffice to say they are too infrequent and very
important for my well-being.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The new job, which I am
a couple of months into and loving, means I will be in Singapore for
at least another couple of years. But the years slip by quickly in seasonless Singapore. In the meantime I must make sure that I come back often.</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-35265534645346936342013-09-17T06:41:00.001-07:002013-09-17T06:42:27.611-07:00Counting down...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The other day I asked the DFP whether he wanted a cup of tea and because he was doing something on the computer, he didn't answer. Without thinking about it I started counting down from 5. (Surefire way to hurry along a 3-5 year old.) Fortunately he didn't notice. I have definitely been teaching small children too long.<br />
<br />
I am currently negotiating the terms for a new job. This is a lovely, lovely job. Almost a dream job. A real game changer for me. But what it also means is that I will be here in Singapore for, at the very least, another two years. And that is quite a thing. It gives me a funny feeling in my stomach when I think about that.<br />
<br />
Another dear friend got married this weekend, and I wasn't there. She put the video on facebook and I wept a little weep to be so far away from my dear ones. It doesn't get easier being so far away. But then I look at this amazing job, which I would never, ever have got in the UK and think, this really is the land of opportunity.<br />
<br />
I am sitting on the roof terrace writing this. In half an hour I will be directing another dear, but far flung friend who is preparing a one woman turn for a variety night. She is in America. I am in Singapore. We are so far away but in our isolated-farawayness we are connecting and reconnecting more often than we did when I was surrounded by friends in the UK. There is something wonderful about that.<br />
<br />
When I say alone, of course, that's not true. I do have lovely people around me who are becoming firmer friends. But friendship takes time and here I have been out of my creative circle. I miss those people particularly. I hope this job will change that.<br />
<br />
I am counting down the days until I start. Fingers crossed.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-15005185895506852442013-08-23T23:29:00.000-07:002013-09-29T19:26:26.634-07:00Butchering a chicken<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One thing I think I will never get used to is having to cut the head and feet off a chicken. In Singapore chicken's feet are a delicacy so the standard shopper would be most put out to find the best bit missing on buying a whole bird.<br />
<br />
The chicken you want is, of course, a kampong chicken. Kampong is Malay for village. To buy the closest possible thing to free range, you go for Kampong ayam (chicken). Both at the wet market and in the supermarket chickens come with head and feet attached. They tuck the feet into the the chicken's bottom so before attacking you have to pull them out.<br />
<br />
I am not averse to making a stock using the head and feet but I really dislike the way the feet curl around your hand as you chop them off, the way you have to hack a few times to get through the leg bone, the sickening thud as you chop through the neck. My days of vegetarianism are long behind me. Making casserole has become a whole new experience.<br />
<br />
I have, unsurprisingly, been on holiday since I last wrote. Hari Raya, the end of Ramadan, was the day before National Day giving us Thursday, Friday and Saturday off. We went to a resort called Rimba on a small Malaysian island called Sibu. It was heavenly. There was very little to do except eat, drink, read and snorkel and then do them all again. With all the decisions taken away from us there was nothing to squabble about at all.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a great picture, but this is a baby wild boar. Fortunately the DFP wasn't fast enough to catch and eat it.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-69845431856121694322013-07-06T21:58:00.001-07:002013-07-07T20:08:19.579-07:00Sunday morning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
While I often complain vociferously about working on a Sunday there are some things I like about it.<br />
<br />
I like being slightly out of step with the rest of the working world. I like having a day off during the working week. I like that when I cycle into work on a Sunday morning the roads are quiet. I like the things I see.<br />
<br />
I get up and, still half asleep, before I've even had my coffee, get on my bike to cycle into work. This is what I saw this morning on my way.<br />
<br />
As I cycled up grimy Geylang road I saw the tail ends of last night. Sometimes I'll catch sight of a lady or notlady making a deal, people still drunk falling across the road. The numerous food stalls are already peopled.<br />
<br />
Sitting along a pavement, cheek by jowl, was a row of construction workers, Chinese and Indian, waiting to be collected by one of the open backed trucks and taken to one of Singapore's never ending building sites. I'm not the only one who has to work today.<br />
<br />
The next part of my route, past Kallang, through Lavender is motorway. I cross over the river and see people running alongside it, before the sun is fully up and the heat sets in. Marathons here start at night. I snake away from the motorway and come up into Bugis, past the golden onion domed mosque. During the week I'll sometimes catch sight of children on their way to the Madrasah the boys wearing small white caps, the girls in mini hijab and niqab.<br />
<br />
The further I cycle away from Geylang the cleaner and brighter Singapore gets. I pass the famous Batman building. I used to think that this was the oldest sky scraper in Singapore, an original 1930's office block. It isn't. It was built in the 80's or 90's, a vanity project owned by a rich Malaysian business man, but still impressive.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a 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" 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" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Batman building</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I leave Bugis and cycle past Raffles hotel, past Chimes, once a church now a complex of (what else in Singapore) restaurants. I turn up towards the lush greenery of Fort Canning park passing beautiful old colonial buildings currently being gutted, turning into yet another mall leaving, only their beautiful façades as a memory of the past.<br />
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Out of the tunnel I pass Dhoby Ghat, more malls, and Singapore is getting shinier and shinier with each push of the pedal. Up Somerset, the backside of Orchard, malls on either side of me. Past Grange Road and another breath of the past, a row of old Chinese shophouses, spruced into desirable residences. </div>
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<div>
Up Orchard Boulevard and a surprising slice of greenery tucked away from the malls and condominiums that make up orchard, a canopy of green.</div>
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And I'm there. I lock up my bike and go and find a coffee to wake me up while I write my diary and prepare for my day.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-42469684521162284062013-06-26T08:25:00.000-07:002013-09-29T19:36:32.332-07:00India again. Mumbai, Varanasi and Delhi.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Skyping with my Mum before we left for India she asked, hesitantly<br />
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'And how are you planning to get around? Will you be using public transport? Will you be going on.... ' (I could hear the intake of breath) 'buses?'<br />
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I assured her I would not.<br />
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She wasn't the only one. When I told people where I was going the most frequent reaction was 'be careful' rather than 'how exciting' as it was two years ago. I have to admit, I had a moment of hesitation at the thought of travelling around alone while the DFP was working. A hesitation I didn't even momentarily have the last time I visited. I wandered around completely at ease.<br />
<br />
Since the Delhi rape last year it seems as though another horrific rape story comes from India every few weeks. I can't help but think that this must be because they are being reported more and given greater exposure than that there is a greater instance. That alone has made me re-think how I behave as a female traveller in Asia.<br />
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I was much more careful in my packing. I made sure to take clothes which covered my chest and upper arms. I wore knee-length leggings underneath dresses. I wore a wedding ring. Nothing says, 'fuck off' like a wedding ring.<br />
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It may all sound a bit extreme but it's easy to forget how different the cultural norms are in Asia and how unthinkingly westerners can create a damning reputation for themselves, a reputation which for women can also be dangerous.<br />
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When I met the DFP at the airport and gave him a kiss he warned me that it isn't at all done in India. Even holding hands is not normal for a man and a woman. Of course it's completely fine for two men to wander around hand in hand, or one arm drapped around the other, but for a man and a woman to do that? No way.<br />
<br />
So I was careful and I was fine. We started our trip in Mumbai. The rains had come early this year and in force. Earlier and wetter than usual we were told.<br />
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My ancestors were part of the British colonial empire and one of them has a memorial in St Thomas' cathedral in Mumbai. Here it is.<br />
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Rather grand eh? His poor wife doesn't get much of a look in though, does she.<br />
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The cathedral itself is pure colonialism, recently re-ordered (that's refurbished in church talk to all you heretics) so the walls were bright with fresh, white paint. The overhead fans spinning smoothly. It felt airy and peaceful. A piano tuner who looked like he'd dropped straight from Fulham Broadway was tuning the piano as I wandered around. One of the glass globe light shades had fallen and was lying, almost perfect but with a crack in it's shell like a boiled egg by one of the pillars.<br />
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I sat at the back to soak up the atmosphere and check the guide book. (Always walk as though you know where you are going even if you don't, but ideally know where you are going.) As I was sitting there a piece of plaster fell from the perfectly smooth white ceiling directly above me and landed on my head. It was a very surreal.<br />
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But this is what happens because India is rife with corruption. The money gets spent bribing whoever is hiring leaving insufficient funds for the actual project. Newly laid roads wash away in the first monsoon rains. Famously the facilities for the recent commonwealth games were shoddy and unfinished and plaster falls from the ceiling of the newly re-ordered church.<br />
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From Mumbai we flew to Varansi (three days by train, two hours by plane). It's the Hindu equivalent of Mecca, to be visited at least once in a lifetime by a good Hindu. It huddles on the sides of the river Ganges, rows of higgledy piggledy temples or ghats.<br />
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A couple of the ghats are burning ghats. People bring the bodies of their relatives to be burned, purifying them. A man, who assured us with a laugh that he wasn't a guide, (and then asked us for money for the 'up keep of the temple') explained that there are a few types of bodies which don't need purification by burning as they are already considered pure. These are tied to a stone and thrown in the Ganges. The already pure are those under ten, the pregnant, priests and those who have died from leprosy or smallpox. It's also very holy and purifying to swim in the Ganges. Just hold your breath and hope no one has died of leprosy recently.<br />
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The guidebook recommended a fort a long rickshaw ride away from where we were staying. On the approach the jumbled streets were lined with buildings which, once upon a time, would have been lofty and beautiful. Now they were crumbling into the hub bub.<br />
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The fort itself was rather a let down. Or as the DFP succinctly put it, 'why did you bring me here?' Why indeed? The 'museum' was a random collection of stuff the British couldn't fit in their hand luggage before they left which hadn't been dusted since then either. I particularly enjoyed the labelling. A sword was labelled 'a very big sword'. Thanks for that. Again it had the eerie, dusty ex-splendour of a building slowly rotting into dust.<br />
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It was quite busy with Indian tourists. I didn't see that many Western tourists wherever we were. The monsoon had washed them away. Perhaps that's what made the DFP and I seem exotic.<br />
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We were sitting on a wall at the fort consulting the unreliable guide book when a large group of Indians came up. They asked us where we were from, shook the DFP's hand and namasted me (note, there is no physical contact assumed with a woman you don't know). There was lots of smiling from both groups. Then they asked if they could take our photo. We were surprised but agreed. They got us to shuffle up so there was a space between us, sat their elderly mother down in the space, took a photo and thanked us profusely. More smiling and namasteing. But that wasn't the end. Another person sat down between us and a photo was taken. And another. And another. And another.<br />
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By the time they had finished about eight different people had been photographed with us as though we were an unusually pliant and uncamera shy Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. In fact this must be like what it feels like to be super famous because that wasn't the end of the photo taking.<br />
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From Varansi we flew to Delhi where I took a day trip to the Taj Mahal, (which is just as good as it's cracked up to be). As I was wandering around I was approached again and again to have my photo taken. Quite a long way into the day I decided that I would take a photo of everyone who had their photo taken with me. It became a lovely exchange and I now have a lot of photos of random Indian people and here they are.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiSq82PN-XBpiK1a44v_MhCHBnjPaLz0-ycwTBvvzPr3A8u9uIOIc2KlNPDxgvM3fVigcLJeo5YUB1ssS444Mtw5Gt16p-RudN4736Tb2LPsuadyDj55eUcqnEUoxF-qtyr0QPSOC6jQ/s1600/IMG_0166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiSq82PN-XBpiK1a44v_MhCHBnjPaLz0-ycwTBvvzPr3A8u9uIOIc2KlNPDxgvM3fVigcLJeo5YUB1ssS444Mtw5Gt16p-RudN4736Tb2LPsuadyDj55eUcqnEUoxF-qtyr0QPSOC6jQ/s320/IMG_0166.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, they did get me to hold the baby.</td></tr>
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I'm not going to bang on about the Taj Mahal. It's fab. You should definitely go.<br />
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I also went to the mini Taj as it's nicknamed. Tomb to someone else. Smaller, less people. In fact lots of locals seemed to be just hanging out there, passing the time of day. A kind of incredibly old, amazingly beautiful behind the bike-shed for locals and their kids.<br />
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While I was trying to take photos of the amazing inlaid tiles three small girls kept sidling into my pictures. Initially I tried moving the camera so they weren't in shot. But they continued to move into frame. So I just gave up and took photos of them which made them squeal with delight when I showed them on the digital displayer and demand more, which I took, because I am a big softy. This started a mini avalanche of small and medium sized children demanding to be photographed and delighting in the results.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZypz2u1-Q8bG98UU036fBaJzGwJuw21AgF-1HHnF4f96wyRQB8yyJIiJQICwyFWPozOmYL8rYtvgQLpFo_pV410rE8t_xtmPnUshOom5hyowm3RpsMQmRSR7d2MAbZRjTgVKGkTgpQ1w/s1600/IMG_0154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZypz2u1-Q8bG98UU036fBaJzGwJuw21AgF-1HHnF4f96wyRQB8yyJIiJQICwyFWPozOmYL8rYtvgQLpFo_pV410rE8t_xtmPnUshOom5hyowm3RpsMQmRSR7d2MAbZRjTgVKGkTgpQ1w/s320/IMG_0154.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo-bombing.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5XrpTZOfzSh7maLK_Cl-v54pk0eHTYwgkZuRNGbIT1mwfvOpGWL-4rbQuUgUSIqTa4ebn8lGmzBESlsozEhE0ZEU75bcKbn3Bw5qjvjO6Tyul2LNRDSfpLhd_H3RF8_dsoljiJ3BFuk/s1600/IMG_0157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5XrpTZOfzSh7maLK_Cl-v54pk0eHTYwgkZuRNGbIT1mwfvOpGWL-4rbQuUgUSIqTa4ebn8lGmzBESlsozEhE0ZEU75bcKbn3Bw5qjvjO6Tyul2LNRDSfpLhd_H3RF8_dsoljiJ3BFuk/s320/IMG_0157.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let your eyes adjust. If you look very, very careful amongst the brightly coloured tiles you might just be able to see a small child. Got her? Well done.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnixfXYpDvgx7XP5gqzohaquH_Td0NT9tkRhpNLgzI1bGYMzQLMO-QAjDbpbOqaVjDMtEBOSmvlK6O8YskBiw03NMgZdofZ4a0GIn_Oj3H8WSlZOO3hr3XqTGhW55ZZZ8YDo7ivYPb9Y/s1600/IMG_0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnixfXYpDvgx7XP5gqzohaquH_Td0NT9tkRhpNLgzI1bGYMzQLMO-QAjDbpbOqaVjDMtEBOSmvlK6O8YskBiw03NMgZdofZ4a0GIn_Oj3H8WSlZOO3hr3XqTGhW55ZZZ8YDo7ivYPb9Y/s320/IMG_0159.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balanced on a precarious ledge. Her sister thought it was hilarious that I was so nervous for her and wanted her to be taken down.</td></tr>
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A lot of the time in India an interaction which seems genuine, like the guy who assured us he wasn't a guide and then asked for money, ends up with someone asking you for money. They have endless time and very little money. The opposite of us. It's understandable, but sometimes feels a bit sad. What was so lovely about all the reciprocal photography around the Taj was that no one at any time asked for money. Just a photo and occasionally a little chat. (Where are you from? You're very beautiful. I like your watch.) While in some ways I don't mind the money, I understand the differences in our finances, but it dehumanises you. You are only a walking money bag. It's lovely that this time it wasn't the case.<br />
