I’m leaving this site and moving onto something else. Please feel free to email me and I’ll provide the details, though not until next week.
I still own the domain, and might come back to it, but for now, it really isn’t working for me. And instead of feeling guilty about it and neglecting, which I’m already doing, I’m moving onward.
Thanks for all the love and support and I’ll see everyone out and about.
K.
Princess Jasmine says, “I’m NOT eating THAT!” Princess Jasmine is neither a princess nor named Jasmine, not even female. And he is not referring to a something odd and bizarrely inedible, like a deep-fried scorpion, but rather an open bag of potato chips. And the comment isn’t directed at me. He’s talking to his lover. Jasmine’s real name, I decide, is Jeffy, the supremely effeminate Asian window dresser who toils in the display cases at Tangs on Orchard Road. The boyfriend goes by Thomas. Not Tom. Thomas. He’ll correct you if you don’t make the distinction.
Jeffy flips his aviator glasses onto the top of his head. If he was wearing a sari, I could call him Princess Jasmine out right, but he’s not, so I don’t. He’s at the front of the boat, I’m at the back, and I can’t hear him, so I’m making all this up. But he’s surveying the Indonesian landscape and is not impressed. He had other plans this weekend. Project Runway has started this weekend in Singapore and going to a resort without television is not a good way to begin the season.
Matthew and I are on a boat that has just departed Batam, Indonesia. We’re headed to the rustic Telunas Beach Resort. The rustic part makes me uneasy. The boat seats thirty and is typical of wooden long boats you see in Asia these days. New, but meant to look old, designed for tourists. It has 3 powerful outboard motors and we quickly pick up speed.
One row closer is Meatball. Though I don’t know her as Meatball yet. She’s in her early thirties, fine ginger hair, glasses, chubby, with pale freckled skin. She’s drooling on a pillow she’s brought along for the trip. Her glasses fall into the slop in the bottom of the boat and she awakes with a start.
I say to Matthew, “the face of an angel.”
She’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “Blame it on the Spaghetti!” Blame what? So many things. Why spaghetti? The shirt is purple with wiggly lines within a circle, representing a plate of spaghetti. This is when she’s christened: Meatball.
While wiping the dried spittle from the corner of her mouth, Meatball starts staring at me. I think because she’s never see a gay man before. Matthew suggests that it’s something sexual. That Meatball, while escaping with her fellow Christian Warriors for a weekend retreat, has awoken sexually. And she, under a spell, has zeroed in on me to bequeath her virginity. But on the boat, we don’t know we are surrounded by 23 Christian Soldiers. We find that out when the praying starts.
We arrive at Telunas and lunch is ready. We climb a steep bamboo ladder from the boat to a landing connected to a common room where we are encouraged to eat. This is where all meals are to be served and this is when the praying starts. Everyone is clasping their hands together and thanking the ceiling for Fajitas and taco chips.
An American family of four isn’t praying and are experienced at the art of attacking a buffet. Skills I never thought necessary. I find out later that they’re from Michigan. Circling the buffet like sharks and loading plates to capacity and then come back for dessert, even though they haven’t eaten a single taco chip. The mother says to her husband and two girls, “get everything you need before those wackos are done praying.”
Rather than thanking the ceiling fan for lunch, or worrying about the praying wackos, Matthew and I leisurely hit the Fajita buffet. Jeffy and Thomas sashay down the wooden walkway to the beach. Eating is for Christians and families from Michigan. Maybe they know something we don’t, because we never see them again. Maybe some gay circuit party is happening on the Riau Islands that Matthew and I don’t know about. A fashion show in the jungle? Whatever gay men do these days on remote Indonesian Islands.
Matthew and I engage what’s left of our communal dining collective by sitting on stools overlooking the beach. Turning our backs on everyone isn’t intentional, the beach is that beautiful. But really, the praying Christians would be more entertaining if they got down on their knees or were throwing holy water at each other, the kind that sizzles and burns the secretly unholy. I silently hope for a demonic possession and exorcism. That would be fun!
