Whole Lotta Rosie Eats Her Way Across Singy

What is the black goo?

Some people spend their entire life pursuing the Fountain of Youth or the elusive Holy Grail. While my goal is not as lofty, it is as important to me as finding the Lost Ark was to Indiana Jones. I might not have to battle snakes to reach my evanescent treasure but if you pay close attention, you will see the odd rat scurrying about.

I have made it my mission to hunt down the best Ice Kacang in Singapore; a dessert I had never heard of until three weeks ago. R2 and I were sitting in a Hawker's station when an elderly lady walked by with a bowl full of "something" almost bigger than she was. We watched her tackle the red and green mountainous mystery with such gusto that we had to investigate further.

Mango anyone?

After some super-sleuthing and the great powers of observations that never elude the unlikely duo of R2 and Layna in Asia, we realized this strange concoction was called Ice Kacang. After more poking around we deduce there is an island fight for who makes best rendition of this saccharine, frigid treat. R2 came to the brillant conclusion I must blog about this extraordinary masterpiece that hails from Malyasia and is loved by many.

As I usually do, I tell R2 he is loco because I am not going to tackle this mammoth bank of shaved ice. Not only is it covered in two colours of sticky syrup and condensed milk, to make it all the more strange is the fact there are mushy red beans and corn hidden in the dessert. Also, black grass jelly and attap chee (palm nuts) hide in the middle of the snow; what these delicacies are, I don't know. In true Layna fashion, I cave to R2's silliness, knowing this dessert is quite fascinating for my "soon-to-come" visitors. My only stipulation of writing about Ice Kacang is that we have to sample as many locales temptations as we can so I know what I am writing. I mean, really, why would you eat dessert with beans and corn? In Mexico you call that dinner. In Canada, you call that Taco Bell.

The following night we discover a highly recommended stand located within walking distance to our home. We put on our sensible trainers and start the humid hike to Joo Chiat. After a little iPhone assistance, we pin-pointed the tiny dessert station in the basement of one of the thousands of hawker stations located throughout the country.

Ken making his famous dessert

I had my $1.50 in my hot and sweaty palm and I told Ken, the owner of Ken's Delights I wanted my ice covered in Mango fruit and not Durian. R2 is still hounding me to sample Durian but the thought of eating this soiled-nappie smelling fruit isn't on my "to-do" list, just yet.  Maybe at the six month mark but I am still a Singapore virgin so I haven't worked my tolerance for repulsiveness up to durian level quite yet.  R2 can fool some of the people some of the time, but he can never fool Layna, any of the time!  At least not when it comes to eating stinky-cheese food.

I asked the owner if I could take his photo and he just gave me a huge smile. All the other "chefs" assembled and started to tease him about being famous.  We seemed to gather a lot of attention because I don't think a lot of foreigners trot into this minute local haunt, being as excited as I was to try this dessert.

Corn ice - what a concept!

I imagined the Kacang was going to be as simple as a snow cone we all used to beg our parents for at a myriad of summertime events. I hate to admit it, but I was as wrong as I could be.  This strange mountain of sweetness was incredible.  It is the perfect dessert when you are melting in the relentless Singapore sun.  R2 would disagree with me. He was put off by the "gummy bears".  I believe he was refering to the palm nuts but to him, they were giggly ju-jubes.  And to quote him, "This Mexican Beaner does not like the cold beans."  He thought the corn in a dessert was unorthodox to a Latino. At least Ken was delighted to see me enjoying his creation.  He gave me an even bigger smile when he saw I finished the entire bowl, only stopping to take pics.

Stop the madness....

Since we indulged in Kacang I have made it my lifework to find the finest in Singapore. Like all things in life, some bowls are better than others, some people add peanuts and many add fruit and hide coconut in the middle of the ice. I am just happy to have something that cools me down, especially after a spicy bowl of French beans and chillis or red-hot claypots in the sweltering heat.  If I continue down this road of over indulging, ACDC's Whole Lotta Rosie is going to be my new anthem.

Another masterpiece

One bowl at a time

R2 has given up on Ice Kacang and is now sampling other Malay delights like Chendol; another dessert that makes no sense to me but is popular among the locals. Perhaps his palate is more sophisticated than my hicktown taste buds. Be that as it may, I have seen him eat chilli and lime grasshopper tacos in Oaxaca and have spindly, long bug legs sticking out of his mouth, so I am not sure he is the King of Discerning Taste. Not the most charming image of your newly wedded husband, but it is one I will carry to my grave.

