The ‘Bumba’

July 19, 2014

That Tuesday morning when Kumo Adomako woke up and saw a large white heron perching on the window sill of his apartment window in Telok Kurau. He realized deep in the marrow of his bones this Tuesday would be very different from all other Tuesdays that had once come and past in his twenty three years of life – the ‘Bumba’ the divine messenger from that other world the elders in his village only made gestures by pointing away from them while rolling their eyes and never once speaking the name of the place…not even once…had visited him and left an ominous omen. Kumo picked up the solitary feather and held it up against the light like some sacred amulet – he set it carefully to his right ear when he went out into the world that day.

As he walked all the way to Aljunied MRT station as he did everyday, that day Kumo walked ever so slowly and carefully always mindful never to break the spell.

He made sure his feet never once stepped across a broken line on the pavement. And when he reached the train platform he felt a sudden wave of relief as if he had just crossed a croc infested river. Soon the feeling settled and once again Komu was invaded by the vague sense of something missing in his life like a man standing before a strange arrangements of alphabets that he could not read. But this was feeling of acute estrangement was soon swept away by a stronger under current that intensified with every passing moment. The conviction that soon all would be revealed in good time by the ‘Bumba’. Kumo did not need any further confirmation that this was the Tuesday of all his Tuesdays. He just knew. Everything about today had a supernatural intensity. Nothing was the way it had been. Not even the blob of green spit that had marked the first few pavements when he started his meditative walk this morning – it looked like a bejeweled emerald. Even the mundane morning bright sky, empty and clear apart from one distant bluish puff of cumulus, which cast a drifting shadow over the neat blocks of housing estate seemed so virginal. As if he was looking at the world for the very first time and this filled him with giddiness.

Kumo did not have to wait long for the cryptic message of the ‘Bumba’ to reveal to him why this Tuesday would be different from all the rest of his other Tuesdays. When the station stopped at Tanah Merah and the door hissed open. A man like any other man in all the rolling vastness of the sea of humanity stepped in – he was wearing a loose fitting T shirt, bermuda’s and slippers carrying what appeared to be groceries. The man sat opposite Kumo. He was none other than the Shahidi, the Chinaman cocoa planter of Gabundi Estate.

Kumo shifted his eyes down and bit his lips in deference as he had always done before the Shahidi. Before he did so, he read the words of the man’s T shirt –

‘Different day, Same shit.’

Kumo Adomako

July 18, 2014

Many years ago somewhere in Africa….

In the palatial colonial house on the top of the hill where the Chinaman Cocoa planter of Gabundi estate lived – the legionnaire deserter who worked in his kitchen knew that his master always preferred his eggs runny and his bacon flamed with Cordon’blue for breakfast.

He also knew that his master found the sonorous background drone of the BBC world service comforting whenever he scanned his estate from the upper deck of the alfresco roof top dinning area – usually, the deserter could make out that his master always began the morning by looking through his field glasses at the tiny village at the edge of his lands – the legionnaire deserter servant could tell that whenever a smile tore across the Chinaman’s face – that meant, he was training his eyes on the only well in the village where he delighted in feasting his eyes on women balancing earthen pots on their heads as they walked in straight neat lines early in the morning.

But that day the China planter did not smile as he peered through his field glasses. Neither had he smiled for that whole week either. Perhaps not even for longer – even the Chinaman’s tall Matabilli tribesman bodyguard who was a wired framed muscular man in his late forties who always seemed to follow his young master everywhere couldn’t remember when he last smiled either.

The only person in the vast expanse of Gabundi Estate who really knew the last time the Chinaman Cocoa planter smiled – was the new German school teacher, foot doctor and scientist nun called Eva from Germany who replaced – the sixty something two metric ton Fraulien Gunther from Muchen, Bavaria – who the Chinaman didn’t really care very much for.

