Lumpy Koalas And Other Stuff

Dateline-Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia: For many years, I've wanted to come to KL. Imagine my cisappointment when it turns out to be Singapore, Jr.

Regular readers will know my animosity towrds the saccarine neo-fascist state called Singapore.  Western gourists love it because they can tell all their friends they've been to Asia without ever leaving the safety of their nanny security state.

KL is a rubber stamp of that grotesque place.  From the same damn plastic money that won't fold, to the painfully clean streets and clockwork traffic, KL is as bland and unthreatening as Ohio.

Oh sure, there are the Petronas towers and the dancing water show, which to me are just more ant piles and attempts at a cultural life, to be found in any major metropolis near you.

Hell, even the gobs of palm oil plantatioms passed on the endless journey from the airport to city centre look like Disney-fied versioms of jungle. Even the colors seem carefully chosen by Imagineers to be painfully unthreatening.

We're here on business, and lest you think that affects my perceptions, disabuse yourself of the notion.  I spent three months in deep jungle on business and had the survivalist wetdream.  The experience would have scared the hell out of those pretenders on that survival 'reality' show I never watched.  So, I am ready for about anything on business trips...

Except more of this bland Western imperialistic crap that passes for much of Asian culture anymore.

Perhaps this is what the Visigoths felt when they finally got fed up and sacked Rome.  They just couldn't take any more of those damn coliseums and vomitoriums.  Probably because they came with those damn Roman legions groping you at the door.

Anyway, back to KL.

I'm here to tour the national theater and look in on the rigging system before it ships.  Four days at the Hangingtree hotel in a rubber-stamped room over a consumer orgy called a mall.  I can't even bring myself to buy the usual refridgerator magnet because it looks just like the one fron Singapore.  The only difference is it, like all the tourist crack here, has two ant piles on it.  At least Singapore has their nifty little seahorse-lion logo.  It's the only thing that distinguishes it from all the other imperial strongholds of the world.

One thing here feels like home. Even though the roads are in good repair and there's almost no traffic - wildly different from Jakarta-there' not one damn right angle to be found.  So it takes for-freakin'-ever to go anywhere.  You have go jump down, gurn around and pick a bale cotton just to cross the bloody street.

Food, bed...doggie style?

Who'da thunk this Texas farmboy, Mr. Solitude, would miss the anarcho-silliness of life in Jakarta, a city of 20 million nuts packed into the space of Houston's innerloop?   I guess it's because Indonesia still has a flavor. Despite the empire's best efforts, it just can't turn that country into a rubber stamp.  You gotta respect the tenacity of those folks.  I love people who see law and order as something to be actively ignored and dismissed.

Hell, Facebook won't even let me log on because I'm not in my usual cubby hole.  I hate when corporations try to nanny me.  I'll watch after myself, Mark Zuckerburg.  Get the f¥£k out of my business!  Like FaceBook is so dzmned important I can only log on from my home country?!  Worried that someone won't get tagged correctly, or what?

Oh yeah, back to KL...what do you call someone from here?  Oompa-loompa?

Sing-A-Poor

Doa-Doa Perjalanan - Traveler's Prayer

SINGAPORE -- As you may have guessed by now, your intrepid reporter has trekked across the Java Sea to land on yet another island, though one considerably smaller than the one on which he dwells.

Lion Air provided the transportation, which was unremarkable (something most air travelers want) except for the amusing game of runway hopscotch at touchdown.  Fortunately, Lion provides for just such occasions by placing prayer books for six different faiths in the seat-back pocket.  I read all of them, being one who dislikes flying commercial, since I'm not the one making life and death decisions, especially when it comes to my own life and death.

Once inside the terminal at Changi Airport, you quickly realize that if there is any place on Earth you have to be Snowdened (c), this is it!  Cactus and butterfly gardens, shops and amusements, piano players at sundown, sleeping lounges, digital theaters, free internet, even a hotel inside the customs zone.  It's a place one could live for a while and not get bored.

Changi is, however, HUGE.  You will get some serious exercise dashing around that place.  Keep in mind that Singapore is not only a major Asian hub, but also every flight in or out is an international flight...there are no domestic destinations.

Once freed of Changi's charms, you break out into the blazing daylight to try and get a taxi.  I say try because, as I've noted before, Singapore is the only place in the world where the taxi drivers tell you where they are going, and with a bit of luck, it's close to where you want to go.

Me: "How much is it, sir?"
Driver: "Let's call it $20."
Me: "Let's call it whatever the meter says."  It was turned so only he could see it.
Driver: "$15.80."
Me: "Let's call it $16, then, shall we?"
Driver: (Mandarin cuss words)

I alight (it's a former British colony after all) on the sidewalk.  One thing I will grant Singapore, as much as I hate the place, is that it has wide, clean sidewalks, many with overhangs for shade.  It's a radical difference from Indonesia, where if there are sidewalks, they are covered with warung and kaki lima (tobacconists and makeshift eateries).

I'm on a visa run, which for those in the audience who are transnationalists know, is the bane of every foreign domiciliary outside the US, where immigration control is little more than a bad joke.  I've arrived at my agent's office building.

We all use agents around here.  If I were to try this myself, it would cost me $75 and two or three days in Singapore.  An agent can get it done in a day for $230 (Sing dollars, by the way).  I show up, fork over the passport, entry card, telex (authorizing my visa), a photo and a pile of cash.  I spend the next seven hours wandering the streets of Singapore, and POOF, I can go home with my shiny new permit to live in the country where I have a family and property.  Of course, that doesn't give me the work visa.  That's a whole different process that begins tomorrow when I'm back home.

Singapore has a number of benefits.  The mass transit is, in a word, amazing.  In another word, it's cheap, too.  All the way across the island is less than three Singbux.

In addition to the aforementioned sidewalks, it's also very clean, organized and runs like clockwork.  On top of that, this being the first day of Ramadhan, there are lines out the doors of the restaurants, whereas at home, the FPI is waiting to pounce on and trash any establishment that caters to non-Moslems (i.e., those of us who continue to eat during the fasting month).

On the bad side, Singapore taught me...at long last...the real definition of fascism.  You see, the definition of fascism is not the lost of freedom, but the commoditizing of it.  You can have all the freedom you want, as long as you have the money to pay for it.  For instance, you can have a car here as long as you buy the license to buy the car.  The license costs about the same as the car.  You can have a fully detached house as long as you buy the license to buy the house.  You are perfectly free in Singapore, as long as you got the Beeg Bux.  Same in all the other fascist countries.

