so we're releasing an iphone book on spam

And i'm wondering if i should be encouraging ppl to eat the canned meat.

it's meat. that's been canned. impregnated with everything artificial.

but why on earth does it taste so good?

have my tastebuds experienced a failure of subtle-flavour-response? has my tongue gone through so many cans of the stuff that i can settle for nothing less than MSG?

I fear I shall never love fresh cream, ripe strawberries, and pate on toast ever again.

Damn you Spam. Damn you.

Melaka

Food, food, food. What else?

So we were dawdling about in Melaka sometime last year - well, not dawdling about really, more like eating our way through - when my boyfriend and I hopped into a cab to get ourselves to Portugese Square for fresh seafood. A little history here - the Portugese colonised Melaka (or Malacca, if we wish to be a little more politically incorrect) in 1511, and left their offspring, as well as an smattering of Potugescised (is that even a word? oh never mind) Indian immigrants to carry on their cultural legacy. As much as countries in the region do suffer a bit of a post-colonial chip on the shoulder, their food, quite thankfully, does not. So Daryl and I were looking forward to some Eurasian food - devil curry, namely, because the name fascinated us, and also because rumours of its spiciness had reached his chili-addict ears.

We didn't have Eurasian food in the end, because we were eventually distracted by a row of seafood stalls that were beginning to bring out their pots and pans and plates to prepare for the onslaught of customers, local and foreign. We stood, for a short moment, next to the murky Straits of Melaka, looking out into the distance at oil tankers, and catching a whiff of the waste and bacterial froth that littered the surface.

image copyright to Pale, found on stockxchng

We then proceeded to the nearest stall, had a look at the fresh-looking dead fish, and thought ah lovely, let's eat here.

It really was rather good. I could tell you more - but this was a year ago. And like just about everyone knows - it's all about the freshness. So out of that steaming, rancid water came sweet-tasting fish and prawn. Ah, the sweet mysteries of life.

But what matters most is this - before making our bumpy way into the heart of the winding estate surrounding Portugese Square, the cab driver pointed us to a small row of shophouses that lined a corner of a street that, being out of the shopping centre belt and the historic old town, failed to produce a bleep on the tourist radar. "Eat here," he said. "Good Baba food. But must call in advance one." The addition of the "one" at the end of his statement reminded me how Singapore and Malaysia - as separate as they are - remain forever joined by our patois. I only hope that my government, at least, would officially recognise it exists.

So on our most recent sojourn to Melaka, we engaged the help of a friend to call in advance. This friend was a brand new father, and according to Daryl, he shuttled faithfully and what must have been most exhaustingly between Singapore, his place of work, and Melaka, his place of well, diaper changing and baby raising. So Daryl and I demanded he make a call on our behalf look for the number, reserve a table, and to place our orders. I point to my boyfriend as having the heart of cold and impenetrable stone.

Being Singaporean

After an hour long wait that was engendered by a large group of loud, noisy, demanding and altogether ogre-ish Singaporean customers, I began a quiet reflection on my country's lack of civility. And then I tsk-tsked as they walked past, glared at the commanding, condescending woman demanding more out of harried waiters, and made loud comments about annoying Singaporeans as we Singaporeans like to do. Later that night, I also plotted to steal a packet of toiletries from the hotel trolley. But I do digress a little.

A dragon guards the entrance to a Chinese temple


The food finally arrived, and it was fantastic. Not in a "ooo daahling you should have seen the foie gras and lemongrass mousse I had at that new place, it was really to diiiiie for" sort of fashion, but as in, "if my mother could cook like this everyday, I would have thought myself dead and gone to heaven after every meal". Two dishes stood out in my food-addled memories the most - chinchalok egg pancake, and chilli garam ikan. The former was a marriage of fermented shrimp and egg. Like much pungent, fermented condiments that dominate Southeast Asian cooking, chinchalok is an assault on the unitiated senses. To be impolite, it smells bad. But mix it with a generous portion of egg, put it on slow heat and let the flavours meld naturally, and enjoy the excursion into fermented raw shrimp territory. As the eyes of the shrimp remain intact even as it undergoes vigorous fermentation, be prepared therefore to have your pancake of egg dotted with little eyes - tiny dots, really - that stare back at you with indignation. The latter involved fresh fish (once again, from the murky waters), deep fried to perfection and smothered with pounded chilli, garlic, and a little belachan (fermented shrimp again, but belachan is dried into a dark looking cake, that if left unwrapped, can stink out the fridge and cause all other foods to evacuate in a hurry.