With Fraulein Eva it was quite another thing. The Chinaman planter not only smiled very often whenever she was around. He even made it a point to improve himself – he had even exchanged his flared ridding breeches, boots along with open neck khaki shirt complete with shoulder holster and revolver with a stylish bush jacket and laced shoes that came in by special courier service directly from Cape Town.

The German nun and school teacher had even approved of this new look and mentioned that the Chinaman planter now looked like a dapper “gentlemen planter.” She was so pleased that she had even invited the farmer to attend a reunion party which she had arranged in the school to celebrate the return of a lost child that had been recently found by the ever wandering medicin sans frontier who had discovered the half dead boy somewhere along the porous Northern Sudanese border. The nine year old boy from the Adomako tribe had gone missing a year or so back ago along the river bank and had somehow been magically reunited with their parents – it was a one in a millionth – and the whole village had come out in full force to celebrate with beating drums, asseki juice along with generous lashings of K’du leafs which the women folk chewed.

Everyone remembered how happy the farmer had been as he stood beside the German nun – the boy had after all being presumed dead by all, eaten probably by a crocodile and now he had been magically reunited with his parents – who seemed eager to show off their child to the rest of the village.

The nine year old boy named Komu had after all learnt a range of tricks that seemed to enthrall the rest of the villages since his return – he knew how to drive a truck, operate a generator. But one of Komu’s most impressive tricks involved field stripping an AK-47. When the farmer watched Komu remove the linchpin of the Soviet Amotov with a small horn tip by clamping the entire barrel and stock against his tiny neck and limbs that held together the breach and firing mechanism he realized that the boy already knew the AK-47 had 8 parts – the hardest section to remove was the gas piston assembly and the cumbersome spring mechanism that often proved so unwieldy that even adults struggled with this section. In many cases giving up completely – in this case, the boy had used the Sudanese horseback open palm method of slapping this complicated mechanism apart in one single smooth action – everyone clapped. Except the farmer. Who insisted that Komu do this again. And again. Which he did specially for Dada Shahidi – as he was after all the guest of honor.

For the grande finale, the young boy was blindfolded and within a matter of seconds, he assembled back the 8 parts of the semi automatic flawlessly – the show ended when Komu finished off the show by cocking the assault rifle menacingly which the farmer knew chambered the first round into the breach and smiled to the rapturous applause of the villagers – that day, everyone smiled except the Chinaman Cocoa planter who looked stern and grave as if lost in his own thoughts.

That evening as the Shahidi approached the innocent nine year old Komu seated beside his happy parents – his eyes seemed to radiate an awareness that bordered between fascination and fear. He leaned close to the boy and in a slow and stern voice whispered,

“Komu tell Dada (in Africa, the prefix father follows before, as a sign of respect) Shahidi who taught you how to do this.”

From that day onwards the German school teacher and nun who ran the only school in Gabundi noticed the Chinaman Cocoa planter never ever smiled again.

Sometime back ago in Singapore….

Opposite a row of shophouses in Telok Kurau where Kassim’s Nasi Kandar served cinnamon flavored briyani every Friday. An abandoned row of prewar apartments which had just been sold off en bloc was where the tiny Ugandan student community in Singapore headquartered itself – though the building was scheduled to be torn down.

As long as it was still standing Mr Lim the consummate broker par excellence – who prided himself with the uncanny ability to see opportunities where others saw none considered it nonetheless kosher rentable space. In the version of Mr Lim’s capitalist theory, everything and anyone could always be reliably put to work to turn a buck. Even the square peg of eighteen African students who studied in NTU seeking super cheap accommodation could very well be made to fit into Mr Lim’s ‘something from nothing’ economic theory of a round hole – all they had to do as he once told them in a stern voice was, ‘don’t play music so loud (not that they could as there was only one working three pin plug point)…don’t disturb people…don’t kill people’s pet and cook and try to get along with the residents (which were mainly the rats and roaches)…if you all get caught, remember I dunno you! You also dunno me lah. Understand or not? It’s like that one lah. Welcome to Singapore.’

