I am beaten,
bushed, buggered, burnt and bruised.
I am battered.
I have just
returned from my Sunday ritual of working in the Willing Hearts soup kitchen in
the Badlands of Singapore. Yes there are Badlands in Singapore. They are hidden
away. I work with a jolly band of mostly local volunteers who prepare and then
deliver meals to an ever-increasing amount of homeless and impoverished on the
Island. There is no welfare system per se here in Singapore as the government is
firmly of the opinion that there are no under-privileged persons.
I am not an
altruistic person or an angel or a goody-goody. In fact I have frequently been called a
dick, a shit, a fucker and a bit of a cunt. I may well have been – or indeed
continue to be – some or all of such things. Sorry Mum. I know you don’t like
me swearing but these are other people’s descriptions and let’s face it – I
have heard you swear many times before - on the golf course. When you slice
your drives or miss those short putts. Also it is not my fault that people call
me this – or perhaps it is. Irrespective - I don’t really give a fuck. Not
about you Mum – just what other people may think of me.
In fact I do social
service because my Mum and Dad raised me this way. When we were children my
siblings and I were dragged – often kicking and screaming - to volunteer in the
many communities in which we lived. We were taught that it was important to
understand that there are many more people in the world less fortunate than
ourselves and we have a responsibility to help out where we can.
I have instilled
this belief in my own offspring and I too used to drag them kicking and
screaming to community service work wherever we lived. It is an obligation and
is one of the few things in life that I take very seriously.
The Willing
Hearts organisation is run by an amazingly devoted and dedicated band of
Singaporeans who are simply delightful people. There are a couple of Aunties
and Uncles who run the show and I enjoy their company very much. Uncle and
Aunty are terms used to describe the elderly here on the Island.
It is a term of
endearment.
I arrived earlier
than normal at Willing hearts this morning as I woke before my alarm. Sleep
eludes me nowadays as I myself am transitioning into an Uncle. I am already an
uncle in the western world’s use of the term – but I am referring now to the
Singaporean one. So at 5.30 am I began cracking eggs to make omelet type of
things that we were serving up in the Badlands. By 6.30 am I had cracked close
to a thousand. These were then beaten by hand – by me – and once whipped into a
frothy soup I added generous portions of spring onion and capsicum.
I was in charge
today of the egg station where we fried massive amounts of egg on a very large
hotplate. I was joined by a couple of local men and women and two very blonde
and blue eyed Scandinavian girls. I could tell that they were Scandinavian by
their blond and blue eyed-ness and I took a punt that they were Swedish by
giving them a hearty, “Hej Hur Mar du?” – which is “Hello how are you?” This
elicited a stream of guttural Swedish responses and I had to then confess that
this was the only Swedish that I had. Fortunately - like most Swedes – they
spoke very good English.
Their names were
Erika and Birget.
I was quite
curious as to what the Swedes were doing in Singapore and how they had learned
about the Willing Hearts. I was touched when they told me that they were
travellers and that they always looked up charitable causes to help out with
whenever they landed in a new country. Meeting people like this and being in
the company of the very good people of the Willing Hearts organisation moves me
quite a bit.
It delights me in
fact.
It is easy to
feel cynical in this sad bad world that we live in and I often feel surrounded on
this Island by fuckers and sycophants with their cellophane smirks and saccharine
smiles. So it really does restore my faith in humanity when I encounter such
people as Erika and Birget and I do find a sanctuary in places like the Willing
Hearts.
Conversation
around the omelet station – which also doubles as a Roti Prata station - is
always very pleasant. We have a good laugh as hot oil splatters us and we cook
and pack food at a frenetic pace. I told Erika and Birget that I had been to
Sweden – because I have – and I quite liked meatballs and the Girl with the
Dragon Tattoo and the laidback Swedish approach to nudity. I told them I was
quite partial to a good sauna as well. They told me that they quite liked these
things as well.
We clicked.
I also informed
them that I wasn’t particularly fond of the Volvo car and I thought that IKEA
was an abomination. To my great pleasure they also agreed.
Conversation
around the hotplate turned to IKEA – as I turned it that way - and I asked the
Swedish girls how it was supposed to be pronounced. The Singaporean will
pronounce it Ik-e-ar whilst we Australians pronounce it Eye-key-ar. Both Swedes
again made some guttural type of noise at me which I can only assume is the
correct pronunciation.
