S.I.Q. Series 6
It is generally agreed that from sura 21 onwards the beauty and poetic genius of the Koran truly becomes apparent. I have no doubt that this is so. Even while reading from an English translation, the rhythm has begun to hypnotize me unlike before.
"And the moon-- We have determined it by stations,/ till it returns like an aged palm-bough. It behoves not the sun to overtake the moon, neither/ does the night outstrip the day,/ each swimming in a sky." (36: 35)
The words recited have also come to take on new depth and imagery. However, none as true as the word "paradise". What was before an abstract concept, faint and distant in my understanding, has unfolded itself as a mirage of desert luxury. And this image is what I would like to share with you.
I realize that it's hard to paint a picture without brush strokes, but I figure that a few well chosen words could suffice a few thousand (interpretive) pixels. I have gone through my notes and highlighted the descriptions of Paradise as found in the Koran. What I describe below is basically what God has related in truth, except as a complete picture rather than small excerpts of heaven painted here and there and in between. I hope that this picture will be enough to convince you that Paradise is worth a life of judgement.........
Paradise Painted:
Imagine that you are in a desert land. The sun is hot. The earth is dry. People are people, and are dyeing.
A trumpet sounds.
You look up to the sky and beyond the clouds.
Up to Heaven, You go.
From afar the heat blurs hues of greens, blues, and purples. As you approach this distant mirage you realize that the dead and cracked earth that was once under your feet is now transformed. Your weight is cushioned by luxurious carpets. Lining your way are palms for shade and reclining couches for rest.
You are walking into a green meadow-- an island of refuge from the intense sun and bustle of life. Rivers flow underneath the land and gush out in fountains as pure as water that rains down from above. Cattle roam quietly, in abundance. Fruits hang above your head, in arms reach from your seat of rest. Beside you is your loved one, your pair. You both wear clothes of finest linens in green.
Everything that you call for is given to you.
And most importantly, what you find in the comfort of the shade, flowing rivers, and fruit platters is Peace. God's promise fulfilled, alas. No more test, no more odds, no more temptations. Just a basic, beautiful, and warranted life.
This is Paradise Painted.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
"Surely in that is a sign..."
Let it be said that Dawkins would have swallowed his tongue long ago concerning God’s prooves of existence. Actually, most any one of us would. How can you dispute someone who lays claim over ALL that exists, AND the ingenious functionality of it all?
Essentially, everything that is, is because God created it so. The good, the bad; the necessary, the unnecessary.
“God is He who raised up the heavens/ without pillars you can see, then He sat Himself upon the Throne./ He subjected the sun and the moon,/ each one running to a term stated./ He directs the affair; He/ distinguishes the signs;/ haply you will have faith in the encounter/ with your Lord.” (13:1)
The doubter would rightfully ask God: how do we know you are real?
God would say: look around you. Everything is a proof of His Truth.
“Hast thou not seen how that whatsoever is in the heavens/ and in the earth extols God,/ and the birds spreading their wings? …
Hast thou not seen how God drives the clouds, then composes/ them, then converts them into a mass,/ then thou seest the rain issuing out of the midst of them?” (24: 40)
God’s proves of existence are found in nature; In our life; In the way of life.
It sure as hell isn't an argument that would win over the court; but it is an argument that persuades the soul-- which we all know is folly to faith. Modern science couldn't even settle this case because it is limited when it comes to questions of "Why".
So, judgement is ours to make. His Truth is yours to believe, or not.
Is this a created universe by Him, for us?
“It is He who produced for you hearing, and eyes and hearts;/ little thanks you show./ It is He who scattered you in the earth, and to Him/ you shall be mustered./ It is He who gives life, and makes to die, and to Him/ belongs the alteration of night and day; what,/ will you not understand?” (23: 80)
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Wine, Beer, Techno... and Allah
S.I.Q. series 4
Today signaled a new turning point in my reading of the Quran; I officially reached the half-way point.
I do consider this a small victory of sorts. For one, the passages are only getting shorter as I read on! Which means it should only take me about half as much time to finish it as it took to get this far. (Brilliant idea courtesy of Those Who Edited the Final Version of the Quran). Secondly, upon reaching half-point I had also happened to reach the end of much of my patience and curiosity. Sorry God, but at this point I’ve heard your arguments, counterarguments and proves of existence one too many times.
So, in honour of reaching half-way and in search of a new attitude towards my Quran studies I decided to do two ungodly things while reading:
1. 1. Down a bottle of wine. Plus a couple beers.
2. 2. Put on loud techno.
It’s not that I had planned for my bible study to turn into a midweek festivity (not that the thought hadn’t already crossed my mind on a couple occaisions…). It just happened that way. First it was the wine with friends. Then, when every one went their separate ways I faced the night with two options: find new friends or spend some good old time with God and Beer. No need to say who won. The music naturally followed.
I suppose I was hoping, sufi-like, that some where in between the beer gulps and musical interludes I would magically see God’s words in a new light. Unfortunately, I guess the Sufi’s were on some different magic potion when they journeyed to God because my journey was nothing mind blowing, nothing world altering, nothing even worth relating. Instead it was sloppy. It was choppy. And, worst of all, it was argumentative in a nit-picky way. (Miz. Have I just described my drunken self?).
Essentially, I found myself approaching The Book with a new attitude of cynicism written all over my disbelieving face (I blame allergies to red wine). In short, I began to do what I had consciously avoided all along: bickering with God.
For example, where God would say:
“And it is God who brought you forth/ from your mothers’ wombs,/ and He appointed for you hearing,/ and sight, and hearts/ that haply so you will be thankful.”
I would reply: “Thankful? Who the hell asked for ANY of that in the first place!?”
Note to reader: I love life. I do.
And then, when God went on to remind us of the sins of the Jews I kept thinking to myself, God too had it in for them!
(But in all honesty, I hope to address this point near the end of my study because God seems to disproportionately pick on Jews as compared to Christians—but there may be valid reasons for this).
From phrases to arguments I was unabashedly at odds with God.
Then, when in sura 16 God delivered the word “intoxicant” – for the first time I had seen mention of—I began thinking God was speaking to me in small nuances; That maybe I could be accepted in His world; And that I could accept Him. Here God is saying that He gave us intoxicants for us to (ab)use!
But then a few verses later I was reawakened to the eternal battle at hand when God continued his list of gifted items to humanity. Apparently, women have also been gifted. In fact, everything has been created for man. Cattle. Trees. Water. Kids. Olives. Fruit. Vines. Day. Night. Moon. Sun. Me. Urgh. Lame. Beer 3. Techno up.
But then a few verses later I was reawakened to the eternal battle at hand when God continued his list of gifted items to humanity. Apparently, women have also been gifted. In fact, everything has been created for man. Cattle. Trees. Water. Kids. Olives. Fruit. Vines. Day. Night. Moon. Sun. Me. Urgh. Lame. Beer 3. Techno up.
But in the end, the thing that got me most in all of my “intoxicated” reading-- because the fact that I was created for the (ab)use of boys is negligible-- was God’s reference to a very biological fluid: sperm.
As He says, “He created man of a sperm-drop…” (16: 5).
As He says, “He created man of a sperm-drop…” (16: 5).
No, I’m not a two-year old. I can hold my own in reference to private matters. But it’s just that one sura before, God said this:
“We created man of a clay/ of mud moulded…” (15: 25).
I guess if there is anything to learn from my intoxicated study of The Book it’s that interpretation really matters. Some may read The Book literally, and those we may call various degrees of fundamentalists. They take what they see at face value. Others are more liberal in their study, searching for so-called metaphorical nuances of God’s message.
If I were to classify myself, of yet I have tried to be somewhere in between a literalist and metaphorical-ist(?). Tonight, however, I am throwing out all “ists”. I can’t be bothered to place myself on a line-- let alone walk one straight. I saw what I saw. And I can't rectify it, metaphorically or literally. We are made of mud. And. Or, sperm-drops.
I’ll leave the rest to you.
Good night! (God, not Beer)
Sunday, August 1, 2010
a passage worth recounting
``The Death of Isaac Babel``
Only after they charged him with the crime of silence did Babel discover how many kinds of silences existed. When he heard music he no longer listened to the notes, but the silences in between. When he read a book he gave himself over entirely to commas and semicolons, to the space after the period and before the capital letter of the next sentence. He discovered the places in a room where silence gathered; the folds of curtain drapes, the deep bowls of the family silver. When people spoke to him, he heard less and less of what they were saying, and more and more of what they were not. He learned to decipher the meaning of certain silences, which is like solving a tough case without any clues, with only intuition. And no one could accuse him of not being prolific in his chosen mÉtier. Daily, he turned out whole epics of silence. In the beginning it had been difficult. Imagine the burden of keeping silent when your child asks you whether God exists, or the woman you love asks if you love her back. At first Babel longed for the use of just two words: Yes and No. But he knew that just to utter a single word would be to destroy the delicate fluency of silence.
Even after they arrested him and burned all of his manuscripts, which were all blank pages, he refused to speak. Not even a groan when they gave him a blow to the head, a boot tip in the groin. Only at the last possible moment, as he faced the firing squad, did the writer Babel sense the possibility of his error. As the rifles were pointed at his chest he wondered if what he had taken for the richness of silence was really the poverty of never being heard. He had thought the possibilities of human silence were endless. But as the bullets tore from the rifles, his body was riddled with the truth. And a small part of him laughed bitterly because, anyway, how could he have forgotten what he had always known: There`s no match for the silnce of God.
- Nicole Krauss, ``The History of Love``
, 114-15
Only after they charged him with the crime of silence did Babel discover how many kinds of silences existed. When he heard music he no longer listened to the notes, but the silences in between. When he read a book he gave himself over entirely to commas and semicolons, to the space after the period and before the capital letter of the next sentence. He discovered the places in a room where silence gathered; the folds of curtain drapes, the deep bowls of the family silver. When people spoke to him, he heard less and less of what they were saying, and more and more of what they were not. He learned to decipher the meaning of certain silences, which is like solving a tough case without any clues, with only intuition. And no one could accuse him of not being prolific in his chosen mÉtier. Daily, he turned out whole epics of silence. In the beginning it had been difficult. Imagine the burden of keeping silent when your child asks you whether God exists, or the woman you love asks if you love her back. At first Babel longed for the use of just two words: Yes and No. But he knew that just to utter a single word would be to destroy the delicate fluency of silence.
Even after they arrested him and burned all of his manuscripts, which were all blank pages, he refused to speak. Not even a groan when they gave him a blow to the head, a boot tip in the groin. Only at the last possible moment, as he faced the firing squad, did the writer Babel sense the possibility of his error. As the rifles were pointed at his chest he wondered if what he had taken for the richness of silence was really the poverty of never being heard. He had thought the possibilities of human silence were endless. But as the bullets tore from the rifles, his body was riddled with the truth. And a small part of him laughed bitterly because, anyway, how could he have forgotten what he had always known: There`s no match for the silnce of God.
- Nicole Krauss, ``The History of Love``
, 114-15
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Our purpose on this earth
S.I.Q. series 3
After a week-long break from Quran study I'm back in full swing, reading verses aloud to myself before I sleep, when I wake, and while tanning under the summer sky. I am now a bit over 1/3 in.
One thing I feel I have to point out before I go onto my third official post in the S.I.Q. series: there is SO MUCH repition and contradiction I think I might just die.
Ok. Enough said. Onto our purpose as human beings...
God, what are we doing here?
While reading the Quran and trying to keep track of all the do's and don't's and perhaps' of God's decree, I began asking myself what it all was for? Why, God, are we supposed to believe? To behave a certain way? Avoid certain thoughts? To like some and not others? To give to the poor and take from the idolaters? To ... you get the point.
Well, in sura 7, "The Battlements", God reveals to me his masterful plan. And here I shall relate to you what I think the God of the Quran intends our purpose on this earth to be.
It goes a little something like this...
First there was Adam, then Eve (origins: clay). God told them to stay away from a tree. Satan tempted them otherwise. Next thing you know Adam and Eve are revealing their private parts to one another.
God is angry. Adam feels sorry.
So, A&E-- wanting to be forgiven for their sin-- ask for God's forgiveness in any way that they can find it. God settles on this: a temporary stay down on earth (which begs the questions, where were they before!?). God says,
" 'Get you down, each of you
an enemy to each (a.k.a. 'guys are from venus, girls are from mars'). In the earth, a sojourn
shall be yours, and enjoyment
for a time.' " (7:20)
Here on earth, God describes A&E's sojourn quite succintly:
" 'Therein you shall live, and
therein you shall die, and from there you
shall be brought forth.' " (7:20)
A few verses later, the moral of Adam and Eve's story becomes even more relevant for my life, and yours.
You see, God promises each and everyone of us one of two end points: heaven or 'hell'. Adam and Eve asked God to give them back an eternity in Paradise. So, God put them on this earth as a test to see if they were worthy of eternal greatness in a lushious land of gardens and underwater rivers.
Like A&E, in life, we are judged. At the end, God promises us Paradise as a reward for the good life we have lived.