Speaking of money, Singaporean money is a bitch.  It's made of plastic, so it is smooth as a baby's bottom.  While this may seem like a cool idea - the bills don't get wadded up and you can wash it and disinfect it if you want - it is impossible to fold and even harder to keep a grasp on.  If you have several bills in your hand and a stiff wind comes along, it slips right through your fingers.  I suppose that's the idea.  The fascists don't want you hanging on to your cash.  It slows the economy.  It's all about velocity.

The people are nice enough, but it's the kind of nice you would get if you lived somewhere where they throw you in jail for being unhappy.  You know the kind of smile folks give where the mouth does all the right moves, but the eyes refuse to join in the fun and games?  It's that kind of nice.

Singapore has all the vices for those stricken with them.  There's casinos, but if you are a citizen, you must pay 100 Singbux to get in.  Foreigners are free.  There's a whole section of town devoted to whorehouses, and you can find women from all over the world there.  Doesn't matter the country, you can find at least a dozen representatives from the Social Club there.

Booze is cheap and beer makers compete to see who can make the brew with the highest alcohol content.  The winner so far is one with 9% squeege.  That's a hefty beer, bro.  But I guess if you live in a fascist regime, it helps to be drunk a lot so's you don't really notice the right good a$$ pounding you're getting every day.

One can't escape the feeling of being cattle here.  People all seem to move in lock step.  They all wear Dior and Giordano.  They all reek of the latest designer pheromones.  The laws cover everything down to your bathroom habits - I kid not.  1000 Singbux if you don't flush a public toilet.  Makes you wonder if someone runs in after you leave to check, perhaps even measure.

Singapore is very sterile.  The longer I'm here, the more I feel my testosterone leaching away.  It's kind of like kryptonite to Superman.  Imagine an entire country full of Michael J. Foxes in The Secret of my Success.  Scary really.

I have received one good inspiration since coming here this time.  I am now determined to learn Mandarin.  That will be the international language of the coming century, replacing English in board rooms all over the world.  English may remain as the primary language of the plebes and proles, but if you want to enter the heady realm of corporate globalism, Mandarin is where it's at.  It's a stiff barrier to entry, which makes it perfect as a means of separating the executives from the wannabies.    If you want to be one of the privileged boot-lickers, I highly recommend Malay.

So, tonight I'll return home after a 21-hour ordeal.  Tomorrow, I'll give my passport to the agent who will initiate the IMTA (work permit) process.  In a couple of days, I'll have to go to immigration to give yet another set of electronic fingerprints, yet another digital signature, and yet another photo (they already have half a kajillion on file).

By the way, you may have read in the past week or so about the smoke from fires in Indonesia choking Malaysia and Singapore.  Singapore had near-fatal levels for a day or two.  Both countries complained loudly and bitterly about Indonesian farmers slashing and burning their fields.  Global press reports made Indonesia out to be the bad guys - international polluters.

What the stories didn't tell you is that the farms that were being slashed and burned were owned by Malay and Singaporean corporate palm oil interests.  Ain't fascism grand?  You slash and burn countries for profit and then blame them on the global stage for polluting your air.

A word to Singaporean corporate plantation owners - F%$K YOU!

So, now you have a little insight into transnationalist living.  It's all kinda wild and wooly.  There are competing business, lifestyle and religious interests all trying to claw over the other to get on top, because only on top can you buy more freedom.

Tote Board at Changi Airport

I'd give you more tastes of the Far Side, but I've got to catch the 2120 back to Jakarta after I hit the duty free and buy a jug of reasonably-priced hooch to tide me over the fasting month.

One last bit of news...when I do these day-trip things, I only carry a satchel, what the fags call a man-purse.  I've been back and forth to Singapore six times with my satchel, which I haven't really added or subtracted from in all that time.  Tonight, the security witch in Singapore confiscated an X-acto knife I've had in the bag for years across half a dozen countries and two continents.  Forgot I even had the thing.  Couldn't do much more than carve my initials in the seat-back with it.  Even made me sign a confiscation report, which I refused to do.

Agent: Would you sign here, sir?
Me: Why?
Agent: (pause) I need your signature.
Me: For what?
Agent: It's an acknowledgement.
Me: You're stealing my property and you want me to agree to it?
Agent: We have to confiscate your knife.
Me: Confiscation is theft with legal authority.
Agent: Please sign here.
Me: No.
Agent: I...er...this...
Me: Thank you for stealing my property.

Probably all because I always put "TEXAS" in the area where it asks for nationality.  They hate when I do that.

Dateline - Singapore

One table, four people, five languages.

I love traveling.

"I noticed coming in to Singapore a lot of ships sitting out in the harbor.  Is business that good?"  I thought it was a reasonable assumption, given the 'busy' look of things.

"They're stacked," Azzam said.  He's Jordanian and has 75 ships, and a number of other big-money interests on the side.  Kind of a quiet Onasas.  "Business is way down now and there are more than 500 ships stacked off of Singapore.  It's the same everywhere."

Stacked means 'parked indefinitely,' in ship talk.

"Bulk dry is down more than 20%, petro tankers more than 30%, and container is down more than 40% from 2008.  The only reason dry bulk is holding up is because food prices keep going up, is all," Azzam said gravely.

It didn't sound encouraging, at all.  I sucked on my beer thoughtfully.  I looked over at another companion.  Tafiq is in the shoe business in Indonesia.  He is here trying to drum up some new buyers.

"How's the shoe business?" I asked, sucking beer-foam off my moustache.

"We're doing OK, but Japan hurt us and things were already slow.  America is not buying like it did a couple of years ago," he explained.

"But I was watching the news this morning.  News Channel Asia, I think it was.  One analyst was saying that America is coming back, Japan is not nearly as bad as everyone is saying, and everything will improve in the second half."

The entire table chuckles morosely, as if they just heard one of those jokes that is both repulsive and funny at the same time.

Mark is an analyst with a large accounting and audit firm.  "We're seeing a lot of M&A out of Japan.  I've got a pile of due diligence projects on my desk.  The Japs are bailing out and they're looking for just about anything to keep the supply line going.  Even the Japanese government is talking about moving out of Tokyo.  Problem is they can't think of anywhere they can go to get away from the clouds."

"Should I be worried here in Singapore?" I ask.

We all look up at the clear night sky reflexively.  No one answers that one.

I've been pondering the Fukushima thing.  Was it MIHOP, or a surprise, or did it go off too soon?  There's evidence on all sides, though arguably most of it is circumstantial.  Since HAARP's website has been down, there's no way of knowing whether it was cranked up before 3/11.  I do note the 11 in the date, as well as the 3.  Those PTW just love those number things.  I'm leaning towards the MIHOP theory.  Why?
Well, I suspect that a lot of the DU ammo the US has been dumping all over the Middle East is probably from the Japanese plant to keep the mess from being tracked back to Uncle.  But the amount that has been dumped on Iraq, and now on Libya, was starting to show up in all sorts of inconvenient places...like food.

