Climbing Tiger Mountain without strategy

I had dallied for two long years. Finally, girding my ancient loins, I braved the walk. My intrepid wife led me up a rather steep path and into the Malaysian jungle. I had been assured that it would be a walk, not a climb. I am far too unfit for climbs. We rounded a bushy corner,  replying to greetings given by returning walkers, and there it was. It was, to all intents and purposes, a climb, but to my wife merely a walk. True we were walking, but uphill,  using knee power to transport our bodies upward, now I call that a climb.

I had no problem at all watching my wife's superbly shaped buttocks as she climbed, sorry walked. The problem came when I was trying to watch them and climb at the same time. Heaven on earth had to be deferred to ensure that I didn't reach actual Heaven long before I was ready.

We trudged on for some time, manoeuvring over rusty chalk and, occasionally,  marble. Green and sometimes purple ferns watched as we traversed that mountain. It was no Tiger Mountain,  though there were plenty of Chinese. All kinds of young, and not so young, uphill strollers, strolled uphill, but this strategic Tiger Mountain contained no Brian Eno, or opera.

Sunbeams lit lazy mist somewhere half way. A bird let rip with a hearty halloween trill, and scared me half to death. Leeches were conspicuous by their absence,  which was a blessing, but the humidity was relentless within that shady forest. I was out of breath. I had 'good morninged' far to many climbers,  and forgot to save some breath for myself.

I received some strange looks by fellow yet indigenous travellers. One nearly fell of the mountain as she gave a double-take. Then I remembered the legend of Jim Thompson, the American who disappeared into the Malaysian jungle, in Cameron Highlands. She must of thought I were he.

I survived. My dear, fit, wife informed me that we had only gone half way, and that next time we could go all the way. Next time, I thought, there would be a next time, head slap.

Dating Day

The boys were otherwise occupied. My wife and I took time away from our various computer screens and drove down to the mall. It was the early part of the week. The Gardens,  Kuala Lumpur, was sparsely occupied, quiet, like all good malls should be.

We crossed into Mid Valley and immediately saw the change. It was older than The Gardens, more crowded, the toilets in need of repair and upkeep. My wife was buying art materials. I wandered, lonely, but not at all cloud like, looking for a place to be quiet again. There was this chap, sitting at a table, in Starbucks, Borders. He was bending down, reading a book placed on the floor.  I watched him for a few minutes, wondering his reasoning.

The air was warm, not hot, my eyes were longing to close, the coffee keeping them open. My thoughts drifted to Knightsbridge, other coffees and other times, seeing black cabs instead of the Malaysian blue and red.

England had suffered a storm. It was in Malaysian newspapers. I had said that was the problem thinking of holidaying in the UK during Winter. The Malaysian Prime Minister had made noises of disappointment,  as his visit to Manchester was cancelled.  United breathed a sigh of relief and went off to the pub.

I remembered the great storm, back in 1987. That too was in October (16th) Rail tracks were blocked, roads too. I silently praised lesser known deities and took the day off from the sign maker's where I reluctantly worked, just out from university.

The tree outside our two bedroom house fell, luckily missing eveything important. Winds whipped and prevented pedestrian transport. We were home bodies that day,  with me wanting that devastation to continue, legitimately keeping me from work, caught in some J.G.Ballard dystopian tale where I would be the hero instead of a sign designer. But the next day all was right with the world and my heroic fantasies were revealed as just that.

Back in my current reality, the Malaysian midday was characteristically bright outside. The cappuccino - cinnamon.  My wife returned bearing books, my reverie was broken. Our dating day continued.

Taking Teochew to Task

The rain had held off. We were at the Chao Yue Xuan restaurant, River Valley Road, Singapore. Our most generous hosts proffered the 4pax set menu B, and who were we to complain. Chinese tea flowed like China’s Yangtze (Changjiang) oh so long River. Helpful servers served to the extent that I was constantly dodging their helpfulness as if afflicted with some neurological disorder, and apologising.  Well, I am British. Every time my serviette drifted to the floor, a server swooped and deposited it back on my lap until, that is, about the 100th time when she gave up and, not surprisingly, plonked it down on the table a tad harshly I thought.

