Hereafter Today, Gone Tomorrow

Confucius says: We should keep the dead before our eyes, and honor them as though still living. The Chinese do just that every April during Qingming, Tomb-Sweeping Day. It is an occasion for the living to remember the dead. Families gather in cemeteries to tidy the tombs of their ancestors. Descendants provide support and comfort to their dead relatives in the afterlife by offering them food and drink and by burning incense. They also burn paper play money and other items made from paper such as clothing, jewelry, houses, cars, appliances – even iPads! It is believed that the family will have a prosperous year if they follow this custom. Qingming is an ancient tradition that dates back to 770-476 B.C. This year, the tradition will die for many Singaporeans.

Dental Stuff

   

Thermoses

Paper Money

Watches

Purses

  

Scooter

iPad and iPhones

Fan

Haunting news in the city-state is the government’s plan to pave over another cemetery. Bukit Brown cemetery, one of the world’s oldest and largest Chinese graveyards outside of China, is slated for destruction. I first mentioned Bukit Brown in my blog entry, Rent in Peace. It is more than a cemetery. It is a nature preserve where gigantic, mature trees provide homes for a variety of birds and shade for nature lovers and joggers. It is an enchanting heritage site where the jungle entangles elaborate graves - some dating back to the1830s. The

government will move this heavenly earth to make way for an 8-lane highway and public housing.

Brave souls have signed a petition to save Bukit Brown. In a country where it isn’t customary to lobby the government or speak out against the word of law, it is unlikely there will be enough signatures to bury the project. Earlier this month I returned to the cemetery as the sun was rising. A rooster was standing on a tomb heralding the new day. The agency in charge of the 5,000+ exhumation, the Land Transport Authority (LTA), had a banner stretching across the entrance with an office trailer underneath. The LTA will cover the cost of the removal, the cremation, and the columbarium at the only cemetery still in operation: Choa Chu Kang. Or, if the family prefers, the LTA will scatter the ashes at sea when it is convenient for the agency. If the living isn’t happy with the government options for the dead, then the family is expected to pay for the removal and all costs that arise from it.

My recent outing to Bukit Brown coincided with Qingming. It is inspiring to watch families celebrating on the tombs of their ancestors. After they weed and scrub clean the gravesite, they layout the food: chicken, oranges, rice, coffee, etc. To entice their ancestral ghosts to the feast, they burn joss stick (incense). One-by-one the relatives kneel before the headstone and pray. Next to the tomb sits the stack of paper joss (paper offerings) with the paper play money fanned throughout the pile. It is set aflame. Once the flame dies down, the family gathers around it and throws paper strips in the air while shouting “Huat! Huat! Huat!” Prosper! Prosper! Prosper!

The colorful paper mound turns to ash in seconds, but one color in Bukit Brown cemetery remains. Red-tipped sticks marking the graves slated for removal and red-slashed tree trunks marking the fall.

People Eating in Singapore

What is Singapore’s favorite pastime? Shopping? Soccer? Chewing gum? One day in the city-state is all it takes to discover that the favorite pastime is eating. From high-end restaurants to common hawker centers, exotic foods are served – turtle soup, chicken feet, and the politically incorrect shark fin soup. Out of all the strange and wonderful concoctions I’ve tried, Soylent Green is my favorite.

The island nation is hot and crowded. Every day the temperature promises to reach beyond 80-degrees with 100% humidity. 4 million people live in an area roughly three times the size of Washington DC and the population is growing. That’s a lot of mouths to feed. Thank goodness Soylent Industries has created a delicious and nutritious cuisine. It is a real people pleaser here and is almost as popular as the country's signature dish, chicken rice.

Soylent Green is best compared with tofu. It comes packaged in a block, but is green and stiff. People prepare it in all the same ways as tofu. But where tofu lacks backbone, Soylent Green has a full-bodied flavor which is head and shoulders above its distant cousin.

I will miss Soylent Green when I leave Singapore. But who knows on what distant shores it will one day appear. Soylent Industries’ officials boast they have an endless supply to feed the world. As long as the population grows, so will its product. Soylent Green is people.

