Mai Chau

Dear Nancy

I actually think someone had a worst time in Mai Chau than we did.

There must be others out there like us.

Too Queued For Words

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good passport must be in want of a wait.”

Or put simply:

“Never stand behind a black man when queuing for Customs".

Yes this is racist, but like most (if not all) racism it is also a handy guideline for the oppressed.

Racism, snobbery, and bigotry are bad in life (— AND IMMA LET YOU FINISH —) but they work wonders in queues.

After September 11 I removed black men from the list and added all Muslims. Since then I have included anyone with a winter tan.

Ageism is particularly useful at supermarkets, or indeed anywhere where money changes hands. It is not uncommon to see a queue being are held hostage by an old lady struggling with her change.“Fools,” I think to myself, “I could have spotted that old bitch from Frozen Goods”.

No minute is more precious than the one saved in a fast queue. I usually try to establish which line will be moving the fastest and will use any methods at my disposal. 

Customs in Jakarta is known for its long, disorganised queues. After disembarking the flight and boarding a couple of escalators you soon find yourself descending down a wide staircase and into a huge pen of over 500 people. There are roughly 15 queues in this filthy, sweaty pen and each one has about 25-50 pigs lining up in it.

3 of the 15 queues are dedicated to Indonesians. These ones seem to move quickly.

Another is for diplomats. Stand beside this one and you can feel the breeze as ugly families sailing past you with ease. I stare at them bitterly, wishing cancer and car accidents on them.

As for the rest of us, we gormlessly inch our way along, scrambling evidence of a return journey and double-checking our arrival cards for errors as we get closer. Anything to pass the time.

Today: my welcome to Jakarta

As for me, I stand there listening to ABC Radio National podcasts, looking vacantly bored and plotting my escape like Papillon. Papillon with a laptop. And a passport. And a sulky look on his face.

The whole process is long and slow and boring and seemingly endless. Today in Jakarta I looked back from the front of my queue and counted 53 people still in my queue, give or take a pig.

Sometimes my disobedient mind starts wandering. I imagine I'm a holocaust victim, lining up for a shower. Then I catch myself of course. What a silly thing to imagine ... it's obvious I'm not thin enough ... I would still be in the soap factory, working off those last 43 pounds. so I look around, wondering who might be thin enough. Then I catch myself again, this time more seriously. "You're being completely ridiculous," I tell myself "... you're in Indonesia ... no one here is that skinny". I look around again, trying to make eye contact with other victims and all I get is blank stares, a docile smile at best. I wonder why I'm the only agitated one in the queues. Perhaps they don't know. Perhaps they still think they're off for a wash. I smile as the passing diplomats, gliding into an early shower. Finally I stop myself. I realise I'm being silly and reflect back back to the real holocaust and what really happened. Against my will, I start myself up again and wonder whether the plump arrivals got any joy out of hitting their target weight - if only for a fleeting, disobedient moment - on their freefall to size zero. 


This sounds - no is - quite immoral of course. I’m not saying it’s right at all. I’m just saying it happens. It happens to me. Perhaps I'm Queue Hitler.

Needless to say, picking the fastest line is quite a challenge with no time to dilly-dally.

The selection process starts from the top of the stairs. I quickly scope the entire pig pen for any obvious obstructions. Jakarta is dominated by Muslims and/or tanned folk so the skin guidelines don't apply. Indeed, potatoes are in the minority so I avoid them at all costs.

After weeding out the potatoes I look for old people or young families. These are the groups who finally reach the counter only to realise - surprise surprise - that they must have been in a queue for something because now they are at the front and someone is asking them for things. This results in them flustering through cluttered hand luggage for documents that could have been prepared 30 minutes ago.

They are even worse at the x-ray machine where, if I’m stuck behind one of them, I start mumbling “come on, get yourself ready” ... often within earshot. They rarely take heed and I hate them like diplomats.

