In Kobe, actually.

But first…never take the word of a railway guard. 

We were trying to catch  the 10am Shinkansen (bullet train) to Kobe from Tokyo’s Grand Central Station which was large and difficult to navigate: English seemed in short supply. 

Till said guard that is. He scrutinised our tickets, nodded and commanded: “Platform 17.”

It was delivered  with the magisterial authority of a Tun Suffian and we believed him utterly because it was easier. The platforms were clearly marked so it was doubly easy. 

The thing is,  bullet trains don’t hang about. Two minutes max and when we piled into the scheduled tenner, we found our “reserved” seats occupied.  

Wrong train! 

Turned out to be Platform 18 and we only just made it.

We had to sprint.  

Travelling by Shinkansen isn’t cheap – about RM440 a piece for a journey of over 2 hours.  But it’s comfortable and you get a grandstand view of the countryside flashing past at 285km/hr (180mph). 

There were rice plots everywhere although we never saw anyone actually tending them. Indeed, Japan is wholly self-sufficient in rice, amazing for a wholly-industrialised nation of 124 million.  

It all looked green and orderly from where we sat, with everything in place, even Mount Fuji which looked serene and detached-from-it-all.

Apart from fish – Fifty Shades of Fish is a best seller – the Japanese love their beef. And nowhere is that flaunted more in the country than Kobe, the place synonymous with beef so tasty it practically leaps off the plate. 

I’ve mixed feelings about it though. On our second day in the city, we boarded a hop-on-hop-off bus that took us around part of the city. We got off at Nanking-gate, an entrance into a rabbit-warren of alleys boasting all sorts of items for sale including all manner of Japanese food. 

It was 19 degrees out and pleasantly crisp when we stopped at a stall that was especially crowded. It boasted “Kobe Beef Steak” with government insignia that  proclaimed, in several languages, this was, indeed, the Real Deal.

The Nepali chef – a Hindu grill-master no less – assured us of the sanctity of his steak. But while tasty, the meat was cool to the taste which implied if it were any rarer, it might awaken to hail a cab. 

It was, to say the least, disconcerting. 

But what struck me most was the overall cleanliness of the place. The stall was off a side street crowded with people and yet it – the surroundings, its floors –  was scrupulously clean. 

It was the norm everywhere I went. The bathrooms in Japan made  Singapore’s look like the public toilets along our North-South Highway. 

On our last night in Kobe, Becky spotted a hole-in-the-wall outlet that promised “killer” KB sliders. 

We tried them. They were the best I’ve ever had. 

It isn’t cheap to eat out in Japan. We went to a hawker centre in Kobe and ordered bowls of ramen which was as hoi-polloi as it gets. They cost RM32 each. 

Even so, the country tries. You can get cheap do-it-yourself meals in any 7-11 outlet in Tokyo. They sell everything from freeze dried rice meals to all manner of pies. You can also get whisky if that’s what floats your boat. 

And did I say it was organised? You could put the entire Malaysian population in the Greater Tokyo Area and it wouldn’t be enough: it is host to 37 million people. 

But I never witnessed a traffic jam in Tokyo.

Not once in my two days there.  

ENDS

Make money and the whole world will conspire to make you a gentleman – Mark Twain 

The Canadians have more sense than their southern neighbours. 

Early this week, the country’s voters gave  Prime Minister Mark Carney’s Liberal Party a third term. It was a stunning turnaround: only three months ago, Mr Carney seemed set to lose, trailing his conservative rival Pierre Poilievre by 20 percentage points.

In the event, Mr Carney’s Liberals narrowly won, Mr Poilievre lost his own seat and, not surprisingly, it’s thanks to Donald Trump. 

For reasons known only to his therapist, the Donald had slapped tariffs on Canada’s exports. He also threatened to annex the country, talking about making it the USA’s 51^st state. 

Mr Poilievre, a right-winger himself, didn’t appear as outraged as Mr Carney who, correctly sensing national anger, made Mr Trump’s actions an election issue. He was right: enough Canadians agreed and left Monsieur Poilievre snatching defeat out of  the jaws of victory. 

Alas, poor Pierre. If he felt trampled upon, a great many Americans felt the same way. Indeed, the CIA’s secret files have classified the Donald’s first 100 days: “Bull Meets China Shop.” 