Talk meandered. It was about what we were doing, about what they were doing, what we had done, what they had done and where my wife's family came from in China. Oh! and that was the reason that we were there, at the Chao Yue Xuan restaurant, with my wife's aunt and uncle - it serves Teochew (Chaozhou) cuisine.  Teochew (Chinese) dialect speaking clientele get all excited about their regional food. Native tongue food, food from home and, others like me ready for practically anything, get all excited too.

A few Malaysia decades earlier, my wife’s family had migrated from the eastern region of Guangdong province in China, and settled in the northern region of, what was then, Malaya. Over time the specifics were lost but the dialect and the longing for their cuisine remained. Seemingly Teochew cuisine has similarities with both that of Fujian (Hokkien) and with cuisines from Canton, while also managing to tuck some uniqueness up its embroidered, silken jacketed sleeve. We had tried Teochew food before, in Malaysia, and I really cannot say that I was over impressed. I smiled a weak smile, and expected the worse.

The first dish came. It was cold crab. We British are used to having cold crab. Crab salads are a speciality of my favourite British coastline - that of north Norfolk. Cromer, and its surrounds, produces some of the very best crab and crab salads in England (personal opinion). No, it wasn’t crab salad, but just crab, and not just cold but chilled in its shell. My heart sank. It was a WTF moment. Wearily I plunged into the crab, tearing it and snipping at it like some dog baiting a bear. I was informed that I

Scallop

really should dip that hard won crab into the vinegar sauce provided. Vinegar brought more memories of dear old Blighty - seasides, cockles, winkles and mussels all dowsed with tart vinegar, but I was in Singapore and they were asking me to act as if I had a ‘kiss-me-quick’ hat balanced on my noggin and a stick of rock in my hand.

Wearily and warily I dunked the crab in that vinegar. I looked around. Three sets of eyes were set on me. Will I pass the test, or will I flunk, forever to hang my head in shame in Teochew circles for all eternity. I dunked and raised a silent prayer - ‘oh please don’t this be as awful as it seems. Oh please don’t let that awfulness show on my face’. I raised said crab to my taut lips, shoved it past my teeth and into my anxious mouth. Hello, says I to myself. That’s not half bad. No really, really, quite nice. Good grief, I inwardly exclaimed - I like this. The crab, despite the shell difficulties and my inherent laziness, disappeared and I was left looking for more. And that was only the start.

Shark's Fin Soup

I had not realised that the next dish was on the menu. I hadn’t had it before, as soups are not really my thing, but there it was, scooped into my dish, the infamous and terribly over-rated Shark’s Fin Soup.The Chao Yue Xuan restaurant version was named Braised Four treasure Shark’s Fin Soup. I’ll refrain from anymore comment except to say, for me - they need not have bothered. It was something glutinous for the gluttonous and had barely any taste for me, even with copious amounts of soy sauce. 

Abalone

 Stewed Fresh Yoshihama Abalone with Japanese Mushroom made me forget my aberration with fin of a shark and eased us into the Pan Fried Scallop, which was minimal and tasty, or was tasty because it was minimal, I’m not quite too sure. The chef, or chef’s minions, knew their stuff and the scallop was fried to perfection, but it was all over far too fast.

Soon Hock

The Deep Fried Soon Hock Fish, aka Mabled Glory or Ghost Fish, arrived to an internal applause. Four pairs of eyes lit up - mine too because I had had this fish recently in Malaysia and simply loved its crispiness and freshness. I was fortunate as my fellow diners steered clear of the fish head and tail. I didn’t. I crunched and munched and enjoyed my hosts’ inquisitiveness. This Gwai Lo knows how to eat fish head and tail eh! Good grief! Or some such exclamation in Chinese. 

