I love cities that inspire walking because there’s actually appealing destinations I can reach as a pedestrian. For me, walking in circles because it is good for me is mind-numbingly boring. I’m too task-oriented for that—walking is a means to an end, not an end in itself—if I get exercise as a side effect for going somewhere, fine. But that’s not why I walk; I walk to get there.
Singapore has plenty of destinations within easy walking distance under “normal” (for me, flat terrain and climate-wise) circumstances—within a mile or two of wherever I start. But the heat and humidity here often make walking distinctly unpleasant. Which is why I wax poetic about Singapore’s public transportation system.
Public transportation often makes me happy (I even love it in London, where everyone complains), so it’s no surprise that public transportation here makes me nearly giddy. Within 500 yards of my flat are eight bus stops. Less than 8 minutes' stroll is the Serangoon Station on the new Circle subway line. That's my local stop, open (along with four others) six months ahead of schedule. The Circle line is advertised to be complete in 2011, though as efficient as the first phase of construction was, I bet it won’t open on schedule, it will open early.
Plan A, when I first arrived, was to ride a unique bus route every day. I'd begin with the lowest bus route number and work up to the highest. This vision of observing and learning about a city and its inhabitants by riding buses in numerical order from terminus to terminus was not (sadly) my original idea. I read a column written by a London bus rider who started at lowest numbered London bus and is working his way through all of London’s varied routes. I hoped to emulate his systematic approach and dedication (and glean similar insights about life) in Singapore.
Like many plans hatched in the abstract, mine wasn’t very practical. Despite its geographic compactness and smaller population, Singapore has HUNDREDS upon hundreds of bus routes, many more than in London. I did not know that when I arrived (and presumed there'd be fewer), but I sure know it now. That’s part of the charm of getting around, why people can live within an easy few minutes’ walk to half a dozen bus stops and subway stations.
Plan A couldn't be done in semester. Not even if I devoted most of my time to it--I'd have to ride at least 3 or 4 entire bus routes every single day--and many bus lines here take 1.5 to 2 hours, terminus to terminus, except during rush hours (7 am-9 am, and 5 pm to 9 pm) when it can take much longer. There aren't enough hours in the day, or enough days, period,to do that. So I've devised a substitute, homage with a twist to my bus riding hero. It is an adventure (I hope it is an adventure) that I can feasibly accomplish if I'm persistent. It would be nice to FINISH ONE THING.
Instead chronic bus riding, Plan B will put me in touch with my inner mole (or maybe inner groundhog?). Plan B is to ride every subway line start to finish in the next two months. This will be MUCH easier than riding hundreds of buses, since there are really only 3.5 subway lines [the Circle line is only 5 stops long so far, hardly even .5 of a subway line] covering much of the island. To keep this in a spirit that parallels the twin potential for discovery and boredom that bus riding provides, I have added my own twist to what will count for me in terms of riding and observing on public transportation. Unlike my bus-riding hero, who merely observes, I will also act. I will pop above ground at every subway stop for at least ten minutes of surface walking around the vicinity of each station. I will also talk to at least one person encountered during each stop, attempting something beyond just ordering kopi and kava or asking directions. Stops don't count without both surface time and chatter. That way, maybe I’ll get a flavor for some of Singapore's distinctive neighborhoods while my democratic approach offers potential to surprise/annoy/enchant innocent bystanders all over the island. Why limit my exposure to funeral attendees and hell god birthday celebrants and laundry spectators?
Despite being a single city-state, my impression so far is that Singapore is more accurately a collection of (not so) small towns, each with distinctive flavors. Will this impression hold up in the light of more systematic evidence?
Counting each stop along each line, I come up with about 75 stops altogether (it would be exciting if a more new Circle line stops open before I leave).
Green Line: East West Line = 31 stops
Red Line: North South Line = 24 stops
Purple Line: North East Line = 15 stops (including one in my neighborhood)
Orange Line: Circle Line = 5 stops open (including one in my neighborhood)
Some stops interchange with other lines, so they were counted twice. There are probably really only 60ish unique stops, making an average of one stop per day for the next two months all I need for my plan to work. Maybe I’ll lavish my interchange stops with some extra attention to compensate for double counting them; maybe twice as long above ground, or pestering more of the local people? I’ll avoid them until I have a strategy I can apply to all interchanges. And of course, I’m going to be more efficient than one stop per excursion/day most of the time. After all, imbibing the cultural practices of Singapore--where efficiency matters most--creates pressure to be efficient myself. Having a full time job while I’m here also puts pretty hefty constraints on free time, especially since my home-to-work route uses buses, not subways. So for most outings, I’ll try to multi-task and knock off more than one stop at a time.
Later this afternoon I’m heading downtown at the Carleton Hotel to help recruit more students for UB Singapore. Seems like a perfect opportunity embark on Plan B. I’ll get a stop or two under my belt today.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Little known facts about laundry
My flat came with some interesting domestic tools: one very long flexible hose attached to my shower. Six colorful 10-foot bamboo poles suspended in a pole rack on the ceiling. A broom with a 6 foot handle.
On the way to see my apartment for the first time, we had driven past several apartment buildings where laundry was hung outside on bamboo poles. From a distance, the laundry hanging outside looks like flags for some kind of festival. But up close, it just looks like laundry.
Having half a dozen drying poles in my flat made perfect sense. Every day (or every part of every day that is not raining) is laundry day, so I'd put them to good use. Anyway, I understood the bamboo poles were necessary, but why (since Singaporeans tend not to be very tall) would anyone need a REALLY long broom? And in a 4 foot by 4foot bathroom in a tiny apartment, why 15 feet of hose?
To prepare the roof for laundry, obviously. Little known facts about laundry: unless the roof beneath it is clean, neither would the clothes I'd hung out to dry be very clean, since they were (barely, not even sometimes) suspended above the roof. That was clear the first time I tried to hang 30 or 40 pounds of dripping clothes out the kitchen window and it lapped up the dirt from the roof. Long handled broom puzzle solved: I've swept off used tissues, banana peels/leaves, other people's laundry (higher floors), plastic bags, and (yuck) one dead bird. That's when I realized why the hose--it reaches out the kitchen window to the roof. Really, stuff decays very quickly. Gotta get the bird gunk off of the roof before the laundry goes out.
A brand new, front-loading washer does a great job combined with nature's dryer (very environmentally friendly), air and a bamboo pole.
Almost every apartment has a series of six metal tubes embedded about a foot apart into the concrete outside, just beneath kitchen window. Each of the embedded tubes has a removable metal cap (furthest away), attached by a string or piece of wire (foreground). "Be sure to put those back every time," Bee warned when she showed me the caps, "Health Department gets after you if you don't...only takes three days to hatch mosquitos...get dengue fever..." I've had an irrational fear of dengue fever since I've known I was coming here. Laundry is serious business here, as the scolding for dripping laundry demonstrates. 
Messing with the Health Department might get me caned or quarantined. And those tubes could obviously catch and keep water if uncapped, so it has taken no reminder for me to replace the caps drying poles come with.
A small plastic tool ends in a crook that helps coax the bamboo poles out of their ceiling rack. Specially designed clothespegs (not enough for each piece of laundry, but enough I figured) are big enough to span the girth of the bamboo pole. Plus, you can thread clothes onto poles, right through the sleeves of shirts, the straps of bras, the legs of panties...only a few things actually need pegs. It is really just a matter of loading the wet clothes on the pole, sticking the bamboo and hanging it out to dry.
Sounds easy.
Not necessarily.
Little known facts about laundry: putting 20 or 30 pounds of wet stuff on a thin stick, pushing the stick as far away from your body as you can (you have to get it out the window and past the end of the tube that secures it) and then having the dexterity to manoeuver it back towards you until it is seated securely into its holder isn't as easy as it might appear at first blush.
Singapore laundry must have its own spatial culture. People who learn to launder in Singapore probably have a knack for the kinesthetic ballet that the body needs to move and leverage itself to stay upright inside a building while finagling the laundry out. Lucky for me that I am decidedly NOT a waiflike guest worker. Otherwise, on Day 1, I'd have been out of that window like a shot. The windowsill is a fulcrum of sorts and wet clothes a dandy counterweight...well, you get the picture.
Once I got past the false start of hanging wet clothes above a dirty roof I thought I had clear sailing...until I got the pole full of wet clothes out the window a second time only to realize I'd not yet removed the cap from the tube that secures the pole. Holding onto a pole full of wet laundry is NOT a single-handed job (an insight I should have remembered), so the pole gets hauled back into the kitchen, cap removed, and out it goes again. Success! I finally had an entire bamboo pole full of laundry hanging outside, securely attached to the building by its tube.
That's when the air started moving, helpfully I presumed. Kid memories floated back of my mom as she took clothes out of the basket and pinned them to the line. She would comment "it's a (not very) good drying day," depending on her calculus of the quality of the sun and wind and humidity. And of course, she was talking about cold Canadian air applied to her clotheslines full of laundry, not the turgid climate of Singapore.
Even when it is moving, you can't really call hot air here a breeze. Breeze implies something cool and refreshing. Here, it is just hot air that moves, even if sometimes it moves quite a lot. And it did move a lot that first laundry day.
Little know facts about laundry: Panties, confronted with air moving at great enough velocity, puff up. After ballooning considerably (especially if not secured due to shortage of clothespegs) they can move of their own volition. Despite being threaded onto a pole, if panties happen to be simultaneously (a) at the wrong end, (b) unsecured, and (c) full of hot air, they can animate so vigorously that they fly off their bamboo pole at a pretty good rate of knots, sometimes even ending up on the far side of the parking lot. I know this. I've seen it happen.
