Singapore-Padangbai

I am most flattered that some of you lovely readers have felt snubbed, disappointed, offended, even, that the bloggy blog has not been updated for some time.  This is not due to lack of awesome activities and adventures being undertaken, rather an excess of them and therefore insufficient time to sit down and tell you all about them.

Now that the Easter holidays are upon us, I have taken the equivalent of a jaunt to the South of France, and am in Bali with Shining Shamrock.  We flew here via Singapore, a city-country I am now well acquainted with, having visited it all of three times in as many weeks due to Frenchie's insane job.  Shining Shamrock and I discovered yet more delights in the shape of tea rooms, outdoor sculptures, art galleries and egg men.

Egg man!

Our most exciting discovery, however, was copious amounts of food and alcohol in a restaurant called 'Crostini's' in the Muslim quarter.  Shamrock is naturally drawn to dark alleys with grafitti scrawled all over the wall, but much to my relief (and her disappointment), in Singapore, these are not the hangout spots of unsavory ladies and hoodlums, but rather 'cool', 'trendy' and 'funky' bars and restaurants.  In a word, the most pretentious alleyway in all of Singapore.  However, both Shamrock and I come from solid, working class roots, and delight in anything that makes us feel rich, spoilt and expatty, so we ate artistically created crostini, drank cocktails and beer, and made friends with the chef, who then took it upon himself to feed us complimentary dishes all evening. 

Amazing and delicious.  Everyone should go there and visit James the Crostini Chef.  He also gives you complimentary Chinese names with every meal.  Mine, obviously, is Li Hi Shan (Hardcore Mountain), and we christened Shamrock as Kai Xin Hua (Happy Flower), as she shall now be known forever more.

After savouring all the delights that Singapore had to offer us in a very brief weekend, Happy Flower and I then boarded a plane to Bali.  The journey was uneventful, other than, whilst buying an Indonesian sim card in the first sim card shop I saw to adhere to Frenchie's international phone calling demands, a young Australian man came hurriedly up to the counter, asking if the shopkeepers had seen a brown envelope.  Calmly, the shopkeepeer pulled an envelope out from under the counter.  "Drugs?"  I asked (joking, obvioulsy), "Or passport?"  The passport suggestion was also a joke, but the young man, looking quite relieved said, "Yeah, passport.  Man.  Too easy!"  I'm not entirely sure what 'too easy' means, maybe, 'it was too easy to steal someone else's identity and buy passage into Australia by organising an under-the-counter passport heist', but I tell the story to show you that it is not just me who is a fool with her passport.  18-year-olds who don't know any better and have never been travelling before also leave their important documentation in silly places.

Happy Flower and I spent two days lounging around in the pool of our hotel in Padangbai, drinking beer at the swim-up bar, watching Indonesian bands sing U2 whilst singing along enthusiastically in a small square, making friends with Peace Corps volunteers from Chicago and teachers from Scotland/Spain who were now teaching in Shanghai, and sweating off half our body weight whilst sunbathing in hidden coves before getting the boat over to Lombok for a trek of epic proportions, that we didn't realise was a trek of epic proportions...

The Godparents

I am, inherently, quite a lazy person.  Thus, explaining to more than one person how Chris and Gordon were connected to me so intimately quickly became a drag.  As a solution to this tedium, I decided instead to simply tell everyone that they were my Godparents, and I think they rather liked it.

The Godparents arrived on the same day as Chandni and Jade, who I saw briefly before they realised that Risk or Death was actually far more agreeable than me: her flat's bigger, she has wine, her internet is faster and she only asked for Double Deckers, whilst I asked for Marks and Spencer's entire Spring Collection.  When C&J disappeared to go and lie on a beach, C&G disappeared to go and lie by the pool.  By the end of the week, they knew more through sun-lounger gossip about the staff base of the Big International School than I probably know about my own mother.  If you need any conspicuous, friendly espionage done, The Godparents are the people to call.

Highlights of the Godparents' visit (other than the free flow of gin, the meals out, the ironing that was magically completed and the joyous discovery of half price bread after 5pm at the Mekong Merchant) was a visit from Mr. Tho.