I will not even
attempt to type it phonetically.
I informed the Swedish girls
that the primary reason I disliked IKEA was that their shop design is such that
once you enter you are trapped inside and you are forced to follow a meandering
path that goes around and around. It is one-way. I explained that it drove me
mad – or perhaps madder – that one must follow what seems like an endless path
to the final check-out. It can take hours.
It is cunning but brilliant.
I explained to Birget that on
my second and last journey to IKEA in Singapore I tried to back track - against
the flow. It was like swimming against a strong tide. It was like walking in
quicksand. It was mission impossible. This is compounded by the Singaporean
masses who block these paths.
The Singaporeans love Ikea. I
suspect that families may spend whole days there - perhaps weeks. They trap themselves
willingly and they survive on a diet of meatballs and Swedish hotdogs.
I explained to the Swedes
that the other reason I dislike IKEA is of course the assembly. The flat pack
is a nightmare that is designed to drive we consumers insane. On that last
journey that I made to the store I purchased a bookcase and I scoffed at the
option of the assembly service. Like most of the male species I chose initially
to disregard the assembly instructions.
They are for pussies.
Big mistake. Massive in fact.
Several hours after returning home from the purchase I was baked in sweat and I
had hurled one of the shelves from my verandah. I was frustrated and I was
confounded. I was ready to kill. The accursed Ikea Allen key was scarred with
my teeth marks.
I told Erika and Birget and
the Singaporeans around the omelet hotplate that at this stage I took a calming
break and I drank some green tea - then I marched myself downstairs and
retrieved the hurled shelf. It had fortunately landed in a Frangipani tree and
was relatively unscathed. I then recovered the crumpled up assembly guide from
the rubbish bin. I flicked through the 32 languages that these were written in
and eventually I found the English version that I was seeking.
Then I followed the guide
step by step.
A mere two hours
later I was triumphantly stacking my books on my wobbly assembly. I ignored the
small pile of unused residual screws as I know that the Swedes put in extras.
It is their attempt to further confound we consumers.
The Swedes seemed
amused and possibly also bemused at my IKEA tale and they stared at me in a
Scandinavian sort of way.
The Singaporeans
who were cooking eggs with us didn’t seem to mind the nudity bit about our
conversation but there was quite strong opposition to our opinion about IKEA.
Singaporeans love IKEA.
They really do.
The egg cooking
went on for a couple of hours and the Swedes and I then moved onto the
vegetable peeling section. We scraped and sliced and diced potatoes and radish
and some quite prickly skinned melons for a couple of hours - yacking all the
time. I craftily avoided the onion table.
I cry easily.
Yacking is
Australian for chatting. Coincidentally a yak is also a very large and woolly
beast that lives high in the Himalaya. I will get onto that consonance in a
minute.
Yes consonance.
It means harmony or synchronicity to save you looking it up. The Swedes were
planning on going to India in a couple of weeks for the next stage of their
adventure and they asked me if I had been. I informed them that it was
virtually my home away from home – because it is – as I have been working on
and off there for the past couple of years.
Erika told me
that they were pretty concerned about their potential safety on the
sub-continent as there has been much publicity of late about the quite horrific
rape cases that have occurred there in recent months. I suggested that as quite
obviously Western women that were fairly easy on the eye – it might indeed not
be the safest place to go – however all the Indian people I know on the sub
continent are charming and kind and I personally consider it quite safe.
That’s easy for
me to say.
I asked the
Swedes whether Nepal was on their agenda and strangely they told me that it was
not. I informed the Swedes that this was madness and they should go there
instead. I told them that everyone should do the ‘Du and walk the Himalaya at
least once in their lives.
Thus began a long
and delightful conversation about Nepal and Kathmandu and my friends Babu and
Bhim and Saraswati. This continued off and on through our chopping of vegies
and our later serving of rice. Time flew as it always does at Willing Hearts.
Life rockets pass
sometimes.
I sit here now
battered and beaten. Despite a long shower I still smell of fried egg and
radish. As usual though I feel content and happy after my session at Willing
Hearts. One always gets a lot more out of community service than one gives -
and I had the added bonus of making a couple of new friends today.
Hot Swedish ones
at that.
The Swedes will
be back next Sunday and we will likely cook Roti Prata together.
That will be
nice.
It is something
to look forward to.