Every once in awhile, my mom will come up to me with a word that she heard her boss or one of her clients use at work. Without fail, she will ask me if I know what the word means, and how to use it.
Being the unofficial wordsmith in the family, I guess it makes me the go-to guy for queries like these. But the one thing about being a wordsmith is, it actually makes you acutely aware of just how superficial your command of the language really is. I often find that I struggle to find the right word to use in a situation. I just did so in this paragraph.
Today, the word was "commissariat", which my mother read off Lee Wei Ling's column in the Sunday Times. She is a big fan of the column, because she feels that it is well written and of course, it is written by none other than a member of the most important family in Singapore. I guess in some warped way, reading something written by one of their clan members fosters a kinship and a certain approachability to something otherwise remote.
She asked me if I knew what the word meant. I had to admit I had no idea in the universe what the word meant, and it might as well have been a word in a foreign language to me. But the only difference was, this time, my mom knew exactly what it meant. She just wanted to test me.
My mom recited its meaning back to me. "It's the division in the army that provides supplies to troops." And after that, she asked me why the writer's brother knew what the word meant and I didn't.
So, what's the big deal right? I guess the writer's brother just happens to be our Prime Minister. And the division that provides supplies to soldiers in Singapore's army is called S4, which I do not believe is anything remotely resembling an abbreviation for "commissariat".
Later, I went back to the article, wondering how my mom knew what that word meant. Turns out it was written inside. But at least it was a lesson well learned, and now I know a new word where I didn't know one before.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Full circle
Having spent three weeks in Timor-Leste, it naturally begs the question from others.
“So, what is the place like?”
When faced with a question that attempts to cage and summarise an experience that at once seems almost ephemeral, one takes a moment to compose oneself, as one tries to find a single incident that left the deepest impression, an anecdote that recreates the same living, breathing canvas that now defines a place where it was blank before.
For me, Timor-Leste was an eye-opener. It brought me to the ground as I realized with humility the abject poverty and strength of spirit that exist side by side, as the locals simply make do. They do not have shopping malls, and they do not have fast-food restaurants. Some of my friends have asked me “Then what do the people there do?”
They cannot imagine a life without shopping malls and fast-food. To try and create a mental picture for them, I tell them about something familiar to us all, soccer.
For the Timorese, playing soccer is kicking a deflated cloth ball, shorn of all of its outside panels, on a dusty patch of turf. One takes turns to play left-footed because one only has half of a pair of shoes, as your friend from the wooden shack of a house next to yours is wearing the other half. For the goalkeepers, instead of gloves they have a pair of slippers over their hands, borrowed from someone else.
It makes you thankful that you have two shoes on your feet, because little things like these remind you that even that is a privilege.
I realized that while I was there, I similarly learnt to make do. I ate in “warungs”, as the locals did. It did not matter that the tables were sometimes sticky, that I often saw flies land on the food only to pick it for my meal almost immediately after, or that the food often had a gritty taste when it was in my mouth. Food is sustenance no matter where the source, and at times, you learn to be thankful that you are full in a country where many are still malnourished.
Of all the experiences I have had, one, almost banal in nature, lingers in my mind vividly.
I was stranded by a roadside, with the temperature easily 35 degrees. I had just concluded an interview, and the heat was so intense I felt lightheaded. All I wanted was to get back to my hotel.
To do that, I needed to change down my USD10 dollar note to cab back. In Dili, the taxis do not run on meters, and carrying a 10-dollar note is really the worst way to signal the taxi driver that you are a rich “Malai” (foreigner) for the taking.
I walked to a nearby roadside stall. A young lady was sitting here under an umbrella, taking a respite from the fearsome heat. I picked up what I thought was the most expensive item she sold, a 1.5 litre bottle of water. I did not really want the water, but neither did I want to make her give me change for a 10 dollar note by buying a 20 cent bag of crackers.
It might not seem like a big deal in Singapore, but in Timor-Leste, you become very mindful of not flaunting wealth, because if anything, the Timorese are a people with a deeply ingrained sense of pride. That is one of the first things you learn on the ground, but it is something you learn by association, experience and intuition rather than actual demonstration.
The lady refused to accept my money, looking at me almost apologetically. I did not speak the local language Tetum, so with a few hand actions, I did my best to ask her why. She lifted the rattan basket that covered the container where she kept her earnings, and I looked in. All she had was a clutch of coins, barely 70 cents.
Those were her takings for the day.
