Rural Jurong

Escaping the clutches of the comforts of home, I jump on my bicycle to try out the new Park Connectors to see where they link to. I took the nearest entrance and went wild, exploring places I've haven't been to in years. Really feels great to cycle peacefully, without any distractions, cars, people, whatnot. The path looks abandoned though, a pity. More people should use the park connectors, which will lead to more of them being built! A bicycle highway, stretching all across the country, what fun!

Uh oh, road block. This wasn't here when I last came; my favourite railway bridge is blocked! Now I'm cut off from the other side of the park connector! A pity, I wanted to cycle to Clementi from here, a less stressful route then the usual. I can still squeeze past, but I'll have to carry my bike across, not so fun when it weights a fair bit. I crunch through the lalang, where my bicycle awaits me in all its shining glory. But I know that it's a pain to maintain, wielded by monkeys and fixed up by gorillas. But it doesn't take away its splendour as I behold it through the grass. Until the next maintenance schedule...

Onwards to Bukit Batok then, since the way to Clementi is blocked. On one side, the products of capitalism, tall buildings, offices, factories and containers. On the other, tall grasses, the remnants of a once vibrant forest. Cool and peaceful, only rotting railings and concrete banks mark it out as a canal instead of a river. Riding past the canal, I see the water level falling falling falling till its a trickle(?) The (mostly) dry canal entices me to take a walk down to explore, like the old days. Cartoon figures bearing stern messages signs along the pathways beseech me to think otherwise. I cycle on.

What ho! I spy three kids playing in the dry canal, sliding along the sides slippery with moss into the water. The air is filled with laugher and joy as they carry out their simple pleasures. They remind me of a past that wasn't too far removed from what they're doing, happier and simpler times. Headless of the dirt and injuries, they run down, gathering speed for a slippery slide into the water. Grey factory buildings; concrete, utilitarian and square, loom over them, a ghost of the future.

Up, up and away! Easier said then done, especially on a single speed steel roadster weighting about a hundred tons on the upslope. But where there's an upside there's a downside and I gather speed while moderating with careful applications of the brakes and a sharp lookout for obstacles. Signs on the side exhort me to get off and push, a thousand dollars in fine if not. I whizz past said signs without a care, paying as much heed to them as they do to me.

Bukit Batok, here we are! Yet I have a journey more to return home. Spending not a minute there I head on back home; the journey, not the destination the real pleasure. On my way back I encounter a heartwarming scene, a little boy cyclist rushing in aid of a fellow cyclist, his friend, whose chain has popped off the crank. Slowing down to give them space, I'm shocked to behold their size. Was I ever so small? So little? How did I manage to grow this big? Gods' grace indeed. Looking again at the little men, one chinese and the other malay, they remind me of times past when I did just the same. Cycling around with Fadhli with me, Liang Liang on the other side, as we took all obstacles in our stride, pedalling onwards till the day grows dim and even beyond. Alas alas, the bulldozers come, chewing up our homes; an obstacle we unfortunately could not withhold. But a good memory it remains and one that brings a smile on my face even as I cycle by towards home.

Down and up, left and right, the path now familiar. Another sight once was familiar but strange now to see; a chicken, yes a chicken strutting for all to see! Spotted it down the canal, innocuous in its presence. No bigger then a pigeon, black as charcoal but no stranger to me. It brings back yet more pleasant memories of roosters as beloved pets. It looks up as I past by it but doesn't utter a sound. As I stop and look back it carries on its task. I smile and carry on.

Last stop, Jurong Library, its cool air welcoming to all. I park my bicycle nearby as I stroll to a favourite seat, all but collapsing into it. Taking advantage of the excellent air-conditioning, I cool down before beginning a hunt for books. Some successful, some not so, I haul my catch to the counter and scan them in. Taking the time to secure them to my bicycle, I set off to my last destination, home.

Darker and darker it grows, my lamp chasing away the shadows, its white ghostly glare lighting the way home. I finally reach my door step, my journeys' end. As I enter, I let in fond memories and ghosts of the past yet of the present. They gather around and tell me of a time not so long ago, of a Jurong not of steel and concrete, but of brimming jungle and muddy swamp.

Rural Jurong.

Its been a while, thanks for waiting.

Cycling Expedition!

Well, not quite. Was on an impulse cycle around the neighbourhood today; didn't expect much, just hoping for a workout. Was supposed to cycle to the city for a test run but was lazy so this short trip was in compensation.

Didn't tire till the end of the course, averaging 25-30km/h weaving through the throng of people around Jurong Park. Then I came to the stop point where I last turned around due to the lack of light, pressing ahead I went onto an abandoned road and on till I came to a loop with an abandoned jetty at the side.

Abandoned jetty! The excitement in me grew as I approached with great expectations... To no avail. It was all fenced up and no exploration could be done. The spindly concrete piers and the forlorn steps leading to the open ground (the wooden flooring long since rotted through or removed) looked cool though, so it was frustrating to see and not being able to touch; but I managed to frighten a foreign worker nearby. It must have been my brand new Birkenstocks.