" 'This / is your Paradise; you have been given it as your inheritance / for what you did.' " (7:40)
Essentially then,
Life is a test (or a sick game).
You are given chances and, surprisingly, choices. "To every one / of you We have appointed a right way / and an open road." (5:50)
What you make of this life determines the future of your world to come. God 'tries us with good things and evil, so that haply we shall return to the garden's of Paradise' (7: 165).
BUT, there is ONE last thing, one MINOR detail that God throws in two suras later like some fine print on everyday drugs. If you want to make it to heaven you have to sell your soul...
to Him.
Entry into Paradise requires a bargain with God, a simple excahnge of self in return for Paradise (I've added in a little fine(bold) print of my own):
"God has bought from the believers their selves / and their possessions against the gift of Paradise ... . So rejoice in the bargain you have made with Him; / that is the mighty triumph." (9:110).
So, there it is. Our Purpose, as neatly explained as I could on a blog page.
I hope that my understanding of God's masterful plan will become ever clearer as I read on. For the moment, however, I am having a hard time settling on this supposed bargain with Him.
For one, it presupposes that one believes in heaven and hell-- which I am firmly undecided about. Actually, even before that it presupposes the belief in God, which I am equally and firmly undecided about.
Lastly, God's revelations comes to me a little too late, at quite an inopportune time. You see, for the past few weeks following a death-changing read, I have been going around preaching that I would like my bodily remains to be composted upon death. The controversial mantra that started this all: When I die, my body and mind WILL turn off like a switch, or a dead battery.
So it is that I cannot bargain what I do not have to give. For me there is no limbo, no heaven, no hell, no ghost haunting, no death liasoning.
So, what purpose for the Lost, God?
After a week-long break from Quran study I'm back in full swing, reading verses aloud to myself before I sleep, when I wake, and while tanning under the summer sky. I am now a bit over 1/3 in.
One thing I feel I have to point out before I go onto my third official post in the S.I.Q. series: there is SO MUCH repition and contradiction I think I might just die.
Ok. Enough said. Onto our purpose as human beings...
God, what are we doing here?
While reading the Quran and trying to keep track of all the do's and don't's and perhaps' of God's decree, I began asking myself what it all was for? Why, God, are we supposed to believe? To behave a certain way? Avoid certain thoughts? To like some and not others? To give to the poor and take from the idolaters? To ... you get the point.
Well, in sura 7, "The Battlements", God reveals to me his masterful plan. And here I shall relate to you what I think the God of the Quran intends our purpose on this earth to be.
It goes a little something like this...
First there was Adam, then Eve (origins: clay). God told them to stay away from a tree. Satan tempted them otherwise. Next thing you know Adam and Eve are revealing their private parts to one another.
God is angry. Adam feels sorry.
So, A&E-- wanting to be forgiven for their sin-- ask for God's forgiveness in any way that they can find it. God settles on this: a temporary stay down on earth (which begs the questions, where were they before!?). God says,
" 'Get you down, each of you
an enemy to each (a.k.a. 'guys are from venus, girls are from mars'). In the earth, a sojourn
shall be yours, and enjoyment
for a time.' " (7:20)
Here on earth, God describes A&E's sojourn quite succintly:
" 'Therein you shall live, and
therein you shall die, and from there you
shall be brought forth.' " (7:20)
A few verses later, the moral of Adam and Eve's story becomes even more relevant for my life, and yours.
You see, God promises each and everyone of us one of two end points: heaven or 'hell'. Adam and Eve asked God to give them back an eternity in Paradise. So, God put them on this earth as a test to see if they were worthy of eternal greatness in a lushious land of gardens and underwater rivers.
Like A&E, in life, we are judged. At the end, God promises us Paradise as a reward for the good life we have lived.
" 'This / is your Paradise; you have been given it as your inheritance / for what you did.' " (7:40)
Essentially then,
Life is a test (or a sick game).
You are given chances and, surprisingly, choices. "To every one / of you We have appointed a right way / and an open road." (5:50)
What you make of this life determines the future of your world to come. God 'tries us with good things and evil, so that haply we shall return to the garden's of Paradise' (7: 165).
BUT, there is ONE last thing, one MINOR detail that God throws in two suras later like some fine print on everyday drugs. If you want to make it to heaven you have to sell your soul...
to Him.
Entry into Paradise requires a bargain with God, a simple excahnge of self in return for Paradise (I've added in a little fine(bold) print of my own):
"God has bought from the believers their selves / and their possessions against the gift of Paradise ... . So rejoice in the bargain you have made with Him; / that is the mighty triumph." (9:110).
So, there it is. Our Purpose, as neatly explained as I could on a blog page.
I hope that my understanding of God's masterful plan will become ever clearer as I read on. For the moment, however, I am having a hard time settling on this supposed bargain with Him.
For one, it presupposes that one believes in heaven and hell-- which I am firmly undecided about. Actually, even before that it presupposes the belief in God, which I am equally and firmly undecided about.
Lastly, God's revelations comes to me a little too late, at quite an inopportune time. You see, for the past few weeks following a death-changing read, I have been going around preaching that I would like my bodily remains to be composted upon death. The controversial mantra that started this all: When I die, my body and mind WILL turn off like a switch, or a dead battery.
So it is that I cannot bargain what I do not have to give. For me there is no limbo, no heaven, no hell, no ghost haunting, no death liasoning.
So, what purpose for the Lost, God?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Women, Restrictions, and Slaves
This is another post as part of the S.I.Q. series (Sarah Interprets the Quran).
I am only 80/354 pages into the Quran, and what started off as awkward verse reading is now becoming much more familiar diction.
So far there have been many themes that have jumped out at me, but only three in particular I will touch upon for now...
Women
I found some beautiful passages about women and "honourable rights" we deserve (2: 230). For instance, there is the surprising subject of divorce of which the Quran speaks quite favourably in terms of the right of women to enter and exit marriages of their own accord:
"When you divorce women, and they have reached/ their turn, then retain them honourably/ or set them free honourably; do not retain them/ by force, to transgress; whoever does that/ has wronged himself" (2: 328-242).
"When you divorce women, and they have reached/ their term, do not debar them from marrying/ their husbands, when they have agreed together/ honourably" (2: 248-251).
I suppose I find this surprising because of the large Catholic influence in my upbringing (social and familial) where divorce is a big no-no.
However, despite the fact that the Quran attributes what I would call great freedoms and respect for women, there is still one thing that makes it all relative, and it's the one thing that always gets Fundamentalist Muslims in trouble: the hierarchy of the sexes.
"Women have such honourable rights as obligations, but their men have a degree above them; God is/ All-mighty, All-wise" (2: 216-219).
And so it is that I will never subscribe myself to this Book.
And some where along the way this also got me thinking, there is a definite need for the female equivalent of the Books. Our voice needs to narrate, too.
Restrictions
So far, the Quran has spoken much of things we probably should do and probably should not do to retain the favour of God. But all these proscriptions seem to be fairly relative for, we are reminded time and verse again, "God is All-forgiving, All-clement." Which means, you should probably not, for instance, lie with women during their period... but if you should blunder and find yourself bedridden with one at the wrong time we are reminded that, "God loves those who repent..." (2: 220).
The only things I have come across so far that are strictly forbidden (I know this because it says so, "These things only has He forbidden you (to eat)..." (2: 165)) are: "carrion, blood, the flesh of swine, what has been hallowed to other than God."
Do Not Eat:
1. Carrion: dead/decaying flesh
2. Blood: sorry Bella
3. The Flesh of swine: i.e. pigs, boars, hogs-- basically anything with thick skin, stout body, short neck, and moveable snout (or just really brutish Englishmen).
--> There are historic reasons for this-- swines have been responsible for many diseases. However, it says here only the flesh... and not the meat. This is interesting because Muslims don't eat pork, whether that be pork skin, chop, or ribs. Implication?
4. What has been hallowed to other than God: i.e. what food has been consecrated or dedicated to other than The God.
Anyways, so far I know that these things I must not eat and that to other gods, I must not pray.
But aside from that, the do's and don'ts of God's words of advice often get lost, confounded, or forgiven. Which is not all too far off the mark of God's intentions. Indeed, as he says quite befittingly given the nature of my personal pursuit:
It is He who sent down upon thee the Book,
wherein are verses clear that are the Essence
of the Book, and others ambiguous.
(3: 5).
So, basically God, like my 3rd year Bible and Quran study professor, has given me a license to interpret, and be judged come finals.
Slaves
God tells us not to marry idolatresses/idolaters-- they are the worst of the worst because they are unbelievers in the one and only God (Although, you can admire them from a distance) (2: 220). According to God, if you are tempted by an idolater/ress, you are better off marrying a slave girl/boy, for at least the slave is likely to be a believer in God.
This caught my attention because it is a major reason why Islam was able to spread so quickly and openly in South Asia. Hindus practicing the caste system often felt subjected to lower rungs of the social hierarchy. When Islam came, it preached that slaves (or those of lower social standing) were actually far better than idolaters (i.e. those worshiping figures other than God; i.e. Hindus). So, verses like these actually served to be a form of emancipation and protection for Hindus in South Asia who, seeking a life outside of the bounds of the caste system, would often gladly convert to Islam.
Anyways, so far God has given me a lot to think about. Let me know what you think. Until then, it's time for me to grapple immaculate conception, Quran-style.
I am only 80/354 pages into the Quran, and what started off as awkward verse reading is now becoming much more familiar diction.
So far there have been many themes that have jumped out at me, but only three in particular I will touch upon for now...
Women
I found some beautiful passages about women and "honourable rights" we deserve (2: 230). For instance, there is the surprising subject of divorce of which the Quran speaks quite favourably in terms of the right of women to enter and exit marriages of their own accord:
"When you divorce women, and they have reached/ their turn, then retain them honourably/ or set them free honourably; do not retain them/ by force, to transgress; whoever does that/ has wronged himself" (2: 328-242).
"When you divorce women, and they have reached/ their term, do not debar them from marrying/ their husbands, when they have agreed together/ honourably" (2: 248-251).
I suppose I find this surprising because of the large Catholic influence in my upbringing (social and familial) where divorce is a big no-no.
However, despite the fact that the Quran attributes what I would call great freedoms and respect for women, there is still one thing that makes it all relative, and it's the one thing that always gets Fundamentalist Muslims in trouble: the hierarchy of the sexes.
"Women have such honourable rights as obligations, but their men have a degree above them; God is/ All-mighty, All-wise" (2: 216-219).
And so it is that I will never subscribe myself to this Book.
And some where along the way this also got me thinking, there is a definite need for the female equivalent of the Books. Our voice needs to narrate, too.
Restrictions
So far, the Quran has spoken much of things we probably should do and probably should not do to retain the favour of God. But all these proscriptions seem to be fairly relative for, we are reminded time and verse again, "God is All-forgiving, All-clement." Which means, you should probably not, for instance, lie with women during their period... but if you should blunder and find yourself bedridden with one at the wrong time we are reminded that, "God loves those who repent..." (2: 220).
The only things I have come across so far that are strictly forbidden (I know this because it says so, "These things only has He forbidden you (to eat)..." (2: 165)) are: "carrion, blood, the flesh of swine, what has been hallowed to other than God."
Do Not Eat:
1. Carrion: dead/decaying flesh
2. Blood: sorry Bella
3. The Flesh of swine: i.e. pigs, boars, hogs-- basically anything with thick skin, stout body, short neck, and moveable snout (or just really brutish Englishmen).
--> There are historic reasons for this-- swines have been responsible for many diseases. However, it says here only the flesh... and not the meat. This is interesting because Muslims don't eat pork, whether that be pork skin, chop, or ribs. Implication?
4. What has been hallowed to other than God: i.e. what food has been consecrated or dedicated to other than The God.
Anyways, so far I know that these things I must not eat and that to other gods, I must not pray.
But aside from that, the do's and don'ts of God's words of advice often get lost, confounded, or forgiven. Which is not all too far off the mark of God's intentions. Indeed, as he says quite befittingly given the nature of my personal pursuit:
It is He who sent down upon thee the Book,
wherein are verses clear that are the Essence
of the Book, and others ambiguous.
(3: 5).
So, basically God, like my 3rd year Bible and Quran study professor, has given me a license to interpret, and be judged come finals.
Slaves
God tells us not to marry idolatresses/idolaters-- they are the worst of the worst because they are unbelievers in the one and only God (Although, you can admire them from a distance) (2: 220). According to God, if you are tempted by an idolater/ress, you are better off marrying a slave girl/boy, for at least the slave is likely to be a believer in God.
This caught my attention because it is a major reason why Islam was able to spread so quickly and openly in South Asia. Hindus practicing the caste system often felt subjected to lower rungs of the social hierarchy. When Islam came, it preached that slaves (or those of lower social standing) were actually far better than idolaters (i.e. those worshiping figures other than God; i.e. Hindus). So, verses like these actually served to be a form of emancipation and protection for Hindus in South Asia who, seeking a life outside of the bounds of the caste system, would often gladly convert to Islam.
