Fact. Fiction. Urban Legend.

This island breeds it. Dire tales warning you of police intervention if someone dares to trawl for porn from your place of residence. Newspapers reports of caning. Threats of extortionate fines for littering.....

At dinner, I happen to mention my rabid hatred of pigeons and my fervent desire to exterminate from the face of this planet, to be enthusiastically informed that the Singaporean army has a slew of sharpshooters who do precisely that, only it is the crow population that is being decimated. Erm, I beg your pardon?? Yep. There are apparently no crows in Singapore because the armed forces have taken care of it. Wow. Two weeks in, and I must admit, I haven't laid eyes on a single crow. Or a pigeon for that matter. Clear opportunity here to increase export earnings if you ask me.

Yesterday, I was told that one could be fined for driving to Malaysia with a tank that's less than ¾ full. Excuse me???? You see, petrol is much cheaper across the border so our revered benevolence does not want us to take advantage of arbitrage opportunities. Right. This can't be for real, because that would suggest that there are uniformed folk checking your dashboard along with your passports??

I happen to mention this to another newcomer to the island and we chortle over how ludicrous that actually would be... till our mirth is cut short by old hand of 8 months (who quit her job 6 months in and is working somewhere else now) that not only is it true, but shockingly violated by some enterprising locals who have figured out a way (my physics is appalling so the story of air being pumped in to nudge the needle is left best explained by someone else) to beat the system and regularly head over to tank up, three times a week!

Clearly, there is much one needs to learn about living here and I have taken it upon myself to compile an Essential Expats Heresay Handbook to Singapore, based on some of these tasty little tidbits that one picks up. I will not research it. I will merely jot it down in a little notebook (a much less sophisticated way to gather what the local populace is up to that the government employs) and see what my time here offers up.

I've been informed that a first offence brings on a hefty fine, the second community service and the third a jail sentence. Apparently, women are not caned (there is some unhealthy debate about whether this is a good thing or a bad thing!), and the governments efforts to discourage gambling among the local populace by inflicting a S$100 entrance fee to the Sands casino has netted them S$6,000,000 in the first quarter.

I also realise, it's a good thing it's hot, because alcohol here attracts a 100% duty but you can get 'lime juice' (Singlish for nimbu paani) for a dollar, that Singaporeans do not like paying S$2.5 extra for booking a taxi and will wait in a taxi queue for 25 min instead. Taxi's are really cheap, but not easy to find during shift changes, rush hour or Friday/Saturday nights. Many bars offer an Asian platter that is 70% potato wedges with token Asian spring rolls and wantons (??), that Singaporeans are compulsive buyers of apartments (and only buy new... bad feng shui to buy a used house/flat apart from it not being shiny and new and really minuscule) and will take up to 4 loans to buy another apartment they don't really need but as an investment,
that you can buy cigarettes at duty free but you can't smoke them on the island (well, not without being fined anyway).

Expats read the Straits Times because they rather enjoy the propaganda. It is revealing to read about the new rules that will now disallow the casino to advertise it's winners (after all, no one takes out ads about the losers), letters urging the government to do something to block all pornographic sites on the Internet (!!! how very lax of them not to have done so already!). I'm told that Orchard Towers on Orchard Road is the place to go to indulge in the city's seamier side (gasp! who allowed that?!), trannie high if you will (among other delicacies)...

Community service for littering has you sweeping the roads with a fluorescent jacket screaming "Doing community service for littering". That is the good part. The bad bit, is that 48 hours of community service are required to be done 2 hours every Sunday for the next 24 Sundays! The thought of being a prisoner on the island for the next 6 months is a far greater deterrent than a S$1,000 fine, and my jaywalking now takes a judicious re-assessment of crossing opportunities and involved far more than just my peripheral vision!!!!

East vs. West

There is no debate about how banking in Asia makes Europe look not just antiquated, but entrenched in the dark ages. Unlike my experience with HSBC in London (where it took the "post" with the relevant paperwork 3 working days to make it's way through the building to my relationship manner because the scanned copies weren't good enough in this day and age), I've been told it'll take 10 working days to set up my account here and have a welcome package ready for me by then. We shall see.

My Employment Pass (EP) takes longer than I thought but my HR assures me it's just the new year rush. Hmmmmm. I need that to be able to open a bank account. I draw money for my goodwill deposit on the flat from London, and hope that EP happens sooner rather than later, because I now clearly need to have local funds to lean on.

No sign of the EP but instead, there's a fat envelope on my desk. My curiosity turns to bewilderment.... it's a debit card, and a second envelope holds the pin. Hmmmmm. Curious. So now I have a card for an account somewhere on this island with no money in it. The next day offers up a cheque book. I blithely offer to write cheques to people who have bought concert tickets for me. This could be fun (notwithstanding potential punitive assessment by the State for bounced cheques).