Imagine my distress on Monday morning when I got half way down the drive on Little Moto and realised that the wobbling handlebars and instability were due to a flat front tyre, and that I would - at 6:55am - have to conceal the Morning Grump and be a reasonable and civilised human being to other teachers on the school bus.  What purgatory.

As honourary father figure that week, I asked Gordon to come and look at it when I got home, and stood around frowning like a girl, saying 'really?!' when he diagnosed a puncture.  Luckily, a very nice driver man in a posh car parked next to us asked us if we had a number for a 'man'.  I didn't, alas.  I have a number for a butcher, and a number for a receptionist, and a number for take out. and a number for a xe om driver and a manicure, but not a 'man'.  The friendly driver man walked me round to the corrugated iron fence of the drive of my apartments and pointed at a number tipexed on the fence with the word 'Tho' underneath it.  'Let's try this,' he suggested.  As he rang the number, I asked him what the word 'Tho' meant.  'It's his name,' he replied.  Amuse.

Mr. Tho!

Anyway, Mr. Tho could teach a number of advertising agencies a thing or two.  Tipexing your number on the fence directly opposite the entrance to the carpark of an apartment block full of rich moped drivers is a very sensible idea.  He turned up in less than five minutes, and Gordon's Your Godfather, the puncture was fixed! Most impressive.

Happy Little Moto!

We also snuck up onto the roof - a plan Risk or Death and I have been harbouring for some time, now - and  got some amazing photos of views.  The Godparents wouldn't let me or Risk or Death climb the ladder that would have lead us up to the place where the aeroplane light flashes to stop low flying jets crashing into the penthouse, though.  Party poopers.

In the lift at the start of our gin induced adventure: please note the double fisting from Godmother, here.

Practically a private balcony.

The Godparents' visit coincided with a voluntary Inspection at the Big International School.  I know, 'voluntary'/'inspection'... I am teaching my year 10s about oxymorons, juxtaposition and duality at the moment and am using this as an example of all three.

Anyway, 'twas a busy affair, but when Mr. Inspector walked into my room, and asked 'May I come in?' it was all I could do to not respond with either, 'No, get stuffed', or 'Yes!  Do!  We've been waiting for you all morning!  Here!  Have a plan!  It took me an hour an a half!  The lesson's only an hour and twenty minutes long!  Can you see the colour coding?  Green for AFL, red for the IB learner profile, purple for differentiation?  And the powerpoint slides are on this green paper, and the resources that they're using, this yellow piece of paper, and here's a seat I've asked Little Johnny to fart in since break time to warm for you!  Please!  Tell me I'm 'Outstanding'!'  Obviously, I communicated this telepathically and with enthusiastic body language, and was a key player in earning the Big International School it's grading of 'Exceeding Outstanding'.  It was me.  All me.

Being outstanding and spoilt by adopted Godparents is really time consuming, which is why the blog wasn't updated.  Please forgive me.  Soon to come: 'C&J's return', 'Post Inspection Tiger Girls Party', 'Paddy's Day Messiness' (featuring Shining Shamrock), 'Lovers Separated by Library' (featuring Frenchie and some books), and 'Bali: the PADI Qualification Vacation'.  Exciting!

Singapore

Watched 'Up'.  Wept like a ridiculous girl (bridging the generation gap through adventures in floating houses is totes emosh).  Thought of Lizzie and Holmes.  Realized there are probably people at home wondering why there has been no witty and entertaining blog for a while.  There are reasons, which I will divulge to you over the next two blogs, separated for aestheticism, and aptly named 'Singapore' (this one), and 'The Godparents' (the next one).

