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.
Monday, March 22, 2010
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
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Buger King
I title this blog quite appropriately "Buger King" because at 9 pm Sunday that is exactly where we found ourselves. After a long weekend vacation at the popular resort destination, Bintan, Indonesia, there was no where else, or nothing else really that any one of us wanted except to be in the Home of The Whopper. Let me explain...
---
To celebrate our first official weekend in Singapore, us internationals decided that a trip abroad was in order. Left with the task of organizing, planning, and recruiting, the trip was to have some specifically Sarah Howell, or if not, girl flavour: i.e. one girl, eight boys.
So, one plus eight we set off on Puke Ferry to our exotique beach getaway.
Upon arrival, all thoughts of exoticism flew out the window. For those laboured in the backpacker travels-- you know what I'm talking about... 'nough said (Except for Shit River-- more on that later).
You may wonder, as I did and still do, what it's like to be a girl travelling with a Troop of young men. Like anything, there are high's and low's. (On a side note: luckily The Island was not void of other beach-seeker-girls.) However, normals aside, I truly don't think our weekend would have unfolded the way it did given the prescence of more estrogen...
I have never in my life counted minutes till death:
Unfortunately this weekend we were all reminded of the power of the Ocean. What started off as a peaceful afternoon sun bathing on some rocks by the sea, turned into a frantic rescue mission for Bass.
Three of the boys had ventured out past the Break in chase of the waves. The mid-day change of the ocean's tides suddenly caught them off guard. Before they knew it, things had gotten really real, real quick. Bass was unable to outswim the under swell. Too fatigued to fight the current, he had to be held up by the other two (also coincidentally trying to hold themselves up).
From the time the others on the beach had clued on to drowing Bass to the time that Bass was pulled out of the water something like fifteen minutes had gone by. Under normal circumstances, this would have been an embarrasing time lapse on our part, but we had picked a near deserted spot to swim.
Seeking out the locals was our first obstacle, then getting them to understand us without speaking our language was our second. We were given one life jacket. For three guys. As Will set out in the water with the one and only safety floatation device we had, I hoped on a motor bike with one of the locals, Bikini and all (or nothing.... keeping in mind this is a Muslim country), in search of other life vests.
By the time I returned with the only other two life vests for miles, Will had managed to hand Bass the life jacket and luckily the others were able to muster up enough strength to swim past the swell and back to shore.
I walked back onto the beach to find four boys, panting, but luckily, beached.
While holding the two extra life vests I thought to myself what a mess this would have been if help had only arrived now. I could see on Bass' face that he had been counting minutes.
Then, one fell down:
On our last morning some of the boys had decided to rent motorbikes and ride around the Island. Somehow-- and yet unexpectedly at this point-- within the first half hour of their departure Mike comes roaring back for help: Shane had crashed his bike.
After setting off, riding along the one and only paved road on the Island, taking in the fresh air and warm sun Shane had decided to follow his instinct: drive on the Right side. Unfortunately, by the time the others had realized he was on the Wrong side of the road a car surprised him around a bend. Looking to avoid head on collision, Shane swerved off the road, skidding bike and body.
Damage: arm scrapes, wrist cuts, toe sores, and knee flesh.
Overall, it could have been worse. Like Bass' incident, much worse. The big crack on Shane's helmet said it all.
Dear Yenny, you would have be proud of me now. I got past the big flab of flesh just dangling off his knee, along with the swarm of flies feeding off his open sores, and proceeded to disinfect and bandage him up. My tools: Alcohol and Band-aids. Definitely a patch-work opperation.
---
Overall, our first weekend away wasn't all scary. But sitting in the comfort Buger King we promised one another that this was a learning curve, and that from here on out our trips would be safer, saner, and filled with much more estrogen for both our sanity and safety.
---
Some comedic relief:
At 'Backpackers Paradise' there was a creek that separated us from the other resorts down along the beach. When we first arrived, its smell was a background issue and we plugged through its waters willingly and excitidly without much hesitation over to the other side. Soon enough, however, we slowly clued in that this creek was where our bathroom issues were being flushed...
With the simplicity of trudging across now out of the question we turned to Plan B: long jump.
You would see various individuals at various points and times throughout the day setting up for the jump: knees bent, toes dug into the sand preparing for the launch up into the air and, hopefully, over on over to the other bank. You would know right away if they had succeedded or not based on their cry of success or utter disgust.
One night, some one had started plan C: catapulting across with a bamboo stick.
If you have ever seen or touched a bamboo stick you should be thinking to yourself right about now: Brilliant! Absolutely fucking brilliant-- bamboo is highly inflexible! So you can imagine how many cries of disgust this idea brought with it...
Onto Plan D:
Coming back from a party late one night I decided to lay out the bamboo stick as a walking plank connecting the two banks. Good Idea: Most people have enough balance to walk the couple feet and bamboo is fairly strong.