Good thing I packed extra panties. I haven't lost any clothes since.
Drying bed linens, even after I got the knack of most other stuff, remained problematic. The poles weren't quite high enough to suspend sheets fully above the roof. Despite hosing and sweeping, I didn't love wet sheets sliding over the red roof below. What to do? I decided that spreading the queen sized duvet cover across two poles, about an arms length apart, would take up enough slack to eliminate drag. Good concept, even if not such great execution. You may have seen this coming, I did not. Now, instead of the tricky manoeuver of hanging 20 pounds of wet clothes out a window on stick gripped tightly in both hands, I would instead attempt hanging 40 pounds of unweildy wet sheets spread over two sticks, one in each hand. Picture me, bride of Frakenstein-like, lurching towards the open kitchen window, bamboo poles wobbling and arms akimbo, quivering from the weight and effort of keeping the sheets off the floor...
I only got the damn poles half way out the window, before I lost control and got stuck. Couldn't get them in, couldn't get them out. If I let go of the poles, I worried that the sheets would sail off into the parking lot aka panty heaven. So there I was, for an eternity (okay, only a minute or two) kind of stuck but mostly paralyzed by laughing so hard I just couldn't go forwards or backwards. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, inspired by my situation...my attire (bra and panties, it was hot), attitude (stuck in a window) and audience (South Asian construction workers at the site next door might have been able to see, and for sure the taxi driver in the parking lot right across from my window could, watching in amazement). I was just ever so slightly hysterical.
Little known facts about laundry: From the Singapore New paper (that's right, not newspaper but New paper): [a] foreign domestic worker fell from the fourth storey while hanging out the laundry on Tuesday. Okay, take domestic and fourth storey out of that news clip, and put in second floor, and that laundry misdadventure could have been mine.
I finally managed to haul the wet sheets back into the kitchen and found a bathrobe. I next googled maid services in Singapore. I had no business doing laundry, I'd kill myself sooner or later...I needed someone competent to help. Experience was teaching me that I could savor a full-bodied, authentic Singapore experience without having to do every single solitary thing that a person MIGHT do here. I figured laundry's not in my job description, I probably wasn't covered by worker's comp for self-inflicted laundry injuries. Even more worrying: would the University's liability insurance cover me if I inadvertently maimed or injured an unsuspecting neighbor with bamboo poles and wet cloth...or airborne panties? Best to leave laundry to the pros, before someone got hurt.
Little known facts about laundry (according to an American who has lived here for years): the leading cause of death for foreign workers in Singapore is falling out of apartment windows while putting out laundry. I'll grant you, most foreign workers are domestic workers, not professors. Still, I have decided that doing laundry in Singapore could be the tropical equivalent of fishing in Alaska--the deadliest catch might just be trying to catch one's balance while holding a pole full of wet laundry.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Blog doldrums
Do I lack the discipline for regular blogging (or do I lack discipline in general?) Maybe I lose interest. Or maybe nothing much of real interest happens for stretches of time. Mostly, I've just been working, not very interesting fodder for a blog unless other procrastinators are interested in picking up pointers for all the creative ways I find to stay very busy yet STILL don't get the work I must get done, done.
Mary Nell says that's the process of creative procrastination...accomplishing something useful, just not what needs doing from the top of the list. I know that I wonder, even in the midst of doing it, why I'm tweaking class preps for next spring and fall 2010 courses, when I have lapsed deadlines from last week, last month, and a ton of work to get done before class TOMORROW morning?
Part of my problem, I know, is fretting about London limbo, which annhilates my concentration. I bounce back and forth between things...distracted. Normally focus is not a problem for me, but right now, it is. Recruiting for the UB Semester in London has been time consuming, even or maybe especially from afar. It feels like it has taken more time and effort this year, and without the same kind of pay-off. For me, recruiting feeds on itself--I'm excited, that generates interest and excitement, and that fuels me and the process. But it is much harder to recruit with the degrees of separation that distance creates, since the personal interactions with prospective students are what seem to matter most. So it has been hard (and time consuming)...and in the end, I worry that all the work may not be effective enough to compensate for not being on the ground in Buffalo. We'll see what Friday brings, the deadline for applications is October 1. I think I'll just be glad to know, one way or another, though I really hope the program goes again.
I think recruiting is fun (usually), so I pitched in at the UB fall open house here in Singapore on Saturday. It was held in the atrium of the Singapore Institute of Management, where several British, Australian and US schools pitched their programs to parents and prospective students. Although it was a poor substitute for London recruiting, I have to admit I enjoyed meeting parents and students considering UB, and I'll help another UB colleague who will here for several recruitment briefings at Singapore hotels next week.
Although the UB recruiting is mainly to attract students in general to enroll in UB, it is fun to explain to the very practical and efficient Singaporeans (where there is little tradition of degrees in sociology, especially at the grad level) why they should spend tens of thousands of dollars to help their sons and daughters get BAs in sociology. I think I actually persuaded some. Too bad I can't recruit students here for the London program--I'd have snagged enough students Saturday afternoon, I'm sure!
The UB Singapore students have to figure out ways to make their own community and forge a sense of identity within UB under challenging circumstances. UB's program is housed within another institution (Singapore Institute of Management), so there's not a place that's just for UB, for them be "at" UB, for the UB community to have ground to take root. Students instead seem to coalesce around "intake" cohorts; students in the first sociology instake will form a little peer group of their own. It isn't that they don't try to make UB very real--they make their own organizations, including a student council and a psychology club, and have a student newsletter they call the UB Bullhorn. UB students even threw themselves a formal Red Carpet dinner at one of the snazzy hotels a couple of weeks ago.
Although they are troopers, I felt sorry for the UB students staffing the student council booth on Saturday afternoon during the recruiting open house. There were hundreds of people milling around, but there were also half a dozen college/university programs participating, not just UB. The students bravely staffed a booth, at which I was their only customer. They have to raise all of their own $$ for activities--they don't get any student activity funds at all. So pathetic were they that I donated S$20 to the cause--they insisted I take a teeshirt or lanyard (I opted for the latter, the teeshirts are teeny weeny, and I'm not). Anyway, they invited me to the UB Fall Bash. I think I'll go, at least make an appearance. The invitation seemed pretty sincere.
I have looming deadlines glooming deadines drop deadlines. I teach tomorrow, I have a ton of grading to do...and I feel that trans-Pacific psychic pressure from my colleagues to pick up the pace, get moving, so I'm trying...I'll feel more centered and anchored when Tony arrives, I'm certain.
Mary Nell says that's the process of creative procrastination...accomplishing something useful, just not what needs doing from the top of the list. I know that I wonder, even in the midst of doing it, why I'm tweaking class preps for next spring and fall 2010 courses, when I have lapsed deadlines from last week, last month, and a ton of work to get done before class TOMORROW morning?
Part of my problem, I know, is fretting about London limbo, which annhilates my concentration. I bounce back and forth between things...distracted. Normally focus is not a problem for me, but right now, it is. Recruiting for the UB Semester in London has been time consuming, even or maybe especially from afar. It feels like it has taken more time and effort this year, and without the same kind of pay-off. For me, recruiting feeds on itself--I'm excited, that generates interest and excitement, and that fuels me and the process. But it is much harder to recruit with the degrees of separation that distance creates, since the personal interactions with prospective students are what seem to matter most. So it has been hard (and time consuming)...and in the end, I worry that all the work may not be effective enough to compensate for not being on the ground in Buffalo. We'll see what Friday brings, the deadline for applications is October 1. I think I'll just be glad to know, one way or another, though I really hope the program goes again.
I think recruiting is fun (usually), so I pitched in at the UB fall open house here in Singapore on Saturday. It was held in the atrium of the Singapore Institute of Management, where several British, Australian and US schools pitched their programs to parents and prospective students. Although it was a poor substitute for London recruiting, I have to admit I enjoyed meeting parents and students considering UB, and I'll help another UB colleague who will here for several recruitment briefings at Singapore hotels next week.
Although the UB recruiting is mainly to attract students in general to enroll in UB, it is fun to explain to the very practical and efficient Singaporeans (where there is little tradition of degrees in sociology, especially at the grad level) why they should spend tens of thousands of dollars to help their sons and daughters get BAs in sociology. I think I actually persuaded some. Too bad I can't recruit students here for the London program--I'd have snagged enough students Saturday afternoon, I'm sure!
The UB Singapore students have to figure out ways to make their own community and forge a sense of identity within UB under challenging circumstances. UB's program is housed within another institution (Singapore Institute of Management), so there's not a place that's just for UB, for them be "at" UB, for the UB community to have ground to take root. Students instead seem to coalesce around "intake" cohorts; students in the first sociology instake will form a little peer group of their own. It isn't that they don't try to make UB very real--they make their own organizations, including a student council and a psychology club, and have a student newsletter they call the UB Bullhorn. UB students even threw themselves a formal Red Carpet dinner at one of the snazzy hotels a couple of weeks ago. 
