Down the Tips of Withering Leaves

She knows not how sweet intoxication flows,

like the inexplicable trickle of rain,

down the tips of withering leaves

a moment where she run out of words,

is perhaps a time the smiles mean all but hollow,

and to find peace means to think of it no more,

but a void isn't easy,

despite the lyrics of many songs

and to find solace is through the words of the ancient

where peace comes with the intent of submission

and it dribbles to a quiet

hearing only the sound of an exhale

laden with intention

to hush a turbulent soul.

A Nonchalant Impression

It is far away,
a place where a silver shimmers
lies between two worlds;
one glaringly familiar,
while the other whispers a symphony to the senses.

I have to go there sometimes,
by breaking through a delicate border,
just to distant the notions from order,
and breathe with a purpose,
in a moment
where the perfect dance wafts far from the imaginary
and the drops of whiskey
melt like honey on the tongue,
and the room fills with warmth
from the smiles of all who are dear
that have been treading faithfully
along the same trek
and the sunsets glows in a golden hue
as time becomes a nonchalant impression

I go there sometimes,
but it really isn’t that far away.

Shark Tales - Bahamas 2012

Shark Tales

Three to four dives each day, over nine days… … at the same site. No, it is not a dive itinerary gone wrong; it is because we were at the Bahamas, scuba diving at a site called ‘Fish Tales’ and we were part of a story of how gravely misunderstood predators of the seas were.

On our way to the Bahamas, Michael, our expedition captain, issued to us a rubber wrist band with a smartly embossed caption that read ‘Sharks are friends’. While some recited the slogan with scepticism, others speculated if the sharks we were about to meet, were in fact, literate.

Any doubts, however, played little part in our minds as we felt compelled to leap into the water, albeit several lemon sharks conspicuously patrolling the surface. The sharks were, after all, the reason we travelled 30 arduous hours across the globe (stopped over at Miami for a bit of shopping) and braved the Caribbean Sea (while playing cards and snacking titbits) for a date with apex predators. Not to mention, lugging around scuba and photography equipment an ounce shy of being you-gotta-be-freaking-kidding-me-heavy.

Lemon sharks get their name for being overtly jealous when scuba divers do not give them sufficient attention – no, not really, but it would have been a good story.

The first dive with the lemon sharks felt somewhat like going on a blind date in a foreign country. We did not quite know how to make first contact; do we blow some bubbles? Shake a fin? Or offer a universally-accepted body gesture that we came in peace? Amidst our awkward endeavours to make acquaintance, one thing quite evident was that the lemon sharks had as much interest in us as a student savings account. Forget about Spielberg and the John William’s two-noted jingle, the lemons were so shy we had to stalk them like a cat just to take a good picture.

Dives at Fish Tales started on day 2 and we anchored ourselves there for the rest of the expedition. Each day, more sharks gathered and by day 9, we had about 40 sharks hobnobbing with us that it felt almost like we were at a law firm. The nurse sharks were coy, although shameless when it comes to feeding off bait that may fall out of the crates used to attract them. The Caribbean reef sharks were elegant as they slithered through the waters. They appeared to get increasingly accustomed (or resigned) to our relentless attempts to stroke their bellies. The lemon sharks had little respect for personal space. They would wriggle between our legs and brush against our shoulders as if swimming around us was not an option. Sometimes a lemon would just park itself beneath our feet to receive a hug. I gave a passing lemon shark a kiss but ideals of romance were short-lived as my lips felt like they were exfoliated against industrial-strength sandpaper.

And there were the tiger sharks.

When a tiger shark is in the vicinity, you could feel its presence before you could see it. The tiger is cautious, and would emerge from the shadows at the corner of your eye. The other sharks make way when a tiger approaches. The tiger stamps its authority with its sheer size and majesty; there can be no mistake that it is the apex predator of the Caribbean waters.

There was an incident that gave us a timely reminder that despite our growing comfort interacting with the sharks, we were, after all in feral territory.