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I left early for the (five hour) drive to Agra where the Taj Mahal is. A couple of hours in I looked up blearily as we slowed to pass a truck, it's back open, a crowd of men opposite watching. I glimpsed a body, one side ripped open and bloody, blue grey organs bulging out, being lifted into it.<br />
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People often say 'life is cheap' in India. Perhaps it's true. You learn to harden your heart to beggars, the children who come and ask for money, because you know they probably won't get it and it exacerbates a problem. We were walking along the road behind a man and a little girl. When the man noticed us he gestured to the girl and then moved away from her. She came up to us and started making kissing noises and holding her hand out to us. If we had given her any money I am sure she wouldn't have got any of it.<br />
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But when you see little ones lying on the ground, half dressed, it's almost more than I can do not to go up and scoop them up and hug them and hug them. My heart tears open and I feel so angry and helpless that there's nothing I can do, not even give a little guilt money.<br />
<br />
Life is cheap? Perhaps.<br />
<br />
We were talking to someone who said her husband works a lot in India but doesn't like it. He had good reason. He had been in the back of a car when the driver hit a family on a scooter. The family were all killed. The driver ran. In India people are dragged from cars and beaten to death in instances like this. A crowd gathered, beating at the car. He and a colleague were in the back. They locked the doors and windows. They didn't know what to do. Luckily another colleague was in a car behind and was able to calm the situation. But their fears were not misplaced. So life is cheap, but valuable too.<br />
<br />
This is part of the conundrum of travelling in Asia. Do you shut your eyes? Harden your heart? Do you give money to ease your conscience but which may ultimately do more harm than good? I haven't found a good solution yet, but I feel more and more strongly than ever that I need to find one.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-73693704892966021162013-06-20T21:48:00.003-07:002013-06-21T02:18:43.561-07:00Smog in Singapore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZmTyrRFsohdC3dRFVu9O49gfm2_MEufqo7OrOvlBFAuyqyUtHywzEDCj9MhFN_S61kUmfAvrOg57gBkGsqXQrmTEL2TlJadNFzfiGytn5cvF7Ajc8vbGqCXhiw-C7aZesXNAe-yHs0g/s1600/IMG_0219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZmTyrRFsohdC3dRFVu9O49gfm2_MEufqo7OrOvlBFAuyqyUtHywzEDCj9MhFN_S61kUmfAvrOg57gBkGsqXQrmTEL2TlJadNFzfiGytn5cvF7Ajc8vbGqCXhiw-C7aZesXNAe-yHs0g/s320/IMG_0219.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our balcony this morning. Admire our red sun.</td></tr>
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Novels set in Victorian London describe the beautiful sunsets caused by the smog of pollution. It was a massive problem. There are still rules which mean you can't burn coal in houses in London today.<br />
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Singapore is aping Victorian London at the moment. We have our very own smog problem.</div>
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Each year farmers in Sumatra, Indonesia clear land by starting forest fires. There are mummers that some could be larger palm oil producers burning illegally. But this year the haze is the worst it has ever been.</div>
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The psi (pollutant standards index) measures acceptable levels of air pollution, rather an oxymoron. Levels of 100- 200 psi are considered unhealthy, 200-300 psi very unhealthy and 300-400 hazardous. Above 400 could be life threatening. Today at noon Singapore reached 401 psi.</div>
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People are leaving the country. Several friends with small children have gone back to their native country. The DFP is going to Cambodia for work a day early. The most worrying aspect is that reports say this could go on for several weeks. It makes Beijing look like the Swiss Alps.</div>
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We have closed all the windows and put the air con on. (Unheard of in the daytime!) I am feeling tired and headachey, sleeping in late and waking up tired. My throat burns as though I'm back on 20 a day. The air smells like bombfire night and everything is hazy. </div>
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It's beautiful. Dangerous but beautiful.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-62621713306557840172013-06-06T18:38:00.001-07:002019-10-27T18:59:34.931-07:00The Indian Visa Office<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4;">An Indian visa for someone from the UK now costs $S250. Yes folks, stop blinking and rubbing your eyes. You read that right. $S250.</span><br />
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This is because the UK have put their visa cost for Indian nationals visiting the UK up to £80. The Indian prime minister has accused the Brits of racism and in retaliation put their visa up (for Brits only) to roughly the same. Which translates to $S250. Sigh.<br />
<br />
My school holidays are approaching fast, but because of a series of confusions, poor communication and bad planning I am not taking a big holiday.<br />
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The DFP can't take holiday at the end of the quarter because of his work. All my holidays are at the end of the quarter and I can't take holiday in term time. So he can't go anywhere in June.<br />
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Last year in the June hols I went home to the UK alone. This year I thought we would be going back together at Christmas time for the DFP's brother's wedding. So my mum booked a holiday which spans the June holidays.<br />
<br />
Then the wedding shifted to October (my term time) which is, of course, both a bit sad and completely fine. I am slowly learning to accept that I have to miss the weddings of those I love. But I thought I would feel sad to go home and hardly see my parents so decided to stick to plan A and come back in December.<br />
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So for most of June I'll be writing/house hunting. Oh yes. Didn't I mention this? We have to move out of our flat. Someone bought it. The DFP said, 'Oh, they won't want to live in it'. Then I saw their current address, up somewhere in Punggol, in the same street as a school I teach in. And I thought 'they will definitely want to live here'. And they do.<br />
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So why the visa? Well, the DFP has to be go India for work and I am tagging along. Just like when I was still a Tai Tai (Chinese colloquial term for a wealthy married woman who does not work. I love that word!) before I started work here.<br />
<br />
So off I went to get my visa and was told it cost $S250 instead of the $S45 listed on the website (for Singaporeans.) Yes. S$250 instead of S$45. Grrr. If I hadn't already bought my tickets....<br />
<br />
Anyway, I had already bought my tickets. The official looked at my completed forms.<br />
<br />
Him Are you married?<br />
<br />
Me No.<br />
<br />
Him How old are you?<br />
<br />
<i>Looks at my age.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Him Ouf! '76! So long and not married.<br />
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Then he underlined his name on my receipt. Turned it over and wrote his phone number on the back. So old and so unmarried. Clearly I would love a date with anyone at all, particularly someone with such a handsome moustache.<br />
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The shock of being 'so old' and without a husband or children is regular and palpable. Taxi drivers regularly admonish the DFP for not making an honest woman of me. People don't ask whether I have children, but how many.<br />
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My colleagues ask me outright why I'm not married? When am I planning on having children? And I'm planning neither of these things. And it feels odder and odder the older I get, the more of my contemporaries marry and get pregnant. Each week someone from home seems to announce an engagement or a pregnancy and being expat exacerbates the difference between those who do and those who don't.<br />
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Older, longer friendships survive the advent of children better than new ones. Friendships here, while not necessarily shallow, don't have deep roots. They can't. At this age we don't have so much time for getting drunk together and experiencing things. People are busy with jobs (and children.)<br />
<br />
I really like a lot of people here. We have a lot of couple friendships, which I've never had in my life before. Couple friendships don't have the intensity or the closeness of one on one friendship. The conversation never goes deep. It slides around on the surface of superficial happenings. You like people, but you never really know them. Their hearts and minds. You know where they went on holiday and how much longer they're thinking of staying in Singapore.<br />
<br />
And as a woman in her late 30's who isn't planning on having children I feel more and more like a unicorn. An outsider. I question my resolution. I question my relationship. Surely there must be something wrong with me or with it that I don't want to lose my life to children?<br />
<br />
But I don't. I find children gorgeous and funny. I adore my niblings (nieces and nephews) but I don't have that primal pull to produce my own. And I really think you need that. You need to really, really want them before your life is ripped apart, changed forever by them.<br />
<br />
I think that change can be a good and wonderful thing for those who choose to have them. But I also think you should only do the deed if you're absolutely certain that this is what you want. No room for ambivalence when you're existing on two hours of sleep a night for six+ months, your body at someone else's command. And that's just the beginning.<br />
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So having made/making that choice what do you do instead? How do you justify your existence? That's quite a hard thing, even with children, but if you have children you can pass the buck on a bit. Not a famous scientist, musician, author or economist? Don't worry your child could be.<br />
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I have already failed as an actor. I'm really glad I had a go, but let's be honest here. I failed to make a viable career in my chosen profession. I genuinely love teaching and the chance to pass on my passion for theatre, (or in this job public speaking and speech and drama - I think this is why I am a bit stymied in it sometimes).<br />
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I think this is why I am writing or trying to write. To live a little bit larger. To prove my existence is worth something. To continue to create.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-9325879092114296162013-05-25T00:29:00.001-07:002013-05-25T00:29:33.731-07:00Haw Par Villa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Tiger Balm kings Aw Boon Haw (gentle tiger) and Aw Boon Par (gentle leopard) moved their Tiger Balm business from Burma to Singapore in 1926. The balm itself had been created by their father, a Chinese herbalist working in Rangoon in the late 1870s.<br />
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If you've lived or travelled in Asia you will have come across tiger balm. Or if you've been into a health food shop in the UK. It's a bit like deep heat if deep heat were herbal. It's made from a mixture of menthol, cloves, cassia, camphor and mint. There's a red version and a white one.<br />
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So they made a fortune. And what does one do with so much money? What else but build a theme park in the garden of your house teaching traditional Chinese values through the medium of garish statues?<br />
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A few of my colleagues remember being taken there as children, before it was restored, and scared witless by the ten courts of hell. Apparently you used to go through by boat, but that was too dangerous so now you walk instead. It's very similar to depictions of hell in European churches, but there's something about them being in 3D that makes it extra gory.<br />
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What a lovely day out for all the family!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the dirty blood pool, apparently.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A classic view of Singapore with the dockyards and cranes in the background.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-15801749855803537172013-05-22T03:39:00.002-07:002021-02-16T16:54:35.468-08:00Lunch for beginners<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A friend picked me up on not having posted for a while. It has been a while.<br />
<br />
Part of the reason is that life has just been plodding on without anything notable to write about. Or to put it another way, I haven't been on holiday recently.<br />
<br />
The other part is that I have been writing, but other things. After years of failing to make time to write I am finally managing to sit down, almost daily, and write for about an hour a day. My job is very un-taxing. I have finished everything I need to do this term with two and a half weeks left to go.<br />
<br />
It's normal to take a for many Singaporeans to take a long lunch. So I've got into the habit of taking my laptop out when I go for lunch or for a coffee and making time to write my plays.<br />
<br />
That's the first hurdle. The next and far bigger one is making what you write good. Elizabeth Gilbert who achieved huge success with 'Eat, Pray, Love' talked in her TED about being blocked as a writer and how to get around it. About being at a place in her life where she has probably achieved her greatest success already. She talks about the idea that writers can be possessed, almost by spirits, daemons or a genius. So genius is not something you have control of. You give yourself up to the genius. It's their responsibility to create, well or badly. It's a very soothing idea.<br />
<br />
Except when you read through your play and wish it was better.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html">http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html</a><br />
<br />
I know I'm feeling homesick when I find myself reading to the Royal Court Theatre's website, sometimes the Manchester Exchange or the National. I read the cast lists, watch the videos, curse that I'm so far away from home.<br />
<br />
A few people have been asking if I'm coming back in the summer. Two years are up in July. Not yet, is the answer. I'll be home in December for a visit and am certainly starting to think about making plans to move back unless I can find a job that stretches me a little more or moves my career on.<br />
<br />
So if you've been thinking of visiting come. Sooner rather than later.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-26984569505022769902013-04-09T00:25:00.000-07:002013-04-10T06:16:34.158-07:00Snowflakes and cherry blossom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Skiing in Niseko, Japan.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From the top of the slope it looked a
long way down. And very steep. Snowboarders spilled off the lift
every few moments and then went whizzing down past me. I looked down
again. It still looked very steep.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We'd gone night
skiing. The slopes of Hirafu, in Niseko, Japan, are flood lit by
night and open for those who haven't clocked enough hours during the
day. It was the first time we'd skied that part of the mountain.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I need to explain my
skiing. This was my third time. I am not yet a confident skier. When
I'm on slopes I know and have got into my stride I can be okay. When
I get nervous all my technique goes, I tense up with terror and
return to a Frankenstienesque snow plough.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I started to ski down to where the DFP
was beckoning to me, a bit further down the slope. It still looked
very steep. The snowboarders were still whizzing past me, the snow
humpy and churned up. I started skiing down and lost my nerve big
time, took off my skis and walked back up the slope. (Oh the shame). I started
approaching people and asking 'Green? green? Where is the green
slope?' But they were Japanese and couldn't understand me. One of
them pointed to the slope I'd been standing on and said 'black'.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually I found the green
slope craftily hidden in the opposite direction. The beginners bypass
was smooth and untouched. The snow was thick and powdery, like mounds
of cream and icing sugar. No one else takes the beginners bypass at
that time of night. I calmed down and skied down to find the DFP
who'd been looking for me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Niseko is famous for its powder. It's
an island in the far north of Japan, a couple of hours by plane from
Tokyo. The snow comes in droves, chilled by Siberia. Hokkaido ends up
with snow piled high as late as March when the famous cherry blossom is starting to bloom everywhere else in Japan.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Even more wonderful than the snow is
the food. I love Japanese food anywhere in the world and here we ate
some amazing meals.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On our last night we went to Racuikhi,
which I highly recommend to you. It's a tiny place, only ten seats
along a bar over which you watch the husband and wife team prepare
the meal and serve you. She was dressed in full kimono.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's hidden, far out of town, at the
end of a snowy walkway. We watched him make the noodles for the
soba, which it's particularly famous for. At night they only serve
one set menu. There's no choice, you get what they
prepare, but there's no problem with that. Course after course of
stunningly tasty mouthfuls. The scallop sashimi was creamy and light.