The Pan Fried Noodle with Baked Prawn with Superior Sauce was a great name, but in reality a let down. I muttered that if I wanted dry noodles I could have opened a packet of Maggie Mee myself. The

Pan fried Noodle

prawns needed a superior sauce, but didn’t get one. It was all up to the dessert to save the day. Mango Pudding didn’t. It felt like an after-thought. It certainly did not feel very Chinese, or a very inventive fusion food. Orh Nee (taro paste with ginko nuts and coconut milk) would have been more authentic and have saved the day. It was a sad ending, even sadder as our host and hostess had to leave for an evening flight to other parts even more exotic than Singapore.

Mango Pudding

It was an interesting sampling of the restaurant's dishes. It was an introduction, but I prefer my plate a little fuller than that which nouvelle cuisine offers. Next time we are in Singapore I think that we might seek out a less salubrious, but equally Teochew, restaurant and dine a little heartier and a little less expensively than we did at the Chao Yue Xuan restaurant, River Valley Road, Singapore. 

Charity Widower

Women are often referred to as golf widows, football widows or some such euphemism relating to women being deserted by men for huge chunks of time, and emotion. You may not realise, but men too become widowed, by women who spend a colossal amount of time and energy outside of the home, and therefore away from their husbands.

I am a charity widower. Deserted by my very well intentioned wife, volunteering, creating events and raising funds for a respectable arts and children’s charity. The loneliness of that infamous long distance runner is nothing compared to the emotional distancing a charity widower feels. He, after all, has lost his wife to a good cause, none better, charity, kids and the age old argument of giving back.

For charity widowers it would seem churlish for us to complain. She, our beloved spouse is, after all, doing something good, something commendable, something worthy of all the praises available to be heaped upon her. Ah, but there’s the rub, the two-way cutting sword. Spouse’s time is not infinite. Peter has to be robbed, however nicely, to pay Paul. Lucky Paul. Time swallowed up by organising this and that event, facilitating the event, the travel, the volunteering of their services in the service of their chosen charity all denudes the long suffering husband/family of her warmth, affection, and yes her presence too.

Of course I am not alone. My wife is but one of, perhaps, millions. The whole kit and kerboodle of charities, and indeed Social Work, was founded by such women beavering away with their chosen worthies. Charities would not exist without such women, though sometimes I wish that it were possible for just one to exist without the constant attention of my wife. To be fair, she was already involved with charity work before I met her. I knew what I was taking on. At least, I thought I did, but didn’t. I never imagined that there would be times that I would sit alone, in hotel rooms, waiting for her return, or stand and watch while she went about her ‘doing good’. Perhaps it would not have been so bad, maybe I wouldn’t miss her as much if she didn’t also have a very demanding job, which swallows up huge chunks of her time. Men like me feel like ‘also rans’ at some important meet, or Vice Presidents/executives rather than CEOs.

Choices for we charity widowers are severely limited. We can put and and shut up - the chosen or preferred choice. We can object and live with the consequences - a lifetime knowing that you dragged your wife away from something important to her, or walk away. The final choice appears somewhat ridiculous as the argument runs that you want more of her time, not less. Or, we can sit in a hotel room, in Singapore, and write. I chose the latter.

Slinging Back to Singapore

The sticker on the front bus shade read -Sucker knob made in Taiwan. It made this antique Englishman smile with its double entendre. We were, once again, riding the wasp coloured super bus down to Singapore. My hard working wife entertained yet another business call as I searched for the seat latch, and I am certain that our hostess really did not mean quick relief when she mentioned the toilets.

Meanwhile I listened to Quicksilver Messenger Service on my earphones, to drown out the constant babble from the two elderly Indian aunties in the front seats. I was trying to sleep, but being disturbed by memories of Jude and I listening to the very same album, in Mann's Music, 1967, grooving to the beats in our impressionable hippy youth.