Now.  As you may or may not know, a rather charming Frenchman offered my parents a decent price for me and, warming to the thought of an early retirement, Lord and Lady Shep were pleased to be rid of the burden of a slightly eccentric, forgetful and over-excitable daughter.  Said Frenchman quickly decided that being an expert in shrimp farming, mango growth and global trade had become passe and so changed jobs and now hangs out with crocodiles and snakes for a living, whilst remaining uncomprehending of the appeal of the bags that the unwitting creatures are eventually fashioned into.  He has, as of yet, no fixed abode, but prefers Singapore as a meeting point.  All the 1930s black and white cinema reels I have watched assure me that luckily, this outcrop of the British Empire is the gateway to the East, and the world's largest dock.  A shame, therefore, that I book myself on budget airlines to get there, then, and not luxury steamer.  Having said this, Changi Airport is a delight of Starbucks and duty free, so I shan't complain.

The appeal of my weekend was threefold: spend Frenchie's money, see the sights and... hang out in the library!  Of course.  With a dissertation deadline looming, what better place to spend the first weekend in two months with your Romeo than in the National University of Singapore's library, figuring out how to best use my time the next time I come.  The NUS is a delight, as is the rest of Singapore, which is full of botanical gardens, overpriced restaurants, Southbank-style concert halls, colonial buildings, shiny hotels, parks, tasteful museums, gift shops and philatelic museums (stamps.  (I know - we didn't realise until we got into the gift shop)).  Have some photos:

This hotel is REALLY expensive, and has a swimming pool on top.  Wow.

More attractive South Bank.

Puking lion.

There's still some old stuff.

What's even more exciting, is that my grandfather (not Roald Dahl) hung out in Singapore when he was a young man.  By my calculations, he was younger than me when someone with some form of military authority allowed him to fly a plane on the other side of the world.  Now I'm no expert in genetics, but considering I was breaking into my own flat, my father was falling into banks full of stinging nettles, and my mother had agreed to marry him at around a similar age, I'm not convinced that the early twenties are a time at which anyone should allow the Sheppard/Hartley dynasty to be in charge of any form of heavy machinery.  Grandpapa seemed to come out of this age bracket unscathed, though, and, if we want to be really imperialistic about it, has helped to leave really a rather lovely island nation for future generations to enjoy.  Happily, the Sheppard legacy remains in the form of street art, dedicated to honouring our name:

There's definitely Granddad in a cardigan and a bow tie, here, and a Nana with her reading specs on, and Libby with her headphones.  What about the slightly shell shocked blue one with a plaster?  Or the upside-down one?

Krabi

So, despite my reservations that i was far too old to properly enjoy a gap yah! , Thailand has fully lived up to expectations. Not only do they understand tea: 

But I have also had a near-flawless record run with my passport, other than a brief ten minutes where I handed back a rented moped, skipped off down the road, bought an ice cream, posted a postcard and then remembered that poor little passport was still stored safely in the seat of the previously mentioned moped. Luckily, my 'check-the-passport' prompts are becoming more frequent, thus reducing the likelihood of a repetition of the Canada or Borneo Affair.

Now, when you think of Thailand, I am sure that many of you think of this:

Or this:

Happily, this is also what I think of when I think of Thailand, and despite a nightmarishly long train and bus journey from Bangkok to Krabi, this is the Thailand I saw. In Krabi, I checked myself into a suitably 'Robby-Carlyle-dies-of-the-plague-at-the-beginning-of-The-Beach' hostel and decided that now was the time to take matters into my own hands. So successful has my relationship with Little Moto been, that I decided to have a transport affair with Thai Moto, and quickly zipped off to see sunset at this beach:

Overjoyed with this picture-perfect success, I proceeded to plan an epic adventure to Koh Lanta, the island that had refused to offer me accomodation. So at 7am the next day, I rode off into the sunrise, stopping for a Twilight Zone visit to Tesco Lotus, thinking of Amy at every suspicious step round the aisles, and then on into rubber and palm oil plantations until I reached the ferry that took me to Koh Lanta Noi, and this entirely deserted beach:

I had the actual, entire beach to myself, yo! It was also Frenchie's birthday that day. I could have spent my money flying to where he is, but I'm a selfish and heartless cow, so I made him this instead:

Not quite the same as human contact, but to spoil him would be to ruin him.

