Archive for the ‘Ang mo’ Category

It’s coming to the end of the year again. Towards the end of each year, I’d sit back and reflect on some of the key events and decisions made in the past year or so. It’s a pretty interesting exercise as you’ll see the decisions that turned out right, and those that turned out all wrong; all with the benefit of a mite bit of hindsight at the end of the year now.

So, running off my head and in no particuar order:

Going to Phuket first in June then Bali later in September (WIN). Because right smack on the week we were in Bali in September, thousands of travelers in Singapore had to postpone their Phuket trip because the airport had shut down! Too funny for words. Bali posts tagged here, with Phuket ones here.

Having a baby (IN PROGRESS). Well, not saying too much away here, but the decision wasn’t an easy one. There were concerns about health and well-being for example. Funnily, we faced little of the ‘traditional’ sort of pressures. Oh, Ling’s mum asked about it now and then, but there was absolutely no (even polite) queries or pressure exerted on my side of the family. Nor did the announced incentives in August factor into our decisions. First announced here.

Going with a Nissan Latio (WIN). Well, on the upside, the car hasn’t broken down. Moreover, our Latio survived pretty much unscathed compared to the Honda Civic I bumped into nearly a year ago. On the down side, Ling’s been remarking that the car makes funny squeaky noises occasionally, and doesn’t give her the vibes that the Latio is better built than the old Civic we were driving. And we haven’t been getting the 14 km/litre fuel consumption milleage some drivers claimed. But a 12.5 to 12.8 km/litre isn’t too bad. First blogged here, then here.

Red and silver.

Publishing a book (WIN). This, funnily, was the hardest decision I’ve made this year. My work and research has been published in several places prior to this of course, but publishing in academia is quite different from producing a commercial publication. There’s all the legalese in the author’s contract with the publisher, all my liabilities since there’re now new issues of distribution, ownership and copyright. And to top if all off, it’s not as though my book is gonna be selling a million copies allowing me to enter early retirement. The summative royalties I expect are essentially, for lack of a better word, non-existent. First blogged here.

Deciding between a PS3 or an XBox 360 (WIN). No kidding! I had long chats with Matt about the virtues of one console over the other. Moreover, the decision wasn’t as simple as which had the games I was interested in or studying. The decision to go with one of them was made when the high definition standards war was raging, and investment in the PS3 wasn’t a sure decision. It could had turned into a white elephant! First blogged here then here.

Of course I could have bought both, like Matt…

Ling having a go with Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune.

Investing in a new camera system (IN PROGRESS). And what a huge investment it turned into. I was determined to get it right this time by doing proper research, and proper accounting to what I was acquiring. So far, so good. Ok, so the photos are still a long way off to progressing from ‘crappy’ to ‘mediocre’, but I’m working on it! First blogged here.

Trying to fatten Matt up (LOST). As soon as Matt firmed up arrangements to visit and stay with us for a month in June this year, Ling and I drew up a strategy to make sure that this time, he’d leave Singapore weighing heavier than he arrived. And boy, did we try hard! We enlisted everyone’s help. Even my mum, and Doreen. Even our small group was involved. But Matt easily showed that he could beat us all without trying, and he left Singapore weighing less than when he arrived. So we failed miserably again.

He conquered durians even.

But as soon as he’s firmed up plans for a third visit, this time, it’s WAR. If we have to bury him with Banquet pratas or drown him with teh tariks this time, we will!! Ling’s tribute to The Champion here.

There you go. If I can think of any more significant milestones, I’ll append them here later.

I’m going to stay as far away as I can from the issues of gender roles in relationships. It’s been covered quite well here and at Ann’s blog. But I do intend to convey my sympathies toward those who desire their significant others to peel their prawns. I lack the required dexterity to peel prawns with utensils, and depending on the company I’m too prissy and needlessly self-conscious to commence with the deed using my hands. When unsure, I usually just crunch! crunch! crunch! like Ann mentioned (but that can invite weird looks from onlookers, too, depending on where you are).

When I was last at Yang’s parent’s home in Lentor for dinner, I had just arrived in Singapore that morning and hadn’t slept a wink in just shy of 40 hours. But once those large, juicy prawns were situated upon the table in front of me, I began to perk up. They were so enticing, but something occurred to me: How am I supposed to eat them? I didn’t want to commit a potential faux pas, so I waited until someone else dug in to see how they approached those tasty-tailed devils.

