Oh, Canalah?

Don't lose your head over the small stuff

There is a variety of reasons the days fly by and I seem to get nothing accomplished. When my children were babies, it was the same, except I was waiting for a baby to wake, waiting for a baby to sleep, waiting for a baby to eat, and finally waiting while my puke-stained clothes washed. In Singapore however, I seem to be waiting for the sun, waiting for the rain, waiting to chat with my Canadian friends, waiting to tell my Singapore friends about my Canadians friends, and finally waiting while my sweat-stained clothes wash.

One in every three days I am held up by an almost identical conversation when I do manage to get to a store. The conversation almost always goes like this:

Where are you from, lah?

Me: "Do you have minced chicken?" I learned the hard way not to ask for ground meat because they invariably look down at the floor and wonder why I want chicken from underfoot.

Them: "No, lah. Where you from? Australia?"

Me: "No, guess again," to which every country is named and I shake my head back and forth until my brains start to rattle.

Them: "England, lah? Sweden, lah? Scotland, lah? New Zealand, lah? United States of America, lah? Germany, lah?" And on it goes. 

When I start to lose my patience and sweat drips from every crack, crevice, fat roll and pore onto the ground beneath me, I finally reply, "Canada, for the love of God, Canada." I really don't say the God thing, but in my mind I am screaming. 

Canada always gets a quizzical stare and when the lightbulb goes off, they repeat, "Ayio, Ka-NA-da!" because I am certain I have been saying Canada wrong for all these years. 

Are you from Russia, lah?

Then the game concludes:

Them: "Toronto, lah? Vancouver, lah?"

Me: "No, no, Sa SKAT chew wan."

Them: "Oh, never heard of it lah, and no minced chicken for you, maybe tomorrow. Next!"

Off I glow to another store and the Country-lah game begins again.

Like the game, and why they say lah at the end of most sentences, I am as curious about Singaporeans as they are about me, but Canadian manners prevent me from asking. I don't ask how much they make, if they work, how much their house cost, what the rent on their condo is, if their spouse cheats on them and if they have a sports car. These are only a handful of questions asked of me since I landed on the Little Red Dot. 

The Merlion, not my neighbor

One of the most burning questions I have is of a mysterious neighbor and his guttural sounds. Try as I may, I can't locate the source of this disturbance, but without fail, I know he is nearby every morning at 7:30.

Some people have the luxury of waking up to dreamlike music, some a buzzing alarm, and some even have a real-time rooster crowing for that back-to-nature experience.  Oh, but not Layna and definitely not R2. We are the unfortunate conferrees of waking to, well, the only way I can describe the noise, is your college roommate after 12 beers, two tequila shots, a plateful of greasy pizza and a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Yes, that is the sound, every morning at 7:30. It isn't just one Tilt-a-Hurl either. It is an ongoing series of spew-induced cacophony that goes on for five minutes or more. I am not certain how he manages the noise and what his weapon of choice is. I have heard that toothbrushes make a great bulimic upchuck tool, but in this case, it is so loud, I think he is using chopsticks, or perhaps a plunger.

Something smells on this Metro, Luc, is it you?

R2 and I have run to our rooftop garden and hidden amongst the Lipstick Palms trying to locate the retching, to no avail. We have stood in our bathrooms and imitated the sounds in stereo with the hope that the "offender" would get the hint.  No such luck; so now we have just learned to live and let growl, and appreciate the wake up call. I now scoff at those softies that have the gradual light, muzik, hippy-guru alarm clock for a peaceful transition to consciousness. 

There are many mysteries of the Orient that we will never understand. I can understand the "lah" because as a Canadian, I am proud of my "eh."  I know clothes will never fit my 5’9 frame. I can handle the inquisition about where I am from and why I am here but I just can't get past the hawk tooeying, the lack of personal space, the smells on the metro and the wake up call to end all wake up calls. 

You ain't from around here, is ya?

I am married to a "self-proclaimed" White Beaner from Mexico. There are times when the frijoles run amok in our house after a bean burrito feast, but I can assure you, we don't broadcast our orchestral bodily function sounds from the rooftop as this mystery man seems to enjoy sharing. Until we can return to Canada, I must embrace Asia, for the clangor, the confusion, the never-ending traffic and the inquisitive people.  At least I am warm!