Moving on, I took a wrong turn and ended up along a semi abandoned stretch of road, connecting the former glories of the Japanese/Chinese Garden, several eateries and a turtle(!) farm. Now only the turtle farm and a few scattered eateries remain, the rest reverting to grassland with the odd patch of asphalt and decaying fences holding the ground. I cycled into a eatery/KTV outlet, still shorn in its gaudy 1970's heritage, imagining the time where only the well heeled (and amply endowed) parked inside, the rest having to fight for the lesser spaces outside. Now only the fading neon lights (Chivas 12 years, XO Martin) sigh at the glories long past.

I moved on, bypassing more empty lots, dreaming of lost places and imagining a better time. No trouble, I had the entire road to myself, not a car was present while I was on the road selfishly hogging two lanes to myself. I passed by an old eatery (excellent zi char, really must push my parents to return there for another meal) and a quaint old public toilet, straight from the pages of a 1970s' photo album. DO NOT TAKE WATER FROM THIS OUTLET, says the fading blue and white sign. The combined urinals, still proudly bearing their manufacturers' logos (so and so from Manchester, England, a relic from our colonial linkage) Chrome tapes polished by a million hands. Those awful squat toilets, hell to pay on the knees, with the water closets reaching to the ceiling. As I looked back, I could see my father at my age, walking out from the toilet, shaking the water from his hands onto the floor like how I did, climbing onto his motorbike and riding away. Nothing has changed from the scenery, except ourselves.

I wonder how long more can I enjoy this memory, what with the redevelopment of Jurong Lake park to a Hotel and lifestyle district. Hotels in Industrial Jurong! Mr Goh Keng Swee must be ever so proud at his little redeveloped swamp land.

I pedal on. A red structure caught my eye, a rope pyramid! And beside it, a skateboard park! Currently used by a toddler trying to scramble up the sides of the curve. Those skaters using the overhyped scape youth park would be better served using these facilities closer to home, honing up those skills before showing off in the city. But onto the Rope Pyramid! Scrambling up the sides like a little kid before lying on the ropes to enjoy the view and the breeze, what fun. Looking at my bicycle from above, all shiny in black and chrome (and sandy/muddy tires) makes me realise that yes, it has been far too long away from the saddle, away from the excitement, away from the thrill that used to drive me.

I miss my first real bicycle, a 100000kg steel Martin bike. With its cheesy SHIMANO logo (but with the cheapest components in place), no doubt remade into cars and tableware after I abandoned it for a life of computer games. No doubt I have spent the last few months repenting, cleaning up bike and bike parts from other similar abandoned bicycles. Their owners leaving them from another love, and I, picking up the pieces, restoring them to their former glories.

Then it was time to go back, whizzing on the asphalt again, past joggers, past other cyclists, past couples. jiggle through cars, up the ramp and down again. My legs are aching, my back strained, my heart is racing and I think:

So when's the next time?

Ride on.

th-ink

Thoughts and connections, frustrations and setbacks, ending in realization and liberation. Sometimes the mind has to be controlled, its hand held like a naughty boy, to prevent it from running down a metaphorical busy street.

Because with freedom and liberty comes a lack of discipline, structure and organisation. Ironically the things we fight most to break out of is the very thing we long for. The jail cell we thought we were in; a villa in actuality.
But what controls the mind? Can the mind control the mind, fighting it out like a endless civil war? Or are external factors, influences beyond our sight that are directing this charade, sitting behind a throne playing chess, playing out the pieces that comprise our lives.

But in the end, who gave them this power over us, if not voluntarily; in pursuit of dreams, goals, religion, fashion, love, sex, money.

th-ink. My thoughts out on electronic ink.

End-Joy

Pretty much sums up my Taiwan Trip.

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$200 & Pride

Attained a marksmanship award during my Advanced Train fire Package. Total score 31/36. Coincidentally, I attained a score of 31/32 during my Basic Train fire Package back on the Island. Some things never change?

The difference is, besides the lower % score, I get to wear a 30c piece of cloth with crossed rifles. Specifically, Lee Enfield No.4 rifles, the rifles used by the British Army during WW2 and very accurate and effective weapons. A legacy of our colonial times imprinted in olive and black thread. (Its amazing how much information - useless it may be - one collects over a period of time.

What's more enticing is the $200 bounty attached to the award, slightly less then half of what we servicemen get, so its pretty decent indeed. Should have a shoot every month if it were up to me.

Predictably, some didn't quite make the grade and lost the opportunity to wear the badge or get the money. Others won the badge but because of re-shoots lost the chance of the money. But for most of us, the cloth badge wasn't part of the scheme of things at all. The $200 though, was very much in our minds.

A lack of pride? Not quite. A lack of proper motivation is how I see it. Being a small cog in a very big machine means you're often left alone. Most of the time, this is a good thing as we men can fly under the radar. However, it also means you're up for all the hard labour, mental work and general labour. The word "saikang" or literally, clearing up fecal matter, comes into mind. This is not too bad unless you consider the general lack of concern and understanding we are given. This is true among the sgt and officer class although they also get more ways to take care of themselves. Privilege of rank.