Walk This Rae

A friend of mine was planning her first trip to New York City and asked me what she should do to not seem like a tourist. That’s easy. All she had to do was dress from head-to-toe in black, never make eye contact, and be prepared to hear fuckin’ in everyday speech.

When I was preparing to move to Singapore, the thought of looking like a local didn’t cross my mind. No one was going to confuse this Caucasian Midwesterner of being remotely Asian. Just because I didn’t look like a native didn’t mean I shouldn’t act like one. As an American expatriate it was important for me to learn and adopt local laws and customs. Some actions I was happy to follow like no pointing, never leaving chopsticks resting in a bowl of rice, and not think it rude to slurp hot noodle soup. Other actions, however, I am far too considerate to abide.

About three times a week I grocery shop. Rather than stock up with a trip or two a month, I prefer to shop as I need things. Whenever possible, I walk to and from the stores. Not too long ago I was walking home from the store with a bag in each hand. I was walking along a 3-foot wide passage between two apartment complexes lined by a fence on one side and a cement wall on the other. A woman was approaching in the opposite direction. As we got closer I squeezed my bags tighter to me so we could pass without touching. She shuffled as far left as possible and I shuffled right. All of the sudden, from behind me a man tried to pass by my right side, knocking me with such force that my body and bags smacked into the passing woman. The Englishman took a few steps before turning around to face me. He said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been in Singapore too long.”

Walking in the city-state is a contact sport. The society’s deep-seeded belief of kiasu (do whatever it takes to “win”; never lose face) extends to sidewalks. They never give way; never surrender. Whenever I approach two or thee locals walking side-by-side on a sidewalk, they’ll make eye contact as they remain in their positions forcing me off the sidewalk and often times into the street. It isn’t because I am an American, a woman, or because I wear wingtips with dresses. They're equal opportunity sidewalk hogs sparing no man, woman or child no matter race, religion or nationality. Forget a Mexican standoff. This is a Singaporean standoff. A success on the sidewalk is a success in life.

Native New York pedestrians don’t play that game. Locals wake up feeling 10 lengths behind. They don’t have time to horse around. In order to keep pace, they find the holes in the packs and walk between and around to get to where they are going with as little resistance as possible. NYC isn’t called The Big Apple because they play chicken. The moniker comes from horseracing circles of the 1920’s. A thoroughbred’s greatest treat was a big apple. Arriving without incident at one’s destination is the New Yorker’s greatest reward.

There is no moniker for Singapore. If I had to create one by picking a fruit I’d call it The Big Durian. In Asia, the durian is known as the “King of Fruit.” It is larger than a cantaloupe, but smaller than a watermelon. The outer skin is thick and thorny and the flesh inside is creamy rather than juicy. It has a warming effect so it is advised not to be eaten while drinking coffee or alcohol. Because its overpowering odor is similar to a rotting corpse, it is banned from most public buildings and apartment complexes. Taking a durian on any public transportation carries a $500 fine. Singapore is hot and the pedestrian’s prickly, king-of-the-hill attitude on the city streets really stinks! SGP. The Big Durian.

Many seasoned tourists don’t want to look like tourists when they visit foreign cities. When I’m on the streets of Singapore, I don’t mind being polite and standing out as a newcomer. If anyone plans to visit and wants to know how to behave as a local, it’s easy. Be the cock of the walk.

Illegally Blond

A bad hair day along the Straits can easily extend into a bad hair week. The humidity and rain turn hair into a frizzy mess or a weighty mass. Add a hair color treatment to the mix and the bad hair day can turn into a bad hair month. Stylists try their best to match roots dyed in salons on western shores, but it never looks quite right. It leaves many expats going months without a cut and color – growing it until a visit to the home country. The woman who attended to my hair at my latest salon appointment explained why. Only in Singapore can a hair color be illegal.

