Away from home 39

Difficult the first time, easy the second.

The printing factory was situated “SOMEWHERE ” faraway. But to me then, SOMEWHERE was no different from “in the middle of NOWHERE”. It was my first experience of working and living way from my comfort zone, my home. It felt like an ISOLATION CAMP. If this place hasn’t had a name yet, I will call it BOREDOM PARK!

The two storey building with a drab shop-house design, stood lifelessly on a slab of concrete with ample allowance for a foot pavement. The ground between the road and the building was approximately 30 feet wide of loose sand and gravel. It made a crunching grinding sound against the tyres which at the same time stirred up balls of dust that danced around your nostrils and hair. To say it looked like an unfinished building site was an understatement. Not a potted plant of soft green nor a turf of green grass surround it. If not for the trees and scrubs on the opposite side of the newly built bitumen road, I would easily mistook as the barren crust of the moon.

Behind the building was a cliff that turned into a god-forsaken rubbish dump. An unsightly graveyard of building rubble and industrial wastes which would never be cleared. Uneven sewn off timber, twisted steel wire, broken glass panels, broken tiles, broken bricks, empty paint drums, cardboard boxes, leftover hardened cement piled into a sizeable landfill. The factory workers treated it as a dumping ground for our daily trash. Soon, the weeds grew. Then they grew taller. Wild flowers nodding their heads in the wind. It was a perfect cozy abode for rats.

Nearby was a flowing river which I assumed was the most picturesque part of the place. Unfortunately the view was obscured by an ugly structure, a concrete water reservoir. The river was frequented by local Malay boys who caught fish in the evening and crabs in moonlit night. They would sell the harvest to the workers.

Once a python was caught. The workers woke us up to share their “chicken” broth. While I was slurping away, the guy who drove me to work, kept a perpetual interest of how the chicken broth tasted like. Was it better than your mum’s chicken soup? The rest of the guys just stood around looking amused, anticipating a comedy to unfold.

I could sense fishiness. Was there a fly in the soup? Only when I kept spitting out one vertebrae after another vertebrae of the same size, I said, “What is it? It is not chicken!” They immediately denied. I said, “This chicken has a very long body!” They finally admitted it was a python. I almost threw up everything I ate.

This was Bandar Seri Begawan, capital of the oil rich nation, Brunei. The year was 1971. I was turning 19. The sultan of Brunei, with so much petrol dollars to count, became restless. So much money? Ferrari? Lamborghini? Ashton Martin? Please be more creative. My garage was already full to the brim. It was at that moment an idea was born. An industrial park. A park where you could see the gigantic signages of ICI paint, Nippon paint, Far East marine, or Fanta soft drink factories. I would give away my land free of charge. I would build infra structures, i.e. a road, electricity supply, sewage system, water supply, etc. That was how the printing factory was conceived. Unfortunately it was so ill-conceived the printing factory seemed to be the first to come and the last to stay. ( while I was working there). No investors seemed interested. So the building stood like a stand alone shadowy ghost motionless on the side of the new road.

But the printing business was booming. It monopolised all the printing work of the whole of Brunei. Orders of Government gazettes, invoicing and ordering stationery books, school magazines, wedding invitations etc kept pouring in. The factory was running at breaking point capacity. So more modern equipment like lithographs were purchased. There was overtime every night, including Sundays. I volunteered my free time at night, (mind you, TV was was unheard of in that era) and helped the girls with their work so we could chitchat.

All workers slept upstairs in separate male and female sections. The printing equipments and kitchen were downstairs. Two thirds of the building was occupied by the printing house and the remainder was a convenient store run by a Chinese couple from Sibu. They became our main provisions supplier, stocking everything from cigarettes, soft drinks, beers to canned food, rice and noodles except fresh produce.

When I arrived at the factory, I was dismayed at the poor quality of the food. I was not finicky about food. But how long could any one survive on canned food? It was so unappetising and lacked nutrition.

The convenient store owner was a skinny middle aged man who liked to pick his nose. He was, in my view, very underweight and undernourished. With the constant heat and humidity, he bared his torso and only wore shorts, revealing his rib cage which resembled the pattern of a laundry scrubbing board. His wife, in contrast, was plump and round. She had many questions to answer for her husband’s predicaments.

When I asked him a question, his wife would take over the answer. If he , by any chance, answered directly, his wife would rolled her eyes skyward and revealed the white part, the sclera, followed by a string of expletives in Fuchou dialect. That gave him an allergy to his eyelids which twitched like a butterfly in the strong wind. One of our girls roughly understood her tirade. Mainly calling us girls “Evil Foxes, sluts and the female genital part”. Obviously threatened by our youthfulness. Worried that we would snatch the bag of old bones from her. You are out of luck!!! Woman!!!

So we all lived on canned food and eggs, instant noodles, preserved fish and dried prawns. The factory didn’t stop work on Sundays. Breakfast was packets of flavoured instant noodles cooked in a big pot. I usually slept in on Sundays. By the time I reached for the noodles in the pot, it was more like starchy mashy baby food. I requested the boss of the convenient store to supply some fresh fruit and bread. The answer was a straight NO!

No one could be creative with canned food even if you are Jamie Oliver. It was canned food fried with canned food. Luncheon meat with peas one day, and dried Anchovies and peas soup the next. Looking at the food on the dining table, I didn’t think of starving children. I had pictures of the American soldiers who fought the Vietcong in the dense jungles.

No fresh fruits and vegetables, I started to develop a sluggish bowel motion. All young girls wanted to look good. To have young firm skin with no blemishes, a visit to the loo regularly was a must. If I didn’t take desperate measures, it was no difference from signing my own death warrant for my complexion. I would quickly develop wrinkles, black marks, acne, pimples, ulcers, rashes, fish scales and flakes. I would be totally disfigured. I ‘d rather be dead.

The three roommates worked on the printing floor. The bookkeeper and I worked in the office in Bandar Seri Begawan. Every morning one of the workers would drive us to the office in a pickup van, enroute to delivering completed orders and picking up new orders from the office. He was also responsible for picking us up after work.

I decided to do my own shopping after work. To walk from the office to the market under the scorching sun was not a fun thing especially for a girl of my age. Which girl did not dream of being a Snow White?

In this Muslim country, the pork butcher was situated far away from the main market. From the facade, it would be easily mistaken as a public toilet. With a concrete wall built to hide the front entrance. So it meant more walking for me. With both hands full of shopping, an umbrella was out of the question. Suncream lotion wasn’t born yet.

I felt guilty at first, thinking that it would cost more for every one. We had around 12 people living in the dormitory. My intention was self motivated. So, I paid for all the groceries first, kept a tab and only collected from the others their share on payday at the end of each month.

With the improvement on diet, my “plumbing system” regained its tip top shape. In fact every body in the factory was overjoyed. They probably had the same problem but no one talked about it. No more canned food, instead we had tofu, pork bone soup, steamed fish, vegetables, and all sorts of local fruit.

Someone’s gain was someone’s loss. As a result we stopped buying from the convenience store. The bosses were not happy. When the truth was known, she couldn’t handle the sight of me. I got an ashen face if ever I walked past her store. As if I cared.

Just when I started to enjoy my settled life, one new problem popped up.

Before I tell the story, you have to be briefed first. Have a concept of the aerial view of our spartan bedroom. There were four of us sharing the room. There were three bunker beds against three walls. Being the last to arrive, I took the upper deck on the left side of the door, where the switch was. I was responsible for flicking the switch by stretching my arm over my head as we said good night. Opposite my bunker is a window with mosquito screen. A desk was placed against the window. On top of the desk was a clutter of snacks. It was almost like a mini Seven Eleven store.

A thin layer of milo carelessly collected on the outer rim of the milo tin. Delicious biscuits left casually unsealed in a plastic bag. Roasted peanuts, groundnuts with shells, dry pork floss, etc in plastic jars. The three girls loved snacking on junk food.

