The annotated budak

Volunteer duck

Braving biting ants, budak volunteered to patrol the stretch leading to Upper Peirce Reservoir Park this afternoon. I brought mrs budak along to fan me and as protection against wild men-apes. We are glad to report no observed incidents of animal release, although a passing van of three guys nonchalantly stopped just ahead of us and flung their rubbish into the woods (we took photos).

Earlier, another volunteer had reported that a green iguana was on the loose (you know, that scaly thing that turns into Godzilla when irradiated). Iguanas, unlike monitor lizards, are non-native reptiles of arid climes, unwelcome and unhappy in our damp tropical forests. It appears the owner of this pet has run dry of interest and affection for his or her expensive (and illegal) charge... we scanned the trees for signs of the animal, but this lizard was probably lounging far from view.

At about five, three cars stopped by a troop of macaques and their occupants were just starting to feed the monkeys when the sight of budak swinging aiming his camera at them put them off-tangent. I assured them that no picture had been captured and sought to explain the folly of feeding wild animals who would one day see men as morsel-providers, with painful results for both.

They asked: "What would the animals eat then?"
I pointed to a nearby fruiting rambutan tree.

"When are they going to develop this place?"
"Soon enough I assure you, once we run of land elsewhere..."

I gave instead a short lecture on the role of the forest reserves in preserving the quality of the water catchment areas and Singapore's water supply. Were such facts too hard to swallow, I wonder?

A fellow volunteer gave us a lift out to civilisation. On the way out, a naked ape in a jet blue Honda Civic was seen tossing styrofoam packs to a tailed cousin two millenia removed. Both creatures, it seems, could do no worse if they exchanged instincts – the base for the bestial. And none would be the wiser...

Feeling tripsy

Ah, the scents and sounds of streets and sewers in a non-sanitised land!

Although my lil' friends on MSN would not agree, travelling isn't really one of budak's favourite activities (note the dour expression). Going to far-off places is decent enough, but I might actually enjoy it a little more without the hassle of ticket bookings, squinty-eyed custom officers (who suspect me of smuggling buckets of menthols), package tour-infested check-in counters, clueless taxi drivers with non-functional speedometers, yattery virgin flyers (and pukers), and the strange-looking morsels served in economy class, which are followed by frantic quests for foreign toilets. (That said, I must note that flying business class is truly worth every dollar, as long as it's not my dollars). In short, it's the getting there that bugs me, unless the process of getting there is something to be savoured in itself, like a leisurely drive down the Great Ocean Road or up the Malaysian East Coast. (Heck, even the daily bus ride home from work is a test of my patience!)

This week's trip was more of an ordeal than usual, thanks to certain conditions that plague me still, driving me to the edge of my seat in unwilling hyperactivity and unenforced jitters. mrs budak should be glad that L, rather than her, was the one who had to endure my nerves daily, as we zipped from place to place, with my heart pounding and breath tightened at the dread prospect of sitting still. A fresh pint or two did help to restrain my uptight brows and convert budak into rather more personable company during Wednesday's dinner with Bruno and Grace at the Robin Hood, where I supped on a Toad in the Hole and a measure of Kilkenney. Later, they headed for a downtown disco, and despite my pent-up energies, I thought better of a late night out this time.

A lupine friend declined my invitation to a Saturday shopping spree, so I hopped on the BTS alone to Mo Chit after a bowl of Frosties. This time, some trinkets to mrs budak's taste were scoured after some narrow lane trawling near the horticultural section, where I stooped a moment to capture this peanut vendor in digital print. Silver in hand, I head for a breather at my usual watering hole in the market, and then proceed to plough through my systematised itinerary of botanical purveyors, procuring somewhat less than usual this time though. I paused just long enough to record the menu of a street vendor who offered the delectable delights of freshly-fried mealworms, crunchy crickets, wholesome water bugs and a smorgasbord of crispy legs, heads and beaks belonging to a flock of fledgling fowl.

The non-tipsy duck

My apologies to mrs budak, but I sampled a fair number of local vintages over the past day, which I could not refuse without causing offence. And besides, one can't possibly write about what one has not even tasted. Fortunately, little ill-effects were suffered from the tipples.

I am surrounded by mountains of gastronomic ditties, but have not even the time to lunch. Divana is fully booked for tonight and in half an hour, an interview beckons, for which little preparation has been made. My present state of mind swaggers uncontrollably for want of activity, and so I depart to calm my mind in a fit of motion. 