Once the oldies and families are removed from the list, I'm down to about 7 remaining queues. The next step is to filter out the short, the frail and the thin ... these people, who are treated as equal citizens, make a queue look deceptively smaller. A headcount can quickly identify any clusters

The final step is to select a customs officer. Preferably someone young-but-not-too-young (well trained and efficient but not yet jaded by life), not trendy (won’t be distracted by fashion or mirrors), female (usually efficient, especially in relaxed muslim countries where they’re not allowed to flirt) and preferably someone in glasses (they are short-sighted and must focus on their work as they can’t see the rest of the pen).

I also avoid the book ends. Those officers have allocated themselves to the sides for a reason.

By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I've selected my queue.

Once committed, I start pegging myself against rivals ... noticing others who started with me and periodically charting my progress against theirs. This sometimes alerts me to an early disaster wherein I abandon my queue for theirs. But mostly it’s a learning exercise. If I’m doing slowly, I compare their queue with mine, their comrades and customs officer with mine, and hone my skills for next time. This is how I came up with the trendy filter and the potato filter. A watched pot indeed.

What else is there to do in a queue while listening to linguistic podcasts and wondering when the armpit sweat is going to start being visible to the other pigs. Did I mention it isn't air conditioned?

On a somewhat related note, an unusual thing happened to me a few weeks ago when I went through Chinese Immigration.

There is another universal truth: “Any airline or customs counter will take 4½ minutes to process the people before you, and 45 seconds to process you.

I was patiently standing in the "Foreigners" lane. Those before me seemed to take ages getting processed. Probably answering all their stupid foreigner questions and fumbling through their stupid foreigner documents. Fucking foreigners.

There are a lot of stamps in my passport and when it got to my turn he seemed to be interested in all of them. By the way his head was tilted, I suspected a serenade was coming and looked for a kissing motion in his lips.

Then I noticed something sitting on the counter beside me. It was a small white box and looked amateurish, like a prop from Doctor Who or a 4th grade woodwork disaster.

The top of the box had a weather-beaten sticker on it which said “Please Rate Your Server!”. Underneath this were green, yellow and red buttons which were labeled “Perfect”, “Satisfactory” and “Unsatisfactory” respectively.

I did a double take – quite literally (I looked up at the customs officer in shock, then back at the prop, then back again). I couldn’t quite believe that I was being asked to rate my service experience from Customs? Isn’t this putting a bit of pressure on them to let you through?

At this time I felt that my experience very Unsatisfactory. But I had a train to catch. So the next time he looked up I hit the “Perfect” button in full view. He noticed and smiled, then immediately stamped my passport and let me through with a smile. How Perfect is that?

On reflection, I wonder whether Customs people need to consistently rate Unsatisfactory in order to do their job well? Perhaps they are measured by how much of a hard arse they can be? Either way, my guy seemed pretty pleased with me. See? I really am a good person.

I Fucking Well KNEW It!

I've got ovarian cancer.

http://blogs.smh.com.au/lifestyle/chewonthis/archives/2010/02/post_33.html

Joke Of The Year

"This guy walks into a bar ... and then ... I forgot most of the joke but your Mom is a whore.

Ambiguity

There is a Facebook group called "All Rapists Should Be Hung".

I think they mean "hanged".

Word of the Diet

Urban Dictionary's Word of the Day:

"Stealth Abs"

Definition:
When your ripped six pack is covered by a thick layer of fat.

Suggested usage:
"This isn't a beer belly, it's my stealth abs. I just needed to avoid attracting too many ladies with my well defined stomach."

So I'm not getting fatter, I'm getting craftier. Perhaps more modest (if that's possible). Either way I'm glad we cleared that up.

My own take on it:
"These stealth abs are making it quite difficult to touch my toes ... and to see them.

Let It Be

There are good reasons why I don't get my hair cut in Hanoi. Many very good reasons, actually. This means that I haven't had my hair cut or a few months, when I was in KL. And it's looking ratty.

So when I found myself stuck in Singapore a few weekends ago I decided it was time.