Any rat that passed the fly-screen would make a detour back and salivate at the food. Not only that, this rat would tell another rat, then this other rat would tell it’s friends who told its friends. When the secret was no longer a secret, havoc followed.

So they started chewing away at the fly-screen with their sharp teeth, making a laceration big enough to come and go freely. Man , oh man, it was Christmas every night. Rats are the smartest animals in the world. The hole they made was right behind the milo tin, not too big to be seen by us, yet not too tight for them to come and go. We were entirely shrouded in total darkness. When did it happen? How long had this been going on?

Until one night, we were all awaken by the clang clang clang of a metallic thing hitting the floor. I immediately reached for the switch. It was the lid of the milo tin. There was this furry tubby-tabby creature, caught red-handed, escaping for its life. It scrambled down the desk, and headed towards the end of my bed. Then right on top my feet, gnashing with its teeth. Its little sharp claws tickling my toes. I kicked my legs up in the air to shake it off. The force from my vigorous swing torpedoed it through the air and it crash-landed right on my face. A spooky encounter of face-to-face and eye-to-eye. I zipped up my lips. I didn’t want a rat in my mouth cavity. And immediately sat upright like a corpse. It lost its grip on my slimy face from applying too much facial night cream. Unable to hang on, it dropped like a ton of bricks with a heavy THUD onto the floor. Then it picked itself up, legs on fire, scrambled up the desk and ran behind the milo tin, and dissolved into the darkness.

There was a long silence in the room because all our hearts had stopped beating. Mine especially. Then we realised we had to scream. So we all started screaming which vibrated the whole factory floor. Everyone gathered in our room then, checking for more rats. And behind the the milo tin, there was needless to say a big cavity.

The guys quickly did a make-shift barricade using sticky tape on the mosquito screen. We went back to sleep thinking that the war on rats was over.

The next morning the supervisor suggested we should keep a cat. This idea remained just an idea. Where could we find a cat? Who was to do it? We were all foreigners in a foreign land.

So you can imagine my horror. While I was showering in the bathroom, soap bubbles all over my body and looking straight into the eyes of a tiny visitor crouching on the corner of the bathroom. No, no, no, sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t react like the girl from the famous bathroom scene of the movie “The Psycho”.

I was perfectly calm and composed. Previous experience turned this into a déjà vu.

It was just another rat. Take a look at it and take a look at me. Who was bigger? Who was mightier? I could squash it like a bug! I even felt a little curious about this little creature with little round erect ears, pointed snout and long scaly tail. As if in meditation, it’s snout touching the floor. Why the sad face? It looked like it was in a daze, sedated and floppy. Not moving or attempting to make a move. Judging by its big lumpy stomach, I suspected it was either sick or in labour pain.

“Hey, this is not a maternity ward! Go away!” I begged with a whisper.

If I had a gun, I would shoot and run. No, first I had to rinse away all the foam, dry myself and put on my clothes and then make a speedy exit. But if it suddenly ran towards me, I would, yes, I would make a loud ferocious MEOW to show I was the boss. So I quickly dried my body and put on my clothes. Rushing to the door might wake it up. So I inched gingerly towards the door. All that time, it maintained that same meditation posture, ignoring me!

I told the factory guys about it. They said it was the rat poison they placed everywhere. Dying of thirst, it ended up in the bathroom seeking water. They said I was lucky it didn’t pop up from the toilet bowl while I relieved myself.

“Great idea! Remove that damn thing, now!” I yelled.

To one of god’s divine creations, which provides me an unforgettable close encounter so as to get to know them better, I have one word for them, EEEEEECK!!!

Back to the past 38

The old aged home is situated in a quiet suburb not far from my home. Too far to walk and too near to drive. Since Dad suffered from dementia, he had been a resident of the old aged home for about two years.

He, the happy rambler, wandered off a few times from the low security block into the neighbouring streets and was finally escorted back by kind residents of the neighbourhood. Similar to a prison escapee, he broke the law. There was a price he had to pay.

There was this visiting van which came to the age-care once a week. The residents could buy all kinds of lollies, chocolate, chips and cans of light beer. Dad had a little money pouch that I made sure it was always topped up to $20. He enjoyed his weekly beer. That happy wandering costed a lot of demerit points, losing his “licence” to purchase alcohol. He was transferred to maximum security section. Unfair and cruel! Why not erect a fence around the whole property so that the residents could still take their walks inside the compound?

The entrance to this prison block was electronically locked, only to be unlocked by punching a set of numbers. I, as his daughter, the closest relative, was given the code for the convenience of visiting. Infrequent visitors would have to communicate through an intercom first before entry was allowed.

My visit was every Sunday religiously. After I punched in the code, the door buzzed and slid open. I then walked through a short corridor. Dad occupied a bedroom on the left side of the corridor. The right side was the spaceous dining area which could fit six round dining tables. Looking directly to the end of the corridor was a floor to ceiling glass panel where you could look into a little garden. A bit of shrub and some flower beds. There was a bus stop and a bus shelter. The bus stop had the bus numbers painted on, 240 to city, 241 to market. Much like a children playground.

As soon as I got through the sliding door, I saw an elderly lady leaning against the wall She was all dressed up. She wore a grey wig. Why did I assume a wig because it looked synthetic. Every hair was in its perfect place. A bit clown like. With make up on, necklace, stockings, heels and a handbag, she was all geared up to go to a party.

I said hello to her. She might be waiting for her family to pick her up for a day out. Instead she asked me, “Do you know the bus has left?” Her imaginary bus had never come and had never left.

“Lets go and eat first.” I said.

She followed me to the dining room. One of staff greeted her cheerfully, “Liz, you are back! How was your lunch?”

“I had ice cream.”

Once entering the dining area, I saw my dad’s weak stooped frame. Always the same seat with the same people. It was lunch time. Dad seemed pleased to see me. I pulled a chair and sat next to him. He had his usual crust-less white bread, carrot soup, and colourful jelly. Since he lost his dentures, he only ate soft food. I used to bring home cooked food for him. But he said he preferred the white soft bread.

He was quiet normally. That day, he whispered under his throat and threw glances at the lady opposite.

“I want to change seat!”

“Yeah?”

“That woman swears too much!”

“She swears?”

Only then I found out from the staff that the lady suffered Alzheimer’s.

“I don’t want food! How dare you force me to eat?” Worst case, she would flung her soup onto the staff. They resolved to spoon feed her, and made her wear a bib. Like a toddler, she couldn’t sit still. In the end she was constrained in an over-sized baby high chair. She sat in the chair, rocking happily, banging or waving her spoon and let the mashed potato flying everywhere or finger painting her own face with jelly.

There wasn’t much my dad and I could talk about at the dining table. He seemed to recognise me, but forgot my name.

Halfway through the meal, an elderly resident stood abruptly next to my dad, babbling equivocally. My dad replied in Hakka, “Ai yah, you had three already!”

Three what?

Then dad reached his hand into his dressing gown’s pocket. Instead of pulling out a rabbit, Dad pulled out a white rabbit lolly (大白免糖). Dad’s favourite from Chinatown. The old bloke eagerly wanted to grab it from dad’s hand. Dad deftly moved his hand away, “you don’t eat the wrapping!” He carefully undid the wrapping with shaky hands. The old bloke waited patiently. As soon as he saw the naked lolly, he wanted it. Again, dad waved his hand away and said to him in commanding Hakka, “open your mouth!” (開嘴!). He obediently opened his mouth. Dad gingerly put the lolly into the hollow of his mouth and said in Hakka of course, ” hold it carefully, don’t drop it!” (唅緊佢）The elderly did exactly that and went back to his seat.

There was no language barrier? What language barrier?

No wonder, dad always requested for constant supply of “big white rabbit” lollies! He was Mr. Popular! And was it why the expensive box of chocolate his grandson won for competition gone within a week!