By blowing up the Fukushima plant, it was a perfect means to cover tracks.  Now, there's plausible deniability.  Now, when someone says, "Hey, there's radiation in my soup," Uncle can just say, "Oh, don't worry.  It's Japanese.  Here, we'll just raise the safe limit.  All better?"

Of course, we'll probably never know the truth.  The truth has been so deeply buried that us regular grunts won't be able to dig it all out in a thousand years.

A guy yelling into his cell phone in Hindi at the table behind us shakes me from my thoughts.  I lay out the idea to the table.

"Coiuld be.  Who's to say," Azzam answers.  "Only Allah knows, and He keeps many things from us sometimes."

Tariq just shugs and Mark stares at his beer.  Perhaps he's trying to catch a little glow in it.

I fly home tomorrow with my spanking fresh work visa.  What do I care if the world goes to hell in a hand basket?  I'm eating and I have all my needs met.  Who cares if my children grandchildren and great-grandchildren won't have a plaent to live on?  I got mine, right?  No worries, mate.

We all part ways after a delicious roast duck dinner and a handful of ice cold Tiger beers.  We all had that look on our faces, like "I wonder if we'll all still be here tomorrow?"

But hey!  Green shoots!  Unemployment claims are down!  The federal budget was slashed $352 million.  The BRICS are calling for an end to the dollar.  And Libya will submit to World Bank control or BURN BABY!  I all part of The Plan.  It's been published for years.  You mean you never read The Plan?  You really should.

Sometimes I wish I coud be the Joker: "I don't have a plan.  I just do!"

A great way of life, if I could achieve it.  Right now, I have to follow My Plan and get back to Jakarta.  Being on the road is tiring for us old guys.

Malam Minggu

Just flew in from Singapore, and boy are my arms tired!

It's Malam Minggu (Saturday night) in the Big Durien (hey, if New York can be the Big Apple, then Jakarta is the Big Durien) and I spent the whole day in S'pore meeting with some associates. I like to think of S'pore as the model Benign Fascist State. If you stay within the boundaries, life is pretty smooth and efficient, but if you step even one centemeter over The Line, watch out!

One advantage of going out is that I can hit the Duty Free, even though Indonesia's limits are a bit draconian. I can only bring in one liter of alcohol (liquor or wine, beer doesn't count) and 200 grams of tobacco, which means one carton of smokes, 50 cigars or 200 grams of cut leaf. Of course, I couldn't buy cigs any cheaper than Indonesia, even in North Carolina, so forget that. But I did manage a few Cubanos (eat your heart out Americans) and a liter of fine Scotch Whiskey. Altogether, my imports can't exceed US$250.

Now I haven't had a good bottle of Scotch Whiskey since I got here three years ago. When I got home, the wife couldn't sleep, even though she had a rough day at the rat races. So, I fixed her a traditional Irish lullabye: a good dram of whiskey, some sugar, some milk, and a couple of rocks. She's out like a light now. Indonesians are cheap dates. Takes about one shot of high octane to knock 'em out.

I'm going straight with two diamonds. It's good sippin' stuff, so I'm nursing it along with my cigar on the front porch.

The plane was about half full, which is unusual, but it's post-New Year and not yet Imlec (Chinese New Year), so things are quiet.

The Indonesian government recently released its people. For the longest time, there was a $100 tax by sea and a $250 tax if by air for a citizen to leave the country, if they didn't have an NPWP, which is the Indo version of the Social Security number. As of January 1st, the tax was repealed. Combined with a metric ton of cheap air fares, there's about to be a bunch of Indos flooding the global tourism offices.

The wife went down to renew her passport the other day and the mob was, well, a mob. This has basically taken the reigns off the Indo middle class. After all, the tax raised the price of a trip to S'pore 200% for the average Indo, who didn't have an NPWP.

Now, you might ask why good little citizens don't have tax numbers. Well, most Indo don't have a Social Security number. Most don't earn enough to pay tax, anyway. The few who do, earn enough to pay for all the rest. Such is an oligarchy.

The tax was designed to rip off foreigners who were exporting Indo maids, which is a global pasttime, even if you don't know about it. US tax laws prevent Americans from enjoying the luxuries that most of the rest of the world takes for granted. Kasihan deh loe.

The tax was penalizing the middle class, though, who don't have NPWP either. Recent developments, over the past ten years, have created a very properous middle class here in Indonesia, and they want to go out and see so world, too.

Anyway, the wife and I are taking advantage of the cheap airfares and her new-found freedom, to plan a trip to Hong Kong in April. We want to visit Kowloon Island and Macau Island. The package deal, with hotel, is $200/person, airfare and 4/3 in a four-star hotel. Could be worse.

I can get more of less the same deal to Phuket, Bangkok, Singapore, Ho Chi Min, Kuala Lumpur, and Taipei. For Bali, it's even cheaper, as in rediculous.

For you folks playing at home, you may want to check out AirAsiago.com, and see if you can't combine a package to get a cheap Asian vacation to exotic locations.

Damn! Just dipped my cigar in whiskey and a cool breeze kicked up. The neighborhood kids are in the park with their guitars wooing their pacar.

The house cat, Jeruk/Orange, slung a litter of milk-suckers Monday night. Give of them to be exact. Three greys, named Kerakatau, Merapi and Bromo (local volcanoes), a calico names Campur (mix), and another orange that I call JJ (Jeruk Juga, or orange also).

God is in His Heaven and all is right with the world.

Or is it?

Just to the south of me, in Queensland, they are having the test by fire, only with water. Brazil is under water. A good part of the States stand to me inundated when the thaw comes. Europe too. The economy is tanking. The world is flying apart at the seams. For some of us, it's the calm before the storm. For others, the storm hath arrived. For yet even others, the storm hath passed. What remains is the question of the hour.

My colleague Clif High, at HalfPastHuman.com has posted a recent article that we Asian dwellers would do well to read.

The cigar and whiskey are working their magic. The mind is open and the tongue is loose.

And so, the words and whiskey begin to flow. Who knows what will pop out next. A word of shameless promotion: if you need a writer with award-winning skills in multiple formats, drop a line to luap.jkt@gmail.com. Whether it's articles, scripts, copy, tech manuals, or really anything written, I promise to spell check before sending along. Word-smithing ain't just a job, it's a living!

And so, with that, I bid adieu. I'm going to finish my straight-two-diamonds and a fine cigar. And I'll leave you with this thought:

Cowboys are FROM Texas, but they ain't necessarily IN Texas.