Although they are troopers, I felt sorry for the UB students staffing the student council booth on Saturday afternoon during the recruiting open house. There were hundreds of people milling around, but there were also half a dozen college/university programs participating, not just UB. The students bravely staffed a booth, at which I was their only customer. They have to raise all of their own $$ for activities--they don't get any student activity funds at all. So pathetic were they that I donated S$20 to the cause--they insisted I take a teeshirt or lanyard (I opted for the latter, the teeshirts are teeny weeny, and I'm not). Anyway, they invited me to the UB Fall Bash. I think I'll go, at least make an appearance. The invitation seemed pretty sincere.I have looming deadlines glooming deadines drop deadlines. I teach tomorrow, I have a ton of grading to do...and I feel that trans-Pacific psychic pressure from my colleagues to pick up the pace, get moving, so I'm trying...I'll feel more centered and anchored when Tony arrives, I'm certain.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Farewell Ghosts, Selamat Hari Raya
Friday night marked the (temporary) demise of hungry ghosts, fed for the last time this lunar year. The 55 gallon oil drums around Boundary Ville emitted desultry threads of acrid smoke, stuffed with ashes of burnt fake money. Joss sticks and food offerings lined the edges of virtually all sidewalks throughout the neighborhood, as ethnic Chinese Singaporeans cajoled the hungry ghosts back to the underworld. Walk carefully between the altars, neighbors reminded me, never over or through them--bad luck to do that. No big parties Friday night, the month of offerings just quietly wrapped up. Making too much of a fuss on the last night is bad form. It's okay earlier in the month, but at the end, too much attention might encourage greedy ghosts to dawdle. Better to be respectful but low key, as the ghosts depart until next year. By Saturday morning, no evidence of ghosts or offerings to them remained. They had disappeared like...One great thing about Singapore's four large and distinctive ethnic groups is that chances are pretty good that at least one will be celebrating something at any given time. This weekend's big celebration is Hari Raya Puasa, the end of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan. Holidays here are carefully apportioned among the four main religious groups: Buddhists, Christians, Muslims and Hindus. Each group gets two public holidays; everyone seems to celebrate all of them. Hari Raya Puasa is a public holiday (it falls on Sunday this year, celebrated Monday), that helps me not so much--I have a Tuesday through Friday teaching schedule. Still, I'll be happy to be festive on Monday, in solidarity with Singaporeans enjoying the day off!
Ramadan is when all healthy adult Muslims are expected to fast and deprive themselves during the day so that they can understand the plight of the less fortunate. As fasting month draws to a close, the Malay community gears up with preparations for the new year--busy cleaning house, buying new clothes and household items, and creating special foods for celebrations. For Muslim kids, this is a time when parents are especially generous, so it is pretty festive. The several days after Ramadan are particularly joyous, spent feasting and visiting with family and friends, asking and giving forgiveness and being thankful for blessings.
Acquiring the trappings associated with the end of Ramadan/the first day of Eid-ul Fitr creates demand for traditional holiday goods. One place to get them is a pasar malam, or night market. These are itinerant vendors who set up shop (often in tents) sometimes once a week for a night or two, sometimes once a month for several nights, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. Pasar malams have everything from soup to nuts. Buy fresh food and groceries, or meals to take home. Buy shoes, a cell phone holder, or a broom. My students tell me they also specialize in stalls that sell ramly burgers, but I haven't encountered those yet (I don't think).
The traditional Malay neighborhood of Singapore, Geylang Serai is the great local grandaddy of night markets, running for the whole period of Ramadan and beyond. Its pasar malam features acres of makeshift tents with tipsy turvy plywood floors, signalling the coming festive season. Neighborhood streets are bridged
not only by the ubiquitous Singapore pedestrian overpasses (with their signature splashes of bougainvilla softening the concrete structures) but also by twinkling blue and gold lights spanning busy streets, thronged with cars and pedestrians. It is a luminous spectacle, and my pictures certainly don't do it justice. 
Geylang Serai would be very busy Saturday night, but I wasn't quite prepared for the crowds. When I arrived around 7 pm (just before sunset, when most Muslims had yet to break fast), the numbers were probably in the hundreds, with the market easy to walk around--with tilting and uneven plywood kept in mind--and not uncomfortably hot, what with the sun almost down. By 8 pm, people were thousands upon thousands, adding to both the heat and the din. I dressed modestly (when don't I? but I wore a long sleeved shirt) in case I happened upon a mosque I'd be comfortable entering and having the iftar (the break fast evening meal, which strangers are traditionally welcomed to join). Sadly, I didn't pass one in my meander. Only rows and rows and rows of brightly lit temporary shops. Many of the shopkeepers broke fast in their stalls, first eating a date and taking some water. That was generally followed by prayer, right there, before finally tucking in for some more substantial and yummy concoctions from plastic takeaway boxes or paper wraps. Then attention turned back to the prosaic pulse of commerce and customers.There was a bewildering array of "stuff" for sale.
Colorful artificial flowers and lights and brightly colored kids toys were popular items, maybe because they were affordable. The Straits Times reported that Singaporeans were being cautious about spending during Hari Raya this year--much like newspapers back home reported the downturn in Christmas shopping last, consumer spending here is a barometer for people's confidence in the strength of the economy. 
Lots of cookie-type sweets and glutinous rice in several different traditional forms of palm leaf packaging were on sale. All manners of traditional Malay/muslim garb (for men and women) and modern clothing were being sold. So too were sponges and teacups, carpets (from beautiful persians to astroturf) and rice cookers, textiles and tires...anything that can be imagined was offered in some stall. I was especially capitvated by the intricate and colorful women's clothing. Many of the outfits were traditional Malay tunics and underskirts. Others were long-sleeved, fitted blouses with embroidery and beads, atop ankle length straight skirts. I noticed row of mannequins hanging from the superstructure of one of the tents, gazing dispassionately (as only dummies can!) at the throngs passing below, attired in that beautifully made, heavily sequined clothing. 
There was so much stuff in the Geylang Serai night market, I couldn't buy anything. I always get paralyzed by too much choice.
I recalled that I was looking for balls to throw at students. If I couldn't find them here, they don't exist in Singapore. I finally found BUNCHES of them--but there were way too many, and the vendor didn't want to break up a package. I couldn't buy them all, students might throw them back at me! In a way the balls were indicative of the whole experience--too many balls, too many people, too much stuff, too claustrophobic, too noisy, too much to take in at once. I dithered. I was hot. I was hungry. Which way would I walk next? Well, for sure with the crowd, it was the only way to move. It made me think of pilgrimages to Mecca, the faithful walking together in the Haj. The crowd in the market had a direction and pace of its own, and that seemingly single-minded community was not an easy one to leave. Where did I want to go? What did I want to see? Was it just wherever the crowd took me? Only for a few minutes, it was hot and close, too close for my comfort.
I finally managed to extricate myself from the pedestrian conga line, and watched several women apply henna to hands with incredible speed--about 3 minutes per hand--for intricate beautiful designs. I considered getting it done, then decided against...I wasn't sure whether that was a cultural practice with ritual significance that might offend come students back in the classroom (probably not, but better safe than sorry, I thought, recalling the funeral). Plus, I didn't know how long it would take to get it off.
I've decided that I'll try to go back to the Geylang Serai pasar malam some evening this week, before the night merchants fold their tents and go home 'til next year. On the first excursion, there was just no way to take it all in...I simply didn't know where to look or go next. And I was somewhat distracted by my hunt for an iftar opportunity or Malay curry for dinner. Next time I can dispense with the long sleeves, with no likelihood of dining in a mosque (drat, missed opportunity) and I'll try to arrive earlier to get my bearings first, and to pay more attention to see both the mundane and unusual in that scene.
In the meantime, Selamat Hari Raya , have a peaceful and prosperous year.
No Rib Off in Boundary Ville
Food nostalgia, that might be my problem. Singapore, where food is a national preoccupation, and eating the national sport. Food nostalgia was inevitable, attention to food is unrelenting on this island. Not just at mealtime, all the time.
Some day I want to teach a Sociology of Food course so I learn about this more systematically. But for now, I'm sure that I've got food nostalgia (a yearning for familiar tastes, rituals, and social relationships associated with food preparation and consumption). That nostalgia is probably pretty acute because I missed a food event (with the Ruskin Road Athletic Club [RRAC], six or seven couples who get together semi-regularly for dinner) that I really look forward to each year.
The annual RRAC Rib Off is a "friendly" competition among neighborhood grillers with different roads to the perfect rib: charcoal, smoke, gas. Each has a top chef wannabee who cooks ribs on her/his fuel of choice for accolades from other RRAC members (who supply the other fixings). The extravaganza traces back to a winter party, where our collective memories of summer evening cookouts morphed into a drunken series of escalating insults and challenges associated with barbecuing spare ribs. Who really IS the best rib chef in the neighborhood? We'd find out at a late summer ritual of porkly and saladish and dessertable delight, with lots to drink but no need for a designated driver to get home. We always have three winners, and WAY TOO MUCH really good food, drink, fun, and company. And I missed it yesterday for the first time, along with the companionship of my neighbors from Ruskin Road. Wah.
I wonder, were there ribs left over?
Missing that fed my food nostalgia, though it would surely have happened eventually, no matter what. I've been avoiding pricey western restaurants and eating like many Singaporeans in my determination to "be (as) native" (as possible) while I'm here. No western food for me (yet). But I'm definitely craving hot cornbread, cool tangy coleslaw, and a rib. Maybe two. One just rubbed, one with sauce. Yum.
Don't get me wrong. While I like all variants of Asian food in principle (at least I like Chinese, Indian, Thai, and Indonesian, in their western forms), I don't necessarily like all of Asian foods' potential ingredients in their authentic practice! Or maybe I only think I don't like certain ingredients. For example, what if I didn't know what an ingredient was ahead of time? I couldn't worry about it so I might just eat. Or, what if I would put certain known (but feared) ingredients in my mouth (even if skeptical)? Maybe I'd realize that I [irrationally] assume I don't like food that tastes really good.
The scars of past failure may feed my irrational food fears. I once tried to cure my childhood aversion to liver, convinced it was all in my head. Tony offered a bite from his appetizing restaurant meal of liver smothered with onions. Looked good. Smelled good. I chewed but just could not swallow. I fled to the bathroom and vomited. That's now a lifelong aversion. But surely some of my psychic aversions to certain food items ARE just untested prejudices, unlikely to inspire such visceral reactions.
