The Haze – a call for clarity

While scientists step up the search for life on Mars, it’s all we can do down here on the Red Dot to see the outline of the MBS building on the horizon.
We shouldn’t really grumble, as we’re lucky here in Singapore. First of all, we’re lucky just to be here (I could stop there but I won’t). We don’t get typhoons, hurricanes, tsunamis or earthquakes. Dark things do happen but not half as much as in other countries. We get the odd Outrage of Modesty or Shoplift, but serious crime is rare. That said, to coin Adam Levene, it’s not always rainbows and butterflies, and we do have our own little menu of minor points:
1 Lightning bolts – we’re a topspot for this very real and present danger. There are alarms beside most public and school swimming pools and they sound out when they need to.
2 Flash floods – Orchard Road, of all places, floods every few years. That’s like Oxford Street being shut because it’s knee-high in rainwater.
3 Sunburn – another very real danger for idiots like me who go to Sentosa for the day but forget to ‘do’ their back. Am hiding from the skin doctor for a few months until the strap marks go.
4 Dengue Fever – we lived in a red zone for this last year, several friends caught it, one entire family checking in to a hospital ward together for several days: nasty.
Most of these things are avoidable though. You don’t have to go swimming in a storm. You can stock up on mossie stuff (though the buggers sometimes get you anyway). I’ll leave out snakes, spiders and monkeys because then we’re getting into household pets, sort of. Number Five, though, is a beast that’s hard to beat:
5 Yup, The Haze – smoke drifting across our country from seasonal crop-burning of peat fields in neighbouring Indonesia. Compared with other bits of Southeast Asia we are again lucky here, as it’s far worse for those living in the areas themselves than it is for us.
Here, it’s bad for those with dodgy lungs, but it’s mainly just a pest. At best the air smells smoky and you can’t see the sun. At worst, pharmacies run out of N95 masks, schools close and a small percentage of the population do feel properly ill in the lung department.
On really bad days, though, you simply can’t go out. You might sprint to a local shop if you need to, but you come back fast and wear your mask en route. You can taste it in the air. When it rains it’s dusty rain: very strange. Eyes prickle, throats hurt. Most schools had to close across Singapore last Friday – that’s an entire country of closed schools – and in parts of Malaysia schools were shut for three days on the trot, and still are closed on and off. Kids are running feral in the condo. We let them out to play on all but the worst of days, because we’re now in Week Four of the annual phenomenon that is only ever meant to last a week or so at most, and the children are all going bonkers.
Our school canteen – exposed to the air on several sides (as is the style here) – is closed every day this week, so children must take in food and eat in the classrooms. No huge hardship but a bummer if, like SM, you’re addicted to canteen pizzas and hate sandwiches, not to mention the knock-on financial effect for our catering supplier. Dogs and cats feel the choke too: no one escapes it.

Following it all online, and working out the PSI count (PM10? PSI? AQI?) is a sport for some, a dinner party topic for others, a real concern for those who need to see if and how The Haze is going to affect them that day/week/month. The fog brings out the best and the worst in people. Politicians go through the annual motions:
Singapore politely offers help. Indonesia accepts and then declines, pointing out that its neighbours are among the countries who buy into the whole farming thing in the first place, and noting that the same neighbours also don’t complain when it’s fresh air from Indonesia blowing their way. Fires are at last put out, sometimes after a longer while than usual, and then we do it all over again next year.
Meanwhile, monkeys die (as do some humans, according to the odd news report) and people’s houses burn down. Those who don’t have a computer at all won’t care about reading up on any of this, they’ll just want to survive another year of it. What the answer might be is beyond our guesses but frustrations are rising, notably amongst the expat communities who head to Bali and Phuket when things get really bad. This year seems to be an El Nino of a Haze, and flights to clearer skies can be had at the moment for the price of a bottle of wine here in Singapore (wine IS expensive, though).
This year the whole foggy business has touched base with fashionistas, as a natty range of fancypants masks is selling out across the island. We’ve got ours already: free 24-hour courier delivery, perfect fit and pretty trendy if I do say so. I don’t go anywhere without mine, though I do find it hard to enjoy a glass of white while wearing it.
I’m a some-time dodgy lung person so I don’t especially enjoy our foggy days but the worst that’s happened to me of late is that I mistakenly took my mask out to the school bus stop as well as a cup of coffee, then couldn’t decide on the best use of my mouth. October trips were planned this week for years 4 through 9 but camps were all cancelled, every single one of them. For the school it’s a huge headache, for the kids [OK, for some kids] it’s disappointing, for the camps I should imagine it’s a logistical and financial nightmare. For me it means steering a much more painful path through a three-day social marathon that would have been entirely doable had I not had to get someone up every morning and tackle the horrors of homework, shower and bedtime every night. And I can’t go road running, so my next planned event, in December, will be much more painful than previously anticipated. That’s it, though – could be worse.
We’re off to Japan in two weeks time and as our flight steers a carbon-ripping trail through hazy skies I’ll breathe a big old oxygenated sigh of relief at eight days of Nippon air. The best I can do on return is look for Palm Oil products in shops, and then ban them, and sign any petition I can find that needs signing.