Emptying the wallet

And finally, a kebaya. The sarong kebaya is the traditional dress of the Peranakan, or Nyonya, peoples. I stepped into a beautiful boutique, was taken with the intricately beaded shoes and tops and sarong bottoms, and parted with all the money in my boyfriend's wallet. Words can't really explain the beauty of the kebaya that points to the aesthetic sensibility and adherence to tradition in every print, fold and embroidery. So in a month, when the kebaya arrives, pictures will ensue.

To make a trip down to historic Melaka, all you need to do is hop on a coach, sit on your bum for about 4 hours, and spill out of the bus into this utterly charming and disarming town.

Just some information:

For fresh seafood, head to Portugese Square. Just don't look at the sea water. I ate at the stall closest to the seaside.


To visit Aunty Lee's nyonya restaurant, make a call at least a week in advance, and be prepared to place orders. Number: +6062831009



a shophouse wall endowed with cross-eyed graffiti

And for the most beautiful Kebayas you could ever lay eyes on, visit J Manik on Jalan Hang Lekir. It's run by a lady named Joyce Ngiow - she will astonish you with her impeccable sense of service. I almost parted with my life savings because of her.

shame.

picture available from: http://www.sxc.hu/photo/127850

I'll begin by saying (a little belatedly, perhaps) , that the New Paper did a mildly horrific spread of the experience I wrote on 2 months or so ago.

I've discovered, much to my pain, that when editors of this local paper deal with a single subject, they take the story on in any angle that they want, and with a sense of irresponsibility that is, unfortunately, disappointing. My point of view, in short, was abused.

So despite my calls for the education of both men and women in my conversations with the journalist, it perhaps fell on very deaf editorial ears. And the focus instead turned to painting women (or perhaps, just I) as hopelessly paranoid and pathetically reactive.

And so, I was presented with an article that was completely unrelated to the blog posts which had suprisingly touched more women that I thought they would.

Ah, the local papers. Perhaps bastions of education and knowledge should be found elsewhere.

As my experience has taught me, the journalists (as I suspect was the case for this article) and sometimes not to blame. Editors are pressured to sell the papers they direct - and sell they will.

But never the mind. I hope that one day, perhaps, some rights the women hold to would be taken far more seriously than they are now. And on a side note, that the AWARE debacle as presented in the local media would be replaced with a suggestion that the organisation has done more for women than our government perhaps has. And that rifts and in-fighting are, with any organisation, probably an unfortunate norm.

I once read about a pioneering female journalist known as Evelyn Cunningham. Something she once expressed will always remain with me: that women are the only oppressed group in society that lives in intimate association with their opressors.

So we live and learn intimately, perhaps, from the newspapers we read everyday. And for every editor who fails to stop up the daily, persistent trickle of prejudice, and who would rather fan the flames of diversionary controversy - shame on you.

Public place and private space - and wrong, wrong pictures.

I'm looking at this article and i'm thinking, wah seh this is geography.

Human geography, that is. I've been peeling at my eyelids trying to read a little bit more on voyeurism. And apparently, someone taking an authorised picture of you in a way that invades your modesty isn't quite so well-defined in developed nations/states outside of Singapore either. Florida, as an example, is cited as such in this Associated Press article. It's about a woman who finds a man snapping pictures of her (under her skirt) at Walmart, and while the offender is charged, his lawyer argues for it to be dismissed, saying:

"...a person does not have an expectation of privacy while shopping in a local store".

The article continues: "Privacy rights, Price suggested, do not extend beyond restrooms and fitting rooms.'

The attorney bolsters his case with the fact that "Florida's voyeurism law is vague and insufficient because it does not define 'public place'". So if I get this right, it's possible to argue for the fact that in public places (save for restrooms and fitting rooms), women (or men, should the case be) can't be expecting to exercise rights to privacy.

Ah, so I'm thinking: What about our public buses? MRTs? Lecture halls? You and I wouldn't disrobe in a lecture theatre, because it's clearly a public place. But by simply being in a "public" place, am I deprived of my rights to privacy?

In other words: Is it a crime to take pictures of my intimate areas only when I'm in the school's washroom? And if I return to the lecture hall thereafter and a fellow student reaches under to grab a pic, is he/she then free of being convicted?

We could possible take a cue from California, where the focus is "more on the individual privacy invasion than where the crime happened".