After our Indonesian Mexican fiesta, we go to our hut, perched on stilts above the water, which is wonderful. The boards don’t meet and you can see the South China Sea beneath your feet. Matthew worries that if someone were to loose a diamond earring it would be lost forever. Neither of us wear jewellery, except our wedding rings, but I assure him that if an heiress, dripping in jewels (I wish!) were to make an appearance, I’d be the first to warn her of the dangers.
At exactly six pm someone bangs on a wooden tube to signify that dinner is served. The Christians had warned, during orientation, that dinner time was to be observed with great revere. “You snooze, you loose,” one said. And I didn’t know what to think.
Matthew and I trudge down the wooden planks for dinner, which is a pleasant affair, if we were sixteen and at summer camp. Befriending the cook upon arrival, our beer is the fridge. We eat and then take our supplies to our hut for a more sensible evening of alcohol consumption. Skipping the Christian marshmallow roast on the beach, though Matthew and I do venture for a walk on the beach, which results in a mosquito attack on me of biblical proportions.
“Get off the gay beach!” Matthew screams to the bible study group. This is the next morning. The morning after the Christians would drop their bibles if they knew the sexual activities of the night before in our hut. They can’t hear.
“Can’t they see the rainbow flags?” he says. I look, but don’t see them either. “Well not really,” he says. Matthew gently tolerates my literal view of the world but at times it proves exasperating.
We know they’re talking about God because we stumbled upon them setting up logs, like pews. Church on the beach. It’s Sunday. We’re scouting for a place to have sex, perhaps in the jungle, or on a deserted stretch of beach. Christians setting up an impromptu church with driftwood doesn’t do much too sexually electrify the mood.
“Sweet Christ in Heaven,” I say, as I slip crashing my shin into a crustacean festooned rock. Blood seeps down my leg and I immediately envision gange green and the loss of my leg below the knee.
I can’t help but wonder what the Christians think as I hobble by their prayer meeting, my leg gushing blood. I hear something about God always watching. Then they look at me and silently think, sinner. If you were praying with us, you wouldn’t have slipped on that rock and cut your leg. That’ll leave a permanent scar, they say. If you hadn’t been scouting the beach for a secluded location to have sex, and were studying the teachings of Jesus with us now, you’d be a lot better off. And their scowls say, we’re not even touching judgement day.
But I’ve still one good leg, so Matthew and I hop into a sea kayak and head to the deserted Telunas Island across the straight. Deserted islands fascinate me and fill me with thoughts of living in tree houses with monkey servants. The erotic and exotic appeal, Tarzan in a loincloth, sex starved castaways. But sex on the beach, to me, after 41 years, is still nothing more than a fancy cocktail. But this part of it is quashed when Matthew barfs in the Mangrove Swamp because of the stench. Some fantasies are best confined to the mind. Plus the sand worries me. Sand were sand should never be.
But conquering the South China Sea in a kayak is enough accomplishment for one day. Matthew and I set up on the beach loungers and wonder were the attendants are and why they don’t have a pool? What the place really needs is a cocktail server. The owner brings down a cooler of beer, which is good enough.
Meatball strolls by in an elaborate bathing costume, with layers and scarves tied around her. Prayers must be over. She’s clearly enjoying the billowing effect of her outfit. She pauses and stares out to the South China Sea. She holds her hand above her eyebrows and squints at the horizon. I know she’s thinking about spaghetti. Rolling in a tub of it and sprinkling herself with parmesan cheese. Enough beers I think.
The rest of the Christian Soldiers are playing baseball on the beach, with a stick and tennis ball and a diamond drawn out in the sand. It’s genuine family togetherness. Something neither Matthew nor I ever experienced. We laugh at being left at fishing lodges and golf courses as our fathers enjoyed some family time with their buddies. Vacations being a destination of their choice were the ‘family’ was marooned while they enjoyed their own sporting pursuits.