Doctor dread

I took SmallMonkey to the doctor. Unexplained pains – I think he’s just stretching. The doctor was one we hadn’t yet seen: a classic local elderly medic, serious, very Singaporean and stern. He rattled out questions, directing them all to SM, who stuttered his answers. When I asked if I should leave the room while all the prodding was being carried out he shot back: ‘Why should you not be here? You’re his mother.’

The elderly doc worked his way around my small son’s skinny little form, palpating and prodding with wizened fingers, and when everything had been poked (standard appendicitis ‘push’ test carried out, a little sample presented and deemed negative), SM was prescribed painkillers and told he had wind. And at this point the elderly man totally changed demeanour like one of those Chinese New Year face-changers, breaking into a lovely smile and telling us how pleased he was that everything was OK, and making sure SM personally knew that he had to come back if anything at all was wrong again.

How I hate it when I judge books by their covers.

For C

You know those times when there is only one person on your mind, and every song that comes on the radio is written for them, and every thought that you have links back to them, and the world is suddenly a different place because of them – or lack of them? This blog is about me and what I do, but every now and then I might have to write about things that have no real interest to anyone other than a small group of likeminded or linked people. That’s this week, that is.
Caroline, this came on the radio yesterday, and I wanted you to have it. I can’t recall if it was on your List Of Strong Tunes, so it might not have a link to you and it might not make any sense (much like a lot of things in the world this week). Still, the song is strange and strong and I like it (much like you). Here you are, have it, wherever you now are:

random weird song

[See? Even an accordion for Viktor]

The saddest cab

Today I had to interview someone for a feature, which meant that instead of pottering down to the office on foot, I ordered a cab. It arrived straight away, unusual for a weekday morning.
‘So lucky,’ said the driver, ‘you are going exactly where I need to be, that’s why I picked you.’
The luck soon oozed out of our cab, though, because it transpired that the reason why the driver was ‘lucky’ was that after my fare, he was on his way to a funeral that was close to my location. His good friend, another cab driver, had been in a smash on Sunday (just three days before), killed outright after a cement truck cut a red light. Four kids. Youngest 6 months. Oldest 7 years.
‘We only had breakfast together that Sunday morning.’
The story was longer than that, and it came out in bits and pieces as we travelled, leaking out of the driver in sad little sentences as we nudged through traffic. He weaved a few HappyandGrateful comments into the tale (as we often do when we’re grieving) – what God had given him, how lucky he was to have picked my route – but the chatter kept on slumping back to sad silence as we digested each fact, him in front and me in back, and all the while he rubbed his eyes as he drove, apologising for the tears.

I know that a lot of cabs *are* in accidents, and I thought about this as we drove, and the driver gulped back tears.
‘We get so tired,’ he said, as if to confirm.
Usually I check the rearview mirror in a cab to see if the driver is falling asleep, but today I checked for tears. I’m not sure what’s worse.