It was 11 a.m., we were diving with the usual school of Caribbean reef and lemon sharks until the currents began to pick up. The visibility consequently dropped and curtains of shadows formed to set the perfect milieu for the tiger shark to make its presence felt. Not one, but three tiger sharks prudently circled us; a group of six divers. As the visibility continued to fade, the tiger sharks inched closer towards the crate of bait that sat in the middle of the divers. Before we knew it, the tiger sharks dropped caution to the wind and were swimming amongst us. There was a strange sense of false security as the divers soaked-in the rare opportunity of having tiger sharks so up close and personal. We maintained eye-contact with the tigers (as instructed) but realised that the tigers’ attention was solely on the bait crate. Visibility dropped further. As we were busy taking photographs of the magnificent creatures, one tiger shark decided that the plastic bait crate was too enticing to leave alone. The tiger dived towards the crate with its jaws wide opened and gnawed the bait crate whole. It shook its head fiercely a few times to rip open the crate, but nothing gave way. The commotion stirred up the sandy bottom and exacerbated the visibility. We could barely see our respective dive buddies who were only a few meters from us.

The tiger shark made a second attempt. Inexplicably, it drew the excited divers even closer towards the action with cameras ready, oblivious to the fact that there were another two tiger sharks in close proximity. The bait crate was battered this time. The crate found itself between the jaws of the unrelenting tiger shark. In one solid crunch, the plastic crate shattered like twigs of toothpicks in an ear-splitting snap! Bait, in the form of dead fish scattered like confetti. The sharks around us, all 30 of them got into a feeding frenzy. Shark was attacking shark. The floor stirred into a mini sandstorm. We knew that we were in a bit of a predicament; the sharks could not see us, and we smelled like dead fish.

I backed my scuba tank against my buddy’s and we were fending of sharks with our underwater cameras (bless the 8.5” dome port I bought for the trip!). The three tiger sharks got way too close for comfort. With their eyes partially closed, we knew that we were no longer in a petting zoo. We used our camera ports to press against the nose of the tigers and in one occasion, my buddy had to reach out with his hand to push a sniffing tiger away.

The dive master signalled that we needed to ascend to the boat. We did, finning backwards to see a school of 20 sharks tailing us. Amanda, a professional underwater photographer, exclaimed as she surfaced “what the heck was that?!” We all took a moment to let the heartbeat settle before bursting into utter exhilaration. We were safe, and we had a story to tell for a very long time to come.

Oh, we went back into the water two hours later when the visibility cleared up. The sharks were calm again, and we got back to stroking the bellies of the lemon sharks.

South Africa, Sardine Run 2011

“I will be spending an arm and a leg so that I may swim with live sardines.”

After convincing my family that I have not lost another marble, I packed my bags for South Africa with little idea what adventure laid ahead of me; save a sketchy impression from BBC Nature. Fast forward two weeks later and I am now siting at home taking a quiet moment to let the whole experience marinate inside. I find myself still catching my breath from the residue of awe, thrill, exhilaration and memories that will manifest stories over a beer for many years to come.

We dived with Blacktip and Spinner sharks. It was not so much about having a school of sharks brushing against our wetsuits that made us jittery, but it was the pre-dive briefing that made us feel like we were about to jump into a scene from a Spielberg production.

“If you do not stand your ground, they will bite you.”
“If you turn around, they will bite you.”
“If you wear anything reflective, they will bite you.”
“If you don’t yell at them (as Jessica did), they will bite you.”

The pre-dive briefing served as a timely reminder that we were entering feral territory. Mustering a nice blend of courage and curiosity, we back-rolled into the waters with 30 awaiting sharks. Once the nerves calmed however, it surfaced a realisation of how majestic and elegant these creatures were. Fear paved way to awe, and quietly transcended to reverence.

Incidentally, days after our shark dive, we received news that a marine biologist was attacked by a wandering Dusky Shark. It was at the same site we dived. The diver survived, but he lost his right calf. News of that incident invited a surreal feeling; one not of fear, but of solemn respect. It is a respect that shall dwell within us for future scuba diving endeavours.

And there was the Sardine Run – It was no longer YouTube clips that we catch glimpses of during lunch breaks; or snippets of NatGeo Wild on late-night cable. We were there! We were there to soak in the majesty of nature’s wonder – we were witnesses to an oceanic concerto; a marine orchestra of predators and prey.