Or so I thought...
While trying to fall asleep that night to the peaceful humming of the tides I suddently hear a loud crack, then a plop, and then a "Oh-HHH-h Shit!"
Poor soul.
I hope the lack of showering facilities didn't encumber his night too much...
---
To celebrate our first official weekend in Singapore, us internationals decided that a trip abroad was in order. Left with the task of organizing, planning, and recruiting, the trip was to have some specifically Sarah Howell, or if not, girl flavour: i.e. one girl, eight boys.
So, one plus eight we set off on Puke Ferry to our exotique beach getaway.
Upon arrival, all thoughts of exoticism flew out the window. For those laboured in the backpacker travels-- you know what I'm talking about... 'nough said (Except for Shit River-- more on that later).
You may wonder, as I did and still do, what it's like to be a girl travelling with a Troop of young men. Like anything, there are high's and low's. (On a side note: luckily The Island was not void of other beach-seeker-girls.) However, normals aside, I truly don't think our weekend would have unfolded the way it did given the prescence of more estrogen...
I have never in my life counted minutes till death:
Unfortunately this weekend we were all reminded of the power of the Ocean. What started off as a peaceful afternoon sun bathing on some rocks by the sea, turned into a frantic rescue mission for Bass.
Three of the boys had ventured out past the Break in chase of the waves. The mid-day change of the ocean's tides suddenly caught them off guard. Before they knew it, things had gotten really real, real quick. Bass was unable to outswim the under swell. Too fatigued to fight the current, he had to be held up by the other two (also coincidentally trying to hold themselves up).
From the time the others on the beach had clued on to drowing Bass to the time that Bass was pulled out of the water something like fifteen minutes had gone by. Under normal circumstances, this would have been an embarrasing time lapse on our part, but we had picked a near deserted spot to swim.
Seeking out the locals was our first obstacle, then getting them to understand us without speaking our language was our second. We were given one life jacket. For three guys. As Will set out in the water with the one and only safety floatation device we had, I hoped on a motor bike with one of the locals, Bikini and all (or nothing.... keeping in mind this is a Muslim country), in search of other life vests.
By the time I returned with the only other two life vests for miles, Will had managed to hand Bass the life jacket and luckily the others were able to muster up enough strength to swim past the swell and back to shore.
I walked back onto the beach to find four boys, panting, but luckily, beached.
While holding the two extra life vests I thought to myself what a mess this would have been if help had only arrived now. I could see on Bass' face that he had been counting minutes.
Then, one fell down:
On our last morning some of the boys had decided to rent motorbikes and ride around the Island. Somehow-- and yet unexpectedly at this point-- within the first half hour of their departure Mike comes roaring back for help: Shane had crashed his bike.
After setting off, riding along the one and only paved road on the Island, taking in the fresh air and warm sun Shane had decided to follow his instinct: drive on the Right side. Unfortunately, by the time the others had realized he was on the Wrong side of the road a car surprised him around a bend. Looking to avoid head on collision, Shane swerved off the road, skidding bike and body.
Damage: arm scrapes, wrist cuts, toe sores, and knee flesh.
Overall, it could have been worse. Like Bass' incident, much worse. The big crack on Shane's helmet said it all.
Dear Yenny, you would have be proud of me now. I got past the big flab of flesh just dangling off his knee, along with the swarm of flies feeding off his open sores, and proceeded to disinfect and bandage him up. My tools: Alcohol and Band-aids. Definitely a patch-work opperation.
---
Overall, our first weekend away wasn't all scary. But sitting in the comfort Buger King we promised one another that this was a learning curve, and that from here on out our trips would be safer, saner, and filled with much more estrogen for both our sanity and safety.
---
Some comedic relief:
At 'Backpackers Paradise' there was a creek that separated us from the other resorts down along the beach. When we first arrived, its smell was a background issue and we plugged through its waters willingly and excitidly without much hesitation over to the other side. Soon enough, however, we slowly clued in that this creek was where our bathroom issues were being flushed...
With the simplicity of trudging across now out of the question we turned to Plan B: long jump.
You would see various individuals at various points and times throughout the day setting up for the jump: knees bent, toes dug into the sand preparing for the launch up into the air and, hopefully, over on over to the other bank. You would know right away if they had succeedded or not based on their cry of success or utter disgust.
One night, some one had started plan C: catapulting across with a bamboo stick.
If you have ever seen or touched a bamboo stick you should be thinking to yourself right about now: Brilliant! Absolutely fucking brilliant-- bamboo is highly inflexible! So you can imagine how many cries of disgust this idea brought with it...
Onto Plan D:
Coming back from a party late one night I decided to lay out the bamboo stick as a walking plank connecting the two banks. Good Idea: Most people have enough balance to walk the couple feet and bamboo is fairly strong.