I've never tasted anything like it. The tempura so light you could hardly believe it had been fried. The dashi (stock) for the soba
was a thing of beauty. Everything was elegantly presented and served
with immaculate care and politeness.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I know it's what the Japanese are
famous for, but their politeness and awareness of other people was so
refreshing. We were staying at the Hilton, which is twenty minutes by
shuttle bus from the main town. We were waiting for it to leave one night and
all the seats had been filled. Even the first few pull down seats in
the aisle had been taken. A few more people arrived and immediately
those seated in the central aisle jumped up. Children were moved,
people gestured down the bus, everyone took responsibility for making
sure that the new people could be seated. What a change after Singapore
where people get into the MRT train and stop by the door ignoring
those trying to get in or out, where people stand in front of the
train doors and start getting in before the other passengers have
left, where people refuse to move down the carriages. It drives me crazy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The best thing about staying at the
Hilton was the onsen downstairs. Onsen are hot, communal baths found
all over Japan. They are full of volcanic minerals, each onsen has
different minerals and different healing qualities. A dip in an onsen
is the perfect respite to a days skiing.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As this is Japan of course there is a
certain way to do the onsen. First you shower. Then you go outside to
the pool with only a small hand towel covering your front, like a
curtain to hide your bits. Outside the air is -5. When I sat in the
42 degree water and leaned over the edge, the modesty towel folded on
my head like a pro (ready to cover myself as soon as I emerged) the
snow sizzled and melted as it landed on my arms. Around the pool the
snow was piled deep, enormous icicles reaching up and down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It took me a while to get over the
embarrassment of being starkers in a pool full of Japanense ladies.
They all seemed very relaxed with themselves, from the very
young to the very old, happily letting it all hang out, with their
little hand towels folded on their heads.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
(Initially I tried to be all western
and take a big towel with me but learned the hard way that it does
not work. There was nowhere to put the big towel. I had to leave it
balanced on a wall where it got snowed on. Then getting out of the
pool and retrieving it was a scramble before I was covered up again.
Small towel folded on head is definitely the way to go. All you need
to do when you stand up is reach to the top of your head and bingo!)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On the way back we had one night in
Tokyo. One night in Tokyo is not enough. Immediately I arrived I knew
I wanted to come back. As we came in on the train from the airport
the cherry blossom was blooming.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We were staying in Asakusa which is an
older district of Tokyo with a famous temple called Senso-Ji. After
the westerness of the Hilton I had booked us into a cheap ryoken for
our night in Tokyo. Ryoken are traditional Japanese inns with tatami
mats on the floor and futons which get rolled out for you to sleep
on. In the really posh ones they come and serve you many course
meals in your rooms and there's an onsen to bathe in. Ours was not
one of these. It was very tiny, but very clean and everything worked perfectly.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We went for a wander through the
humming market we were staying in the centre of and down to the temple. Then
we headed into the city to explore the different districts. We went
to the geek district famous for it's 'maid cafes' and the fashion
district. We saw it here first – Mormon chic. (Teenagers dressed in
black hats and long black coats.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Not enough time. Not enough time and we had to come back. Japan is high on my list for a re-visit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-24590586864803538412013-03-11T18:20:00.001-07:002013-03-11T23:49:35.993-07:00Lo Hei and other mouthfuls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This blog has rather turned into a travelogue. For those getting pissed off with the holidays you can safely read ahead. No holidays in this entry. Clearly I go on too many holidays, but it's also because in my life here now everything except the holidays is second time around and doesn't have the urgency of newness to be written down.<br />
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Everyone in my company was invited to celebrate Lo Hei or 'prosperity toss' for Chinese New Year. Large salads of shredded vegetables, strips of smoked salmon, orange peel and a sweet, sticky sauce were laid out. Everyone was given a pair of chopsticks and after a countdown <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">一 (yi) </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;"> 二 (er) </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">三 (san), </span>we all tossed the salad in the air as high as we could. The higher the more prosperous your year would be apparently. I threw it as high as I could and it went all over the table.<br />
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We are almost at the end of term one. It's been really busy but feels a hundred times easier than it did last year. Monday mornings start for me, just as they did this time last year, with a 7.50am start with a roomful of students up in Woodlands (almost Malaysia). Then I do five classes pretty much back to back. Last year it nearly killed me, this year it's fine. Then, last year, I had to go back to the centre to observe a class for the teaching qualification my employer expects everyone to take. The day didn't finish until 10pm when the class for the teaching qualification ended. Not surprisingly, I was knackered.<br />
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This year I'm not doing the evening courses, I think I may actually be teaching less hours, but I'm also much more in the swing of it. I've got my thermos flask so I don't need to drink the nasty school canteen coffee (which makes a frighteningly big difference to me.) I know the roads and taxis well enough so that I can stay in bed that little bit longer.<br />
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The teaching itself is much easier now I know the lesson plans. I can understand the Singaporean accent far better so, usually, I understand what the students are saying to me. Not always though. Particularly when they switch into Chinese of Malay. Or are very little.<br />
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My open class for the parents of my K1 students went very badly. The children were absolutely wired. They couldn't stop laughing, pushing each other, talking, but mainly laughing. 25 minutes in I turned to the bemused parents and said that I was very sorry but I was going to have to ask them to leave as the children were too excited. They left and then I had a few 'where's my mummy' cryers. Ugh. This is not my forte. I find them fascinating, sometimes sweet, but mainly like an alien species I am observing. If I could just observe I would enjoy myself far more.<br />
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I am also teaching a couple of hours on my day off at a drama school, NAFA, the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts. These are people training to be actors and I'm teaching them from what I learned when I studied physical theatre for two years in Paris.<br />
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I absolutely love it. The students are fantastic. Very willing to have a go and to take it seriously. They seem so young to me. I'm getting old. I went to see a Commedia production by the third years but had to leave at the interval. (It was three hours long). I was telling the students how much I enjoyed it but that I'd had to leave at the interval and they said 'you missed the best bit. The part with all the sex in it!' It's been strange reading through the notes I took while I was training at Lecoq to prepare. Reading all my doubts, fears, successes. The perspective of distance.<br />
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It's interesting to teach these able, though at differing levels of ability, young adults and then to go into secondary schools and try and teach the Sec 1's (first year of secondary school, just out of primary) storytelling. They are really rubbish. They don't have any basic stagecraft. I'm trying to teach them things as basic as facing the audience, standing in the middle of the stage, not standing in front of each other, the difference between on stage and off stage. While frustrating it's also really interesting to teach people who really have no idea what they're supposed to be doing. I'm coming up with games and exercises to try and teach these things.<br />
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It's similar, though different trying to understand why my younger students don't do what I want them to do. When I say 'put your hand up if you want to say something' the little ones will stick their hands in the air and then start talking. All at once. Of course they will. I didn't explain it properly. Then I need to find a game to teach them this - the hands up game. Ditto 'you have to wait your turn', 'you need to stop running around'. The kid is thinking, 'no I don't, I'm having a ball running around this room and you're clearly a soft touch who has no idea how to make me stop.' I haven't found a game for that yet.<br />
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I need to go to work. Loi Hei to you all. Prosperity in all things.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-70776787006968631762013-02-21T22:55:00.000-08:002013-04-15T01:51:46.116-07:00Chinese New Year in Cambodia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Most countries have a character who seems to personify the nation. Clearly for the UK it's Kate Middleton, or maybe Sid Vicious; for America: Obama or perhaps Ronald MacDonald; France: Edith Piaff or Coco Chanel and for Cambodia it's Sihanouk. He died a month ago after looming large over Cambodian affairs for half a century.<br />
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Sihanouk grew up under French colonial rule and (like Pol Pot) studied in France. The French appointed him king at the age of 18 in 1941 and he then manoeuvred Cambodia out of French rule. He abdicated to allow himself to stand for election and was Prime Minister for a decade. Ousted, he returned to power several times including under the Khmer Rouge. Flamboyant and glamorous he also made films and wrote songs. In fact, according to the taxi driver who drove us from the airport, there was nothing he couldn't do.<br />
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This taxi driver clearly loved him and talked about how the streets had been lined by the people a few weeks earlier for his funeral. Everywhere we went in Phnom Penh, there were huge pictures of him wreathed with black ribbon and flowers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Royal Palace</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful murals at the royal palace</td></tr>
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A big part of the tourist trail in Cambodia, morbidly, is visiting sites which commemorate the genocide which took place under Pol Pot (or Brother number one) and the Khmer Rouge from 1976-1979. These atrocities somehow seem more poignant because they are so recent, in my lifetime.<br />
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Like many revolutionary movements the Khmer Rouge wanted to strip society back to basics, destroy and re-build. Peasants, the uneducated, the poor were good. Intellectuals, those with soft hands, rank and money were bad and they were executed. Meanwhile the good peasants and people from the corrupt cities worked and starved on farms, while the food they grew was exported to pay for the civil war. Figures vary but it is said the population decreased from 8 million to 5 million in three years.<br />
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Eventually neighbouring, also Communist, Vietnam invaded, irritated by Cambodian violence spilling over the boarder. All the politics of this region are mixed up with the ruling powers interfering. First France and Britain and later America and China. Cambodia had got on America's bad side pre-Khmer Rouge when Sihanouk supported Uncle Ho in Communist northern Vietnam against nasty (but American supported) Diem in Southern Vietnam.<br />
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It's uncomfortable tourism, both because of the subject matter, but also because you can't help but question whether mass graves should be visited by tourists. The killing fields are one of many killing fields all over Cambodia. You walk round with an extremely good audio guide. It ends by saying that they want these atrocities remembered, for the people who suffered and died and also because they didn't think it could happen to them. Genocide can happen anywhere, remember and beware, was the message.<br />
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As you walk in you're greeted by a shrine to the victims. Glass cases show skulls and bones piled high. The voice over points out you can see the dents in the skulls where the victims were struck. They didn't want to waste bullets so people were killed with axes, farming tools, even the razor sharp leaves from the trees. You walk around and see the pits were bodies were discovered. When the weather has been wet sometimes the bones still rise to the surface. There are glass cases with fragments of the victims' clothes.<br />
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Most appallingly you are directed to a tree next to a pit. When the site was found fragments of flesh and bone covered the tree's bark. The soldiers had swung babies into the tree to kill them and then thrown them into the pit, alongside their mothers.<br />
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When someone was denounced, or tortured into a confession the whole family would be killed so there would be no come back. Everything: torture, confession, killing was precisely documented. People were sometimes photographed before and after a torture session. Feeling queasy? Me too. But I agree it's better not to close your eyes. The least we can do is remember.<br />
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Schools were shut down under the Khmer Rouge. They were anti education. Teachers were killed. Pol Pot didn't manage to pass his degree, perhaps that's why, though he and several of the other leaders had been teachers.<br />