This required much discipline. A steely resolve washed over me. I watched as family members served themselves that oh-so-delicious rendang, tended to their soup bowls, and poked at the three-layer pork.

To my dismay, the prawns remained ignored. When Chek-Tchung, sitting to my right, reached across the table, my heart skipped a beat—but no, he chose instead to secure a hardy portion of Hainanese chicken. A more severe act of unintended cruelty I have never known. :)

Then finally Jasmine mercifully snatched up a prawn. I was all eyes.

But to my astonished horror, she began dismantling the little bastard with her fork and spoon. This, my friends, just would not do. In my incapable hands we’d have more prawns on Mrs. Foo’s floor than on the table. I wouldn’t have blamed anyone if they’d sent me to Pedra Branca to dodge bird droppings for the duration of my stay.

But, thankfully, Jasmine and others soon after chose to forego the utensils, merrily peeling away those translucent layers with their fingers and piling the remains into a tidy pile to be discarded later. Now this I could do and do well!

I’m of course playing up this little anxiety of mine, but it serves to remind me that in a casual situation having someone handy who can systematically peel those plump prawns is some kind of a blessing. And as for the dinner at Mr. and Mrs. Foo’s, it remains the culinary highlight of my stay in Southeast Asia—great company and great food!

There was a poem on people we meet and sometimes you only get to meet them once in your lifetime. I didn’t think much of it until Matt left us this morning. He has very much become a part of our lives during his 25 days stay here. Besides considering his needs in our daily plans, we got my best friend (’cookie pie’) to show him around here a bit, involved him in our church’s small group outing, got my dad to buy him durian and yang’s mom made him curries twice. His leaving us once more this round left me with a tinge of sadness. But darling said he was certain he’d be back soon. I hope that Banquet’s prata would still be holding out till he returns.

Sob story aside, so what was this ang mo like during his stay in Singapore - the gateway to Asia? He walked his calories away! He would walk to anywhere if he could! He travelled on foot from Rivervale to Hougang / Buangkok / Seng Kang MRT stations even when he could have taken a shuttle bus service. He walked from Ang Mo Kio to Upper Thomson Road’s Casuarina Curries to have his prata fix after eating A-star duck rice. On evenings, he would hop over to Punggol Park for a few rounds of brisk walking to dissolve the fats of dinner. He even contemplated to walk from Tampines Mall back to Rivervale (Seng Kang) after a super-heavy Din Tai Fung’s dinner. So if you felt as if there were lightning flashes out of nowhere, it was probably this white ang mo zipping through the streets of Singapore.

Now our ang mo friend is a devout foodie and a true adventurer. He stopped at nothing. Like a cyclone, he devoured everything in his path. Although nothing was spared, he brought smiles to all cooks/chefs at foodcourts, hawker centres and restuarants. His camera would go ‘click cluck…click cluck…’ before he reverently consumed the delicious dishes set before him. If you see him shooting at the name of the stall/restaurant, you knew that he approved of the cook. Sometimes, he would also compose a cheer for the stall!

Matt is a funny guy and sees the humour in the hum dum of life at large. He cracks at almost everything and paints people with a comical streak. Funny people often endear themselves to those around them. I admit that I’m one of ‘those’. :D And strangely enough, comical events tend to revolve around such funny characters too. For example, on his arrival at Changi Airport, his luggage has been mis-routed to Timbuktu and he was given S$120 to tide over his temporal inconvenience…incredible as the whole thing was (given that this is Singapore Airlines we were talking about) we had fun poking at the whole incident. Another funny incident happened recently too. He almost couldn’t clear the Malaysian border as he swam at Tioman with his passport in his pocket. A few customs stamps were totally washouts!

So Matt, the pleasure has been all ours to have you over at Rivervale-aka-a smaller dot in the red dot. We adore you, Matt. Till we meet again, take care and send our love to all your loved ones.