Anyways, so far God has given me a lot to think about. Let me know what you think. Until then, it's time for me to grapple immaculate conception, Quran-style.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Srah Interprets the Quran
This project is long overdue. Srah must read the Quran.
As many of you know- or don't- exactly one half of my honours program was devoted to Religious Studies. While specifically I focused on East Asian Religions, thanks to the undefined curriculum at McGill I was able to branch out and take a variety of courses surveying the religions of the world.
In my third year, while taking one such wanderlust class, "Bible and Quran Interpretations", I thought I was finally going to embark on a personal project I had always been really curious and equally too lazy to try, read the Books.
Unfortunately for me and about 99% of my fellow classmates this particular course was not going to force us to read the Books, front to back cover. Instead, it forced us to read only certain passages and find their roots and historical understandings.
In reflection, while I was disappointed to not have been forced a reading of the Books in entirety, this course actually served to be the perfect introduction to such an endeavor, should and when one ever take place. You see, the course taught us about one, big, gigantic, thing: interpretation. We learned how words, passages, scriptures, books-- all the things in man's (sorry) possession-- have been understood, and re-understood from one point of history to another; and from one man/woman to another.
In so teaching me this, the course taught me another really important-- albeit dangerous-- lesson: like beauty, scripture is in the eye of the beholder.
So, about a year after finishing this course and feeling like I have a theosophical theological license to kill with my new found degree I am deciding to (finally) Read The Books.
I have decided to start with the Quran for a number of reasons... none of which I think particularly matter save for one thing: I couldn't find my copy of the Bible, lost somewhere in my boxes between Ottawa/Montreal/and Buffalo.
Now, this is where I throw out a disclaimer. I do not wish to provide an authoritative interpretation of the Quran. Far from it. First of all, I realize to perhaps a lot of people's chagrin that I am reading it in English and not Arabic. And secondly, Yes, I am reading the Quran removed from the support of other Islamic texts and authorities.
Essentially my curiosity is purely personal and concerned solely with the words and passages at hand. For this reason, I don't want to seek the interpretations of others to get me through (maybe only to compare and feel outdone). I want to read the Quran like I would read any other text, say, on astrophysics, or computational mechanics... you get the point.
So it is that I will read the Quran for myself, by myself, and in English.
I have made this a public statement (of incrimination) because I would like to share my curiosities with others. When I had first decided to read the Quran, a lot of people got excited and started throwing out questions left and right. People are curious about this Book. Obviously, it's a big part of our political-- and hence, social rhetoric. And the fact is that while this book is arguably the most influential text in history—rivaled only by the Bible—very few of us here in the West will actually ever read it.
So, I am opening up the floor to questions, comments, or whatever you would like to share. And-- just as our grade school teachers used to encourage us-- there is no such thing as a stupid question!
I have to be honest and say that I can probably promise to answer none of your questions. But, I can at least also promise to try and engage them as I go along reading the Quran.
My father in his infinite wisdom got the ball rolling with what he calls his burning question. As he says, everyone speaks of Jewish/Christian influences in the Quran, but few ever speak about Persian and Arabic pagan influences (probably because the archeological findings are not straight linear to allow for such divided study). Now, I have only in passing come across academia of the Persian and Arab pre-Islam pagan religions. But, I had to promise him that I would bring back a few points of relevance by the end of my read. Although I think he is expecting a whole Sun of relevance, at least (pagan joke, haha).
Anyways, I will try to update this blog as I go. And I encourage you to follow along/ jump in whenever and wherever the desire fuels you.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Haiti: after the quake
FRONTLINE reports on Haiti with correspondent Adam Davidson: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/haiti-aid/
These reports by Adam Davidson give you a really interesting picture of Haiti, post quake. Three different economic caveats are explored separately: rice market, tent cities, and tap-tap buses.
They are short pieces and I really recommend them.
In need of their own agriculture
The first video brings up a timeless question that is relevant to many nations in the Caribbean: why is American produce and agriculture dominating these markets that are very capable of feeding their own (or, used to be, at least)? Granted, Haiti's usable farmland has largely been destroyed over the ages for a number of different reasons (see Google Earth image comparing Haiti vs. DR). Nonetheless, Haiti is in desperate need of an agricultural rebirth.
The rice video on the "Aid Dilemma" also-- again-- makes me think back to what I would say is (arguably) the best and most important read in the politics of aid, and the politics of development in the 21st century: William Easterly's "The White Man's Burden". (I don't know how many more times and in how many more ways I could recommend this book, even if you passionately tend to disagree with the author's general thesis).
Let us stay cool, and happy
The last two videos make me think back to my recent travels abroad, especially to Cambodia (SEA's poorest country), where there are equally gross cultures of commodification as we are seeing in Haiti. I use "gross" in a nonsensical sort of way, refering to the fact that despite near dollar-a-day salaries, these people manage to get pedicures, electronic gadgets, newest fashions, etc (What got me the most in SEA was seeing the IPHONE (or a rip there-of) nearly EVERYWHERE in every country-- it was THE status symbol). As Davidson notes comparably: all across these make-do tent cities in Haiti, one can find "entertainment, beauty, and happiness" despite the people's very apparent limited financial resources (video 2).
Seeing this paradox at play makes me feel that my (minor) degree in Cultural Studies wasn't complete bullocks... .
Interestingly, too, (although not surprisingly) is that these people living in makeshift tent-homes and makeshift lives find happiness. Increasingly I am starting to get it: it's not (entirely, sorry) about wealth. Indeed, Laotians (SEA's second poorest people) are said to be the nicest, smiliest, and happiest of the region.
An author I recently read (of course, can't remember who) wrote that happiness is found in the act of doing. People are happy not necessarily due to the size of their wallets, but primarily because they can use their hands, their brain, their feet to make something of their lives. This is why many psychologists often refer their depressed patients to do volunteer work: it keeps the self busy and productive, and therefore, happy(ier).
So, a new informal economy, or even a functioning economy generally, will/should create jobs and work for Haitians to feel productive and, hence, internally happy despite their less than ironically shitty situation.
These reports by Adam Davidson give you a really interesting picture of Haiti, post quake. Three different economic caveats are explored separately: rice market, tent cities, and tap-tap buses.
They are short pieces and I really recommend them.
In need of their own agriculture
The first video brings up a timeless question that is relevant to many nations in the Caribbean: why is American produce and agriculture dominating these markets that are very capable of feeding their own (or, used to be, at least)? Granted, Haiti's usable farmland has largely been destroyed over the ages for a number of different reasons (see Google Earth image comparing Haiti vs. DR). Nonetheless, Haiti is in desperate need of an agricultural rebirth.
The rice video on the "Aid Dilemma" also-- again-- makes me think back to what I would say is (arguably) the best and most important read in the politics of aid, and the politics of development in the 21st century: William Easterly's "The White Man's Burden". (I don't know how many more times and in how many more ways I could recommend this book, even if you passionately tend to disagree with the author's general thesis).
Let us stay cool, and happy
The last two videos make me think back to my recent travels abroad, especially to Cambodia (SEA's poorest country), where there are equally gross cultures of commodification as we are seeing in Haiti. I use "gross" in a nonsensical sort of way, refering to the fact that despite near dollar-a-day salaries, these people manage to get pedicures, electronic gadgets, newest fashions, etc (What got me the most in SEA was seeing the IPHONE (or a rip there-of) nearly EVERYWHERE in every country-- it was THE status symbol). As Davidson notes comparably: all across these make-do tent cities in Haiti, one can find "entertainment, beauty, and happiness" despite the people's very apparent limited financial resources (video 2).
Seeing this paradox at play makes me feel that my (minor) degree in Cultural Studies wasn't complete bullocks... .
Interestingly, too, (although not surprisingly) is that these people living in makeshift tent-homes and makeshift lives find happiness. Increasingly I am starting to get it: it's not (entirely, sorry) about wealth. Indeed, Laotians (SEA's second poorest people) are said to be the nicest, smiliest, and happiest of the region.
An author I recently read (of course, can't remember who) wrote that happiness is found in the act of doing. People are happy not necessarily due to the size of their wallets, but primarily because they can use their hands, their brain, their feet to make something of their lives. This is why many psychologists often refer their depressed patients to do volunteer work: it keeps the self busy and productive, and therefore, happy(ier).
So, a new informal economy, or even a functioning economy generally, will/should create jobs and work for Haitians to feel productive and, hence, internally happy despite their less than ironically shitty situation.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
To Love
"Once the initial madness of desire has passed and we are faced with each other as dimwitted mortal fools, how is it that any of us find the ability to love and forgive each other at all, much less enduringly?"
- Elizabeth Gilbert "Eat, Pray, Love", 129
- Elizabeth Gilbert "Eat, Pray, Love", 129
Monday, June 21, 2010
A Visit to a Balinese Medicine Man
As most of you had already heard, while traveling in Bali I ended up paying a nice visit to a Balinese Medicine Man following an unfortunate event. Sorry I never divulged full details at the time, but I was just waiting for a moment when it would all seem like some funny event of the distant past.
Re-reading my travel journal now, I laugh about it and think, in some weird and twisted way, that it was almost an accident waiting to happen. I should have known that trouble was awaiting the minute I had decided to take command of our motorized scooter... .
The story begins about two weeks earlier .....
It was only a few weeks before when, riding Singapore's serene East Coast Park trails, I had crashed our tandem bike into a pole.
Magnus and I had decided to be romantic and rent a bicycle for two. And I had decided to be some strong, independent woman and guide us through the jungle (i.e. flat, paved bike trail). The getting starting part should have been our first sign: what a failure! Riding in the front seat, I was determined to get us on our way, but it was only after half an hour of many laughs, much shouting, and as many dubious looks from passerby's that we were off and rolling. We (I) had struggled so hard to coordinate that damn bike. It just wouldn't get going!
Anyways, we had been riding for many, many, many miles. It was hot. I had been hauling ass in the front... for a couple minutes. Up ahead there was a red light. And some posts.
And of course, I headed straight for a post. Crash.
Magnus flew off his seat, and I was sort of bumped off mine. But, luckily, no one was hurt and we were able to walk away, laughing at my poor driving skills, while Magnus quickly reclaimed the front seat as he tried to hide his look of utter shock at my poor navigation skills.
Fast forward two weeks later to Bali.....
Upon arriving in Ubud, Magnus and I had decided to be romantic and rent a motorbike and drive around the countryside visiting the rice paddies and chasing the setting sun. At some point on our way back home, I took control of the driving seat (the devil made me do it).
(sound familiar to you yet?)
Next thing you know, I'm trying to make a three-point turn across a road with oncoming traffic from both sides. Needless to say, I panicked, Revved the gas, and forgot to squeeze the breaks. (Motorbikes are so counter intuitive).
At the time, I faced two immediate options: 1. crash into a lusciously irrigated rice paddy up ahead, or 2. crash into a tree over to my side.
So, I aimed for the tree.
?
And this is how I got to visiting a Balinese Medicine man-- no, not THE Ubud Balinese Medicine man (from "Eat, Pray, Love"), just a young doctor at some local clinic.
A very, very nice local man who had witnessed the accident had brought us to this ne
arby clinic so that a doctor could asses my wounds. I was shaking, feeling light headed, but had to swallow my hesitations and hop on another motorbike with my two heros (Magnus and Local Driver) to get to the clinic.Luckily, again, nothing serious happened to either of us from of my reckless driving. And fortunately, Magnus walked away (again) with nearly no scratch. I, on the other hand, had to get two stitches on my elbow and four on my hand. In one moment I instantly doubled my total stitch count for life. My left leg was pretty cut up as well... but that was just for effect ;)
I don't think Magnus will ever trust to get on another two-wheeled anything with me again... and somehow, I don't blame him. After encountering a pole and a tree, I couldn't imagine who ever gave me my license to kill.
picture above: not wanting to visit another Balinese Medicine man, I decided to take out all 6 of my stitches by myself! Five days after the accident, I began taking them out slowly, one at a time. Here is a picture of my hand, with the last stitch left!Later on, when I would bump into a French Doctor/ Backpacker in Kuta, he said after taking a look at my wounds that I had taken the stitches out too early and went on to advise me that I shouldn't risk re-opening the cuts by going surfing.
I thanked him for his help and bandages, and then quickly ran to the beach for a sunset surf.
He was right, it was uncomfortable-- my elbow at this point could still barely bend fully-- and the pressure of pushing myself up on the board killed my hand, so I didn't last too long out there in the waves. But, it was still one heck of a ride-- my last surf in SEA. And for that, I could definitely swallow the pain.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
FINE-d
This blog couldn't have come sooner, but in a way, it's more than overdue.
In the past few weeks since my last mass-ish update, I have been in 4 different countries, I have hit new highs and lows, and I have seen history repeat itself all while I have broken new records among friends. And on this latter point is where I shall start my update...
--
In our 5 months studying in Singapore, many warnings had been headed to obey the law. Of course, like everyone else that comes through this City-State we had the pop. culture image of Singapore ingrained in us: play hard, but stay within the lines even harder!