Most stylists around the world will agree that Asian hair is different from Caucasian hair. Asian follicles are rounder and thicker. Cut the same hair style on each head and it will lie differently. I used to think the same was true for color. The same dye applied to different follicles produces different results. When I was living in Tokyo and had my hair colored I could actually see a horizontal line around my head where the old hue met the new. For the past two years I waited for trips back to the US for cuts and colors. By my third year it was time to ask: will I continue to make do or dye?

Armed with the hair color formula from my trusted stylist back home, Todd, I was determined to find a trusted colorist here. I emailed Schwarzkopf, the professional hair-care products manufacturer, for a list of salons carrying their products. They promptly replied…in German. My friend translated it as saying, in essence, “Thanks for the inquiry. Do not respond to this automated message.” My friend also got a big laugh – here I was looking for blonde dyes from a company whose name means “dark hair.”

After that dead end, I decided to canvas the island nation. I kept a copy of my hair dye numbers in my wallet at all times. Whenever I walked past a hair salon, I’d pop inside and ask about their hair dye products. After about a month I spotted a Chinese salon with the Schwarzkopf logo in the window. The receptionist didn’t speak a word of English, so she flashed me the universal hand signal to “please wait” – the extended index finger. A colorist with her sample books approached the desk. I handed her my formula and she flipped through her books. In broken English, she told me that my dye number is too high for Singaporean salons. The color volume in most salons goes up to 10, but my color goes to 11. She explained that it is illegal to import and use hues that go higher than 10. Because the dye manufacturer was the same, she was confident she could match the color. I booked an appointment. Who wouldn’t trust a Chinese colorist with pink hair?

From start to finish, the salon visit was incredible. When I returned the next day for my appointment, I was greeted by the same receptionist. Silently, she led me to an empty chair. Then she handed me a narrow mug with a lid on it. Hot tea to sip with a cover to keep hair clippings from falling in. Another young lady draped me in a black plastic cover, then pinned a towel around my neck and shoulders and handed me a stack of Hello and OK! gossip magazines. The colorist and an assistant wheeled over a cart of dyes and foils and got to work. The two of them worked silently as they painted my hair and folded it in foil. Sitting there with people attending to my comfort while two stylists efficiently processed my hair made me feel like one of the famous women from the glossy pages getting ready for a red carpet event.

The star treatment continued. I sat under a humming rotating dryer. The colorists returned from time to time to check under the foils. When it was done to her liking the young woman who draped me returned and removed the foils. She then took a plastic bottle from her apron. The opaque bottle was the same one used to hold ketchup and mustard at stadiums and BBQ joints in America. Sitting in my chair, she squeezed a dollop of liquid on the top of my head. She began to massage my head. It felt good. Then she took another bottle and squeezed water directly on my head. The massage continued, working my head into lather. She was washing my hair as I sat in my chair sipping my hot green tea and reading magazines! When she was finished she motioned for me to stand. I followed her to the backroom where a row of sinks stood. Rather than the usual big chairs attached to the sinks, this salon had full-length reclining chairs. They even had a blanket to cover me. She massaged while rinsing. At that point I didn’t care if my hair turned purple. I was the reclining Buddha who had reached Nirvana.

My hair looked good! I never did independently confirm if certain hair colors were against the law. After such a lovely experience, I wasn’t dying to get to the root of the issue.

"O' Zapft Is!"

Wearing the traditional Lederhosen and Dirndl, we tapped into the Swiss Embassy's Oktoberfest celebration. Bierleichen!

Personal Fowl

At the end of summer but before the new school year, waves of expatriates leave Singapore. They’re either heading back home or off to another hardship posting. With the wave comes a flood of going-away parties. When I ask the great departing, “What will you miss most about Singapore?” the usual response is, “Well I’ll tell you what I won’t miss” and then they rattle off a long list. When my time comes, I’ll miss one aspect: the birds.

I’ve already been here longer than Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, the Father of Singapore. I can only imagine the variety of birds he discovered and heard when he landed in 1818. When I first landed, the only exotic birds I saw were the garish women adorned by ostentatious gems and gargantuan handbags! I didn’t exactly expect to see an Asian Crested Ibis in the urban jungle, but I did expect to find a few fine feathered friends.