Thousands of dolphins surrounded our boat. The skies darkened with birds (Cape Garnets) and pots of Humpbacks and Bryde’s Whale scattered across the beating waves. The sardines appeared. What was placid at first exploded into a mad feeding frenzy – synchronized whistling of dolphins sparked coordinated attacks; Garnets bombed into the waters in a ferocious air-raid; Cormorants frantically preyed on sardines that broke away from the shoal; lurking Copper Sharks and an occasional Dusky would make their appearance from deep; one in particular attacked our skipper; he was fine with only some bite marks on his scuba tank which he showed off in a booming laughter. We hugged our underwater camera and video sets and hastily put the hardware to work. Nevertheless, no footage would capture the personal experience of being spectators to the greatest show (or shoal) on Earth.

The afternoons were spent rejuvenating the sea legs and experiencing South Africa beyond the oceanic stage. We rode horses (although YP’s noble stead resembled a donkey) across vast beaches and trod over coastal hills. We did a little Safari drive-through, although we shamelessly took more pictures of ourselves than of the animals. We hiked (actually a 10 mins walk) across rivers, leapt over boulders (okey, they were small gaps in between) for a panoramic view of towering waterfalls. Boon was particularly pleased with his aviation exchanges with Larry, our microlight pilot, who took us on a scenic flight over Mbotyi, the Wild Coast. We had a spiritual encounter with the village witch doctor (Jessica even did a little dance with the lucky bugger). We gave away lollies to the village children who beamed with such joy that it warmed our hearts albeit the wintery winds.

So as I sit here in reminiscence of the two-week trip, I am confident that I didn’t lose any marbles over my decision to visit South Africa. I had an adventure of a lifetime. We lost some stuff, as travellers would; a dive knife; an orange fleece; a pair of a sunglasses during a break-in (yes, there was a notable incident of a burglary); an underwater camera (the drama of it is best left for the owner to share himself); a carton of cigarettes (YP’s tragedy of the trip); and a box of disposal underwear (all in ascending order of importance).

In retrospect, what we have lost pales into an insignificant footnote in comparison with what we have gained. Perhaps as how my dive buddy, YP articulates,

“now there will be more volume (literally), when we speak about diving.”

Between Here and There

Perhaps there seem to be some continuity
in an ironic change of pace,
only to be conflicted
where the signs contradict each other.

There is a surreal feeling
in a way where time seems to stand still,
as if there is neglect
and the dust settles in utter stillness
unperturbed in an impending disturbance
only to find a status quo revealing itself later

I am sombre
yet I am unfazed

it is the essential ingredient
to a disaster like one experienced not too long ago
like a ripple in a puddle
formed along a concrete pavement
ignored by the self-indulgent
and trampled over by the self-righteous

Logic is like a defining facet
that disagrees with emotive response
to reason beyond what would normally be considered awkward
I stand somewhere in the middle
uncaring towards the pressures I have imposed
ironically, upon myself

Song from the Cubicle

Singing.....

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
handwritten letters and mosquitos get beaten,
brown paper packages with a blue diamond ring,
these are a few of my favourite things.

When the boss barks,
when the bills sting,
when I'm going mad,
I simply devour my favourite drink
and then I won't feel......
..... so bad

.... lalala lala la lala la lala....."

Wonder of the New World

From the Straits Times today:
"World to Vote on Nature’s Top Wonders

GENEVA: The Grand Canyon, Mount Everest and Loch Ness will vie with more than 200 other spectacular places in the next phase of the global competition for the New 7 Wonders of Nature, organisers said yesterday.

Singapore's Bukit Timah Nature Reserve is one of the 261 nominees from 222 countries”

I can’t decide if I should laugh or cry when I read this. A jogging track with a couple of misfit monkeys running to be one of the wonders of the world. Against the likes of the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, Bukit Timah is like wood shavings of recycled timber from a dead log somewhere in Tasmania.

I reckon if Singapore really wants to submit an entry to bid for the wonder of the world, we will do well representing the new phenomenon that is sweeping across our urban landscape like a majestic tsunami – ERP gantries.

Mount Everest in all its magnificence cannot compete with the ERP for the daily impact it has on the lives of millions. The Loch Ness for all its serenity pales before the ERP’s quiet efficiency to touch the souls and wealth of the people. The Niagara Falls for all its intensity falls shy before the ferocity and frenzy of the ERP, as it gate-keeps all who bow before its wrath.

