Settling.

Ashley and I found a furnished flat and moved in last Monday. To be completely honest, it’s a bit of a shithole. But a shithole with a fantastic view.

Visitors welcome. Just don’t judge.

New Zealand gang activity

is apparently gardening.

The Tongue & Meats.

If you’ve ever seen photos of New Zealand (or watched Lord of the Rings), you’ve doubtlessly noticed the one, unremitting constant: this entire country is spectacularly beautiful. And the people here love to be out in it. I am bound and determined to join their ranks. How? By becoming a member of the Tongue & Meats—otherwise known as the Wellington Tramping and Mountaineering Club. (Apparently, Tongue & Meats is a reference to a meatpacking plant that has the same acronym—it’s thoroughly disgusting, which means I absolutely love it.)

Just to clarify for my readers in America: tramping has nothing to do with being either a hobo or a whore. It simply means hiking. But unlike hiking at home, tramping in New Zealand requires a level of preparedness that I was not at all prepared for. Gaiters? Definitely don’t own any of those. Heavy-duty waterproof parka? Nope, don’t have that either. Hand-held GPS? Oh, dear. I’m in trouble.

I’m going on my first day-tramp this weekend and should be okay with my cobbled-together gear, which basically consists of everything I own that isn’t a sundress. I also signed up for an overnight tramp, but for that, wearing a glorified garbage sack for a rain jacket just isn’t going to cut it. However, I’m pretty committed to becoming a hardcore tramper (as you can tell, I’m loving the word “tramp”), so I’m willing to invest in quality gear.

As for the Tongue & Meats, those whom I met all seem like really lovely people. I felt immediately at home with them, which bodes well for our many future tramps together.

What’s black and white and Kiwi all over?

The New Zealand All Blacks. This country has some serious rugby fever. And with good cause. They’re playing France in the finals of the Rugby World Cup this Sunday. A and I were lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it) enough to catch the semi-finals last week on our stopover in Auckland. It was a total madhouse. People were screaming, honking horns, climbing on things, getting drunk—basically anything they could possibly do to show they were pleased. And I was pleased, too, until it was time for me to go to sleep. And then my pleasure quickly evaporated with the ever-rising volume of the revelers.

But now I’m back to being pleased again. It’s nice to see people so excited. Just walking around Wellington (yay! we made it!), we could see the extent to which rugby is engrained in New Zealand’s culture. Kids are playing it in the park. Dads with their sons. Friends goofing around. Guys tossing the ball in the middle of the street. And almost every store window is devoted to black and white clothing only.

Ashley and I haven’t yet decided where we’re going to watch the big game. There’s a fan zone down by the water, but we did that for the last game in Auckland, and it was freezing. But regardless of where we see it, we’ll both be backing black.

Singapore: A summary.

Singapore is an interesting place. It is, without a doubt, the cleanest city I’ve ever visited. And possibly the most polite. There is a method to everything. Need some stamps at the post office? Take a number and wait patiently until it is called. DO NOT go to the counter—even if there’s no one else there—until you have been acknowledged. Want to catch a movie? Pick your seats in advance. DO NOT sit in any seat other than the one indicated on your ticket. Going to a club? Keep you hands to yourself. DO NOT pinch someone else’s bum or you will be lashed (my friend told me about this one—apparently a British backpacker is currently awaiting his punishment).

It’s kind of freakish the way everyone toes the line here, especially coming from the absolute chaos that prevails everywhere else in Southeast Asia. It’s calming. I like it. But after a while it starts to become too calming. Like they’re lulling you into this happy acceptance of the fact that the government dictates an awful lot of what goes on in your life. So maybe I shouldn’t like it. But I can’t help myself.

In my five days here, I did start to notice all the little ways in which the people try to rebel. Or at least assert their individuality. There are a lot of tattoos. And vividly-colored hair. Teenagers attempt to escape the pressures of society by going to the movies and then talking incessantly. College students light up cigarettes even though they’re incredibly expensive and there are very few places they’re legally able to smoke.

Anyway, in addition to being run like a well-oiled machine, the following are some of Singapore’s highlights:

Food courts. They’re the cheap alternative to the vastly overpriced food on offer in real restaurants. And they’re way better. Down and dirty, they’re a fast-paced, somewhat confusing mishmash of cuisine from all over Asia. Some of it’s delicious. Some of it’s repulsive. But the experience is always interesting. I was told to try a Mango Kachang—a very Singaporian dessert consisting of red beans and jelly (Americans, that’s Jell-o to you) covered in shaved ice with different flavorings poured on top like a snow cone. And then on top of that is a mango puree. Ashley said it looked like a rainbow puked in a bowl. It kind of tasted that way, too.

Museums. They’re so well done here. You can tell that a lot of time and money was put into making them some of the best in the world. Immaculately presented, thoughtfully laid out, and technologically advanced, each one offers a very distinct, yet informative, experience to its visitors.