This the African students all managed to do without too much difficulty. As since they all left very early in the morning for either their studies or work and only returned very late well past midnight – the Ugandans were literally invisible to many of the residents in Telok Kurau. Even the pineapples eye Auntie brigade headed by the eager beaver always ready to please local PAP grassroots commissar, the consummate bible thumping spinster Madame Poon who prides herself in being able to smell out closet philanderers and reactionary bloggers in the ranks of seemingly ‘happily’ married men – thru her divine rapport with spirits who she often conversed with intimately in tongues had absolutely no idea an African squatter colony had been installed right before her nose – leading many irate residents in her constituency in Telok Kurau to ask later when the scandal erupted whether those ‘spirits’ had more to do with the buy one get one free extra sweet sherry Madame Poon was especially fond of and regularly stocked up on from NTUC supermarket in Bedok.

In the uppermost abandoned apartment where electricity and running water was not available was where Kumo Adomako lived all by himself. He much preferred his own company despite having to study under the wan of a torchlight to the boisterous city boys below who preferred to be pack like sardines five to a room – besides Kumo resented the derogatory term of endearment that city folk had a habit of using on those who scarred their faces as a tribal mark of coming into manhood – they called him ‘Gambi.’ And Kumo Adomako the man who studied water engineering in NTU knew deep in his heart that they didn’t know better than to call him a ‘Gambi.’

On the only forked river confluence overlooking the expansive valley in Mato Grosso. This was where the Chinaman sugarcane planter built his 33 room plantation mansion in the Amazonia.

The chinaman had a habit of wearing his creme Borsalino slightly tilted to one side like the Latin crooner Feliciano. He sported a pencil moustache. Slicked his hair back. Wore riding breeches and knee high mirror polished boots.

In the evening, the Chinaman would stand on the same spot as he always did on the the balcony overlooking the expansive valley as the dying afternoon light began to give way to darkness.

There was always the sonorous tone of the BCC world service to pierce the aching silence.

As far as appearances went. He could have passed off like any other wealthy plantation landowner in Amazonia his man servant Blairo Nepstad had often remarked to the rest of the servants in the palatial mansion….except for a few unusual features concerning the man.

Though Blairo Nepstad had much preferred to ply his trade as a man servant in ‘less remote circumstances,’ as he often lamented in his letters to his only sister in Ascuncion – the Chinaman more than made up for such inconveniences as he was a very wealthy man – and though Blairo Nepstad could never quite understand why his master always insisted on spoiling the finely tailored creme Carvalho suits that he himself had taken measurements and travelled three days by river boat along the Xingu by wearing a shouldered holstered revolver over such fine linen – and would always remain stoically ambivalent to the dirty habits of the Panari tribesman who roamed the well manicured grounds of the mansion while chewing foul smelling Tanguro bettlenut – he never asked.

From time to time, the Panari savages would wiped their oily hands on the pristine white helm of the table cloth, curtains and carpets much to the consternation of the house servants and especially Blairo Nepstad.

On one occasion when he had brought up the matter to his master – he had quipped that having these half naked savages around the house added color to the blandness – the Chinaman’s farmhands knew the staccato of his approaching horse that he rode every morning across the length and breath of his lands – the grileiros the sting of his whip against their bare flesh.

No one knew much about the Chinaman. No one dared to ask. He was a man of few words.

There were of course no shortage of rumors – that he had once turned the wheel of life in Africa as a Cocoa planter. Had by some interception of fate and serendipity that only visits a man once in his life time – come to wealth suddenly and unexpected after dueling with Auricelia Odoni. A wealthy landowner who had accused him of cheating in a card game only for the latter to demand satisfaction – Odoni passed away under mysterious circumstances which was listed in the provincial birth and death directory as ‘unnatural death.’ Beyond that very little was known of how he amassed his extraordinary wealth.

He went everywhere in a chauffeured creme Mercedes, lunched at the Polo Club in Santarem where he sat only on table 35 which overlooked the fast running Madeira and was especially fond of halibut with Brussels sprouts served with cognac mushroom sauce on Fridays.