After his lunch, we always went for walk round the blocks. I put a beanie on for him. That was the time we did a lot of bonding. I held his arm tightly, while he, held a walking stick. His walking stick was no longer the one I bought him. And he was not wearing his own clothes any more. He lived in a community then. They shared his lollies, and everything. I was sure he shared other elderlies Italian, Greek and Anglo Saxon cookies too.

He would pause outside the same red brick house and told me the owner sold coffins. He pointed to the empty car porch and said, “look, so many coffins!”

Or he would stop in front of a lamp post. He looked at the post as if there was a notice stuck on top, and wondered why his name didn’t appear in the next week’s roster. Or the supervisor had short-paid his last month wages.

Many times we sat together in his bedroom, he would tell me Ma was sitting right next to me. He said your Ma came every day. He pointed to the shrub outside his window.

“See there, in the bush, hidden a few “mata”. Mata means police in Hakka.

“Mata?”

“Yes, they want to take your Ma away! I am not afraid of them. I have this.” He rummaged under the mattress and out came a shiny butter knife. It looked more comical than anything sinister.

“OMGosh, you cannot keep this.” I snatched it from him. “Don’t you do that again! Ma is not in danger!”

Well, he did it again. He brought chaos to the whole age care centre. All kitchen cupboard and drawers were installed security locks. He was transferred to a mental hospital for examinations for three months. During this time, I shed a lot of tears for him.

Here is a little poem I wrote for my dad:

I want to know

If you really have left

you bring back millions of ghosts

now you are sitting on my bed

Your shadow shapes abstract on the bedsheets

I am going to forget you

Little by little, bit by bit

till I cannot recognise you

till my brain cannot recall

The wisdom of shanghainese 37

Every Saturday and Sunday, old man’s family gathers for lunch. All for the love of the matriarch, my mother-in-law (MIL). MIL chooses the venue. It is always a painstaking chore to pick one among a very few of her favourites. As for her children, always the hesitance to commit. Because it takes many phone calls to organise even though it is a weekly event. Everyone is waiting for someone to make the first move.

These are the unique culture and characteristics of Shanghainese. They think microscopically and act economically. As if left in the middle of safari, where hungry lions and tigers roam, or in a shark infested water, they are constantly alert for telltale signs of imminent dangers. But on the other hand, they have their feet strongly grounded. Sometimes due to too many tedious facts, calculations, detailing, considering and planning, the see-saw will tip too much and crash, letting their feet bogged down in the mud. That is because: Man proposes, God disposes.

It definitely has a lot to do with their mahjong culture. Mahjong was invented in Ningbo, part of Zhejiang province. Skill is required. You watch like a hawk your right side opponent, stare hard at the one opposite, and be defensive of the left. Unlike the Japanese GO 圍棋, you lose some to win. Not mahjong, you kill kill kill all the way. No mercy. Unlike the western Bridge, you need a partner for strategic moves. Not mahjong, you fight single-handedly.

Put it simply, they don’t accept imperfections. A habit to find faults with everything. They are able to pick a bone from inside an egg. No no no. They can see a bone through the egg shell.

Before they reach for their wallets: DOES IT WORTH THIS MUCH? Let MIL audit first! It is not just simple additions. It entails thorough scrutiny of every item charged. If an item is charged twice, a lengthy check of the bill passed from one hand to the other. Who ordered the second dish? I don’t remember having one whole glutinous rice cake? I sit back, passively waiting. After seems like a whole hour past, MIL gives the final green light ‘GO’ to pay.

Oh god, tell me something that I don’t know about the golden rule: You only pay what should be paid for, since the dawn of civilisation! Sure, sure. I always believe time is money. So is it necessary to check like a team of archaeologists and forensic experts that the restaurant owner has a shady habit? Or just hoping against hope, the prawn dumplings have miraculously slipped through a loophole?

Pulling out the plastic cards is yanking a tooth out without anaesthetics. When they buy a carrot, they want a free spring onion. When they pay for a bunch of spring onion, they want a free carrot. Their dollar always stretches further than mine.

Who are turning up? Three people only? Do you know there are always four dumplings in a bamboo basket? Minimal four, or multiple of four is ideal for yum Cha . It is not strange. It is full of shanghainese logic as stipulated in the law of mahjong, Four players, four winds, the north, east south and west and the tiles of four flowers of four seasons, plum, orchid, chrysanthemum and bamboo.

Whose turn to pick up MIL? Sometimes, it is pretty straightforward. MIL chooses her entourage.

Keeping time is for majong only. If the lunch is 12pm, you have to clock back half an hour. Otherwise, old man’s siblings will turn up at 1pm.

MIL also decides the route. Never use main roads. Why, isn’t it obvious the shortest distance between two points is a straight line? Not according to MIL. Traffic lights delays cause frequent idling and accelerating. Bad for the car engine and petrol usage. Pick the meandering back lanes.

“It feels a longer way.” I said.

“You don’t know anything!” 你懂什麼？

She is our weather girl. She remembers the weather forecast throughout the week. She is also an independent authority for petrol price surveillance. She can tell her children where, when, to pump or not to pump. She is always curious how much I pay for e.g. Salmon cutlet. She believes I am muddled-headed and always pay too much.

“$23 per kilo.”

“Tsk tsk tsk, you pay too much!太貴了！”

“It was $29 before the sales.”

“I can get it $19.”

“Okay.”

Next time when she asked, I lied, “$19.”

“Expensive!”太貴了！

“How so?”

“Coles, three years ago! Only $16.” I can’t remember things happened three minutes before. Oh, boy. She is 96. This is the privilege you earn after turning 90.

After sorting out the venue, number of people and the weather, comes one big question! Is there a carpark nearby? If there is, is it free? If it is free, for how long? 20 minutes? What is the good about that? It takes half an hour to audit the bill! Maybe we should try another restaurant.

There are two important electrical devices in MIL house. A radio and a TV. If the radio station’s weather forecast doesn’t agree with the tv channel’s, MIL and eldest daughter will go into a hot argument.

“I just heard on the radio 16 degrees.”

“The radio is never spot on. The TV said 16.5 degrees.”

“But that TV announcement was half an hour ago.”

Looks like a situation of a hung parliament, MIL is determined to sort it out, now! She gets out of the house and back with a “No one’s right except me ” look: It is 17 degrees. Her words are L-A-W, law. She is right again.

Once we arrive at the restaurant, there will be a commotion from her loving children where MIL should be seated. Too near the front door, Ma can’t stand the draught. If the air conditioner happens to be right above, Ma will catch a cold.

Click click the fingers, “waiter, can you turn off the aircon? ”

Better check out the toilet? Ma better sits near the toilet! Click click the fingers, “waiter, can you move your toilet! It is too far for my old mother to walk.”

(Sorry, I am a bit carried away. )

After what seems like an hour gone, and all the fuss has been ironed out, she finally sits down and we can start ordering.

Then the decision about what tea? The waitress suggests chrysanthemum tea. They whisper amongst one another: beware, this is a cheap tea. They want to make more money. So? Oolong? Pu-er?

Pu-er please.

Pu-er is $3.50 per cup.

We will have water then. Warm water please.

Now the time to decide the food. There is an across the board unison: I am not hungry. Neither am I. I have no appetite today. I have eaten before I came. Don’t order too much. We don’t want leftovers.

This is before we decide what to eat? Why is that I am always the only starving one?

MIL’s eldest daughter always carries with her a little pair of scissors in a little hand-made pouch. No matter how many dim sums are in one bamboo steamer, she is able to cut them precisely in equal sized morsels to go around.

Before I am far from full, comes the dreaded unison: SO FULL! 飽死了！Followed by : SO SALTY! 鹹死了！ TOO OILY! The oil is RANCID. Quickly backed up by a commentary: so expensive and not nice to eat! 又貴又不好吃！

Which I totally ignore. I bet you next weekend we will be here again.