Singapore has more potatoes than Idaho, so I expected that most decent salons would have experience with non-Asian hair ... and in a reasonably modern style.

The hotel recommended somewhere nearby and made me an appointment for 2.30. I turned up at this place on time. It was a stock standard salon. I told by someone who I imagined was the cleaner to wait for 5 mins. About 20 seconds later another person took me to the chair and dumped a bunch of magazines in front of me.

Great, I thought, at least they know the drill. Oddly enough though, these were not magazines with pictures of men, or hair, or men's hair in them. 2 of them were women's hair things and the rest seemed to be Chinese homewares catalogues.

No problem, I thought, at least I am in Singapore so communication shouldn't be an issue.

A few minutes later the cleaner came back to me with a holster full of scissors. She approached the mirror and said to me "How short you want it?".

"What?", I said.

-- "How short? Hair. How short. You want short?"

"I'm sorry. I've never had a hairdresser begin a conversation like this. Aren't you going to ask me any questions, like what style I'm considering?"

-- "Huh? Sure. What style? How short you want the style?"

Now it was my turn to be short. I turned around looked her in the face and sunk the rusty knife in.

"I don't have any confidence in you doing a good job. Sorry. This is not going well at all."

And with that I left.

Finding other salons in this megamall was easy. Getting an appointment was not. It's approaching Chinese New Year so everyone is getting themselves ready. Oddly enough, the salons were most full of young men with their hair in foils.

Now I was fucked, but probably not as much as if I went the distance with this rogue cleaner.

I eventually found a place which seemed OK and could squeeze me in at 8pm.

Let me cut a long story short.

The place was full of young groovy people (staff and customers). She suggested a style which included a forward fringe with a slant across it.

Rather than admit that I was too old, I told her this style was a little too young. She was pushy so I said I would allow a slight gradient. Ever so slight. We negotiated the angle and off she went.

I was reading a magazine most of the time, stopping to obtusely answer her pointed questions (how old are you? married? girlfriend? where are you going out tonight? have you eaten? why haven't you eaten? when will you be eating? make sure I don't forget to eat OK? so how much money to you make?).

By the time looked back at the mirror, I realised we had a problem on our hands.

I'd been given a very modern cut. Something suitable for a Chinese 22 yo. Fringe combed forward, steep slope across my forehead, combed forward and quite voluminous in the back. It was too late to amend the fringe so I asked her for some more texture in it. This resulted in the sloping fringe becoming completely uneven.

I got back to the hotel, went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. There was someone else staring back at me. It wasn't 'me. It was the lead singer of an ageing Chinese Beatles tribute band; in shock.

-----

Epilogue

I was just cleaning out my receipts and saw this one. My $38 haircut was broken down as follows:

$28 WASH+CUT+BLOW

$10 CREATIVE SURCHARGE

So this wasn't her fault after all. She was just earning the ten bucks by coming up with something creative. Anything.

Retiring

When I was in China we spent most of the time at our client's "campus" - 12km² of buildings and landscaping. 40,000 employees work in this technology factory, whose assembly lines are crammed with white collar education and prestigious job titles.

Most companies put their research scientists in windowless basement labs. This company puts them in Building A, which is wrapped in columns and looks very grand. This is to show the importance they place on research. It's a pale yellow colour but is nicknamed The White House.

Building F is larger still, if less columny. The floors are massive. Later in the afternoon we were walking through the 8th floor, past a sea of desks and cubicles and monitors. The desks were mostly empty due to Chinese New Year, and I noticed some large, thick mats rolled up under each of them. I wondered if this was some type of ergonomic innovation.

Each mat had a different pattern on it. I spotted a Hello Kitty looking glum (for once) under a desk. I guess I wouldn't like it much either. Most of the patterns were floral, or featuring the sort of Chinese good luck symbols you see in casinos. It was all so mysterious. Could they be gambling under there? Is Hello Kitty being forced to serve drinks?