Or so I thought...
While trying to fall asleep that night to the peaceful humming of the tides I suddently hear a loud crack, then a plop, and then a "Oh-HHH-h Shit!"
Poor soul.
I hope the lack of showering facilities didn't encumber his night too much...
Sunday, January 10, 2010
"Computer Says No"
It was written in my cards that this trip would be a success. I know this because a Fortune Cookie told me so, literally:
"A new venture will be a success."
On the eve of my departure from the Motherland, Canada, Fate had cunningly handed to me a series of words that would prove to mean a world of encouragement. Funny how life works out, and funny how a Fortune Cookie was enough to get me through Day 1 (...or 2 if you take into account time zones).
I had wanted an adventure, and an adventure I got...
--
The Big Day started off early in Edmonton, bumble-cold-fuck-no-where, and eerily reminiscent of Little Britain's David Williams skit as the infamous banker, Carol Beer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Beer). Yet this time, rather than some bank-wishing customer being denied access, it's my trusted Air Canada flight agent that looks up at me and says, "Computer says no...". I was being told that the system would not process me to go through to Singapore, my final destination, due to visa requirements.
My immediate thought: Oh FUCK.
The rational follow up: No Fucking Way. My Fortune Cooked at last night's Chinese meal predicted success. And anyways, I tried to inform her, Canadians were on the non-visa required list for Singapore.
Unfortunately, handling agents don't have access beyond flights and schedules and it's not their problem if the airline suddenly decides to deny a customer. So, after being asked what my plan B was, and realizing that Edmonton and the whole 1/3 of a person I knew there would offer no solution to my problem I decided to jump on an earlier flight out to Vancouver and hopefully try out my luck with Air China once there.
Without delay, I hop onto an earlier flight out to the City of Olympic Mania and, hopefully, the answer to my problems.
Upon arrival, I wait out the check-in queue for a second time only to be promptly told, again, by Air China that, no can do: no visa, no Singapore. Two strikes, I'm panicking.
The last flight of the week with an available seat (my seat!) leaves for Beijing in exactly 40 minutes. In the meanwhile, we try to contact the Singaporean embassy, customs, immigration, other airliners, etc. and all to no avail. No one is open, or responding, or has any answer. The agent looks at me and flatly tells me that there is absolutely nothing else they can do for me at this point. (Enter tears).
"Let's put you back on a flight to Edmonton so that you can sort it out there," she offers.
No! I don't want to go back-wards. Edmonton-- as already established-- is never the answer.
"Well, what about Vancouver? Any family, friends, place you can stay for a while?"
For a while? No! I don't have for a while! Nor do I have a Vancouver connection!! (In hindsight, I did: Erin O. But Erin or not I wanted Singapore-- and that's what I was going to get! We would have had fun though, Erin and I...).
So, after consulting with a slew of other agents I decided to take a chance and fly to China with no certainty that they would allow me to fly on to Singapore once arrived.
Time check: T minus 5 minutes till gates close. (Exit tears).
With fresh adrenaline pumping through my blood I hectically sign a forced contract that more or less confers full legal and financial responsibility on my self for my decision to proceed without a green light. As an aspiring law student, I am slightly ashamed at having signed over my soul and, potentially, life in such haste. And for a brief moment I question my decision.
"Just how much money are we potentially talking about here?" I ask the agent before sealing the deal with my name.
"I have no idea," she replies. "It could be nothing... or a lot."
A lot? I sign away.
After thanking the agents profusely (for what!?) I grab my bags and book it through YVR to my gate. Run Forrest run I did. All the while an image played out in my head of me calling my dad, desperately asking for him to bail me out for hundreds of thousands of dollars. "They gave me no choice!" I heard myself say. Because indeed flying back to Edmonton where it was minus 30 or staying in Vancouver where the sky was a straight shade of gray were neither options.
The worst part of the day (aside from being rejected Little Britain style twice) was the 12 hour flight to Beijing.
In total, I had at most 40 minutes of sleep. But even that was restless. I was going to China with no formal okay. If they wanted, they could easily send me back upon arrival, or turn me into Tom Hanks in "Terminal". Adventurous and slightly romantic for the latter, perhaps, but again, not ideal.
Twelve hours and 10 nails later we arrive in Beijing. Every checkpoint has me biting further whatever stubs of nails I have left. Again and again I hold my breath to get by.
And I did. No problem.
Fucking Canada, eh.
After speaking with agents in Beijing and being okay-ed for my final destination we conclude that the Canadian agents fucked up and didn't know what they were talking about (my point exactly all along). So, a few translators later I wait (9 hours, due to delay) for my flight to Singapore. Of course, I don't rest properly until I have securely planted two feet on Singaporean soil. And ironically, I do without any sign of protest from the authorities. Just one question: "Miss-y, can you please declare how long you plan to stay in Singapore for?"
