Our Columbian Moment

20 November 2014 was our 12 October 1492 (believed to have been the date on which land was glimpsed by Columbus's forlorn sailors, on their seemingly hopeless westward voyage). Our Santa Maria, Columbus's flagship, was the less elegantly christened Lufthansa LH 422. Before then Mary nor I have never set foot on America - that land beyond the encircling sea which I hitherto knew only from books. Our San Salvador (where Columbus made landfall, today in the Bahamas) was New England. However, we did not arrive seeking gold and silver, and bore no baptismal flame in our hands. We did also acknowledge the great unknown into which we were stepping, quite unlike Columbus who died still utterly convinced that he had stumbled upon Japan when he arrived in the Caribbean.

Below: meeting the natives, the first an inhabitant of Boston Common, and the second a brief sojourner on most Bostonian plates.

In January earlier this year I was given the chance to participate in the National Council for the Social Studies (NCSS) Conference, which would take place in Boston between 21 and 23 November. Besides being a marvelous learning opportunity, for which I'm very thankful, it afforded us an opportunity to visit America (in case some wonder, I refer to the continent). But since I'm no longer teaching this year, I had to work right to the very day of our departure, and the excitement only became palpable as we queued to board the plane at Terminal 2 in Changi.

Our biggest fear en route was getting through the nearly 30 hours that stood between Singapore and Boston - Mary finds it hard to sleep if she isn't horizontal, while I find it a little harder to, if she isn't. But I purchased us some peace for about $40 - which gave us more leg room. After briefing American immigration on the details of my most distant relation, and picking up our luggage, we walked out into the bracing New England autumn (winter is late this year, apparently).

The NCSS Conference this year was, quite suitably, held at the John B Hynes Veterans Memorial Convention Centre, given its focus on Civics. John Hynes was mayor of Boston between 1950 and 1960, and was a key figure in the Boston's municipal modernization. The opening of the well-known Freedom Trail also took place in his time as mayor. The Hynes continued contributing to the city beyond John's mayorship - one son became a news anchor, another taught at Boston University and the last served on the City Council.

My one highlight was listening to and meeting Jose Antonio Vargas, introduced as a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who declared his hitherto concealed status as an undocumented immigrant in 2011. This was a hot topic at the moment, given President Obama's controversial announcement recently permitting undocumented immigrants to apply for work permits in certain conditions. He paid tribute to his ex-teachers, his ex-principal and colleagues for providing encouragement and support in those nervous years before his fateful 2011 decision. He called on the audience to empathize with many undocumented immigrants, some of whom have become American in everything but legally and whose families, like his, made painful sacrifices for them to lead better lives. And he delivered a rousing alarum - citizenship is not an entitlement, it is something you earn. Something for us to ponder, and to take back to Singapore?

Below: Jose Antonio Vargas, if I had to choose why this year's Conference was worthwhile it would be him; posing with Soon Leong after our last session at the Conference on Sunday.

There wasn't much in the way of sightseeing in those three and a half days, most of which were concentrated in the Back Bay Area between our hotel and Boston Common. We visited Copley Square, Newbury Street and Boston Common (as yet we did not have time for all that freedom stuff - oops). But it was sufficient to give us a sample of Boston's history.

Below (from top to bottom): Copley Square, named after the prolific painter John whose works depicted scenes from colonial America. To the right stands Hancock Tower, the tallest building in New England at 241 metres, one-time subject of a Chicken Little-esque hysteria about whether or not it was in danger of collapsing; the Romanesque facade of Trinity Church.

Newbury Street, as was the rest of Back Bay, was reclaimed from Boston Harbour from the mid-nineteenth century. That didn't explain its name though, which was derived from the 1643 Battle of Newbury, an engagement during the English Civil War in which the Puritan-led Parliamentarian (which came eventually under Oliver Cromwell's leadership) forces decisively turned back the tide of Royalist advance. Very little remains Puritan there today - the street has been converted into a shopping district which would surely leave the Lord Protector in apocalyptic apoplexy.