When I see a picture of a dish at a stall and read what it is, I wonder, does the English translation fully capture what ingredients really are? Is the dish as benign as it sounds, or is the name a horribly misleading mis-translation of something truly awful? Both are possible in Singapore. Sometimes the ingredients SOUND awful (like bull's testicles). Sometimes ingredients SMELL awful (the durian fruit is so stinky it is banned on public transportation) but it's a local delicacy! I will try durian, just not yet. Other foods LOOK scary. Do I really want the FEEL of something that looks like THAT in my mouth? All goes to show that food isn't only or even mostly about taste; all of our senses and sensibilities are invoked. I wonder, would a companion possibly egg me on to be braver and to sample more scary and alien and discriminated against foods? Hard to say. But I often dine alone, and there sure are many food adventures and mysteries left to tackle.
Like, what exactly is a fishball? A local cooking show demonstrated a dish prepared with bull testicles and I've seen bull's balls with noodles or rice advertised in Chinatown. So sometimes ingredients are the sort of balls that seem what the vernacular suggests. Fish have none, so obviously fish is an ingredient made into balls. But what parts--flesh? Eyeballs? Skin? Are there bones? (fish bones scare me). I don't know why it would matter if it tastes good (they must be wholesome, people aren't dying from eating fishballs), but my food imagination goes into overdrive. I've seen them in dozens of stalls and while one stall's fishballs may differ in important ways (taste? texture) from their neighbors, fishballs everywhere look like squidgey ping pong balls to me. Perhaps I should discipline myself and try a bowl for lunch tomorrow. If I don't like it, I can always abandon it, right? Maybe I'll walk to a shop (with a queue, a good sign of good food) a little further away from home than usual to try...what I lack in peer support I can compensate with the courage of anonymity.
Exotic food worries aside, I've enjoyed several inexpensive and delicious meals recently. Last weekend I had lunch at the Chinatown hawker center (soy sauce chicken with noodles, and a mango milkshake). Yummy and only S$6.20. Interesting surroundings, a VERY busy place for lunch on Sunday.
Last night dinner was from Geylan Serai, the night market that runs throughout Ramadan in the traditional Malay neighborhood. Even busier than Chinatown. I ate from a stall run by two Malay women. Dish one was glutinous rice in a skinny package (about the size and shape of a hot dog) wrapped attractively in a palm frond, tied in ribbon. Maybe it's an acquired taste, or an acquired texture. It had the faintest whiff of banana, a tiny taste of coconut, but the overwhelming impression was bland and gummy. I picked out a couple of its dark spots before I sampled (thinking they might be bugs, see below), but (with glasses back on) the spots were just red beans. Whew. Even the beany parts lacked taste, and didn't seem to vary the texture. Maybe glutinous rice isn't meant to be eaten naked, needing something else for flavor. I'll have to find out.
The second dish was vegetables (yellow curried cabbage, onions and beans) and rendang chicken (sweet and spicy, coconutty), served takeway. A "refreshing drink" of strawberry jam on crushed ice with tapioca pearls tasted better than it sounds, drunk on the spot, what with a 16 stop bus ride home. I could smell my dinner, hot in my lap in its brown paper--and other bus riders' meals, too--all looking forward to breaking Ramadan fast with yummy Malay food. I was ravenous by the time I got home and dug in. Dinner (but for the glutinous rice, the shiny banana-looking thing in the foreground of the photo) was scrumptious. It cost S$4.80.
Breakfast today was the local instant beverage that's not so much coffee as a caffeinated drink that tastes warm and brown. The whole works comes in a little sachet. Just dump in a cup, add boiling water, and voila, morning caffeine. A (usually) much better choice is a cup of kopi, which I'll talk about some other time. That's because I don't think I can do kopi justice now, due to recent kopi trauma. Last time (Thursday) I visited my local kopitiam, my final mouthful ALMOST included a dead cockroach. I spotted it in the nick of time, just before it slid into my mouth. So I'm still recovering from my aversion to the idea of a dead cockroach being at the bottom of a cup of something I just chugged back. Come to think of it, that kopi with unexpected secret ingredient (up till then it was a particularly savory cup) might be another contributing factor to this little bout of food nostalgia.
Some day I want to teach a Sociology of Food course so I learn about this more systematically. But for now, I'm sure that I've got food nostalgia (a yearning for familiar tastes, rituals, and social relationships associated with food preparation and consumption). That nostalgia is probably pretty acute because I missed a food event (with the Ruskin Road Athletic Club [RRAC], six or seven couples who get together semi-regularly for dinner) that I really look forward to each year.
The annual RRAC Rib Off is a "friendly" competition among neighborhood grillers with different roads to the perfect rib: charcoal, smoke, gas. Each has a top chef wannabee who cooks ribs on her/his fuel of choice for accolades from other RRAC members (who supply the other fixings). The extravaganza traces back to a winter party, where our collective memories of summer evening cookouts morphed into a drunken series of escalating insults and challenges associated with barbecuing spare ribs. Who really IS the best rib chef in the neighborhood? We'd find out at a late summer ritual of porkly and saladish and dessertable delight, with lots to drink but no need for a designated driver to get home. We always have three winners, and WAY TOO MUCH really good food, drink, fun, and company. And I missed it yesterday for the first time, along with the companionship of my neighbors from Ruskin Road. Wah.
I wonder, were there ribs left over?
Missing that fed my food nostalgia, though it would surely have happened eventually, no matter what. I've been avoiding pricey western restaurants and eating like many Singaporeans in my determination to "be (as) native" (as possible) while I'm here. No western food for me (yet). But I'm definitely craving hot cornbread, cool tangy coleslaw, and a rib. Maybe two. One just rubbed, one with sauce. Yum.
Don't get me wrong. While I like all variants of Asian food in principle (at least I like Chinese, Indian, Thai, and Indonesian, in their western forms), I don't necessarily like all of Asian foods' potential ingredients in their authentic practice! Or maybe I only think I don't like certain ingredients. For example, what if I didn't know what an ingredient was ahead of time? I couldn't worry about it so I might just eat. Or, what if I would put certain known (but feared) ingredients in my mouth (even if skeptical)? Maybe I'd realize that I [irrationally] assume I don't like food that tastes really good.
The scars of past failure may feed my irrational food fears. I once tried to cure my childhood aversion to liver, convinced it was all in my head. Tony offered a bite from his appetizing restaurant meal of liver smothered with onions. Looked good. Smelled good. I chewed but just could not swallow. I fled to the bathroom and vomited. That's now a lifelong aversion. But surely some of my psychic aversions to certain food items ARE just untested prejudices, unlikely to inspire such visceral reactions.
When I see a picture of a dish at a stall and read what it is, I wonder, does the English translation fully capture what ingredients really are? Is the dish as benign as it sounds, or is the name a horribly misleading mis-translation of something truly awful? Both are possible in Singapore. Sometimes the ingredients SOUND awful (like bull's testicles). Sometimes ingredients SMELL awful (the durian fruit is so stinky it is banned on public transportation) but it's a local delicacy! I will try durian, just not yet. Other foods LOOK scary. Do I really want the FEEL of something that looks like THAT in my mouth? All goes to show that food isn't only or even mostly about taste; all of our senses and sensibilities are invoked. I wonder, would a companion possibly egg me on to be braver and to sample more scary and alien and discriminated against foods? Hard to say. But I often dine alone, and there sure are many food adventures and mysteries left to tackle.
Like, what exactly is a fishball? A local cooking show demonstrated a dish prepared with bull testicles and I've seen bull's balls with noodles or rice advertised in Chinatown. So sometimes ingredients are the sort of balls that seem what the vernacular suggests. Fish have none, so obviously fish is an ingredient made into balls. But what parts--flesh? Eyeballs? Skin? Are there bones? (fish bones scare me). I don't know why it would matter if it tastes good (they must be wholesome, people aren't dying from eating fishballs), but my food imagination goes into overdrive. I've seen them in dozens of stalls and while one stall's fishballs may differ in important ways (taste? texture) from their neighbors, fishballs everywhere look like squidgey ping pong balls to me. Perhaps I should discipline myself and try a bowl for lunch tomorrow. If I don't like it, I can always abandon it, right? Maybe I'll walk to a shop (with a queue, a good sign of good food) a little further away from home than usual to try...what I lack in peer support I can compensate with the courage of anonymity.
Exotic food worries aside, I've enjoyed several inexpensive and delicious meals recently. Last weekend I had lunch at the Chinatown hawker center (soy sauce chicken with noodles, and a mango milkshake). Yummy and only S$6.20. Interesting surroundings, a VERY busy place for lunch on Sunday.
Last night dinner was from Geylan Serai, the night market that runs throughout Ramadan in the traditional Malay neighborhood. Even busier than Chinatown. I ate from a stall run by two Malay women. Dish one was glutinous rice in a skinny package (about the size and shape of a hot dog) wrapped attractively in a palm frond, tied in ribbon. Maybe it's an acquired taste, or an acquired texture. It had the faintest whiff of banana, a tiny taste of coconut, but the overwhelming impression was bland and gummy. I picked out a couple of its dark spots before I sampled (thinking they might be bugs, see below), but (with glasses back on) the spots were just red beans. Whew. Even the beany parts lacked taste, and didn't seem to vary the texture. Maybe glutinous rice isn't meant to be eaten naked, needing something else for flavor. I'll have to find out. 