P.S. You know, I believe you missed your home at a subconscious level. The starry night skies? The plentiful trees and lush greenery? And where your loved ones are, that’s where your home is. :)

Honestly, we just didn’t know where we went wrong. After spending 25 days with us, our Ang mo friend Matt left Singapore weighing slightly less than he’d first arrived! Mind you, this is after stuffing him with the below items (and he had 30 roti pratas alone):

1. Paranakan Cuisine: laksa (Katong of course!), nonya curry, rojak, popiah, otah, mee siam, kueh kueh etc
2. Chinese cuisine: dim sum (e.g. xiao long bao from Din Tai Fung), clear soups, Hainanese chicken rice, duck rice (A* coffee shop), shrimp dumpling noodles (Rivervale Mall’s Foodcourt), Old Chang Kee Curry Puff, fried carrot cake , fried rice (Din Tai Fung’s), mee swa, three layer belly pork, chwee kway, fried oyster omelette, Chinese rice dumplings, coconut pancakes, curry yong tau fu, fried Hokkien mee (Punggol Plaza foodcourt), chinese pancakes, beef hor fun (Casaurina Rd), fried kway teow, dim sum & congee (Crystal Jade’s), steamboat, Jumbo seafood chilli crabs (revisit)
   
3. Malay cuisine: mutton / beef rendang (my mother in-law’s one is good), nasi lemak, nasi briyani, satay, lontong, mee rebus, mee soto, mee goreng etc
4. Indian cuisine: Roti prata (Compass Point Banquet the best!), teh tarik, teh halia, mutton curry, fishhead curry, naan, etc
5. Thai cuisine: green curry, mango and glutinous rice dessert, red rubies, sweet tapioca, etc
6. Local fruits: durian, mangosteen, malay apples
7. Misc: Mcdonald’s breakfast in Singapore, Yang’s Carbonara
8. Bak kwa, Jasmine Green Tea, chrysanthemum tea.

So we did miss a few items here and there. For instance, a follow-up visit to Jumbo seafood (we brought him there the first time he came in 2006), Casuarina Road’s beef hor fun (the place was closed for the afternoon), and a few popular Malay cuisine.

We’ve pretty much determined that the huge amount of food we force-fed him—including half a kilo of bak kwa we bought him to bring back—just still wasn’t enough to offset the incredible amount of walking he did while here in Singapore, Malaysia and Bangkok. We’re gonna have to wait for him to tell us how much did he walk up and down here, but we conservatively judge it to be at least 3-4 hours of it every single day.

Ling was thinking mournfully as we sent him off this morning at Changi airport when he’d be back. Personally, I don’t think it’d be too long. Matt’s already said he’ll be back for Singapore’s 50th birthday at least, but I think the beckoning of Compass Point’s roti prata is going to be too much for him. I’d give it 2 years.:)

I’m beginning to think I’m the harbinger of catastrophe. Here in Singapore, accidents of all measure occur in my vicinity while I’m off in one direction or another.

During my November, 2006 stay in Singapore I witnessed several traffic accidents, the most thrilling of which occurred in Chinatown at the corner of Mosque and Hill St. An avid motorcyclist began turning into Mosque St at a high speed; however, Mosque St happens to be a one-way road. The biker, seeing a silver Mercedes roll toward his direction into a lazy halt at the junction, too realized this. Quickly and as laid back as can be, the biker corrected his error and began to continue down Hill St. It turns out he overcorrected: the bike and its driver slid on their sides across the width of Mosque St’s outlet, and into a trash can (Singapore: Litter Free!). Onlookers screamed, motorists honked their horns, I cheered in approval—a better show I had not yet seen. But with much luck the biker and his bike recovered to their former upright positions and went off on their merry way, all in the span of perhaps 15 seconds.

The funniest traffic-related mishap occurred just outside Labrador Park. At the easternmost bus stop exists, I think, a bus-only lane. Further down the course is limited space for vehicles to park, but the mouth of the lane is restricted. This is because the bus requires a lot of room at its disposal to turn around. Now of course this doesn’t stop Singaporeans from driving through and even parking their vehicles along the entire length of the lane, and one such sod had the misfortune of coming in behind the bus as the bus driver attempted to turn around. It turns out that this eager parker had just occupied the very last bit of real estate required by the bus driver to perform his turnaround—and the bus driver let him know it. I do not speak Hokkien, but even so I felt like I learned every Hokkien curse word in the book. The driver’s verbal onslaught would’ve made a sailor blush. The subject of the tirade stood there like a red-headed stepchild, mouth agape. His hand was in the cookie jar, and the owner of that cookie jar was perhaps the foulest-mouthed scallywag to ever drive a bus. Finally, the cowed motorist snapped into action. But so quickly did he do so that, upon opening his car door in a mad rush, he slammed it directly into the black Mazda next to him, initiating an obnoxious car alarm and caving in a more than noticeable portion of his neighbor’s passenger door. (I wish I could describe the characteristic of the bus driver’s laugh in response, but words fail me. Know this: it haunts me still.)