I am now in possession of weapons of spending with no backing. How very classic 21st century American.

P.S. - My befuddled query to my Indian relationship manager yields a surreptitious call (apparently sending anything in writing would contravene the Geneva convention, 3482 RBI regulations, and rock the Singaporean government on its heels) with details of my new bank account, customer number and local relationship manager. So much for dire warnings that HSBC here wasn't good!

Welcome to Singapore

Can't think of many countries that allow you to stroll in on a tourist visa, start work, apply for your work permit, sign a lease and get back into the country on the basis of an in principle approval...... no fuss, no muss. This is how you bring skilled immigrants in to boost your economy. Simple, short and stress free. That's how you make 'em pay silly money for the privilege of working here :)

Protocols disobeyed

While I'm not feeling vitriolic enough for that particular post, I must inquire why is it, that I get comments posted on this blog from random anonymous people, and yet, those that I know persist in sending me emails and texts instead of just observing proper blog etitquette and posting a comment against the relevent item??? It would be nice to read a comment from someone I know for a change! 50 lashes lah! Damn, I'm hungry.

My vitriolic post on Singapore's housing lies forlorn. I have been distracted and am now at a quarter one in the morning, wide awake and ravenously hungry!! It is deeply distressing to dine with clients of the male persuasion who very politely say they don't want any more food. What is with these white men?!?!?! Mimi and I inhale that table load as a pre-cursor to a Japanese meal!

HUNGRY!!!!

Singapore Sling

The original: Gin, Cherry Heering, Bénédictine, fresh pineapple juice.... Shaken, not stirred.


The bastardised: A crutch to aid demoralised foreigners seeking accommodation in Singapore.

I've dealt with rentals in Bombay, London and New York but Singapore beats 'em all hollow. As hard as it may be to imagine, the apartments here are tinier (not sure if they're intended for the miraculously metabolically superior Singapore/Chinese frame??), rates extortionate, and a big hoo ha is made about the 'amenities' and 'facilities'. Given that I'm a woman that doesn't do gym's and whose visualisation of a 'lap' pool is significantly different from that of an athlete, I'm not impressed. Actually, I lie. The facilities are impressive, but a fat lot of good it's going to do me to pay for all of this when I'm not going to be using any of it!

Where the locations work, the apartments don't, where the apartment works, the location doesn't, and if both work, then someone insists on putting up a brand new development right next door (naturally, they will only break ground and start the piling work once you've moved in). I've seen more apartments that I ever want to again, and I'm demoralised, frustrated, knackered and ready to run away!

My list of things that I hate now include house hunting with a passion!

Corrigendum

Apparently, I am the proud owner of a .175 and not a .22 as I had thought.

My only excuse: no one on TV ever fires .175's, so how am I meant to remember the fraction?

Tired.

The urge to walk into a pair of strong arms and rest against a warm body is overwhelming. How strange it is to have that sense through me as I wait for my next call. It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet. Strange when I think about what I said yesterday. That I couldn't imagine living with anyone because I need my own space. Yet, the thought of a larger apartment is what is making me unwilling to put down an offer, the sheer abundance of empty space that makes me uncomfortable, and a smaller, cozier and quirkier studio more appealing. I've always been plagued by contrary emotions and wants, but this? Where did this come from? A new place? Insular people? Disastrous office? Anything more than 1 bedroom is more than I want right now, because it just makes being alone skate too closely to feeling lonely. Cozy is good, but without feeling claustrophobic. But what’s with the wanting to go home to a hug? If there's anything I hate, it's arriving home to people talking.... and yet, here I am, my head conjuring something that sounds suspiciously like having someone around all the time. And that doesn’t sound right. I must be tired. Very tired. And hormonal.

Guilty pleasures

Darryl assures me that this coffee house serves the best stingray in all Singapore. I trust the boys judgement, even though he looks twelve. Our journey from Raffles Place to Jurong East involves the MRT, wait for a car, rush hour traffic on one of the abbreviated expressways and loss of orientation due to hunger. Fishball soup with the spongiest fishballs I've ever sampled and some an introduction to popiah (turnip, nut and something spring roll type things that aren't fried and a bit strange to the palate the first time around, but it grows on you), sates our urgent hunger and we await our raison d'etre. My conscience frowns as it finger waggles me, and I guiltily remember the way the felt in my arms, the strength of their supple bodies, the smooth, taut skin, the fluttering shyness and the insistent nudging to be fed. I murmur something about not being able to eat them as it just wouldn't be right, but am reminded of my "I'll eat anything once" motto. When it arrives at the table, my waver quotient shoots up and I'm soon surrounded by oooohs and aaaaahs. I contemplatively chew on a piece of popiah, pondering my strategy. A deep sigh propels my chopsticks towards the sambal covered flesh and I lift off a piece and pop it into my mouth. The sambal is outstanding, the fish meaty and I send up a silent apology to the gods of stingrays. Delicious. That now needs to be my credo. I'll try it the once, but I will not turn into a true Asian, bent on eating various species of fish out of existence. Besides, it's all about the chilli anyway apparently.....