So, we would ride the MRT (metro) careful not to board with drinks or food (or durian, cause that's a category all on its own). We would walk the streets and keep everything on our persons-- spit, trash, and all.
All in all, we were cautious of being out of step at the wrong time and none of us wanted to face the re-precautions of such actions. At worst, Singapore still practices the death penalty, and at best, the governme
nt is fine-happy. On this last point, there is a particular t-shirt that deserves noted credit for creating this perception (see right). In fact, I was actually told by one Italian backpacker that the sole reason he came to Singapore (for 3 days, which he ended up abhoring) was to purchase this infamous "Singapore is a Fine City" t-shirt from Chinatown and walk away, with a fine. Needless to say, he was not fined (hence, "abhorred"). So it goes without saying, a lot of people have this idea about the government and the oft menial things they will do to keep their city as such by fining the people that walk its streets.
Anyways, as it concerned us exchange students, this perceived threat soon became a running joke, or to some, even a challenge of defiance. After a few months of nervous self-enforced best behaviour out of what some concluded was simply 'hypothetical fear', we all became more confident in the gum packs we kept hidden in our pockets and jay-walking tendencies. And as time kept-ticking, no one was caught-- for anything.
Much like the Italian backpacker I would later meet, I remember talking to some friends at the end of our exchange and almost laughing at the fact that no one had walked away with a scratch. Everyone-- all hundreds of us wild-Western liberalists-- left without so much as a light scold from the Singaporean government.
I myself had never fantasized in egging on the police, nor challenging the states authority. But in any case I have to admit, I felt pretty confident that only something drastic I did could warrant such attention (or, detention). You see, a friend of mine had calmed my fears one night over wine and cheese as he recounted his two years serving in the mandatory Military Service (MS). As a Malay-Singaporean, young guys like him are often placed in the police force. The most evident reason for this is that a large part of crime in the state is Malay driven-- and so the government hires and recruits men that are able to communicate with this demographic. My friend tells me that, like most young guys serving their time in the MS (and there are A LOT of these young guys, considering ALL young guys have to go through MS), he was shy of girls. And so it was that he never implicated any girl while on duty, despite having seen some questionable things.
Of course, I had noticed this hands-on. The young police officers don't look, don't question. In fact, they even look scared of YOU.
And so, there I was, approaching the very final days of my time in Singapore and like the rest of us internationals feeling quite immune and befooled by Chinatown's most deceiving souvenir.
But all that was about to change.
As I made my way to the airport (destination: Bali!), I had preemptively given myself more than enough time for any airport altrication, should one happen. It was just this feeling, a little pulse I felt deep in my gut enforced by my previous adventures (see blog one), that had made me think ahead-- 4 hours ahead just to be sure.
And so, after sleeping at most 2 hours the night before, I was prepared for the worse-- or my worse, I should say. But what I hadn't been prepared for was being DETAINED!
YES, I-- a young, GIRL, from Canada-- was detained in Singapore for what I would soon have a name for. My crime: "Overstaying".
After a couple of hours having to deal with a middle-aged, female immigration agent-- who was clearly not charmed by any of my charms-- I was made to sign a statement that recognized I had been illegally (she kept repeating, just so I would never forget) living in Singapore for a total of 13 days.
You see, when I had gone to renew my passport with the Canadian government (that fateful day), they had assured me I would have to stay in Singapore in the meanwhile, but that my presence would be classified under "Tourist", which gave me exactly 60 days (to wait out my passport, worse comes to worse).
Twenty-two days later when I finally got my passport back and was a free citizen of the world again, it took only five days before I exited/ fled the country to take refuge in beautiful Bali. Which made a grand total of twenty-seven days-- or, thirty-three days before
"Tourist" expiration date; or, otherwise seen through my eyes, good to go!
Well no, I was not good to go! (Thanks again, Canadian Government!)
In the end, I had to pay a FINE!
So, 100$ later I walked out with a receipt which had my name right at the bottom on the dotted line signed beside the word "Overstayer". I was, officially, fined in Singapore for being an Overstayer.
At first, this thought made me want to cry. I held my receipt, holding back tears as I doumbfoundedly walked through Changi airport to the only place of comfort I knew, the book store (right beside the pastries stand).
And there, as I browsed the books (while devouring my chocolatine, and then my swiss pastry), trying to find comfort in Haruki Murakami's short stories noted for spiritual emptiness, I started to think about Chinatown, and that stupid t-shirt, and that silly Italian backpacker... and how utterly jealous/ awed he would have been of my story.
In hindsight, thus, I've proudly held on to my receipt. In fact, when I have a home and a wall to call my own again, I will hang it up, right next to that stupid t-shirt and be living proof that fines do happen in Singapore, under the most unfortunate circumstances.
So you see, I'm quite proud of my accomplishment-- only because today I can tell you, I'm FINE-d!
In the past few weeks since my last mass-ish update, I have been in 4 different countries, I have hit new highs and lows, and I have seen history repeat itself all while I have broken new records among friends. And on this latter point is where I shall start my update...
--
In our 5 months studying in Singapore, many warnings had been headed to obey the law. Of course, like everyone else that comes through this City-State we had the pop. culture image of Singapore ingrained in us: play hard, but stay within the lines even harder!
So, we would ride the MRT (metro) careful not to board with drinks or food (or durian, cause that's a category all on its own). We would walk the streets and keep everything on our persons-- spit, trash, and all.
All in all, we were cautious of being out of step at the wrong time and none of us wanted to face the re-precautions of such actions. At worst, Singapore still practices the death penalty, and at best, the governme
nt is fine-happy. On this last point, there is a particular t-shirt that deserves noted credit for creating this perception (see right). In fact, I was actually told by one Italian backpacker that the sole reason he came to Singapore (for 3 days, which he ended up abhoring) was to purchase this infamous "Singapore is a Fine City" t-shirt from Chinatown and walk away, with a fine. Needless to say, he was not fined (hence, "abhorred"). So it goes without saying, a lot of people have this idea about the government and the oft menial things they will do to keep their city as such by fining the people that walk its streets.Anyways, as it concerned us exchange students, this perceived threat soon became a running joke, or to some, even a challenge of defiance. After a few months of nervous self-enforced best behaviour out of what some concluded was simply 'hypothetical fear', we all became more confident in the gum packs we kept hidden in our pockets and jay-walking tendencies. And as time kept-ticking, no one was caught-- for anything.
Much like the Italian backpacker I would later meet, I remember talking to some friends at the end of our exchange and almost laughing at the fact that no one had walked away with a scratch. Everyone-- all hundreds of us wild-Western liberalists-- left without so much as a light scold from the Singaporean government.
I myself had never fantasized in egging on the police, nor challenging the states authority. But in any case I have to admit, I felt pretty confident that only something drastic I did could warrant such attention (or, detention). You see, a friend of mine had calmed my fears one night over wine and cheese as he recounted his two years serving in the mandatory Military Service (MS). As a Malay-Singaporean, young guys like him are often placed in the police force. The most evident reason for this is that a large part of crime in the state is Malay driven-- and so the government hires and recruits men that are able to communicate with this demographic. My friend tells me that, like most young guys serving their time in the MS (and there are A LOT of these young guys, considering ALL young guys have to go through MS), he was shy of girls. And so it was that he never implicated any girl while on duty, despite having seen some questionable things.
Of course, I had noticed this hands-on. The young police officers don't look, don't question. In fact, they even look scared of YOU.
And so, there I was, approaching the very final days of my time in Singapore and like the rest of us internationals feeling quite immune and befooled by Chinatown's most deceiving souvenir.
But all that was about to change.
As I made my way to the airport (destination: Bali!), I had preemptively given myself more than enough time for any airport altrication, should one happen. It was just this feeling, a little pulse I felt deep in my gut enforced by my previous adventures (see blog one), that had made me think ahead-- 4 hours ahead just to be sure.
And so, after sleeping at most 2 hours the night before, I was prepared for the worse-- or my worse, I should say. But what I hadn't been prepared for was being DETAINED!
YES, I-- a young, GIRL, from Canada-- was detained in Singapore for what I would soon have a name for. My crime: "Overstaying".
After a couple of hours having to deal with a middle-aged, female immigration agent-- who was clearly not charmed by any of my charms-- I was made to sign a statement that recognized I had been illegally (she kept repeating, just so I would never forget) living in Singapore for a total of 13 days.
You see, when I had gone to renew my passport with the Canadian government (that fateful day), they had assured me I would have to stay in Singapore in the meanwhile, but that my presence would be classified under "Tourist", which gave me exactly 60 days (to wait out my passport, worse comes to worse).
Twenty-two days later when I finally got my passport back and was a free citizen of the world again, it took only five days before I exited/ fled the country to take refuge in beautiful Bali. Which made a grand total of twenty-seven days-- or, thirty-three days before
"Tourist" expiration date; or, otherwise seen through my eyes, good to go!
Well no, I was not good to go! (Thanks again, Canadian Government!)
In the end, I had to pay a FINE!
So, 100$ later I walked out with a receipt which had my name right at the bottom on the dotted line signed beside the word "Overstayer". I was, officially, fined in Singapore for being an Overstayer.
At first, this thought made me want to cry. I held my receipt, holding back tears as I doumbfoundedly walked through Changi airport to the only place of comfort I knew, the book store (right beside the pastries stand).
And there, as I browsed the books (while devouring my chocolatine, and then my swiss pastry), trying to find comfort in Haruki Murakami's short stories noted for spiritual emptiness, I started to think about Chinatown, and that stupid t-shirt, and that silly Italian backpacker... and how utterly jealous/ awed he would have been of my story.
In hindsight, thus, I've proudly held on to my receipt. In fact, when I have a home and a wall to call my own again, I will hang it up, right next to that stupid t-shirt and be living proof that fines do happen in Singapore, under the most unfortunate circumstances.
So you see, I'm quite proud of my accomplishment-- only because today I can tell you, I'm FINE-d!
Perspective in a Quote
God turns to you and gives you a piece of the universe that is just three millimeters large and says to you:
"Your job is to take care of it. Not make it bigger or better-- just take care of it. And when I'm ready, I'll take it back, and your life will be over."
- Daniel Gottlieb, "Letters to Sam"
http://letterstosam.blogspot.com/
"Your job is to take care of it. Not make it bigger or better-- just take care of it. And when I'm ready, I'll take it back, and your life will be over."
- Daniel Gottlieb, "Letters to Sam"
http://letterstosam.blogspot.com/
Saturday, May 29, 2010
A Month's Progression
As I'm nearing the end of this month, May, I spent a good hour or so in reflection. I had seen so much anxiety, doubt, and misfortune over this month I forced myself to rethink all of these moments and put them in a new light. In the end, it turned out that the easiest and most comical way for me to make light of my May was to highlight all that really went down. At then end of my list I realized that it wasn't all wasted time. So, here it is for all of you who were wondering on the other end what the hell I have been doing with my life this past month:
(list goes in order of occurrence and is based on how I will remember my May)
1. I graduate! (almost)
2. Get called 'unemployed'
3. Forced to renew my passport, quoted June 3 return date = Stuck in Singapore for 22 days
4. Move into local hostel (un)conveniently situated in the middle of wanna-be India; take on 9 new room mates
5. Go to first legit job interview wearing 4 inch heals (and run away from having to accept/decline job)
6. Find out graduation is postponed, and hence so is title of 'unemployed'-- Officially in the 'student' box
again (good news)
7. Got my hena did where Beyonce did!!
8. Computer dies once and for all(bad news: lost all my photos from months of travel)
9. Email Steve Jobs in light of above situation (still waiting for response)
10. A day later, Ipod dies
11. Beloved Ear phones found suspiciously missing one ear
12. May 28, passport is back three days early!!! Officially a free person of the world again (very good news)
13. Lost travel journal (includes memories and moments of travels over the past 5 months)-- mostly concerned about whose reading it right now (sorry it's rubbish!)
Hena on my feet!!
Beyonce had her hand done, for 5$.
I had my foot done, for 10$.
So there it is, it's been one hell of a ride.
Only one more day of May.
At this point, I don't think anything could possibly add to this list of gains and losses.
(list goes in order of occurrence and is based on how I will remember my May)
1. I graduate! (almost)
2. Get called 'unemployed'
3. Forced to renew my passport, quoted June 3 return date = Stuck in Singapore for 22 days
4. Move into local hostel (un)conveniently situated in the middle of wanna-be India; take on 9 new room mates
5. Go to first legit job interview wearing 4 inch heals (and run away from having to accept/decline job)
6. Find out graduation is postponed, and hence so is title of 'unemployed'-- Officially in the 'student' box
again (good news)7. Got my hena did where Beyonce did!!
8. Computer dies once and for all(bad news: lost all my photos from months of travel)
9. Email Steve Jobs in light of above situation (still waiting for response)
10. A day later, Ipod dies
11. Beloved Ear phones found suspiciously missing one ear
12. May 28, passport is back three days early!!! Officially a free person of the world again (very good news)
13. Lost travel journal (includes memories and moments of travels over the past 5 months)-- mostly concerned about whose reading it right now (sorry it's rubbish!)