I asked my colleague if he knew what was going on (albeit while raising an eyebrow ... just in case further speculation was on the cards ...). He told me that this company has a 90-minute lunch break. People eat for 45 min, usually at the staff canteen, then they return to their desks and the lights are automatically turned off for the nap. Everyone naps.

"You know Anthony that some people have retired from here?"

-- "Well it's quite a young company but I guess ..."

"No. They have retired from here and now they sell mattresses. There are always new people starting so they all need mattresses"

-- "Oh. Really?"

"Yes. There is a store downstairs in this building where you can buy mattresses. The owner was a software programmer here. He has a PhD in Engineering from Beijing University."

-- "Does he make a lot of money?"

"Oh yes. A lot. I think he becomes quite rich."

-- "Seriously? From selling mattresses? He can earn more money than with his qualifications?"

"Yes. Getting rich is all about supply and demand. We have many PhD's here but not many places to buy a mattress."

Paradise Marred

Nancy seems to be looking forward to our trip to Bali.

I am too.

It is doomed, of course. Like all our holidays.

She knows it and I know it.

Yet here we go again, putting our knives into the toaster all the while knowing that nothing delicious is stuck.

Nancy doesn't even like the sun. Or beaches. Or islands. Or friendly smiling natives. Neither do I.

I think we've both been cursed with the Wandering Grimace gene ... a desire to travel but not to enjoy it.

If euthanasia is legal by the time Nancy is on her death bed (it's only a matter of time until both of these things happen), I will paint a port hole on the wall and tell her she's on a cruise. That oughta do her in.

Tet Tales Part 1: Schmosperity

More on Tet and how I've been spending my time.

1. Musings on the YOTT

Yep. This is the Year Of The Tiger.

Great.

I mean ... THAT'S GREAT!

RIGHT?

GREAT!!!

(right?)

When I first heard that it was going to be the Year Of The Tiger I thought of golf themes. I expected it would be all about virility and adultery this year. But apparently not. Although the previous Year of the Wood Tiger finished in Feb 1975, the same year Tiger Woods was born. I think them Chinese are onto somethink.

By all accounts, this is still supposed to be a good year: I've got sms's and facebook messages to prove it.

I could even go so far as to say this is an auspicious year because that's what it said on the discount leaflet that arrived with my pizza the other night ... and this piece of literature is as credible as anything else I've heard on the topic.

Either way, this tiger is packing fire in its belly and I wanna get me some.

I also wanna get me some of that Tet Special B - large pepperoni pizza, your choice of pasta and a garlic bread - all attractively priced for this auspicious occasion.

Anyway I think we all agree that our Tiger symbolises Prosperity and Health.

Now forgive me if I'm wrong (or don't), but this is all sounding veeeerrry familiar. Wasn't last year also pretty special? And the one before that? Actually I'm struggling to recall a Chinese New Year which was underwritten with a "this one's pretty crap" warning.

Indeed, I had vague memories of prosperity being mentioned last year so I went and looked it up. Sure enough. The Year of the Ox. Sure enough I found prosperity splashing around there. Actually not so much splashing as loitering; leaning against a lamp post smoking a thin cigarette.

So what about the year before that? What about the Rat? Sure enough there she was again, hanging around with money.

I think I've worked it out.

Prosperity is just sitting there at the end of each new year, pulling her bra up ... adjusting her dress down ... reapplying her lipstick ... waiting for the new ship to dock. Prosperity is a whore and Chinese New Year is her pimp.

These 12 animals to no represent different goals in life. They do not differentiate one year from the next. I think we should just to call every year the Year Of The Gnat and admit that this year we want to make as much money as possible. Human rights or not.

Perhaps Olive has the right idea. She sent this obscure email the other day to her "family":


Hi family,


In this new Tiger year, I wish you all...


Strong as tiger
Long-live as turtle
Sharp-eyes as eagle
Agility as rabbit
Smart as fox
Money as flood
Happiness as grasshoppers


It's cute, but it's stupid. We all know there is only one animal allowed per year. And as for the flood - well I'm not really sure when we are going to celebrate the Year Of The Flood but I can't wait. I'm like Noah excited.