Singapore has several species of everyday birds I’ve never seen nor heard of before moving here. It also has a few with which I am familiar: dove, crow, pigeon and sparrow. Common birds have unusual-sounding names, but are no more special than those found in America. For example, the Olive-backed Sunbird flits around adding a dash of color to the cityscape, just as the Cardinal does in North America. Another ordinary bird, the Javan Myna, has the thieving eyes and characteristics of the Blue Jay. After months of seeing only the regulars I began to think all rare birds had been spirited away to Jurong Bird Park like all the residents being relocated to government issued high-rise HDB flats. After watching a visit from the Pestman I was convinced.




Olive-backed Sunbird






Javan Myan





Pink-Necked Green Pigeon



Once a week our apartment complex is fogged for mosquitoes and pests. The Pestman, as he’s called, walks around in a hazardous waste jumpsuit and heavy-duty gas mask while a white cloud emanates from the jetpack strapped to his back. The residents are advised to stay inside when he is outside. When I was little, my brothers and sisters and I used to gather outside when it was time to fumigate the neighborhood. We would ride our bicycles behind the pesticide truck, Torco. How exciting it was to peddle down the street unable to see beyond our handlebars through the chemical fog. Although we survived the toxins, insects don’t stand a chance against the Pestman. The birds depending on small bugs as their food supply don’t stand a chance either.

One day, I was sitting in my apartment and I heard the staccato tenor of a bird. His tune stood out from the ordinary songs of the day. I sat silently and waited for it to sing again. Bap-bap-bap-bap. With that, I headed outdoors. The crooning ceased, but I stood in place. It sang again as its shadow flew over head it rattled my memory – I’d heard it before since moving to South East Asia, but where?

I set out walking my daily running route. With my head tilted back looking up like a New York City tourist, I walked twisting and turning under every tree on Ardmore. Past three noisy construction sights (the Malaysian and Tamil construction workers never catcall, by the way) I was beginning to lose hope. Crossing Orange Grove I heard bap-bap-bap-bap. Making as little movement as possible, I studied the branches of a tree on the grounds of the Shangri-La Hotel. There it stood high on a limb. A Hornbill! I was stunned by the unexpected sight. Smack dab in the middle of the city perched a jungle bird.



James and I first saw the Hornbill in Malaysia. It was a Giant Hornbill. The Giant Hornbills were so large we could hear the whoosh of their wings as they flew over us; their shadow nearly blocking out the sun. Transfixed by their size and their colorful bills, we watched the birds fly and land and call and eat from trees for hours. At half the size, “my” little bird was just as mesmerizing as the great one.

My neck grew sore and the Hornbill grew silent. It never sang again and finally flew away. Not only did I see the bird again, but I’ve spied with my little eye all sorts of other birds, such as a woodpecker, a Stork-billed Kingfisher, and even a rooster announcing the day from a fence on Nassim Road. Every day, I look up at the trees. Even if I do not spot the Hornbill, I’m always sure to hear his song. When I do I say, “Good morning, Mr. Hornbill.” Not because I think it a bad omen like spotting a single magpie in England, but because I want to show my respect and welcome him to the neighborhood.

Stork-billed Kingfisher pictured above

Dis Cord

My summer leave from Singapore coincided with my sister, Valerie, an adjunct professor, assigning her class to spend a day unplugged and write about the experience. For 24 hours her students were to go without pods, pads or phones. No movies, mobiles, or magazines. Texting, tweeting, and television were off limits. X-box was axed and electronic readers expelled. I accepted her challenge to turn off, tune out, power down.

Over the winter, our country house in New York was gutted. Walls were torn down, new electric and plumbing installed, and hard oak floors lain. While the contractor was able to make it livable for our summer vacation with a shower stall, kitchen sink and refrigerator, he didn’t connect television cable or a landline. There were no signals for Wi-Fi or mobile phones. We didn’t even have a transistor radio! With no electronic enticements, Valerie’s assignment would be a walk in the park.