Hena on my feet!!
Beyonce had her hand done, for 5$.
I had my foot done, for 10$.
So there it is, it's been one hell of a ride.
Only one more day of May.
At this point, I don't think anything could possibly add to this list of gains and losses.
Commitment
I saw a wedding today. It was a nice, gray day in Singapore and the party was taking photos outside with a beautiful view of the Fullerton Hotel and a river at their backside. The bride was dressed in a metallic-black gown. Her maids wore metallic-white. The couple was young. Perhaps 26 at most. While the girls had their photos taken, the groom sat hunched over a park bench, spewing out a fountain of brown chards and liquids.
At a glance, it was quite the unconventional wedding: a bride in black, a groom sick before the first dance. All this foreshadowing the most conventional of all acts: a ceremony to seal a deal for a life-time. Not even parents make this promise to their children.
The irony of this picture strikes me as the real deal of marriage. Namely, the puke. The dark.
But, as I walk away and take a last look a the bride now posing in all her glory on a bridge over water, not waiting for her husband to strike a pose I am forced to think of small words I have just recently read: that the true irony of commitment is that it is deeply liberating, in work, love, and play. It frees you from yourself.
Maybe then the black and the puke are just what we are able to express when we commit... .
At a glance, it was quite the unconventional wedding: a bride in black, a groom sick before the first dance. All this foreshadowing the most conventional of all acts: a ceremony to seal a deal for a life-time. Not even parents make this promise to their children.
The irony of this picture strikes me as the real deal of marriage. Namely, the puke. The dark.
But, as I walk away and take a last look a the bride now posing in all her glory on a bridge over water, not waiting for her husband to strike a pose I am forced to think of small words I have just recently read: that the true irony of commitment is that it is deeply liberating, in work, love, and play. It frees you from yourself.
Maybe then the black and the puke are just what we are able to express when we commit... .
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The Confession: I am a student (still), (stuck) in Singapore
25 days.
Or, four weeks.
That's the amount of time it takes for the Canadian Embassy to renew my passport overseas (and surprsinngly, yes, even in Singapore, a place highly noted for it's general efficiency).
I guess there are two things to take away from this fact:
First, true as tested the Canadian Government is inefficient, anywhere and everywhere.
Second, creativity; or, how to spend time in a foreign place where you are not allowed to work (even for free), nor are allowed to leave, and have already explored its various offerings over the past four months.
--
Real time check: currently on last day of week 2. Which means about 2 weeks left. Or, 12 days.
---
They say that if you wait long enough and are patient for the good things, time will always turn something up. But feeling slightly more proactive about my life and circumstances (partly out of necessity), I have spent a large chunk of my time trying to plan out 'time', with a guiding question of "what to do, post-grad?"
In the beginning, I gave myself a year. The plan was (is) to graduate in a foreign land, get lost in other foreign lands, hopefully pick up a foreign fling and then in the fall of 2011, settle back in Canada as an eager law student. So, that gives me over a year; Or, four semesters (2 summers, one fall, one winter) to make the best of my life and chase the moments.
With this overall goal in mind, only ideas here and there have guided my steps. Like, for one, apply around and get the best job (fail). Or, for seconds, Fall in love with a man who owns a palace in some far off land and wants to spoon feed me for the rest of my life (fail). Fail. Fail. Fail.
It seems that this plan isn't panning out. (I blame the Canadian Government, always.)
Give me ten years and this one year, in retrospect, will seem like a blurr in time. A second of a twenty-four hour day (? my math might be off on this one here). But in the moment, the hand ticks slowly. Really slowly. I watch it, literally and figuratively. Mostly I watch it thinking I could be elsewhere-- like on some Indonesian beach perfecting the art of surf. Or thinking that there are so many things wrong with this place. Where is their life? (come on, no gum!? no porn!? all work. no play!)
And then I remind myself, I'm the one who is STUCK (literally), and where is MY life?
Well, in the next few days or so it is pending, I admit.
But after that, I swear I get my life back on track and stop being a waste of carbon.
In a bit over two weeks, or 15 days, I will be moving to the Philippines, temporarily. I have volunteered over my hands, my time, and my wallet for 10 weeks. I will be working as a health care volunteer serving a rural village and aiding an overworked doctor. (p.s. This anticipation definitely makes the minute hands tick slower... )
So, this is my life, as it is today.
Four months after I willingly arrived to Singapore, I am now held captive to this very city against my own wishes, dreaming of now impossibly faraway beaches.
Which leads me to conclude a third thing about the facts of this situation:
Exoticism and wanderlust can happen everywhere and anywhere-- even in a place once dreamt of.
In the end, there is one thing I am really happy to add to my confession. You can call it an appendix, if you will. Or a slight correction of details:
A few days ago, I would have had one more terrible thing to add to my list of terribles: I was then considered "unemployed". I had finished school and had moved on from being a student to 'jobless' (or actually, I hadn't "moved" on to anywhere, hence 'jobLESS').
It was a friend, actually, who made me aware of this fact. He greeted me on the very day I had finished my very last exam saying, "Congragualtions, you're officially unemployed!"
Piss off.
This is without a doubt the worst word in my life. It's like the big cuss which should never be spoken, or the the bad picture which should never be tagged.
Well, to my luck it turns out there is one other burreacracy that delays everything: University. Apparently, my official records cannot be released in time for this coming graduating term. Which means, I am officially still a "student" until the summer's end.
Most people rejoice and wait anxiously for their graduation day. Not me.
I don't want to have to figure out my life, its details, just yet.
So, I am a student (still), (stuck) in Singapore.
This is the oxymoron of my life.
That's my confession.
Or, four weeks.
That's the amount of time it takes for the Canadian Embassy to renew my passport overseas (and surprsinngly, yes, even in Singapore, a place highly noted for it's general efficiency).
I guess there are two things to take away from this fact:
First, true as tested the Canadian Government is inefficient, anywhere and everywhere.
Second, creativity; or, how to spend time in a foreign place where you are not allowed to work (even for free), nor are allowed to leave, and have already explored its various offerings over the past four months.
--
Real time check: currently on last day of week 2. Which means about 2 weeks left. Or, 12 days.
---
They say that if you wait long enough and are patient for the good things, time will always turn something up. But feeling slightly more proactive about my life and circumstances (partly out of necessity), I have spent a large chunk of my time trying to plan out 'time', with a guiding question of "what to do, post-grad?"
In the beginning, I gave myself a year. The plan was (is) to graduate in a foreign land, get lost in other foreign lands, hopefully pick up a foreign fling and then in the fall of 2011, settle back in Canada as an eager law student. So, that gives me over a year; Or, four semesters (2 summers, one fall, one winter) to make the best of my life and chase the moments.
With this overall goal in mind, only ideas here and there have guided my steps. Like, for one, apply around and get the best job (fail). Or, for seconds, Fall in love with a man who owns a palace in some far off land and wants to spoon feed me for the rest of my life (fail). Fail. Fail. Fail.
It seems that this plan isn't panning out. (I blame the Canadian Government, always.)
Give me ten years and this one year, in retrospect, will seem like a blurr in time. A second of a twenty-four hour day (? my math might be off on this one here). But in the moment, the hand ticks slowly. Really slowly. I watch it, literally and figuratively. Mostly I watch it thinking I could be elsewhere-- like on some Indonesian beach perfecting the art of surf. Or thinking that there are so many things wrong with this place. Where is their life? (come on, no gum!? no porn!? all work. no play!)
And then I remind myself, I'm the one who is STUCK (literally), and where is MY life?
Well, in the next few days or so it is pending, I admit.
But after that, I swear I get my life back on track and stop being a waste of carbon.
In a bit over two weeks, or 15 days, I will be moving to the Philippines, temporarily. I have volunteered over my hands, my time, and my wallet for 10 weeks. I will be working as a health care volunteer serving a rural village and aiding an overworked doctor. (p.s. This anticipation definitely makes the minute hands tick slower... )
So, this is my life, as it is today.
Four months after I willingly arrived to Singapore, I am now held captive to this very city against my own wishes, dreaming of now impossibly faraway beaches.
Which leads me to conclude a third thing about the facts of this situation:
Exoticism and wanderlust can happen everywhere and anywhere-- even in a place once dreamt of.
In the end, there is one thing I am really happy to add to my confession. You can call it an appendix, if you will. Or a slight correction of details:
A few days ago, I would have had one more terrible thing to add to my list of terribles: I was then considered "unemployed". I had finished school and had moved on from being a student to 'jobless' (or actually, I hadn't "moved" on to anywhere, hence 'jobLESS').
It was a friend, actually, who made me aware of this fact. He greeted me on the very day I had finished my very last exam saying, "Congragualtions, you're officially unemployed!"
Piss off.
This is without a doubt the worst word in my life. It's like the big cuss which should never be spoken, or the the bad picture which should never be tagged.
Well, to my luck it turns out there is one other burreacracy that delays everything: University. Apparently, my official records cannot be released in time for this coming graduating term. Which means, I am officially still a "student" until the summer's end.
Most people rejoice and wait anxiously for their graduation day. Not me.
I don't want to have to figure out my life, its details, just yet.
So, I am a student (still), (stuck) in Singapore.
This is the oxymoron of my life.
That's my confession.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Bargaining High
I’m standing in front of a full length mirror. Side profile. One foot shoved awkwardly in 4-inch heels; the other balancing dangerously on tippy-toe trying to catch Up.
“You think?”
“I know.” He says without ever haven taken his eyes off my reflection.
Guys are so easy to read. I knew the minute I slipped on this stiletto he was sold. The black-skirt-with-white-top ensemble from the store before didn’t take much convincing either.
A very particular look passes across their face when they approve. It’s a momentary thing and if you’re not quick enough, you’ll miss it. But the look is definitely there when they blush approvingly of you and yours. It’s as if they are going to say something, but don’t know how to translate Dick into Proper. And then as quickly as the thought came to them it passes into a grin, only to then fade into the folds of their face to be ever-lost to fantasy.
After that, who knows if he still cares about the shoes, the skirt, or the white top I’ve worn to bring out the highlights of my hair. But at least I got his attention. And of course he’ll reassure me once more with a casual nod to the shoes. “I know this is the one.”
(Grin fades to neutral sheep.)
If only jobs and life were as easy to know as boys know the right shoe for you.
To them, as long as it’s got height, it’s right.
To me, even if the job fits into one of my 100 or so odd keywords (such as: “interesting”, “social”, “people”, “travel”, “sun”, “window”, “underwater (?)”) it’s only maybe right. In short, there is a complex combination of keywords that will go into making me satisfied.
I clearly haven’t found it. In retrospect, as I look at myself in a half-length mirror back at home it’s obvious that a man helped pick this outfit; or at least, that it is worn with men in mind.
In two hours, I’ll be one interview down (It’s worth noting because this is my FIRST interview post-graduation). In two.five hours, I’ll be thinking to myself that said-employer offered too much (given what I was worth); and yet too little (given my keyword quota).
In three hours I’ll have an awkward date that will stay pending (did he say lunch, dinner, or never?). And in five hours, I’ll be right here, sitting where I am, thinking what I think: the shoes were too high.
But a girl does what she must. And to find my first keyword combination post-graduation, the look had to be perfect even if it got me what I never bargained for.
“You think?”
“I know.” He says without ever haven taken his eyes off my reflection.
Guys are so easy to read. I knew the minute I slipped on this stiletto he was sold. The black-skirt-with-white-top ensemble from the store before didn’t take much convincing either.
A very particular look passes across their face when they approve. It’s a momentary thing and if you’re not quick enough, you’ll miss it. But the look is definitely there when they blush approvingly of you and yours. It’s as if they are going to say something, but don’t know how to translate Dick into Proper. And then as quickly as the thought came to them it passes into a grin, only to then fade into the folds of their face to be ever-lost to fantasy.
After that, who knows if he still cares about the shoes, the skirt, or the white top I’ve worn to bring out the highlights of my hair. But at least I got his attention. And of course he’ll reassure me once more with a casual nod to the shoes. “I know this is the one.”
(Grin fades to neutral sheep.)
If only jobs and life were as easy to know as boys know the right shoe for you.
To them, as long as it’s got height, it’s right.
To me, even if the job fits into one of my 100 or so odd keywords (such as: “interesting”, “social”, “people”, “travel”, “sun”, “window”, “underwater (?)”) it’s only maybe right. In short, there is a complex combination of keywords that will go into making me satisfied.
I clearly haven’t found it. In retrospect, as I look at myself in a half-length mirror back at home it’s obvious that a man helped pick this outfit; or at least, that it is worn with men in mind.
In two hours, I’ll be one interview down (It’s worth noting because this is my FIRST interview post-graduation). In two.five hours, I’ll be thinking to myself that said-employer offered too much (given what I was worth); and yet too little (given my keyword quota).
In three hours I’ll have an awkward date that will stay pending (did he say lunch, dinner, or never?). And in five hours, I’ll be right here, sitting where I am, thinking what I think: the shoes were too high.