Chickens on Orchard

A few months ago, thanks to a friend of mine asking for company, I volunteered to do a National Parks bird count. We went to the Botanic Gardens for a quick morning’s basic training (out of a total of around 40 trainees I think there were only about three or four of us expats), during which we learned how to spot around 30 birds. The course was led by a girl who looked around 12 but who spoke with such confidence and clarity that it made you want to a) be her best friend, b) do whatever you could to be the best student ever. Sadly for me, exams were never my strong point and during the spot test at the end, while my friend had her arm in the air the whole time (“I’ve been practising,” she muttered) I kept my head low and wondered how I’d ever tell a Scarlet-Backed Flowerpecker from a Brown-Throated Sunbird.
In the end, since the actual bird count day coincided with Dad’s annual visit, I roped him in to help, and we headed up to our allocated spot – a beautiful section of Jurong Lake – at dawn one weekday morning. An ornithologist since childhood, Dad doesn’t just have bird-watching eyes in the back of his head, they’re all over his body, and we easily recorded a good collection of species to add to the NP Bird Count archives, from Collared Kingfishers and Pink-Necked Green Pigeons, to Yellow-Vented Bulbuls and more, plus a final and very special off-the-list glimpse of a buffy owl in a palm tree – awesome. The bird-count morning came right at the end of Dad’s trip and it was one of the high points for us both.
I definitely look and listen for more winged creatures these days. Javan Mynahs and Asian Glossy Starlings are everywhere, and not so special (they’re the Singaporean equivalent of London pigeons and crows), but they’re still exotic to me. I see flashes of Golden Oriole at the condo and the odd sunbird here and there, and I have always, since arriving, listened out for the frantic rising cry of the Koel, which a friend of mine christened the ‘For Real’ bird, thanks to its bonkers bugle call.
There is one more noisy type that was on our list. It’s called a Jungle Fowl and it’s a chicken, basically. You see them in all sorts of unlikely places (like the other night, on my way to see a film in a park, a mother and baby pecking around the back of the National Museum in the centre of town). Somewhere near our new apartment, which is nestled just behind a big road heading into Orchard Road (the equivalent of London’s Oxford Street), there are chickens. They’re very active in the morning and at dusk. Sometimes we get a midday toot as well, though I’m not always around to hear it. They are somewhere around the back, or possibly up a small jungly side road where there are a few big old black and white bungalows. I can picture them pecking around the lawns; I suppose those houses are ginormous enough that the occupants can hide away and not hear the noisy old chooks, but out on my little balcony I hear them loud and clear and I love them – they remind me of Cornwall, a shrill touch of home.

Dad at dawn

Dad at dawn

Thinking out loud

This morning’s mental playlist, in approximate order:

Gun laws and mental health legislation
Singapore laws and clean pavements
The man on the MRT
The wealth of Nassim
The Myanmar embassy
Ceiling fans, exterior and interior
Jason the fan-mender
My artwork, currently bubble-wrapped
Jacky Tsai
Shelving
Shelving and Well Walk
Kitchen linoleum and wooden shutters
Bank accounts
Holidays to Japan
Mount Fuji
Scotland and Glencoe
Cornwall
Christmas
Mum
Family health
Weight loss and knee pain
Play to end

Small worries

Dear SmallMonkey has the half-empty gene direct from my control panel, and his WorstCaseScenarios (WCSs) are quite astounding. It’s the end of the summer hols and tucking-up time earlier tonight was fraught with hazards forecast for the week to come:
• Playground bullies would jump out of lockers and wrestle small children to the ground
• The new teachers would pick kids out to stand on the desks and recite nonsense
• The Haze would infiltrate the lungs of half the class, who would then be rushed to hospital by very slow ambulance driven in fact by a scary clown
• The bus driver on his return journey would not collect SM from school
OK so I might have made up points 2 and 3, but we discussed the very real last point at length, especially as it was a new fear that hadn’t been voiced all summer, and mostly because the possibilities for disaster, according to SM, were endless. We agreed he could pack his [non-working] phone so that he could text or WhatsApp me if the worst really did happen.
“Where should I wait if they forget me?”
“At Junior Reception. But it won’t happen.”
“What will I say?”
“That the stinking bus has driven off without you. But that won’t happen.”
“Which Reception again?”
“You’ve been doing this for three years. It won’t happen.”
“But if it does you can get to me in, what, 15 minutes, can’t you?”
A little bit longer, actually, but he really didn’t need to know that.

If only I had enjoyed school more myself I could have painted lively pictures across that dark bedroom of the promise of playful and enthusiastic lessons the next day, of fun on the rugby pitch and hilarity in the lunch hall. Instead I played a slow and calm card, discussing favourite dinner options for after school and spending time attaching a funky new Boba Fett Lego keyring to the dreaded packed schoolbag, itself freshly locked and loaded for the numerous missions of the brand new term.
This time last year – when SM was a brand new student heading off to what was then a brand new school – I went bonkers in the kitchen and learnt how to make macaroons. Tomorrow I’ll have the office as my distraction, but I will be very early to that bus stop at 4.05pm, and my phone will be on and turned up loud all day.