"No idea."
Passport stamped.
--
From now to then, A Lot can happen.
But I am comforted and I smile because a Fortune Cookie plays my cards.
(Closing words of travel journal entry on Jan 7).
"A new venture will be a success."
On the eve of my departure from the Motherland, Canada, Fate had cunningly handed to me a series of words that would prove to mean a world of encouragement. Funny how life works out, and funny how a Fortune Cookie was enough to get me through Day 1 (...or 2 if you take into account time zones).
I had wanted an adventure, and an adventure I got...
--
The Big Day started off early in Edmonton, bumble-cold-fuck-no-where, and eerily reminiscent of Little Britain's David Williams skit as the infamous banker, Carol Beer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Beer). Yet this time, rather than some bank-wishing customer being denied access, it's my trusted Air Canada flight agent that looks up at me and says, "Computer says no...". I was being told that the system would not process me to go through to Singapore, my final destination, due to visa requirements.
My immediate thought: Oh FUCK.
The rational follow up: No Fucking Way. My Fortune Cooked at last night's Chinese meal predicted success. And anyways, I tried to inform her, Canadians were on the non-visa required list for Singapore.
Unfortunately, handling agents don't have access beyond flights and schedules and it's not their problem if the airline suddenly decides to deny a customer. So, after being asked what my plan B was, and realizing that Edmonton and the whole 1/3 of a person I knew there would offer no solution to my problem I decided to jump on an earlier flight out to Vancouver and hopefully try out my luck with Air China once there.
Without delay, I hop onto an earlier flight out to the City of Olympic Mania and, hopefully, the answer to my problems.
Upon arrival, I wait out the check-in queue for a second time only to be promptly told, again, by Air China that, no can do: no visa, no Singapore. Two strikes, I'm panicking.
The last flight of the week with an available seat (my seat!) leaves for Beijing in exactly 40 minutes. In the meanwhile, we try to contact the Singaporean embassy, customs, immigration, other airliners, etc. and all to no avail. No one is open, or responding, or has any answer. The agent looks at me and flatly tells me that there is absolutely nothing else they can do for me at this point. (Enter tears).
"Let's put you back on a flight to Edmonton so that you can sort it out there," she offers.
No! I don't want to go back-wards. Edmonton-- as already established-- is never the answer.
"Well, what about Vancouver? Any family, friends, place you can stay for a while?"
For a while? No! I don't have for a while! Nor do I have a Vancouver connection!! (In hindsight, I did: Erin O. But Erin or not I wanted Singapore-- and that's what I was going to get! We would have had fun though, Erin and I...).
So, after consulting with a slew of other agents I decided to take a chance and fly to China with no certainty that they would allow me to fly on to Singapore once arrived.
Time check: T minus 5 minutes till gates close. (Exit tears).
With fresh adrenaline pumping through my blood I hectically sign a forced contract that more or less confers full legal and financial responsibility on my self for my decision to proceed without a green light. As an aspiring law student, I am slightly ashamed at having signed over my soul and, potentially, life in such haste. And for a brief moment I question my decision.
"Just how much money are we potentially talking about here?" I ask the agent before sealing the deal with my name.
"I have no idea," she replies. "It could be nothing... or a lot."
A lot? I sign away.
After thanking the agents profusely (for what!?) I grab my bags and book it through YVR to my gate. Run Forrest run I did. All the while an image played out in my head of me calling my dad, desperately asking for him to bail me out for hundreds of thousands of dollars. "They gave me no choice!" I heard myself say. Because indeed flying back to Edmonton where it was minus 30 or staying in Vancouver where the sky was a straight shade of gray were neither options.
The worst part of the day (aside from being rejected Little Britain style twice) was the 12 hour flight to Beijing.
In total, I had at most 40 minutes of sleep. But even that was restless. I was going to China with no formal okay. If they wanted, they could easily send me back upon arrival, or turn me into Tom Hanks in "Terminal". Adventurous and slightly romantic for the latter, perhaps, but again, not ideal.
Twelve hours and 10 nails later we arrive in Beijing. Every checkpoint has me biting further whatever stubs of nails I have left. Again and again I hold my breath to get by.
And I did. No problem.
Fucking Canada, eh.
After speaking with agents in Beijing and being okay-ed for my final destination we conclude that the Canadian agents fucked up and didn't know what they were talking about (my point exactly all along). So, a few translators later I wait (9 hours, due to delay) for my flight to Singapore. Of course, I don't rest properly until I have securely planted two feet on Singaporean soil. And ironically, I do without any sign of protest from the authorities. Just one question: "Miss-y, can you please declare how long you plan to stay in Singapore for?"
"No idea."
Passport stamped.
--
From now to then, A Lot can happen.
But I am comforted and I smile because a Fortune Cookie plays my cards.
(Closing words of travel journal entry on Jan 7).
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