It was in Newbury Street where Mary discovered the joys of shopping in the homeland of mass consumerism - Banana Republic (I remarked to her that we were visiting the original ones in the following weeks) and Kiehl's ranking amongst the more memorable stops. Kiehl's prices in the USA were almost half that in Singapore. And fears of being robbed meant we never walked into Banana Republic back in Singapore. But the Newbury Street experience involved more than just mindless spending - Raven Used Books at number 263 offered knock-down prices for acclaimed titles, throwing wide open to all the doors of this temple of knowledge.

Below (top to bottom): these stately facades were built in the latter part of the nineteenth century when Newbury Street was a well-heeled residential district; the last ember of autumn; L.A. Burdick Handmade Chocolates and its chocolate penguins, even the exterior looks chewable; standing at the junction of Berkeley and Newbury Streets, what used to be the New England Museum of Natural History, today the flagship store of Restoration Hardware (which sells furnitures).

Our original intention was to just walk through Boston Common to get to the Downtown area. However, we ended up spending more time than we bargained for - thanks to the antics of overfed squirrels. Having spent four years in England, I hardly gave the scurrying squirrels more than a half-glance. Mary learnt she could entice with the promise of food. Not food, I must emphasise. But the promise of food. So we fished for squirrels with the single piece of Lindt Raspberry Truffle given to us when we visited the store earlier. Most were quick to lose interest once it became clear we weren't at all ready to part with the bait. One tenacious individual came a little closer, and wrestled the ball of chocolate from my outstretched fingers. No bother, we thought, it's wrapped. It was unwrapped within seconds.

Then Minh and Berto spotted us, and offered us some real peanuts. Minh was originally from Vietnam, Berto from Honduras, and both have this inexplicable connection with the squirrels. Berto would simply sit on a bench, click his tongue, wiggle his fingers and have squirrels all over him in an instant. Mary has this video of me trying to replicate what Berto did, though it made me look rather more like a pervert. The scent of nuts proved to be more alluring than that of Lindt, as some of the photographs below can attest.

Below: I thought Boston Commons was just another average park, and then I saw this tree (below). In a way a lot of other parks have what Boston Commons has, and more, but the real stars were the squirrels. Nobody can ignore the Bostonian squirrels. It seems, however, that they are most attracted to nuts.

We left before it got dark, as we planned to have dinner with Samuel early that evening and also as our flight to El Salvador the following morning was at six. We are far from done with Boston - but what are the chances of us being sucked once more into Banana Republic and Kiehl's after sixteen days in Central America?

After 525,600 Minutes

3 years ago, I proposed successfully to Mary, nearly half a year after an earlier proposal caught her off-guard. Today we celebrate a year together as husband and wife. There are so many things I have to thank Mary for - not simply for the year that has just passed but for all the love she has given so unstintingly since we got together in 2010.

We planned a very untypical Sunday - quite unlike our quotidian trinity of church, nap and 夜市人生. Yet plans seldom materialize as they are conceived. I purchased a bouquet from Desmond, a Guangyang alumnus whose subtle fingers work wonders with flowers. However, the restaurant where we made reservations for dinner on Sunday does not offer overnight storage for gifts. It was just as well, for leaving the bouquet unwatered for 24 hours did not previously cross my mind. So we spent the first few moments of our anniversary trying valiantly to recreate the immaculate beauty of the bouquet within a vase. Only old adages redeem our derivative efforts.

Below: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The bouquet, before we took it apart and gave it the tousled look, was really quite exquisite.

So on to the day's plan - a year before we both turn thirty, we stepped into a water theme park for the very first time. In our childhood there was Fantasy Island, but Sentosa more often than not remained an island fantasy for us. There were few reasons to visit - Harbourfront Station did not exist, my parents were not theme park people and East Coast Park or Pasir Ris were more popular choices amongst our schoolmates for outings. Things are a little different now - there are more transport options, there is Vivocity to draw the crowds hither and the Indonesian beaches on Sentosa's south coast have become the places to be seen in swimwear.

