September 13, 2009

Well, August has passed, and frankly, I’m glad. It was not a banner month at all. I fell into a funk toward the end of the month that lasted a couple of weeks. Now admittedly, I was also battling a sinus infection. I finally went to the clinic and got something for it, and that helped. And, by putting one foot in front of the other—suiting up and showing up—the funk passed. I’m damned grateful for that. It used to be that I would get terribly depressed, and stay that way, often for months at a time. I’ve gotten better at coaching myself out of those mental doldrums, and taking actions appropriate to toward movement out of, instead of into to, “the swamp,” the tangled morass of own mental/emotional Sargasso Sea.
Which isn’t to say that life is a bed of roses. Often far from it. I miss my family terribly. I came to the realization recently that families provide a lot of human contact: conversation, touch, hugs, kisses, and yes, even “more intimate” connection. But at that emotional level, it can be very lonely here. But recognizing that fact, and talking about it with Jessica and close friends, has helped. Jessica suggested I get a massage every now and then. Not a bad idea! I’ve never been a big fan of massages—seems so difficult to find someone who understands what it is I need. It seems they expect that I’m there to be kneaded to a a pulp (which is nice on occasion). And I also think that part of the problem is me, that I’m not too accepting of the experience—that I resist, rather and accept. But the suggestion has a twofold merit: taking care of my physical self (all this biking, and the tensions from work, leave my body fairly wrought), and now it seems clear that there is a potential mental and emotional benefit—to be touched, to relax, to let go. Of course, I haven’t tried it yet. And there is a stigma, almost an expectation (especially in SE Asia) that that kind of “self care” turn sexual. I don’t want that. I’m there to let go my troubles, not add to them!

To balance out the stress and frustration of work, I ride my bike. Every chance I get, which is maybe 3 times a week. Go out ay lunch time in the Malay heat and humidity and hammer. And I’m getting better—the other day I (finally!) made it up “Buka 2,” a steep hill that has frustrated me since we first found it. I’m getting stronger, and my skills are improving. And I think my weight continues to drop, if slower now. And on the mental side, it’s a great escape from the workday, whether climbing hills at a breathless maximum heart rate, or cruising down the red-gravel service roads cut thru the palm plantations, with the palm fronds draping all around. It’s beautiful. I’ve done some exploring lately too, expanding my horizons, finding new trails.
The other day I went out on my own, and found myself at a point where I wanted to cross from a rubber tree plantation into a newly planted palm area, but with a 6 foot deep irrigation ditch in my way. As I worked my way along the ditch, I came to a log thrown across it, forming a bridge of sorts. But it was a little too thin, and too far a drop, to look useable. Well, there was another log there, so I hefted up vertically, and got it to drop across the chasm. Now of course, when I first did this, the end on my side bounced up and fell into the ditch, so I had to climb down in there, muscle it back up, climb out, and finally position it correctly. So now I had a “bridge,” two 6 inch diameter logs. And by carefully stepping across one, balancing the bike on the other, and myself against the bike, I made it over. Sweet! It was a very hot day (someone said when I got back to the office that it was 35 degrees C—that's 95 degrees for us gringos!). After the crossing, I was in the newly planted palm grove. The tress are just a couple of feet tall, and widely spaced. And, in between them, they’d planted a temporary crop of watermelons! The temptation to stop, crack one open on a rock, and bury my face in it was almost overwhelming. Yet I resisted, that time!

Besides the biking, there is my pond. THE pond. The infamous pond. They say hobbies are good, they give us something to focus on besides work, and take our minds off ourselves and our seemingly huge and insurmountable problems. But hobbies can become obsessions, can become problems of their own.