A scarier incident happened only recently at the Dhoby Ghaut interchange. I approached the final descending escalator leading to the Northeast line. No more than two meters ahead of me was an elderly lady holding four plastic bags and seeming to have a rather tough time of it. As she granted her feet purchase upon the flat escalator procession, she staggered upright. It was a frightening sight. I honestly thought she’d experienced a brief, minor seizure, but she caught herself, gripping the rubber railing with her right hand. However, a second later—totally out of the blue—she tumbled backwards as the escalator formed into descending steps. She banged herself up pretty good, dropping her bags—two oranges tumbled to the very bottom of the escalator steps—and managing to scare the ever-loving shit out of me. I helped her up and grabbed her bags, but she was too dazed to notice. And then, upon reaching the bottom, she snapped right out of her funk, thanked me, retrieved her bags—though not grabbing the two battered oranges—and hopped aboard the Punggol-way MRT car. (And by the way, though there were people nearer by than I, not a soul did a thing but stare on in a kind of pacified astonishment. Not cool.)

Even more recently, and by far the most frightening yet, was the all-too-close opportunity to witness my first traffic fatality. A bicyclist proceeded south along Sengkang Ctrl where Compassvale Bow meets. He gave little credence to the no-walking light just as a motorist driving a pale-blue Kia hatchback and poised to make a right turn into Compassvale Bow nearly gave no credence to the jay-walker—or jay-rider, as is the case. My perspective from Compassvale Bow did not provide me an accurate assessment of just how near the collision these two fellows were, but take my word for it—it was close. The bicyclist had to dodge the incoming car by veering his bicycle sharply to the left. This last, split-second maneuver probably saved his life, as the motorist had only then applied his brakes. The sharp turn to the left did however ensure the bicyclist rammed straight into the 6-inch high median, which stopped his bike right in its tracks. The bicyclist was not so lucky, as the abrupt stop sent him flying, feet-over-head, over his handlebars and into Compassvale Bow’s opposite lane. Amazingly, the bicyclist immediately returned to his feet, raising an apologetic hand in the air toward the driver who, at this point, could do little but inhale short bursts of charged air into his lungs and seemingly not lift his hand from his horn.

All of these incidents fortunately involved no serious injuries, as far as I know. Nevertheless, it’s getting to the point where I’m afraid to even walk by The Quartz condominium project, lest I see some dazed worker plummet from the 15th floor to his death as I’m taking a leisurely stroll to Buangkok MRT station. I could count the number of accidents I’ve witnessed back home in all my life on one hand, but I come to Singapore and it’s as if I’m a magnet for disaster. If you see some ang moh wandering around your neighborhood, you’d best steer clear—but be sure to look in all directions before doing so, or it might be your last decision.

Along the hike up to the Treetop Walk near Bukit Timah, I smelled a distinct fragrance in the air. “What is that smell?” I asked. I just couldn’t place it, but it was familiar. Could it be lavender? No. Or it could be some sweet, exotic leaf or spice. Not likely, but damned if it wasn’t something fairly powerful. I bet it’s something really nice and unusual.

Then, Ling says, “It is insect repellent.”

“Oh.”

I sure could have used some of that during my brief walk through Punggol Park last night, but I doubt it would have helped. I strolled briskly around the lake, taking in the serene cityscape reflections shimmering whimsically upon its still surface. I wasn’t the only one: the place was packed with joggers, bicyclists, family picnickers, the occasional fisherman, and this perspiring ang moh yearning for a place to sit.

Through all this human traffic only one amiable park bench presented itself to me, and it beheld perhaps the most promising, uncluttered view of the park lake of all the benches. I thought to myself why this particular bench remained unoccupied. Indeed, several passersby seemed interested in a seating arrangement yet didn’t look twice at this vacant bench.

I thought nothing more of it, leaning back in relaxation as the twilight surroundings captivated me completely. That is, until about two minutes later when I felt the first of a dozen stings all across my body. An elderly fellow standing no more than four meters from me looked on as my body convulsed in a spastic, panicked dance.

“Ants,” he said, chuckling as he playfully slapped his wrist.

“Yes,” I replied, reciprocating his gesture with a few well aimed slaps upon my own arms, legs, neck, and back. “Ants.”

Use a metered cab—make sure it is metered!

This is obviously good advice. And like most good advice I’ve received throughout my life, I chose to ignore it. At the Bangkok airport, taxi stand in sight, I ducked through the revolving doors and toward the pavement. Within two seconds I felt like the prettiest girl at the prom. But these people didn’t want to dance, nor did they want to admire my bright, shining smile . . .