So I replied back to the family (as Daddy of course) that she should add "Stupid as a cow" (an expression in Vietnamese) so that R does not feel left out.


2. ¿Cómo se dice 'money' en ingles?

Cuntastic was pulled over by police the other day for not wearing a helmet. He kept clearly saying to her in English "Give me money" and she kept responding in English "Sorry I don't understand Vietnamese".

This went on for a while until he gave up out of sheer embarrassment.

Cuntastic is an English teacher, which equips her to quickly reach into the core of a student's confidence ... and exploit it.

The recipe is simple: make the foreign language speaker repeat a simple phrase so often in your language. Imply they are so hopeless that even after several attempts, you still think they are still speaking their language and not attempting yours. Continue stirring for 3 minutes. You will notice their self esteem unravel before your eyes. Finish stirring once they start walking away, ideally with shoulders hunched. It's the perfect ploy and I can't wait to use it.

This is actually what happens to me when I attempt to speak Vietnamese ... people don't even conceive that I could be speaking their language so they don't even try to match my words with any of theirs. Instead, they just stare at me, shaking their head, sometimes trying to match my words against their limited catalogue of English but usually just assuming I'm an idiot.

3. Man Down

Yesterday I was stuck in a motorbike pack behind a very, very slow moving large white van. As I attempted to wriggle my way around it (passenger's side), they started chucking red and white things out the window. They looked like wrapped sweets and I tried not to squash any as we inched forward. I initially thought it must have been some (auspicious) Tet ritual and that the sweets were for kids, or Buddha. I eventually craned my head down and realised they were just paper. Tet Origami.

The back door to this van was open and packed with old ladies in traditional dress, seated facing each other like soldiers in a military aircraft. A couple of them were crying, which was odd because Vietnamese people never cry in public. NEVER. So I figured they were all wrapped up in a Tet moment, loving ancestors; or possibly smoking heroin they'd scored under the bridge ... working their way through the buzz. I don't know, but it was all very traditional and ritualistic.

The van was being stalked by a clump of people with long white scarves wrapped their heads. They weren't really scarves - more like cheap bandages - which made the stalkers look like they'd been in a riot at an English football match.

But I thought it all looked interesting - charming, even - and wished one of the head trauma victims a Chúc mừng năm mới as we made eye contact. She looked horrified at my new year's greeting so I guessed I must have gotten my tones wrong and called her a cunt or something.

As I reached for my camera to capture this moment, I luckily noticed it. The coffin. In the van. These old ladies were facing a coffin and this was was a funeral march and I was wedged in the middle of it and I had just wished one of the mourners a Merry New Year.

Talk about awkward.

For a few minutes I tried to make some apologetic eye contact with her but by this stage I was persona non grata and no one would look at me. They must have all heard my earlier cheery greeting. I guessed that as it wasn't my funeral, I had no right to make demands or complaints about how I was being treated.

After another 5 minutes I was over my awkwardness and decided to plan my escape. This wasn't going to be easy. There were bikes either side of me and it had all become a bit of a traffic jam. Then the oddest thing happened. A man came out of nowhere in the van and stood facing the group. He started waving his arms around and howling words out at random. Then he collapsed off the van and into crowd, grief stricken and landing in a foetal position as they caught him. It was awful. Pure grief. I imagined at this point that the coffin was carrying a young person. Perhaps a motorbike accident.

It became a very tragic,sombre, terrible moment of grief and it touched me. Well it touched most of me. There was still a little bit left in my disobedient mind to come up with the following inappropriate thoughts:
1) "Good stage dive, man!"; and
2) "Good catch, mourners"; and
3) I wish some of those mourners had been on hand at my training course.

Why can't the entire brain be touched by tragedy? What allows that little evil bit to still function?