To the very few shopkeepers and merchants prided their San Paolo wares along El Gaho, he was someone rich and leisured who always only paid in crisp American notes.

To his physician, he was a man with three bullet scars, one on his chest and rest arranged around the size of saucer in his inner right thigh.

To his dentist, he was the man missing the entire upper section of his back row molars to which he was cautious, as he had once read of how criminals on the run would pull off their teeth to avoid being fingered.

To the only gunsmith in Santarem whose establishment only opened from the curious hour of lunchtime as he also doubled as the magistrate. The Chinaman was a man who only appeared in the beginning of every month to collect his cartridge consignment of .380 that always arrived by special sealed courier every month from Buenos Aries.

To the elegant Madame who masqueraded as a piano teacher and who was really the proprietor of a pleasure house in a hacienda where wealthy landowners would often visit under the pretense of playing cards in the name of business congeniality – the Chinaman was man who much preferred blondes to brunettes. But since the rarely came up the Madeira and when they did. He would always complain they were horse faced. He kept mostly to a discreet table, flipping over playing cards, looking for his blonde in every Queen.

To the ladies of that floating world, rooms always seemed smaller when he was in it. The rains always came when he had finished. Clocks stopped mysteriously and languorous summer nights seemed longer than usual whenever he decided not to visit. He was to them very much the quintessential infinite man.

Politicians considered him a compadre after their third drink. A loyalist to the junta cut from the same cloth as Castelo Branco after polishing a quart. Though depending on the number of bottles emptied. They all knew the Chinaman really only turned a blind eye whenever they fed his insatiable appetite for land concessions in the Villa Marde.

He regretted neither his complicity nor association with the corrupt, amoral and damned. Often expressing sardonically ‘there are no good or bad men…only actions we can live with or choose to live without….’

Whenever he was asked concerning the many mysterious executions of reactionary priest and nuns by military sanctioned death squads in his district – there was no comment – however there was one incident – even that was riven with rumors.

The story went that it involved a young beautiful Swedish blonde environment scientist who worked alongside the reactionary sister of Notre Dame de Namur – the American missionary Dorothy Stang who was the patron saint of destitute settlers who lived under the iron vice of the grileiros and large landowners called the Matistzo – a thorn in the eye of the junta. Dorothy Stang had highlighted the plight of the Panari tribesmen fleeing from deforestation.

The incident occurred in a jungle clearing in Anapu one misty morning when the Chinaman had been hunting with a handful of Manoki braves. They came across a ramshackle structure of lashed poles topped by an olive green tarp. Inside it, they found three young girls all tied to stakes and dead. They had been tortured, raped and killed. To one side of the camp hidden away by tall reeds clumped a group of militia – they were all drunk. Next to them a blonde girl was tied to a stake. It is not known why the Chinaman did what he did or whether he was involved at all – accounts vary wildly depending on whether it’s the dry or rainy season. Some say it was the look of abject desperation the girl flashed him the moment their eyes locked that must have stirred something deep in the sediments of his primordial thoughts. The Manoki referred to it as ‘jiaha’ which although doesn’t have a comparable word in English can at best be approximated with the phrase, ‘seeing a ghost’ – others in the boisterous Golden Chain Catena frequented by loggers in the shanty town of Anapu preferred to believe the Chinaman had grown sick of the killings and his patience just ran too thin to hold further that very day – the girl was just lucky it snapped then and there- then there were others who much preferred to believe in the power of divine intervention – that the blonde scientist had prayed so hard that day God himself must have sent the archangel Michael to dispense rough justice – no one knows exactly what happened that day.

Six dead men along the river bank with their throats slit and scalped. As for the blonde forester she appeared three weeks later in Stockholm claiming she had no recollection of who or how she was saved.

After the incident made the headlines in San Paulo. The Chinaman was never seen again.