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One school became a prison. A place where people were tortured until they 'confessed' and then sent to the killing fields. Or just killed there. It looks just like the other schools you see in Cambodia. There are still blackboards on the walls. It is horrific. Even writing this now I feel sick at the memory.<br />
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The most horrible thing is that Pol Pot was never brought to justice. Even after the Vietnamese had invaded in 1979 and deposed them the Khmer Rouge escaped, fighting back. They, bizarrely, continued to be recognised by the UN and to have a seat at their headquarters in New York. The politics of power in the region allowed appalling things to happen to the people of Cambodia.<br />
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Despite the recent horror both Siem Reap and Phnom Penh in particular are friendly places to visit. I'd heard bad things about tourism in Siem Reap. That tourist would be hassled a lot by beggars and postcard sellers but they've clearly had a clean up as we were hardly bothered at all.<br />
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Phnom Penh lies along a smelly river which turns into a huge lake, Tonle Sap, which you can boat up to reach Siem Reap. We decided to bus it instead as it takes five hours instead of seven plus, depending on tides. The word on tripadvisor is that the boat is overcrowded, dangerous, the view uninteresting and that the boats break down very regularly. I think the bus would have been great except I was suffering from food poisoning, felt too sick to read and was praying for the next toilet stop. Occupational hazard for the traveller in Asia.<br />
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The mini-van driver didn't mess around. He drove FAST, his indicators flashing all the time ready for him to swerve out and overtake. About three quarters of the way through our journey while we were driving along FAST there was a sharper than usual swerve, a sickly bang and bump and the two backpacker girls in sitting in the two front seats squealed and gasped and stayed with their hands over their mouths for the next five minutes. The driver didn't slow down. He pulled his mobile out a few minutes later and called someone. We kept up our pace. Another five minutes down the road he pulled over. A young monk walked up. The driver rolled down the window, handed the monk a roll of notes, wound up the window again and drove on. That must be how much killing a dog costs God.<br />
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Siem Reap is all about temples. Like Bagan in Burma it's a small area with a lot of very old temples. It was built in a similar era - 10th - 13th century. Unlike those in Bagan these have been far more sensitively restored so you feel your are looking at something old rather than something that got re-painted and re-built last year. (Which those in Bagan and other place in Burma often have.)<br />
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When the area was 'discovered' in the 1860's (by discovered I mean brought to international attention by a French explorer, the Cambodians, of course knew, the temples were there, and even other western explorers did) it had been eaten by the jungle except the enormous Angkor Wat which had been renovated in the 16th century and was still a working monastery.<br />
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We hired bikes and cycled around them. They are amazing. Huge, crumbling, enormous faces looming over you out of the jungle. They feel other worldly.<br />
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The downside, of course, to anything that wonderful is that there are lots of other people there enjoying them too. And lots of them are Japanese and Chinese in large tour groups together standing just in the way of where ever it is you're going. But it didn't spoil it for me.<br />
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I love watching disgruntled teenaged tourists being dragged around the sites. I heard one stroppy French teenager saying in a very put out way 'il y a du monde!' at Angkor Wat and another slightly younger, floppy draggy boy moaning 'not another temple' to his parents.<br />
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And I hear you all saying 'not another holiday!' That's right. Another one and I ain't done yet. Three weeks until we're off skiing in Japan. Yipee!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hoards arrive at Angkor Wat</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ta Prom, the roots of trees have eaten into the walls of the temple and it would be dangerous to remove them</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are our feet at the end of a day of temple, cycling and dust</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this is what we did about it (after washing)</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-13114649069058097082013-01-19T00:35:00.001-08:002013-01-22T21:12:24.875-08:00Christmas, new year and birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Three big celebrations in the course of a couple of weeks, that's my usual start to the year.<br />
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I've just finished two hours of washing up, the leftovers (as well as a few cupcakes) of my birthday party, this year a mad hatters tea party. I'm delighted to say that there were some very impressive hats.<br />
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When I was living in the UK my preferred birthday celebration was a walk, then coming back from the cold to warm up with soup, bread and cheese and carrot cake. Here the climate is not suited to walking and my parties are more traditional.<br />
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As well as impressive hats, we supplied some impressive tea cocktails, in teapots, one made with earl grey and gin and a green tea mojito. I made cup cakes and scones using Mary Berry's recipe and felt as though I could be part of the great British bake off.<br />
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I'm always worried I'll feel homesick, so far away from home, at the times I am used to being with my family and old friends, particularly Christmas. Last year we went to one of the Romanesque brunches Singapore loves with free flow champagne and enormous amounts of food. It feels a bit like a race to see how much you can eat and drink in a short space of time. I'm sorry to say I drank far too much.<br />
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I think I preferred this year. We had a barbecue at our condo and were lucky enough to be joined by a very old friend from the UK, someone I've known since I was a teenager, and her boyfriend passing through Singapore on their way to Australia and some other friends. I bought enormous amounts of meat - lamb and lovely grass-fed beef and marinaded chicken. How far my days of vegetarianism are behind me.<br />
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It felt festive and as though we were marking the occasion, but so different to normal British Christmas that I didn't feel homesick as all.<br />
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A couple of days later we flew to Hanoi where we saw the new year in.<br />
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Hanoi is in the north of Vietnam and was the communist stronghold during the war. It still has the reputation of being more communist than the south. You can go and visit Uncle Ho, embalmed and displayed in a mausoleum just like Lenin. We got up early on New Year's day to queue and pay our respects, the first time I've started a new year like that. As you file through there are guards checking that you're behaving yourself. Not talking, not putting your hands in your pockets and certainly not wearing shorts or taking photos.<br />
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Hanoi is a tumble of crowded streets set around two lakes. There are lots of old buildings, left over from French colonialism and satisfying my appetite for old and crumbly. The classic Vietnamese building seems to be as tall and thin as it's possible to be on a tiny plot of land.<br />
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The old quarter, which dates back to the 11th century, was 36 streets and guilds selling 36 different products. It still seems to work the same way. One street is clearly bag selling street, another rope selling street, yet another material and scooter seat-covers street and so on.<br />
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The goods spill out from the shops onto the pavement in front. The pavement is just an extension of whatever tiny shop or cafe sits behind it. It's not really meant for walking on. This means you find yourself dodging the scooters that speed around the streets weaving in and out of cars and pedestrians. It's pavement Jim, but not as we know it.<br />
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And there are people everywhere. Always people sitting on tiny plastic stools usually doing nothing, waiting for a sale, a haggle, a coffee or a beer.<br />
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Hanoi is famous for it's beer, Bia Ha, freshly brewed daily, brought into the city each morning and then drunk throughout the day by the locals. It sits in big metal casks, is tapped out and drunk by the glass, accompanied by a saucer of boiled peanuts. It's very fresh and very good.<br />
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Halong Bay is a four hour drive from Hanoi. It's one of the places I'd been most looking forward to visiting in Asia, one of the new wonders of the world and a UNESCO heritage site. The more you see the more difficult it becomes to be impressed. I feel spoiled even writing this, but many wonders are a bit disappointing. Not so Halong Bay.<br />
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There is a photo, the classic calender photo, on the wall in every Vietnamese restaurant of Halong Bay. Six or eight of the huge standing stones, or islands, impressive and beautiful. I thought that was it. That view and maybe a few more islands on either side. In reality the islands stretch on for miles and miles throughout the bay.<br />
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We had booked quite a nice boat trip, two days and one night sailing through the bay. I'd splashed out a bit. The boat was a replica Chinese junk. We were one of about ten couples and ate all our meals together. The food was surprisingly good and we had fun chatting with the Australian's, Americans, Swedes and Swiss.<br />
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I have seriously limited the amount of photos I'm putting up, but believe me, there are a lot more.<br />
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So, that's me done for celebrating until next year. It's all dry bread and water while I try to get rid of the additional pounds I've gained. But I think it was worth it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halong Bay</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhuaAlsrKZz7oAYDdw8EKCpaFP4WoCd-wLr1IvofEPsV7Mjqm8GXI8IUKt69ntPEy68oYEP-JTXYQWVU0WZ9eYDFfSw29KhwJ4ADX2X9rUzrhrYqm-JW7pQWAbnptfyh_vOvlqNwlcXI/s1600/IMGP4083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhuaAlsrKZz7oAYDdw8EKCpaFP4WoCd-wLr1IvofEPsV7Mjqm8GXI8IUKt69ntPEy68oYEP-JTXYQWVU0WZ9eYDFfSw29KhwJ4ADX2X9rUzrhrYqm-JW7pQWAbnptfyh_vOvlqNwlcXI/s320/IMGP4083.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lake the old quarter overlooks</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Ho's mausoleum</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-37557798603287515672013-01-10T18:34:00.003-08:002013-01-11T23:54:32.556-08:00Nursery 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have to teach two classes to very small people this year. K1 and N2, so 3 going on 4 and 4 going on 5 respectively.<br />
<br />
This scares me. Very small children in large numbers frighten me a lot. They are unpredictable. If they all decide to get up and start dancing around the room singing 'I like to move it, move it', they will. Whether or not you are trying to do some drama game or poem with them.<br />
<br />
(That happened. We had just got them settled, sitting in a circle. A moment of silence and one of the littlest girls started singing, 'I like to move it, move it' and one by one they all got up and started dancing around the room singing it. How do they know a 90's club hit?)<br />
<br />
They often prefer going and looking at their tummies in the mirror to whatever exciting game I have planned. So I am justifiably afraid.<br />
<br />
In fact, the N2's were impressive. Their attention span was longer than some adults I have met. But sometimes one would get a very angsty expression on their face and say ''I need to talk! I need to talk!'' Very impressive that at 3 they have already learned that they can't just say it. (More than I can say for the class of K1's.)<br />
<br />
And when they do say the thing they need desperately to say, it's psychedelic.<br />
<br />
"It was dark and I woke up and at the zoo someone ate it and I saw the otters and on the aeroplane I packed my pants''.<br />
<br />
That kind of thing. And with a Singaporean accent and slushy speech it can be very hard to understand.<br />
<br />
Of course they asked me why my nose was so big, so sharp and so pointy. I am used to it now. They also asked why I was wearing so much black colour. It's interesting because it isn't rude. They observe and they speak. So I get a genuine view of how Singaporean's see me. The adults may not be asking out loud why my nose is so big, so sharp and so pointy, but I bet they're thinking it.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-80706818142117624742013-01-03T00:09:00.000-08:002013-01-03T00:14:56.490-08:00Myanmar, Burma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Long time no speak. Busy, busy. Working then holidaying.<br />
<br />
When I say 'holiday' I mean THE holiday. The holiday of a lifetime. The most expensive holiday I'll ever go on. The most anticipated, most planned, most looked forward to holiday. THE holiday. Burma. Or rather Myanmar.<br />
<br />
<i>(By the way, this is where the Burma/Myanmar name confusion originates. The British colonized Burma in the 1800's, bit by bit. The last bit was because the king, Thibaw, had signed a trade treaty with the French and the British didn't like that one bit. Burma was too close to their powerhouse, India. The Burmese were told they had to toe the line and not get too toasty with the frogs. They didn't, so the British invaded. and renamed it Burma instead of Myanmar.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Cut to 1989. The nasty dictatorship of generals, (the Junta) changed Burma back to Myanmar again. Usually I'd say fair enough, lots of countries have got rid of their colonial name eg. Sri Lanka. But in this case it was part of a political move against Aung San Suu Kyi and her newly formed party who were rising swiftly to prominence. Initially the UN and the New York Times recognized the renaming, but the UK wasn't so keen. Sour grapes? Right on support for Suu Kyi? I'll leave you to decide.)</i><br />