But a girl does what she must. And to find my first keyword combination post-graduation, the look had to be perfect even if it got me what I never bargained for.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Guilty Little Secret We ALL Share
(This piece was written as a response to an article featured in Glamour's June, 2010 edition. I am not normally a magazine reader, but I came across this one and felt something had to be said for the girl's side. So, here it is. Hope it can stimulate some interesting conversation, if not imagination.)
"jake" is the pseudo name of a "real, live single guy dating in New York City" and writing editorials for Glamour magazine. "jake (a man's opinion)" is the title of his editorials.
"Highlight reel" definition: the mental tape that rolls in one's head of other sexual partners while in the act of making love to your partner.
“Off in your own world again”?
The Guilty Little Secret We ALL Share: A Response to Jake’s confessional “Highlight Reel”
Looking beyond Vince Vaughn’s “highlight reel” scene in the popular Hollywood blockbuster hit Couples Retreat, is an equally telling scene in the less popular romantic comedy Young People Fucking. The latter film intertwines the stories of various couples in which one of the main plots is that of The Couple, Andrew and Abby. The long-time daters are having trouble with their sex life and, looking to confront the issue, girlfriend Abby challenges her partner to open up sexually.
Unlike Vaughn’s scene where the men assert their guilty pleasure of thinking about other women during sex, in Young People Fucking the so-called “highlight reel” of sex isn’t gendered as a purely male phenomenon. Indeed, when broached by her prodding boyfriend for being “off in her own world again” while in the act, Abby reveals that her imagination often takes her elsewhere and most often to Ian Ziering (in his Beverly Hills days as the heart throb, Steve Sanders).
This is an interesting comparison and it brings to question Jake’s confessional article in Glamour. In an overtly apologetic and revelatory tone, Jake tells his readers that he is guilty of sin like other normal men of mentally wandering during sex. What was well done by Jake is that he reassures us (the females) this is nothing to worry about, for what he and our men are doing is rather quite healthy for relationships. As he points out, nearly all men do it and at the very least it can serve to keep the guy going for longer, if you know what I mean.
Thanks for the reassurances, Jake, but no need to apologize-- women are guilty of sin too! Indeed, watching Abby acknowledge and confess her affinity for Hollywood hottie, Ziering makes the audience realize that women, like men, are wanderlusts. We too fixate on various other fantasies during sex.
Perhaps we are not as vocal about it. Perhaps we do not recycle through as many people in our reel. And perhaps some of us won't ever admit it, either to others or ourselves. But women too have wild imaginations that help keep their sex life going. And as Jake concludes this is healthy for men; it's healthy for girls. Actually, it's healthy for US.
So I don’t think Jake should be expecting any "serious hate mail" for his revelatory confession. If anything, after reading this revelation about women and our wanderings in bed I hope he’ll be able to accept the fact that Strawberry (the pseudo name of his female Lover) isn’t 'there' half the time either... .
"jake" is the pseudo name of a "real, live single guy dating in New York City" and writing editorials for Glamour magazine. "jake (a man's opinion)" is the title of his editorials.
"Highlight reel" definition: the mental tape that rolls in one's head of other sexual partners while in the act of making love to your partner.
“Off in your own world again”?
The Guilty Little Secret We ALL Share: A Response to Jake’s confessional “Highlight Reel”
Looking beyond Vince Vaughn’s “highlight reel” scene in the popular Hollywood blockbuster hit Couples Retreat, is an equally telling scene in the less popular romantic comedy Young People Fucking. The latter film intertwines the stories of various couples in which one of the main plots is that of The Couple, Andrew and Abby. The long-time daters are having trouble with their sex life and, looking to confront the issue, girlfriend Abby challenges her partner to open up sexually.
Unlike Vaughn’s scene where the men assert their guilty pleasure of thinking about other women during sex, in Young People Fucking the so-called “highlight reel” of sex isn’t gendered as a purely male phenomenon. Indeed, when broached by her prodding boyfriend for being “off in her own world again” while in the act, Abby reveals that her imagination often takes her elsewhere and most often to Ian Ziering (in his Beverly Hills days as the heart throb, Steve Sanders).
This is an interesting comparison and it brings to question Jake’s confessional article in Glamour. In an overtly apologetic and revelatory tone, Jake tells his readers that he is guilty of sin like other normal men of mentally wandering during sex. What was well done by Jake is that he reassures us (the females) this is nothing to worry about, for what he and our men are doing is rather quite healthy for relationships. As he points out, nearly all men do it and at the very least it can serve to keep the guy going for longer, if you know what I mean.
Thanks for the reassurances, Jake, but no need to apologize-- women are guilty of sin too! Indeed, watching Abby acknowledge and confess her affinity for Hollywood hottie, Ziering makes the audience realize that women, like men, are wanderlusts. We too fixate on various other fantasies during sex.
Perhaps we are not as vocal about it. Perhaps we do not recycle through as many people in our reel. And perhaps some of us won't ever admit it, either to others or ourselves. But women too have wild imaginations that help keep their sex life going. And as Jake concludes this is healthy for men; it's healthy for girls. Actually, it's healthy for US.
So I don’t think Jake should be expecting any "serious hate mail" for his revelatory confession. If anything, after reading this revelation about women and our wanderings in bed I hope he’ll be able to accept the fact that Strawberry (the pseudo name of his female Lover) isn’t 'there' half the time either... .
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Anti-Climax and Borneo
The idea came to me about 3 months ago. You see, when you think of Borneo, you think of jungle, trees, orangutans, and carnivorous plants... but surf? So, I began to ask around, casually.
Most people just gave me blank stares. “Surf in Borneo? No can.”
Until finally a local Malaysian gave me my first lead with a nod of her head. And that was that, I was going to Borneo in search of surf!
So, here I am about three months post-revelation and after five days on the northern end of the Island. Sad to say but I came back without having had my surf :(
We headed to Kota Kinabalu for two days of island hopping. From there, we gave ourselves three days to find surf at the most northern end, Kudat-- a land that boasts some of the most beautiful beaches.
Given the season, the time of day, etc. I’m sure our plan would have come through.
Simpang Mengayau, for instance, had some solid beach break surf that could prove quite exciting given the right time. But in any case, even with whatever surf we found we couldn’t ride because there were no boards to be found. Our guide didn’t even understand the concept and kept calling it “standing tree” (which he probably thought meant standing under a tree and looking at the waves. Poor drawing skills on my part).
Moral of the story, surfing doesn’t figure into the locals’ lives. And it wasn’t going to figure into our holiday either... But I wouldn’t rule it out forever. I’ll be back some day with board in hand to chase the waves in a land of jungle on the South China Sea.
Despite not having found what I came looking for, the trip did not disappoint. Instead of surf I found some of the nicest waters and beaches. Stretches of white sand looking out into the ocean without a single other person there to take it away from you. I reckon when backpackers first started traveling and discovering Southeast Asia-- in places where they would stumble upon like Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia-- this was exactly the highs they were getting. Lonesome, lost, foreign, guide-less. But, with nature unfolding and unwritten right under their feet.
Overall, Borneo was the perfect beach holiday-- a welcome break before the turmoil of exams!
Now I’m back in Singapore with two weeks left of my undergraduate degree.
Suddenly I’m having flashbacks to day one: running through the Vancouver Airport, drying my tears and hopes high for the Big Wild World just across that ocean.
Well World, you definitely did not disappoint.
With the End in sight, I feel slightly nostalgic about the adventures I’ve had and equally scared about what is to come next. For once, I really don’t know where to be. I don’t have class attendance to make; nor a flight to catch. And I definitely don’t have a commitment that can’t wait a year... .
I have my bags, and a world that just got a whole lot bigger.
Slowly I'm beginning to realize, there was no “first day” and there sure as hell isn’t a last either. So I’ll stop keeping track of time for now...
Most people just gave me blank stares. “Surf in Borneo? No can.”
Until finally a local Malaysian gave me my first lead with a nod of her head. And that was that, I was going to Borneo in search of surf!
So, here I am about three months post-revelation and after five days on the northern end of the Island. Sad to say but I came back without having had my surf :(
We headed to Kota Kinabalu for two days of island hopping. From there, we gave ourselves three days to find surf at the most northern end, Kudat-- a land that boasts some of the most beautiful beaches.
Given the season, the time of day, etc. I’m sure our plan would have come through.
Simpang Mengayau, for instance, had some solid beach break surf that could prove quite exciting given the right time. But in any case, even with whatever surf we found we couldn’t ride because there were no boards to be found. Our guide didn’t even understand the concept and kept calling it “standing tree” (which he probably thought meant standing under a tree and looking at the waves. Poor drawing skills on my part). Moral of the story, surfing doesn’t figure into the locals’ lives. And it wasn’t going to figure into our holiday either... But I wouldn’t rule it out forever. I’ll be back some day with board in hand to chase the waves in a land of jungle on the South China Sea.
Despite not having found what I came looking for, the trip did not disappoint. Instead of surf I found some of the nicest waters and beaches. Stretches of white sand looking out into the ocean without a single other person there to take it away from you. I reckon when backpackers first started traveling and discovering Southeast Asia-- in places where they would stumble upon like Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia-- this was exactly the highs they were getting. Lonesome, lost, foreign, guide-less. But, with nature unfolding and unwritten right under their feet.
Overall, Borneo was the perfect beach holiday-- a welcome break before the turmoil of exams!
Now I’m back in Singapore with two weeks left of my undergraduate degree.
Suddenly I’m having flashbacks to day one: running through the Vancouver Airport, drying my tears and hopes high for the Big Wild World just across that ocean.
Well World, you definitely did not disappoint.
With the End in sight, I feel slightly nostalgic about the adventures I’ve had and equally scared about what is to come next. For once, I really don’t know where to be. I don’t have class attendance to make; nor a flight to catch. And I definitely don’t have a commitment that can’t wait a year... .
I have my bags, and a world that just got a whole lot bigger.
Slowly I'm beginning to realize, there was no “first day” and there sure as hell isn’t a last either. So I’ll stop keeping track of time for now...
Monday, March 22, 2010
Shame on Us, Quebec
This piece is a response to a Globe and Mail article concerning the recent niqab case that has surfaced in the news.
---------
“I think it would be better if everybody could stay calm,” said Shaheen Ashraf of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women. “There is a fear factor in this province that doesn't do any good. But I don't know why a niqabi [a woman who wears a niqab] would come here and expect to live in comfort as the only person wearing it. Why would you come to a society where you know you will be shunned?”
- taken from article
I am deeply concerned with Mr. Ashraf’s comments on women who wear the niqab. As a member of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women, I am shocked that he could be as unforgiving of his own people as to ask the following of niqabis, “Why would you come to a society where you know you will be shunned?”
Shunned?
Really?
I would at least give Canadians more courtesy than that...
Overall, as a resident of Quebec, I am ashamed that this case has unfolded and of the nature it is acquiring. Whatever happened to our ideals of laissez-faire?! If it doesn’t hurt you, nor me, nor them, who cares. Remember Pierre Trudeau? He told us that the private affairs of individuals were not for us to judge in law and state. What could be more personal than an individual’s right to express their faith?
Canadians espouse themselves as being multicultural. As I write this, I am currently sitting overseas in Singapore where religious tolerance would put Quebec Canada to shame. And this is an authoritarian government we are speaking of...
Are the burqa, hijab, or niqab really symbols antithesis to Canadian culture, or democracy, or modernity? As rational people I think we could all agree that, at the very least, the best way to settle this cultural clash (for indeed, this is an issue of cultural bigotry) is not to go the French (France) way as this case seems to be, but to agree to disagree and let the women be!
If Muslim women choose to cover their bodies, so be it! If Canadian women choose to reveal cleavage, so be it! Let the women choose for themselves what is appropriate for their own bodies.
And as for what is appropriate for society at large, let time speak for itself in terms of what is wrong or right -- not uninformed individuals venting a moments ego. Do not force people to change simply out of caprice and ignorance. Remember-- ignorance is not a defence under reason.
It is in tolerating ‘others’ that we will bridge the bonds of social harmony. By disregarding or failing to understand the ‘other’ or to accept practices of the ‘other’ we breed hatred. French Canadians are all too good at this. Even though the Quite Revolution sought to break society free from a religious orthodox bound, a disconcerting social orthodoxy still seems to cling to much of those in the province.
Let it go.
---------
“I think it would be better if everybody could stay calm,” said Shaheen Ashraf of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women. “There is a fear factor in this province that doesn't do any good. But I don't know why a niqabi [a woman who wears a niqab] would come here and expect to live in comfort as the only person wearing it. Why would you come to a society where you know you will be shunned?”
- taken from article
I am deeply concerned with Mr. Ashraf’s comments on women who wear the niqab. As a member of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women, I am shocked that he could be as unforgiving of his own people as to ask the following of niqabis, “Why would you come to a society where you know you will be shunned?”
Shunned?
Really?
I would at least give Canadians more courtesy than that...