- - - - -

Dinner (taki udon) is digesting and I still swing from an easy drop-off to dreamland and a stirring for activity that renders taxi rides and sit-down meals an experience in edginess. How long will this polarisation of positions last?

Wake-up call

To my little squeaky friends: Please wake me up at 5 tomorrow morning. I need to catch a plane.

And please help keep mrs budak entertained til Saturday.

I expect to see another letter from the Media Development Authority seeking my payment for a virtual TV when I get back.

*sips camomile tea in hope of a fast-track to dreamland*

Where's the Sandman when you need him?

This is no fund

Does anybody know how one can get doorstep deliveries of the International Herald Tribune, South China Morning Post and other independent broadsheets (or at least their lively weekend editions)? My current perusal of these dailies is now largely restricted to long hauls or with long blacks at uppity cafes. One headline caught my eye from this weekend's IHT though:

For many, a paltry payoff from Singapore's savings plan

Selected excerpts, below in italics, make for intriguing, if not entirely surprising, reading (highlights mine):

Singapore's national pension program places every penny a worker contributes - 33 percent of total pay - into a personal account... Called the Central Provident Fund, Singapore's program has succeeded in increasing home ownership and virtually eliminating the cost to the government of funding retirement by taxing the young.

But is the fund adequate for retirement? Not according to Leo Lim Tong, who after working 16 years as a hotel cook finds himself at 60 embarking on a career as a security guard at a local shopping center. The returns on the fund, known locally as CPF, he said, are "only a little bit, not enough."  Nor did it work for Shu Ting Hoe, a career banker who retired at 57 thanks to an early retirement package from his employer. "Depending on CPF alone, it's not enough to retire," Shu said...

"Singapore doesn't purport to have a perfect system," Ng Eng Hen, the manpower minister, said. But he disputed the notion that the CPF provided inadequate returns...

Mukul Asher, an economics professor at the new Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy here, estimates that as many as 75 percent of fund members end up without enough to retire on and that the fund delivers on average less than 30 percent of the average depositor's last salary. That compares with 70 percent in France and 45 percent in the United States...

Singaporeans today withdraw more to pay for property than they do for retirement, a situation that leaves many asset-rich and cash-poor. Many are loath to sell, economists say, because property values have fallen by roughly a third in the past decade....

Ng said that most elderly property owners were sitting on profits that could fund their retirements. Cultural pressure to own and pass along a home dissuade many from selling, but "they can live with their children," he said....

Perhaps the most worrisome feature is the record on Singaporeans investing their own funds. According to Asher, CPF members on average lose 15 percent on their investments. When they pick individual stocks, they lose even more - about one-third...

I guess that accounts for the existence of legal brickbats with which aged parents can whack their unfilial children for not ensuring their upkeep, not too mention forgetting to allocate spare bedding space in their little apartments so that the old folks can come and go as they wish.  Too bad then for those selfish losers who are not far-sighted enough to breed their own generation of retirement caretakers. What bad faith in the time-honoured Asian tradition of progenital piety! When you have no other choice but to shoulder the living costs of parents who somehow failed to save for their golden years as well as your own 1.6 children, surely you can await with confidence the day that your own brood will repay you for a gift they did not choose and a life beholden to one's sires. You wouldn't expect the state to bear the cost of your dwindling days, would you, when even your very own compulsory savings funds can't afford to maintain the lifestyle and comforts for which you have toiled a lifetime in hope...

By the Japanese bridge

In a nation with a population density twice that of China's, working wash closets should always be no more than a short walk away. This may not be true everywhere, but in Hoi An, the town's 17th century scale and abundance of farang visitors probably served to ensure that WC locations are helpfully marked on even sketchy tourist maps in this retired Vietnamese port of ancient call. Though no urgent calls (from both his bowels and buddies) were issued, budak took the opportunity to survey this abode by the Japanese covered bridge.  The bridge itself spans a stinky little stream as filthy as any Malaysian town drain, but the ochre-walled toilet facing the water was admirably dry.

So much so that the preserved remains of a Fledermaus were mummifying well on the floor just outside the colourful tiles of the gentlemen's quarters. Right opposite, the ladies' chambers are happily exposed to the Pacific breeze and bring to mind the earlier communal experiences shared by a friend of a friend. Budak deigned not to tread into this hallowed room, less out of fear of impropriety than from the sight of a saucer-sized arachnid squatting on the ground, a hairy-legged companion to any desperate enough to defoul the quiet of this sanctuary with their fecal squalor.