<br />
Back to THE holiday. First<br />
<br />
<b>The cast:</b><br />
<br />
Me, clearly. My boyfriend, the DFP ( which stands for de facto partner, explained in the early life of this blog).<br />
<br />
My parents. My father: one of the loveliest people ever placed on this earth. He particularly impressed me on this holiday with his intrepid eating. At breakfast while the lazy breakfaster chose eggs, toast or yoghurt he would be trying out the strange, noodley soups. No dish at lunch or supper was left untried and at the end of the meal when everyone else was done there he would be, at the end of the table, quietly chowing down. The Gourmet.<br />
<br />
My mother: My mum is incredibly friendly. She will start chatting to anyone, anywhere, regardless of age, culture or language. In Moscow when we were visiting Stanislavsky's house she had a very good go at be-friending the museum attendants, all ladies of a certain age, completely undeterred by the fact that they spoke no English and she spoke no Russian.<br />
<br />
She did the same at a Pagoda in Burma. A group of old ladies asked our guide why she was in a wheelchair (She had sprained her ankle a month and a half before the trip but it was still sore and exacerbated by the bare foot pagoda rules). She asked if she could have her photo taken with them and my mum busily started be-friending them, again with no language in common. The Chatter.<br />
<br />
My aunt and uncle. They are both professionally clever. My aunt is an Oxford Don and expert in South American economics. She is very clever and very good at subtly negotiating away possibly problems among people before they grow large enough to become fully fledged problems. We'll call her 'the Prof'.<br />
<br />
The DFP thinks my uncle is a spy. When you ask him what he did before he retired he mummers about infa-red and says it was top secret. We know he worked for the MOD. We know he learned Russian. We'll leave you to decide the rest. Let's call him 'the Spy'.<br />
<br />
So we have the cast in place. Next<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The set:</b><br />
<br />
Aung San Suu Kyi was released from house arrest on 13th November 2010. Before her arrest she asked tourists not to travel to Burma. The country had been placed under sanction. Since her release people have started flooding in. It's changing and changing fast. A frequent exchange between travellers would be to wonder if we were visiting a year too late. Some places felt as though they are being destroyed by the surge of tourists.<br />
<br />
This is a poor country (street lighting regularly disappears, you need a torch to watch your step as you walk at night on the cracked, uneven, pavements or you could disappear into a drain). It has been suddenly inundated by rich tourists and floods of them. The Burmese have experienced years of oppressive governing. As one charity worker we met told us she was working with people to help them to learn how to trust, how to use their freedom and make the right choices.<br />
<br />
As a tourist you expect to pay a bit more for everything, the tourist tax. You want to put money into the economy and support people. What you don't want is for people to discover that ripping off tourists, or worse begging, is the best way to get money, better than doing whatever trade they were doing before. Or if they're children, better than going to school. Or if they're the children's parents, better than sending their children to school when their sweet six year old can earn more selling postcards to tourists than they can farming or whatever they were doing before.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we felt like walking moneybags. Before going I'd heard how lovely the Burmese people were. There were places, mainly hard on the tourist trail where it didn't feel like that. But then we would find a way to turn off it and suddenly meet people, lovely people, who didn't want to sell you something, who just wanted to talk. Or who didn't want to rip you off if you were buying.<br />
<br />
The amount of English spoken is extremely high. As we walked through the streets in Mandalay people would call out 'hello'. The postcard sellers of Bagan would ask, 'hello, where are you from? Ah, English. BBC' Several of them I chatted with said they listened to the world service to practise their English and our tour guide said the same thing. It's the first Asian country I've visited where the people, like me, are world service fans.<br />
<br />
In Mandalay the DFP and I were coming back from an afternoon exploring and three little girls, six, seven and nine, ran up from behind us, took our hands and started a stilted conversation 'Hello. What is your name?' My name is...., How old are you? Where do you come from?' And so on. We reached our hotel and off they went. 'Goodbye, see you tomorrow'. But of course we didn't.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7c4J8nVvzoDWY7VrSMa7q1oovqXAMQEH6MI9XurQQWogYM9CC5o_fUUmr8Ugh8w6EhgXZCI1nD9hLnfUTsJXBuJUilHSR3G9AzAuRVTvHK_42It-FE5McAAROF9k67t3tTBOaLdZOXRU/s1600/Burma+131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7c4J8nVvzoDWY7VrSMa7q1oovqXAMQEH6MI9XurQQWogYM9CC5o_fUUmr8Ugh8w6EhgXZCI1nD9hLnfUTsJXBuJUilHSR3G9AzAuRVTvHK_42It-FE5McAAROF9k67t3tTBOaLdZOXRU/s320/Burma+131.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The view sailing into Mandalay<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSWmgzpoe5Tps9O4T43AcgL8th_2lrXOorDnJB_6MVRN8-x35KT8rS1W67g0c3JISvrkhV38IzEw4pnRSTp2UB5SljXrIABXsbaELZW0_ZC0arrwadYSzyt2H-siXtmasb3lBzID37-Q/s1600/Burma+1607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSWmgzpoe5Tps9O4T43AcgL8th_2lrXOorDnJB_6MVRN8-x35KT8rS1W67g0c3JISvrkhV38IzEw4pnRSTp2UB5SljXrIABXsbaELZW0_ZC0arrwadYSzyt2H-siXtmasb3lBzID37-Q/s320/Burma+1607.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Again in Mandalay, the DFP and I were out looking for street food, in one of the legendary blackouts, (the government just switch off the power on a regular basis) and met a young boy. Immaculately dressed. He asked if he could practise his (very bad) English with us. I was a bit suspicious of him, shame on me. But eventually he helped us find somewhere to eat and courteously looked after us while making stilted conversation.<br />
<br />
We understood that he'd been learning English for three months and that he wanted to be a tour guide. He told us that he worked with clothes and was a sailor. It took us quite a long time to work out he wasn't a sailor, or a sewer, but a seller. He told us he was 19 and when he politely asked and was told the DFP's age exclaimed that his father was the same age. We offered to share our meal, to buy him a drink but, no, no.<br />
<br />
Then he offered us a lift home on 'his older brother's motorbike'. We walked off the main road into an alley and he disappeared into a one-storey bamboo shack where a young girl inside was watching TV and a very shiny scooter was parked outside. Very carefully he pushed it onto the main road and someone from a nearby stall poured petrol from an old water bottle into the tank. Meanwhile a thin, quiet man, clearly his father, watched the proceedings like a hawk. He looked ten years older than the DFP.<br />
<br />
And he drove us back, oh so carefully, through the blackened out streets of Mandalay, back to our luxury hotel. I felt embarrassed by the contrast. I asked if I could give him money for the petrol. No, no. He took our names and asked if we wanted to be facebook friends and we said goodbye.<br />
<br />
<b>Pagodas</b><br />
<br />
We saw a lot of pagodas. A lot. And a lot of gold leaf on those pagodas.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn9j9dDGSIcbZ4-NTymlk2bXrGgj7JMykLIn81LufkBX_jaAa24IsxM7wqm23-hJam_yBOUZxGokIekKQfYaS2Wb_PVoqv3K75GdvNqCXub-AHe_Et-OtUSLPVzJ44ZZK-CUTTfpkr_8/s1600/Burma+401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn9j9dDGSIcbZ4-NTymlk2bXrGgj7JMykLIn81LufkBX_jaAa24IsxM7wqm23-hJam_yBOUZxGokIekKQfYaS2Wb_PVoqv3K75GdvNqCXub-AHe_Et-OtUSLPVzJ44ZZK-CUTTfpkr_8/s320/Burma+401.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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Burma is a very Buddhist country. Buddhists work towards achieving enlightenment. You do this by acquiring merit, not only in the way you live your life, but also by building pagodas and by putting gold leaf on the pagodas when they are built. If you really want to ensure that you're a man in your next life and not just, say, a duck or a woman (though apparently being a duck is a step closer to enlightenment than being a woman) you really want to build a pagoda and get some gold leaf on it, prompto.<br />
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<i>(However if you are a woman you're not allowed to apply gold leaf to stupas (pagoda dome's) or statues of Buddha. Pah! I say. Go and buy yourself some nice gold earrings instead and tell Buddha where he can stick it</i>.)<br />
<br />
There are pagodas everywhere. <i><b>Everywhere.</b> </i>(I cannot italicize that enough). Even the smallest of villages have them. If you want to build a town you go to the monks and ask them if it's okay and then build a pagoda. There are probably as many pagodas in Burma as there used to be churches in Medieval Europe.<br />
<br />
And where you find pagodas you find monks. Every Buddhist is supposed, at some point in their life to go and spend a month in a monastery. Throughout their lives people will return and spend time in monasteries praying and meditating. Religion is more alive and a more active part of the community than I have ever seen it before. This is in addition to the full time monks who seem to be mainly male.<br />
<br />
The monasteries have a very broad spectrum role within the community. If people are travelling and don't have enough money for a hotel, they can stay at a monastery. If people are poor, they get food at a monastery. If they are sick they can receive medical attention there. We've all heard about the how the monks marched though I'm unclear quite what their role and influence is politically. However, while we were there they were protesting about a damn being opened.<br />
<br />
Monks don't eat after noon. In the mornings they go out with their bowls onto the streets, barefoot, and are given food. They aren't allowed to ask and must taken whatever they are given. In Mandalay we visited a monastery and saw them having their lunch. They line up, eyes down in contemplation and wait until the signal to file into the dining room. Some of the monks are really little. Too little for such self control and solemnity. I was happy to see a water fight going on before the silent lunchtime procession.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgP-eTDl2Zbf9vJRgEt-fN6np7PI-bpaRvzX5bOLcwAf0ayOXS4VErj41-bizmDrtaaEwjGjayAdnA_ifTmFVwss4UUbGCrprfa2wyhxZEHRsVRWiu8qIOziTT8ppEwn6y0AplMDmByY/s1600/Burma+160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgP-eTDl2Zbf9vJRgEt-fN6np7PI-bpaRvzX5bOLcwAf0ayOXS4VErj41-bizmDrtaaEwjGjayAdnA_ifTmFVwss4UUbGCrprfa2wyhxZEHRsVRWiu8qIOziTT8ppEwn6y0AplMDmByY/s320/Burma+160.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Monks in Mandalay<br />
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<br />
If you are a pagoda lover the place you should head for is Bagan (or Pagan in colonial times). It's a 26-sq-mile area covered in pagodas built between 11th and 13th centuries. These are largely red brick and only a couple are gold leafed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4JFfBAg1u4NxslH3pigdFwcsdz2Lhy-QdlpepAK_iI__i99AcyaeREsKPDBoMZeti6UBQw98PK_R05ial-Slc_PtoAByTt6GhIciytsiUBY1veQsQck7LexTcD0hnDuBmwbDLbrEl6s/s1600/2012-11-25+18.47.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4JFfBAg1u4NxslH3pigdFwcsdz2Lhy-QdlpepAK_iI__i99AcyaeREsKPDBoMZeti6UBQw98PK_R05ial-Slc_PtoAByTt6GhIciytsiUBY1veQsQck7LexTcD0hnDuBmwbDLbrEl6s/s320/2012-11-25+18.47.13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pagodas in Bagan at Sunset.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZNguPLIUovtYhmOnAiVzMYo33ltPGewNHOdCuwGRr3z18uwxGGGfbEFYTwBnsnFut4raJdgRrKztlfPoeBG8-qJFzWRT4wmuleqQgc3MRruHPid8ePII_kCK6L8oPDKOnm1crxADV-I/s1600/2012-11-25+18.51.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZNguPLIUovtYhmOnAiVzMYo33ltPGewNHOdCuwGRr3z18uwxGGGfbEFYTwBnsnFut4raJdgRrKztlfPoeBG8-qJFzWRT4wmuleqQgc3MRruHPid8ePII_kCK6L8oPDKOnm1crxADV-I/s320/2012-11-25+18.51.06.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<b>Family</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I've bored so many people about this, but this is why I've wanted to go to Burma ever since I was a child. My grandmother was born in Rangoon, now Yangon, in 1902. Her father became headmaster at the newly opened school for the princes of the Shan state, sons of the Sawbha's (kings). She lived there until she was sixteen when the family moved to Bristol, and what a shock to the system that must have been.<br />
<br />
She became a writer and among her books was one about her childhood in Burma, 'Quiet Skies on Salween'. Although I didn't know her, I knew her book. She and it seemed romantic, almost magical, and I wanted to visit the country she so clearly loved and made so alive in her writing.<br />
<br />
We spent an afternoon at Taunggyi on our way to Inle Lake.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieWtNw1kBsht6N6DDzIJIC413oXX-85-1hdmr01tV4cF30ow1saaHDe4xGhasohFEs8MGvpXzMHh_pDj_Ze7nSGMGeQuAQWiGI-ywwcXMgVVCHs2WE8aqo2t2XUMSGP8beOjDz82-wALE/s1600/Burma+2239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieWtNw1kBsht6N6DDzIJIC413oXX-85-1hdmr01tV4cF30ow1saaHDe4xGhasohFEs8MGvpXzMHh_pDj_Ze7nSGMGeQuAQWiGI-ywwcXMgVVCHs2WE8aqo2t2XUMSGP8beOjDz82-wALE/s320/Burma+2239.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The fishermen on Inle lake row with one leg. But they're very hard to photograph at the right moment, so you'll have to trust me or visit yourself.<br />
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We knew from other people who had visited that the house and school are still standing and the minister at the Baptist church could show you where it was.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjPHVrKye4zRz8bNN7gkL3yZ9eJrtT5DGk1CFEFlzJzvnVJREz9rNgYIeE6YSWk-iX_joT8ZQ3-brlQv7RJNpPFpQra_kl6N0ccnq1GyZ1DvP6k2feu44xwZ4hLs9H8_1_txhfyA4coU/s1600/Burma+255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjPHVrKye4zRz8bNN7gkL3yZ9eJrtT5DGk1CFEFlzJzvnVJREz9rNgYIeE6YSWk-iX_joT8ZQ3-brlQv7RJNpPFpQra_kl6N0ccnq1GyZ1DvP6k2feu44xwZ4hLs9H8_1_txhfyA4coU/s320/Burma+255.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The house my grandmother lived in 1906 in Taunggyi.<br />