“500-baht!” shouted one man, placing his outstretched palm so close to my face that I read his future. It was thus: You will not be receiving my 500-baht in this lifetime.

A less anxious man next to him quoted the same figure, adding, “Where you wanna’ go?”

I pulled out my printed sheet with the picture of my destination. “Asia Hotel, please.”

“What? No way!” He and the anxious man laughed, their entire bodies jiggling with glee. It was the kind of laugh that slaps you right in your face. “That too far. I lose money for sure. Now for 800-baht, I take you to hotel.”

I tried to act like I’d done this before. “800-baht is too much.” I looked on as the Singaporeans who had flown with me jetted off in metred taxis. Meanwhile the two men rattled off a number of figures, each an attempt to justify their price. I pretended not to listen. After flipping on my sunglasses I began to proceed on.

They followed, but a third man equipped with a clipboard stepped up. “700-baht and I take you to your hotel. Have nice taxi just for you.”

“Huh?”

The man drew a “7″ with his finger. “700-baht.”

“No thanks.”

“Your hotel is so far away, much further than other places, plus there is huge airport charge. 600-baht is low as can go.”

“Funny, because I hear metered taxis go lower. Oh,” I said, looking forward, “there’s one now.”

“Wait, sir. They very slow. My taxis treat you right.”

“Treat me right for 500-baht.”

The man looked exasperated. “Come this way please; 500-baht.”

Pleased with my first haggle, though aware that clearly I was being played whether I liked to think so or not, I agreed. I followed the man and his scribble-addled clipboard across the departures traffic where upon he passed an invisible baton to an older man who I was then to follow. Already this was less fun than I imagined it. Into the trunk of the man’s Volvo did my suitcase go, with me following likewise into the rear passenger seat.

One wonderful feature of this car was the pristine, untarnished seat buckles. This made perfect sense when I noticed there were no seat belts to accompany them. It turned out not to be an issue. The man drove slower than paint dries whereas I had always heard the reverse was true of Bangkok cabbies. But he was an amiable chap. He mentioned that before long a train would be built connecting the airport to the city proper. “When comes, I no good anymore,” he said, chuckling at the prospect. “I look for another job already!”

I finally arrived at my hotel, a little later than I presumed but no worse the wear. And I had conducted my first bit of haggling, regardless of being royally screwed. At least it was consensual. But a larger problem loomed: the word was out that I could be easily had. Every hoodlum, trickster, and money-grubber in Bangkok was on notice. During my first jaunt out from the hotel I was confronted by a heavily tattooed man in his 50s, cigarette dangling from his mouth, who claimed to be raising money for the Boy Scouts of Thailand; a young woman who praised my watch and then claimed she had access to expensive jewelry for very cheap (“Buy now cheap and soon resale value go higher!”); and a dapper-looking fellow wearing an Alfred Dunhill leather café racer jacket who didn’t really need my money but, hey, if the stupid Caucasian was just giving it away, why not give it a try?

I could take no more: I needed a disguise:

This would have to do.

Not! This outfit would only attract more attention—and the kind I definitely didn’t need. But this goes to show what lengths I’m willing to go to just for a cheap laugh . . . or a cheap cry—you decide.

Speaking of which, I came across several transvestites during my stay. This isn’t an entirely uncommon thing to see in the United States, even in the more conservative Midwest region in which I live. One difference, however, is that the transvestites in Bangkok give the women a run for their money. Thai people are generally quite attractive but, darling, their transvestites are simply duh-vine.

But though Thai-trannies are the more attractive and hygiene-conscious, I’m positive Ameri-trans could whip the mother-lovin’ crud out of them in a fair fight. I say that because in a fight between real women, I always bet on the one with hairy legs.

Yet never did I run into a prostitute. Or, rather, never did a prostitute make herself known to me by way of a proposition. I’ll admit disappointment. I had tons of witty verbal comebacks planned for just an occasion but alas they never had the opportunity to be sprung forth. I guess I’ll have to save the witticisms for when the next time a stray dog attempts to hump my leg.

However, the bright and amiable schoolchildren of Bangkok definitely knew how to rock:

The day before my departure for Bangkok went by more quickly than I anticipated. Yang and Ling each had busy days, and I once again whiled away the morning at the The Rivervale awaiting word on the status of my misdirected luggage.