Teaser: coming soon-review of "The Cosmic War," by Joseph P. Farrell, and an interview with webbot cowboys. Jack in, tune out and let the bits byte.

And while you're planning your home garden, don't forget the medicinal herbs.

Got My Butt In A Singapore Sling

If there is such a thing as a benign fascist st
Just arrived home from a two-day sojourn to Singapore, and the whole time I was thinking about my mixed feelings, both about Singapore, and about fascism in general. Granted, there are some advantages to vorporate-owned states. Everything is about making money, so if you want to make money, they are a great place to go...for a while. Granted, Singapore has existed for quite a while now, teetering on the brink of total, in-your-face fascism.

For instance, the cops aren't allowed to carry guns, BUT if you so much as drop a cigarette butt on the street, you are slapped with a S$1,000 fine and held until it is paid. There's a famous T-shirt that everyone buys as a souvenir (or maybe a reminder) that has twelve common infractions and the fine for each underneath. If you piss in a public toilet, but don't flush, S$1,000. If you don't clean up after your dog, S$1,000. The list goes on.

That probably seems mild by American, or at least Texan standards, where the police simply shoot you or TASER you into submission. Ask Joe Campos Torres. The average American would actually feel relieved to be in Singapore.

The streets are painfully clean. People don't step out of line. The public transport runs sharply on time. Everything is highly efficient and so clean, you start to feel like an infection after a while.

People are stacked in concrete hives. There are almost no private homes in the whole city/country. Everything and everyone operates with cock-work efficiency to the point where you wish you could make a mess just to feel organic again.

The minute you step off the plance, you are whisked from the gates to the duty-free shopping. It takes a minute, but you suddenly realize that there is no area for domestic flights. Every arrival and departure is international. Everything else is train, bus, taxi or private car. And there are precious few traffic jams, because most people use the cheap and highly efficient pulic transportation.

As you board the train for the city, you notice no trash, no grafitti, and everyone queues up nicely to the side so that arriving passengers can exit first. The people are all blank, self-absorbed in text messages, MP3 players and other electronic time-wasters. No one looks up or notices the rest of the world, although unlike New York, if you ask a question, people respond with police discourse rather than fear and loathing. The average obcessive-compulsive personality would feel right at home there, though normal people would feel naked without white gloves.

Now, the reason I call it a benign fascist state is because it is not intrusive into your personal space. It knows where to stop. Compare my experience with yours this holiday season:

I boarded in ZJakarta, where I beeped at the detector (if was actually plugged in that day). While being wanded, I engaged in polite banter with the staff and was even offered the phone number of the very nice young lady running the X-ray machine. When leaving Singapore, I passed through a metal detector at the gate and the only question was did I have a laptop. Since I didn't, I was passed through completely unmolested. The funny part was that zI was carrying a large bottle of bath/shampoo, which no one cared about, AND in my pocket I was carring a small knife.

You see, when I left the states, I went and got a few items at the local sporting goods store. At the check-out, there was a display of impulse items, one of which was a Swiss Army card. About the size of a credit card, it has a knife, pen, pin, phillips and flathead screwdriver, a magnifying glass, and a ruler. Probably the handiest thing I brought with me, save for the Sport Berkey water fliter. I carry that tool with me everywhere. Yesterday, i forgot to leave it at home and I still have it, after going through security in two countries.

Now, tell me about your experience being groped, molested, yelled at, humiliated, threatened, and fined for non-compliance back there in the Land of the Free.

Yeah, if it weren't for the flouride forcefully dumped in your dinking water and the 'anti-depressants' your doc gives you to cure the cognitive disonance, you'd probably be pissed.

But, as it is, you just tolerate it because, gosh, somewhere, sometime, a terrorist named Okel Sam may strike.

All in the name of safety, you know.

I think what really disturbs me about the whole 'safety' industry is that you let your guard down. You put your personal well-being off as someone else's responsibility. You become a mindless drone passing through life as painlessly as possible, hoping and paying that nothing will violate your personal space. The irony is that you give up your personal space to a third-party vendor so you can go about your business making money to pay for the vendor.

That's why I love Indonesia. You can't let your guard down. You, and only you, are responsible for your safety and well-being. You can't trust anyone without them truely earning it. I prefer that. I prefer having full and complete responsibility for my and mine. I feel alive here.

Most Americans I meet hate it here. They can't handle the daily contest for food and shelter. They can't stand the 'kill or ge killed' mentality. How far we have come from the people who built America. My great aunt travelled with her family, at the tender age of two, in a covered wagon from Kanasa to Texas. There were no state police, no rest stops or Stuckey's, no interstates, and nothing to eat or drink but what you carried and what you found.

That is life. That is living. When you give up the idea that someone else can protect you, you find a deep sense of power and self-satisfaction. You lay down at night knowing that whatever is in your belly and whatever safety you have, you EARNED it with your vare hands.

Talk about a sense of accomplishment.

There are precious few frontiers left on Earth for spirits like me. The 'Final Frontier' is, alas, still the realm of governments and militaries. If someone offered me a one-way trip to Mars, I'd take it for two reasons: one, I'd see and experience things precious few have before, and two, I'd live or die on my efforts, not some vague police-state that sees me more a threat than any outside force.

Singapore is cool, sure. For a day or two, it's a nice respite from the gritty contest of daily durvival in indonesia. But, if offered a choice, I'd take Indonesia any day.

Most Westerners can't hack it here. Good. I like being a big fish in a small pond. But, it makes me sad that my fellow countrymen have lost the spirit that created the country they live in.

Nothing makes a man feel more like a man than to have a good wife and children who depend on him, and to fight every day for them, so that the food on the table is a precious gift from Universe, not some bullshit nanny state.

Patrick Henry famously said, "I care not what others may say, but for me, give me liberty or give me death."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

When I comes right down to it, a real man feels like a man when he can difend and build despite all odds. No matter what the hardship, it feels so good to sit on a pleasant evening on your porch and watch the sun set, knowing that you have a roof and food in your belly because you really earned it.

And nothing makes a woman feel more like a woman than having a man who can fight the good fight.

So, you can have America. You can have Singapore. You can have all the fascist control nanny states. I like the feeling of being a real man. And I really like having a real woman who appreciates it.

Now fetch me my dinner, woman!

At The Crossroads

WARNING~

The following post may contain words and/or phrases that offend, anger or upset some people. If you have not read my other posts, then you may not be prepared for the fact that I use language, with all its connotations and permutations, to make points, in the tradition of William Safire or George Carlin. If there is a word or phrase that offends you here, then examine yourself, not my usage. You have been warned...