That’s the problem with ignorance: it picks up confidence as it trundles along.  

Meanwhile, Mr Trump, who considers modesty highly overrated , has dubbed this period “A 100 Days of Greatness.” 

It’s anything but. Truth be told, it’s the most destabilising period in current world history. Canada isn’t the only country feeling   uneasy. The Donald has threatened to take Greenland by force and has spoken about seizing control of the Panama Canal. 

In one of his milder acts, he arbitrarily renamed the Gulf of Mexico the Gulf of America. Given his litany of complaints in the run-up to the  Presidency, he might want to make the grouse America’s  national bird. 

He’s acted on those complaints, too. Example: Mr Trump  complained about his “enemies.” Now he’s weaponised the Justice Department, tightened the government’s purse strings, and gone after institutions that’ve “slighted” him – legal firms, media outlets, universities, even museums.

He’s gutted the civil service: an estimated 100,000 federal workers have been sacked.  

And if you thought he’d set an example, he has – a terrible one. He’s pardoned every single defendant convicted of crimes related to the Jan 6 riots, including those related to violent crime and criminal conspiracy. 

The Watergate scandal brought a serving President down and its aftermath brought on rules designed to protect against political meddling in law enforcement. Mr Trump said nuts to that and showed it the finger. 

A compliant Congress has allowed him to take over spending and trade policy. In the process, he’s unleashed an international trade war in the name of remaking the global economy. 

The result has been the US economy’s first contraction in three years: real growth shrank 0.3% in the year’s first quarter. 

True to form, an unfazed Mr Trump blamed his predecessor, the hapless Joe Biden. Mr Biden actually bequeathed the ingrate a strong economy. 

Like a modern day Caligula, Mr Trump has arrogated enormous  power to himself. Indeed, everything so far is unprecedented and uncharted territory.   

The man’s self-belief is terrifying. Like Oscar Levant, he believes  there are only two sides to any argument: his side and the wrong side. 

ENDS

Too often we participate in the globalization of indifference – Pope Francis 

We first met Joe at a diplomatic reception in Kuala Lumpur. 

In 2013, Archbishop Joseph Marino became the first Papal Nuncio – the Vatican’s Ambassador – to Malaysia. It followed the establishment of diplomatic ties between Malaysia and the Holy See through a 2011 meeting between former Premier Najib Razak and Pope Benedict XVI. 

Strictly speaking, an Archbishop is addressed “Your Grace.” But Joe, an American from Alabama, waved away the formality. 

We grew to become friends and soon began attending Sunday Mass at the chapel adjoining his official residence: it isn’t every day one gets to attend Mass celebrated by an Archbishop. 

Sometime in 2015, Rebecca, then in government, said she had to go to Rome for some meetings. Having never been, I jumped at the chance.

After Mass the following Sunday, we casually informed Joe about our Rome visit. Just as casually, he asked: “Would you like to meet His Holiness?” 

Is the Pope Catholic?

Of course, we said yes but, secretly, we didn’t see it happening. Not really. 

We received the letter two weeks later. The note-paper inside was stiff and felt expensive. It also bore the crest of the Holy See and invited us to celebrate Mass with Pope Francis at the chapel of Casa Santa Marta in Vatican City. 

When Francis became Pope on March 13, 2013, his choice of housing broke with more than a century of Vatican tradition. He chose a simple guesthouse bed over the Vatican’s most luxurious address. 

The Casa Santa Marta (House of Saint Martha, the sister of the resurrected Lazarus) was the Vatican’s guesthouse, a spartan place where visiting cardinals were put up. That ended after Francis made it his home. 

We were  assigned a driver in Rome.  Gabriel was a young and excitable Roman who often ferried Malaysian government officials about in Italy.  

He refused to accept one thing, however.  Gabriel flat-out didn’t believe we’d meet His Holiness. 

He said we might be able to see him on the balcony but even that… he would shrug and wave his hands. 

Too many people wanted to meet il Papa, he explained, it was difficult…and, again, the  expressive shrug, a roll of those eloquent eyes. 

The Mass was at 7.30am so we told the doubting Gabriel to pick us up at 6.00. He argued that the Vatican wasn’t open to visitors at the time, etc. 