Deep down in my heart I have to emphasise the wisdom of the shanghainese regarding money. If they believe something that doesn’t add value to their lives, don’t expect one cent out of their pockets. On the other hand, they have no hesitation regarding educating their children. Be it music, art, calligraphy, photography, and overseas studies. There are GOLDEN BRICKS in books. MIL told me how their savings that was partly kept tightly in a big Milo tin, and partly sewn inside the couch cushion was spent on her eight children’s education.

She always regrets she herself never received a proper education.

“Otherwise, I will be a doctor now!”

She is absolutely right! I believe she, a perfectionist, will make a very very good doctor.

It’s a matter of time 36

I am dragged by my sister to her favourite massage parlour for a foot massage. My foot feels like a piece of dough while the masseur rubs, pounds, and kneads until I give out a loud Ouch! The masseur immediately softens his pressure.

“They are your ovaries! Weak!” He blames my retired ovaries which no longer have a shelf life.

My first reaction is: Really? My ovaries are still around? The ones that gave me pesky menopausal symptoms and osteoarthritis that I will have my hip replaced? Logically, they should have atrophied to the size of a sesame seed. They have done all the hard yakka of multiplying and fruitfulness for mankind. I am grateful and am sorry now that they are reduced to the status of an appendix.

His answer: “of course! They are your spare parts!”

At my age? Ovaries or no ovaries? Have or have not? Seriously, I don’t even buy green bananas any more.

On the other hand, I never think the first spare parts to go are my hip joints, porous and sieve-like, crumbly like cookies. There will soon be a demolition site. It will be sometime in late August.

My doctor only asks me one question after I tell him the pain.

“Can you cross your legs? ”

“Not any more.”

He not only prescribes medicine, he prescribes advice, ” Osteoarthritis! It is a matter of time! “. His fingers are busy on the keyboard.

“What time?” My heart almost stops.

“The sooner the better!” He murmurs.

“Yes,” My mind is made up. The conversation has “a run to the frontline and fight” profound meaning.

After the x-rays of my hip and knees were taken, then more blood tests, lung and heart x-rays to decide how fit I am for this operation are done. A date is fixed with my orthopaedic surgeon, a specialised butcher with the chainsaw and goggles, whom I am yet to meet. My doctor said, “when you see him, give him this letter, he will understand everything. After that it is between you and him. Good luck!”

“Yes, do or die!”

One evening I was watching the documentary about vets operating on a very sick dog, wearing a oxygen mask and tubes going in and out of its body. The golden threads in my brain flash out a big question mark? What spare parts of my body are still A Okay, B So So, and C Bin It.

Top my list is my pearly-not-so-white teeth, I am very proud to be the owner of my genuine bona fides set of teeth. No crowning, no bridging; the mercury-alloy fillings for the molars were done during my high school days in Miri. Challenge me with a glittering gold bullion, my teeth can make a noticeable dent and guarantee not to chisel off any enamel.

Use it or you waste it. It is a matter of time!

So I go to the pantry and retrieve two satchels of crunchy peanuts which I saved from the airlines. While crunching and watching the screen of the TV, a thought is provoked of the other side, death.

Every surgery carries risk. If I wake up, I will take my first wobbly step with my titanium hip held down by steel pins. Probably looking like Empress Dowager, feet bound, arms out stretched, held by each girl on one side. Bravo!

What if I don’t wake up from the sedation. What if I die? What if? Whaaat…

I picture the last few seconds of my life. My face to face with death. I was told there is an out of body sensation and there is a bright light.

Yes! the lights are brighter than those ones in the soccer field at night. So glaring they turn night into day. Many flying daggers are crisscrossing above. The lights slowly blind my vision! I am only able to walk against and away from the lights.

Then the earth starts shaking like a milkshake in a donut outlet. It has to be a pair of giant hands , gripping the ground so tight and vigorously agitating it. The tremor is caused by millions of rats, like migratory locusts, trampling towards my direction.

Packed tighter than sardines, howling like dogs, they hustle and elbow one another like finished products in a canning factory’s conveying belt; They race past my feet towards a scrapheap of stinky rotting human parts. Amputated limbs, intestines, livers, kidneys, spleens, hearts, lungs, human tissues and tendons, breasts, guts…….disposed from the hospital bins, ready for the incinerator. The rats are scavenging like hungry vultures!

Oh no, my sewn off ball joints! I have to find them. Curse the dirty rats!

Miraculously I feel them under my bare feet. I recognise them because they have my blueprint. I pick them up and hold them tightly in my arms. There are bits of fresh tissues hanging off them. I keep walking in a hypnotic way. The lights are now far behind me, reduced to white dots. The rumbling sound is gone. It is so quiet. It is total darkness. Then the ground suddenly gives way. The feeling of plunging thousand feet from above, down, down, down into a abyss. Then the plunging force turns into a floating sensation. It is very peaceful. So I have made it to the other side. Every memory stored is going out of a little window. Faces, come and go. None recognisable….in the background, a haunting sound, a single A note, loud and soft, far and near, resonating……..

Just as I am so engrossed making up my own soundtrack for the the film, old man returns from work. The closing of the door makes me jump out of my skin.

As soon as he spots the two packets of peanuts,

“TWO packets all for yourself? How about sharing?”

That sends me into a tailspin! I was mad, for whatever reason!

“I am going to have infinite packets. You can’t stop me. You can’t deprive a person in her death bed one little peanut! Even a hard-core criminal facing the guillotine can have a final request! Look, look, look at this, my very last peanut!” I hold the peanut in between my thumb and index finger and wave it between his eyes. Then I toss it up and catch it in my mouth! “It is my last peanut I eat before I die!”

“What are you going on about? I am only asking you to share with me!”

“No, I am not sharing with anyone! Especially you! What if I don’t wake up from the operating table? What if I leave this world with two drumsticks? Are you going to miss me or are you going to miss the peanuts?!”

I want him to choose between me and a peanut. Is it so difficult?

“You are not going to die! I don’t want you to die and our children don’t want you to die!”

“What do you do with the peanuts?”

“What about peanut soup with bones? We all love your Hakka peanut soup!”

“What kind of bones?”

“Pork bones of course!” Old man doesn’t know anything. Poor fella, I just give him a hell of a time. He is really a good man, a good old man, full of HUMOUR! I should care for him more, from now on, for better or for worse.

There is a saying, when we die, we don’t go to hell because we are living in one.

p.s. The lights and rats story was borrowed from my late mum when she was in her death bed, with bits of exaggeration and veering, of course. Her original version was full of ambiguity and confusion. About half an hour later, she passed away.

I roughly sketched myself with my faulty hip joints. Considered the last image of us together.

Fried kwayteow 35

The day my eldest son turned twenty one marked the darkest day of his life. He didn’t want any party. Hallelujah, no party = no booze = no one throwing up onto my carpet! It was his most solemn evening.

Around 9pm, there was a knock on our front door. His best mate from the uni dropped by to wish him happy birthday. He opened the door and immediately slammed it back, “go away, I don’t want to see any one! I am so old!”

If 21 is old, what does it make me? An Egyptian mummy? Oh gosh! I would give everything I own to go back to 21.

I remember the day I turned 21. I was in Singapore. Landlady was away to Kuala Lumpur for a short holiday. Kitchen closed. No one was allowed to go near her sacred territory, be it boiling water or cooking instant noodles. Don’t even try open the fridge. A bunch of overripe bananas, hovering around by vinegar flies, hung loosely from a plastic string. She may have counted the number of flies before she left. I dared not bin it.

That same day, my room mate was out with her visiting uncle. I was home alone.

I was never in this house all by myself. All of a sudden, it looked hauntingly empty. Even my footsteps echoed. My breathing audible. That sound of silence was amplified. I was scared to turn the TV on.