Having spent the night in the men's room of T2 at Changi Airport in Singapore, I have come up with a couple of revelations, as it were. One is, the restrooms at T2 have a nice shelf area behind the toilet, which if you are carrying your towel like I told you to, makes a rather nice free hotel room. Use the towel as a pillow.

The other is that I live at the crossroads of two very different cultures, complete with separate ideologies and goals. You may think to yourself, "Well, duh, doofus." But the profundity of the realization is startling. Living on the Far Side is 180-degrees from EVERYTHING.

So, there I was in Singapore. I was supposed to meet a long-time acquaintance and spend the day/evening discussing business and pleasure. I sent him a text from the airport at 10am, letting him know I had arrived at the precise time I had predicted, allowing for the fact that I was flying on an Indonesian airline, which meant that I had to give an hour to the posted time. I told him that I would take the MRT down to Orchard Road, which was very near his place. I received his confirmation to meet when I arrived at Orchard, so I boarded the MRT and made my way downtown.

Keep in mind that I am perhaps 80% blind due to MS. This was my third trip to Singapore and my second since becoming blind. I had never used the MRT and I was a bit apprehensive.

The first thing to mention is that Singapore is very friendly to the handicapped. Most stairs have rails and the treads have light-colored strips to highlight the end of level ground. There generally aren't any surprises, although that is not universally true. Outdoors is a bit of a challenge. But for the most part, I was able to get around effortlessly. There is almost always an elevator wherever a set of stairs exist, as well.

Another point is that people are paid to help. They actually look for someone who looks lost and offer assistance, particularly around the public services. Just because I was reading various signs around the MRT station, a woman, God bless her, came up and all but led me by the hand to get a ticket and explain the system to me, and yes, she was a uniformed employee of MRT.

I boarded the train and made my way, fairly effortlessly, to Orchard Road. Unlike someplace like New York, people in Singapore are more than willing to answer questions. Of course, you will want to use your most formal and polite English, just to be sure. English is the default language of Singapore. The locals speak Singaporean, which is a curious creole of Mandarin, Malay and English. Knowing a smattering of Mandarin and Malay/Indonesian will buy you Brownie points and get secret information and additional discounts, if well applied. It's kind of like knowing the secret knock at a speak-easy.

When I arrived at Orchard, I looked for a place to alight. I found an Italian street restaurant just outside of Ann City mall, where I proceeded to order Cajun fries and a Japanese beer (2-for-1 special in the afternoon). I sent Rajan a text and waited for the next five hours for a response. Being a planner, I also had another contact that I had made prior arrangement with, an Indonesian who was staying in S'pore at the same time. As backup, I sent Ivan a text, as well. In all that time, I received no response from either party.

And there you have the set-up for this post. Two very different cultures. Don't see it? Let's review. I spent the night in a toilet and both contacts did not respond to my text messages. If you are a Westerner, your feathers are already ruffled. There are two primary concepts at play here. One is punctuality and the other is frugality.

The first concept is something uniquely Western, in my experience. The idea of setting an appointment and actually being there at the appointed time is part of my British/American culture. If I say I will be at a place at a time, I am there at a minimum of five minutes early. I am bound morally and ethically, and perhaps genetically, to meet that schedule. For some unknown reason, Westerners have a punctuality fetish. For Germans, this rises to the level of obsession. The British invented the use of clocks for navigation and arbitrarily set Greenwich as zero hour. The Swiss are known for their precision in making time-pieces, not to mention cuckoo clocks. Which brings up a great quote from the Orson Welles character in that brilliant film, The Third Man:

In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed - they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love and five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock!

But I digress.

In my experience, people closer to the equator have a distinct "get round-to-it" attitude. This is not a hard and fast rule, as one look at South America and Africa might tend to shoot a hole in the theory. Certainly, northern Europeans have cultures that are focused on time and punctuality. British high society has regulated its life around day parts, what with tea-time being a central part of those rituals. The invention of atomic clocks and alternating current are futher examples of this focus on time. Cettainly, the development of astrology for telling the future, and more recently the work of Clif High and George Ure with web bots displays a cultural focus on time and future.

It is possible to generalize the idea that cultures that focus on time are more successful than those that don't. No one would argue that American, British, German, and even Japanese cultures have been wildly successful in propagating themselves and in amassing wealth. Many American exports involve the concept of repeatability (e.g.-McDonald's, KFC, Holiday Inn), which I see as a function of time, and others about saving time (e.g.-assembly line, appliances, mass transit). Even the Dutch invention of the telescope was not about something so frivolous as looking at stars. They were to give the user a jump on the competition by being able to see arriving ships before anyone else, and thus have information that allowed for beneficial investments. Indeed, the whole idea behind computers was to save computational time for complex mathematical tasks. Ironic, since things like Facebook and games have become some of the greatest wasters of time. Even the medical focus on life-extension is all about having more time.

By contrast, cultures such as Indonesia, Mexico, Italy, and India all have cultures that view time more as a blob with fuzzy edges and certainly less linear. If you set an appointment with an Indonesian, you can almost bet they will be up to an hour late. There is no apology or worry about it, just a fact. If they arrive within the day, that is doing pretty good. These cultures even have expressions for this attitude. Indonesians talk about "jam karet," or flexible time. Mexicans use the expression, "mañana," or tomorrow.

With the obvious exception of Italy, which produced one of the most complex languages on Earth (Latin)and Hindi, many equatorial languages has simple or non-existent tenses. Malay/Indonesian and Mayan languages have very simple tenses which indicate general timing of events in a cause-effect manner, but little else. They really only see time as before now-now-after now, with NOW being the key idea. It's almost as if what is past is not worth talking about and the future doesn't exist. Perhaps that is the origin of Ram Dass' Be Here Now concepts, or the launching point for Buddha's Eternal Present.

The second idea I want to deal with is the lack of concern about the future, which is neatly capsulized with the distinctly American expression, "nigger rich." This goes to the idea that you really have nothing, but you finance the appearance of having something. It also refers to the habit of blowing all your cash on payday for temporary fun and having nothing tomorrow for dinner. This idea is related to the concept of time because the person who is nigger rich does not think about future consequences or needs, only about current looks and comfort.

It has been explained to me that the reason many Indonesians are not successful is that they tend to fling their pay out the window of appearances and never worry about saving for the future. I was told that the reason the Chinese are successful, and universally hated, in Indonesia is that they save their money and plan for the future. Indeed, it could be argued that part of the reason the Chinese culture has survived intact for 5,000 years (with some notable political upsets) is their focus on very long term planning. Surely, the Great Wall is a display of that attitude.