We insisted or rather, Becky put her foot down. OK, he grumbled, it’s your funeral (or its Italian equivalent).

Dawn was breaking over Rome as an increasingly incredulous Gabriel drove us to the Casa Santa Marta. He watched, open- mouthed, as the Swiss guards inspected our documents and checked against their list. 

They let us in.  

They saluted.

I looked back to see Gabriel dancing wildly around the car. He’d finally believed. 

The mass was in Italian but a Catholic mass is not unlike McDonalds:  the Mass is the same everywhere. In any case, a kind American sitting behind me gave us a word-for-word translation.

After that,  we – nuns, priests,  visitors, all colours, about 25 of us – were shown into a chamber where he stood to meet us.

The guy before us was so overcome, he fell to his knees before the pontiff. Francis helped him up and hugged him.

In the photo that now takes pride of place in our living room, Pope Francis is smiling gently, Rebecca is beaming while I’m grinning like an idiot. 

We talked a little, in English, inconsequential stuff and he blessed us. It felt surreal but what I felt was unmistakable. 

I had been in the presence of greatness, a palpable sweetness of character that was humbling. 

ENDS

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. – William Shakespeare, Hamlet.    

In Oxford University, there was a wall that permitted graffiti.

 “Panic Calmly” was one. But the standout was this question: “Is there intelligent life on earth?” Below,  someone had scribbled: “Yes, but I’m only visiting.”

For decades, man has wondered if we’re alone in space. To that effect, we’ve sent out prayers, hints, signals, probes, even rocket-ships to find out if there’s anyone else out there.

Our eureka moment finally arrived Monday last. A Cambridge team studying the atmosphere of a planet called K2-18b detected signs of molecules that, on Earth, are only produced by living organisms.

It’s the second time chemicals associated with life were detected in the planet’s atmosphere by Nasa’s James Webb Space Telescope. 

Being a nit-picking breed, however, the scientists stressed that

more data was needed for an outright Yahoo.

According to its lead researcher, Prof Nikku Madhusudhan,

“This is the strongest evidence yet that there’s possibly life out there.” 

K2-18b is over twice the size of Earth and is 700 trillion miles, or 124 light years, away. It’s a distance far beyond what any human can travel in a lifetime – barring, of course, new discoveries like “warp-speed” of Star Trek fame.  

You’d need something like that to explore the Milky Way, let alone the universe. 

K2-18b is in the Milky Way galaxy which is our home as well. English astrophysicist Brian Cox, however, believes Earth has the only  “civilisation” in the neighbourhood, the one “island of meaning” in the galaxy.

But it’s a meaning according to us, man.  Couldn’t there be some other meaning, a “universal” one if you like? That would be bringing in God, which, apparently,  clouds everything. 

“We operate as if we are it and there‘s nothing else,” asserts the God-denying Mr Cox cheerfully. No lightning bolt has struck him yet. Who’s to say he’s wrong?

Who’s to say he’s right either?

Who the hell knows? 

Scientists like Cox think we’re alone in our galaxy because of the so-called Fermi Paradox – an advanced civilisation would have surely written their presence across the skies for the “idiots”(us) to recognise by now. 

It’s a debatable point.

There are human tribes in North Sentinel Island off India, for example, who are so cut off from modern civilisation that we let them be. Similarly, there could be advanced ETs out there who are so appalled by our behaviour – wars, pollution, crime, stupidity, Trump, etc – that they give us a wide berth but watch us anyway to protect us from ourselves. 

The sheer numbers in the heavens make ETs statistically plausible. There are an estimated 100 billion stars in the Milky Way alone. So, assuming each star has at least one “Earth” in its orbit, there could be at least a billion Earths out there. 

Given those numbers, the thought that we’re the only smarties in the galaxy seems strange. 

And the Milky Way is only one galaxy. Even Cox concedes that   civilisations are likely to exist in other galaxies. 

How many galaxies there are in the universe is unknown but US astrophysicist Michio Kaku estimates there could be at least 100 billion.

And those estimates are courtesy of the James Webb telescope. Which means it’s an underestimate because the instrument reaches only so far. 

The math, the statistics almost surely suggest one thing.

They are out there, they are watching us, and ET’s phoned home many times. 

ENDS

“All the lights on the world’s economic system are flashing yellow.” – Nobel Prize-winning economist Paul Krugman

It is said that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a lot of ignorance is much worse.  

