Something For The Weekend

After much nagging from me when we met up in KL, Benny has capitulated and started an mp3 blog. He’ll also be coming to Singapore for Resfest this weekend, which is lovely because I can’t think of anyone (on this continent, anyway) I’d rather attend it with.

From the pile of design wank that is the official website, we’ve managed to figure out that we’ll mostly be attending stuff on Saturday, though I’ll probably pop back on Sunday for Cinema Electronica. (Contrary to what we were expecting from the main Resfest site, the Singapore leg of the festival will not feature the documentary on freestyling or the Warp music videos we’d been looking forward to, which is rather disappointing, but I guess we’ll make do with what’s there – an essential attitude when living here, anyway.)

Par-taying

Clawing back still in progress. This is about Saturday.

I’d originally been pissed off at myself for not snagging us tickets to Maxim Vengerov (kowtow kowtow) performing the Beethoven violin concerto at the Esplanade that night, but in the end when we got asked to three separate parties on the same night, we were glad we weren’t tied down to it. We finally decided we could only make two, and picked the first two we’d been invited to.

* * *

Kelly’s housewarming party came first. We brought a dessert Alec first made for me in London, and which I have subsequently decided is one of my favourite desserts in the world: pears poached in red wine, cinnamon and other stuff, topped with mint-infused mascarpone cheese. Bloody tedious to make, and it looks a bit vile while you’re eating it because the cheese mixes with the wine, but it’s my idea of dessert heaven and I’m not even a dessert person.

I had a great time, but was probably not at my socializing best because I kept getting distracted by the classic music videos among Patrick’s DVD collection. I’m incapable of watching Coldcut’s Timber and making conversation at the same time, unless the conversation is about the utter genius of the video. I probably managed some half-witted remarks during Amon Tobin’s Verbal, but I don’t actually remember what I said or who I was talking to.

I also vaguely remember demanding, in my usual overemphatic tone, that Patrick play the above two videos once I realized he had them. This is of course the best possible way to interact with someone you have only just met. Sigh. I’d like to blame the beer but I don’t think I’d had much at that point.

Anyway, thanks for having us, Kelly and Patrick, and happy housewarming. I eagerly await my next invitation. :)

* * *

Sue’s birthday was at China Jump, which is…really not our kind of place…but it was still nice to see Sue so happy.

Our night there started off badly, but we fortified ourselves with more beer, and danced to Naughty Girl. I also danced to the few aggressive hip-hop tracks they played, until they realized that hardly anyone else wanted to dance to that, and changed back to cheese.

And then we spotted the empty pool table. I’m sure there have been better feelings in my life than making the winning shot in a pool game by perching tipsily in a flimsy tube dress with my left bum cheek on the side of the table and my right arm twisted around my back in order to get a shot at the black, AND THEN POTTING THE FUCKING BLACK THEREBY ROUNDLY KICKING ALEC’S ASS, but this one will do for now.

Door Bitch

Strange, isn’t it, that when I walk unaccompanied to the door of China Jump and ask what the cover charge is, the woman manning it says “You do know you have to be over 25, right?” with a distinct tone, but when I walk to the door with Alec, no one even mentions age?

I guess white is the new black. Or maybe white has always been the new black. If you know what I mean.

Representative Democracy In Singapore

Two or three weeks ago, I explored Potong Pasir for the hell of it, with some of the very few people I know here who would do things like go exploring Potong Pasir for the hell of it. It was a fabulous day, and I’ve been meaning to do a writeup with photos for ages. (Coming soonish.)

When the usual “So, what have you been up to lately?” question gets asked in conversations, I’ve been telling other people about Potong Pasir Day. This is how the conversation goes in the vast majority of cases:

Me: Well, a couple of friends and me went exploring Potong Pasir one Sunday afternoon and had a fantastic time.
X, looking absolutely perplexed: Oh…okay…why?
Me: We wanted to see what an opposition constituency was like.
X, still looking confused: Oh…you mean Potong Pasir is an opposition constituency?

[There are only 2 constituencies in the whole of Singapore which are not in the hands of the ruling party. Potong Pasir has been an opposition constituency with opposition politician Mr Chiam See Tong as its MP for at least the past 15 years, if not longer. Chiam See Tong is Singapore’s most prominent, respected and successful opposition politician. All these facts are given ample press coverage at election time.]