So, before I research further into this sorta thing, I need to remind myself what constitues voyeurism, and what doesn't. I'm perhaps a little guilty of it myself - at which point do we draw the line at private space and public permission?

So, for example, I photographed someone on a bad hair day, and am putting this up because while said photo was taken, he was ignoring me playing a game on a mobile phone. I bear evil grudges that way.



And then there's my lovely aunt, who found herself embarrassed trying to get used to chopsticks. She found herself very alone, because certain people whom I shall not name kept laughing at her. Okay, my dad. He is also quite evil that way.



And this picture has nothing to do with voyeurism at all. I had baby Joseph's complete consent.

What do our rights mean?

As all of you know from my girth and my pictures, this blog entails my obvious love for food. But the thought has crossed my mind that perhaps my life should be more than about a hundred and one ways to stuff a mushroom. So first off, I think, I should present this para to you for a quick read:

“Word or gesture intended to insult the modesty of a woman – Whoever, intending to insult the modesty of any woman, utters any word, makes any sound or gesture, or exhibits any object, intending that such word or sound shall be heard, or that such gesture or object shall be seen by such woman, or intrudes upon the privacy of such woman, shall be punished with imprisonment of up to one year, or with a fine, or with both”. – section 509 of Chapter XXII: Criminal intimidation, insult and annoyance, as stated in the Singapore Penal Code.

I know I said quick read - sorry about that. It wasn't quite a quick read for me either. All I think is, wah. I don’t know how lawyers do it, but words like these muddle me completely.

But I must tell you about a recent experience which first of all, made me look up this para on the Internet.

I was at an electronics store at Paya Lebar a couple of weeks ago, when a member of the staff took pictures of me in a voyeuristic fashion. My first reaction? A sense of embarrassment. My second was a sense of shame. I wanted to get away as fast as I could. I couldn't really explain why without delving into past histories. I explained to my bf Daryl that a man was busy taking pictures of my lower body. But if any of you know Daryl, you would know that we wouldn't be walking out without some sort of a commotion. The man was confronted, but there was no admission made. A couple of days later Daryl and I made our way down to the police station to make a statement.

What concerned me was this: the police weren't quite sure what should be done. Was my underwear exposed? the NSF policeman asked. (I'd previously mentioned my skirt had been blown up by a fan situated on the floor, and for all I know the man must have been waiting to capture another, related moment). Er, I said, I guess so. Are you sure it was exposed? he asked again. I recall feeling like I was on a very short fuse that had just about reached its end. YES IT WAS EXPOSED. Sigh.

I was then told that investigations could not proceed without a magistrate's order. Apparently, it doesn't constitute the sort of offence that would be investigated without direction from a judge. One harrowing experience at the courts later, I had the order to proceed. It might be a little inappropriate here to discuss the experience at the courts, for one reason that I'd possibly bore you, and for another, I think I would have to first read up on just what contempt of courts really means.

At Daryl's insistence, the case was resolved. I'm very thankful for his consistent reminders that my modesty and privacy meant something; that I hadn't done anything wrong and so should not feel a sense of shame, or else give into it; and that some sense of justice should come out of it.

I think my stomach was in a twist the entire day. But again, because of that support I had (also a million, billion and otherwise uncountable thanks to my friend S, currently with a law firm and who possesses frightening powers of cross-examination), I remember thinking that, alright then, bloody hell, I'm not going to wait for the police to begin an investigation. I should go ahead and have a look at the company's CCTV, point out the bit where he did the deed, and ask him square – with S’s help – if he would like to make a confession.

The man did confess, after having vainly tried to explain that really, he had been studiously attempting a picture of the ceiling. He was suspended for two weeks. A letter of apology was also sent to me. As much as it is now over, I hold out a distant hope that he should turn from his ways, and realise that women shouldn't be treated like meat at a market.

So after this very long story, the points I wish to make are as such:

1. I think we need to know where this context figures in the policing of our society. According to an officer I spoke with, outrage of modesty (molest and beyond) is treated with the requisite urgency. It is otherwise for what he classified as an "insult of modesty" - the definition of which you'll see doesn't quite fit squarely with what he claimed it to be. But urgency is not my concern as such - my question is, why does it seem to me like absolutely nothing is done about it in the first place? As a case in point, you may at your own choosing surf a couple of local websites. Search the category entitled "candid", and see how many convent girls have their pictures taken with what I can only assume to be an absence of permission, and put up for a million men to see, to rate and to grade. Likewise so for women in MRTs, in the lifts, standing in a bookshop. The physical contexts span a number of locations, but the intent is the same: to capture, to expose, to get aroused over and in the process, to degrade a woman who gave no permission or consent for her picture to be used, and to be used in such a fashion. And no-one is caught, for as it seems, they are not recognised as having committed an offence.
   