Overall, as a resident of Quebec, I am ashamed that this case has unfolded and of the nature it is acquiring. Whatever happened to our ideals of laissez-faire?! If it doesn’t hurt you, nor me, nor them, who cares. Remember Pierre Trudeau? He told us that the private affairs of individuals were not for us to judge in law and state. What could be more personal than an individual’s right to express their faith?
Canadians espouse themselves as being multicultural. As I write this, I am currently sitting overseas in Singapore where religious tolerance would put Quebec Canada to shame. And this is an authoritarian government we are speaking of...
Are the burqa, hijab, or niqab really symbols antithesis to Canadian culture, or democracy, or modernity? As rational people I think we could all agree that, at the very least, the best way to settle this cultural clash (for indeed, this is an issue of cultural bigotry) is not to go the French (France) way as this case seems to be, but to agree to disagree and let the women be!
If Muslim women choose to cover their bodies, so be it! If Canadian women choose to reveal cleavage, so be it! Let the women choose for themselves what is appropriate for their own bodies.
And as for what is appropriate for society at large, let time speak for itself in terms of what is wrong or right -- not uninformed individuals venting a moments ego. Do not force people to change simply out of caprice and ignorance. Remember-- ignorance is not a defence under reason.
It is in tolerating ‘others’ that we will bridge the bonds of social harmony. By disregarding or failing to understand the ‘other’ or to accept practices of the ‘other’ we breed hatred. French Canadians are all too good at this. Even though the Quite Revolution sought to break society free from a religious orthodox bound, a disconcerting social orthodoxy still seems to cling to much of those in the province.
Let it go.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
This is Phnom Penh
I sit back and flip through pictures from three days of travel in Cambodia. It’s hard to believe that it was just three-- I am quickly reminded of suffering, poverty, war, desperation, and equally, hope, comfort, and happiness. These are the toils of humanity. The ups and down. And this is what we put each other through, day in and out.
How bizarre it is to be human.
Day 1:
The room is on stilts, hovering among twenty others over the river, a dirty brown. When the men take their prostitutes you can feel their movements from down the boardwalk. The unit rocks back and forth, threatening immanent collapse down into the water below.
It smells-- everywhere. People are too poor, or uneducated to worry about proper plumbing. Garbage litters the ground that children play, piss, and shower in. There are beggars-- all over.
Day one is reserved for the sites, and it begins early with a somber walk through S-21. Tuol Sleng is the infamous former-high school-turned-prison. It is a museum of a three year genocide. It is a memory of atrocities; a reminder of our darkest side.
In between the rows of prison cells and barbed wire walls I see blotches of dark red taint the tiles. I think of Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge. How could they have done this?
There is a picture of Comrade Duch, chief torturer of S-21, where his eyes are scratched out and writing is scribbled across his face. I thought of the pain he caused others, especially whoever defaced him. And then I thought of the people’s faith. How could the Buddha expect us to offer compassion to a man such as himself?
We followed the prison with a walk through the nearby Killing Fields in the city’s outskirts. Hollowed out pieces of land dotted the field. These were the graves of prisoners who had been forced to dig their own beds.
Around the premises, on the other side of the fence, kids pressed their faces into the grills, hands outstretched past a barricade commemorating their own, begging. They had mastered the art. Cunning little bastards: they would grab your attention first by asking you to take pictures of them, or by asking your name, and then they would turn on their puppy eyes and stretch out their hands. I hesitated for a moment not wanting to be outplayed by 6 year olds. And then they begged for my water. And I thought, these bastards have every right to win.
The tuk-tuk ride back home seemed longer than usual. The seats were stiff and sticky. It was hot. The sun had heated the land and offered it no shelter. The grass was dying, not because it was the dry-season, but because everything else was dying. The Buddha taught us this a long time ago. He also taught us that life is suffering.
And yet, he also taught us that there is a way out. Back in the city, people walk the streets.
This is Phnom Penh.
How bizarre it is to be human.
Day 1:
The room is on stilts, hovering among twenty others over the river, a dirty brown. When the men take their prostitutes you can feel their movements from down the boardwalk. The unit rocks back and forth, threatening immanent collapse down into the water below.
It smells-- everywhere. People are too poor, or uneducated to worry about proper plumbing. Garbage litters the ground that children play, piss, and shower in. There are beggars-- all over.
Day one is reserved for the sites, and it begins early with a somber walk through S-21. Tuol Sleng is the infamous former-high school-turned-prison. It is a museum of a three year genocide. It is a memory of atrocities; a reminder of our darkest side.
In between the rows of prison cells and barbed wire walls I see blotches of dark red taint the tiles. I think of Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge. How could they have done this?
There is a picture of Comrade Duch, chief torturer of S-21, where his eyes are scratched out and writing is scribbled across his face. I thought of the pain he caused others, especially whoever defaced him. And then I thought of the people’s faith. How could the Buddha expect us to offer compassion to a man such as himself?
We followed the prison with a walk through the nearby Killing Fields in the city’s outskirts. Hollowed out pieces of land dotted the field. These were the graves of prisoners who had been forced to dig their own beds.
Around the premises, on the other side of the fence, kids pressed their faces into the grills, hands outstretched past a barricade commemorating their own, begging. They had mastered the art. Cunning little bastards: they would grab your attention first by asking you to take pictures of them, or by asking your name, and then they would turn on their puppy eyes and stretch out their hands. I hesitated for a moment not wanting to be outplayed by 6 year olds. And then they begged for my water. And I thought, these bastards have every right to win.
The tuk-tuk ride back home seemed longer than usual. The seats were stiff and sticky. It was hot. The sun had heated the land and offered it no shelter. The grass was dying, not because it was the dry-season, but because everything else was dying. The Buddha taught us this a long time ago. He also taught us that life is suffering.
And yet, he also taught us that there is a way out. Back in the city, people walk the streets.
This is Phnom Penh.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Speak Good English Campaign
Singlish
part of speech: noun
definition: English as it is spoken in Singapore; an English-based creole
If you have never had the honour of hearing a Singaporean speak, then you are truly missing out on one of the great wonders of the world. There is nothing quite like Singlish...
A few months ago, Nic sent me this amazingly hilarious youtube link that more or less lets you hear Singlish at its finest: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIW8WfqoJUA.
(2 minutes and 6 seconds later...)
I guess you wouldn't be too surprised now to hear that in 2000 the Singaporean Government came out with the Speak Good English Movement.
When I first heard of the Movement, I thought it was a joke.
Having been in Singapore for only a few weeks, I couldn't fathom why the government was trying to control their language-- It's bad enough they can't chew gum...
At that point, however, I didn't think there was anything odd about their speech. When I first started hearing Singlish, I simply shrugged it off as the speech of new immigrants.
But when I realized that it was there at the beach, in the clubs, and in the classroom I realized that Singlish really did exist, and it really was the unofficial National Language of Singaporeans.
I was nothing short of amazed.
How did the English language ever become so bastardized?
(And unfortunately, Singlish doesn't have the sex appeal of other bastardized tongues such as Trinidadian English.)
So, after a month of trying to re-learn my mother tongue, I started to fancy the idea of the Movement. Suddenly, English Pronunciation workshops seemed like a brilliant idea. And, Giving your citizens Skills for Reading Aloud? Definitely. Priority.
That was, until now...
By this point, I've had many conversations with locals in which they tell me about their identity-- or, lack there-of. What is Singapore? What is Singaporean culture? "What makes us, us?" They ask, wide-eyed and lips quivering.
Well, I can't completely answer that, but whatever it is, I know Singlish is part of it.
As much as Singlish hurts the ears and works the brain, it gives these people their own... thing, for lack of a better word. So, there's something about the idea of changing it that stricks a chord. It is in every way a rejection of something that is uniquely Singaporean. For a country that is looking to define itself, then, I say start by keeping the Singlish.
After a couple months of being here, I have to admit it's growing on me... slowly. And actually, I kinda think it's cute... .
So as of today, I'm For Singlish.
http://www.pitara.com/news/news_world/online.asp?story=162
part of speech: noun
definition: English as it is spoken in Singapore; an English-based creole
If you have never had the honour of hearing a Singaporean speak, then you are truly missing out on one of the great wonders of the world. There is nothing quite like Singlish...
A few months ago, Nic sent me this amazingly hilarious youtube link that more or less lets you hear Singlish at its finest: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIW8WfqoJUA.
(2 minutes and 6 seconds later...)
I guess you wouldn't be too surprised now to hear that in 2000 the Singaporean Government came out with the Speak Good English Movement.
"The Speak Good English Movement is a nationwide movement to encourage Singaporeans to speak grammatically correct English that is universally understood."
When I first heard of the Movement, I thought it was a joke.
Having been in Singapore for only a few weeks, I couldn't fathom why the government was trying to control their language-- It's bad enough they can't chew gum...
At that point, however, I didn't think there was anything odd about their speech. When I first started hearing Singlish, I simply shrugged it off as the speech of new immigrants.
But when I realized that it was there at the beach, in the clubs, and in the classroom I realized that Singlish really did exist, and it really was the unofficial National Language of Singaporeans.
I was nothing short of amazed.
How did the English language ever become so bastardized?
(And unfortunately, Singlish doesn't have the sex appeal of other bastardized tongues such as Trinidadian English.)
So, after a month of trying to re-learn my mother tongue, I started to fancy the idea of the Movement. Suddenly, English Pronunciation workshops seemed like a brilliant idea. And, Giving your citizens Skills for Reading Aloud? Definitely. Priority.
That was, until now...
By this point, I've had many conversations with locals in which they tell me about their identity-- or, lack there-of. What is Singapore? What is Singaporean culture? "What makes us, us?" They ask, wide-eyed and lips quivering.
Well, I can't completely answer that, but whatever it is, I know Singlish is part of it.
As much as Singlish hurts the ears and works the brain, it gives these people their own... thing, for lack of a better word. So, there's something about the idea of changing it that stricks a chord. It is in every way a rejection of something that is uniquely Singaporean. For a country that is looking to define itself, then, I say start by keeping the Singlish.
After a couple months of being here, I have to admit it's growing on me... slowly. And actually, I kinda think it's cute... .
So as of today, I'm For Singlish.
http://www.pitara.com/news/news_world/online.asp?story=162
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Indonesia In 13 Days
First Up, Bali!
Bali is truly the Island Paradise everyone says it to be. What is amazing about it is that it has a bit of everything, and every bit is uniquely Balinese it seems.
I had picked the island as a first destination due to its surf. Even despite it not being surf season we managed to find some incredible waves down on the Southern tip where spots like Padang Padang and Lacerations lived up to their world renowned status. We, however, too timid and amateur could only observe in awe and chose to stick with some safer beach surf in Kuta.
Bali is truly the Island Paradise everyone says it to be. What is amazing about it is that it has a bit of everything, and every bit is uniquely Balinese it seems.
I had picked the island as a first destination due to its surf. Even despite it not being surf season we managed to find some incredible waves down on the Southern tip where spots like Padang Padang and Lacerations lived up to their world renowned status. We, however, too timid and amateur could only observe in awe and chose to stick with some safer beach surf in Kuta.
I quickly learned that the best way to see the landscape in Bali was by motorbike. Refusing to compete in the jungle traffic that litters the island, I was happy riding shotgun behind my more motor-conscious friends. So we drove for a day, up and down the coast line. Seeing the beaches, the rice paddies, the architecture, the locals, and the sunset. What struck me the most after having had multiple near run-ons with other drivers was the lack of safety protection on the children. It's an odd thing: the adults usually wear helmets, but the kids jump on and off their bikes all day with no protection or inhibitions. A friend soberly explained it to me this way: "You can replace a kid, but you can't replace an adult."
Wise man.
In the end, we extended our time in Bali because we had all fallen in love with the island, and each one of us for different reasons. Some of us for the beaches and surf, and some for the legal shrooms. Bali was every bit a paradise of deep sea diving, ethnic cultural dancing, temple galaxies, open water surfing, and late night debaucheries.
Wise man.
In the end, we extended our time in Bali because we had all fallen in love with the island, and each one of us for different reasons. Some of us for the beaches and surf, and some for the legal shrooms. Bali was every bit a paradise of deep sea diving, ethnic cultural dancing, temple galaxies, open water surfing, and late night debaucheries.
------------
Then There Was Java
If there is one word to describe Java, or at least our time there, it would be 'Epic'.
In Java everything was supersized: the good and the bad.
Compared to Bali, Java is huge. Therefore to explore the island takes that much more time. As a consequence we found ourselves in a lot more car rides that were a lot bumpier and bitter. We often found ourselves squeezing through traffic and flying over potholes we thought were our last. To add to the road-side frustration, by the time we had arrived in Java our diet had caught up to some individuals and turned their vacation into 3 days of hell. Keep in mind, (Western) washrooms are a near foreign concept to Indonesians. They mostly consist of holes in the ground with no flush nor toilet paper. Doesn't make for a peaceful duty.
Then there was also the haggling and the bargaining. In Bali the street vendors, hostel attendees, and car drivers had all mastered the art of befriending us tourists. Every where you went they would shout, "Nice price for you, my Friend". And friends indeed we thought we had made after a minute of bargaining. As for the Javanese, however, no length of time could turn them into your friend. Most of the time we walked away with a price double what we had asked for.