The second dish was vegetables (yellow curried cabbage, onions and beans) and rendang chicken (sweet and spicy, coconutty), served takeway. A "refreshing drink" of strawberry jam on crushed ice with tapioca pearls tasted better than it sounds, drunk on the spot, what with a 16 stop bus ride home. I could smell my dinner, hot in my lap in its brown paper--and other bus riders' meals, too--all looking forward to breaking Ramadan fast with yummy Malay food. I was ravenous by the time I got home and dug in. Dinner (but for the glutinous rice, the shiny banana-looking thing in the foreground of the photo) was scrumptious. It cost S$4.80.Breakfast today was the local instant beverage that's not so much coffee as a caffeinated drink that tastes warm and brown. The whole works comes in a little sachet. Just dump in a cup, add boiling water, and voila, morning caffeine. A (usually) much better choice is a cup of kopi, which I'll talk about some other time. That's because I don't think I can do kopi justice now, due to recent kopi trauma. Last time (Thursday) I visited my local kopitiam, my final mouthful ALMOST included a dead cockroach. I spotted it in the nick of time, just before it slid into my mouth. So I'm still recovering from my aversion to the idea of a dead cockroach being at the bottom of a cup of something I just chugged back. Come to think of it, that kopi with unexpected secret ingredient (up till then it was a particularly savory cup) might be another contributing factor to this little bout of food nostalgia.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Students in Singapore
I really like my research methods students, who are starting to venture answers and opinions. I went over by 10 minutes today (by accident, we were on a roll) and not a single student made any move to pack up their stuff or leave the room. It might have been good manners, but they seem really captivated, or gave a good impression of that...
Haven't figured out yet how to enliven SOC 101. I haven't had any problem getting a laugh from them, or commanding their attention. But I'm having no luck getting them to participate much unless I break them into groups--no one wants to be the lone answerer. With standing room for 120ish students, there's the sheer volume of audience intimidation factor for putting a hand up in a place like Singapore where students have traditionally been seen and not heard, I guess. And then there's the anonymity. I know almost all of the 40 methods students, but only a sprinkling of SOC 101. I know students have things to say, a few--sometimes a dozen--stay after every class to ask me about something I've said during the lecture, or to answer the question I asked, or to tell me something intersting and perhaps relevant to the lecture...but they don't want to say much in front of the class. Must make 101 seating map today, and see if knowing more names helps. Or resign myself to being a talking head for the semester in that course. yuck.
Haven't figured out yet how to enliven SOC 101. I haven't had any problem getting a laugh from them, or commanding their attention. But I'm having no luck getting them to participate much unless I break them into groups--no one wants to be the lone answerer. With standing room for 120ish students, there's the sheer volume of audience intimidation factor for putting a hand up in a place like Singapore where students have traditionally been seen and not heard, I guess. And then there's the anonymity. I know almost all of the 40 methods students, but only a sprinkling of SOC 101. I know students have things to say, a few--sometimes a dozen--stay after every class to ask me about something I've said during the lecture, or to answer the question I asked, or to tell me something intersting and perhaps relevant to the lecture...but they don't want to say much in front of the class. Must make 101 seating map today, and see if knowing more names helps. Or resign myself to being a talking head for the semester in that course. yuck.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Birthday Party from Hell
Literally. Despite the reconnoiter and growing confidence that I knew exactly what I was in for (and having clarified that it was definitely okay to ask lots of questions and take pictures), the event was NOT a birthday party in the classic sense of celebrating someONE's birthday. Sure, there were tables of gifts. Sure there was general merriment, food and drink. Sure, we DID eventually sing Happy Birthday (me in English, everyone else in Mandarin).
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday God of Hell,
Happy birthday to you!
The seventh lunar month is a time with varied potential for festivals and social events. While it is an inauspicious time to do important things (like get married or make a big business deal or buy a house) what with greedy ghosts wandering around, that doesn't mean that the social side of life need be neglected. Not only are ghosts allowed to leave hell and return to earth for a month, it is also the time for a birthday party for the god of hell. I say, any excuse for the party!
God of hell is apparently a pretty good god (perhaps because he has some role in herding the ghosts back home?--they are due back this Friday). I thought his name was Xie Xie, but realized after thinking about it for a while that partygoers were not addressing him by name, but rather saying thank you, perhaps for his blessings. So I’m not sure what he’s called, other than god of hell, or hell god. He wears black robes, smokes some kind of a pipe, distributes gifts (I got one) and blessings. People generally crowd around him, he's very much the central participant in the party. I asked for a photo with him; he kindly agreed and bestowed a gift. I said Xie Xie!
There were two alters to the god of hell. One can be seen over my left shoulder. Closer up you can see the piles of paper in the front and back corners, fake money to be burned as an offering. Singaporeans are much too sensible to burn real money. The figures in the back of the alter are representations of the god of (or from?) hell, with joss sticks and flags/banners that are typical of such offerings.
Also attending the party (though the party was not exactly in her honor, she was honored too) was a female healer god. While in a trance (I saw this) she chanted and touched, laid on hands, sometimes dabbed water, and waved a staff with a feathery end. The healer god left the party soon after I arrived and before I was brave enough to break out the camera. Besides seeing her perform her ministrations to several people (an older woman with painful legs, a boy of about 10 years old who might have had a mild form of cerebral palsy, and who both seemed to feel better after the encounter), I don’t know much about her. She heals or tries to heal, hers was the small alter, she was dressed in white robes, went into trances, and she had white and red power on her face and squinted her eyes, and seemed attired much like god of hell but for his black robes and face powder. Anyway, so much for the guests of honor. Despite lacking godlike status (for heaven's sake, I'm ang moh) people went out of their way to be hospitable—offering drinks and food, just generally fussed over me. It was WAY better than being the pariah, although it also had its downside.
For sure, I didn't expect to be part of the evening's entertainment. But I was. The guy in the yellow shirt and the wig hauled me on stage and announced that ang moh gonna sing. I protested: I can't sing. I don't sing. I've never done karaoke before. Perhaps my imperfect command of Singlish interfered with effective communication. Evelyn (in blue) thrust a microphone in my hand.
Being an inadvertent, inappropriate guest at a funeral a day earlier made me especially determined to be a "good" guest whose presence wasn't regretted at the birthday party. After all, how kind it was for neighbors to include a stranger. And (as importantly) when ever will I get another chance to attend the god of hell's birthday party? (I know, some people think I’ll eventually spend lots of time with hell god, and I have to admit, the whole idea of god from hell somehow jives with some of my days and weeks from hell).
The only English karaoke selection I recognized was (heavy groan) "I just called to say I love you"...a song I have loathed from the day I first heard it. But I did know some of the words, which seemed like it might be an important prerequisite, since I wasn't entirely sure how karaoke worked, and it was pretty obvious that I wasn't getting off the stage without singing.
So I sang, with as much gusto and energy as I could muster. Keep in mind my myriad failings as an entertainer: I do not have rhythm. I did not know all the words. I could not follow the karaoke screen. I was standing next to a gorgeous Asian woman. I was clearly not dressed in festive clothes sparkly enough for the occasion. On the plus side: My voice DID seem to have a natural dissonance that I often associate with Asian music. I failed to hit any of the high notes. Mostly, my singing was loud and flat. (Perhaps I'm a natural here). What I lacked in talent, I tried compensate with enthusiasm.
I sang, loudly, proudly. I sang badly. I will not give up my day job for a blue cocktail dress, honest.
Karaoke is serious business in Singapore, best left to the professionals and adepts. Obviously I was neither and for the second time in 24 hours, I wanted to die on the spot, this time from embarrassment, not shame. But the audience was tolerant. They took LOTS of pictures (heaven knows what they're writing or saying as they pass them along), laughed, and applauded enthusiastically when the song was over (it felt like hours, but I'm sure it was just minutes). The resounding applause could be interpreted either as acknowledgement of being a good sport, or pleasure that the caterwauling had finally ground to a stop. Some of each I expect. Getting the (unexpected) performance under my belt meant that there were few things left that I could do that would be more embarrassing than the things I'd recently done. How liberating! Now I could now mingle unselfconsciously with my neighbors, and have fun. The table of gifts on the stage turned out to be raffle prizes, tickets drawn over the course of the evening, much to partygoers' delight. Dessert looked awful and was unexpectedly delicious: coconut milk and tapioca, with pieces of mango, cucumber and watermelon (I think) swimming around in it. Several men, happily, overindulged, and no one seemed to mind. Kids drifted back and forth, trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. Some did. I noticed a donation box on one of the tables, with a convenient pile of red envelopes. I happily slipped a S$50 donation into the red envelope and into the box, figuring it would either help pay for the party or go to some good works that the god of hell is responsible for. The auntie who was staffing the table with the donation box nodded with approval; I could tell in the aftermath that the news had travelled around the group. Apparently, that was the right thing to do. Getting something right feels way better than getting it all wrong.
Funny thing about being in Singapore. So much is familiar and Westernized, that it really doesn't feel very much like an alien environment at all...until suddenly it does. Don't really know how to explain that feeling. Everything works, or seems to. Everything is clean and efficient, or seems to be. Virtually everyone speaks English (or more accurately Singlish, thankfully, since I speak no Chinese, Malay or Indian languages). The public transportation puts every other one I've used to shame. "My" stop, on the new Circle Line subway, is especially cool. There's a 24 hour McDonalds, a KFC, and three supermarkets within 5 minutes walk of my flat, which is equipped with all the modern conveniences, washing maching, TV with CNN/BBC, two computers, etc. etc. Then there are alters to ghosts and unfamiliar gods. Funerals and parties. White clothing and red envelopes. The smell of joss sticks in the air. Chicken feet and pig intestines and hundred year old eggs. The food at the hawker centers, generally. The never-ending sounds of the close quarters of HDB living, the overpowering smell of durian, the claustrophibically moist (and now, hazy) air. Singapore is simultaneously familiar and alien, and all that goes along with that.