“You kids stay out of trouble,” my father would say abandoning my brother and I in the practice sand trap of a golf course near a putting green. This was to occupy us for the five hours it took him to play eighteen holes. For extra fun, sometimes he’d toss us each a golf ball.
“The banana crepes are to die for,” one the Christian mothers says to me. Then announces to her son that she’s the beverage police and he better not be ordering a soft drink on her patrol. “Was it hard paddling all the way over to that island?” she says, turning back to me, “and goodness gracious your leg. How’d you do that? Looks painful. You really should have that looked at. This your first visit to Telunas? This is our sixth. We just love it. You live in Singapore?”
Her rapid fire questions leave me stunned. The Michigan Four are attacking the buffet with stealth and before I can open my mouth she says, “Oh deary, excuse me. We must chat later.” Then she turns and joins her crew to thank the thatched roof for dinner.
The experienced leaves me rattled so Matthew and I eat quickly and retreat to our hut with the beer cooler. Tonight’s dinner was tacos. I’m beginning think I’m in Puerto Vallarta and not Indonesia. But they are fish tacos, which leaves the Michigan Four puzzled.
“Doesn’t taste like ground beef,” the mother says. “But eat all you can.”
“Coming to the weenie roast?” It’s one of the Christians, a father, after dinner. Night has fallen and I’m in the common room for supplies: coke for the vodka and cold beer. I can’t quite believe that a group of people can be this happy all the time. I’m surrounded by them all with happy grins, like roasting wieners is the most wonderful thing in the world. If the resort were to burst into flames, I’d imagine they’d use the occasion for a hand holding group sing-a-long.
“Um, pardon?” I say not understanding what a weenie roast would have to do with anything.
“On the beach,” he continues, like I’m from space.
“No, thank you.”
“You’re missing all the fun,” he says. They say methadone is fun, but I choose not participate in that activity either.
After the attack of the misquotes the evening before, Matthew and I decided to avoid the beach altogether. But what to do? This is where the rustic part comes into play. Matthew and I are accustomed to lounges, bars and restaurants, socializing, mingling and checking out other patrons. Sitting in a hut watching the tide come in is something new. The sunset is beautiful. The stars are beautiful. We’re both bored. Where’s a demonic possessed heiress dripping in jewels when you need one? We get drunk.
Breakfast is salsa infused scrambled eggs. All we need is a mariachi band and a piñata and we’d be at Chilis.
There’s absolutely nothing to say: it’s that breath taking.
We splashed out a bit on plants. Just a bit. But I’ve never lived in a climate where you can throw living things, like orchids, outside and have them survive. Little water every day and we’re one big happy family. Though time will be the real gauge of our success. And, truth be told, Damon really takes care of them. My plant care method would be like taking acting lessons from Madonna: someone’s gonna get hurt and the movie will suck.
Since my life no longer involves a vehicle, every has to be delivered or carried up the 16th floor. Since the plants, like my three slabs of beer, would be impossible to carry, we were offered delivery. And this delivery included me, because I was in no state to race a delivery truck up Sarangoon Road, so I hopped in back with Tito and the plants. The shop owner gave me a little stool to sit, which made the whole adventure that much more dangerous. Tito and I had a lovely ride. Since he didn’t speak English, the ride consisted of him staring at me with a “what the fuck?” expression, while I pondered how hitting pavement at 70km would feel tittering atop my little stool. But for the most part, we got along famously.
Yesterday was the Thaipusam festival. We live 2 MRT stops from Little India, practically the backyard, so after lunch we headed down. How to describe…how to describe…it’s a piercing fanatic’s wet dream: hundreds of hooks in the chest and back and 12″ inch skewers through the cheeks and tongue. All with a metal cage-like structure, called a Kavadi, on your shoulders, attached with the hooks and skewers. Then a 4 km stroll with dancing and skipping and the more dancing and skipping the more evidence of supernatural ‘help’.
