Nemesis strikes back!

It's been almost 15 years, but the memory of the sickly sweet scent of flaming Sambucca shots at Trafalgar square lingers in my nostrils as if it was yesterday. I have been assiduously diligent in side stepping it's evil odour, even to the extent of incurring gourmet wrath. Ouzo is an anathema an any attempt send my nostrils quivering in indignation and self defense.

Oddly enough, it was more visions of sugar plums (yeah right!) that were wafting through my head as I stripped off my clothes and lay face down on the bed as instructed by the lovely young woman who came to our villa bearing a wicker basket. As I snuggled my face into the pillow, peculiar mosaics of red riding hood and the big bad wolf juggling some bread and cheese lingered behind my eyes, partly responsible for the upward tug of my lips. Soft but firm hands patting me down might have been the other reason. Certainly a good way to prime oneself of breakfast.

I feel the slickness of oil spreading along my calf and my shoulders drop in supplication, embedding me deeper into the bed. My descent into nirvana (wonder if this compares to a pre-wash cycle on a sophisticated washing machine) commences, only to have my nostrils quiver uncertainly. I dismiss it as the yet to be defined scent of the oil slickly covering my legs, the kneading pressure of those hands exquisite on my butt. My nostrils flare, sending shivers of alarm down my spine. Something is amiss in paradise. My once compliant shoulders tense imperceptibly, unsure whether to follows the synapses or the nasal signals. Any pretence at being relaxed has flown out the window and my entire body is focused on the whispering strands of something invasively familiar.... As she moves to my other leg, the sickly sweet scent of anise wafts through the room as the warm oil is slathered on my skin, insidiously oozing into my pores.

I now understand how a deer caught in the headlight feels. Trapped, unable to move, petrified of what it's being assailed by. A soft moan escapes my lips as I turn and bury my head into the pillow, leaving my body to deal with the complexities of acquiring oxygen from fabric. My brain soothingly coos at me... "it's not that bad, it's just an initial start, like the top notes of a perfume you don't much care for.." No, really?! Might I remind you that you are attached to a woman who does not wear perfume (or has only ever worn 2 scents in her entire 40 years?!). Strong fingers on my butt distract me and I acquiesce to the sensations that brings instead... talk about a dilemma!! Pleasure and pain. Moans and groans. Hoist by one's own petard. I can't wait for breakfast!

Home is where the heart is

Tacky but true! Usually, when I think of home, I think of Bombay, I think of my folks. Sometimes, I think of the places where I've lived, where I've stamped my personality, been happy. But mostly, it's people and memories that make me feel like I've come home. Sharing decadence with Gifty or watching Usha expertly roll out a 'rogni' roti. A haven that makes a bad day go dissolve, my refuge against sadness, a safe haven to lick my wounds, people who put me back together, rejuvenated and ready to face the world again. Those people with whom you lose track of time, where you think you're going to inelegantly die by choking to death on the sheer silliness that's inevitable. The shared laughter, hunger, exasperation, support and battles. Even the I told you so's!

I'd almost forgotten my other home, with the Chandavarkars. Where you pick up threads like you'd just left them to rest last night, where intervening absences never happened, where falsettos pretend to be you when placing an order for dinner, a pounce and tickle session amongst the middle aged is par for course leaving the 5 year old goggle eyed at poor Dada's fate, where a precocious baby is now helping you maneuver the world of google to find the nearest pizza place and tells you where to shop for work clothes, where unabashedly we swap middle age stories and concoct diabolical plans to trade the kids in for a more cake and a massage.... the good life. Even the moments of 'aaaaargh' that make you want to flush people down the nearest toilet are intact and suddenly the irritation that 5 teacups instead of 6, sans saucers just isn't worth the effort. This is what life is about.. the people that fill it, even in their absence.

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!!!!