Verbalism Personified

Getting down and Dirty!

... I found plenty of eager participants. It wasn't unexpected of course, given that young teens were looking to get down to some hot and sweaty action with experienced adults.

Mingling awkwardly, we were given a once-over on the rules. There was to be no high-risk activity or impossible bodily contortions. In addition to the joys of physical exertion, this was meant to be exhilarating, safe and fun.

After a sizing-up, we were grouped into three-somes and four-somes. With a random sampling of male and female couplings, we were told to get our gear off when we were led to our spot. Functional as an ice breaker, having little or next to nothing on makes it easier for all parties to get right down to business. Which is why we were there in the first place.

As some boys looked on with anticipation, you could hear girls breathing with bated breath when th organizers informed us that we would be supplied with certain preventive implements for our own protection. At that, some among the group started smiling at each other. However this was not done to protect the delicate sensibilities of some but rather to help break any inhibitions others may have. Getting down and dirty was meant to be fun.

Taking our handouts from black colored bags and being led to a secluded area was just the beginning. As these handouts came in pairs, it was a motley of laughter and giggles as people broke them out and tried them on. All of a sudden, tiny digits became super-sized ones!

The walk didn't last long however as groups started disappearing in secluded patches. Squeals of delight mingled with grunts of hard labor. Apparently a few were simply too eager that they threw all caution to the wind and dove straight in.

Along for the ride were photographers, who by now, were in a frenzy taking pictures of the action. Aiming this way and that, they were determined to capture every filthy angle they could worm their way into. I wondered how long before they would get the itch and join in on the fun. After all, there is only so much enthusiasm one can take before wanting in.

My spot turned out to be a stretch of beach and our walk 'deep inside' seemed far enough. Not to be outdone, my group got straight to the point. Dropping their gear on the dry granite rocks, they fanned out along the sandy shoreline, each eyeing the choicest parts and zeroed in without hesitation. Looking across the sea was Johor and what better way to spread neighborly love than to participate in some nature loving yourself.

With my gloves on, I scooped up a trash bag and proceeded to clean up the coast. Making my rounds, it wasn't long before I handed in four bags of plastic bottles, Styrofoam packing, cardboard, string, aluminum cans, drinking straws, pig's heads and newspaper.

It didn't matter that I was wearing a white shirt in the mangroves. After all there is nothing that a washing machine, hot water and stain-removing detergent can't fix. But the blue cap and sunglasses served to make me look like a lost tourist in the sea of industrious volunteers. Thank goodness I had downed a good quantity of tea with milk before heading over. With fire in the belly, I was ready for action.

Later on, it was revealed that the coast had already been worked over. Thus it looked relatively clean. But at that moment, Adrian passed by and told me of a goldmine in much need of picking. Without hesitation, I grabbed a couple of trash bags and we scooted over.

And surely, it was a sight any garbage collector would have loved.

Sweat piled upon muscles as two blokes worked to bring order to the chaos. It must have been an hour as the haul came up to five fully laden bags and a page full of data. Luckily for us, there was a bowl-shaped opening in the shrubs that short cutted the route we took. Along the way, assistance arrived in the form a wheelbarrow.

The walk back was relatively quiet. Adrian and I paused to take a big swig at the water point. As we drank, we watched the spent, tired bodies making a beeline back to civilization. With grins and smiles, some looked like they have had a satisfying roll in the mud.

A final tally totalled up the day's takings at around three and a half tons of garbage. This data would then be sent to the ministry. It wasn't too long before I was riding in the air-conditioned comfort back to the office. I must have dozed off somehow as I suddenly awoke to find that I had dreamt up the entire event.

Rushing out of bed, I was greeted by my alarm clock reading a quarter-past-seven. Missing the Clementi McDonalds pick-up point entirely, a flurry of messages was sent to Hua Qin's cell phone. In the midst of getting ready and downing hot milky tea, he assured me that he would be there on hand when I arrived. Bolting out of the door and into a cab, I sped down the highway to Sungei Buloh Wetlands Reserve. And when I arrived at the carpark, I realized that I had just made it. Looking around...

posted by Teutoburg @ 2:46 AM 0 comments

It ain't Like that Anymore

This Sunday, Martin and Pui Leng will be relocating back to Detroit. Taking young Cameron with them, we won't be sitting around talking and drinking for a while.