It’s a profoundly religious Hindu occasion, the birthday of Subramaniam, where devotees are praying for divine help. But I couldn’t help but feel a little scared. But I do pray our plants thrive and flourish. However, no piercing will be involved to this end.
Landing in Hong Kong, I was awakened to the real world again. Somehow upgraded to business class, I read the Hong Kong papers in-flight and felt more in touch with the real world. I don’t know what it is about Singapore, but I feel disconnected from the outside world: claustrophobic and out of touch. Maybe because the government censors so much of the media down there.
Plus, it’s lovely and cool in Hong Kong. I’m wearing a sweater. Who would have thought that wearing a sweater would be cause for excitement? But it is.
I guess sometimes life can be just that simple.
The one constant I get from Canada is news about the weather. Sounds shocking. The lowest recorded temperature in Singapore is 17°C. Every day hovers around 32 (90°F) with humidity around 90%. Though Wednesday I noticed a decidedly profound change in things and was told, January 21st, that winter was over. This has been winter? I can’t imagine what lies ahead.
That Wednesday, around 3pm, the sun was out and seemed more intense than usual on my trek back from Potong Pasir. And hot. And I started sweating. No relief in the Moonstone tower. The sun hits the patio around 4pm. So I sat in front of the air conditioner and read email after email from Canada all telling about the snow and bitter cold.
Meet Orchid. (I like to keep things simple.) To celebrate the Canadian winter, we added her to the family. Easy. She just sits out there and blooms and blooms and I water her every other day. I suppose when it gets really hot I’ll have to move her inside, but for now, we’re a big happy family.
Update (apologies for not being here for some time):
–New Zealand was beautiful and busy for Christmas. Meeting my mother-in-law was lovely. Things couldn’t have gone better.
“Another cup of tea Kelly?”
“No thank you.”
“Well, I brought you one anyway.”
“Another piece of lamb Kelly?”
“No thank you.”
“Well, I’ll just put it on your plate anyway.”
It’s hard to describe what it’s like to have another Mom. But she’s a lovely lady and we had a wonderful time. And meeting all of Damon’s friends was fantastic. Felt a little on display and paraded around, but we managed to squeeze in a little time to ourselves and had great time. Not enough sex though. Sleeping in your boyfriend’s childhood bedroom doesn’t exactly fire up the sexual libido. Add your mother-in-law down the hall and sex is about as probable as Madonna getting another acting job.
–In 10 days, we slept in 6 different beds, both family and friends. I sat up one night and said, “where are we? The North shore of Auckland is a big place. What if I had to dial 911?”
Damon said, “it’s 111 in New Zealand.”
“See how lost I am?”
–Off to Australia and New Year which was fantastic. Did a lot of the ‘gay’ couple thing, which was lovely to be honest. And no, we didn’t see the fireworks. Popping pills on Oxford Street and you see enough fireworks in the club. Why bother looking at the harbour bridge? But a lot of fun.
And what trip to Australia would be complete without some elicit sex in the bushes overlooking the nude beach? Though I could have lived without the massive lizard I grabbed thinking it was a tree branch and the creepy old guy in the Speedo watching and asking to join in, but who cares? The sun, the beach, the smell of lube, what more could you ask for?
–Singapore has been busy since our return. Had a disastrous job interview. I’d rather have my hands and feet amputated than go through that again. But lesson learned.
–Damon and I have been asked to be groomsmen at a tradition Catholic wedding. Huh? Guess the Pope isn’t going to be there. The couple (JT) even had to go to marriage/bible camp to get the priest’s approval. “And he knows we’re a married gay couple?” The guard at Moonstone thinks Damon and I are brothers. Ya, a Kiwi and a Canuck and we look nothing alike. Even Helen Keller wouldn’t believe Damon and I are brothers. But we play along so as not to land ourselves in Changi Prison.