Stereotypes about ang moh in Singapore, particularly those likely pervasive in a modest neighborhood like mine, would probably have rendered me absolutely inapproachable by most neighbors, at least under "usual" circumstances. Funny to think of ice-breaking in a hot and humid place. I lack opportunity to meet my neighbors at work, or in other social settings--I just live near them, where people jealously safeguard their privacy because they live so close together and where people have very mixed emotions about Westerners. Having crashed a funeral and sung badly at hell god's birthday party, however, I could be incorporated, at least on the edges, into the community. After all, my neighbors now had ample evidence that here, at least, was one ang moh who clearly lacked the stereotypical presumption of superiority over Singaporeans that foreigners often assume (I've seen and heard many examples of that unattractive Western perspective already, so I know it is real)! Me: just an ordinary person, in an unusual place, making mistakes, but learning lessons. Being a guest is way better than being a stranger, and being regarded as approachable and real WAY better than being regarded as just the typical ang moh.
It was a fun and interesting evening. Several additional invitations from birthday partygoers have followed, including one from Clarissa (an adorable 9-year old from building 228) who wants to arrange for me to visit her school on Saturday. It's right behind Boundary Village. We'll see what happens there.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Birthday Party
The funeral debacle marked a turning point in my status at the HDB estate here at Serangoon Avenue 4. I think I've now made the transition from stranger (regarded with suspicion) to guest (which nets forgiveness for naive behavior and brings attention and hospitality). In small communities, news travels fast, and my antics Saturday night were certainly gossip worthy under any circumstances. Curiosity about me, already at a high (but distant) level, ratcheted up to the point that people took action.
Typically, as I've walked through the Boundary Ville (my HDB estate, or apartment complex) I've been aware of people looking at me in curiosity, noting that I'm "out of place" (not staring, at least not obviously) but no overtures, friendly or unfriendly, either. I smile and say hello, the most I ever got back was a nod, or maybe more accurately, a slight bow after I spoke. So I was surprised Sunday afternoon when a woman I'd seen and said hi to several times (but who never responded beyond that slight bow) spoke to me. If I still wanted to learn more about Chinese culture, she said, I could come to the birthday party under Building 224 on Sunday night.
"What time does it start?" I asked. "You'll know" she said "when you hear the noise." Hmmm. That sounded suspiciously like the trigger to my problems the day before. But lightening won't strike twice in the same place, I figured. So I waited for the noise Sunday evening.
Her invitation to the birthday party was the first spontaneous conversation (except with funeral guests) I've had in Boundary Ville. I did want to have an opportunity to demonstrate to my neighbors that I'm not a crazy ang moh (foreigner, applied to all Westerners; literal translation, red-haired), to try to repair my tattered reputation (if I had one to begin with). I happily accepted and waited for the noise.
This time, though, I was more cautious. I let the "event" proceed for more than an hour before I joined. I observed bits of it from several vantage points, to be absolutely sure this wasn't another funeral or solemn event, camera stowed safely in my purse. The music this time was not a Taoist priest and chanters. Even I knew it was karaoke--this time, professional, loud and lots of it. Several performers (a man in a strange wig and yellow sparkly see through shirt, a woman dressed in a hot pink go-go outfit, and another in a blue cocktail dress) were the featured performers, obviously hired as the entertainment for the party.
Individuals and families (this was an all age group event) in the audience sat around tables, there were coolers full of beer (lots being consumed), a scrumptious buffet meal, and a table on a stage with presents. Looked like a birthday party to me. Relieved of the risk of making another horrible social gaffe, I joined the partygoers.
Typically, as I've walked through the Boundary Ville (my HDB estate, or apartment complex) I've been aware of people looking at me in curiosity, noting that I'm "out of place" (not staring, at least not obviously) but no overtures, friendly or unfriendly, either. I smile and say hello, the most I ever got back was a nod, or maybe more accurately, a slight bow after I spoke. So I was surprised Sunday afternoon when a woman I'd seen and said hi to several times (but who never responded beyond that slight bow) spoke to me. If I still wanted to learn more about Chinese culture, she said, I could come to the birthday party under Building 224 on Sunday night.
"What time does it start?" I asked. "You'll know" she said "when you hear the noise." Hmmm. That sounded suspiciously like the trigger to my problems the day before. But lightening won't strike twice in the same place, I figured. So I waited for the noise Sunday evening.
Her invitation to the birthday party was the first spontaneous conversation (except with funeral guests) I've had in Boundary Ville. I did want to have an opportunity to demonstrate to my neighbors that I'm not a crazy ang moh (foreigner, applied to all Westerners; literal translation, red-haired), to try to repair my tattered reputation (if I had one to begin with). I happily accepted and waited for the noise.
This time, though, I was more cautious. I let the "event" proceed for more than an hour before I joined. I observed bits of it from several vantage points, to be absolutely sure this wasn't another funeral or solemn event, camera stowed safely in my purse. The music this time was not a Taoist priest and chanters. Even I knew it was karaoke--this time, professional, loud and lots of it. Several performers (a man in a strange wig and yellow sparkly see through shirt, a woman dressed in a hot pink go-go outfit, and another in a blue cocktail dress) were the featured performers, obviously hired as the entertainment for the party.
Individuals and families (this was an all age group event) in the audience sat around tables, there were coolers full of beer (lots being consumed), a scrumptious buffet meal, and a table on a stage with presents. Looked like a birthday party to me. Relieved of the risk of making another horrible social gaffe, I joined the partygoers.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Hungry Ghosts: Episode 3, the Funeral Crasher
A veneer of information from a tourism website about the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts, with its trappings of items to burn plus chanting/performance rituals, contributed to what would inevitably have to happen, under the circumstances. It honestly never crossed my mind that a funeral would be held underneath an apartment building. And the event I attended had everything I expected for hungry ghosts.
I can't remember the last time I was so mortified.
As the flash went off (I later learned), the mourners at the Taoist funeral (not the Buddhist festival I thought) were obviously stunned that a stranger would crash a funeral AND photograph their grief. In the moment, I knew I'd done something dreadfully wrong, but didn't know exactly what, since I had it on good authority that I could photograph ghost goings-on.
My legs would not move. I wanted to die and be serenaded by the male singer in drag, who (I discovered later) was dressed that way because he was singing the story of the dead woman's life (that was her photo at the altar, and the reason for all of the flowers, and all the white clothing). Her three children and (some, but not all) of the other mourners had a series of complex rituals to complete, and musical ritual performances by Taoist musicians were part of that.
The singers didn't miss a beat, most of the mourners' attention reverted almost immediately to the ceremony. But there were still plenty of people looking at me in bewilderment? dismay? dislike? I felt the latter. Quickly, a woman (who was clearly the organizer) came over and introduced herself. Selene asked if I needed something, and why was I there. I blurted out that I had just realized that I was probably not at a hungry ghost festival, which I had planned to attend that night to learn more about Chinese culture, but was at some other kind of event. The lightbulb had still not gone on for me. She very kindly said, "No, that's for sure, this is a Tao funeral."
I cannot imagine what my face must have looked like when she said that, I nearly burst into tears (being surrounded by crying people probably was part of me bubbling up, but so was my embarrasment). "I'm so sorry I intruded on this family's grief, I never would have done it if I had known, I'll just try to slip away unnoticed.: "That's unlikely, everyone is certainly aware you're here." "Let me try, I'll just go quietly." "No, stay and learn something. The best thing you can do now is stay. I'll explain your mistake, it would honor us if you would feel welcome, you are our guest now." She was very nice, at the same time insistent that now I was there I should stay. She brought me a chair, said something to the woman I was standing next to, who then sat down beside me. So I stayed. What else could I do?
My partner was a lovely Chinese woman whose child was god-daughter of the dead woman. The Chinese woman, Li, spoke enough English that we could communicate, and her daughter Evelyn was very chatty in the breaks between segments of the performance, explaining many of the rituals to me.
The dead woman's three children came and spoke to me (her youngest son has been in Houston for the past two years, he's a pilot in the Singapore Air Force). The eldest son was very distraught, but gracious. The daughter was quiet, but thanked me for staying to honor her mother's life, she graciously said that my presence was an understandable mistake for someone unfamiliar with Chinese culture. The widower came and introduced himself. Ideas of quiet escape at the first opportunity vanished; I had no choice at all but to stay until the end. At the second intermission in a very long ceremony (I was there for over three hours, and I came late) a meal was served. I ate.
I ate in the company of charming people, all very tolerant of me. I enjoyed talking to them, they explained more about the rituals I was seeing and confessed that the singers were using a Chinese dialect they did not understand, making for a long evening in their opinion. They gave me a red thread to tie around my finger, warning me to let the thread fly away before I went up the stairs to the flat, distracting the ghosts trying to follow me up the stairs. I'm not sure whether everyone got a red thread, or whether I was perceived as particularly vulnerable to being on the receiving end of ghost attention. Anyway, I took it, tied it around my finger, and (though I'm not superstititious) I dropped the thread at the foot of the stairs to distract any pesky ghosts.
At the end of the third segment of the Taoist rituals, alter materials were gathered up by the mourners (a very elaborate paper car and house, bags of "money") and taken to the apartment complex's burning pit. A lot of burning goes on in Chinese rituals, consequently all apartment buildings have arrangements for burning.