Notes from a new pool

So sorry, let me just dry that off for you. Why yes, yes he is mine. No, those two are not. Yes, they are full of energy today. Yes, we are still on holiday, indeed, week EIGHT, yes! No that’s not vodka it’s water – with ice and lemon, yes. Yes, they are bit close to the edge, but they seem to have gone deaf over the holidays, it’s funny. Mmm, yes, they probably WILL slip and crack something in a minute, very slippy tiles. Especially after a few of these waters.
– Yes, he can’t wait to go to school, sweet thing, well to be honest he doesn’t have a huge say in it does he? I’ve already booked the bus and I’m ready to go a bit deaf myself when he’s got a funny tummy on Morning No. 1. Keeps fondling his scouts summer project: “Collecting Something”. He did bottle tops and we’ve quite a haul. Mainly beer.
– Oh I know, I’m so amazed I managed to get them outside, usually stuck to the electrics, aren’t they? Like getting Blu-Tac out of a ponytail. We’re doing cold turkey next weekend, honesttogoodness I wish I’d never bought any of those things. Not one of those gadgets flammable, either, we’ve tried.
– OH THEY REALLY ARE A WEE BIT LOUD, AREN’T THEY, YES. See what I mean? Quite, quite deaf. Apologies.
– Ah no, I’m not pregnant, just rather round, but yes, this sort of sundress really is so comfy when you’ve just had eight weeks of picnics!
– Well, off we go, better get them all inside, before one of them breaks something! None of the bedroom doors in this condo lock from the outside, do they? No, Thought not.

Pulling the cord

Have you ever called the police? I’ve done it about three times in my life. Once for a noisy neighbour, once for a nutter and then just last night on a night-time train coming back from Kent in a carriage shared with a group of drunken passengers.
It started with Platform Loudness – you know the noise, it has a special kind of tone, a shouting that carries above the hubbub, a metallic clang of voices that you SO hope is just football chanting but you know, deep down, is messy and dark. What you don’t want to happen, as you sit clenched and waiting, is for the Shouters to board your carriage. As the cloud of angry wasps poured through the doors last night we felt the familiar stomach lurch that you get when you know you’ve picked the unlucky seats.
Dramas always seem to happen to us just after Mr PC has flown away (I’m reminded of the Wardrobe Falling On SM incident in particular, but that’s another story). So it was just me and SmallMonkey on the train, the third member of our family being many miles away in Sing, making me The Responsible Adult (and of course I still always expect a grown-up to come along and help me). At first SM sat bolt upright, almost dropping the iPad (because you just don’t get this sort of sh*t in Sing) then hunched right down, tapping away nervously. After a while I swapped seats with him, pushing him gently into the cosy shelter of the window seat and bravely taking on the aisle.
In fact it wasn’t all that bad, there was no actual punching and no blood, but after about 10 minutes of the air being filled with f**king, sh**ting and that most florid word of all beginning with the third letter, as well as some dangerous-looking stand-up posturing and a bit of quiet pleading from a member of the public, I quietly dialed the three magic numbers and got a nice lady who asked me about five times to explain the complicated location (“we are in the first carriage of the high-speed train from Herne Bay to St Pancras”) before promising to “patch me through” to someone.
While I answered her questions quietly and deliberately, SM sagged against the dark night-time window and sobbed silently, all thoughts of iPad joy miserably left in his lap, in an outward reflection of the inner thoughts of every carriage member. Good old 999, though, because sure enough at the next stop the theatre troupe were removed and the carriage returned to the normal chatter that I have so enjoyed on our many UK train journeys over the past month.
This was the good bit: SM could not believe it – problem solved with one phone call. That the police didn’t mount the train through the roof or shoot through the windows in a shatter of glass was surprising enough. That the offenders were led away in good humour, swaying as they tipsied off the step and into the arms of the jovial train driver, was amazing to him – no sieges, no armed guards and no loud explosions, just a strong arm and a nice cosy telling off.
For me this was all very homely, but maybe not in a good way. Having spent a month soaking up all the things I miss so badly – most of them human – I can’t say I ever hanker for the Saturday Night Party Crowd, because although cr@p does happen in Singapore it’s rare and controlled.
In the UK the world is three-dimensional and wide, full news reports get through all the time, people come up and talk at you for all sorts of reasons on the street and in shops, and this is all healthy, real and important, and I’ve loved being back in the thick of it all.
But you can take your Saturday night pub crowds and stick them right at the end of the World’s Longest Train Line and leave them there, thanks.

Zàijiàn

We have now had around 50 lessons of Mandarin, at home or in the home of our 老师 (lăoshī – teacher).

Still today the best word I know how to say is goodbye and I use it widely – leaving shops, getting out of cabs, whenever I want to show off. The smugness never lasts long, because of course then people want to start talking to you, and that’s when the glaze emoticon replaces the smirk.

Tonight I’m saying a temporary zaijian for the third time to Singapore’s tropical breezes (I think we had a bit of a breeze today, no?) before heading back for the annual royal visit. Can’t wait to sip my first cup of London tea, stroll barefoot on the Heath (minding the dog-doo), have a pint in a pub.

I will be bringing my Mandarin homework and trying to finish off Chapter 10, which has been all about buying CDs and bananas in shops.

See you in August, Singers, save us some bananas!
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