There are still thousands of dessert stands to try on The Little Red Dot. It is a tough job, but someone has to end the fight once and for all on who reigning Ice Kacang King. I believe if I try one per night, I might complete the island before we return to Canada, where the entire country is one massive Ice Kacang.

All I ask for my heroic efforts can someone shop at Tent and Awning and send me some new clothes once I have eaten my way from Changi to Joo Koon up to the Straits of Johor Bahru?

(Follow Layna in Asia on Mexico on My Mind site for her perspective of travels in Mexico)

Do You Come From A Land Down Under?

Before you get righteous on me, I realize Sydney is not in Asia, but we did fly out of Changi Airport so that has to count for something. And if I want to get really technical, there are thousands of Australians in Asia for work or pleasure, and about fifteen billion Asians in OZ for the same reasons, therefore, I can count Australia as Asia. Convoluted thinking?  Sure, but that is what being in a mixture of sun and rain all day does to the brain.

Buying bread from a man in Brussels

He was six foot four and full of muscles

I said, "Do you speak-a my language?"

He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich

Which brings me to my next points. What is vegemite?  Why do the Aussies eat kangaroo? How come there are so many Flying Foxes terrorizing the CBD in Sydney? How do the girls manage to manoeuvre the city streets in killer heels? And most importantly, is everyone in Australia that darn good looking? They all look like they just stepped off a "Surfer Shoot" on a Hollywood sound set.

He seems too tough to eat

I found everything about Sydney fascinating from the kids partying the night away, to the bikers that roll up on their scooters, to the Aborigines playing didgeridoos, to the grapefruit-sized avocados. 


Sydney is a city with a checkered past and the history of this city is triumphant. Every corner has a tale, every building has a saga, all the churches, parks, tunnels and restaurants revel in their shady past. I wandered through every nook and cranny, taking in so much of the lore, the Sydneysiders said I knew more about their city than most of the locals. 

I took a cautious trip to the Botanical Gardens, not for the flora but a purposeful mission to photograph the Grey Headed Flying Foxes that have made the park their home, much to the disdain of the park officials. They are called often bats, megabats, fruit bats or flying foxes but they all the same animal.  I just call them freaky, bizarre, flying mammals that swooped straight out of a horror movie.

The Flying Foxes hang in groups in the trees

I met an elderly volunteer at the park that took the time to point out the hundreds of Flying Foxes hanging upside down in the trees. She also explained why the bats were not wanted due to the damage and destruction they cause to the ancient, exotic trees. The Foxes serve an important role in Australia. They transport seeds and pollen over a wide region, helping to diversify and regenerate the forests. She also told me the foxes make a horrific noise. While it was kind of her to point out the obvious, it was impossible to miss the intense screeching hundreds of these flying mammals make.

I may be furry, but I am not cute

R2 was born and raised in Mexico City, the largest city in the world. While he hasn't lived there for over twenty years, the city boy hasn't left the concrete jungle  He isn't big on nature, at least the flying, licking, barking or crawling kind. So to see if I could drive him a little "batty" I took him to Nature as sunset approached introducing him to a National Geographic episode in Hyde Park. I never revealed to R2 that the swooping UFOs were not pigeons or Sydney's famous Black Cockatoos. Flying Foxes are huge, their wing span is more than a meter and their bodies can be the size of a small dog. R2 was too busy looking at the sites to get a sense of the impending doom. 


All of the sudden, a huge clap of thunder crashed through the sky followed by streaks of lightening. It was as if I had orchestrated the entire show for him, "Cue the lightening, cue the rain and bring on the bats."  It was at this moment I disclosed the huge flying forms in the sky where not birds but Sydney's famous Flying Foxes. At first he didn't believe me until about five dipped so low he got a face-to-face with them. I haven't seen R2 move that quick since someone told him there were free shots of tequila being offered at the local cantina!  


Yes, I know I have an evil twin but that night, I decided Senor R2 should practise what he preaches to me. So often we are stuck in our comfort zone, unwilling to leave the porch and experience life outside of the familiar rut we often find ourselves in. Since I have met R2, he has challenged me, pushed me and taught me there is a huge world to be discovered if you just take that leap. Every day I leap with some plunges more graceful than others.  Often I fall hard and fast, and it is difficult to not run for the airport and return to the cold and familiar world I know so well. A world that doesn't have bats, spiders, geckos, cockroaches and bizarre smells and foods. We both take this adventure one day at a time.

A view you never tire of in Sydney

That dark and stormy night taught R2 this world is more than uptight hotels and Executive airport lounges. There is more to life than another corporate gig in a city you can't even identify because you go from the airport, to the hotel, to your work. 