There is a guy in the White House who’s convinced, for example, that a country that’s tariffed pays it and that’s how to punish it. It seems to be the Donald’s way of conducting international trade. 

It’s why Paul Krugman, who wrote the primer on international trade, is sounding the alarm on the world economy: he thinks it may be on the brink of a 2008 or a 2020 crash. 

The difference is that the first was caused by the bursting of a US housing bubble and the second, by a global pandemic. There is no reason for a third. If it occurs, it will be entirely self-induced, a Trump-cession if you like. 

Mr Trump inherited a strong economy when he took office a mere two months ago. During the period, the Disruptor-In-Chief sent global markets reeling last Wednesday by blasting it with more tariffs than Messrs Smoot and Hawley ever envisaged. The duo were responsible for the 1930 Tariff Act which exacerbated the Great Depression. 

Having practically bombed the markets into submission, he “paused” the move, a week later, for 90 days. 

Even so, there is now a blanket 10% tariff on all exports to the US. Separately, Mr Trump singled out China as the US’ main threat: he slapped a 145% tariff on all Chinese imports. Beijing retaliated with an 84% tax of its own. 

It’s heightened risk: US bond  yields have risen making it more expensive for the US to borrow money. And it’s ushered in a period of what Mr Krugman describes as “destructive uncertainty.”  

The Economist was briefer: it was just “bonkers.”

What’s emerged in the wake of Bonkers is a New World Odour: a reek of narcissism so thick, it’s sickening. Mr Trump’s crude and self-absorbed ways were on full display post-pause. He boasted that many countries were pleading with him to renegotiate tariffs: “They are kissing my a##.” 

Just when you think he’s hit rock-bottom, he grabs a shovel and starts digging. 

Such is the distrust of the man that some people actually think the whole episode might have been staged to take financial advantage of the crashing markets. In theory, a person who knows the markets will plummet could make a fortune if he’d short-sold the market beforehand. 

Some Democrats notably Adam Schiff have vowed to find out. But so far there have been no outright accusations. 

Even so, it is no secret that Mr Trump has used his office for personal gain. It’s ranged from the petty – launching his own coins – to the heroic: Forbes, a staunchly Republican publication, estimated that his firms raked in US$2.4 billion during his first term in office. 

Mr Trump did not divest his businesses when he took office, pledging, instead, not to incur any conflicts of interest. He did.  

The man’s grifting ways were also widely reported during his last campaign against Kamala Harris but it did little to damage him. Nothing, it seemed, could faze Uncle Scam.   

His handling of the US economy could prove the turning point. 

ENDS

Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese summed it up morosely: “Nowhere on earth is safe.”  

It was an accurate assessment of the wall of tariffs the US erected on Thursday, its steepest in over a century. 

But to claim it was targeted, as the administration did, was codswallop. 

Example: the Heard and McDonald Islands, off the Antarctic were also slapped with a 10% tariff. But both are uninhabited with only ice and absent-minded penguins about.

The penguins were reportedly indifferent to the measures. 

The Donald looked as pleased as a fox in a hen-house when he announced America’s “Day of Liberation” from the “pillage, plunder and looting” it had  been subjected to. To the President’s mind, the rest of the world had taken advantage of US generosity. Now there was a new sheriff in town and it was payback time.

The immediate  reaction, however, was a scramble for the exits: the dollar fell and the S&P 500 companies lost a combined US$2.4 trillion in one day. 

The President claimed victory anyway. “Everything will come back, booming,” he said before jetting off to Florida to play golf. 

“It’s going to be amazing.”  

The President hopes that the sweeping tariffs will increase government revenues so significantly he can cut taxes. It seems unlikely: the flat 10% tariff is only expected to generate around 5% of annual revenue and to expect the other additions to generate a further 95% is outlandish, so much pie in the sky. 

The White House hopes to collect US$700 billion from the tariffs. Economists  disagree. Mark Zandi, chief economist at Moody’s, for example, was quoted as saying “we’d be lucky if we get US$100-200 billion a year”. 

For context, the US federal government collected US$4.92 trillion in revenue in 2024. 