Anyway, once the foetus had been returned to the van I sat there another few minutes and recalled John McCain's writing of his own experiences in Vietnam, "I had learned what we all learned over there: Every man has his breaking point. I had reached mine." John and I define torture a little differently: 6 years of POW torture vs 10 minutes in a traffic jam. But I had reached mine and needed to make another break for it.

I picked a moment when they had stopped throwing fake lollies out of the window and accelerated up the side, over the rocky sidewalk and into freedom's arms.

Tet Fucked

In Vietnam the lunar new year is called "Tet" and is followed by 4 public holidays. They stole it (the holiday, not the name) from the Chinese. If you've been occupied for 500 years you're bound to pick up a few tricks.

In retrospect, there were many signs that Tet was acomin':

1. The words Chúc mừng năm mới have been misleadingly written everywhere for a couple of months. And I mean ... everywhere. This roughly translates to "We wish you a Merry New Year" (forgive them, they don't get a merry Xmas). Originally I thought these signs were for "our" new year until a potato told me that no one gives a shit about the calendar year. Evah. It's all about Lunar, baby.

2. Vietnamese flags are flying everywhere: even off motorbike rear view mirrors. I got a face full on my way home tonight. (I imagine my assailant lining me up in their mirror and waiting for the wind to change before slowing down abruptly.)

3. People are selling cheesy balloons everywhere, even though have see no child (or adult, for that matter) brandishing one. The only evidence of balloon usage has been when I branded my own steer so that other rustlers couldn't steal her.

4. Peasants (OK, ladies in conical hats) squatting beside roadside mats selling illegal firecrackers.I particularly enjoyed seeing a traffic cop stand in front of one. She didn't panic. She just impassively moved her merchandise 20 metres up the road so that her customers could illegally pull over to illegally purchase her illegal products. 10 metres for the traffice cop's customers, 10 metres for hers.

5. Manicured trees in every house. We have a large cumquat in the apartment garage ... as if the other motorbikes, rubbish bags and security guard's children weren't obstacle enough. People have been carting trees around in ceramic pots for about 3 months and I didn't know why.

Home deliveries

6. In the lead up to Tet, the police are out in force ensuring traffic violations are not committed without a bribe. A traffic violation in Hanoi nearly always means a payment of between 50k-150k (and no receipt). This is how the police save for their Tet holidays.

New Year's Day was last Sunday, the same day I returned back from Hong Kong and everything has been closed for the week. Even the supermarkets. The only food I can get is from those places that stay open through Tet because they do such a bad trade all year round that they can't afford the time off. I've had the most disgusting street food that I'm going to need a lot of fucking Chúc mừng năm mới to keep poisoning at bay.

Oh, and most of my potato friends have also abandoned Hanoi. They knew it was coming and have long been planning their holidays in Tetless countries like Thailand or Laos.

Oh, and the maid is off all week (full pay) so the apartment is slowly unravelling.

Oh, and it's fucking freezing. The coldest weather I've yet experienced in Hanoi. Possibly the world. No, definitely the world. Hanoi is the coldest place in the world.

Oh, and did I mention that everything is closed? Yes I think I did. But it is.

Oh, and get this. There appears to be a proliferation of Mary Kate and Ashley movies on TV. The security guard loves them. Unfortunately they're not dubbed so I get to hear them speak as I weave my way through the obstacle course.

This almost (just almost) makes me wish Nancy was still here. Almost. OK not at all.

"Spotted leaving the scene of the crime ... The suspect is described as a 5'6" female potato; in her mid 40's or possibly early 60's; poorly dressed; blue and white "Lousie Brooks style" helmet; riding a black Nuovo registration number 29-Y7-8717. Due to the slow speed of departure from said telegraph pole, we have approximately 200 witnesses of her 3 prangs and 17 near misses. The suspect was trailing a pink pussycat balloon while sporting a permanently bored-yet-shocked expression on her face. She is considered to be armed but not dangerous, as both arms appear to be firmly fixed to the handle bars which indicates early stage rigor mortis."

Catalonia

For the past 5 years (or so) I have harboured a little plan to dine at El Bulli one day.