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When we arrive and started explaining who we were and why we were there. This is when everything started to get a bit surreal. The minister got an odd look on his face and rushed back into his house. He appeared again a few moments later with a blue covered book, a translation in Burmese of 'Quiet Skies on Salween' the book my grandmother wrote about her childhood there.<br />
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He took us onto the house she lived in over looked by the crag she described. It's still lived in by the head of the school. The headmistress emerged wet headed to our unannounced visit, very embarrassed to have been caught washing her hair.<br />
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Then things even more surreal. She explained the book had been translated by an ex-headmistress of the school (and that the school children were given it to read!) and that, by chance, she was visiting.<br />
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In a sitting room with an enormous TV blaring away in a corner, drinking tamarind juice we talked to the translator and she gave us copies of the book. My favourite moment was when we showed her a kindle version of another, unpublished work by my grandmother. She said, 'oh, they spelt the name wrong. They forgot the e' (pointing to the name Thorp). We tried to explain that Thorp was the correct spelling, but she seemed dubious. In her translation the name appears as Thorpe.<br />
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I thought that this book was dead, unread, except to me and the people in my family. What was wonderful about all this to me was that her book is being read by school children in Taunggyi (whether they want to or not!) That it lives on and so does her memory.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVJIHgh8ffBddKfy3zbv81n4XhJQw5VOsDgONzpB5Elpr8VE4ShXV3qN-_5rXdjQdSXR1pTp2dJKq4iuR0NyDddgBH8K37-ZBT2tUPO7dVIdO59HjgV6X5eTgjZXl8h6OSisZ9R0mFu8/s1600/Burma+016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVJIHgh8ffBddKfy3zbv81n4XhJQw5VOsDgONzpB5Elpr8VE4ShXV3qN-_5rXdjQdSXR1pTp2dJKq4iuR0NyDddgBH8K37-ZBT2tUPO7dVIdO59HjgV6X5eTgjZXl8h6OSisZ9R0mFu8/s320/Burma+016.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children singing at a pot making village. And a nastier more jowling sound I think I can honestly say I have never heard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs5G4hIF66bMfuI2SvR8GrWbwxrborhJ8ETQif33RAKLF31eUNzH5zss3HK7p4FXQkqk7v49DWL9K2zRvJeq72-cZkTKMUPvxNMYVAan_7P4ERmZmNJtFliqwTh1D9AJ-Eit7hnvv1fA0/s1600/Burma+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs5G4hIF66bMfuI2SvR8GrWbwxrborhJ8ETQif33RAKLF31eUNzH5zss3HK7p4FXQkqk7v49DWL9K2zRvJeq72-cZkTKMUPvxNMYVAan_7P4ERmZmNJtFliqwTh1D9AJ-Eit7hnvv1fA0/s320/Burma+032.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We cruised up the Irrawaddy river from Bagan to Mandalay in luxury. The DFP and I slashed the average age by about 30 years.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxEodF48eE_k0TqGZCORDIqHsHGk6VL8mSsr_eeDON1izGYrKA2IZHfEH7rEqoCX1TzHnxxYvoQwN77DIeukHh-s7O6wmWXSSz0HlYLIwwAeRB3kVb9mqtai9O5VPEULJ9SqllcytcBo/s1600/Burma+076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxEodF48eE_k0TqGZCORDIqHsHGk6VL8mSsr_eeDON1izGYrKA2IZHfEH7rEqoCX1TzHnxxYvoQwN77DIeukHh-s7O6wmWXSSz0HlYLIwwAeRB3kVb9mqtai9O5VPEULJ9SqllcytcBo/s320/Burma+076.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the pot making village we saw a very swish house. Not the usual bamboo affair. Someone asked how they had got the money for such a big, solid looking house. The guide shrugged and answered, 'He sold a lot of pots'.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYY5KsxgF0Z8V7oFaCWHY1fV5D9Nf2-YKL_GzXBoqz5wnRqXp2xsph4Eh9xH2cS13w72ZGUqfJJpyOAgoJW9tHVygyBSQD3rzXjS9oxU1oP7v6dyJdYL2V0xD6572GOfQrWqFsYwPs7I/s1600/Burma+150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYY5KsxgF0Z8V7oFaCWHY1fV5D9Nf2-YKL_GzXBoqz5wnRqXp2xsph4Eh9xH2cS13w72ZGUqfJJpyOAgoJW9tHVygyBSQD3rzXjS9oxU1oP7v6dyJdYL2V0xD6572GOfQrWqFsYwPs7I/s320/Burma+150.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Longyis (a sarong like tube of material) are as common in Burma as jeans are everywhere else in the world. Everyone, men and women wear them all the time. Even on a bike. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRwQt3nD9fYLJf0QBdciT_vnp8uTjlJVNUdlwKl9FBWyEfXaY5UNs1X-L9mVQDx1g2pifT3dx1NoxWqYJEicXsfYIEJzj02ZcOamo4qY0Ty6i6StxB6XdhiHTNy7yTMcUeQ-8kcLSbRU/s1600/Burma+226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRwQt3nD9fYLJf0QBdciT_vnp8uTjlJVNUdlwKl9FBWyEfXaY5UNs1X-L9mVQDx1g2pifT3dx1NoxWqYJEicXsfYIEJzj02ZcOamo4qY0Ty6i6StxB6XdhiHTNy7yTMcUeQ-8kcLSbRU/s320/Burma+226.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laying out the snow at our hotel in Mandalay.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This woman is smoking a cheroot. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaUEmrd6NraSl28W0CESWbcfAWDxWAS_ZJfq2YABYLYgK93Nfo_I4Nbe38ZrLRiqDW44dblPNinZmrxYji8LnHO_WmIKWV7K7wxGwaCiXlQoJIkaB8ws0uwIKNLtnWpIOQDSBJPUmKAE/s1600/Burma+1244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaUEmrd6NraSl28W0CESWbcfAWDxWAS_ZJfq2YABYLYgK93Nfo_I4Nbe38ZrLRiqDW44dblPNinZmrxYji8LnHO_WmIKWV7K7wxGwaCiXlQoJIkaB8ws0uwIKNLtnWpIOQDSBJPUmKAE/s320/Burma+1244.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This girl has thanaka, sunblock crossed with make-up, on her cheeks. Everyone uses it. Usually it's just smeared on though clearly not in this case. Also you would see babies with lovely swirly thanaka designs on their plump cheeks. The prof pointed out that this is a great way to get small children interested in the idea of wearing sun block. </td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-8457686648055643712012-11-03T00:38:00.000-07:002012-11-03T00:38:07.931-07:00Malacca<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last Friday was a public holiday so the DFP (de facto partner in case you never caught what it stands for, see early frustrated entries about visas and work) and I packed our bags and caught the bus to Malacca in Malaysia. And so did everyone else in Singapore.<br />
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You may remember from my entry about Penang that it's twinned with Malacca for UNESCO purposes. They're very similar. Colonial ports with lots of pretty shophouses. Malacca has been spruced up while Penang seems, at times, surprised by tourism. Malacca on the other hand has embraced it enthusiastically.<br />
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In fact so enthusiastically that some people (including the woman who did the guided tour of the Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion in Penang) think they've gone too far.<br />
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She cited a waterwheel which the improvers added, initially claiming that Malacca used to have a waterwheel but then when pressed admitted that it never had done. The sign on it now says that similar waterwheels could have been found in similar places in the world in the past.<br />
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She was also very put out by the viewing tower, a sort of concrete flying saucer that climbs up a pole and by the monorail. But then, as any fan of 'The Simpsons' knows, any small town wanting to attract tourists gets a monorail.<br />
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"You know a town with money is a little like the mule with a spinning wheel. No one knows how he got it and danged if he knows how to use it."<br />
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Says the monorail salesman before selling Springfield a monorail. A very funny episode. I recommend it.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEZjzsnPhnw">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEZjzsnPhnw</a><br />
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We weren't as put out by the 'improvements' and as there isn't a great deal to do there perhaps they make sense. We caught the bus on Friday morning at 8am, arriving around 1pm and returned at 4.30pm the next day without feeling we'd missed anything. And while the waterwheel is a bit silly there's quite a funky atmosphere with lots of arty shops and arty graffiti, (the kind endorsed by the council) and the cleaned up river is pleasant to walk along.<br />
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We walked around the town and the Chinese graveyard, ate some tasty food, swam in the hotel pool and then it was time to go home.<br />
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On our only evening we went out to the Portuguese settlement to eat. There were, a very long time ago, Portuguese traders in Malacca. They left Catholicism, some church ruins and a few genes.<br />
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The settlement is just a small square with some restaurants in a suburb. Walking back from dinner we took a turning off the main road. As we walked along the low rise houses almost every one had an enormous cross either outside or on the wall you could see through the open window. Or a statue or Our Lady.<br />
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The bus coming back was a luxury bus! (I booked late) A business class bus with large seats which reclined and had mini TVs in the back. I watched 'Despicable Me' and 'How to train your dragon' both of which I heartily recommend.<br />
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I feel a bit bad that we can't take this kind of jaunt more often because I work on Sundays. Maybe I should look for a new job. But I am enjoying this one and its nearly the holidays. Two more weeks!!<br />
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Here are the pics:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_-ZYTvO49aLwjCuuOgG22BeAyJVG4SHY7ca1UavbOeGdbeSzelbBKIbejIdMP4qTI-3UdZ0Dv5XuVCDPJ8FHm9dTaKTJBUor875kF_l0UN64fz2NsVav8whLXGL7r60TZKwiz1-rem0/s1600/Malacca+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_-ZYTvO49aLwjCuuOgG22BeAyJVG4SHY7ca1UavbOeGdbeSzelbBKIbejIdMP4qTI-3UdZ0Dv5XuVCDPJ8FHm9dTaKTJBUor875kF_l0UN64fz2NsVav8whLXGL7r60TZKwiz1-rem0/s320/Malacca+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3r0b3Lia4Nlcn7oplgDQWbZM3u1P9WpwF7JVv-M10jFNQZ5B3BncxuKxWOlThcPdCD7-szxYC7WkUMpL62PBjHGSkPk1A8Ogtpefls-g0_-chGHKb3VJda4r7Mq07EZgCGx8PHvKsOVo/s1600/Malacca+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3r0b3Lia4Nlcn7oplgDQWbZM3u1P9WpwF7JVv-M10jFNQZ5B3BncxuKxWOlThcPdCD7-szxYC7WkUMpL62PBjHGSkPk1A8Ogtpefls-g0_-chGHKb3VJda4r7Mq07EZgCGx8PHvKsOVo/s320/Malacca+018.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see the offensive viewing tower on the left</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-42349944850477233882012-10-20T00:54:00.001-07:002012-10-20T00:54:21.141-07:00Second time around<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been a while. Mum and my friend M*** have been asking why I haven't written. I'm not sure why. Partly that nothing very exciting has been happening, partly time slipping away and partly that we've had people visiting, which was nice. Also, I've been trying to prioritise finishing my play rather than pootling on the blog. Anyway, I'm back again to pootle.<br />
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We're into our second year here and I'm finally feeling much more settled and comfortable, almost at home. Some very good friends are leaving Singapore soon, which is sad, but the happy upside is that we've inherited their plants. At the moment I'm sitting on the balcony surrounded by lovely greenery and a breeze. How long will it take me to kill them? I have a very poor track record with plants.<br />
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So things are coming around for the second time and I understand them a little more. The Hungry Ghost has come and gone. He stretches his hungry fingers halfway through September into October. Out after 9pm he could eat up your soul. All those bonfires are to appease him. Last year I didn't know what all the burnings were about. This year I do. My students told me.<br />
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The festival of the moon with its mooncakes has come and gone. The temples opposite celebrating with wailing Chinese opera and by setting out enormous outdoor feasts. If there isn't room in front of the building they'll fill up a carpark or even block off a street. A canopy is erected and tens of neatly covered tables set out ready for the meal. Everyone arrives and eats and meanwhile, loudspeaker in hand, someone warbles excruciatingly The upside of being in Singapore is that at 10 o'clock, on the dot, the wailing stops.<br />
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Second time around I'm getting a bit more canny about making the public holidays work for us. As there are so many religions co-existing here there are public holidays not only for Christmas day and Easter, but for Hari Raya Haji, for Deepavali, for Chinese New Year and of course for National Day.<br />
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I have just finished a flurry of booking flights. Prepare to feel jealous.<br />
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Hari Raya Haji (next Friday) - Malacca in Mayasia. Four hours by bus. One night away. Because we can. Twinned with Penang, a UNESCO site, more aggressively restored, but pretty shop-houses and Portuguese architecture. Ahhh. Old.<br />
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New year - Hanoi (Vietnam's old communist capital where Hemingway lounged in post French colonial splendour and wrote) and Halong Bay or 'dragon descending bay' (you've seen it on calenders) superbly beautiful, UNESCO protected.<br />
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Chinese New Year - Cambodia - Phnom Penh and Siem Reap to see Ankor Wat and the other wat.<br />
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March half term - Japan - skiing in Niseko and an overnight in Tokyo.<br />
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But before any of those the biggie - the reason I came to Singapore: Burma. Have I told you this story already? I'm sure I must have. Maybe not.<br />
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My grandmother was born and brought up in Burma during the Colonial occupation which started in the mid 1800's. Her father was an English schoolteacher. Colonization was not great for the Burmese. While, arguably, some colonized countries benefited from the British and French legal and educational systems and road building abilities, Burma didn't take to it so well.<br />
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The British behaved particularly shamefully during WWII abandoning Burma to Japanese invasion as soon as the first planes arrived. The upside was that Burma's national hero, Aung San, father of Aung San Suu Kyi, had formed an alliance with them to achieve independence from the colonial yoke. It became quickly apparent the Japanese were no better than the British and at the end of the war he negotiated hard with the Allies and won Burma it's independence once more.<br />