The tariffs will also mean an immediate spike in consumer prices. It follows that the Federal Reserve is unlikely to cut interest rates any time soon. That will grate on The Donald who not only campaigned on a platform of lowering prices but believes that he knows more about interest rates than anyone on the planet. 

Lest we forget, he’s also claimed the same for The Bible, the economy, women, politics, making money, etc, ad-nauseam.

But we digress. Going forward, expect a Trump showdown with the Federal Reserve sooner rather than later.

Incidentally, the Fed is supposedly independent and free of politics.  Intriguingly, its current chairman, Jerome Powell, was appointed by Trump back in 2018.  

Could history repeat itself?

The last time tariffs were hiked so steeply was over a century ago. In 1930, Congressmen Smoot and Hawley sponsored a Tariff Act that carried their names into infamy. 

Old Smoot didn’t give a hoot for the rest of the world because his  tariffs ultimately collapsed world trade and ushered in 12 years of global depression. Think The Grapes of Wrath, dust covered farmers and soup kitchens. 

It was when the US went into full isolationist mode and other countries reacted to its tariffs with their own. 

The tariffs may also give no satisfaction to some consumers. The US imports all of its Viagra from Ireland. 

Pity the impotent American. By April 9, he’ll need to pay 30% more to stiffen his resolve as it were. 

He’s going to feel pretty hard done by. 

ENDS

He who laughs last didn’t get the joke. – Joey’s judgment

People will believe anything if you whisper it. 

That’s a sentiment first expressed by The Anything Whisperer. Or it might have been Ripley of Believe-It-Or-Not fame. Unfortunately, neither is true  because I made it up. 

I made it up because I wanted to illustrate the power of words. So long as they exist, words have a power, in and of themselves, to compel belief. 

If that’s true, then a number of made-in-Malaysia phrases have just obtained that mystique. Indeed, some inimitable Malaysian expressions and food names have made it into the latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED). 

The OED is the main historical dictionary of the English language. Published by Oxford University Press, the 225 year-old lexicon continually introduces new words, through global usage, which ultimately enriches the language. 

Going forward, it will mean the modern-day Malaysian Archimedes will one day have his own  Alamak moment. Loosely translated, that’s a “By Jove, I’ve got it!” flash. Oxford, however, translates it as “an exclamation expressing surprise, shock, dismay or outrage.” Actually, it runs the gamut from the former “Hallelujah”  instant to outright resignation depending on intonation, inflection and volume. It’s not unlike the head-nod in India. The only thing it does not convey is anything religious. You wouldn’t expect that from “Mother of God” would you? That’s its literal translation. 

Several local food names have been added to English, including ketupat (in use from 1886) and otak-otak (1929). Ketupat is the diamond-shaped rice cake that usually accompanies satay (grilled meat on skewers), while otak-otak is steamed spiced fish with coconut milk. How the fish dish got its name is a mystery. Otak-otak literally means “brains.” Maybe it was a colonial invention. After all, Bertie Wooster, a character so dim-witted he had to be a colonial, attributed his man-servant Jeeves’ intelligence to all things fishy: “He’s very smart: he eats a lot of fish.”

Other items making the cut were nasi lemak and kaya toast. Both dishes are also claimed by Singapore – but it would, wouldn’t it?  

Half-boiled eggs (1931) is also surprisingly described as a Malaysian breakfast dish. The idea that no Englishman ever thought of briefly cooking two eggs in boiling water before tucking into its salted and peppered contents with some toast, and coffee, beggars belief. You begin to understand why the only English contribution to haute cuisine has been the chip.

Tapau (1997) or “takeaway food” has also made the cut. Other items include the Anglicised “fish head curry” and “steamboat” (1960). While the latter has other Asian variants ( the Japanese shabu-shabu, for example), fish-head curry (1972) can be said to be a Malaysian original, which is surprising: the thought of eating the head of a fish might be repellent to the English but surely not to the Japanese?  

Mat Rempit, our version of motorcycle menaces, is now an English term meaning “young men involved in illegal racing.” What should be tacked on to that is this: “They are generally a curry short of a puff and a leading cause of stress to other motorists.”

To the chagrin of the US Homeland Security, “terror” has also made the cut, as in “Wah, he so terror-one.”  That’s fluent Manglish for “He’s very cool.” OED has described it as an adjective meaning either “terrible” or, conversely, “admirable, even excellent.” 