Above the wall of the first landing of the staircase to my bedroom was a big portrait photo of my landlady’s late husband. I took for granted his “existence” while I ascended the steps day in day out.

But that day, he seemed to LOOK STRAIGHT at me. Not only that, as I turned the corner to take the last flight up, his eyes followed me. His stares fixated at me. When did an extra pair of eyes grow on my back? It was when the chill crept up my spine. I couldn’t linger for one second longer in this haunted house!

I rushed out of the house. And that was how I ended up in the hawker store, next to the bus stop I got off everyday from college.

I stood next to the gigantic smoking wok and put my order in. I was the only customer. A fried kwayteow, and I politely told the hawker not to add any chilli because of my gastric. He agreed.

It was my dark lady of bad luck, and his goddess of good luck. His orders for the same dish kept coming from later customers. It made sense for him to fry 6 or 7 plates in one go. In the process of him frantically stirring; the metal spatula scraping the bottom then clanging the edge of the wok, then artfully tossing up the noodles in the air, my un-contaminated portion soon churned harmoniously with the corrupted part of the mass. As if it had gone through a cement mixer, my fried kwayteow with no chilli was reddish in colour.

I was a very polite and reserved person, still am. He was, in my inexperienced eyes, 50 plus years old. People of 50 and over looked so ancient to me then that they might have their feet half buried in their graves.

Due to his seniority, I zipped my mouth and bottled up. I ate my hot burning rice noodles slowly and carefully, picking out any microscopic chilli flakes from the noodles attentively and obsessively.

He noticed my pickiness, which was a great insult. He came forward and said, “there are lots of people starving at the moment! Eat it whilst it is hot!”

And that day, I chose not to care.

All because, hey, it was my birthday. What happened next was all the lightbulbs went out in my head. My skin sagged. My tongue was numb. My nose started running the same time my eyes began watering. I was crying! What kind of chilli was that? So very hot? I asked him.

His advice, “The more you eat, the more you want!”

I looked around. Every one went about their dining business as usual. Except I asked for chilli-less noodles, and it turned out to be over the top chilli flavoured with noodles. Something superstitious foretold my 21st was going to be an uneasy ride. Everything would happen for some wrong reasons. I asked for something, I was given something plus extra. But that extra was not what I wanted. It was like you mail-ordered a book. It arrived duly. It came with a leather bound embossed hard cover and a sophisticated brass lock, which were superfluous. Most disturbingly, it was written in Arabic.

“I am an adult now! To eat or not to eat? Would I always end up in a chilli hot unpleasant situation that I couldn’t fend for myself?” I closed my eyes and made a birthday wish.

NO CHILLI EVER EVER PLEASE!

I opened my eyes. The fried kwayteow started to dry up. I took a blink. It looked even more bloody red.

I am old and wiser now, I think. There are times in my life I don’t know to come or go, or just stare at the hole in the ceiling. A motto I remember from the fried kwayteow hawker: Eat it whilst it is HOT! Like or or not!

The ins and outs 34

There was a joke about a chinaman who visited his doctor about his constipation. He spoke very little English and the doctor spoke no Chinese. After a long and tedious exchange of gestures, the chinaman finally forced out four little words, “just in, no out!”

The doctor clapped his hands together. Very well, very well indeed. You have a problem called constipation and you are not going to die!

Like the earth always goes around the sun, I belong to a lucky group that gravity always works in our favour.

For the problematic ones? There is always a reason under the sun. If there isn’t one, they will find one.

There is never a perfect loo. It is not good enough when it lacks homeliness. People can eavesdrop. Eavesdrop about what? Stop calling your friend while you…….No, no, no. Not that! You know, the breaking of wind! Ah hah!

So blockages are common when they have access only to public toilets. Some people just close up completely while staying in hotels. Reasons unknown. Clogging up in the aeroplane, cruising at 30000 ft altitude is common. You try your very best to hold on till it wants to drop. But as soon as you rush in and take a seat, and hope for the best…….your eyes suddenly hit the unsightly dirt on the surface of the tiny floor space…….And the urge disappears.

It is your 5 feet long stinky fussy princess-like intestines. It goes into tantrums by calling a strike. Like a young kid, pouting his lips, arms folded, eyeballs rolling to the forehead, refusing to take a bite no matter how much coaxing.

You dishearteningly go back to your assigned seat, and flush down a bottle of water hoping that this strong spurt will break up the hardest and driest elements in your Eco system into smaller pieces.

You try a relaxing movie. Yesssss, Comedy! Laughter is the best medicine for our giant underground metro network system. Instead you end up emitting a lethal methane silencer in an enclosed space.

You throw your arms in the air. God, have mercy on me!

Obviously prayers don’t work in high altitude.

“Okay, you win! Do I really care where your future lies? You wish to come or go or just stay inside me , don’t let me hold you back! Stay! Stay as long as you like, until you and I fossilise? Fine with me!”

Never try taking a sleeping pill and a laxative together and pretend to go to sleep. But once you are home, you run as fast as your feet can carry you to the loo. Traffic starts moving again! Green lights all the way! Just a quick minute of offloading, you waltz out of the cubicle with a big grin. Home, sweet home!

My late father used to suffer from chronic constipation. Doctors in the Emergency Ward were his unfortunate plumbers.

“This one is the size of a soccer ball!’

” hmm, larger than an emu egg!’

“This one is at least 3 weeks old!”

After a complete meltdown, the doctor smiled, ” He is a completely new man now!” The entire ward stank like an explosion of a septic tank! Bottles of air freshener squirted into the air didn’t help. It is definitely in need of fire truck-sized hoses of air freshener!

My youngest son who was in his primary formative year was with me in the hospital. It opened his eyes and his sense of smell! He made a vow to himself: I will never want to be a doctor! Whereas I felt indebted to the hard working doctors amidst such offensive smell!

My mother-in-law is 96 now. My greetings have changed from, “Have you eaten?” to “Did you sleep well?” to the now intrusive question: “did you go to the toilet?” Or “When was the last time you visit the toilet?” If her answer is yes, my follow up question is “how much?” She will always use a Chinese rice bowl, or rooster soup bowl as her standard of measurement. Don’t laugh! A perfect description that needs no further explanation.

Her happiness is gauged by the frequency of visits and volume of outputs. It is the ultimate barometer for an upbeat, slightly irritable or agro mood.

I have known a couple who pack pillows, pillow cases, sheets, blankets wherever they travel. Far or near. To avoid insomnia. The husband is a doctor. So they can afford this extravagance. Why not, for a peaceful sleep.

I will end my writing with a joke.

What did the poo say to the fart?

You blow me away!

Sunshine and apple 33

雞犬不寧

Old man and I share a common passion. Our seamless devotion to Murray and the girls. Murray is my son’s poodle, still a pup.

The girls, Reddy, Dotty, Candy and Brooke, are four egg laying hens.

“Oooh, love you! ” ruffling their feather.

“What happens to your grubby comb? Did you wallow in the wet sandpit? Let’s give it a wash!” Yes, they have to stay fresh as daisy.

While I cuddle, I will feel the crop. Under my approved size? “Oh dear, you have been starving!!” A handful of grain will be tossed on the ground. Else, I will feel like a step mother who ill treats her step-children.

Crop so big until it looks like a lop-sided pouch? ” Dear me, you have been bingeing! Remember, it is a woman’s lifetime job to watch their weight!”

Be it rainy or cloudy, they are my sunshine. The closing of my sliding screen door and the shuffling of footsteps from the house towards the chicken run herald my impending arrival. They will stop in the middle of foraging and “buck, buck, buck”, running towards the gate to greet me. As I open the gate, ‘good morning, girls’ and their ‘aww, aww, aww’ is our polite exchange of greetings. They like to play “pat me squat”. Say the words ‘bao bao’ (cuddle in Chinese), they will squat down in turn for a cuddle. Sometimes, they want second hugs.