That day, that old Malaysian North/South Highway rolled through acres of rubber or palm oil plantations, bouncing gradually down towards that consumer materialistic island which brings Malaysia to a full stop. With a head full of electric guitar feedback, equatorial insects committing suicide on the windscreen, I projected foward, thinking of the second launch of our charity book and the preparations we need to oversee when we arrived. My love slept, curled in her stretched back seat. She was the reason I was there. The reason for our travel and the originator of the book's conception. She woke, smiled. We kissed. Ain't life grand on that yellow and black Aeroline.

The Robertson Quay Hotel may not have been the worse hotel that I have ever stayed in, but it was a close call. The double room that we had booked, contained the smallest double bed I have seen for a very long time. The shower/toilet was just that, combined. It was possible to do both at once. A few inches away, beside my head, in the part of the room devoted to that miniscule bed, on one side was the all metal safe, on the other an equally head splitting shelf. A head banger's delight if ever there was one.

One of the hotel's features, was that the room came with breakfast. It seemed like a good idea. That was, until we saw the boiled chicken frankfurters, the cold scrambled egg and the overly sweet baked beans lurking in the dimly lit, so-called, dining room. Coffee was, of course, stewed. We exited to find something vaguely edible outside. The proliferation of fusion, or is that confusion, restuarants in the local mall did not help. Singapore does not awaken until 10.30am. Ho hum. 

To Have and Have Not

Despite relgions and philosophies which remind us that, ultimately, it is people and our interaction with them that counts, there are some for whom the baseline is always money. It is a sad fact, that some individuals walk around constantly computing the cost. Weighing up who contributes what and how much. It is the cause and prolongation of arguments, fostering ill will and insecurities.

 Growing up impoverished, on the rural Suffolk/Essex border of England, I quickly realised the value of money, but never let the rush to wealth concern me. My mother was a housekeeper to the landed gentry and my father a farm worker. I frequented the homes of inherited wealth as a small boy, and experienced other people's money. Though to talk about money, or to have any interest in money, for them, was crass.

 I have never experienced personal wealth. If I have enough to pay the bills, and some left over, then I am fine. I have had large sums of money stolen from me. I had my house and car stolen by an ex-wife, and put those down to experience. Money, for me, is a necessary evil, one that I could well do without. I am therefore constantly surprised by the value that other people place on money. Surprised that it becomes a focus, for some, in their lives.

When there is so much to learn, do and see in this incredible world, it is sad that some souls let money colour their view. I doubt that I shall ever change except, perhaps, to become poorer in the financial stakes. How people judge me because of this is up to them, for I pity them. 

Can't Buy Me Love

Exs are often held in awe by present partners.They have their own mythos. They have been there before, know the lay of the land and as Dylan once sang 

“I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.

You think you know the smile on her lips

The thrill and the touch of her fingertips

But I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.

You think you'll find heaven of bliss

In each caress, in each tender kiss

But I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.

You stole her love from me one day

You didn't care, oh, it hurt me

But you can never steal away memories of what used to be.

You think she's yours, to have and to hold

Someday you'll learn, when her love grows cold

But I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.”

It’s daunting, knowing that someone was in your place, understanding your partner, the intimacy, foibles, the emotional and physical cartography.

We’ve all been there, the concern that she/he will go back to them, return to the comfort of the familiar. We measure ourselves against them. How do we measure up. Are we good enough. When the ex is rich, a millionaire, other insecurities come into play. How can I give her/him what he/she gave her/him. Am I a lesser person because I cannot giver her/him what they are used to, desire, want. It was something that plagued me, until yesterday. Yesterday I realised that this particular ex, was a dick.

He couldn’t let go. He hounded her, trying to weasel his way back into her affections, and when that did not work, began to issue threats. Millionaire or no millionaire there are limits. Some simply cannot understand that money cannot buy love, as the Beatles sang. But they try. He was like a poor rich kid whose favourite toy had been taken away. He stomped and raged in anger. It had not happened before, how could his money not buy him what he wanted. It was beyond his reasoning capacity. More threats, this time against me. Our marriage was a fake and I a conman. Cutting words surely, but his blade was dulled by his anger. He was a spent force and I knew it.