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He was assassinated less than a year into independence and the Junta, a nasty group of Generals, took over and ran the country which had been 'the rice bowl of Asia' into the ground with a weird socialism, corruption and greed.<br />
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I never knew my grandmother. She died when I was a few months old. In fact I never knew either of my grandmothers. The other died when my father was in his early twenties. I've always felt very connected to them both. My father's mother was an actress and my mother's mother was a writer and a teacher. All the things I've ended up doing.<br />
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Growing up I read her books about her childhood in Burma and always wanted to go there. When I was old enough to make the decision I decided not to go while Aung San Suu Kyi was under house arrest. Then, as she was released, as the seismic changes that are still going on there now started, the DFP called from a conference in Florida and wondered how I'd feel about living in Singapore for a couple of years.<br />
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My parents and aunt and uncle are arriving in a months time. In a months time my lifelong ambition is going to be realised. The house she lived in is still standing. We'll visit it as part of the (eye wateringly expensive) tour we've had tailor made for us.<br />
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I am so excited. I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am. This is why I came.<br />
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And in the meantime life is good. I'm really enjoying teaching. I am finding time to write, though never enough. I've acclimatised to the temperature. I've started cycling to work. Cycling around a place always makes me feel like me. While I still don't love Singapore, we are definitely on much better terms.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-1316559584817315872012-09-14T19:40:00.002-07:002012-09-15T00:40:43.397-07:00The Gardens by the Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Outlaws are still in town. Yesterday we took them for lunch at Pollen and then into the greenhouses at the Gardens by the Bay. The Flower dome is a bit mah, with exciting plants unusual to Singapore! Like Geraniums! The Cloud Forest is more exciting with walkways and a waterfall. It's the first time I've ever been in a green house with lifts and escalators. So Singapore. Here are the pics....<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-85618650559410179592012-09-14T05:39:00.000-07:002012-09-15T00:33:14.767-07:00Malaysia - Penang and Langkawi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Another holiday. I know. Sickening isn't it? Just back from Bali and off again to Malaysia. Two reasons, one - it's half term, two - the outlaws (the DFP's family) are in town.<br />
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Penang and Langkawi are both islands off the north-west of Malaysia. Penang is famous for its old buildings and delicious food and Langkawi as the pearl of the tropics.<br />
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In Langkawi we stayed in a wooden villa on the tropical cliff side overlooking the sea. There were two very friendly cats, a mother and her little black kitten. By our final day there I had fed them enough milk and cheese slices for them to grace my lap. They curled up there like fury yin and yang. It made me very happy.<br />
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We hired a boat for a day to snorkel, swim in a mountain lake and eat an amazing barbeque lunch on a beach. Proper tropical island paradise beach stuff.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mountain lake. So deep the DFP was able to dive into it to his hearts content. </td></tr>
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One of the social bi-products of 9/11 has been that Arab holiday makers have found themselves less welcome visitors to some countries. They're given lots of grief at passport control and are travelling in greater numbers to Langkawi. The owners of the place we were staying told us they vet their guests and tell Arab enquirers that they're fully booked, which I found disquieting.<br />
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Their reason was that people felt uncomfortable seeing be-burka-ed women sitting on the balcony swathed entirely in black. I don't agree with discrimination but did feel a bit odd while trying to struggle discreetly in or out of a swimming costume on a beach and being passed by a woman dressed from head to toe in voluminous black with only eyes and hands visible. Her husband next to her in shorts. I would suddenly feel very self concious and a bit of a tart. </div>
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You may remember how much I loved crumbly, old Mumbai. I miss old in shiny, new Singapore. I am constantly bewailing the bulldozers knocking down anything with age and character to make way for yet another condo. This happens a lot at the moment in Geylang. There's a big push to build lots of new apartments and it feels as though 80% of them are being built around the corner from our flat.</div>
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Penang satisfied my appetite for old and crumbly. It's a UNESCO heritage site, twinned with Malacca. Malacca is also in Malaysia but at the bottom end only two hours by bus from Singapore. </div>
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In the mid eighteenth century Captain Francis Light, under the auspicious of the all prevalent East India Company, leased Penang beginning several centuries of British involvement. The British legacy is still everywhere, literally underfoot. You see Staffordshire tiles again and again, ironwork from Glasgow and in amongst the Chinese shop-houses find colonial grandeur rotting away, though not rotting at the speed and extent that it does in Mumbai.</div>
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We stayed in a wonderful heritage hotel right in the centre of Chinatown, The Campbell House Hotel <a href="http://www.campbellhousepenang.com/">www.campbellhousepenang.com</a>, recently refurbished by an extremely on the ball expat couple. They've got every detail right. It's quirky and tasteful, comfortable and beautiful. There are those lovely little details which make all the difference. In the fridge in every room instead of overpriced snacks you find a bottle of complimentary iced lemon tea. The shower is amazing. So is the coffee machine. When we arrived one of the owners, Nadya, was there to meet us, tell us where to park, the best places to eat in the area and what to see the next day. Very, very impressive.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the Staffordshire tiles!</td></tr>
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We wandered around looking at old buildings and eating whenever we had the appetite to. Penang is famous for its food and deservedly so. One of the dishes it claims as its own is char kway teow. This fried dish of thick, flat rice noodles and seafood is common in Singapore too, but Malaysians swear you can only get the real deal in Penang. Very tasty.</div>
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My favourite trip was to the Cheong Fatt Zhe Mansion. Cheong Fatt Zhe left China at sixteen with only the clothes on his back and, of course for this to be a story worth telling, became massively wealthy. He had a finger in every pie: railway pie, bank pie, building pie, British and Dutch pie. So of course he needed a house to match. Well, he needed lots of houses to match and he built one of them in Penang. </div>
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The guided tour was led by one of the team of architects who had bought the house in 1990. In his will Cheong Fatt Zhe said that no one could inherit from his estate until after his last son died. He had eight wives and fathered his last child at 74. He died in 1916 and his last son didn't die until 1989.</div>
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By the time he died every single inch of the house had been let out to pay for its upkeep. The grand entrance hall was full of cooking stoves; motor bikes drove in and out; washing lines were strung from the fine wooden carved screens; someone was running a hairdressing salon and hundreds of families were living there. They all had to be paid off before the renovations could begin. It's well worth a visit. The house and it's history are as fascinating as he clearly was.</div>
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So please add Penang and Langkawi to your list of places to visit. Here are some more pictures to whet your appetite for travel....</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-66163474347970553742012-08-25T01:00:00.001-07:002012-09-14T05:16:23.096-07:00Bali<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
B-ahhh-li. Bali. Land of 'Eat Pray Love', of rolling beaches, palm trees and of green rice terraces. Calm, relaxing Bali.<br />
<br />
Or not. We both look at though we went to Bali to do a bit of cage fighting. I'm exaggerating. But we are both battered and bruised.<br />
<br />
Three days before we left the DFP came up to me looking perky and pleased.<br />
'You realise', he said, 'you realise that you've booked us in for a surfing holiday, ha ha.'<br />
'No I haven't. We're going to have lovely relaxing massages and visit temples'.<br />
'We're staying in a place renown for surfing. You chose a place for us to stay in that you go to specifically to surf. We're going to get up every morning and go surfing for a couple of hours.'<br />
<br />
Darn. He's right. I did. Not so much B-ahhh-li as crash-bash-bang Bali.<br />
<br />
Balian Beach where we stayed for the first three nights is a surfers paradise. The sand is volcanic black and sparkling. The waves are huge. It's a very experienced surfers paradise. Not a beginners surfers paradise.<br />
<br />
I had researched carefully and found an exquisite resort designed by a French architect with it's own private beach. But that was too expensive so we stayed at the place next door, which though not so swish it was very nice.<br />
<br />
We arrived late on Thursday night and woke up to this view the next morning.<br />
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Not bad eh? At the bottom of the garden was a cove with the enormous waves that characterize Balian crashing hard on the black rocks.<br />
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We walked along the cove and on the neighbouring beach could see what looked like black seal heads until the seals jumped up and surfed their way to shore.<br />
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At the beach the DFP went and enquired about hiring surf boards and having a lesson. I was feeling a bit nervous about the size of the gigantic waves. The man asked if we had surfed before then told us it was too dangerous for beginners and to come back later.<br />
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We did. The waves were still enormous. We decided to have a go anyway.<br />
<br />
For those, like me, who have never been surfing before this is what happens. They give you an enormous board which you attach to one foot with a plastic cord and ankle strap. It feels like an floating ball and chain. You paddle out and then when a wave comes you try and jump up and stand on the board. Then you are immediately knocked off the board and have a washing machine experience of being churned around in the foam, swallowing mouthfuls of salty water and with only a vague idea of which way up is. Or you grip onto your board for dear life and are rocketed forwards towards the shore and the black rocks.<br />
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I didn't like it. It felt scary. I am usually, I hope, fairly game but after three attempts I told the DFP I hated it and went off to get a cup of tea. He was very nice about it and continued being tossed around himself but didn't make it to standing. Quite soon he joined me for a beer.<br />
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The sunset was amazing over the beach. We had a drink and something to eat but the whole of Balian, which is one street on the beach front dotted with guest houses and bars, closes down at about 10pm and goes to bed ready to be up surfing early the next morning.<br />
<br />
We hired a scooter the first day but partly due to the long distances and partly due to my poor navigation skills didn't managed to get to the temple I wanted to reach. We also managed to fall off, adding to the surfing cuts and bruises. So the next day we hired a car and driver to take us around.<br />
<br />
In touristy Ubud (see Eat, Pray, Love and Elizabeth Gilbert wittily finding herself) we visited the monkey temple and royal palace (which is about the size of our flat but with an impressively carved gate) and had babi guling (suckling pig with ginger, galangal, lemongrass and garlic fried up as a sauce) for lunch. Delicious.<br />
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Driving into Ubud you pass lots of carvers shops selling tantalizing wooden furniture, unfortunately too large for hand luggage. We stopped and the DFP asked one to make him four wooden blocks for doing handstands on, about brick size. When we came to collect them on the way back they had made them exactly to his specifications. Except in size. Tiny dolls sized blocks, perfect for Barbie to practise her handstands on. In the half hour it took to make a new set we wandered around and I bought a couple of Balinese masks.<br />
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When we moved to Asia I thought I would take the opportunity to learn about the famous forms of theatre - particularly Balinese mask. I haven't so far but had great fun in the shop checking whether the masks would play. The fat old lady in the shop even put one on and joined in.<br />
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A really good mask will change expression as the wearer changes head position and if, like these, it's a half mask and covers half the face, expression. It's amazing to watch an inanimate object come alive- one mask change expression from happy to sad to bashful to proud. I love mask work.<br />
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What I had been told about Balinese masks is that they are traditionally used for religious ceremony rather than theatrical performance.<br />
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While I was at Lecoq (physical theatre school in Paris) Julie Taymor (director of the musical 'The Lion King) who had studied there precociously at sixteen came and spoke to us. She talked about spending a month in Bali and living with the people in a small village there and eventually watching a mask ceremony. How they chanted and went into a trance like state where the masks inhabited them as they wore them. Later that day I had a chance to see Balinese masks at play worn by normal people rather than actors at Tanah Lot.<br />