Pampered? Perhaps, but in all the wrong ways. The spring mattress, washing machines and electronic teaching aids are nice but common decency between men (more intelligent punishments, less tekans, less heavy handedness), proper allocation of roles (to make use of our individual strengths), more explanations to let us see the bigger picture (do and die, don't ask why - so last gen-) and general understanding between everyone from general to private will make everything better. It'll even feel good sleeping on even the sponge and spring contraption of yesteryear when you are imbued with a sense of purpose and belonging in the fabric of this nation. Then maybe Prime Ministers won't have to implore citizens for leaving the country and generals worrying that their National Servicemen will cut and run instead of heeding the call to arms.

Its been a mixed response to my first 8 months as a soldier. I have experienced plenty, gone through much and will go through more. When I relegate my uniform to the closet, will I remember to don it once again when my country calls?

Or will the passport and the car keys be more handy? Hmm.

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Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld from M1.

Unintended consequences

Friday. Book out day. Also area cleaning day. As my bunk mates and I tidy up our little home away from home, trading cleaning secrets and discussing future purchases of cleaning equipment, a sudden line of thought sparked:

"If nothing else, the Army is a very effective teacher of cleaning."

Doing 20 push ups for a speck of dust is very motivational to get the right tools and skills to combat dust and dirt. Even items like vacuum cleaners, Magiclean mops, wonder sponges (I kid you not, and it really works!) find their way into our bunks. Through painful trial and error we have also learnt how to polish windows, toilet bowls, urinals and scrub floors of boot stains. Officers, Sergeants, Men; all went through it before and have their own secret method to clean.

My friend returns, complaining that the only mop on our level has been misappropriated, probably by the guys at level 5. He storms up the stairs to liberate it as I note down in our purchase book: "Next book out, remember to buy mop and pail"


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Watching paint dry

The paint on my bicycle frame is takes a week to dry! What's up with that! Isn't drying its only job? Its Unbelievable that paint can chow keng (slack off)!

Outsourcing the whole affair to the pros for a proper powder coating. That should solve matters for a good long time.


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Running (wild)

Did 10:06 for my 2.4km today. Hmm, not too bad considering my relaxed schedule and that I have been averaging 10:30 - 11:10 for the past few days. Last time I did 09:55 was in BMT and in H(ell)awk company so things has improved, thank goodness. Not going to let the flab win the fight!

My bike is now in a terrible condition, the paint refuses to dry on the damned thing even though it has been days... I have been yearning to ride for such a long time that I forget how it has been to sit on the saddle and gun it out, just like the old days. I guess what I miss the most is the sense of freedom cycling presents you, aggravated by the National Service.

5km run tomorrow. I dread the feeling but know that once my feet pound the asphalt it takes a life of its own. Never mind the sweat, the ache, the pounding of my heart as I take the slope; chasing the wind, that's the only thing that matters for now.

Running wild. And free.


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Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld from M1.

random short.

I woke up from a dream with a start, my mind shifting gears like a racing car to get me back to speed. My limbs felt stiff after lying at an awkward position for too long. The harsh air con seared my throat while I was resting and now felt as if it was sandpaper. The air, cold and stale rubbed past the sandpaper in my throat. I need to take a breather, I thought, out of this damned coffin.

Stumbling from the truck, The air was cold and moist, clinging to me like a damp towel after showering. The sunlight was heavily filtered through the thick clouds, creating an almost halo like glow around the surrounding vehicles. It was almost like I was in Langkawi, back on a beach resort I've been to when I was 10. Of course, I wasn't in Langkawi, but on a hilltop and just climbed out of a command centre perched on a truck, not a luxurious beachfront hotel.

I leaned against the splotchy, olive green surface. It felt cool, despite the late hour. Men in green, like myself, scurry all over other vehicles, adjusting antennas, set up cables and go about their routine, while I observe them like as if they were in an exhibit in a museum or projected out on a large screen in a movie.

If this was really a movie, I would have lit a cigarette; watching the thin, wispy smoke trail swirl around until it was blown away by the wind while taking in the cold air and the gentle breeze. However it wasn't a movie. I wasn't observing a exhibit, but was part of it. Observed by others crowded in the sky, watching how our little lives play out.


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temporary reprive

Its raining now, manna from the sky dropping on the parched earth. Dry grass soaking up its goodness, trees sigh their relief.

We stay in bunk, temporary confinement, as we wait out the weather. The cool breeze blows through, emitting their siren call. We, mere men, powerless again their magic, heed their call; to rest, to sleep.

Our men in their rooms, our sergeants, plot our doom, our ruin. Other men in green plough through the jungle, soaked to the bone, chilled to the heart. The siren call goes unheeded, blocked out by the shouting of the RSM and their own pounding heart, as they trek to one checkpoint after another.

But we lie in our bunks, books, phones, PSPs in our hands, knowing all too well it is a temporary reprive. An uneasy settlement.


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