Now, let’s continue with the conversation. With about a quarter of the people I have talked to, the second half of the conversation goes like this: (Please note that the people I talk to all have university degrees)

Me: Er, yes. Chiam See Tong is its MP.
X: Oh…you mean Chiam See Tong is an opposition MP?
Me: (speechless)

Sir Mix-A-Lot Would Weep

Someone stopped me along the street the other day and asked if I wanted to join a talent agency as a model. Halfway through her spiel (respected agency, no sleazy assignments etc.), I said I wasn’t interested and walked on, because much like Groucho Marx, I think any agency that would want me as a model must either be pretty crap or specialists in the “everywoman” look.

But the encounter started me thinking, and today I realized the awful truth – I have now completely lost my England curves, and am a stick insect like all the other girls in Singapore, though judging by the ubiquitious newpaper and television ads here for “Super Slimming! Guarantee Results!” you would think us a nation plagued by obesity.

England curves, for those wondering, are the few pounds of extra weight every Singaporean girl seems to put on when she’s at university in the UK, usually due to a combination of cold climate, first year hall food, and subsequent self-indulgence once cooking for herself. (Or for me, being spoiled rotten by butter-lovin’ boyfriend’s great cooking). Since returning to Singapore, despite my strenuous avoidance of exercise and complete lack of dietary restrictions, those pounds have fallen off. I used to come back for the summer, look at girls with pretty faces on the street and muse that they’d be so much more attractive if they weren’t so skinny. These days I look at myself and think the same thing.

I realize this question (and indeed, this whole post) may be incomprehensible to people who aren’t into curves, or people who like skinny Singapore girls just fine, but: how do I gain weight, in a (fairly) healthy way? I want my butt back.

I May Like Hip-Hop But I’m Not A Ho

In every area except music (where Phuture holds its own), Coco Latte is my new hip-hop venue of choice. Compared to Phuture, Coco Latte has a lower cover charge, better decor, more seats, fewer people, and all-importantly, quality music – a good mix between lesser-known hip-hop and party favourites, and some dancehall at the end to reward those of us who were still gamely shaking boo-tay. The crowd was about the same – some inevitable SPGs,¹ some hip-hop heads, and us three girls, who as later events indicated, must have resembled China prostitutes.² Read on.

On the way home, our cab was pulled over at a police roadblock and we were asked to get out of the car. Given that there was no question of drunk driving, we were fairly insistent on being told what we were being pulled over for. The police seemed to think that saying “This is a roadblock” was adequate explanation. When Fay asked again, they said “You mean you’ve never seen a roadblock before?” Finally they said something vague about investigating crimes. Well, duh.

We gave them our identity cards as asked, and stood there waiting as our taxi meter ticked on and our midnight surcharge steadily increased. We were eventually allowed to continue on our way, and had some fun asking our taxi driver which of us looked the most like a China prostitute, but it occurred to me that if I’d gone clubbing the same way I used to in England, with nothing more than cash and keys, I might have run into problems. It amused me later on to wonder how I’d prove I wasn’t a China prostitute without any identification to back me up.

“I can hardly even speak the language!”

“I’m wearing minimal makeup!”

“My Levi’s are authentic!”

etc.etc.

¹ Sarong Party Girls, defined here.
² There is increasing concern here about women from the region who come to Singapore, sometimes on no more than a holiday visa, to work in the sex trade. Many, though not all, are from China.

A Wonderful Weekend In Singapore!