Throughout the funeral ceremony guests came and went, while a conductor regaled the mourners with instructions. He made them line up, walk in particular ways, hold certain items, put joss sticks in particular places, and to bow at appropriate times. I noticed that some mourners discreetly approached Selene and gave cash. I resolved to wait for an opportune moment to atone (in the fiscal sense) for my uninvited presence in one of life's most intimate events. Once burning was in the works, Selene was tidying up. There were no other mourners around, all of them were participating in that part of the ceremony. Could I make a donation, as a mark of respect, as other guests had done? She opened the book where she was keeping records (all in Chinese characters) and asked me to write my name. I was able to see that people had given donations from S$20 to S$300. I only had a $50 bill in my purse. Easy decision, that, buying back a bit of my dignity. I was finally able to slip away without having to face the family again, or make a scene.
Today the music was provided by five men with horned instruments, and sounded like an Asian version of jazz music played in funeral processions in New Orleans. The ceremony resumed this morning around 10 (the noise was the dead giveaway, it is very noisy to keep bad spirits at bay), so I stepped out on the walkway to observe from a distance. I didn't want to intrude again, it just didn't seem right, but I did want the mourners to know that I was trying to be respectful. Many saw me, and several waved. I didn't want to shout hello, so I waved back and put my hand on my heart and hoped that somehow translated into "I'm sorry too."
I could not see, only hear, the coffin being nailed shut. I'm not sure why, but tears welled up. Even from a distance, the effect that had on the family was obvious. Stoic the night before, they were sobbing now. The coffin was put in a hearse, unlike any I've ever seen, since the back was entirely glass so that the coffin could be seen. The picture of the dead woman was wired to the front of the hearse. The musicians led the procession away from the building, followed by the hearse with the three kids touching it, walking behind. Two buses were hired to take mourners to the cemetery. I noticed that Selene remained behind when the procession left, and I walked down to apologize again for my blunder the night before. She said everyone understood perfectly that I was curious about Chinese culture and that they were touched by my donation. Whether that was said to help me save face, or not, I'll never know. But I hope it was true.
In the end, attending the funeral took nearly as long and cost twice as much as the "Spooky Walk" in terms of money, and a hundred times the embarrassment. And I didn't learn a thing about hungry ghosts. But I participated, even if inadvertently, in a cultural event that I bet few Westerners have an opportunity to see. It was fascinating. I'm sorry I was a funeral crasher, but I'm not sorry I saw the funeral.
And I think my mistake, and my sincere apology for making it, were taken at face value and forgiven. At least I hope so. That episode had the unexpected knock-on effect of being the icebreaker for meeting more people here in the HDB estate. But I'll write about that another time.
I can't remember the last time I was so mortified.
As the flash went off (I later learned), the mourners at the Taoist funeral (not the Buddhist festival I thought) were obviously stunned that a stranger would crash a funeral AND photograph their grief. In the moment, I knew I'd done something dreadfully wrong, but didn't know exactly what, since I had it on good authority that I could photograph ghost goings-on.
My legs would not move. I wanted to die and be serenaded by the male singer in drag, who (I discovered later) was dressed that way because he was singing the story of the dead woman's life (that was her photo at the altar, and the reason for all of the flowers, and all the white clothing). Her three children and (some, but not all) of the other mourners had a series of complex rituals to complete, and musical ritual performances by Taoist musicians were part of that.
The singers didn't miss a beat, most of the mourners' attention reverted almost immediately to the ceremony. But there were still plenty of people looking at me in bewilderment? dismay? dislike? I felt the latter. Quickly, a woman (who was clearly the organizer) came over and introduced herself. Selene asked if I needed something, and why was I there. I blurted out that I had just realized that I was probably not at a hungry ghost festival, which I had planned to attend that night to learn more about Chinese culture, but was at some other kind of event. The lightbulb had still not gone on for me. She very kindly said, "No, that's for sure, this is a Tao funeral."
I cannot imagine what my face must have looked like when she said that, I nearly burst into tears (being surrounded by crying people probably was part of me bubbling up, but so was my embarrasment). "I'm so sorry I intruded on this family's grief, I never would have done it if I had known, I'll just try to slip away unnoticed.: "That's unlikely, everyone is certainly aware you're here." "Let me try, I'll just go quietly." "No, stay and learn something. The best thing you can do now is stay. I'll explain your mistake, it would honor us if you would feel welcome, you are our guest now." She was very nice, at the same time insistent that now I was there I should stay. She brought me a chair, said something to the woman I was standing next to, who then sat down beside me. So I stayed. What else could I do?
My partner was a lovely Chinese woman whose child was god-daughter of the dead woman. The Chinese woman, Li, spoke enough English that we could communicate, and her daughter Evelyn was very chatty in the breaks between segments of the performance, explaining many of the rituals to me.
The dead woman's three children came and spoke to me (her youngest son has been in Houston for the past two years, he's a pilot in the Singapore Air Force). The eldest son was very distraught, but gracious. The daughter was quiet, but thanked me for staying to honor her mother's life, she graciously said that my presence was an understandable mistake for someone unfamiliar with Chinese culture. The widower came and introduced himself. Ideas of quiet escape at the first opportunity vanished; I had no choice at all but to stay until the end. At the second intermission in a very long ceremony (I was there for over three hours, and I came late) a meal was served. I ate.
I ate in the company of charming people, all very tolerant of me. I enjoyed talking to them, they explained more about the rituals I was seeing and confessed that the singers were using a Chinese dialect they did not understand, making for a long evening in their opinion. They gave me a red thread to tie around my finger, warning me to let the thread fly away before I went up the stairs to the flat, distracting the ghosts trying to follow me up the stairs. I'm not sure whether everyone got a red thread, or whether I was perceived as particularly vulnerable to being on the receiving end of ghost attention. Anyway, I took it, tied it around my finger, and (though I'm not superstititious) I dropped the thread at the foot of the stairs to distract any pesky ghosts.
At the end of the third segment of the Taoist rituals, alter materials were gathered up by the mourners (a very elaborate paper car and house, bags of "money") and taken to the apartment complex's burning pit. A lot of burning goes on in Chinese rituals, consequently all apartment buildings have arrangements for burning.
Throughout the funeral ceremony guests came and went, while a conductor regaled the mourners with instructions. He made them line up, walk in particular ways, hold certain items, put joss sticks in particular places, and to bow at appropriate times. I noticed that some mourners discreetly approached Selene and gave cash. I resolved to wait for an opportune moment to atone (in the fiscal sense) for my uninvited presence in one of life's most intimate events. Once burning was in the works, Selene was tidying up. There were no other mourners around, all of them were participating in that part of the ceremony. Could I make a donation, as a mark of respect, as other guests had done? She opened the book where she was keeping records (all in Chinese characters) and asked me to write my name. I was able to see that people had given donations from S$20 to S$300. I only had a $50 bill in my purse. Easy decision, that, buying back a bit of my dignity. I was finally able to slip away without having to face the family again, or make a scene.
Today the music was provided by five men with horned instruments, and sounded like an Asian version of jazz music played in funeral processions in New Orleans. The ceremony resumed this morning around 10 (the noise was the dead giveaway, it is very noisy to keep bad spirits at bay), so I stepped out on the walkway to observe from a distance. I didn't want to intrude again, it just didn't seem right, but I did want the mourners to know that I was trying to be respectful. Many saw me, and several waved. I didn't want to shout hello, so I waved back and put my hand on my heart and hoped that somehow translated into "I'm sorry too." I could not see, only hear, the coffin being nailed shut. I'm not sure why, but tears welled up. Even from a distance, the effect that had on the family was obvious. Stoic the night before, they were sobbing now. The coffin was put in a hearse, unlike any I've ever seen, since the back was entirely glass so that the coffin could be seen. The picture of the dead woman was wired to the front of the hearse. The musicians led the procession away from the building, followed by the hearse with the three kids touching it, walking behind. Two buses were hired to take mourners to the cemetery. I noticed that Selene remained behind when the procession left, and I walked down to apologize again for my blunder the night before. She said everyone understood perfectly that I was curious about Chinese culture and that they were touched by my donation. Whether that was said to help me save face, or not, I'll never know. But I hope it was true.
In the end, attending the funeral took nearly as long and cost twice as much as the "Spooky Walk" in terms of money, and a hundred times the embarrassment. And I didn't learn a thing about hungry ghosts. But I participated, even if inadvertently, in a cultural event that I bet few Westerners have an opportunity to see. It was fascinating. I'm sorry I was a funeral crasher, but I'm not sorry I saw the funeral.
And I think my mistake, and my sincere apology for making it, were taken at face value and forgiven. At least I hope so. That episode had the unexpected knock-on effect of being the icebreaker for meeting more people here in the HDB estate. But I'll write about that another time.
Hungry Ghosts: Episode 2
There's nothing more cringe-making outside the U.S. than "Ugly Americans" who are loud, overbearing and act superior by denigrating or failing to respect others' cultural practices. An example: an Indonesian friend years ago told me and Tony that in some parts of the country, taking a person's picture was tantamount to stealing their souls. That made a searing impression on me. I don't take photos of private individuals without asking and since museums and places of cultural significance and worship have different perceptions about the appropriateness of photography, so I try to be respectful and determine whether it's okay there, too. So it was interesting that Buddhism (as explained to me by a Singaporean Buddhist at the temple last week) regards photography of events and places associated with Buddhism as okay, a way to spread Buddha's message of peace and enlightenment. I wasn't sure if that applied to the paraphanelia and events associated with Hungry Ghosts (a Buddhist ritual), so I double-checked in preparation for attending the Hungry Ghost festival events near my flat last night.
But first, I went back through some of photos I took at the Temple of the Buddha Tooth Relic in Chinatown (the irony, that a city-state composed of 77 percent ethnic Chinese has a Chinatown, seems to have escaped Singaporeans).