It’s a given, ERP will no doubt be crowned the new wonder of the world.

Time to head home and have my life touched by the mercy of the ERP.

Here's to a brand new year

I was out last night for a New Year’s eve-eve celebration. A New Year’s eve-eve celebration is a cheaper alternative to a new year’s eve celebration and less intoxicating because you need to work the next day. Being out on a work night was probably the most rebellious thing I’ve done since I took white bread for breakfast instead of whole meal.

It was a great night out and I feel alive again, in a strange way because my body is sore as a petulant brat who didn’t get enough Christmas presents. For some strange reason the live band decided to play quite few cha-cha numbers and I couldn’t keep those hips from swaying. Life can be dreary but music always picks it up.

This year will be a bit different because as my father always put it, I’ll be counting sheep rather than counting down. Have an early plane to catch to Hanoi on the first day of 2009. It will be a unique way to spend New Year’s day on a plane, but it will be nice to be greeted by a familiar face when I land.

Just hoping that this will mark to a bright new start to the new year.

Prune Juice

I must have forgotten how to write. 03 July 08 was my last entry and I have hardly written a single word since – not a poem, not a nursery rhyme and not a blog entry. Actually, I have written a poem two weeks ago when I was feeling introspective sitting at a café past midnight. The emotions swelled and I scribbled on an ordering note with broken-tipped pencil. It probably was a masterpiece if I remembered to take the note with me when I left the café. I can only assume that the poem now sits in a state of recycled material disguised as a roll of China-branded toilet paper.

I can go on about why the muse of the pen left me but it is for the same reasons that I have not been writing. It is a new life that I lead where the passion for the arts is reduced to spending silly money on inflated theatre tickets dressed as a nonconformist. Time is spent watching figures on the stock market rise and fall rather than digesting nuances of artistry in places which I have unwittingly neglected. In the midst of it all, I become a rodent in a massive race to stand out from the crowd, only to find myself manifest into the product of a cookie cutter ironically because of my endeavours to be different.

This pretty much sets the tone of where I stand.

I figured that if were to rant about life, I rather not do so in my blog. Privacy has become an issue where anonymity has become as scarce as free parking. Often what is felt reflects a particular moment but when written in words portrays an enduring impression. In other words, I have become cautious about what I write. There appears to be too much to lose thus words have to be written with some care.

The year of 2008 has been trying to say the least. 08’ marks a chapter of a new book that no longer resembles a graphic novel. It is not as melodramatic as a Korean soap opera but not as dull as self-help books. It is a mix between tap-dancing and being clueless about how to tap dance – not really sure what that means but it sounds momentarily clever.

If I were to reflect, my highlight of the year 2008 was prune juice. Yes prune juice. I read about its properties as a natural detoxant but goodness have I underestimated its effects. Powerful stuff. One that gives such an experience that I shall now coin the term a 'Royal Flush' to describe the knees-weakening encounter.

As much as this entry begins with incoherent chain of thoughts, I feel it shall only be appropriate to conclude with no sense at all. Thus I pen off with one food for thought.

Prune juice.

A Boy and His Tie

Once there was a boy
who wanted to wear a tie.
But he can’t differentiate his neck from his ankle
and his left toe from his eye.
So he sat there looking silly
not sure where his tie should fit;
a yellow dotted tie,
with pretty orange bits.

Along came Miss Vern
who lent the boy a hand.
The boy gleefully hugged Miss Vern,
as one would hug a friend.

Miss Vern twisted and turned
but could not get it right.
Yanked and pulled did Miss Vern
but the knot would not stay tight.

It was rather apparent,
that Miss Vern did not have a clue.
The boy was being stifled
and his face was turning blue,

When Miss Vern eventually gave up
she smartly released the cord.
But it was just a little too late,
the boy was stiff as a board.

Everyone was sorry about the accident
but none were terribly distraught.
Said the police to Miss Vern,
that it really was not her fault.

Perhaps the boy did not need to die
if he just knew how to dress.
For one who would wear such a tie
probably deserved nothing less.