Sunday at the airport’s Lost and Found offices, the representative told me my baggage would arrive from JFK to Changi early Monday morning and to expect a call to set a time for delivery. Monday when I called their baggage-trace hotline the person on the phone told me with confidence that my luggage would arrive Tuesday morning. When on Tuesday my baggage did not arrive and the service respondent assured me Wednesday would be the day of delivery, I took a trip to Singapore Air’s offices on Orchard Road to speak in-person. (This was a great excuse to take in the sights, do some window-shopping and grab something to eat.) I was quickly put at ease by the service representative who, during his phone conversation with the trace hotline, practically cracked me up as his needled whoever it was on the other line. “If you do not receive your luggage tomorrow, sir, call and demand compensation. Here is my name and my card.” Fair enough!

***

On my way home I stopped at Guardian to grab some hair conditioner. Even in the U.S. my senses fail me when browsing through the health & care aisles. A misstep is bound to occur, and before I know it I’m in the feminine hygiene section before reaching my intended destination. In Singapore, however, I can feel the weight of clerk’s and attendant’s eyes as I wander aimlessly through one aisle to the next. So unlike in the U.S., here I’m content to ask for help.

I approached a man in his twenties busy with stocking what appeared to be bottles of shampoo. The hair conditioner could not be far off I reckoned.

“Excuse me, where is the men’s hair conditioner?” I asked.

“Ah, no idea,” he said. “Cannot English, lah.”

I smiled. “It’s okay, I’m sure I’ll find it.”

I turned to inspect the products to my left, but the conversation didn’t stop there. “Could be there,” he said, pointing to the upper shelves on our left. “Or even be maybe down there.” He pointed down toward the bottom shelves on which sat bottles plastered with images of smiling Asian women, their hair soft and glossy. His English was better than he thought.

“Okay.” I kneeled down to inspect his suggestion.

“But cannot English. So sorry.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“I speak Chinese only.”

I nodded politely as I scanned through the selection before me.

“Is just a matter of practice,” he said, placing the last of the stock from his basket on the shelf in front of him. “I must learn to apply myself.”

I felt like saying “Han na!” Clearly his English was better than that spoken by some of my friends in the States! After reciting a Shakespeare sonnet in perfect iambic pentameter, he broke away to the back office. Meanwhile, I settled on searching through the feminine hair care products looking for something neutral in scent. A lady from the counter approached me.

“You need help, sir?” From her tone she sounded like no problem was too large to conquer.

“Yes, I’m looking for hair conditioner. I can’t find anything that doesn’t smell like fruit.”

“Oh,” she said, kneeling down to join me, “you want to smell like fruit?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “not like fruit. These all smell like strawberry, papaya, or apples.”

“Okay. You want natural?”

That was the word I was looking for. “Definitely.”

“For dyed or treated hair?”

“No.”

“For damaged or thinning hair?”

This gave me pause. “No,” I said, reluctantly.

“Then this, perhaps?” She grabbed a slim, plain-looking bottle from the shelf and opened it part way. “Smell, please.”

“That is so natural,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

It turns out the product brand is Asience, its motto: For Progressive Asian Beauties. Now I might be progressive, but I am not Asian, much less a beauty. But this goes to show how even buying hair conditioner in Singapore for an ang moh can be an amiable little adventure.

***

Only on Wednesday, a full 72-plus hours after my arrival to Singapore, did I receive my luggage. That meant the small gifts I bought Yang and Ling had arrived, too. Now these were very, very small items, mere tokens of appreciation, some of which included fridge magnets. Yes, you read correctly. Yang mentioned before I left for Singapore that he and Ling were in the process of decorating their refrigerator, so I donated six thematically dissimilar magnets to their cause.

However, I couldn’t just come bearing fridge magnets. So I also bought a heavy Mario Batal Italian cookbook and Blade Runner Collector’s Edition on BluRay. I’d need more, though. While killing time in Compass Point during the morning of my arrival, Yang commented on how much Ling liked the macha macha cake at Bread Talk. (He in fact bought her the exact same cake for her birthday.) I had to admit, it sure looked good. This would be the perfect show of appreciation.

But I had little time. Yang and Ling were set to arrive home quite soon, and with my departure to Bangkok looming near, this would be my last opportunity. So I ran to the Buangkok MRT terminal, boarded the train, minded the gap, alighted in Sengkang, and rushed through the brief link to the mall. Happy, happy. I had plenty of time, though I’d need be delicate when transporting the cake back to The Rivervale. The human traffic was particularly high, so I took no chances—I’d walk from Compass Point mall back home.