Suddenly, I realized that the 10 dollar note I held now could be an amount she did not even earn in a week. It was an uncomfortable realization, and it did little to soften my embarrassment at having shown her the amount of money I now carried.
In an instant, I felt the immense disparity that separated me and her. She could not have been much older than I was, but I had the benefit of an education, a fully sponsored trip to her country to learn, and I had spent a life taking for granted things she struggled with every day.
Yet, the country is not all poor. There are reminders all around that some people have a lot more than others. Gleaming white four-wheel drives share the roads with weather beaten cars that have seen better days. Restaurant menus offer single dishes for the same price as a 10kg sack of rice. Houses with electricity and an internet connection coexist alongside wooden shacks without proper toilets and running water.
And most of these luxuries, they were in place to serve foreigners in transit, like me.
A country of stark disparities.
That, is Timor-Leste.
“So, what is the place like?”
When faced with a question that attempts to cage and summarise an experience that at once seems almost ephemeral, one takes a moment to compose oneself, as one tries to find a single incident that left the deepest impression, an anecdote that recreates the same living, breathing canvas that now defines a place where it was blank before.
For me, Timor-Leste was an eye-opener. It brought me to the ground as I realized with humility the abject poverty and strength of spirit that exist side by side, as the locals simply make do. They do not have shopping malls, and they do not have fast-food restaurants. Some of my friends have asked me “Then what do the people there do?”
They cannot imagine a life without shopping malls and fast-food. To try and create a mental picture for them, I tell them about something familiar to us all, soccer.
For the Timorese, playing soccer is kicking a deflated cloth ball, shorn of all of its outside panels, on a dusty patch of turf. One takes turns to play left-footed because one only has half of a pair of shoes, as your friend from the wooden shack of a house next to yours is wearing the other half. For the goalkeepers, instead of gloves they have a pair of slippers over their hands, borrowed from someone else.
It makes you thankful that you have two shoes on your feet, because little things like these remind you that even that is a privilege.
I realized that while I was there, I similarly learnt to make do. I ate in “warungs”, as the locals did. It did not matter that the tables were sometimes sticky, that I often saw flies land on the food only to pick it for my meal almost immediately after, or that the food often had a gritty taste when it was in my mouth. Food is sustenance no matter where the source, and at times, you learn to be thankful that you are full in a country where many are still malnourished.
Of all the experiences I have had, one, almost banal in nature, lingers in my mind vividly.
I was stranded by a roadside, with the temperature easily 35 degrees. I had just concluded an interview, and the heat was so intense I felt lightheaded. All I wanted was to get back to my hotel.
To do that, I needed to change down my USD10 dollar note to cab back. In Dili, the taxis do not run on meters, and carrying a 10-dollar note is really the worst way to signal the taxi driver that you are a rich “Malai” (foreigner) for the taking.
I walked to a nearby roadside stall. A young lady was sitting here under an umbrella, taking a respite from the fearsome heat. I picked up what I thought was the most expensive item she sold, a 1.5 litre bottle of water. I did not really want the water, but neither did I want to make her give me change for a 10 dollar note by buying a 20 cent bag of crackers.
It might not seem like a big deal in Singapore, but in Timor-Leste, you become very mindful of not flaunting wealth, because if anything, the Timorese are a people with a deeply ingrained sense of pride. That is one of the first things you learn on the ground, but it is something you learn by association, experience and intuition rather than actual demonstration.
The lady refused to accept my money, looking at me almost apologetically. I did not speak the local language Tetum, so with a few hand actions, I did my best to ask her why. She lifted the rattan basket that covered the container where she kept her earnings, and I looked in. All she had was a clutch of coins, barely 70 cents.
Those were her takings for the day.
Suddenly, I realized that the 10 dollar note I held now could be an amount she did not even earn in a week. It was an uncomfortable realization, and it did little to soften my embarrassment at having shown her the amount of money I now carried.
In an instant, I felt the immense disparity that separated me and her. She could not have been much older than I was, but I had the benefit of an education, a fully sponsored trip to her country to learn, and I had spent a life taking for granted things she struggled with every day.
Yet, the country is not all poor. There are reminders all around that some people have a lot more than others. Gleaming white four-wheel drives share the roads with weather beaten cars that have seen better days. Restaurant menus offer single dishes for the same price as a 10kg sack of rice. Houses with electricity and an internet connection coexist alongside wooden shacks without proper toilets and running water.
And most of these luxuries, they were in place to serve foreigners in transit, like me.
A country of stark disparities.
That, is Timor-Leste.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
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