An 11 am arrival - only just - preempted the throngs that weekly descend on Adventure Cove. This fleeting, relatively queue-less window of opportunity necessitated some strategic prioritization. The queues were only one of several unfortunate inconveniences - the others being having to fork out $20 for a large locker (my colleague tells me that upon entry he charges straight to his favourite thrill literally holding his change of clothes: just put there lor, nobody will steal la), having to contend with those whose rushing adrenalin has crowded out all vestigial good sense, and generally feeling like being on an assembly line of manufactured fun.

Below: the inhabitants of Rainbow Reef, which looks very much like a real reef. And no, we couldn't get Nemo. Coming before 11 am on the weekends is best - the queues really really lengthen after that.

Well, of course, manufactured or not, fun was fun. Mary and I took a profiling test during our marriage preparation course two years ago. One of our greatest differences, this test revealed, was our propensity for thrill-seeking. It might surprise who between us is more the swashbuckling sort. Here at Adventure Cove, the only price to pay is patience. The look on Mary's face, when after half an hour in line they suspended all outdoor attractions just before it was our turn to go on the Whirlpool Washout, was unforgettable.

But there are also pursuits for those for whom patience isn't their strongest suit. We detail below 4 ways in which we enjoyed Adventure Cove without frittering precious minutes away on avenue queue.

1. Floating our worries away on Adventure River

Where do we get one of those floats? We asked a lifeguard as we waded into the Adventure River. Just wait for the next one to float by, was his languid response. The course winds around the entire theme park, functioning at the same time as a waterway between different attractions.

Below: congestion, the inescapable demographic predicament of modern living.

2. King Ray

No Royal Wee here, but that's how some friends call me. (I don't begrudge that, in case some are wondering. In any case, Rui in Chinese is pronounced as Ray.) We spent a good while near the stingray aquarium, admiring the effortless grace with which they glided through the water. I would have to head to Australia to assume the mantle of the next most frequent mispronunciation. Yes, you guessed it - though these King Roo photographs wouldn't be as easy to pull off.

Below: no m'am, their names are similar, but that sure as blue sky ain't your husband.

3. The outdoor jacuzzi

The aptly named Big Bucket Treehouse in Adventure Cove is the place to be if one would like to experience rainfall of biblical proportions. Children flock here to splash water at each other. Adults gather to have water splashed at them.

4. Reliving our childhood

The Big Bucket Treehouse also comprises two winding slides, with markedly less daunting queues (which clears more quickly too) than their much taller and vastly more popular counterparts. These two slides also attract a very different crowd, from which we often stand out, by several heads on most instances. It is also a captive audience: the tiny faces ahead of and behind me were often the same ones from earlier queues. Yes, yes, I lingered to make up for lost time.

An afternoon downpour later made the decision to leave easier. True enough, as a member of staff shared, the changing rooms started to become congested from 4 pm. The painfully long hours between our previous meal and the next we staunched with a quick bite from McDonald's, where we were chased off our seats by a lady of Chinese extraction - civility dissolved on an island awash with money.

For dinner we booked a table at Spuds and Aprons atop Mount Faber. The food wasn't bad, and that most patrons chose to dine al fresco meant we nearly had the whole indoor section all to ourselves. Seats by the window afforded fine views of Singapore's southwestern coastline - where modern glass and steel buildings punctuated a horizon of distant smokestacks of Bukom and Jurong Island and the even more distant peaks of the Karimun islands.

At the end of an enjoyable, albeit exhausting, day I can only say one thing - may there be many more anniversaries for us to celebrate. And memorable ones too.

Lake Work

You signed us up where?

In my defence, I did ask Mary before actually signing up for the People's Association (PA) Water Venture kayaking excursion at Jurong Lake, one installment of a four-part series of guided excursions at four reservoirs around Singapore.

Er, Jurong Lake, I confirmed.

The West looms large in many Singaporean imaginations as a metaphor of distance. The name Jurong Lake seems to add to this mythical status. I could have added for good measure that we were going there to look for Excalibur. There is absolutely no rhyme or reason why we who dwell in Ang Mo Kio should be found in deepest Jurong on a Sunday morning when deepest sleep seems a fairly decent alternative.