Needless to say I'm very disappointed by the news that it will be closing down next year. This will make it almost impossible to get a seat before it closes.

So I've decided to appeal to the goodwill of the auteur of a certain Spanish themed blog. Perhaps he could appeal on my behalf? I have asked him to return to the blogosphere and make a series of updates which have a slightly Catalonian bias. Mention of historical food trends will also be highly regarded.

In a few months I will write to the management of el bulli and tell them i have a 14 yo nephew whose short life's dream it is to go to Spain and eat at El Bulli, using the blog as proof of his obsession with Spain (the latter being true of course).

If this succeeds, we're both going to eat there. If he fails, he may find his oboe scholarship drying up as well.

I pitched this idea to him today. At first he resisted for all the right reasons: ethics, his truepassion for Spain, the importance of truth blah blah blah. I tuned out, patiently waiting for him to draw breath, then clearly outlined the concept of "cash for comment". Once he realised the financial upside for himself, the ethical barriers dissolved quicker than a valium in vodka.

Is Mighty Pretty

Last night I found myself hanging out with smokers, which meant standing out on the street in front of a groovy bar drinking vodka. It was Absolut Citron and Soda if you must know. The drink itself about 7 years out of date but I'm bringing it back on account of my ... umm ... stomach. Given that Vietnam is about 25 years behind the rest of the world, when I get back I'll be fashion forward and retrotastic at the same time.

Giving up drinking is not an option. Not only would it would be social suicide, but it would probably give me the shakes (and not in a good way). Alcohol is the core social (and occasional sexual) lubricant of ex-pats; probably why vodka comes from potatoes.

Back to the smoking section.

At one stage an extremely drunk potato came staggering through us. She was really pissed and had that otherworldly-but-focused expression on her face that spells "I'm drunk and I'm on a mission and I won't living in your world for a few more hours and I don't really know where I'm going but I do know I'm not stoppiong.". Her bottom lip seemed leaden, causing a slight agape to her mouth. Her eyes were not those of a pedestrian; they were focused on some point just a bit farther than they needed to be. It was like the street had become one big magic eye picture for her and if she looked hard enough, she would find her friends in it.

All this strident weaving was like witnessing Courtney Love staggering to breakfast after a big night.

And I think we all know how her hair looked.

An adjacent smoker - Claudia, a Polish woman - also noticed our drunken potato and said with a slight chuckle "It's very windy tonight, isn't it"?

She explained that this a Polish expression. Whenever someone is weaving home drunk, they say "it's very windy tonight" and then get back to their own drinks. I'm going to start using it.

How "Moving"

looks like i'm off.

to jakarta.

to live.

officially from 1 april.

(april fool me once.)

Go With Grace

I’m currently on a flight from Singapore to Hong Kong. Heading to China tomorrow morning.

I've never been to China for work ... only for tourism ... of which I recall very little, beyond clay soldiers and vomit. For the record - there was more vomit than soldiers.

I am about to spend 2 days working feverishly in Shenzhen before returning for 3 nights in Hong Kong. This means that I'll be here for CNY. This is short for Chinese New Year. Also short Chinese Yuan. Odd that CNY is supposed to bring lots of CNY this Y. And a tiger.

Today as I boarded the flight I asked what the English newspaper was. The flight attendant said "Oh take one. It's going to be full of good news because of the New Year". Nice. I did, and it didn't. Unless you call child kidnapping rings good news. I guessed that my flight attendant did and eyed her cheeriness suspiciously.

The good things about this trip:

• My colleagues have names like Yongying, Congling, Luoxiao, Winggong and Yunghung.
• My colleagues' English names are Royce, Benny, Walter and Taylor respectively.
• Yunghung doesn’t seem to have an English name. I suspect it’s because he could always fall back on a career in gay porn so is keeping his options open.
• “Grace Ho” does our pricing. I'm seeing bribes, discounts and extra service.
• If my last bout of food poisoning is any indication, I’m looking forward to the weight loss I will achieve in China.
• I can’t get a flight back to Vietnam, as they are full with people returning for lunar New Year (they share the same moon with the Chinese). So I get to spend CNY in Hong Kong ... what's to complain about?
• I'll find something to complain about. Probably several things.
• There are lots of rabbits. In China.