R2 now has Layna in Asia directing him to the weird and wacky sites and while I am on a trip of a lifetime he has discovered the same.  "Hang on, it's gonna be a bumpy ride."

Remembering the real Mexico...in Asia

El Baile de los Viejitos (the dance of the little ole men)

While the stories we read in the media sadden and discourage me, hearing about what is happening in his own country must be heartbreaking for my R2.  Please don't for a second think we take the tragedies lightly and our hearts go out to the families of the people whose lives are forever changed from this senseless brutality.

This story is to demonstrate the kindness we have experienced from one side of Mexico to the other, no matter where we go, no matter how many times the policia stop us, no matter what type of trouble we manage to get ourselves into.

La Vista (view from our condo)

R2 is a VIP owner of a splashy condo but even this posh place makes him antsy. He can't sit for long and is always thinking of things to do.  We were in Ixtapa, Guerrero, probably under a palapa when he said, "Vámonos," to me.  I tried to ignore him but I knew that look. He wanted to "do" something.

Famous coverup and shoes

Normally we are somewhat prepared, but this time we jumped in our rental and decided to drive to a little secluded beach I had researched called Troncones. Along the way, we stopped in a pueblo, had some great grub and continued on our merry way. The only thing I had was a bikini and a coverup which I was wearing and of course, what every person needs on the beach - high heels.  We had no phone, a little cash, a camera and just a couple of towels to throw on the playa.

Now, when I say rental car, I don't mean just any rental car.  To this day, I believe this particular car was swapped for the weekend by the teenage brother of the rental car dude.  It had no horn, the side mirror was cloudy with caked-on grime, and the rear view mirror was duct taped. What was also missing was gas but that minor detail went unnoticed as the gas light was broken.

We enjoyed our brief time at Troncones but it was time to head back for our daily "tequila on the deck and watch the sunset" ritual.

We were scooting down a steep hill in this jalopy when R2 discloses, "there is something wrong with the car." I knew by the tone of his voice, he was dead serious. I whipped around to make sure we weren't going to be rear ended.

He managed to pull this rust-bucket to the side of the road but I had to get out and push so we didn't get hit on the narrow road; my white cover up became a beacon, waving in the wind for help.  It wasn't long before three caballeros in an old pick-up with two longhorn bulls in the back, pulled over.  "Ah, hell no, I am not getting in that truck," I think to myself.  Luckily another car pulled up at the same time.

R2 spoke with this hombre chiquito (tiny man) and told me to hop in - we were out of gas, in a rental car we had just picked up. The hombre's car was equally tiny, and yet he managed to secure two bikes to the roof. His wife was in the front and two sleeping kids were in the cramped backseat.  How we managed to get our long legs in, I will never know, but I do know, I was holding a hot, sweaty niño in my arms.

The man drove for miles but nothing was open. We were in the middle of nowhere. As he drove, he kept turning to talk to R2, forgetting to watch the road. This was entertainment for them and a great story to tell.  We could hear it all now, "Stupid tourists forgetting to put gasolina in the car!"

Finally we came upon a station - thanks to God.  Oh, but wait....they don't have a gas can? The man, his wife and R2 start rifling through the trash looking for pop bottles.  Now, I don't know much about cars but isn't sugar in the gas tank a bad thing? Oh well, the car is not going to last so keep searching people.

Meanwhile the kid wakes up and starts to play with the radio, blasting it and taking the car out of gear.  I try, desperately to remember how to say "stop it," in Spanish as I feel the car start to roll. All I manage is "no no" in Spanish, which is pretty much "no no" in English, as I reef on the emergency brake.

They find the bottles, fill a few and we are on the road back to our car.  Not so fast...we have to get past the Mexican Army who has created a roadblock near the gas station.  Of course, we have no passport or marriage certificate in the bikini.  Why is this red-headed gringa with a bunch of Mexicans?  R2 told me to slump down in the car, as if there was any room to slump.  I am holding two, two-litre bottles of gasolina between my feet, trying to not slosh gas everywhere and scootch down.  Canada has got talent!

The Mexican sunset

We locate the abandoned car, the man wedges a branch to open the tank far enough so R2 can pour the gas, which he managed to douse himself with, we gave the man a  hundred pesos for his trouble, and we were on our way.  You will be happy to know, we still managed to have our nightly Paloma on the deck and watch the colourful sunset (after R2 showered off the gasoline).

The moral of this story is...ALWAYS CHECK YOUR GAS TANK IN MEXICO.  It is not the rentals' practise to fill them up when returned.

Dear people, don't fear Mexico and don't spread hate about the eighth largest nation.  Most of the people are kind and generous.  Be cautious, be smart and remember, you are a visitor in their country.  There is far more to do in this wondrous place than get blindly drunk and insult these hard-working people.