Zipped onwards to the second ferry and Koh Lanta Yai where all the development is, and popped into a set of bungalows for the sheer fact that there was rhyming in their name: 'Time for Lime'. Who can resist such poetry? Not me! Turns out that the bungalows also double up as Koh Lanta's only official animal shelter! This was great! I love cats, and don't feel that dogs should be abused without due cause! Luckily, 'booked up' meant that they had one room left, so I spent an afternoon and morning here:

Oh, and moved on a day later to the sunset here:

Me lying on the beach burning, writing my next bestseller and collecting really stinky shells is boring to read about but here are some amusing highlights:

- I got bitten IN MY BELLYBUTTON and on the SOLES OF MY FEET, despite repellent, proving that we must wage aggressive, merciless and immediate war against the whole mosquito race.
- Shells really, really stink, and I'm currently sitting on my own row in the airport lounge, I think because of the stench coming from my bag, but they are, like, way impressive and pretty.
- Always put suntan lotion on your feet, yo! No matter how sticky, sandy and annoying. They have feelings, too.
- On the way to the airport an awesomely huge dragon-lizard crossed the road. My camera was packed, so I can assure you that it was a whole lot bigger than MY FACE - almost as big as me. Maybe bigger than the car, for sure. It was enormous. Like a dinosaur.
- Stupid people don't understand how tides work. Some stroppy tourist rocked up at high tide and lamented long and hard that she was 'so disappointed with the beach' as there 'was none'. Idiot. Two hours later: lo and behold! The beach!

So far two people have moved away from my row because of my reeking shells. I don't know how I am going to control my gag reflex with them in a confined space...

Bangkok

So.  Yes, 'so'.  As good a way as any to continue with a blog of awesomeness.  Bangkok, hey?  Why not, I thought.  Those chaps in those films seemed to enjoy themselves and have a jolly old laugh, so why not me?  Those who know me, however, may be surprised to hear that I have not had exactly the same experience as Fitty McCooper Bradleyson.  I know: shocker.  'Ladyboys' and 'Emma' just seem synonymous with each other, don't they?  Well, I decided to resist my never-harboured urges and instead spent time visiting all the Buddhas in Bangkok in order to decide which was my favourite.

Those who know me will also be aware that I very much enjoy walking.  It's like running, all you healthy, sportsbods out there, except less traumatic and slower, which is very important in 34 degree Thai heat.  So, in effect, my 3 hour stroll through China town to the 5.5 tonne solid gold Buddha at Wat Traimit, and then to the hiatus of the jade Buddha at the Royal Palace, finishing with the awesome lying-down enormous lazy Buddha at Wat Pho was like a Buddha pilgrimage.



Solid GOLD!



Jade Buddha: you're not allowed to look directly at it.

Would the Vietnamese market ladies dare tell Buddha that he was a 'vey big laydee'?

Conclusion: can't argue with an enormous, sleeping Buddha with mother-of-pearl feet.  Awesome.

Along the way, I also discovered that Thailand has a royal family, and do many things that appeared very familiar to me.  Now I love a good royal family, especially when there is a museum dedicated to them with portraits showing family resemblances and family trees and royal barges and... wait a second... I became increasingly suspicious about this - the list of strange, deja vu prompters went on: pruned gardens, changing of the guard, charity work... I couldn't quite put my finger on it until I walked a very long and unnecessary way to what the Thais call Ananta Samakhom Throne Hall, which is, in fact, Buckingham Palace.  When I manage to upload photos, I will dare you to argue with me.  Having seen this building, I realised that the Thai royals are just Windsor Wannabes.  I'm sorry to say it, but they are.  Not that imitation isn't the purest form of flattery, but I wish somebody had just come out and said it to me instead of leaving me to spend a weekend feeling increasingly creeped out: I saw ugly demons guarding a gold-leaf temple - definitely Thai.  Then I saw a pristine lawn, and a sign saying 'Keep off the Lawn' and I drank two of the best cups of Earl Grey that I've had since Christmas... wha...  where... who?  Odd, twilight zone...



Look familiar?