–My mom and sister are coming to visit at the end of February. Typhoon Lynda! But it’ll be nice to be around some Canadian accents. In New Zealand, sitting around dinner tables of Kiwis, my accent was as thick as maple syrup.
Up to Hong Kong next week to see baby Moo. Apparently, it’s quite cool up there, which sounds lovely.
Gong Xi Fai Cai!
It’s Chinese New Year this weekend and my first in Asia. The city is both dead (a lot of people travel for it) and full of energy. So wishing everyone well in the year of the Ox.
Even though it’s hideously ugly, I’m pretty excited to be flying on the A380 tomorrow. And I’ve seen it in person, parked at Changi International. Ugly. But Damon’s flown on it and says it’s wonderfully comfortable inside, so that’s enough for me. A nice way to spend ten hours flying to Sydney.
We’re flying to Auckland via Sydney to spend the holidays with Damon’s family. While I’ve spent many a Christmas ‘away’ from home, this is the first one without my family. In truth, I’m excited. It’s not that I won’t miss them. But rather excited about a new chapter. Plus, it’s summer in New Zealand. And again, while I’ve celebrated a number of the holidays without snow, it’ll be nice to have one where my father isn’t drunk by dinner and falling into the Christmas tree.
If I don’t have another chance, I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. (I know they have internet in NZ, but not sure where we’re staying at this point.) But we’re spending New Year in Sydney, so I’ll be back before then, but until, the very best over the holiday season.
With Mumbai cancelled, Damon and I have decided to take off to Kuala Lumpur for the weekend. It’s close and cheap, so why not?
Not that I have reason to escape, unlike Damon. He’s swamped at work. Doing whatever it is he does. And a few days away will be relaxing and well deserved for him. Me? I’m, more or less, tagging along. It’s deserved, because we’re a couple. As a couple, we don’t get to spend enough time together, though my schedule allows pretty much anything.
But I still find this island claustrophobic. I’m adjusting to it. But a weekend away sounds good.
I told the elderly clerk at 7-11 about my weekend away. I call her Ethel and she’s my new friend, mainly because I buy everything she suggests: A teddy bear for Children’s charity? Sure. Two bottles of 300 Plus for 4 dollars? Absolutely. Chocolate bars, prawn chips, maxi-pads, bags of ice, everything seems to on special when I’m at the counter and I always agree. Except beer, which is the only reason I go to the place.
The other day, Ethel was impressed with my Paragon Market bag. “I like,” she said. We smiled at each other knowing that neither of us could afford the $100.00 roast beef or $75.00 strawberries on offer, but shopped for the more inexpensive and practical sundries, like ginger and fresh mint, both a dollar. The experience is the same.
Ethel can be fickle and wasn’t overjoyed to hear of my trip to Malaysia. Either that or she didn’t understand what I said. Our friendship is a lot of nodding and giggling. This took time. Ethel is none to friendly with Damon and they’ve known each other for over three years. I seem to have broken the ice rather quickly.
I think Ethel realized that all her weekend promotions would fall on deaf ears. With the Canadian sucker in Malaysia, who is going to buy the teddy bears and bags of powdered mash potatoes in the backroom? In the end, Ethel shrugged. It was as good as, “have a good time.”
Coco is my new best friend in Singapore. Even though she’s dead. And we never met. I guess I should say, she would have been my best friend, if we had met, and before she was murdered.
Tragic End to Coco’s Sad Life
That’s what the newspaper headline said and I knew I liked Coco right away. She was a prostitute. Murdered in a small alley off Sarangoon Road. (I live just off Sarangoon Road!) Not in a brothel, but we were practically neighbours. Granted, I have a lovely view of Singapore and a security guard at the gate and a terrace with enough room for a pony. Coco wasn’t so lucky.