One day we will get back to a place we both love, one day the drug cartels and the government corruption will subside.  Until we return it is up to YOU to continue our love affair of Mexico.

Trains, Planes and Automobiles

A typical train in India

When R2 mentioned we were taking not one, but two trains in India, and in first class, I had visions of the Orient Express fleeing through the cool night air. I could visualize myself dining with fine bone china, sipping chai from a dainty tea cup and having white jacketed waiters fall all over my feet trying to serve my every whim. It was a nifty fantasy, however my bubble burst rapidly as our taxi navigated the foul, crowded grounds of the station.

We made the station by minutes and, in typical Velez fashion, we sprinted through the station, trying desperately to find our car. What we saw were people jammed into coach, sitting on broken benches with newspaper or tattered blanket covering them, and not an inch to spare between them. Had we not been in hot haste to get to Agra from Delhi to witness the miraculous Taj, I think we would have cut and run. 

R2 trying to not touch anything in our berth

I grew up around trains; my dad was an Engineer on CP most of my life so I had a vague idea purely through osmosis; I told R2 to run for the front and by sheer luck we saw our names scratched on a piece of paper taped to the car. Of course, no sharply uniformed Conductor, but some disheveled employee wearing old clothes with a scarf wrapped around his head grabbed my bag and told us to squeeze into to a sleeper ahead. I will venture he was the Conductor.

What a shock. Where was the first class? Where was my champagne on ice, or my down comforter? What we found was a shabby, cramped car that hadn't seen up upgrade since 1950. There was a threadbare blanket on the bed we didn't dare use, never mind the pillow. We barely perched on the bunk for fear or who or what was on the blanket before we boarded.

When we alighted, luckily R2 had the foresight to have a car meet us. At the Agra station there were people huddled for warmth near lit fires, rats, roaches and overwhelming poverty. It is hard to fathom this life when millions make their way to one of the seven wonders of the world, the Taj Mahal; a tribute from the Emperor to his favourite wife when she died giving birth to their 14th child.

All too soon our Taj Mahal fun ended. We didn't relish the thought of boarding another train heading to Jaipur to take an elephant ride, tour Amber Fort and enjoy a tranquil spa called the Tree of Life.

It was virtually the same drill on this train ride except we made the grave mistake of being early; alarming is a massive understatement. Once again, people blatantly eyeballed us, like animals in a cage.  When we were paying the taxi driver, filthy street urchins tried to grab the money and run until he ran them off.  I believe being at this station at 5:00 p.m. is the most vulnerable I have felt in our travels in the world.  I tried to ignore the 3 year olds defecating and scampering on the train tracks with no recourse from anyone. The only amusement was watching the monkeys that zipped along the telephone wires trying to steal food.  

As predicted, our second train ride was equally as decrepit, especially when thirty minutes into the ride a toothless man flung open our door, threw his luggage in our room and told us he was bunking with us.  I told him, "I don't think so," but he left his luggage, came back 15 minutes later and jumped up on the top bunk. He proceeded to talk on his phone with no regard for us whatsoever, so I got out my iPhone and did a rousing rendition of American Pie at the top of my lungs.  Don McLean would be proud. My boisterous singing must have lulled him to sleep because his snores could have woke the dead.

The taxis we took in India were antiquated, therefore I have no reference to what or where they originated.  They were so slow that I swear I saw a camel passing us...and speaking of camels, the Army in Delhi ride camels through the streets in herds, or group, or gaggles.  We were always late, traffic was insane and we would jump into these taxis that maxed out at 40 km per hour, watching as anything and everything passed us by.

Sadly, Jet Airways was our airline of choice. The airport in Delhi and Jaipur were respectable but NEVER fly to Chennai unless you enjoy cockroaches, foul, leaky toilets and no where decent to eat or sit while you wait for your flight. As our first point of reference in India, we soon learned that men and women are separated to be searched at security due to modesty but an inconvenient hassle, never-the less.  The planes used by Jet Airways are so small that when the person ahead of you puts his seat back, he is almost in your lap, with no embellishment from this blogger.  If you need to use the toilets, get there first or hold it until you land in Singapore. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Amber Fort in Jaipur - a breathtaking wonder

This is not my photo but not far from the truth

While the sites in India such as Amber Fort and the Taj are breathtaking, it is not a country I will be revisiting anytime soon.  The poverty is too overwhelming; as it the stench, the putrescence and diseases in this country of 1.3 B people. Our hotels were first-rate, and you couldn't find better hosts than R2's colleagues, but I had a hard time adjusting to the constant honking, the livestock wandering the streets, people using the broken sidewalks as their personal toilets and taking my life in my hands every time I tried to cross the road. I was ripped off at every turn when it came to taxis, the trains were something from my worst nightmare and jetting through the sky, wedged into a metal tube like a human sardine is not what I was to re-enact in the future.