Nigger rich is not limited to equatorial cultures, though certainly the term implies that the practice in American culture comes from people of African origin. One could argue effectively that the collapse of the global banking system is caused by greed and expediency, which are both driven by a lack of long-term vision. Certainly, part of the cause of the fall of Rome, Egypt and Athens was predicated on the devolution of the cultures into immediate gratification.

In Indonesia, the holiday of Idul Fitri is fast approaching. At this time of year, sales of gold and cars soar. People buy flash to take home to the family in the village, to show how successful they are, and then promptly sell it all when they return to the big city. In fact, the best time (for planners) to buy gold and cars is immediately following Idul Fitri, as everyone unloads the flash.

I am told quite often that the reason Indonesians are not more successful on the whole is because of their short-term view. Certainly, I have witnessed similar practices in Central America and among certain demographic groups in America. By contrast, the Dutch have been quite successful over centuries, arguably because they are notoriously cheap (think Dutch treat).

Blowing your wad on payday and saving for a rainy day seem to be competing ideas that separate indemnic poverty from long-term success. Certainly, it appears that cultures that practice nigger rich are not as successful over the long term as cultures that save. I have heard it argued that the turning point for America is when people ceased to save and started hocking themselves to the rafters to buy gee-gaws and bling. Without a doubt, it is a massive debt load that is sinking America, and western civilization with it. The American desire for immediate gratification (i.e.-Halleluia! We found the printing press) has endangered multiple generations, and the same can be said for any group whose guiding principle is "nigger rich."

So, how does all this tie together, you wonder? Well, my frustration at not being able to contact and meet people in a timely manner, and my sleeping in the men's room at the airport are examples of cultural punctuality and saving money. I was extremely put out that just one hour after telling someone that I was in town and ready to meet after a week of preparation, and all of it failed. Also, my desire for immediate comfort was not enough to overcome my desire to save money, thus I found the shelf behind the toilet and my towel to be ample for my needs.

In the end, my delay of immediate gratification paid off by having a little extra jack to buy a bottle of Absolut reward, which this time actually made it all the way home. So I guess this saving thing does pay off.

Yeah, this post is a bit rambling, I know. But I am still jet lagged and a little stiff from my cheap hotel. Hopefully, the next one will be a little more focused.

Oh, and cheers!

Livin' the Old West in the New East

OK, so I go on and on about how much fun Indonesia is. Sure, it's pretty damn cool and there are lots of things, like personal freedom and the complete lack of surveillance cams, that make this a damn fine place to live. There's even the bit about how, short of murder and drug running, there's pretty much no crime that a little well-applied cash won't cure.

But...

One thing that really weirds me out is the Supreme Act of Buying Booze. To get a bottle of Absolut, we're not talking handle here...just a fifth, is like walking into Spec's and asking for a few g's of sinse and a couple of Buddha balls. Just ain't gonna happen.

Imagine, if you will, walking into the corner store and whispering to the clerk that you want a bottle of booze. They look around and reach under the counter and pull out a wad of newspaper that disguises the occult treasure. Thirty bucks for a fifth of Absolut! No tax stamp or anything, like it just fell off the duty-free delivery truck.

Oh sure, you can get the local rot-gut from Manado, Mansion House, for three bucks a pint. It has all the flavor and panache of colored water, though five or six pints will cop a buzz. The vodka is made from manggo juice, which pardon me for pointing this out, but vodka is made from starches, like potatoes.

If you're lucky, you have a rich buddy who runs to Bali on a regular basis and brings you oleh-oleh of arak, which tastes like Gran Marnier. I mean, have you ever tried to get drunk on Gran Mariner? You start to feel like Anita Bryant after three or four shots, singing, trashing gays and pitching Florida oranges all at the same time.

Bali and Manado are the two places in Indonesia where you can enjoy yourself openly without 30 people standing around tsk-tsking and taking notes for the local morality police.

You can get local brew, which amounts to two kinds of red wine aged about ten minutes. One is anggur merah (red wine) that is basically drinking Welch's grape juice with a hang-over. The other is anggur orang tua, or old man wine. It is a spiced wine with a licorice flavor that is mixed 50-50 with lager. Both are considered VERY low class and no Indonesian of stature would be caught drinking such things. Another one is cap tikus, which more or less means mouse piss. It is distilled coconut milk and has a proof of around 100 (hard to say for sure since it's moonshine). The real stuff is imbued with a fetal deer, something like the worm in a bottle of mescal. Let's just say that after a few rounds, you'll eat the deer and just about anything else in sight.

So anyway, what this was all about in the first place are the Nazis in Singapore. There I was in the Singpore airport for six hours and all I could think about for a month before was buying a decent bottle of Absolut (a handle, no less) to take back to Jakarta for my 49th birthday. Keep in mind it has been about two years since I had a decent bottle of world-class hooch to play with here. Wanting to make sure I didn't forget or run out of money before I got my prize, I bought the bottle on the way out of customs. I carefully loaded it in my day-pack and proceeded to enjoy the airport amenities.

After escaping the BOHICA, I went to the huge tote board at the front of Terminal 1, where I learned that my return flight to Jakarta was leaving on-time (har har har! an Indonesian flight going to Indonesia leaving on-time) from Terminal 3. I jumped the scooter train and landed at T3, where I checked in early, got my boarding pass and all was right with the world.

I wound my way to Harry's Pub, which is the free (non-first class/club member) watering hole and met Brian, a 20-something Aussie on his way to Greece for two weeks to enjoy a woman. Things must really be bad in Oz to go to all that trouble. We gabbed over a couple of delicious Tiger beers, alternating rounds.

At one point, I looked at my watch. 8:15. Still had an hour to get to the plane. Time for one more.

"Are you sure," Brian asked. "I have 9:15."

Oh SHIT! I had forgotten to set my watch for Sing time, which is an hour ahead of Jakarta. I now had 5 minutes to make a mad dash to somewhere, since I didn't really know where the gate was. I had planned on a leisurely walk there, not a panicked scramble across the sterile rabbit warren that is Sing airport. When I made it to the gate, sweating and out of breath, I noticed that passengers were still disembarking from the previous flight. Why had I run? It's an Indonesian airline flying to Indonesia. We'll be lucky to get wheels up 45 minutes late.

As I stood in line to go through the Nazi scanning device, I cooled down and started thinking in Indonesian again so that I would be prepared to return home. I clutched my precious bottle and smiled.

I passed through the radiation zone and was about to take my bag and wait well past the posted time to board the plane when an attractive, uniformed Indonesian woman said, "Is that a bottle of alcohol in your bag?"

"Oh, yes. It's just one, so I don't need a customs slip right?"

"May I see it?"