   2. We also need to know: how does our system of policing - and on a wider level, our system of law - respond to the vagaries of exposed modesties on the internet? Is this a crime? Does it count, and if it does, why is nothing much done about it? The police have explained that my case is classifiable as an insult to modesty. The extract of the chapter as outlined above, however, would perhaps apply more to the victim of a flasher than anybody else. And yet, my situation would not be classified as the other, closest alternative: an outrage to modesty. This is because only a case that displays actions as outlined in s. 354. of Chapter XVI: Offences affecting the human body (you may view this at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penal_Code_(Singapore)#Criminal_force_and_assault), would really be classified as such, for it must involve criminal force or physical assault. So I ask: where does this particular crime (or what I deem to be a crime) lie? Is it definable as an offence? And if it were, why is this definition not clear to women like you and I? You may head straight to the police after an arrest. And as for rape, it is thankfully accepted knowledge that the woman has suffered a crime. But I ask – what about women in the situation as outlined above?
   
   3. And lastly, education. First off, we need to ask: do women know their rights? I have often wondered why knowledge of the Penal Code, human rights and, naturally, women's rights, are not explored in the schools. Or at the community centres, where you may find middle aged ladies wondering how they should respond to an abusive husband. Or in this instance, for the convent school girl who sees a man taking a voyeuristic picture up her uniformed skirt, and does not know how to act.

Do not act as I did, which was a. to feel shame and embarrassment, and b. to walk away. Walk towards the person who attempts to defile you, insult you and degrade you (unless of course, he is on the physical attack). Challenge what he obviously deems to be either perfectly acceptable, and/or perfectly stimulating, and demand that your pictures be deleted, and that task be done before you. If it is refused, and if the person becomes aggressive, go to the police. There is, however, a great big But.

You will, as in my experience, be presented with the idea that they don't know what to do. Then you'll be led to the subordinate courts, where you'll go before a magistrate, re-tell an incident which has been emotionally traumatising and invasive, and wait and hope that your case will be heard and the police will be allowed to act. If that doesn't happen, then I'm sorry.

But do not keep silent, as I once did. Please use your voice to defend, to challenge and to declare that your rights and the law which seeks to protect them must be clearly defined. I will make every effort - as I hope you do - to ask that authorities pay attention to the ongoing outrage of women's and young girls' modesties that happens on the Internet every day, with every upload and with every click to view.

La Traviata!

Look there, it's the marching dessert people! They tear down the walls of ivory tower hypocrisy and set the unwitting captives free from their own lives of colourless bourgeois! LIBERA!

Ignore the fact they look like Ku Klux men.



Fabulous.

The Chinese New Year

If you summarise the Chinese New Year in a fruit, you'd wind up with a pineapple. A glorious, yellow-gold pineapple. If pineapple really brought gold into my household, I'd be planting more of these in my backyard. But as of now, we only have one plant that gently delivers one fruit every few months. I secretly whisper into its leaves at night and try to coax it into giving me triplets. No, acutally, I don't. But I'm sure I disturbed you a little there.



It's the new year, and considering my family does have a thing for sausages, we went on a small lap cheong spree. Unlike most people, we aren't really averse to angina. So we purchased 14 of these sweetly seasoned rods of fatty meat, and it was with distinct sadness that I had to pass half of that quantity on to my boyfriend.



Then there is the new year kitsch. Oh kitsch, lovely kitsch. What could we do without fish made of sweet glutinous rice? A sentence, again, that would not appear in any other place or time frame, save for Chinese New Year in a Chinese-ish country.



And then there was Melaka, which has preserved the pineapple tart and various other goodie-making culture better than we have. But we were stuffed from too much pre-CNY feasting. So we walked along the narrow, narrow streets where cars threaten to run you into a drain every five minutes or so. And old ladies stand at the side of the road, watching the tourists go by and thinking "oh those blithering souvenir-buying idiots again". And we bought souvenirs.



Have a glorious new year everyone, but more importantly, a blessed year to come.

Love, Sim.