The temple houses a tooth reputed to be one of Buddha's, displayed in a stupa decorated with 429 kilos of gold. Yikes! I've not yet seen the tooth, but the temple is quite beautiful in a very red and gold kind of way. Coming in the back door, there's an anteroom with a shrine where people can leave food and flower offerings and light joss sticks. A large Buddha dominates there, with eight smaller aspects of Buddha on the walls in that room. Each sits alone, but surrounded by a backdrop of miniature Buddhas by the hundreds.
The main temple is really opulent, with a huge altar with a really big Buddha, surrounded by a hundred kinda big Buddhas, surrounded in turn by thousands of little-ish Buddhas. People come and go, light joss sticks, give flower and food offerings, and bow to the aspects of Buddha that they seem to have the most affinity for. Tourists wander around aimlessly, snapping pictures (like me). I liked that curiosity seemed to be encouraged there, asking questions and taking pictures were tolerated very hospitably. The only thing visitors were asked to do was to leave their shoes on (unusual in the Asian context to remain shoed), take their hats off, and to cover their shoulders. Thoughtfully, there were robes provided for visitors who wore tank tops.Anyway, that's a bit off topic.
What I planned to write about was my effort last night to capture for posterity the friendly ghost event at the HDB pavilions under the buildings (I've decided to call them pavilions, since I don't really know what to call the empty space under the building that would be full apartments at home but which is almost entirely open here).
I'd read up on the Singapore tourism website about the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts, knew why people set paper and other things ablaze, and left offerings of food. While those things were often done quietly and without fanfare, there were also communal events that could include mass burnings, street theatre and performances, and sometimes Chinese opera. That's what I was expecting last night.
I actually dozed off for a little while after I got home (moving around in the tropical heat really is exhausting). I was awakened by a REALLY loud set of gongs and cymbals and a cacophony of amplified singing.
Cool!
I was going to see a hungry ghost performance, right outside my door. I headed downstairs. The crowd was much bigger in the pavilion under the building on the left, the one with the beautiful hangings and golden tarps, standing room only. That's where most of the noise was coming from. My woman informant earlier in the afternoon (at the right hand building) informed me that noise would signal the beginning of festivities. She wasn't kidding. I opted to join the flashier event, the activities at the pavilion on the right were sparsely attended, as if the party hadn't quite gotten under way. I could always go there later, I figured.
So I joined the back of the crowd at a far corner of the left hand pavilion, behind most of the audience. Most people were paying rapt attention to the performers. There was an alter with a picture I couldn't quite make out from my angle, tons of flowers, and some of the best stuff for burning to appease the hungry ghosts that I'd seen--there was a carboard car, a really elaborate paper house, and bags upon bags upon bags of money. As for the performers...three men sang the main parts, there was a chorus of eight women, and seven musicians playing an incredible array of instruments from gongs, cymbals and drums, to horns and stringed insruments. I don't have an ear for Asian music, it sounds really dissonant to me. But for sheer volume and number of performers alone, this was impressive. I congratulated myself on saving $24 on the "spooky walk", and seeing Chinese opera (that's what I figured it was) for free, right at home. And judging by the facial expressions, this was a good troop. The audience was obviously moved to tears by whatever was being enacted. I wish I understood Chinese so I could have followed the plot.
Anyway, I zeroed in on the lead singer, hoping to get some of the beautiful backdrop for my first picture. It was after 7, nearly dark. I set my camera on auto and hoped for the best. The flash went off, I had my first shot.But in that instant, I heard the equivalent of a collective Asian gasp and a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Clearly, I'd made a big faux pas.
But I didn't realize in the moment HOW big.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Hungry Ghosts. Episode 1
Given my inability to write anything short and pithy, and a general lack of enthusiasm for the self-referential aspects of blogging, I had pretty much resolved not to blog from Singapore.
That is, until today.
The seventh lunar month is the "Festival of the Hungry Ghosts," a Buddhist tradition that involves several rituals, including setting (fake) money and other (replica) worldly goods on fire to appease greedy angry souls. I've seen little shrines (not sure that's the right terminology) of joss sticks, flags, and plates of food all over the HDB public housing estate where I live, for that matter, all over the city. So I resolved to explore the Festival this weekend.
The "Spooky Walk" on the Singapore tourism website sounded interesting. I opted for Sunday morning (cooler, and daylight so I could get a real feel for what I'd be seeing). Sadly, there weren't enough takers, but there was still the Saturday night walk. Despite fierce mosquitos, 90 degree heat, I was in. The kicker might have been the indemnity form. An excerpt:
"In seeking to participate on a night walk event conducted by Singapore Paranormal Investigators... I (full name) _______, NRIC / Passport number __________ do hereby warrant and acknowledge:
1. that my general health is good and there is nothing which renders me unfit to undertake the overnight walk and experiments done during the activity that may require mountain climbing and trekking forest at night.
2. that I understand and appreciate fully the fact that there may well be risks, hazards and dangers involved to which I would be subjected during the overnight walk and investigation. I voluntarily assume the risk inherent in taking part in overnight walk and investigation and I, together with my heirs, executors and administrators hereby release SPI from any duty or care towards me, in connection with my participation in the overnight walk and investigation."
Hmmm. My general health IS good, but I'm not sure I'm fit enough for paranormal experiments conducted while mountain climbing and trekking forests overnight. Then the the organizer called on my mobile...said the walk lasted four hours. I decided the sensible thing was to put a nail in that coffin and pass on the "Spooky Walk."
But I noticed in my own housing estate festivities that seemed friendly ghost-like when I came home Friday night. I'd check it out instead.
Coming home at mid-afternoon today, I walked between the two apartment buildings that face mine. People were already setting up for the evening. The public area under the building on my left was already decorated with gold tarps and beautifully intricate hangings, tables and chairs were set up, there was an alter with blinking lights, food offerings, and lots of beautiful flowers.
Beneath the building on the right, table settings (elaborate and attractive) were being prepared and decorations hung, and there were already piles of fake money out for sale on a table. I asked a woman setting tables whether this was in honor of hungry ghosts--she said it was. Could I come back tonight when they got underway? "Sure," she said, "You are most welcome to join us, we'll start around 7." "Would it be okay if I took pictures?" "Of course, no problem."
The earlier disappointment about the impracticality of the "Spooky Walk," had evaporated with the convenience of a hungry ghost festival event right in my housing estate! I'd cool off for a couple of hours, then head downstairs with my camera. I could pop home if I needed respite from mosquitos, or to cool off for a few minutes, it was PERFECT. In anticipation, I snapped a couple of test photos of the public areas under the two buildings where preparations were underway, from the walkway in front of my flat. I'd get closeups later.
At least that's what I thought.
That is, until today.
The seventh lunar month is the "Festival of the Hungry Ghosts," a Buddhist tradition that involves several rituals, including setting (fake) money and other (replica) worldly goods on fire to appease greedy angry souls. I've seen little shrines (not sure that's the right terminology) of joss sticks, flags, and plates of food all over the HDB public housing estate where I live, for that matter, all over the city. So I resolved to explore the Festival this weekend.
The "Spooky Walk" on the Singapore tourism website sounded interesting. I opted for Sunday morning (cooler, and daylight so I could get a real feel for what I'd be seeing). Sadly, there weren't enough takers, but there was still the Saturday night walk. Despite fierce mosquitos, 90 degree heat, I was in. The kicker might have been the indemnity form. An excerpt:
"In seeking to participate on a night walk event conducted by Singapore Paranormal Investigators... I (full name) _______, NRIC / Passport number __________ do hereby warrant and acknowledge:
1. that my general health is good and there is nothing which renders me unfit to undertake the overnight walk and experiments done during the activity that may require mountain climbing and trekking forest at night.
2. that I understand and appreciate fully the fact that there may well be risks, hazards and dangers involved to which I would be subjected during the overnight walk and investigation. I voluntarily assume the risk inherent in taking part in overnight walk and investigation and I, together with my heirs, executors and administrators hereby release SPI from any duty or care towards me, in connection with my participation in the overnight walk and investigation."
Hmmm. My general health IS good, but I'm not sure I'm fit enough for paranormal experiments conducted while mountain climbing and trekking forests overnight. Then the the organizer called on my mobile...said the walk lasted four hours. I decided the sensible thing was to put a nail in that coffin and pass on the "Spooky Walk."
But I noticed in my own housing estate festivities that seemed friendly ghost-like when I came home Friday night. I'd check it out instead.
Coming home at mid-afternoon today, I walked between the two apartment buildings that face mine. People were already setting up for the evening. The public area under the building on my left was already decorated with gold tarps and beautifully intricate hangings, tables and chairs were set up, there was an alter with blinking lights, food offerings, and lots of beautiful flowers. 
Beneath the building on the right, table settings (elaborate and attractive) were being prepared and decorations hung, and there were already piles of fake money out for sale on a table. I asked a woman setting tables whether this was in honor of hungry ghosts--she said it was. Could I come back tonight when they got underway? "Sure," she said, "You are most welcome to join us, we'll start around 7." "Would it be okay if I took pictures?" "Of course, no problem."The earlier disappointment about the impracticality of the "Spooky Walk," had evaporated with the convenience of a hungry ghost festival event right in my housing estate! I'd cool off for a couple of hours, then head downstairs with my camera. I could pop home if I needed respite from mosquitos, or to cool off for a few minutes, it was PERFECT. In anticipation, I snapped a couple of test photos of the public areas under the two buildings where preparations were underway, from the walkway in front of my flat. I'd get closeups later.
At least that's what I thought.
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