Except Dotty, the supercool lady. Always keeps a little distance from me. I can explain that. Last summer she started brooding. Staying in the nest box all day shunning food and water. The extreme heat wave only exacerbated my worry. I was told to trick her out of brooding by immersing her body in a bucket of cold water every day. So I did. And sadly, she never forgives my act of animal cruelty.

They like to potter around, or behind me. Walking on top of my feet and leaving dirt on my toes. I pretend to create a little drama: ‘Look what you have done to my feet!’ I complain. No, I lie. I love them walking around my feet, and on top of my feet, sometimes brushing my leg with their feather. A kind of cheeky avian affection.

Tackling my daily cleaning up chore has become our conversational bonding time. Reddy is the talkative one. She will response with an “aww”. The others give a under-toned purr, or soft babble. I tell them not to have any guilt feelings if they don’t deliver an egg.

There are old railway sleepers laid with no consistent pattern here and there on the run to trap bugs. Happy hours are bug hunting. As I overturn the sleepers and expose all the insects underneath, they give out this coo, coo contented sound while scratching for bugs.

Murray, the little brown poodle, nearly 9 months old, can’t articulate very well. He doesn’t know what he wants or what he doesn’t want, or where he is coming . A free-range bull in front of a red rag. His most impressive act is he can charge faster than a comet.

Time off, time out, time for myself! Bad dog! Bad boy! Bad, bad, bad! All sorts of verbal degrading remarks don’t seem to work. He pushes his limitless energy against our limited patience!

A magnet for slippers and dirty socks. It is impossible to free any thing once it is locked between his teeth. Only food bribery will make him let go.

Unfortunately I am a strong advocate against bribery. Be a man/ dog, have a backbone! When you err, admit it. Bribery is corruption!

Never bring him near the chicken coop, he will make my girls lose a few feathers! Eventhough the girls are on the other side of the fence. WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! RUFF, RUFF, RUFF…..Running menacing up and down the fence! Barking and howling! Such an appalling behaviour!

“Murray!!! Turn down your volume and shut up. You startle my girls! MURRAY!”

The four normally very placid girls, ran off their feet with wings fluttering to hide in a corner, squawking up a ruckus!

Raise my voice, hold my fist and flex my muscles in front of this muddled hot head. He will immediately turn into a sooky cry baby. Yelp, yelp, yelp! Yip, yip, yip…Alright alright, charmer! Then he will cock his head and cast his cute eyes on me. I am a sucker for that!

His itch that needs to be scratched, I am there for him. He makes some oopsy, poo-ing on my rug. I am there to clean up. Play fetch? Here is the ball. Go get it!

Bad mannered dogs, bark at each other. Well mannered dogs do the kiwi nose kiss. Obviously Murray belongs to the former. He is a thug, wreaking havoc is his second nature. My son used to take him for a ride on a bicycle every morning to work. Murray will howl at any one that comes from behind.

I can imagine him thumping his chest and barking , “I am the toughest dog!” Acting like a military officer, waving a baton, barking, “Hey, you, and you and you, the skinny little one, too! No queue jumping. Get back to the end of the line! Get back, get back! Woof woof woof!”

In the morning, there are numerous cyclists and people on foot to work. Murray’s gung-ho spirit becomes a social embarrassment and public offence. Barking all the way to the office is the behaviour of a lunatic. So in the end, my son gives in. Murray gets driven to work by old man. He lies quietly in a little iron cage at the back of the car.

I have seen dogs entertain themselves when bored by chasing their own tails in an endless loop. Not Murray. His tail curls up into a fluffy ball on top of his rear end. In the office, Murray, the chairman, a office title bestowed by the staff, sticks to old man like Velcro. He sits on a cushion placed on old man’s lap, and watches old man typing on the keyboard, answering incoming calls. When he is tired, he conveniently drops his head on Old man’s forearm and snoozes.

Once Murray got too excited during play time, he accidentally pulled off a woollen thread from old man’s expensive jumper from Prague. Now there is no room for negotiation and forgiveness. He has to serve time : TIME OUT!

“Look what you did to my jumper! Murray! I said no teeth! And I mean no teeth! I don’t want to see your teeth! No! Murray, I don’t want to see your gums either! I just don’t want to see you at all!”

What normally happens when he is severely told off is, he will curl up like a comma with his back to you, or he will just sit upright with his back facing you! This instant, old man is so furious he opens the door and boot him out, with a loud slam!

Murray is locked out of the office. He stands on the top of the staircase, looking down very teary for a vote of sympathy from the staff working below.

“Chairman Murray? You have been told off!” A nosy staff asked.

“Yip, yip, yip!” He whined and whimpered, moving his front paws uneasily. Embarrassed, he couldn’t decide whether to sit or stand.

Then a while later, one of the staff with buttery heart will take him for a walk round the office block, sort of, put him on parole. Maybe imparting him life philosophy, how to achieve a happy wondrous dog life. Similar to a correctional prison programme.

Believe me, he is notorious in this neighbourhood. Passers-by, nearby office workers, even the homeless know him by name. A young girl said Murray is the pin up boy of the neighbourhood. Everybody knows him.

My son takes him to a dog park just outside his apartment regularly. The park is bigger than two or three soccer fields. Murray has no fear. He races other dogs, big or small. Size doesn’t matter. He just wants to win and have fun! His acceleration is like rocket blasting, sending his long floppy ears horizontally behind, close to his skull. As if running on hi- octane. He is, indeed, fast!

He jumps up and down like a king spring, with licks and sniffs when he sees me after work. Only scratching his belly can calm him down. Yep, he is a little live hand grenade.

Too embarrassed to walk him in our front park, I opt for the back garden. Because the land undulates, it looks wild and natural. In Murray’s eye, this garden must be so epic. Its “vastness” must have boggled his mind. Where to start? He roams the “valleys and canyons”, making marks (pee-ing) as he darts in and out the shrubs so he will find his way back. Occasionally, plunging down a slimy mossy boulder into a deep valley.

Like Brumby from “the man from snowy river” , loping down a gravel path, leaving behind a trail of dust. He races through curvy “mountain trails”, splashing through a creek, (a little man made stream), onto the other side of the valley. Through arbours of wisteria and roses. Gallop round a central pond where koi swim, he fell thrice into the water. Picked himself up when paddled to the edge of wooden bridge, up the rocky steps into a labyrinth of bulbs and Lilly. Such rustic adventure!

When thirsty, he stops to drink from the little waterfall. In fact, it is just water pumped onto a jagged piece of rock, from the edge of which water trickles into a dug out plastic lined pond. Adjacent to the stream, a group of trees heavily laden with fruits amid thick flowering ground covers form the backbone of the garden. Beautifully scented white flowers act like a thick foam where he tramples and does a slippery dip. On the lowest level is smooth green turf to play ‘fetch’.

We play ‘go and get it’ with a golf ball. When he has enough, that is, when the sun sinks in the horizon, and dusk approaches, and he is feeling definitely hungry, he will hide the golf ball away, by burying it. Untrusting like an elderly retiree where to bank his basket of life saving nest eggs, he never buries his golf ball in the same spot twice.

Finally resting on the smooth turf, standing next to me and he starts licking my face!

“Yuck! MURRAY! Please! ” I wipe my face with the back of my hand.

Is he a chore or a bore? He is undoubtedly the apple of my eye!

Ring Ring Ring 32

As the cruise ship sails into Stockholm, passing island after island, big and small that parades along the shoreline. Houses like colourful matchsticks boxes perched zigzagging the water edge, each has its own pontoon. My kind of heaven on earth. I am so excited I can’t help but tug Old man’s sleeve. But this is not enough, I use both hands to swivel his neck. Look look , that small one, over there! I want it! It is mine now!

‘ You know very well I have phobia of water!’

‘Aww! That drowning accident happened when you were nine. Your whole body’s cells have been replaced that many times, you are not YOU any more. At least not the 9 year old boy.’