The upshot of this particular ex’s remonstrations was that he demystified himself. He tore away the curtain behind which ex’s hide, and revealed a not very nice individual behind. He blew away all those doubts and left me feeling sorry for him. He was unable to move on. Even with his riches, he was just some sad lonely guy trying to cling onto someone already gone. 

When his anger subsides, if it ever does, perhaps he might reflect and understand why that particular relationship failed. People need time, care, comfort. People need their partner to be there physically for them, to hold them when times are rough, not at the end of a phone/laptop/tablet. You have to make time for people, not push them aside while you transact your business, not sit on the edge of the midnight bed calling Canada, Dubai etcetera while your partner looks on. Throwing money at emotion starved partners simply does not work in the long term.

It is sad that some people cannot understand that riches can also make them poor, in human terms. Better to spend your life accruing a better understanding of others, their needs, wants and yes desires too, than to pile your gold. Good deeds last longer than money. Money simply cannot buy love.....

Say you don't need no diamond rings

And I'll be satisfied

Tell me that you want the kind of things

That money just can't buy

I don't care too much for money

Money can't buy me love

Don't be concerned about their exs, it is you who they are with, and there is often a very good reason for that.

Sinking, not Waving

There were days. Balmy, slightly overcast, days when we parked near 99 Speedmarket and partook of char kweuy teow from the small flatbed lorry belonging to Leow Pen Sen and his wife.

Those charred rice noodles came with moist cockles, prawns and the Chinese sausage called lap cheong. The lorry parked quasi legally, without council consent but with the full approval of the visiting school children and office workers who knew where to get the best for their money.

Husband and wife worked so hard, frying rice, frying rice noodles, making sweet herb desserts with Longan. They barely had time to rest before the constant demands of customers were met. They were the finest examples of the protestant work ethic, even though they were Taoist.

The country where I rest is like that.  Some work their non-existent socks off to make an honest living, while others believe that the world should be handed to them on a plate. So the world turns. Vile words are spoken in anger. Those words resound and resonate, growing louder and more vile with the remembering. Strong branches fall beneath the onslaught of the wind and there are pieces not being picked up.

After the storm, silence. It is an uncomfortable silence, full of malevolence beneath the surface, partially caged tigers of anger. It is but the eye of the storm. It is where everything appears calm, but isn't.

Not all husbands and wives can last like the hard working, rice noodle, couple. There are pressures which rise and fall in a tempestuous sea of emotions. Her persistant past lovers constantly call, upsetting the equilibrium.  New angers arise as his frailties become all to apparent. It is the too-ness and the fro-ness, the ebb and flow of life which squeezes metaphorical blood from petrified humanity.

The desire to escape worries in a barrage of work leads to yet more worries, as those once dear are left behind, lost in the rush. Those forlorn, formerly beloved, hold out needy hands, but are swept away by the overwhelming tide. There are no life-rafts, no life-bouys, no life guard to rescue the drowing - sinking, not waving amidst the onslaught.

of Burgers of Beef and Curried Chicken Pizza

The beef burger was as a home made burger should be, a little lose around the edges but tasty enough in its bun. It wasn't large. No Whopper here, no generous Swiss Centre, I can barely finish this but I'll have a damned good try and diet tomorrow.  The disappointment came with the run of the mill, straight from frozen into the oil chips, which tasted dry no matter the sauce. But overall it was a pleasant enough experience if a snack was all you were after. Though to be honest there are plenty if other places here in Puchong which do much better.

My wife's curry chicken pizza was as bizarre tasting as it sounded, and all on the thinnest pizza base I have come across. I briefy wondered if it were, in fact, a chappati. I had been give roti cannai before as a pizza base so I would not have been surprised. The pretzel later was fine. The coffee overly sharp and the bill faintly ridiculous.

This new pub and restaurant arcade - Setia Walk is rapidly becoming renowned for overpriced food and drink but, sadly,  not for quality. It is a brief haven for the overpaid 20 and 30 somethings with more money than sense. For the rest of us, it is a mere convenience which is becoming financially inconvenient. Better, and more authentic, food and drink are available close by. True it is often without aircon, but are we really so vain.