The bad things:

• I don’t know how to give out my business cards. I need to practice the double thumb thing with the business card handing over ritual. I'm OK in Singapore and Malaysia but hear it's quite strict here. For example, it needs to happen simultaneously but I’m not sure who should be on top or on bottom. Perhaps I should ask Yunghung.
• I can imagine our cards entering an awkward jostle for position
• My thumbs are not in good shape either. I've been picking at them while nervously trying to work out the business card thing. Which means however I manage it, the jesture will be facilitated by two bitten, bloody stumps.
• I'll find something to complain about. Probably several things.

The ugly things:

• Me as a tourist.
  
• I’m going to ask Yunghung whether he has an English name. And I will keep a straight face as I do it. Just for my childish amusement.
• I'm going to say "G'day China" to someone when I arrive. And I will keep a straight face as I do it. Just for my childish amusement.
• I’m going to say “pulled the wrong tit” to the customs guy. And I will keep a straight face as I do it. Just for my childish amusement.
• I’m going to eat whatever I’m served. And gurn furiously as I do it. Just for their childish amusement.
• I'll find something to complain about. Probably several things.

So far I have not identified any Fanny Pongs, but will keep my eyes, and ears (and noes) to the ground.

Tuesday, 09 February 2010.

19:00.

Singapore airlines, flight 870 from Singapore to Hong Kong

Announcement:

• "Please turn off any electrical equipment, as it may interfere with the aircraft's navigation system. I’d also like to remind you that smoking will not be permitted at all times.”

Sweet Baby Jesus Come On!

This from the SMH today obituary section on Betty Wilson, 1921-2010, Australia's most renowned female cricketer.

http://www.smh.com.au/national/obituaries/outstanding-with-both-bat-and-ball-20100207-nkwj.html

Key quotes:

"... This dedication to cricket later extended to twice postponing marriage ..."

"... when she was selected for the 1951 tour of England, her fiance's patience wore out and their engagement was called off. ..."

"... No other suitor was ever good enough, and Wilson chose to be 'married' to cricket. ..."

This is not unique. There are many such stories from many other popular women's sport. Like hockey for example. Or tennis. Or lesbianism.

Oh I mean ... for fuck's sake ... you couldn't even get away with this type of propaganda in Vietnam.

I should expect more from a newspaper such as the SMH.

Oh and for that matter, we should have all expected more from selfish childless Betty. More focus on the crease than the ball.

No More Pain

I gave up bread today.

After 10 days of this, the other white foods will be incrementally removed from my diet. Removed or dyed.

This potato is going Atkins.

It wasn't my idea; it was my belt's.

I'm going to call it the Malcolm X Diet.

Happy (Chinese) New Year

View from the lift in the Pan Pacific Hotel, Singapore. I'm staying on the 15th floor.

House

I've had back-to-back guests since October, which has been both tiring and fantastic.

Tonight I waived good bye to the last of them.

Yes.

Waived.

As in:

Me: "Don't come back"

Nancy: "You couldn't pay me enough ..."

"Well I guess we understand each other then?"

-- "Yes well I guess we do."

"Very well then."

-- "Right you are."

"I take my leave."

-- "Fuck you too."

"No need to be discourteous."

-- "You started it."

"So how about Bali then?"

-- "Sure."

"May?"

-- "April's better. May will be too warm. I'll have a week's leave by April."

"OK. April it is. Fuck off then. Through those gates there."

-- "Hmm."

I'm not sure if I'm a bad host or she's a bad guest. But I tend to think it's her.

Parrots In Helmets

It was sunny.

Very bright.

Sunny I tell you.

Sunny. Bright.

(Right?)