A big tern flies past and stops on the rail, looking for food. Disappointed, it flies away, followed by a flight of birds like confetti tossed against the blue sky.

‘360 degrees view! That is absolutely a dream. And you don’t pay taxes. At least no road tax, no Third Party insurance tax as you don’t have to own a car. Free fish, squid, prawns in the kilos means free omega 3 or 6, as much as your wish, every meal. And we live happily ever after!’ Sounds like a damn good investment!

I can see the little pulleys and gears starting to turn in his head.

But…..

‘People who want a private island and eternal life have a pre-requisite: a bottomless account in the bank! Moreover, I don’t dream to be an eccentric hermit. Mundane civilised life suits me. And we will visit Stockholm’s flea market and maybe you can pick up some cheap scarves with animal prints of elk, and we live happily ever after. How is that?” This is old man’s bright idea to smudge my brighter idea!

Old man is too realistic, absolutely boring. He thinks we are going to live like Robinson Crusoe, which will never realise unless we both learn to climb trees! I will still very much be into AI if I immigrate to an island.

I don’t want to alarm you. But, just wander around my little kitchen. AI is everywhere indeed! My pop-up toaster, bread-maker, juicer, mincer; electric kettle that enables me to decide a vast selections of temperature for black tea, green tea, coffee, or water; can opener, herb maker. The list will go on to a full sized A4 paper. It is not 5G ? Well, minimum 2G or 3G then!

Maybe there is no such thing as heaven. Only a fool would spend all his life trying to get there , but never will.

The cruise ship soon sails past the islands into Stockholm. We are finally into ABBA’s home land.

Ring, ring, ring, why don’t you give me a call? ABBA’s famous whining!

Miss that ringing tone of the old telephone? It happened in my 2G past.

And remember the song about the public phone that you feed coins in a slot like the old parking meter, by Dr. Hook?

To jolt your memory:

…..And the operator says, “Forty cents more, for the next three minutes….Please mrs. Avery, I’ve just got to tell her, goodbye…

Didn’t the lyrics pull your heart strings? Didn’t you feel like shredding Mrs. Avery into pieces? You can say whatever. I believe it is far far more romantic than typing messages into a screen!

After Stockholm, we arrive in Doha. It is Ramadan season. Only one restaurant opens for foreigners in the hotel. Old man went for a spa and the steam room. He is virtually blind after taking off his glasses. He, sort of, sort of , sees next to the foggy door of the steam room a sign that, sort of, sort of, says “No Touching of Bottoms!”

Old man panicked. Whose bottoms? Can be anyone’s bottoms! Mine? Please be more specific!

This is a Muslim country. They have laws that he is unfamiliar with. So he decides to leave. Hit the iron while it is hot!

Out of curiosity, he goes back to the steam room and has a peek. This time with his glasses on. Allah! Allah! Some jokers have altered the sign while he is showering! The new sign says precisely, without any doubt, “No Touching of Buttons!”

From Russia With Love 31

HOW MUCH DO YOU KNOW ABOUT RUSSIA?

Vaguely. Deepest impression is the 1963 James Bond movie, From Russia With Love, a spy film about Bond retrieving a decoding device from the Soviets during the Cold War. Russians were portrayed as the monsters and evil guys.

There is the Russian space dog, Laika, which orbited the Earth, in 1957. I memorised it for my primary six General Knowledge entrance examination.

The St. Isaac church in St. Petersburg. Seeing it for the first time in a magazine, I mistook the onion-shaped dome buildings out of Disneyland; or a cake made to the shape of a building for fairies, sprinkled with coloured mosaic icings on the domes. A place I have to see with my own eyes now as I don’t intend to live forever.

And it is Vladimir Putin’s birthplace.

TELL ME MORE!

St. Petersburg was originally a Swedish fortress on the banks of the Neva river called the city of Nyen. Tsar Peter the Great from the Romanov bloodline, conquered the land, laid the ground for a port at the Baltic Sea in 1703 and named the city after Saint Peter.

Peter the Great pushed for modernisation, making Russia a great maritime power, outsourcing large numbers of engineers, architects, shipbuilders, scientists, and businessmen from all countries of Europe. He moved the capital from Moscow to St. Petersburg.

ANYTHING ELSE?

The Winter Palace, built by slaves/Russian serfs, was the official residence of the Russian Tsars from 1732 to 1917. The architecture is an assortment of gothic, rococo, classic, neo-classic, and baroque styles. Even the classic Greek marble columns with opulent stucco work on pediments above facades and windows were featured. Is it a symbol of decree for democracy? Or just plain “more and lots” were better!

The palace is actually a repetitive monotony of long elevations broken only by symmetrically slightly projecting window bays. Every interior ornament is oozing with gold mosaics. Mirrors, mirrors, more mirrors. Renaissance paintings on every lofty dome with religious themes, depicting Christ, Virgin Mary, saints and angels.

IMPRESSIVE!!!

Such exuberance will look awful for my humble abode. But to put it kindly, it is hard not to love it. Catherine the Great, a German princess, married Tsar Peter III. It was a popular practice for European countries forming allies by inter marriage. Unfortunately Tsar Peter III was murdered in 1762. Rumour was Catherine had the blood on her hand. She paraded her 7 year old son as the new and rightful ruler of Russia while she held absolute power.

GOSH! REMIND ME OF EMPRESS DOWAGER!

She had a manic art collection for the Winter Palace. Very over the top! More an eye to quantity than quality, acquired ready-assembled collections, bought “sight-unseen”. Similar to today’s ‘Amazon internet order’. Luckily, among the works, there was a Rembrandt’s ‘Portrait of a Scholar’ and ‘Portrait of an Old Man in Bed’. After Catherine’s death, part of the palace was transformed into an art museum. The Hermitage Museum opened in 1852. More acquisitions were made including Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Madonna and the Child”. I was lucky to be here as there was an exhibition of works by Rembrandt, Van Gough and the impressionist artists, Monet, Pissarro, Cezanne, Manet, Matisse and Picasso. They showed sketches done by these artists in pencils on small pieces of, sometimes scrap paper!

To say I was over the moon is an understatement!! There were Rembrandt sketches of people urinating openly ! Stop giggling! Poor people in India still practice it on the kerbsides today.

As the formal home of Russian tsars, the Winter Palace was the setting for profusely lavish entertaining. To be able to understand the sheer size: The dining table could seat 1000 guests. The state room could contain up to 10,000 people, all on their feet, as no chairs were provided. Despite everything being pompous and larger than life, I didn’t see any latrines and powder room amid such splendour.

ALL YOU NEED IS ASK YOUR TOUR GUIDE?

Dare I ask? I questioned her about the purity of the Romanov bloodline. Since Catherine the great, a German descent, and Tsar Peter III was a mis-match from the beginning. They never slept together. They could barely stand in the same room together. She had many lovers, each one got younger as she grew older. She finally gave birth to a son, Paul, whose DNA was dubious. Before I finished what I had to say, our Russian tour guide, Oxana, being so patriotic, switched to Russian, “Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet! Paul was a pure Romanov!” Nyet means no.

YEAH, WHO ARE YOU TO ARGUE!

The imperial family was not the only residents of the palace. Below the metal framework in the attics lived an army of servants. So vast were the servants’ quarters that a servant and his family managed to smuggle themselves into the roof of the palace and made it their home. They were only discovered by the smell of the manure of the cows they kept up there for fresh milk.

LOOKS LIKE THE COUNTRY HAD SANITARY PROBLEMS!

The last tsar that resided in the Winter Palace was Alexander II, assassinated as his carriage drove through the streets of St. Petersburg. The new tsar Alexander III was advised not to stay in the palace as it was no longer safe. So the family moved to a small palace, 64 km away.