The promised 20% off TOTAL FOOD BILL never materialised amidst claims that it was a marketing department error. True I was offered a free coffee in compensation, but that would have been a most expensive coffee had I accepted.  I preferred to keep my credibility and write instead.

My wife grumbled on for half a day, believing that we were effectively cheated. We were. So beware. Even should you visit this particular cafe in Setia Walk, do not believe all you read or are told by the staff in regards to discounts using your credit card otherwise, like us, you might fall foul of that cafe's marketing department and spend more than you had intended. 

One Boat that I wish had Sailed

Let's face it, 'steamboat' is basically an anorexic soup that you have to bloodywell cook for yourself. It was one boat that I wish had long since sailed, but it hadn't.

Now chowder I can understand. It's thick and comes ready cooked like any sensible soup. I never had this problem with gazpacho in Spain, even though it was a cold, spiced, tomato soup. But there we were, in a steamboat restaurant,  faced with a multitude of pale fish balls, particles of squid and an assortment of things whizzing around on plates pretending to be sushi,  but were not.

Food on conveyor belts has always seemed a little odd to me. It reminds me of factories and, by extension,  factory farming. I do not need fattening, and my sell by date has, more than likely, long since past.

Hot pots, other than Lancashire,  could most likely be left to Mongols, if indeed it was they who invented them, and their Chinese cousins - the steamboats could also follow them to the far reaches of Mongolia for all I care. If I wanted to cook I would have stayed at home, strangled an egg and scolded some potato with oil. But she who keeps on insisting that she should be obeyed had dragged me, against my will and all that I hold holy, to a steamboat emporium, for dinner.

I languished,  pouting, dreaming of more substantial meals in my recent past. Cinnamon pretzels and roasted duck, though not together you understand, swam before me. Crab claws, dressed and undressed and even partially dressed crab in stockings and suspenders beckoned to me in a miasma.  Succulent cuts of beef metamorphosed into tender steamed chicken until I opened my eyes and witnessed - soup, bloody thin soup and a stack of small plates. The contents of those plates had been tipped into that bubbling morass pretending to be soup, by my patiently smiling wife who sat defiantly next to me. My wife was mentally saying "you may, or may not, like it, but now that you are here you are bloodywell going to eat it" . Hence smiling like Lysistrata.

Pausing in Puchong

Straw stabs through plastic membrane,  milky tea bleeds down container, stains Cambodian white cotton.

I sit futilly dabbing with wet wipe while the excitement of black 'pearls' disappears amidst the constant car drone outside.

It is a pearl milk tea day in Puchong. Shops change their faces quicker than fading hollywood starlets. Coffee houses rise like Reggie Perrin only to fade like him too. Tea rules.  Coffee shops gone. The delicate sound of bandsaws lingers like a midnight mosquito gnawing at my Tuesday morning.

I suck the black 'pearls' like so many peas into my childhood peashooter, before the days of digital games, computers or mobile phones. Essex memories bully their fluffy dice way into my tiring expat consciousness. I mentally shoot all those past friends whose fingers never reach keyboards to send warming emails, and remember all the mails that slip into junk mail to be silent forever in the digital void.

My expatness sometimes cloys, a reminder of my tentative position in my chosen country. There is a constant reminder of my increasing Englishness, the internationalist fading with each year I remain swathed in equatorial heat. Teaching only emphasizes this.

It's a typical sultry day, all half sun and soaring humidity. Puchong asserts its double-parked ambience into my not exactly silent mileau.

Traffic cop draws pad to treaten SUV driver who dashes to rescue their car, drive off to further illicit parking venues not passing go and not collecting £200. Her Cambodian book closed, her H/Blend Coffee -H Hot is left forlornly on the scrubbed wooden table. She has a slight return to curbside parking, while I finish my writing and leave Chatime, taking her half finished coffee to her.