My day unplugged was 9 July. James and I drove from Ohio to New York the day before. Family back home was waiting for a call letting them know we made it and family and friends in New York were waiting for word we’d arrived. I couldn’t make contact to confirm visits with friends made in advance. I brushed it off knowing that everyone would forgive me once they understood my predicament and my “assignment”. Without a care, James and I stood in the early morning sun looking across the meadow to the pond. He kissed me on his way to play golf and I set out to weed the garden.

Immediately I felt the effect of no media. When in Garrison, I wake listening to Morning Edition on WNYC. Then I tune into The Brian Lerher Show. My mind was free from the urgent chatter. For the first time weeding didn’t feel like a chore. It was as if I were weeding in rhythm with birds, cicadas, and the playful wrestling of the squirrels. I was thinking about the thanks I’d give Valerie for doing me the favor of weeding in peace. Then my stomach began to rumble.

My body talked and it asked for lunch. While eating my sandwich and chips on the patio table I found myself hungry for media. I liked the company of voices and/or reading the opinions of the day in the New York Times when eating alone. Left with my own thoughts, I began to question why I was on this media fast. Why did I decide to go without uncensored entertainment and free press - the things I craved most while living Singapore? Before I got too flustered I decided to grab an apple and return to the garden’s delight.

This time, however, instead of weeding being wonderful it was war. My thoughts quickly turned from bluebells and cockle shells to radio shows. Usually when I weed I have a battery-operated transistor radio by my side; never worked in the yard without it. I grew irritated by the sounds I thought tranquil in the morning. My garden tools became weapons. Stab, yank, throw. I do without my favorite programs while on the island-nation, why would I deny myself the pleasures while being home? Stab, yank, throw. I was missing This American Life and A Prairie Home Companion. Stab, yank, throw. But if I chose a weekday I’d miss The Leonard Lopate Show as well as Rachel Maddow and Jon Stewart. Stab, yank, throw. How dumb could I get? I was going to miss my ultimate joy, listening to John Sterling and Susan Wolman announce the Yankees’ game! Stab, yank, throw. Yeah, thanks, Val, for the favor! Stab, yank, throw.

I pulled weeds with the force and energy necessary to shovel a snow-covered icy driveway. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, I lay back on the stone wall. I stared at the carnage. The remains of enemy plants laid wilting and browning in the hot sun. I was breathing heavily, straining to hear if my body was asking for a Corona. Was it time to shuck corn? Fire up the grill? Should I expect James at any minute? I was feeling out of touch with the day.

After I caught my breath and surveyed the killing field, I decided to get a beer. It didn’t matter what time it was. I was on a vacation not a dis-mediation! My fury subsided with the suds and I gained control of the situation. I began to grasp the reality of my situation. I wasn’t missing communication, I was missing information. Surprisingly, I realized that my days were segmented by media’s schedules and not by visits to my inbox or wall. I listened to x program in the morning and read y periodical in the afternoon and laughed with z at night. With new insight the day grew delightfully long.

After weeding, I clipped flowers for a vase and unpacked the boxed household items. I found my transistor, but respected the radio silence. After sweeping the driveway, I took a long walk and thought how I appreciate that media and communication are 24/7. When I was growing up, TV stations would sign-off between midnight and 2:00a.m. MTV’s first year on air did not run videos 'round the clock. Today I can switch on anytime I want and satisfy any need I have. However, the news cycle is slow, postings are ordinary, and entertainment is predictable. What earth-shattering program or event could possibly happen one day that would not be rerun, recapped, rewritten or recycled the next?

James and I finished the night eating and drinking under the patio lights and night stars. He came home victorious from his day on the links. Because I felt victorious too, he agreed to finish the night unplugged. We had that what-could-be-better-than-this attitude. We laughed and talked about nothing in particular, often stopping to comment on the frogs croaking by the pond, the bats darting around and how everything tasted better than it ever had.

I learned two things after living 24 hours unplugged. First, the day is enjoyably long when radio shows, inboxes, message machines, and nighttime jokes don’t shape my waking hours. Second, the replay isn’t always as good as the real thing. I missed Derek Jeter’s home run 3,000th major league hit.