Below: a familiar view from all those NIE-bound journeys earlier. I think most will agree that the stretch between Chinese Garden and Lakeside MRT Stations is one of the more scenic stretches.

Mary has a one-word answer to every activity I suggest - proposal? by which she means a detailed breakdown of location, duration and terrain. Very encouragingly, each time my responses to her have progressively evoked less incredulity and revulsion (though it is entirely debatable whether the latter emotion has since been replaced with resignation). And before this descents into another gender stereotype imbroglio about me underestimating my wife, the reader will have to acknowledge that not everybody can be expected to love being under the sun. Out of love (and out of her own volition - no, love is not coercive), Mary has followed me through some very uncomfortable situations as I chased waterfalls and mountain vistas. Today was no lesser an expression of her love.

Our previous outing with Kayakasia led us to expect a similar degree of freedom on this excursion. Unfortunately, the Water Venture people meant every letter of the word guided. It was still enjoyable. The weather was brilliant - intermittently cloudy so we weren't completely baked. After the choppy prelude on the seaward passage towards Sungei Simpang last month, the calm waters of Jurong Lake seemed a world apart. Yet starting at a quarter to ten meant our flotilla of kayaks getting the gathering force of the steadily climbing morning sun.

As we were hustled from point to point, I thought the best arrangement for the both of us was for me to keep up with the pack, while Mary got us the photographs. I want to enjoy paddling too was Mary's steely insistence, when I thrust the camera forwards. I could have misread that, but I was very glad. My wife seemed to have gotten the hang of kayaking.

My memory of the Chinese and Japanese Gardens is hazy, having last visited as a child with my parents. I had plain forgotten about the waterways leading out of Jurong Lake and into the garden grounds. One would think these waterways were the result of creative canalisation. Well, in a way they were - but more accurately speaking, the gardens were actually built on islands raised in the middle of the Jurong River when it was dammed in the 1970s, part of an effort to alleviate the then dour industrial complexion of Jurong. Access to these waterways is controlled, to prevent the unwary from being swept out to sea when the tidal gates are opened.

Below: the various iconic landmarks within the Gardens, viewed from rather unfamiliar angles. Their Chinese names, typically, have a poetic slant only imperfectly rendered in English - Cloud Piercing Pagoda (second from top) and White Rainbow Bridge (bottom-most) are two such names.

The waterways have also ensured the Gardens' growing stature as a local birding hotspot. Indeed, we saw a fair few enthusiasts with all manners of characteristically unwieldy lenses and camera stands.

Above: a very distinctive branch - a purple heron surveys its surroundings.

Below: the commoner grey herons. How many can you count in the heron tree?

We completed the approximately 5-kilometre circuit in a little under three hours, which included time spent photosynthesizing at various rest points. We could have had a richer experience, had we been afforded the opportunity to explore the place at our own pace. It was better than nothing, I must say. There was enough fuel left in us after to perform a quick building inspection at JEM, and to undertake the arduous journey home.

Punggol: A Partial Glossary

I thought it was necessary to explain why this entry features two married men more than anybody else, hence the rambling background below. Earlier in the year, some of us came together to establish a couples group, to encourage each other along this heavenward road. One day we agreed to go on day trips to Malaysia. After two grueling day trips (the early starts, the long drives and the uphill walking), it began to seem like it was all the men's bad idea. So we decided to come together this time round, at Allan and Cindy's place in Punggol, for a less exacting exertion - steamboat and tiramisu. As the ladies busied themselves, Allan and I decided to go for a ride along the area's scenic waterways. We created a partial glossary out of our Punggol encounters. Forgive the pun.