In 1895, Tsar Alexander III was succeeded by his son, Nicholas II. Frugal as he was, they did reside in the Winter Palace for a short while when receptions and balls came to an end. The grandiose suffered before the fall of the dynasty. The imperial family now moved to different palaces. The Winter Palace now used as for administrative purpose fell into darkness.

Nicholas II abdicated in favour of his brother, who lived in other country, promptly refused to accept the throne. The immediate family members of tsar Nicholas II were arrested, held captives until shot dead by revolutionaries. Even though kings and queens are the heavenly bodies. Stripped off the title, they are nothing more than human beings. Remember the fable, The Emperor’s New Clothes?

THANK GOD WHO MADE ME AN ORDINARY PERSON!

Like the Game of Thrones, Russian history was plagued by treacherous revolutions, uprisings, executions by guillotine, exiles to Siberia for long holidays, and invasive wars. The scapegoats were the poor peasants who tolled on the land for the aristocrats and noblemen. When the country ran out of money, increased draconian taxes on the poor. Beside normal tax, there were very creative head tax, beard tax, windows tax, brushing teeth tax, etc.

In WWI, factory workers were conscripted, then replaced by peasants. No one to till the land and milk the cow. Heaven didn’t open up and rain sourdoughs. The government resolved to printing money which resulted in hyper-inflation. This is still happening in many parts of today’s world.

SOUNDS LIKE AUSTRALIA?

Peter the Great was remembered forever as The Bronze Horseman, an equestrian statue sitting heroically on a horse, his outstretched arm pointing towards the River Neva. The horse trampling on a serpent, on a enormous Thunder Stone, the largest stone ever moved by humans. He would tumble down the back of the horse if he knew the Romanov family would end tragically.

The Peter and Paul cathedral, dedicated to Saints Peter and Paul. Built in 1712. Houses almost all the tombs of Russian emperors and empresses.

And if you feel cultural, go for an opera or Russian ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre. Russia produced many famous composers, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, Stravinsky, Shostakovich, Prokofiev, to name a few. Tchaikovsky wrote the 1812 Overture to commemorate the successful Russian defence against Napoleon’s invasion. The mighty French army was defeated due to starvation and the bitter cold winter of Moscow. There is a saying: don’t invade Russia during winter!

HMM! WHAT IS YOUR VERDICT?

Russia. Must see.

Rembrandt erotic sketches, did when he was young of a couple pissing. Can you blame the couple when nature calls and not a latrine nearby?

Hair today and gone tomorrow 30

Old man has a head full of unkempt, brash shoulder length hair plus unshaven facial hair, moustache and a short beard. He was, once upon a time, like any normal guy, clean shaved, with neat salon hair cut. How and why such changes is definitely “mid-life crisis” that results a catastrophic chain reaction: his hair is in crisis too.

He has inherited the good gene from his mum. Hair grows like the spring pasture, lush and thick. No receding hairline, and not even a lot of chalky colour.

You are wrong to think he doesn’t own a hair brush. On the contrary, he brushes his hair with due gentle commitment, indulgence and diligence. Time consuming is one thing. Until every strand of hair is smoothen and straight, cascading down like glossy liquid silk. Until he thinks it is at its best. Then he perplexes me by reversing every thing he does in the last 30 minutes. He ruffles the hair by running his fingers through, and scrunches it with bit of hair mousse.

As if in a daze, he throws his head to the front, to the back, then left and right. Just imagine you are standing outside in a wailing cyclonic wind. The windier, the better! Your hair flips and flies in every direction. The job is only finished when he looks like he has just woken up in the morning. Hair full of locks and knots! So unnerving!

“Tasteful!” He will grin into the mirror. The thrill and deep sense of satisfaction of seeing his hair looking exactly as it should. All tangled!

The typical look of a wolf man dressed in a Halloween costume. Nope. he sees himself as a look-alike version of Keanu Reeves. I don’t give a cent for such absurd comparison. There is a saying about Keanu Reeves. The moment he pulls down his pants, every woman falls pregnant! To think this will happen to old man? Are you out of this world? Even if he has only one fig leaf covering his naughty bits, nothing will be triggered! There will be no six moons or duo rainbows appearing in the sky.

Old man only has the tendency of catching the attention of airport security officers. Of course, without pulling down his pants!

“You, Sir! Stand aside. Put your arms out.”

Scanner running up and down, front and back of his body; Shoes off, belt loosen…after all that, he will sigh regrettably. ” They always pick on me!” As though there is such an element of surprise!

“Ah, they never check on me, I wonder why?” I said.

Now we are on our way to St. Petersburg. The cruise officer warns us about the draconian Russian custom officers. Be friendly, but not too friendly; smile but not too big a smile. Say less than necessary. Caution, caution.

What category does old man’s face fall into? A thug? A bandit 土匪 what he’s used to being described as by his mum. A mule for the world’s biggest drug cartel? A freelance secret agent for some military intelligence? If anything of this sort does happen then he will go to prison for the rest of the night. I am mentally prepared. I will deny knowing him, and have nothing to do with him adamantly!

“Urh, never seen him before. Who is he?”

But this time old man is let off from the Russian custom officer without a fuss. Obviously an optical error. Mistaken him as a poet or classical musician. When it is my turn, she looks at my face, then the passport, then my face, then my passport, time and time again, back and forth.

“Is zat you?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Yes, it is me!” I raise my eyebrows back.

“Doz not look like you!” She frowned.

“I was younger then.” I frowned back.

She finally let me off. I am pardoned.

On the cruise, old man is mistaken as some celebrity. One waitress rushes to him, points a finger with long lacquered nail, at his face and says, “I have seen you before! I swear to god I have seen you before!”

Good heavens! So you think you have seen him before but it doesn’t warrant such ecstasy. Calm down! His wife is sitting next to him.

(Here I am! Hello! Look at me! I can kill you with the butter on the table.)

“Yes, I think you are a singer. Just can’t remember which band!” To jolt her memory, she taps her sharp finger nail on her chin as if that is where her brain is.

Old man’s usual humility is gone. He is over the moon and entertained. I can feel he almost wants to rise up, clears his throat, and hits a few vibrato, and crows: …………I am not half the man I used to be, there’s a shadow hanging over me……”

But god forbids. Old man in fact miraculously lost his voice completely since we arrived London. His voice is hardly audible, husky and sandy like Marlon Brando in The Godfather.

“Haha, you guess right! He is a singer.” To spice thing up a little, “a bathroom singer!” I am sarcastic, very.

Then another waiter, dumber than the previous one, asks, “you are a Chinese kungfu actor! I think I have seen your movie before!”

“REALLY?”

What a load of horse shit! These cruise ship waiters are worse than Indian snake charmers, excel in flattering and can read old man’s mind. Maybe that is so-called hospitality.

Old man, voiceless, unable to throw his fists about and shout the deadly “HACHA, HACHA!”, just sits there with a smug look.

“He is a second cousin of Bruce Lee, Bruised Lee!” A brief introduction. You know how to suck up. I know how to beat the drum!

Don’t get me wrong. I am not always mean to him. I do stand by him, rescue him, and defend him when he is tormented by his siblings.

Once we had a family dinner. His siblings have a habit of crossing the boundary and irritating each other. This sister whom we had not seen for a while, scrutinised him from head to toes, toes to head, and blurted out , ” what happened? So much grey hair?” This is as bad as saying to a teenager, ” what happened? So many acnes, blackheads, and pimples?”

My teeth suddenly felt so itchy that I had to say something. Or else I will be like my puppy, Murray, biting the nearest thing.

“Grey hair is better than no hair!” These words rolled off my tongue so smoothly like Creme Brûlée, without rehearsing. Her face dropped at once as if she suffered a spasm. Only then I noticed her husband, standing right behind her, bald patch and rusty belt visibly taking over his peak!

I remember the saying: if you live in a glass house, don’t throw stones at your neighbour, and most importantly, don’t walk around naked!

See you in St. Petersburg.