Experiences from the weekend:

  • Some Chinese people know nothing about any of the other cultures that live in Singapore. At a formal dinner on Friday, we (I and other law graduates) were served Malay food. When the gado-gado arrived, people were staring at it blankly and asking what it was. When some of us (I and the Indian guy next to me) read “potato cutlets” on the menu and concluded that it was probably bergadil (I have no idea how to spell it, because it never appears on the menus, but I’ve used the word my whole life), others looked blank and said they’d never heard of that either. Over the months I have been home, I have also met a first class honours NUS law grad who, when told the cuisine we were eating was from Kerala, said “What is Kerala?”, Chinese people who don’t know Muslims don’t drink alcohol, and Chinese people who know nothing whatsoever about Eurasians. So much for Singapore being a multi-cultural society. If you’re Chinese, apparently none of the others matter.
  • Multiple travel agents promised that I could take a direct ferry from Tanah Merah ferry terminal to Tioman, and offered to sell me tour packages on this basis, but the service stopped running in June.
  • Singaporeans are willing to queue up for hours to secure condominium bookings, Hello Kitty commemorative dolls, and Singapore Idol audition slots. They are also noted (derided?) for their compliance with rules and respect for authority. However, announcements in four languages and so many ground markings that the platform looks like the scene of a gruesome arrow massacre are not enough to persuade Singaporeans to let people off the train before shouldering them aside and charging in, before sitting comfortably in seats reserved for the elderly/pregnant, studiously ignoring the at least eight-month-pregnant woman teetering in front of them.

Say What?

Two snippets of Singapore from today.

#1: I Donno Where Is This Democracy

Me, getting into taxi: Hello, Parliament House please.
Taxi driver: Where?
Me: Parliament. Parliament House.
Taxi driver: Near where?
Me, perturbed: City Hall.
Taxi driver: Oh, so take ECP¹ then Rochor Road?
Me: Yes.
Taxi driver: After that you direct me hor. I donno where is this Parliament House.

* * *

#2: Racism 20% Off

Young friendly male sales assistant in a earring shop in Bugis Village: This one you like or not?
Me: Mmmm, not sure. Maybe something a bit longer.
Sales assistant: You dare to wear like ke ling kia or not?
Me: What?
Sales assistant, waving a long dangly earring: This one, like ke ling wear one.
Me, finally understanding what he was saying²: No, it’s okay. Thanks.

¹ An acronym for one of our expressways
² Ke ling is a derogatory word for Indian

Privacy My Ass

“Privacy is a destination,” coos the billboard advertising the new condo development next to my house, with bedroom windows which will look straight into mine. Asswipes. Now I have to pull the blinds down if I feel like being nude.

Singapore Solo

After Edu-Dine on Friday I walked from City Hall to Boat Quay to meet Ken and Ida for drinks at Hideout. It was a cool night, and my higher-than-usual heels were surprisingly comfortable, so I walked. Round the back of Parliament House, past The Arts House, light playing on its walls to an actually rather charming version of that “Let’s take a little trip around Singapore town on a Singapore city bus” tune. Across Cavenagh Bridge, dotted with tourists oohing and aahing at the view of the Esplanade, facing one way, and down the quays, facing the other. Two real cats among the Kucinta sculptures.

In Hideout, Colin messaged asking if I wanted to go to Phuture, but I decided my toes were too vulnerable in my dressy shoes. When we parted ways for the night, I meandered through the streets, taking an extra-long route to the not-so-nearest bus stop, simply because I was enjoying the walk. Along South Bridge Road, tourists stopped me and asked for directions. I directed people to Clarke Quay, to the Fullerton Hotel, to the War Memorial Park. I finally reached Hill Street Fire Station, which I’ve always rather liked, and waited just beyond it for the bus home.

There seemed to be a buzz and a euphoria in the air that I don’t usually sense. The tourists seemed genuinely excited by what they were seeing, and where they were, and amazingly, I was too. Singapore is beautiful by night, whether you’re looking at gleaming restored colonial buildings around the Padang, the dark quiet hulk of skyscrapers in Shenton Way, or the fluorescent town centres in the housing estates.

A year on from my return, and I could actually stand to watch the National Day Parade today. I still rolled my eyes at a lot of the commentary eg. “This lively dance truly reflects the passion of our youth for arts and sports!” but I watched the singing of the national songs happily enough.

I’m still not sure I can sing along to Home with all sincerity – if home is defined by “where my dreams wait for me” and “where my senses tell me” then I’m afraid we’re still pretty much stuck in London. I’ve also always found the line “This is where I won’t be alone” particularly meaningless, in that I am addicted to London precisely because I can be completely alone there and still completely blissful.

But progress is being made, albeit in baby steps. My Friday night walk was a taste of what’s possible for me and Singapore, even when we’re all alone.