Bring on Australia!

People of India

The turbans were all unique.

On her way to prayers.

A local musicians trying to drum up business.

Finished her prayers

Loved her haughty expression. 

Guarding the Taj Mahal

Sketching the Taj from a different angle

Praying at the Taj

Bollywood!

A place to come together

Everyone loves to pose at the site

Two young boys that approached us so we took their photo

Representing UBC - Go Canada

I loved these old people  - so sweet.

This sweater vest was a mystery to us but it was everywhere in India.

A mixture of young and old

Such colourful people and stories in India

A beautiful young lady wanted to take our photo so we took hers.

Young and old drive the rickshaws to make rupees.

Indian women often cover their faces - not sure why.

A break from hustling the tourists.

A craftsman making finely detailed tile mosaics with glass pieces.

Lost in prayer.

Elephants at Fort Amber - didn't like the way they were treated.

Bathing in the street.

Millions of people live in poverty and filth on the streets.

Take-Take a Tuk-Tuk

Bengaluru, or the more commonly known Bangalore, is a traffic nightmare. The lines on the roads are painted  decorations and every two lanes are filled with four plus vehicles. You will find a bike, scooter, bus and a tuk-tuk all squeezed into a space meant for two, with only a millimetre of space separating the distance. You are so close you can reach over and light the guy's cigarette next to you.

I wanted to think like a local so I got up my courage and approached a tuk-tuk driver to begin the haggling dance. Tuk-tuk's originated in India but most people associate them with Thailand.  This vehicle looks like a 3-wheeled motorcycle with a covered frame.  Some artistic drivers "pimp" them out so they are decorative but most of them are so rickety, it is hard to image they can hold as many people as the Indians manage to cram into them. You will see them driving along with people hanging out the sides, oblivious to the oncoming traffic.

Of course, I was ripped off because I have a tattoo across my forehead that says, "Stupid, White, Woman," in bold script. Even with 25 official languages spoken in India, the drivers can read this with rupee signs in their eyes.

After a lot of hand signals, bartering, eye rolling and showing of numbers on my phone I managed to be swindled slightly. I jumped in and held on for dear life. I am not sure what was more frightening, the ongoing traffic, the non-stop beeping of horns to warn other drivers we were advancing, or dodging the cows that wander the streets in a lax manner. I won't even talk about the construction, smog, potholes and pedestrians we navigated. Once you reach your destination, you pay the driver, jump out and kiss the ground knowing you survived what could have been your first and last time driving through cow manure.

If you think this is the end of the tuk-tuk adventure, think again; you still have to return.  Now they have you at their mercy. The drivers know you want to go home and the "double" rip-off begins. I approached a group of five drivers and showed them the business card for the hotel, only to be surrounded, with them trying to out haggle me in several languages. I am not proud to say, but I caved like a tin trailer in an Oklahoma twister. I was to the point I would have given them my first-born - sorry Rikki - to return in one piece.

I vowed I had my one-time experience with the tuk-tuk and now I could graduate to a taxi.  Easier said than done.  The taxis refuse to take me places because it is interrupting their naps on the side of the road, or you will  take a taxi to a location, but can't find one to bring you back.  I even went as far as to sign up for a taxi service online, booked the car, and he never showed.  So now, I have taken a tuk-tuk so often that they know me by name - Dumbass.

I had one driver run out of fuel so I perched while he pushed us to the petro station.  While we waited our turn, I began to play a game on my phone. Soon I had six heads poking into the tuk-tuk wanting to watch. I don't think iPhones are big with these mostly rural, uneducated drivers. They kept saying, "game, game," to me.  I quickly stopped that activity.  This same driver had no idea where my hotel was and constantly pulled over to ask anyone for directions.  When we got close, he swindled me and asked for more money to cover his gas. I wasn't about to jump out in the dark so Dumbass gave him extra.

Yesterday I had a driver haggle with me and started to haggle his price down. "Hey, aren't I suppose to do that?" I thought.  Turns out he wanted to take me to a store for a discounted rate. "Ah, thanks, but I think I will pass."

After all this brouhaha, I decided to seek the haven of my serene pool, located beside a slum; but that is India.  A diverse mixture of privilege, poverty, beauty and ugliness all rolled into one.  Luckily for me, I can still hear the incessant tooting of the tuk-tuk, six flights up.