Only upon arriving home and placing the cake in the refrigerator did I remember what I’d forgotten: gift wrapping and a Thank You card. I sprinted back to Buangkok MRT, boarded, forgot about that stupid gap, alighted once more in Sengkang, and stood in line at the basement-level grocery store with an armful of gift wrap.

But when I got back home I had no time to apply care and consideration toward the wrapping of the gifts. If I was a skilled gift wrapper like Ann, perhaps I could’ve managed, but I’m a complete novice. And beyond that, I was sweating like Oprah in front of a buffet stand. So into the gift bags did the presents go, with the gift wrap crinkled and stuffed haphazardly behind them, and loose ribbon dangling festively from the opening.

All in all, it felt great giving gifts. I should do it more often. In fact, to haul all the stuff I bought in Bangkok back home I’ll have to buy another luggage bag.

But no macha macha cake—too messy.

. . . AKA: The Mosquito Coast. Or so I’d been led to believe. So ferocious are the mosquitoes of Pulau Ubin, so insatiable is their thirst for human blood, that local custom demands that an ang moh devour a fried carrot cake before the clock strikes eight in the morn, thus ensuring the bumboat captains and all their passengers safe passage to their respective destinations. It turns out I was the man for the job. So after ducking into the seaside food court and doing my part to prevent unnecessary calamity (and having fully digested the delicious carrot cake and accompanying sides) the three of us hopped aboard an able captain’s bumboat and chugged across the watery gap to the island of abandoned rock quarries, Pulau Ubin.

The trip shore to shore takes but five to seven minutes tops, but the mosquitoes were particularly feisty. Reports poured in through the newswire warning of a frenzied mosquito swarm capsizing seafaring boats. We were sitting ducks. Yang’s shoulders were but temporary placeholders for his chin, his head swiveling rapidly side to side. Panic was in the air.

“These bastards mean business,” I said, my voice breaking. Yang didn’t respond; he was in full-on sentry mode.

With great fortune we and nine accompanying lucky souls arrived at Pulau Ubin. Other bumboats and crew, we were informed, were not so lucky. But in the spirit of adventure we sought to make good on their sacrifice, to explore where those ill-fated could not. But first, Yang and Ling sprayed and liberally rubbed each other down with insect repellant. Having indulged in the fried carrot cake only a half-hour prior, I declined such measures, believing fully in the prophecy.

Within minutes we found ourselves riding merrily atop our rented bicycles, darting with careful consideration and much precision through the morning traffic consisting of fellow bikers, near-sighted truck drivers, and oblivious tourists traipsing by without a care in the world. Yang, already on edge from the mosquito scare, began exhibiting signs of road rage.

“Careful,” I said, trailing behind as we ducked through the horde, “it’s been practically forever since I’ve ridden a bike.”

“Oh *&%@!,” he shouted back, “once you learn you never forget!”

Judging by his reply, it was too late to reason with him—he’d become unhinged, though not without his logic faculties. Yang alternated between colorful swearing and brief, corrective lectures as he bulldozed his way through the ignorant masses. Moments later the crowd parted in half to make way for the irate bicyclist and his cavalcade. As we passed by the cowed and quivering onlookers, I was only too proud to be among his party.

From that point onward it was nothing but smooth riding—if not for those blasted hills. Worse yet, Yang and I were quickly running low on soul coal though Ling showed no signs of slowing. “Where does she get that kind of energy?” asked Yang, squinting ahead as his bride breezed over the horizon.

“She’s trying to outrun the smell of that insect repellant,” I said between desperate gasps for air. “Hurry, or we’re going to lose her!”

With loving mercy Ling accepted our pleas and allowed us the occasional breather disguised as photo-op. Before long we barely attempted to cover up our lack of stamina.

“Look,” I’d say, “a rock I haven’t seen yet.”

“Oh,” joined Yang, parking his bike, “that’s no ordinary rock.”

“Oh?”

“It is very rare indeed. I’ve only read about ones like this in books.”

“Should we get a picture, you know, to document our find?”

“Definitely.”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Meanwhile the ever patient Ling rode in circles up and through the hillside, popping wheelies and soaring over potholes.