We’d advise strongly against its use in any Western airport though.

ENDS

A lie goes halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on –  Winston Churchill

The laws of sexual discrimination work selectively in certain instances. 

This is most apparent in Malaysia when it concerns the titled. And there are many such people in Malaysia.

One of them is my wife. Rebecca’s ascension in government meant that she began attracting a string of titles which got capped, in 2015, when Malaysia’s King  awarded her a Tan Sri-ship. That’s akin to a knighthood in the United Kingdom. 

Don’t get me wrong. I was proud of her and she fully deserved it, but, in cricketing terms, you might say I was on a sticky wicket. 

I realised it the day I accompanied her to the Palace when she went to receive the honour. The official bowed and called out her full name with new title while addressing me as Dato’ – he assumed it was the least I could be. 

On my part, I assumed a vaguely lofty manner. 

At such functions, you cannot  just sit anywhere. Instead, I was briskly escorted to the ranks of the spouses where a sea of women looked  blankly up at me. 

Needs must, as they say. “We Puan Sri’s have to stick together,” I said to them and got a big laugh in return. 

That is the rub when it comes to titles in Malaysia. The wife of a Dato’ in Malaysia has her own title (Datin) while the wife of a Tan Sri is a Puan Seri. The husband of either is, however, neither and, at best, is a Mr. 

Did I mention that Rebecca is a Datuk three times over?  

If society would only observe these niceties, it would be fine but sexual prejudices almost always blur them.

Take the condominium we have been living in. It took a long time for the Nepali security guards to finally figure out that the TS wasn’t me. They simply assumed it had to be the guy.

It sort of cut both ways: it got you deferential looks from passers-by and outraged, or scandalised,  people who knew my wife. 

The worst times were when I had lifts from acquaintances. I’d roll down the window to allow the guard to see me only to hear him reply in a roar that frightened birds a kilometre away: “Of course, Tan Sri.”  

That’s when I wonder what the driver is thinking? 

It’s no fun. 

It was even worse in Singapore where Rebecca was stationed as the head of an international agency for six years. 

Had an 01 in it. I was to find out that they were the numbers routinely given to Ambassadors. 

I found it out by accident. Every time we pulled up at any hotel, someone would always  spring to my door and address me as Excellency. All this, despite the fact that my wife was always the one sitting in the power seat (the back left). 

It was one such  doorman who explained the significance of the 01 on the number plate. 

In fairness and in my defence, I almost always left Excellent smiles and a thoughtful nod or two in my waka.

ENDS

It was my cousin who gave Rebecca the idea.

Meera had spent two weeks at an ayurvedic retreat in Kerala, India  and returned extolling its benefits. 

My wife thought we should make the trip as well. 

Kerala looks a lot like Malaysia except it’s like 19 degrees in the morning after which the temperature climbs steadily to 33 degrees by noon. As there’s little cloud cover, it’s a dry heat that can make your head spin. 

Even so, the temperature begins falling after 4; but then again, it was January – we are told it gets brutal in July. 

The place encompasses 14 acres, a lot of which is still being developed. When we got there, the guests were mostly foreigners (Ukrainians, surprisingly). By the time we left, the guests were mostly Indians but from various countries – the US, the UK, Malaysia and the like.  

The place is meat and alcohol-free; only vegetable salt – 10 times less sodium than table salt – and hardly any oil are used in cooking. 

Anything processed is a no-no and only ancient grains like millet are usesd in lieu of flour. Milk, even yoghurt, and other dairy products are frowned upon. 

Nothing is mandatory so, after two days, we skipped the early-morning martial-arts exercises and went for walks around the place. We were almost always accompanied by the retreat’s dog – an amiable mutt called Princess – and two courteous guinea fowl that seemed determined to make up for an ill-tempered goose that was prone to homicidal fits of rage if approached closely. 

On those walks, we noticed that the place grew its own food. Or tried to.  

Certainly, there were all manner of fruit – papaya, jackfruit, mango, banana, breadfruit, watermelon, etc.  

The meditation and yoga classes  before breakfast were always interesting because, at the very least, it stimulated our appetites. We also learned how to “breathe” properly.  

Every day, we had our weight and blood pressure monitored by a doctor – there were three in attendance.  What was surprising was that both began dropping, after two days in my case.  