"Of course," I said, opening my bag and showing her the contents.

"Oh, I'm afraid I have to confiscate it."

"W-H-A-T??!!"

She pulled out the precious bottle, still SEALED, nestled in its nice little plasic souvenier shopping bag, with the receipt resting comfortably at the bottom.

"Sorry sir, I have to take it."

"W-H-A-T??!!"

"It's not in a sealed bag."

"The bottle is sealed. See?" I pointed to the factory wrap still staunchly in place around the cap.

"They're supposed to put this in a sealed bag when you buy it," she offered.

"This is how they gave it to me!"

"Then I'm sorry, I have to take it."

"W-H-A-T??!!"

Noticing a disturbance, a stern Chinese woman with a butch haircut came over to inspect the goings-on. I explained that I had purchased the bottle at duty-free and was taking back for my birthday celebration and that it had been since I had enjoyed such fine quality hooch and surely there must be some mistake here. She was unmoved.

I explained how I had bought it at duty-free on the way in so I didn't forget it and that it was the only oleh-oleh I had purchased. I mentioned how the price was the same coming and going and how the bottle had never been opened and look, the receipt shows I bought it only hours before.

"When you bought it, it was expected that you would consume it in Singapore," she replied in a perfect cartoon Asian accent.

"W-H-A-T??!!"

The stern Chinese woman returned to her post and I was left facing the Indonesian woman. I offered the obligatory bribes and gave her my cell number promising a wild night on the town when she got shore leave. I begged and pleaded and did my best Tiny Tim act. I could see that she was ready to relent and was looking around for some way to take me up on my offers, being Indonesian and all.

"Can I just drink it all right here?" I sobbed.

At this point, the Chinese woman reappeared and said that I could, but then she could not let me on the plane because I would be inebriated. Keep in mind that I had spilled a beer on myself at Harry's, so I already smelled like a brew pub at closing time. I didn't like the Chinese woman. To her credit, the Indonesian woman would have taken the bribe, I could see it in her eyes. But, in Sing, she would have lost her job. At home, she would have gotten a promotion.

Finally, they were calling my flight and I had to relent. Other than grab and run, nothing short a good distraction was going to help this situation, and no distraction was forthcoming.

Some damn agent with airport security got my bottle. The bastards. i hate that. They take it from you because you were going in the wrong direction when you bought it, and then they take it home and enjoy it while laughing at you for buying them a drink.

I've never liked all the asenine rules about customs and I certainly have no love lost with anything calling itself an agent. I do, however, appreciate the Indonesian acceptance of bribery. You see, if I pay a bribe and get what I want, it's so much better than having something confiscated under some obscure rule and then used by an agent. All that means is that I paid a bribe for nothing, so they can enjoy my booze, pen knives and lighters. In the end, bribery keeps things more on the level and there is no pretense. There's a reason 'force' is the root of 'enforcement.' At least with bribery, there's no force, everyone's happy and the general bullshit level stays pretty low.

I shoulda been born in the Old West, but at least I have Indonesia.

The Animating Contest of Freedom

Well you walk into the room like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law against you coming around
You should be made to wear earphones
Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is
do you, Mr. Jones?
-Bob Dylan, Ballad of a Thin Man

I recently went back to Singapore. It was the first time I have left Indonesia in two years. And baby, something is happening here, but I don't know what it is.

Seems after you live here for a while, something happens to you. You change. Your perspective warps just a bit. You get used to things that just a while back were wildly outside of your comfort zone.

I have gotten so used to the just-left-of-reality called Indonesia that returning to the 'real world' is a shock. Now granted, Singapore is a techno-fascist state that has brought compliance and lock-step to the point of micromanagement. It is a city-state run by Chinese, which is to say, Vulcans. On top of that, they have spent years recruiting and investing in high-tech brain-power and businesses to the point where the entire nation has become a macro-chip, if you will. It is impossible to describe Singapore without resorting to a truck-load of hyphenated nouns, because there are no normal words for it.

After two straight years in Indonesia, stepping into Singapore assaulted me with clean efficiency. Everyone was following the rules. There were all kinds of modern conveniences, like moving sidewalks that actually moved (Indo joke), restrooms fitted with all sorts of sensors to tell when you've finished so that they can flush or dispense water or soap or warm air, and signage that is both copious and actually leads you somewhere (Indo joke). Everything spacious and people respect personal space. Everything is painfully clean, in a way that would make even Germans wince. It all looks like it was torn from a 1930s Future-ama film short at the Saturday matinée.

It is truly the mirrow image of Indonesia, and I was Alice just stepping through.

With cold efficiency, the airport itself led me through the gate, down the impossibly long corridor and into the dazzling arcade of duty free shopping, with genuine products whose counterfeits I have passed a million times in Indonesian shopping malls. Here was cheap booze and expensive baubles, the diametric opposite of my adopted home.

Once through the endless temptations to participate in consummeristic orgies, I was summarily disgorged into the cavernous entry hall. The ceiling soared overhead and there seemed to be enough room for half the world's population here, so unlike the cramped and crowded stockyards full of shoving people back home. A huge tote board listed the great cities of the world, which airline was going there next, and precisely which line to get in for your boarding pass. If this wasn't enough information for you, helpful little men in red vests would quickly glide up to you and offer help, and the best part was they didn't expect a tip. It was, after all, their job.

I stepped into the tropical heat and blinked at the sun. I was not accosted by 47 men offering taxis, watches and perfume. Instead, there was an orderly row of taxis patiently waiting for the next passenger. The air was fresh and clean. The noise level was significantly below 80 decibels.

the taxi was very efficient. No chatter and useless effort, just took the address and whisked me away in smooth comfort down broad rectilinear streets that looked as if the maid had just left. The driver took the most direct and fastest route without being told. Back home, they take the longest and/or most congested route, unless otherwise guided, in order to run up the fare.

Throughout the remainder of my stay, I was ever-so-efficiently scooped up and delivered quickly, quietly and with cold calculation. Even friendly folks seemed as if they were reading from a script, and there were the sonstant reminders not to litter or spit or forget to flush, all of which will get you a S$1,000 fine. Everyone and everything looks as if it were placed exactly were it needed to be for maximum efficiency. There were no free-roaming animals or smoldering trash fires or vendors strewn down the sides of every street. Even the architecture looks like a Disney version of Vienna with a dash of Portuguese for flavor. Overall, the city is a poster-child for handicap friendly. I was able to navigate easily and never once stumbled over broken concrete or oddly placed doodads that served no purpose but to keep someone busy installing and removing them. If, God forbid, there was a hazard, it was barricaded and marked heavily with orange cones.