A while ago, I’d added a second level to my pond, which I affectionately called “the condo.” I’d made it from a big round green plastic tub about 3 feet across, and from there, a small cascade flowed down into the main pond. Nice. Except the darned thing leaked. The tub was never meant for that kind of duty—outside in the tropical heat, filled with water, and with the occasional rock falling in it. Oh, it looked great, but tended to get dirty quick, and was in continual need of repair: take out the water, take out the fish, take out the rocks, dry it, find the leak (no easy job there!), caulk the leak, add a patch made of heavy plastic sheeting, caulk the patch, let it dry. Then reverse the whole process to get it reinstalled, filled, and up and running once again. That takes time, and energy, and began to be a real pain in the butt.

So a couple of weeks ago I found a place that sells the big blue rectangular fish ponds that you might see in a fish store, and a plan was born. But, as my hobby teeters on obsession, merely replacing the condo with a new plastic tub was simply not enough. Oh no! I had to buy 2 new ponds, each about 3 by 4 feet. As fate would have it, I had a spare pump too. One day my filter pump crapped out, and I got a new one. Well, later that day, the original pump magically started working again. Out of phase or jammed or something—who knows. The gal from the fish store even took the new one back, thought she had a buyer, but it wasn’t big enough for his project. So—I had a spare pump, and by golly, I couldn’t let it go to waste! I did some planning, got the ponds, and tore apart the old condo.

Now, MY condo (where I live, not the fish) is on the 14th floor, and the pond is on my roof deck—the 15th floor. And I have hauled tons (literally) of rock up the elevator, up my spiral staircase, and onto the roof. And then placed them, stacked them, and restacked them, to make this little Shangri-La. No small feat! So, I set the ponds, tested the pumping system, and hauled more rocks. More and more rocks. And moved and rearranged plants—some of them big, in heavy clay pots. And over the course of a seemingly endless weekend, the new and improved "Bali-Hai" took shape. Remembering all the while that I had hauled many rocks before, and knew just what I was in for, and that a cool day here is 85 degrees. It was not cool that weekend.

So now a water flows into the upper condo, and from there a little fall drops into the lower condo, and then a rivulet connects it all to the main pond. And it’s all surrounded with rocks and plants and is just plain glorious.

Except that now I had more room—time for more fish!

The story will never end, of that I’m sure. Tho I do feel that now, no matter what my crazy brain tells me, I’m done--absolutely done--hauling rocks! It looks delightful, and sounds great. It is my little slice of heaven, and even as I write this the water tinkles and burbles and splashes. And I’m amazed at how much time I can spend just sitting there watching fish do, well, nothing. They swim around, ":mill about in the old mill pond," chase each other now and then, and generally just hang out. At times I’m jealous. And they give me something to care about, something to love (can you actually love a fish?), some point of focus outside myself, outside my “big problems.” It’s fun. It’s a hobby. And maybe a bit of an obsession, but a pretty harmless one.

And the need to populate the new condos with new fish has expanded my horizons once again. In Kuala Lumpur (KL) there is an open-air tropical fish market called Pasar Pudu (pasar means market). Let me tell you, they don't have stuff like this back home. Fish in bins, tubs, tanks, and bags. Fish pre-bagged and ready to go. Tanks under nylon canopies, tubs along the street. People all over the place, mopeds and cars whipping by—colorful and crazy. Ok, now this is what I expect from SE Asia! Some marginally insane mix of the mundane (selling tropical fish) and bizarre (fish in plastic bags hanging from umbrella stays)--fish in every color of the rainbow. Excellent! The prices are good, or at least cheaper than in the stores here, especially with a little haggling.

Speaking of haggling, last nite I was in KL again, and finally went to Pentaling Street. This is the open-air market in China Town, where knock-offs are blatantly sold in stall after stall, across walking aisles that narrow to 2 feet wide. The ubiquitous watches—Rolex (of course), and every other brand under the sun. Mont Blanc pens. Nike, Adidas, and Puma shoes. Leatherman-style tools, laser pointers, binoculars, lighters—all the “must have” junk of our modern world.

I wonder why they even have price tags? The price shown is discarded so quickly it was hardly worth the trouble of affixing the sticker. The sticker for the Brietling watch (a real one, mind you, is around $10,000 US) says 600 Ringgit. But out comes the calculator with the large number face, and the “special for you” price is RM425. Ok, I think, that’s maybe $125 US. But I don’t want to spend that much on a watch that, with any luck at all, will last maybe a year. No I say, too much.