And speaking of potholes, as expected, there were plenty. A short while into our trek our bums were quite tender, and the jostling from the bumpy off-roads was nothing compared to meeting an unexpected crater in the paved roads. With every nerve-wracking, brain-numbing

During one particular stretch of road, something strange occurred to me. Sensing the unusual, I quickly turned around to head in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?” Ling asked as Yang took the opportunity to gasp for air.

“I’m heading back,” I shouted. “I think I missed a pothole on our way down this hill.” Sure enough I had, but this was easily remedied.

Wrack!

Perfection attained, it was time for a break.

We committed ourselves, feet to the ground, to a stroll along the beach-sprawling, wetland-dissecting boardwalk where we took in lots of sun and the infrequent wildlife sighting. Eventually we arrived at an observation tower, the top of which promised an imposing view upon the island. To reach such lofty heights, however, one must proceed to the giddy little top of said tower by way of the old reliable staircase.

“Where’s the lift?” asked Yang, his voice a study in mock incredulity.

Ling could only sigh. “Dear!”

But to the top we ventured, thinning oxygen and quaking legs be damned. The view was quite good, though nothing spectacular. There’s something about spying down onto the very tops of trees that feels wrong, like peering directly down at a balding man’s head. One should, above all else, retain dignity and duly allow others do the same. Still, we were in no hurry to descend those mother-loving stairs. It was about then that I spotted the cautionary sign which informed us that the maximum load was twenty people. We were a good ten to fifteen over the limit already, with more gaining every minute.

“Great” Yang said, “maybe I won’t have to use the stairs after all.”

Soon after we collected our bikes and decided to call it a day. We careened over the hills and through the ever increasing crowds, returned the bikes, boarded and survived the return bumboat back to the mainland, and, upon returning to the air-conditioned comforts of home, breathed a sigh of relief. Not one of us had experienced a single mosquito bite, much less succumbed to malaria, and we persevered where others, sadly, had failed.

If there’s one thing I learned from my day in Pulau Ubin, it is this: for the repelling of mosquitoes, choose fried carrot cake over insect spray—not only does it taste good, but it smells better, too!

Well played, Singapore. Not only at the end of each night did you relentlessly stuff me until I waddled back to The Rivervale like a cross-eyed duck, but your strategy of playfully misplacing my luggage for over 72 hours was a nice touch, the disarming blow that made your initial victory possible. I bow to your tactics and intend to come back from Bangkok poised for sweet revenge. But know this: I still weigh .4 kg less than I did when I arrived. You have much work to do to win the war of the bulge, as I’m prepared at a moment’s notice to skip the MRT and opt instead to run to and fro to destinations, unsightliness be damned.

I know—during my last visit I was smug. Yang and Ling, armed with the knowledge that I ate like a wild hog tied down to a buffet bar serving fresh slop yet still left for home in November 2006 weighing less than I did when I arrived, have stepped up their game a notch.

With little to no sleep and no luggage, my merciless hosts escorted me to Banquet at Compass Point late Sunday morning. I thought it was simply routine when they plunked down a tray heavier than my carry-on bag stuffed with camera contraband upon the seating table. Its contents: roti prata, and a lot of it. It was then, studying their expressions and devilish grins that I realized I was the victim of foul play.

Knowing full well that I would have no other recourse than to scarf it down, chasing it with a cup of teh tarik—and do so with a smile, thank you very much—my hosts had played a card from a truly fiendish hand.

I was overmatched.

And then even dinner at Yang’s mum and dad’s place, a truly lovely gesture for which I am eternally grateful, was the site of unfair treatment of this particular ang moh, feeding into the very nature that may ultimately serve to destroy him.

Yang’s mom prepared the most appetising and visually drool-inducing spread of Asian-style food I’d ever seen in person, yet even this incredibly gracious and hospitable gesture was, in fact, yet another attempt to stuff the ang moh until he could do nothing but submit to the wholesome goodness of homemade Asian cuisine.

At least I was not alone. Yang and Ling were also victims of the very methods in which they wished to delude me. On the ride back home the three of us were so full we took turns tapping each other on the back, burping each other so we could fit into the elevator back home.

So Mrs. Foo, you deserve to share this victory alongside your country. I humbly bow to your expertise, and only hope I may prepare myself for our next encounter. Even your leftover beef rendang over sliced bread, which we ate the next night, decimated any chance of my bounce-back victory on Day Two. I am no match for you! The score for now:

Singapore and Mrs. Foo 1, Matt 0. (Yang and Ling are at approximately 0.5 by my scorecard, so I have the chance to catch up.)