The trees all looked as if they were pruned every morning and the parks had manicured grass. Even the birds seemed just a little happier...hey! Wait a minute! There are birds here!

Yes, Singapore is the wet dream of every efficiency expert and obcessive/compulsive on the planet. You could eat off the sidewalk, if you could without being arrested and flogged for doing so. Even the curio and souvenir shops are meticulously organized so that you can easily find the cheap piece of crap you want to bring back to your family and friends. I always get refrigerator magnets. At least they are useful. Worse case scenario, you can put them in your transmission pan to collect metal filings.

By the time I got back to the airport, I felt as if I had been sanitized. The only thing missing was the paper band that said so, and I kept moving so the guy giving those out couldn't catch me. I bolted through the main cavern and wended my way to the SkyTrain to take me to Terminal 1. The highly efficient system came along and everyone queued up and boarded in an orderly and safe manner. We were likewise barfed out the other end. The model of efficiency.

Having checked in three hours early (being efficient and all), I planted myself at Harry's Bar to enjoy a libation while passing the time. I met a young Aussie guy named Brad who was going to Greece to meet his girl for a couple weeks' R&R. I made the usual jokes about joining the riots and shopping for islands while he was there.

In all my efficiency, I had forgotten to set my watch ahead one hour. When Brad pointed this out, I had ten minutes to get to my gate, which was at the other end of the Universe from Harry's, of course. I dashed through the terminal, being the only person whose lack of personal efficiency had made me short on time. I slipped through the security check, but...OOPS! Was that a bottle of booze in my pack?

The woman, an Indonesian, pulled out the massive container of Absolut nectar. It was not in a sealed bag and didn't have a tax stamp. Sorry, but we have to confiscate.

WHAT?

The chief of the check point was a stern Chinese woman, the very definition of cold, hard efficiency. She was unmoving and unmoved. Even having this middle-aged man sitting in a heap on the floor crying hardly budged her inhuman countenance. I could see that my begging and pleading had some effect. The tempurature of her soul had risen to 3 degrees above Absolute Zero, so that she matched the background radiation of the Big Bang. But even offers to relive the Big Bang could not stir her interest.

To her credit, the Indonesian woman was sympathetic, and she kept looking around for some opportunity to bend the rules for me. I offered dates and promises of painting the town when she came to Jakarta. She wanted to, God bless her, but gainful employment was a major hurdle. I slinked off to board without my ill-gotten booty. My Viking soul screamed for loot and plunder, but my rational mind keot control.

I was back in the Indonesian world now. I should have known. It was an Indonesian airline going to Indonesia, which meant the flight wasn't even boarding at the scheduled time of wheels-up. I fumed. I groused. I grumbled. I could see my plunder sitting there, knowing that it would end up on the shelf in the home of some customs apparatchik. It made me angry. I longed for home where a well-placed 50 would have waived the rules.

And that's when I realized...I was homesick. No, not for the police state which shall remain nameless (but whose initials are US), but for my adopted home. I wanted to go back to the place where officials could be bribed, rules could be broken, people shoved and cut in line. I wanted to go back to where it took five people to do one job at seven different windows. I missed my dirty, noisy, crowded, lawless home.

When I deplaned (whatever the hell that is) in Jakarta, there were no directional signs, or the ones that did exist were wrong. The corridors were dark and close, and reeked of clove cigarettes. In fact, over in the corner there was a man standing under a no-smoking sign, enjoying his cigarette. I was beginning to feel better now. I finally found the visa-on-arrival lane, surrounded by a maze of stanchions with no one in line. I went to the first window to pay, the second window to get a receipt, the third window to get my stamp, the fourth window to check that the first three had done it right. Then I wandered down the long, low hall to immigration, where I was informed that needed a form, and that the form was way back where I started. When I got there, I checked. Nope, no signs to let me know that I needed any forms in that area. I filled it out and got through immigration.

I asked a gentleman in a uniform which way to the exit. He asked if I had luggage and I said no. He said I could go in any of a couple of directions, of course. He looked as if he were ready to accept my money for the information. I ignored the look. I randomly chose the most difficult, of course.

An hour after landing, I spilled out into the dark, dirty Jakarta night and was accosted by a dozen men offering off-meter rides to the city. I'm not stupid, just a little dumb. After a particularly long and circuitous route, I was able to ditch them and dive into one of the taxis I trusted more than most. I gave him explicit directions on which route to take back to the house.

As I sat back in the seat for the ride, I realized that I was happy to be home. I preferred the loony, lawless cat-herding of Indonesia to cold, fascist efficiency. I preferred the pushing and shoving in line to marching lock-step in jack-boots. Life just feels organic here, like living in the wild versus a wildlife preserve. The law of the jungle prevails. There is something visceral about this land that appeals to real people who want to live raw, unfettered lives. I would choose this to a petri dish under a microscope any day

For all its clean, efficient modernization, I was no safer in Singapore than in Jakarta, but all the trappings made it appear that way. Like other "modern" countries, Singapore has created a coddling society where people are enticed to give up being alert because everything looks so safe, and lulled into a stupor they foolishly let their guard down...and that's when the danger slips in. In Indonesia, life is still the way it used to be. You are on your own. You must be responsible for you own well-being because certainly no one else will be. Every face you see wants to take something from you, so your guard is always up. Yes! This is real life. This is the way we are meant to be as organic beings...as humans.

As I sat there in the taxi, watching every turn, checking the meter to be sure it was properly calculating my trip, locking the doors, I realized that I was happy here. Not having yellow-shirted thugs watching to be sure I don't step out of line for my own good feels right to me. Not having mandatory health insurance and Social Security and welfare and social services and jack-booted herd masters feels like life to me. Those other things are just veils we pull over our eyes so we don't have to look at misery and suffering in other people, and so that we can feel like we are safe like in mommy's arms. But we forget that when we have mommy's comfort, she can also go through our things and come into our room any time she wants, because she owns the place and feeds us.

I laugh when I read the term "advanced nations." How is it advanced when the populace is never required to mature and gain independence? How is advanced when no one advances past the childhood phase of life? It used to be we measured advanced by how well someone could fend for themselves, not by how much they had delegated personal responsibility.

As the road whizzed under the tires, I thought, "Give me liberty or give me death." What a great line, to bad so few actually live it. Is it better to have one shot of top quality, 25-year-old single malt, or gallons of rot-gut? I'll take the shot, thanks. A little quality trumps a lot of bunk any time. So it is with the life I have been given.

I got down from the taxi in from of the walled and gated kampung. As I passed through the gate, I waved to the night watchman. He's my neighbor. He knows me, I know him. I could pass unfettered. It felt good to be home again.

The secret to herding cats is to lead them, not push them.