In short, other than the mosquito bites, and haunting voice reminding me that I laugh in the face of anti-malarials, Bangkok has been fun!  I'm off to lie on a beach for four days this evening, and seem to have regressed to my 20-year-old self, except without Lizzie to egg me on in foolish decision making:
Me: can I get a ticket for the 10 hour, overnight journey to Krabi tomorrow, please?
Train ticket man: there are only sitting seats left.
Me: no berths?
TTM: no.  Air con?
Me: yes, air con, please.
TTM: sitting?
Me: yes, sitting, please.
TTM: for ten hours, between 10:30pm and 8:30am?
Me: yes, sounds great!  How much?

Should be able to upload photos upon my return to Vietnam in a week, if not sooner.  Shall ensure that I take some good 'look how tanned I am, is it still raining in England?' photos.  Because I know you'll appreciate them.

Tragedy!

No!  This is not a reference to my previous search for the Christian names of the Bee Gees, it is something much, much worse.

Today, as I was skipping home merrily from work (because why would one skip if one was not merry?  And why would one not be merry having taught lessons, marked books and planned yet more learning?) having discovered that the new Ye Olde Koreanee Shoppee in our building sells MobiPhone credit (bonus!), I found myself on the small bridge that crosses the Lily Trench Orphanage, leading to my apartment block.

I stopped.

Something was not quite right.

A strange, eerily cold wind blew through my hair.

Somewhere near me, a child screamed.

The.  Lily.  Trench.  Had.  Been...

DRAINED!

I searched frantically around for some sign of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, John the Baptist, Romeo, Juliet and the Nursemaid!  Maybe they were flapping around in a small, still-filled area patiently awaiting the replenishment of the trench?  Maybe there would be a sign in Vietnamese explaining that the fish had been scooped out and were being housed in reception whilst the trench was cleaned?

Nothing.

Nothing!

Alas, Risk or Death doesn't know anything yet, as she is cycling to the North Pole, blindfolded.  Hopefully this, and the short-lived iPhone battery will mean that she won't have a chance to read this before I can break it to her gently.

Poor fish.  I wonder if it is any consolation that the remainder of their lives were spent in luxury, bliss and abandon?

Epitaf For Fish:

Your lives were brief,

Your memories short.

I'm sorry to see that

In the end, you were caught.

RIP Fish

... none of our fish were called 'Doug'.

The Lily Trench Orphanage

Last week, Risk Or Death and I decided to blow away the cobwebs of conformity and do something reckless!  First, Risk Or Death suggested leading a revolution in Burma, but I told her that was so Aung San Suu Kyi, and we didn't want to look like copy-flatterers, because that could be, like, way offensive to a 21st Century feminist icon whose name I have to Google for the correct spelling every time I reference her.

Then, RoD suggested that maybe adopting all the street children in Vietnam and housing them in our apartments could be worthwhile, but I reminded her that she spends almost eights hours a day with 5-year-olds and she doesn't really like small children, so this was out.

Instead, whilst zipping along on Little Moto, we stopped as we came out of town next to a man with a bicycle like this:

And we purchased three fish, who were originally called Jesus, Mary and Joseph, because we couldn't remember the Beegees' names, or the names of the three tenors, and we wanted to consolidate their identity as a trio.  As it was a Sunday, this was the only trio I could think of.

Sensing the urgency in our mission, we zoomed home to the Lily Trenches at our humble apartments, and released them from the bag, elated that we had given the gift of freedom to three worthy candidates, and encouraged their fish trafficker to continue to ruin the fishy lives of many for a small profit from guillable Westerners.

A day later, after we had been crossing out fingers tightly, hoping that the change in water temperature/environment/fact that they had been living in a plastic bag for some days/shock would not result in the deaths of J, M&J.  Great excitement overcame us, therefore, when we saw all three swimming around quite calmly in the water with a fourth, white goldfish, who obviously stole the name of Jesus, and whichever one had been Jesus before is now John the Baptist.  We also saw three smaller fish, whom we have named Romeo, Juliet and the Nursemaid.  So others must be freeing fish as well!

We plan to make this a monthly occurrence and continue to populate the Lily Trench Orphanage with lost, abandoned and neglected fish.  Please address any charitable donations for the fish to 'Emma and RoD's Holiday Fund, PO Box 2049, Vietnam'.