I should have known it would have been so by the peculiar lack of "my Friend" after all their haggling.
Bitterness aside, Java was also thankfully, Amazingly, Epically Good.
First there was the wee-hour-morning Trek of Mt. Bromo, an active volcano. This was hands down one of the most amazing things I have ever done/ seen: watching the sunrise over a land dotted with active volcanoes as you walk around the rim of one that is spewing up hot, sulfurized smoke. And to add to the beauty of it all, there you find one giant Hindu temple at the foot of the mountain, the only sign of humanity for miles and miles of desert land.
Epic.
Then there was the Borobadur Historical Park. Java is rich in history, and we found it here at the center of the island. We started our day off with Pranamban, the largest Hindu temple in SEA before making our way to the ancient Buddhist temple, Borobadur.
It has been a couple years now that I have dreamed about visiting this very temple. Fortunately for us, when we arrived the days rain had driven away nearly all the tourists. I was, amazingly, able to get beautiful shots from the top of the temple without having to worry about cropping out others-- a highly rare occurance. Walking the six platforms, contemplating the images of the Buddha on the walls was one of the most fulfilling things I have ever done. Even now thinking back upon my visit I get shivers and can't help but to feel an amazing sense of accomplishment. I will never forget how I felt when I reached the top, with the mist lifting off of the mountains around us, and the stillness of the air in which a historic smell still clung to it, as I stared at the Buddha and 72 Buddhas stared back.
There is one Epic check off my List.
If there is one word to describe Java, or at least our time there, it would be 'Epic'.
In Java everything was supersized: the good and the bad.
Compared to Bali, Java is huge. Therefore to explore the island takes that much more time. As a consequence we found ourselves in a lot more car rides that were a lot bumpier and bitter. We often found ourselves squeezing through traffic and flying over potholes we thought were our last. To add to the road-side frustration, by the time we had arrived in Java our diet had caught up to some individuals and turned their vacation into 3 days of hell. Keep in mind, (Western) washrooms are a near foreign concept to Indonesians. They mostly consist of holes in the ground with no flush nor toilet paper. Doesn't make for a peaceful duty.
Then there was also the haggling and the bargaining. In Bali the street vendors, hostel attendees, and car drivers had all mastered the art of befriending us tourists. Every where you went they would shout, "Nice price for you, my Friend". And friends indeed we thought we had made after a minute of bargaining. As for the Javanese, however, no length of time could turn them into your friend. Most of the time we walked away with a price double what we had asked for.
I should have known it would have been so by the peculiar lack of "my Friend" after all their haggling.
Bitterness aside, Java was also thankfully, Amazingly, Epically Good.
First there was the wee-hour-morning Trek of Mt. Bromo, an active volcano. This was hands down one of the most amazing things I have ever done/ seen: watching the sunrise over a land dotted with active volcanoes as you walk around the rim of one that is spewing up hot, sulfurized smoke. And to add to the beauty of it all, there you find one giant Hindu temple at the foot of the mountain, the only sign of humanity for miles and miles of desert land.
Epic.
Then there was the Borobadur Historical Park. Java is rich in history, and we found it here at the center of the island. We started our day off with Pranamban, the largest Hindu temple in SEA before making our way to the ancient Buddhist temple, Borobadur.
It has been a couple years now that I have dreamed about visiting this very temple. Fortunately for us, when we arrived the days rain had driven away nearly all the tourists. I was, amazingly, able to get beautiful shots from the top of the temple without having to worry about cropping out others-- a highly rare occurance. Walking the six platforms, contemplating the images of the Buddha on the walls was one of the most fulfilling things I have ever done. Even now thinking back upon my visit I get shivers and can't help but to feel an amazing sense of accomplishment. I will never forget how I felt when I reached the top, with the mist lifting off of the mountains around us, and the stillness of the air in which a historic smell still clung to it, as I stared at the Buddha and 72 Buddhas stared back.
There is one Epic check off my List.
------------
Last Stop-- Sumatra
“That’s it, leave me here. Day two in the Jungle and I have become Jungle Lady. Orangutans, Black Siamang’s, they are my new found kin. Lizards and turtles, future delicacies. Tigers, don’t scare me! This is my home.” (Feb. 21.2010)
We ended our ‘holiday’ in Sumatra, Indonesia with a base camp in Bukit Lawang where the Island's National Park for Orangutans is located. Here our goal was to confront a lost frontier-- the Jungle!
The best way to describe our time in Bukit Lawang is through song, namely the Lion King’s/ Beach Boys’ “Mighty Jungle”. We sang it as we hiked, ate, bathed, chilled, and dreamed. After Bali and Java, the quiet and peace of this natural enclave was a welcome change. Looking back at my travel log and reading the thoughts that had come to me then I realize that the Jungle really did clear my mind and calm my nerves. On Day 10, The Night We Camped in the Jungle, I write about lightning and the lightning you do not see, but perceive (?). No, I was not high (the guides were though, see picture below), I was just what you might call, aimless... . Sometime during the night, just before bed, off in the distance a storm had settled over the land. From our camp, lying on the rocks by the river we could see the random flashes of light every now and then light up the sky. While resting there, eyes closed, I had a perplexing thought come over me: what do you call the act of seeing lightning with eyes closed? Surely not seeing I concluded within two journ
al pages. (In hindsight, I would like to retract my conclusion and leave it up for debate.)Aimless thoughts abounded no doubt. Sumatra was the Jungle Paradise I had been looking for.
“We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way”
---------
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way”
Picture courtesy of UCok,
our Jungle guide assistant
who when high was put to
the task of staying silent by
keeping busy and drawing
in our journals.
our Jungle guide assistant
who when high was put to
the task of staying silent by
keeping busy and drawing
in our journals.
---------
After 13 days, I am ready for more. Indonesia is a beautiful country, rich in nature, culture, and history. If I could, I would make it a point to visit all 1,000 plus of its islands within my lifetime. But alas, life expectancies and bank fees restrict me and I'll have to settle on finding the magic and feeling complete at my next Indo destination, to be soon told....
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
6 days of Freddi le grand and Walt disney
3 Days of Singapore: How an Ambassador would Do It
Meeting new people is always nice and exciting.
But after a while new becomes old and past is wanting for future. Last week, I had the luxury of hosting part of my past: Freddie le grand!!!! (as well as now new-old friend, Walt disney!!!).
Already, only a month in this city and I felt like a young ambassador showing it off, from historic Raffles, merry Sentosa, to ippity Clarke Quay (pronounced 'key' f.y.i.). In terms of my knowledge and diplomacy, you'd have to ask the boys how I scored. But in terms of tastes, I know without a doubt all bases were covered. In all, I guess you could say that our time together-- Srah, Freddie, and Walt-- could best be described by a series of tastes...
First, there was Durian.
Bright and early Wednesday morning, before setting off for the day I dared the boys to try something new-- and bold-- for breakfast.
Never again.
If you have ever tasted durian, then you would know why-- if not, you should look it up. It's no wonder these signs are popular warnings throughout Southeast Asia: http://blog.tropicalsky.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/no-durian.jpg
It took five hours of beach and sun to get the rotten (garlic? or p****?) smell off of our fingers. Eating durian in the morning is a bad, bad idea.
Our taste buds then wandered to the ah-so-famous Singapore Sling.
The Sling is Singapore's historic drink. In search of it, we traveled to the iconic Raffles Hotel where in 1910 the drink was invented by a now iconic historic bartender whose name evades my memory. Unfortunately, after learning that 24$/drink would be our price and, hence, out of our league we settled on finding it elsewhere.
Luck have it Sentosa island was having a 1-for-1 (forget 2-for-1) on all drinks. So we order 4 slings for 30$ thank you very much Mr. Historic Bartender, only to quickly discover it's 30$ too much-- the Sling Sucks (sorry Mr. Historic Bartender). (on a side note: the mojito's also sucked... may have been the bar, or, what I've concluded, typical of Singaporean drinks....).
On our way back to the mainland, after a day of bad tastes I was craving a good chocolate. Indulging my senses upon finding the only imported stall, I happily purchased the best 20$ brownie of my life.
Taste buds relieved, shock therapy over, we head over to Clarke Quay (Key) for a night of drinking and dancing. Pre-drinks in order, buzzed to spins, with the boys sharp in their tailor made shirts we quickly get rejected from the clubs.
Unfortunately, flip flops don't "go" with tailor made.
Looking for the next best, we make our way to Clinic. Known for its atmosphere-- wheelchairs, operating tables, and IV drips-- I decide to join the ambiance and order myself one red IV drip, please!
Let it be said, Clinic is the place to be seen. But what all the onlookers have never known until now is that the thing to see is a bunch of tipsy tourists getting ripped. Fifty-dollar non-alcoholic kool-aid does not make a great cocktail...
As Obama's cousin (yes, I did just casually throw her in) told us: "Don't put my face up on Facebook, I don't want people seeing Obama's cousin drinking koolaid."
Blunt. Well said. (few words omitted, like "shit", "fuck", and "waste" (but only I could know the full extent of that last word...)).
Anyways, 50$ later we leave, I as drunk as when I came only slightly more sugar-buzzed and armed with a nice 2 hour photo-shoot with IV drip.
Defeated, we begin the trek home stopping, but of course, at the Golden Arch for one last taste to complete the day.
Tab for the day:
Durian: 2$
Singapore Sling: 30$
Other Drinks: Lost count
Hawkers: Part of Surviving...
Brownie: 20$
IV Drip: 50$
Mccy D's: 6$
Priorities: straight
Meeting new people is always nice and exciting.
But after a while new becomes old and past is wanting for future. Last week, I had the luxury of hosting part of my past: Freddie le grand!!!! (as well as now new-old friend, Walt disney!!!).
Already, only a month in this city and I felt like a young ambassador showing it off, from historic Raffles, merry Sentosa, to ippity Clarke Quay (pronounced 'key' f.y.i.). In terms of my knowledge and diplomacy, you'd have to ask the boys how I scored. But in terms of tastes, I know without a doubt all bases were covered. In all, I guess you could say that our time together-- Srah, Freddie, and Walt-- could best be described by a series of tastes...
First, there was Durian.
Bright and early Wednesday morning, before setting off for the day I dared the boys to try something new-- and bold-- for breakfast.
Never again.
If you have ever tasted durian, then you would know why-- if not, you should look it up. It's no wonder these signs are popular warnings throughout Southeast Asia: http://blog.tropicalsky.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/no-durian.jpg
It took five hours of beach and sun to get the rotten (garlic? or p****?) smell off of our fingers. Eating durian in the morning is a bad, bad idea.
Our taste buds then wandered to the ah-so-famous Singapore Sling.
The Sling is Singapore's historic drink. In search of it, we traveled to the iconic Raffles Hotel where in 1910 the drink was invented by a now iconic historic bartender whose name evades my memory. Unfortunately, after learning that 24$/drink would be our price and, hence, out of our league we settled on finding it elsewhere.
Luck have it Sentosa island was having a 1-for-1 (forget 2-for-1) on all drinks. So we order 4 slings for 30$ thank you very much Mr. Historic Bartender, only to quickly discover it's 30$ too much-- the Sling Sucks (sorry Mr. Historic Bartender). (on a side note: the mojito's also sucked... may have been the bar, or, what I've concluded, typical of Singaporean drinks....).
On our way back to the mainland, after a day of bad tastes I was craving a good chocolate. Indulging my senses upon finding the only imported stall, I happily purchased the best 20$ brownie of my life.
Taste buds relieved, shock therapy over, we head over to Clarke Quay (Key) for a night of drinking and dancing. Pre-drinks in order, buzzed to spins, with the boys sharp in their tailor made shirts we quickly get rejected from the clubs.
Unfortunately, flip flops don't "go" with tailor made.
Looking for the next best, we make our way to Clinic. Known for its atmosphere-- wheelchairs, operating tables, and IV drips-- I decide to join the ambiance and order myself one red IV drip, please!
Let it be said, Clinic is the place to be seen. But what all the onlookers have never known until now is that the thing to see is a bunch of tipsy tourists getting ripped. Fifty-dollar non-alcoholic kool-aid does not make a great cocktail...
As Obama's cousin (yes, I did just casually throw her in) told us: "Don't put my face up on Facebook, I don't want people seeing Obama's cousin drinking koolaid."
Blunt. Well said. (few words omitted, like "shit", "fuck", and "waste" (but only I could know the full extent of that last word...)).
Anyways, 50$ later we leave, I as drunk as when I came only slightly more sugar-buzzed and armed with a nice 2 hour photo-shoot with IV drip.
Defeated, we begin the trek home stopping, but of course, at the Golden Arch for one last taste to complete the day.
Tab for the day:
Durian: 2$
Singapore Sling: 30$
Other Drinks: Lost count
Hawkers: Part of Surviving...
Brownie: 20$
IV Drip: 50$
Mccy D's: 6$
Priorities: straight
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