Architecture. They’ve got some weird things going on. There are strangely-shaped buildings next to massive skyscrapers next to beautifully restored old colonials. My four-year-old niece, Eva, professes to hate trees and love architecture. I think she’d be right at home here.

Art. Ashley and I went to two art museums in Singapore, and they couldn’t have been more different. The first was pretty much what you’d expect from a modern art gallery. Lots of white space. Some really amazing work. Some not my cup of chai. But all-in-all, a very lovely experience. The second was just pure craziness. The entire gallery was devoted to a single performance/mixed-media artist. In one room, we watched a video of one of her performance pieces.

It started with her dipping magazine ads featuring supermodels into a bucket of blood and then pinning them up on a white wall. All the while there was a rhythmic pounding in the background, which we later found out was a man chopping a huge piece of meat with a cleaver. She left the room for a minute and came back in sporting some sort of tampon chain trailing from under her dress like a really long tail. When she took off all of her clothes (except her socks and Doc Martens), we found out that the tampon tail was attached to her via an inserted tampon. I was dying laughing through the whole thing. She was so serious. It was so ridiculously artsy. The people in the audience on the video seemed almost traumatized. They didn’t know where to look or what to do. Anyway, more weird stuff happened over the duration of the 30-minute performance, but I think you get the gist.

After that one was over, we watched another one in which the same woman was videoed walking around the city backwards with a high-heeled shoe in her mouth while looking in a mirror. According to the write-up, it was meant to symbolize how the feminist movement is going backwards as women become more and more enslaved to fashion and the desire to be visually pleasing to men. Or something like that. Huh. I kind of dig the sentiment, but I never would have gotten that from seeing a crazy Asian lady with a shoe in her mouth.

Next up was this installation piece consisting of slashed minivan seat with century eggs stuffed into the ripped leather. I have no idea what that one was supposed to symbolize, but the security guard told me all about century eggs, which was absolutely fascinating. A century egg is an egg that has been soaked in horse pee—yes, horse pee—before being buried in the ground for 100 days, after which time it is dug up and eaten. Apparently, it has a sort of jelly-like consistency and turns an opaque black-ish color. I’m told it’s delicious. I have no desire to find out for myself.

And that’s Singapore in a nutshell. Or an eggshell. Soaked in horse pee.

The tuk-tuk incident.

Tuk-tuk: a motorized rickshaw.

In Southeast Asia, tuk-tuks are the ubiquitous mode of transportation. Everywhere you go, it's "Tuk-tuk, lady?" Sometimes as many as ten times in a single block. On a good day, it can get a bit annoying. Today was not a good day.

I was wandering around Bangkok with no real destination in mind. Just checking out some temples and random other points of interest, when a man came up to me, inquiring, "Tuk-tuk, lady? Where you go?"

"Nowhere," I replied. "Just walking."

"You want to see the giant Buddha? The lucky Buddha? Government buildings?"

"How much?"

"70 Baht." (That's just over $2.)

For a three-site return trip, I thought 70 Baht was pretty good.

"Ok, sure."

It started out fine. The giant Buddha was, indeed, giant, and the lucky Buddha may well have been lucky. But the government buildings were where everything went sour. As we were about to depart the lucky Buddha, Mr. Tuk-tuk Driver said, "Ok, now we go to the factory."

Uhhh...factory? That wasn't on the agenda. Of course, I'd heard about the tuk-tuk scam where they try to take you to random shops where they get a kickback for everything you buy. But I was not falling for it. Or was I?

We argued for a solid five minutes over whether or not I was going to the factory. I was very adamant that I wasn't. He was very adamant that I was. When it became apparent that the "government buildings" were some sort of bullshit code for a jewelry manufacturer that's supervised by the Thai Government, I said I just wanted to be dropped off where I started.

He wasn't having it. I had to at least walk through the factory for him to get his free petrol (I'm guessing this is the form kickbacks take here).

I just wanted to be back in a place I recognized. So, I agreed to walk through the factory. And I did. But he still wasn't satisfied. Next, he wanted to take me to a garment factory, because I hadn't spent enough time in the jewelry place to get his petrol. He refused to take me anywhere else. And that's when I lost it. The guy's English wasn't all that great to begin with, but he should now be well acquainted with every four-letter word in it.

In our first argument, I had made the mistake of paying him half of our agreed-upon fare. But there was no way I was letting him get the other half. Instead, I stormed off and caught a cab back to the familiar chaos of Khao San Road. It took a banana pancake with Nutella and a beer for me to simmer down.

Tuk-tuk drivers beware: I am no longer a happy or passive passenger. Bangkok is turning me into a bitch.

Supersize me.

I am McDonald’s to the insect population of Southeast Asia. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were over a million served.