“What you want to pay?” in heavily accented English. I wonder, am I on the set of some B-movie?

“You give 95% discount?“ I say with a wry smile. The smile is knowingly returned. He knows, and I know, what’s going on here. No big secret. No back-alley dealing. You want a fake watch? Ok, I got it. What’s it really worth is not even worth asking. What’s it worth TO YOU, now there’s the real question.
So the game is afoot.

“100 Ringgits.”

“Oh no, sir, cannot. I make no money.” Ya, right.

“Boleh” I respond with a squint and a knowing tone. Boleh is Malay for “can.” It means “Yes, you can.”

He counters with 245 on the calculator.

“If you can’t do better than that, we’re never gonna close this deal.” I shake my head.

“No, wait sir. What you pay?”

“150.”

“We split,” he says. Out comes the calculator again “150 + 245 is 405, divide by 2 = 200.”

“150’” I say again, standing firm. Oooh, Scott Bange, the tough negotiator. Little does he know that I’m a push over. It’s a running personal joke with me that I pay retail for EVERYTHING. I don’t even like to bargain. If I want it, I get it. But you don’t come HERE, don’t get into the game in the first place, unless you want to play. Mind you, I had no intention of buying a watch….

Time to cut him some slack. “175. Final offer.” What is this “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?”

“Oh sir….” He’s mewling, but he knows that I moved off square one, some we’re close. So close.

“Well, I just got here, I go look around, and come back.” Oh no, “the mark” (me) is threatening to leave. Time to panic!

“Ok, ok…180.”

“180? And you be happy? Gotta let him save some face.

“180,” he replies.

And so it’s done. By the time I leave I own a Breitling watch, a Mont Blanc roller ball pen, an Oakley laptop case, and a DVD (a real one, surprisingly, not a copy) of “Band of Brothers.” Total spent, maybe RM 350. $100 US. And I’ve shopped in the Asian market—been haggled with, jostled, coerced, hawked, and bartered. Even shared some smiles and laughs with t-shirt vendors who, no matter what they say, do NOT have my size. Not even close.

So I bike, I play with my pond, I shop. I stay entertained. I pray and meditate daily. I work hard, and long hours. I try to work smart. Try to encourage and coach. I talk to family and friends back home. And occasionally, I get blue, or discouraged, and even grumpy. I strive for balance, and when scales tip too far into the negative, I take action to level them.

I don’t drink, and so don’t socialize with the other “ex-pats” too much. Oh, at times I’ll go out with them, but when the dinner and conversation turns to the bar and the loud music, I head for the barn. Been there, done that. And that leaves me feeling a little left out—usually the next day when I hear about some “good time” or adventure I missed. And since they know, and accept, that I’m not too keen on that whole scene, I often don’t get invited. Which can sting, if only momentarily. Which isn’t to say that I NEVER socialize, and when I do, I enjoy it. I have people over for dinner, we hang out on the roof deck, and talk and eat. That’s wonderful.

I strive for balance. Yet I’m only human. Work, tho often challenging, can be enjoyable, and can be seen, in a certain light, as incredibly entertaining. Play is good food and good talk, bicycling, fish, and movies. And the TV channel that shows all the major bicycling road races from Europe is a real gift too! Been watching the Veulta de Espana lately--nice! I even bought some paints and canvas—need something new to fill my time now that the fish pond essentially complete.

My year is more than half over, and I’m doing ok. Now, the truth is that my year may be more like a year-and-a-half, but that’s ok. I’ve created a life for myself, and tho I generally can’t wait to be home for good, I make the best of it.

Yet make no doubt about it, “there’s no place like home…”

On the way to KL once, we saw this:

4 Ferrari's and 2 Maserati's--"singapore guys" as my driver says--out for a little spin! And smack in the middle of the shot--a Proton (the local economy car)!