Ready, Aim, Fire

The twinge that sneaks its way down my right thumb as I chirp on BBM is unwelcome. I pause and twiddle my thumb experimentally. I chirp some more. Uh oh, it wasn't a 'bekayda' moment and my brain tosses out RSS in frantic tones (less than a week in Singapore and I'm abbreviating like a local!).

The intention was to do something about my absolutely appalling aim (the instructors voice laced with exasperation that melts into disbelief, "the two that went by" in response to my innocent "at what?" query when asked, "why didn't you shoot?" is a whole different story), and attempt to correct my abysmal co-ordination of leading eye vs aiming arm, but it turned out to be love at first touch. It's been just over two weeks since my first encounter with a .22 air pistol, the shock at how good it felt to hold it, how easily it fit in my hands, and how I could so get used to its heft. Oh my God. My wide eyed excitement turns to pure lip licking appreciation as a single shot knocks off the test target. One indulgent man and one credit card swipe later, I'm hugging the gun in it's box with accouterments and an extra box of ammo.

Anaheeta's backyard is the venue for my first lesson, and the dogs bark from a safe distance before disappearing altogether. A wise decision as my attempts zing all over the backyard, ploughing into the stalwart tree holding my target which remains benignly unmarked. The experiment to use my left hand to go with my stronger leading eye is clearly not yielding the kind of results I'd like. A shift with a concentrated effort at keeping the right eye open instead of the left (you may smirk, but some of us are blithely unaware that what you're aiming at when your leading eye is shut, is always well of the mark!) is called for, along with a paper target that allows my teacher to see where my attempts are hitting the few times they're not going astray. He's good. Patient, encouraging, sneaking in only a few flawless shots to demonstrate (and play just a teeny weeny bit, but watching him does help my stance), and fullsome in his praise when I actually hit the target. It works, and I get steadily better, leaving nature eternally grateful.

I'm informed that it's time to try hitting a coke can. Oook. It's one thing to hit a big white target (and that too, not too many bulls eye moments), but a coke can?! I grit my teeth and sigh in frustration as I miss not just the coke can, but the big white sheet of paper and the even bigger whiter thermacol backing. I can almost hear the tree groan in exasperation. For the love of God woman! At least hit the big white thing or me! Shooting master is unfazed, and then suddenly I hear the sound of a faint ping. I'm thrilled, but the voice beside me tells me I've only just grazed the can. Dammit! A few more near shaves for the can of coke and then suddenly, a solid thwink and a fizzy fountain of coke sprays in both directions like a well timed little fountain. HAH! I actually hit the damn thing! I'm ecstatic and it takes all of my willpower to stop grinning and take aim again. I hit it several more times and feel so pleased with myself, I yield the gun without a murmur as teacher takes a shot. Not only does he look hot doing it, his one attempt knocks the friggin' can off it's perch. God Damn It!!

Like a junkie, I'm unable to stop, and the first time I knock that can off it's perch, I can't keep the exultant cry from escaping. I hear the deeply satisfying thunk as the can gradually gets bent out of shape and feel like a star. The master decides it's time to reduce the target and lays the can on it's side. Fucking brilliant. I whine and insist there's no way I'll be able to hit it. My first attempt takes too long and my aim wavers. I start over, and squeeze the trigger. It's a hit. Damn! He looks smug. I'm shocked. "Do it again", he says. Miraculously, I do. And again, and again. My thumb is numb from cocking to load, and it has to be done for me. Pathetic. Almost as pathetic as all the times I'd loose the pellets on the ground coz I'd hit the release while holding the barrel against my thigh to cock the pistol. My neck frizzes a gentle reminder that my shoulders are being grossly violated. The last few bullets and I hit the now heavily abused can only 2 out of 5 times.

Still, I feel like Rambo and ready for a weeks worth of decimated cans. The euphoria lasts for all of 12 hours before my neck, shoulders and right hand do a passable imitation of rigor. Apparently, spending an entire morning and bits of the afternoon firing off over 200 rounds as a newbie will do that to you. Clearly, lesson 2 will have to wait a bit. The question is, will I have to start all over or will my body remember and pull it together to take a can off it's perch at 10 feet the first time? $64 question. A guy I once dated told me that I'd like golf. I think I finally understand what he was trying to say.