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We reached our final stop of the day the temple, or pura, Tanah Lot for sunset. With all the other tourists. The guide book is extremely sniffy about the whole experience and while it wasn't particularly spiritual with all the sellers and tourists it was breathtakingly beautiful as the sun set over the water.<br />
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For our final night I had booked us into a posher beach front hotel in Legian or Kuta. Kuta is renown for drunken Australian tourists and it's amazing surf.<br />
<br />
The guide book says the break is long and even. I don't actually know what that means except that the waves aren't enormous and frightening but small and friendly. We got a surfing lesson. 'You don't pay if we don't get you standing by the end of the lesson', they said. 'Are you sure? Are you sure you want to make that bet? Are you sure you can get me standing?' I said. I asked my teacher his name. 'Dude', he said.<br />
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I expect Dude is an extremely good surfer. His chest is toned. His tan glows. His hair is long and curly. Dude tried hard to teach me to surf. I tried hard to learn. As the lesson went on he became increasingly frustrated with me.<br />
'Just stand up! I don't understand why you aren't doing what I'm telling you to. Just stand up!'<br />
How to explain? Eventually I stood up long enough to ensure payment. His relief was visible. But his temper didn't improve. <br />
<br />
We went out surfing again the final morning. So in the end perhaps I did, inadvertently, book a surfing holiday. Perhaps not what I had envisaged, but a beautiful, memorable and enjoyable holiday all the same.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-34241006436831542552012-08-11T00:14:00.001-07:002012-08-11T00:14:26.444-07:00Kilo and Pollen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>(NB I started writing this on Thursday but have only just got around to finishing it now. I'm afraid I'm not going to re-write it all as though it's not Thursday, so please imagine that it is.)</i><br />
<br />
It's National Day a day of marching and celebration for Singaporeans and a day off for everyone. I'm sitting on the balcony with my feet up enjoying the breeze feeling oh so comfortable and oh so relaxed. I've got that holiday feeling of heat and swimming and afternoon drinking.<br />
<br />
Drinking in the afternoon? You shocking lush I hear you cry. Well, yes. But today there's quite a good reason.<br />
<br />
Last Friday was the DFP's birthday. I wanted to take him to Pollen <a href="http://www.pollen.com.sg/#!/welcome">http://www.pollen.com.sg/#!/welcome</a> a new Jason Atherton restaurant in the newly opened Gardens by the Bay. These are the same gardens I watched being constructed from the Marina Bay Sands which overlooks them last summer when we'd just moved here and everything was strange and unfamiliar.<br />
<br />
So it seems very apt that a year on we spent our National Day holiday having lunch at Pollen in the now completed gardens.<br />
<br />
The gardens are very Singapore. Concrete constructed walkways and weird 'Day of the Triffids' style artificial trees with plants sort of stuck onto them. And of course lots and lots of places to get something to eat. This is Singapore.<br />
<br />
Pollen is the swankiest of them. We went for the $55 set lunch because I am a cheapskate/love a bargain and it really is a bargain. This is far and away the best meal I've had since coming to Singapore. I've eaten some very good food here but this is truly classy Michelin star stuff.<br />
<br />
To start we had some delicious sourdough bread and butter. Good bread is almost impossible to find in Singapore even though there are lots of claiming to be artisan bakeries. Ditto the butter - just so much tastier than usual. To go with it were big, juicy green olives and a salted cod, cream and mashed potato sauce.<br />
<br />
Then I had Slow-cooked egg, chorizo, patatas bravas and the DFP had Petuna ocean trout, beer pickled onions, oyster mayonnaise, smoked aubergine without the mayonnaise. Both were sublime.<br />
<br />
Then, feebly, we both had Roasted pork belly, broad beans, slow-cooked squid, chorizo and for desert him crispy and burnt lemon meringue with cucumber sorbet and and me beetroot sorbet, hibiscus compressed apple, salted milk chocolate. Oh yeah. This is what eating is all about.<br />
<br />
Then just before coffee two little magnum style ice creams and petit four with the espresso. All little bites of heaven.<br />
<br />
Everything was witty, delicious and so well balanced.<br />
<br />
The reason my edges are so rounded is that we had a glass of wine with each course recommended by the sommelier. All were excellent suggestions. He came and chatted with us at the end and when he heard that we'd tried and failed to get a reservation before gave the DFP his card and told him to email him directly if he ever had a problem getting a table again. Sh-wing!<br />
<br />
For his birthday I took the DFP to another great restaurant called Kilo. The food is not as good as at Pollen but the location is excellent. It's in an old HDB warehouse overlooking the river at Kallang. The night we were there it was stormy. All thunder and lightening over the darkened river. To get there you have to walk down a deserted road with industrial buildings on either side and wasteland. Food bloggers tend to use words like raw, concept and off-the-beaten-path when describing it.<br />
<br />
It describes it's food as Japanese-Italian fusion. The best dish we had was salmon sushi with crispy chicken skin inside. You bite down on the soft sushi and then get a surprising crunch of chicken skin inside. Very good. Other dishes were good but not outstanding: pork belly with sweet potato mash -good but a little over sweet: duck breast- slightly too dry: calamari - slightly too greasy: but what was outstanding was the atmosphere. I am being a bit mean. This was extremely good food as food goes. And the chocolate lava cake for desert with basil ice cream was as classy as the funky decor. Very, very good.<br />
<br />
Food glorious food. Well, this is Singapore.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6VmV1M2e9X_Yd774NR-ao6ISHj1ImOli07EuZn_zAZ-EcEyDXqhyphenhyphenSJu_vqqB5Ilx2eg_B2mzySt_oRTV3yFl0wDJqwbCS6y_NDCy5ooniD4RaBXJX8eCsPNQBOnsNv_8b1qroSTqtZI/s1600/2012-08-03+20.53.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6VmV1M2e9X_Yd774NR-ao6ISHj1ImOli07EuZn_zAZ-EcEyDXqhyphenhyphenSJu_vqqB5Ilx2eg_B2mzySt_oRTV3yFl0wDJqwbCS6y_NDCy5ooniD4RaBXJX8eCsPNQBOnsNv_8b1qroSTqtZI/s320/2012-08-03+20.53.47.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MwOxaPfJsxHSLzN2EgUc2FXhVLY_oIxQlobR1hB-dL5Uvk3m_N9doOc7oRcKiIsgrwYzeGj8TATpYXXyvTE-HUjUprwF3iRUrvhLEQ2j220m0jP_htVYfs5DXEcI3g6xY29PB3lgB38/s1600/2012-08-03+20.53.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MwOxaPfJsxHSLzN2EgUc2FXhVLY_oIxQlobR1hB-dL5Uvk3m_N9doOc7oRcKiIsgrwYzeGj8TATpYXXyvTE-HUjUprwF3iRUrvhLEQ2j220m0jP_htVYfs5DXEcI3g6xY29PB3lgB38/s320/2012-08-03+20.53.57.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMK_26ljEfMuNmIbQho-NRiRdLooUYeEZbkn9I6pZdGwFj_rE838DcMheGi6JAvcxjS2ldE6n4rBy-hia9ubKV_H9L3E4L2Bor3toF0AMa6usSzGJv44dSpp_p1vYpomRM66eTJ8aRgjc/s1600/2012-08-09+12.44.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMK_26ljEfMuNmIbQho-NRiRdLooUYeEZbkn9I6pZdGwFj_rE838DcMheGi6JAvcxjS2ldE6n4rBy-hia9ubKV_H9L3E4L2Bor3toF0AMa6usSzGJv44dSpp_p1vYpomRM66eTJ8aRgjc/s320/2012-08-09+12.44.25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gardens by the bay</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodBpAmsJDDWgFBIQ4xIt4WVQpBmeJQXbnDGlaCxMusH2fKvwZu8cszhowEnM88bnbiQtEGGFzU5nvqAXBKI5E-6OoBEtS1BxvBIDky0AaAOcAvKTWHF3fbpgnJWrfm1CU4mabPD8j9J8/s1600/2012-08-09+12.52.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodBpAmsJDDWgFBIQ4xIt4WVQpBmeJQXbnDGlaCxMusH2fKvwZu8cszhowEnM88bnbiQtEGGFzU5nvqAXBKI5E-6OoBEtS1BxvBIDky0AaAOcAvKTWHF3fbpgnJWrfm1CU4mabPD8j9J8/s320/2012-08-09+12.52.08.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0_yACBTUtfNsyclcnm0i3a11Zhq2mo_ACSBP_DhbyyFGKtqpbEJYAhluBRxF2QpQTw6KhQg2I5DP77KAtz_Dh4bolXMrhVqumYUJ9aIOis1STp0Lj7jKp8mshYAEAs-3j_A-Rb0hT1s/s1600/2012-08-09+14.12.18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0_yACBTUtfNsyclcnm0i3a11Zhq2mo_ACSBP_DhbyyFGKtqpbEJYAhluBRxF2QpQTw6KhQg2I5DP77KAtz_Dh4bolXMrhVqumYUJ9aIOis1STp0Lj7jKp8mshYAEAs-3j_A-Rb0hT1s/s320/2012-08-09+14.12.18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I will never make a proper food blogger because I always forget to photograph the food before I start eating it. This was desert.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLIXIdGkCqZzi0DimFfcjLZa5CCzKnsaUqh85kcFbdpGx41-guBcLFR9nJW3_JuTScrD1p4-uaHUQntTqckYre1tq0s5HvAvy75oxjwdgzFutaVwDRWyieCXJptaqmckstFIQbGwNYvk/s1600/2012-08-09+12.44.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLIXIdGkCqZzi0DimFfcjLZa5CCzKnsaUqh85kcFbdpGx41-guBcLFR9nJW3_JuTScrD1p4-uaHUQntTqckYre1tq0s5HvAvy75oxjwdgzFutaVwDRWyieCXJptaqmckstFIQbGwNYvk/s320/2012-08-09+12.44.25.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRznnhLZdSLNK3J43donEMWoissswb8bg5Hv4VCGP7e31OhrMRAEwBmTMBR1ErHWjwqm-cHrIeAPgv1NpiEI7S9_k3pSIzEaN32k09CL2sPJ3gc9Ca7P8woent1Zbg-QwPQ3i6CkBFTY/s1600/2012-08-09+14.32.42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRznnhLZdSLNK3J43donEMWoissswb8bg5Hv4VCGP7e31OhrMRAEwBmTMBR1ErHWjwqm-cHrIeAPgv1NpiEI7S9_k3pSIzEaN32k09CL2sPJ3gc9Ca7P8woent1Zbg-QwPQ3i6CkBFTY/s320/2012-08-09+14.32.42.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forgot again and started eating...</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX0YP-W1ZgpOBWo2VzGyPwNQPe4y61FqRTZISq4qTk5EzhTAUpBtl7iibfhwAm2_5rk0Yrv_cqtf2gP-tKBd-LCcLNPZruRw5LMYEx6l8jAnmfu_MCD1440ZzkvwE0j5AiW14xRTCMZPg/s1600/2012-08-09+14.12.39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX0YP-W1ZgpOBWo2VzGyPwNQPe4y61FqRTZISq4qTk5EzhTAUpBtl7iibfhwAm2_5rk0Yrv_cqtf2gP-tKBd-LCcLNPZruRw5LMYEx6l8jAnmfu_MCD1440ZzkvwE0j5AiW14xRTCMZPg/s320/2012-08-09+14.12.39.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500119712368087481.post-6557320417838015802012-07-30T17:40:00.001-07:002021-05-30T17:31:21.886-07:00Diving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
One of my very old friends, S****, who I saw while I was in England was almost speechless. Which is quite something for her.<br />
<br />
''Wakeboarding?! ***** ***** going wakeboarding? And climbing? And scuba diving? Gymnastics? ***** ***** doesn't go wakeboarding."<br />
<br />
Which is a fairly accurate appraisal of my sporting prowess.<br />
<br />
When the DFP asked,<br />
"Would you like to start diving lessons?"<br />
I replied,<br />
"No. That sounds really scary. I definitely don't want to do that."<br />
<br />
So it will come as no surprise at all to you that for the past four <span style="background-color: white;">Saturdays</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">from 5 - 6.30pm</span><span style="background-color: white;"> we have been taking diving lessons. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">To clarify, when I say diving I mean Tom-Daley-diving rather than scuba-diving. Though what I am doing doesn't resemble what Tom Daley does, apart from both of us leaving a springboard and soon afterwards entering a swimming pool.</span><br />
<br />
The pool complex we go to is like those I remember from my childhood in England. Proper local authority, slightly crumbly around the edges, not shiny but very functional, cheap to get into and well used by everyone. There is a 'caf' where you can buy your crisps or your cup of tea after your swim. Or, because this is Singapore, your noodles.<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, I like it. Like wakeboarding it's a good thing to do in Singapore where it's so hot that most of the time you want any excuse to submerge yourself in cold water. The bright colours of sky and water remind me of those David Hockney prints of swimming pools in California.<br />
<br />
The first week we turned up the coach was an amazing Scottish woman, O***, who had trained the Singaporean <span style="background-color: white;">junior</span><span style="background-color: white;"> national team. Unfortunately it was her last week teaching before returning to Scotland to train to be a doctor. </span><br />
<br />
The diving club seems to have been a bit lost since her departure. We've had almost a new coach each week of varying levels of competence.<br />
<br />
Last Saturday T**, who we'd seen training the first week we were there and doing the most amazingly complex looking spin-ey, hurtle-y dives, was our coach. T** looks like he should be on a plinth. He also has a fantastic eye and gives very precise, useful notes. And he takes no s***. For example:<br />
<br />
Him: I think it's time for you to go and try that from the 3m board.<br />
Me: No. That looks really frightening. I think I'll just stay and do some jumps from the 1m board.<br />
Him: There's quite a long queue for the 1m so you can go and get a couple in from the 3m board and not loose your place. Off you go.<br />
<br />
Hmmm. I cannot fight tactics like that.<br />
<br />
In between wakeboarding (Saturday morning) and diving (Saturday afternoon) we watched the Olympics opening ceremony. Shamefully, this is the first time I have ever seen one. I absolutely loved it. It was completely how I want my country to represent itself. A mindful celebration with shades of dark and light, humourous and zany.<br />
<br />
This evening I have (for the first time ever) watched the women's weight lifting, white water canoeing, a bit of table tennis and I'm just about to watch the diving. I have broken all my sport watching records and achieved my personal best.<br />
<br />
What has happened to the girl who in the two afternoons a week allocated for sport while doing her A-levels chose to do community service and art? That's the girl that S**** knew. Where has she gone?<br />
<br />
Well. Not that far.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gD0Gp63NU2X822-mwxEebxAJg0-Sn2bb-S4kgD5JbSbtArr-8kX4alPRzJD4Fj0jqaNjC39pTIIw_tHDg9Efuy4rkZg4Zt6eIqIO3wJ10jN05pmZlp4zaj5Ymzi4FXxTRj4fpHZ0MbI/s1600/2012-07-28+19.00.56.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9gD0Gp63NU2X822-mwxEebxAJg0-Sn2bb-S4kgD5JbSbtArr-8kX4alPRzJD4Fj0jqaNjC39pTIIw_tHDg9Efuy4rkZg4Zt6eIqIO3wJ10jN05pmZlp4zaj5Ymzi4FXxTRj4fpHZ0MbI/s320/2012-07-28+19.00.56.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<img src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/5/53/Hockney,_A_Bigger_Splash.jpg/225px-Hockney,_A_Bigger_Splash.jpg" /></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw55UcofHeVMS7CyJuMBQAXp7LDmkRR5WH56WoD7lTz-I9_R3I4V_xzqnmlapAfxeWpr-mIT8OFyhaIue0H' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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I showed this to my 7 year olds on Sunday morning. They weren't that impressed. I love that about 7 year olds.</div>
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