But she was friendly and popular (we share that in common, if I knew anyone in Singapore) but I’ve never worked as a prostitute in a Shophouse. We could have talked about things like that over a Tiger beer and had some dinner, maybe Chilli Crab, though rather messy and a lot of effort for little bounty. Or so I would have liked.
When she prostituted in Chinatown, Coco was making $4,000 a month. (I’ve been to Chinatown, but not when it was infested with whorehouses. That was in the 70s.) She was hard working, no holidays and on the job from noon till 9pm, 7 days a week. At her death, she was making $30 a trick in a squalid, dingy whorehouse that reeked of urine. According to the paper, Coco was still pulling in $3,000 a month when she died. That’s a lot of sex for a woman that should be nearing retirement.
Coco drove into Singapore every day from Johor Baru, Malaysia. I didn’t even realize you could drive to Malaysia until yesterday. I’d heard something about a bridge, but couldn’t visualize it. Malaysia was always a faraway place, when I was in Canada. Vague. The other side of the world. Now we’re neighbours, just across a bridge.
Still bigger things consume me. I’m trying to conquer the simple act of buying milk here, milk that doesn’t taste like a sugary milkshake, full of preservatives so it doesn’t spoil for weeks, or melamine from China. These things are closer now. Melamine in Chinese eggs in Hong Kong. It’s more real.
Her mother realized that her daughter’s life had come to a violent end when she recognized Coco’s sparkly high-heels in the passenger seat of her vehicle on the news. What an odd thing to notice. I suppose Coco had nice taste in shoes. Something her mother envied. I imagined her causing a fuss, yes, yes, yes. Knife in chest. Squalid urine soaked shophouse. Stolen gold chain. Staggering into the street. Yes. Yes. Yes. Prostitute. I understand all this. But where are the shoes?”
Poor Coco. If we’d ever met, I knew we’d friends. But unfortunately, I’m realizing that Singapore is full of Cocos’, girls just like her. And if I put my mind to it, I’ll find a Coco of my own.
“Evicted is a rather strong word honey,” Damon says. And I don’t know what to think.
The first box of my possessions left for Singapore this week. I’m uprooting and moving to the other side of the planet and we’re homeless? Nowhere to live? Thrown out on Serangoon Road? Situations like this don’t fill a Canadian boyfriend with heaps of confidence.
“It’ll be fine,” he continues. But I’m not so sure.
If I were homeless here, I could cope better. I would pack up my front-loading LG washer and dryer on a wagon, and know where to go: houses with unguarded outdoor power supplies and carelessly unattended water taps. I could survive. And smell fresh doing it.
Singapore is another story. I’ve been there a total of 5 days in my life. Damon took me for a spectacular dinner on the top floor of a posh hotel and I looked at the city twinkle in the night. It was beautiful. But surviving within the bowels of it? Homeless? I wasn’t convinced.
But I don’t want to seem like the type of boyfriend that gets nervous about being homeless in a foreign country. I try to play it smooth and cool, like this type of thing happens to me all the time. Entering Singapore, I’m already technically an illegal alien, so why not homeless?
I start to surf the net for hints and techniques on weaving palm fronds into a sensible ranch-style bungalow. Because what do I know? Something inexpensive and portable that will be comfortable and stylish as well as typhoon proof. And what the hell am I suppose to do during a typhoon anyway?
Most of my suggestions, Damon doesn’t think practical. Palm fronds? Laundry wagon? So when he suggests I look at the Singapore property market on the net, I become completely confident that I will solve the problem.
“What district do we live in now? What district are we moving? 8 thousand dollars a month! The Bencoolen? What the hell is that? A penal colon?”
Damon decides that it best if I look up properties he suggests, which proves more useful. I make helpful comments such as, “I like the bathroom” and “I like the pool.” Not very practical. So, with no help from me, Damon solves the problem and finds us a home.
But I think I’ll learn how to weave palm fronds into a stylish home, because you never know.
| March 11, 2010, 3:23 am | |
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