Arriving in Singapore some years ago, my parents conspired to keep me in the country for the longest possible time. Being gainfully employed and a productive member of the family was part of the plan. So hardly a month had passed before I was interviewing for a marketing position at the symphony orchestra. And that was a three month contract with an option to extend.

Among the first few musicians I got to know were Martin, Jon and Scott. Martin, a double bassist, had been with the orchestra a year prior, while Jon and Scott were to arrive later in December and January. There was also a trombone player but that guy kept pretty much to himself.

Not that it mattered either way, as these corn-fed American boys traded tales on their exploits in the music schools they studied at and orchestras they performed in. Eventually talk came around to the star soloists you see on CD covers. Every suspicion about how "down to earth" some of them are, was narrated in every thrashy detail. Having heard them play monumental pieces with earth-shattering gusto, this was the equivalent of an insider's account of a who-hates-who, who-likes-who and who-did-who. Musicisns, you see, can be just as warm or arrogant as the next Hollywood moviestar.

In the course of my eighteen-month tenure, I got to meet soloists as they flew in for performances. Most of the up-comers were accommodating with administrative and promotional details. As I had a job to do, I got around by humoring them. To their credit, being veterans in the world of suck-up, they knew the benefits of media exposure and many were troopers as we rushed from one media event to the next.

As for us lowly executives and musicians, we'd hang out after concerts with drink, food conversation. Such was the usual practice to end the stressful week. Sometimes the more out-going office colleagues would join in the banter, a clear differentiator from those who were too-serious, too-married and too-everything to make time for the lighter side of life. With other like-minded musicians, Jon's apartment became the de-facto stopover given its centralized location. As rabid movie fans, DVDs would be broken in and comments traded. All done with characteristic Aussie and American wise-crack to keep the brain sharp.

Ivetta joined in the second half of Two Thousand. After hitting it off with Scott, they were married a year later. By then I was way into my third job at the university. Along the way, came Clair and Danielle. Adding their New Yorkian sense of humor to our already lively group of revellers, it was a joy looking forward to their company after spending the week with stiff-necked colleagues.

Though many of us had talked about leaving Singapore, it was Scott who clinched the coveted position of Principal Trumpet with the Denver Symphony Orchestra. Baby Annael arrived just months before they were due to leave. Suddently spending every evening and weekend with them was no longer enough in spite of plans made for cross-continental visits and city-hop-overs in Two Thousand and Five.

With that move, began the cycle in trickles.

Just earlier this year, Tim the Tuba player left with his wife Cindy. They were expecting their first child when they both decided to up and go home. Being a Texan, his practical approach to conflict management made for interesting narration. When confronted with people who don't listen too well, you've got to find the fastest way of getting the message across effectively. And being a former American high-school football quarterback, he certainly had the beans for doing so. Evasive and shady characters found out the hard way as Tim had neither the patience nor the temperence to suffer fools lightly. Those who are direct and up-front usually get on best with him.

With Martin and family leaving this weekend, it's down to Jon and I to hold the fort on what-once-was. However circumstances change. With e-mails and instant messaging, distance isn't an issue anymore. But the lack of physical presense diminises the experience. Teaching at the Music Conservatory, Jon and I meet once a fortnight to catch up and talk about where the Australian dollar is heading. Given the substantial investment he's placed in my city, he has genuine concern about what's in store for the next five years. As for the rest, the latest development is that Ivetta will be back with baby Annael in February for a guest performance, I'll be meeting Claire in Melbourne later this year while Martin will be in around July to promote an album he's putting together.

Not merely content to keep in touch, all of us are making the effort to stay close. Looking back on the old days, it certainly isn't like that anymore.

posted by Teutoburg @ 1:56 AM 0 comments