Indeed, I went off my regular BP meds on the doctor’s advice because my readings became too low (95/65). For the rest of my stay, I was entirely off meds and my readings were either normal or slightly low. 

Rebecca has always had low blood pressure so it wasn’t a problem.  It’s a family joke that when she’s stressed in her job, her BP climbs to “normal.”  

Through a screening method that seemed inexplicable to me, we were given different modes of detoxification which, to put it delicately, necessitated numerous trips to the bathroom. 

The results were amazing, Both of us lost a significant amount of weight: Becky lost over 3 kg while I lost about 4.3 kg. One suspects a lot of that might have been water but we both looked and felt better. 

The record weight loss in two weeks there, however, belonged to a guy from Tamil Nadu but it was pointed that he had a stomach the size of a small country: you could say it was the base effect.  

Neither of us are early sleepers but I was generally  asleep by 9 every night there. Becky usually read until 10 or so but both of us were up by 5.30 every morning. For me, anyway, this was a one-off. It hasn’t happened since, 

And, lest we forget, the treatment also consisted of over an hour of daily massage. In my case, it was done by two men who pounded on me using enough medicated coconut oil to float a tanker or two. 

It was only embarrassing the first time but the matter-of-fact manner in which they worked soon dispelled any discomfort.

The hot bath that followed made me relaxed and sleepy and my skin felt a lot better. 

The problem now is maintenance. It’s trying to hold on to those gains in the face of Malaysian food. 

And I think I’m losing.

ENDS

I belong to a chat group comprising high school classmates of our Form Five Class of ’72. The conversation there is pretty much ho-hum, run-of-the-mill stuff.

This morning, however, it perked up after one guy posted a video of an anxious porcupine scurrying through a residential  neighborhood in the night. 

Apparently there’d been talk of porcupine-sightings in the neighborhood but it was the first time the animal had been caught on film. 

It seemed to know it – it began scurrying faster and looking around for threats. You could almost hear it thinking: I needle little time to figure this out. 

But back to said chat group. Being Malaysia, the conversation inevitably shifted to what it might taste like. Zainal said he’d had its soup when he was in Penang although these points had to be tasted surreptitiously as the species was protected by law. 

Dollah claimed to have his grandma cook it for him  back in the  day. Said it tasted like chicken, only it was “more delicious.” 

Everything, apparently, tastes like chicken. The phrase comes from Christopher Columbus. Looking for fresh food in the US, his men came upon “a serpent” which they killed and devoured. Columbus noted that “its meat was white and tasted like chicken.” 

Whether it’s snake, iguana or crocodile, they all taste like chicken, apparently.  And it isn’t anecdotal. It’s true: most of these species evolved from the same forebears ergo the taste similarity. 

Incidentally, the snake and crocodile testimony comes from my daughter, Raisa, who is courageous when it comes to new food.

She charted what I considered a new low when she tried balut  in The Philippines. Balut, the  street food of the Manila barrios, is a fertilized, developing egg embryo that’s steamed or boiled and eaten from the shell. She balked, however, when she felt its feathers. 

Maybe I should not be too surprised –  in Peru, she consumed alpaca and guinea pig. 

Even so, I know she does not get it from me because I’m a wimp in matters of food. I think it stemmed from the time when my father urged me to eat liver. Its intense gaminess and weird texture made me nauseous and I’ve been wary of new meat ever since. 

I’m in a minority in my house though: both my wife and daughter think that liver is the best thing since sourdough bread.

Worldwide though, I’m in good company. Most people would rather give it a miss although the Danish, to a man, consider it a treat. 

Aside for the country-curious reader, except for Hannibal Lecter, most Americans think liver is “gross.” 

Then there are those foods centered around snob appeal. A friend and his wife took us to a 2-Michelin place in Singapore that had rave reviews in the Singapore press.

The prices on the menu made me feel  grateful that we were guests. 

The dishes included mini-thosai tacos (with mutton filing) and oysters with a rasam granita encrustation. 

A granita is like a semi-frozen dessert while rasam is, of course, the sour and spicy South Indian soup that was once touted as a Covid cure and, failing that, can be reliably depended on to clear your sinuses. 

I wasn’t very impressed with the food but was with the beer. 

Story of my life. 

ENDS