1. Anglers

Anglers in our well-ordered city live in a world of contradictions. They disregard the concrete markers laid down to separate land claimed from land yet unclaimed. But at the same time they also swear by the planar certainty of water's edge, where their life's purpose hangs by a nylon thread. We saw a determined handful, occupying different ecological niches in a classic demonstration of evolutionary radiation - two beyond spiked railings standing at the edge of the concrete embankment facing Pulau Serangoon, three in relatively more commodious conditions chatting happily away on a shaded bench, their fishing rods secured to the adjacent rails and a lone angler standing shin-deep along a creek, casting and reeling and casting and reeling in clockwork stolidity.

2. Birds

The Punggol-Serangoon Reservoir Scheme and the Punggol Waterway Park are both valiant attempts to reconcile the conflicting prerogatives of conservation and development. The result? Superb bird-watching opportunities practically at one's door-step. Alas, we lacked that treasured quality of many accomplished birders - patience. Furthermore, we were on wheels, and movement is the very antithesis of the elusive stillness that patience must necessarily embrace. In our hurry, we still managed to bag a few uncommon avian sights - a long-tailed shrike, a coot and some terns. We don't have photographs of the latter two, for the glimpses of the coot were too fleeting and the terns never stopped flying.

Above: the Pacific swallow is one of the fastest flyers in our skies. I was very lucky to have discovered how this individual liked to return to this particular perch. All I had to do after that was to wait and keep my hands steady.

Below: "looks like some kind of shrike," was Jayson's guess when he saw this photograph. It was - a long-tailed shrike, to be precise. It looks like another pleasant songbird, but it is known to feed kebab-style after impaling its prey - bees, lizards, rodents - on small branches.

3. Construction

Yes, I am saddened by this unceasing war against the forest. No, I am not about to launch into another diatribe against development. (Or have I already?) But Nature has not been banished entirely in Punggol. This isn't a hunt. It is domestication. Nature has been pruned, trimmed and rehoused. In fact, one of Punggol's attractions is how appealingly this has been achieved, even as groves of high-rises, steel and cement daffodils and daisies in our eternal Singaporean summer, swallow a receding horizon. The waterway, which bisects Punggol, then becomes a green-gold filament stitching together the living canvas of both built and born.

Below (from top to bottom): another canalized waterway, another familiar skyline; the Serangoon Tidal Gates, which regulates the water level in yet another of our estuarine reservoir and prevents sea water coming in.

4. Denizens other, reptilian

Well, monitors and terrapins do not excite as much as coloured feathers. They don't exactly move as effortlessly and gracefully as birds seem to do either, each step forward a heaving, laboured lumber. But it is always a delight to spot wild scales that do not belong to geckos darting across faded paint. And monitors actually move rather gracefully through water.

Below: A familiar local versus foreigner face-off, in another guise? The terrapin is actually North American in origins, but have multiplied in local waters owing to their adaptability, and the speed with which they outgrow their tanks and owners' affection. In any case, the reptilian rumble for which we were holding our breaths never materialized.

5. Exercise enthusiasts

One of Mary's ex-colleagues once remarked that Punggol would be a good place to raise children because of its wide, open spaces. Neither heat nor haze at noon prevented both locals and expatriates - from seasoned cyclists to children in outsized helmets on garrishly-coloured bicycles, bronzed runners to reddened amateurs - from coming out and enjoying themselves.

Above: We didn't have time to cross the bridge to the Lorong Halus Wetlands and turned back towards lunch shortly after this photograph was taken. Allan looked happy, but he was in fact rather unhappy with the bicycle seat. Mary later suggested tying a pillow to the seat. This only succeeded in sparking a little, inconclusive debate on whether it would have been better to tie it to the buttocks rather than the seat.

6. Fellowship

Gatherings in Punggols look set to become a commoner prospect in the coming years, as the people of our generation move in to build their own families. But in this case, beyond the unseen hand of demographics, we have Allan and Cindy's boundless generosity to thank - coming out early in the morning to stock up for the afternoon feast, giving us a ride to Punggol (and back to Ang Mo Kio later on) and providing us with a home away from home. Because of them, we no longer speak of Punggol in the abstract - as an offhand metaphor for remoteness, tiny flat complaints, congested LRTs and once upon a time pig farms.

Above: satisfied faces after lunch. My food hasn't arrived yet.