Blairo Nepstad did not understand…..He did not….as he began to clear the room of his master by placing all the contents in a wooden storage crate. The man servant suddenly realized there wasn’t much to even fill the large crate that had arrived the day before from San Paola with a hand written note from his master, ‘put all my things into this crate…best regards.’- though the palatial mansion the Chinaman built had 35 rooms. The man had a strange habit of sleeping in a blind corner in the garage. There were only three items that stood out in this austered space – a military camp bed. Battery wall clock and a side table. The first and second drawer were empty. The third contained a half tube of Mentos and an oversized Children’s Bible picture book. As he leafed thru the pages half mockingly – a black and white photo slipped out.

The picture depicted the Chinaman beside a fleshed faced blonde who was holding her habit dressed in a somber colored ankle high skirt. They were both smiling and leaning against the fender of a land rover. On the reversed side, scrawled in bluish crayon, ‘Gabundi Estate – Uganda – Eva Meyer and me.’

For a moment Blairo Nepstad thought he had finally understood. He expressed, ‘Aha!’ But as he peered closer to make out the features of the nun in the photo. His understanding began to dissolve as though the features of the Swedish forester who was kidnapped and saved did resemble the woman in the photograph. They were really not the same woman. The Swedish forester just looked a lot like one Miss Eva Meyer.

Blairo Nepstad did not understand….and for the very first time in his life. He reconciled himself somewhat happily with the prospects that he would never understand.

GEORGE TOWN – Penang is set to implement a ban on foreign workers working as the main cook in the hawker food business in order to protect the state’s food heritage.

Chief Minister Lim Guan Eng mentioned licences will only be given locals…

Sounds a tad xenophobic wot? – but to me it makes perfect sense. As globalization as a social cultural and economic theory is essentially, despite its sheen just a glorified race right down to the bottom.

For the idea of globalization to remain coherent and continue to reliably produce good – it needs to be moderated very much in the way no planter worth his salt would ever allow an alien weed to intrude into his patch and just proliferate and take over the good weeds and strangle the fruit tress in his orchard.

If he is foolish enough to leave it all the free market theory of th survival of the fittest – then he may well have to live with an ecological Chernobyl like the horror stories we so often hear about where an aggressive species of plant or animal turns the food chain on its head and ends up destroying everything that was once good about that habitat.

A wise farmer will always pick only the good and discard the bad. As for the foolish farmer he wouldn’t even have the slightest idea what I am talking about. That is why he is a fool…and the fool will always believe he is right even when he’s driving off the cliff.

Life is indeed cruel.

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‘When a thing is not regularly used. Then it will be lost. It doesn’t really matter what that thing may be – it could be whipping up fried rice. Or something like being able to square a sole on a shoe and to cut off the excess strip in one smooth action without any jagged edges – it will just be lost.

And once that thing is lost, it is almost impossible to reconstitute it again – and here comes the kicker as when we begin the task of accounting what is really lost. Then we may well discover an entire geography of not only skills, but also social networks, relationships, culture and much more – and should we go one stage further and use the electron microscope of the critical mind to drill even deeper – we may well conclude it is nothing less than a way of life that we once not only cherished but gave us a sense of identity and cemented us all together as one people.

So as you can see when a skill dies – whether it’s ping pong or something really trivial like being able to bunny hop over a log during your weekend warrior jaunts in Bukit Timah – many other things die along with it…the idea of community…camaraderie…esprit de corps….heritage….shared values and what I can only describe as all the attributes that makes a community whole and complete.

Now if people like me shared this philosophy with folk like Michael Porter, Gary Hamel or anyone in the ranks of the PAP. They would probably make faces and think the sum of what I have to say really all amounts to a great disquisition on nothingness at best. Or that I am anti competition and I am really a closet communist.

After all let us be fair to them – what I have to say sounds downright parachoil, insular and bigoted right?

But you’ve got to understand where I am coming from – coming back to the example of whipping up fried rice – may sound like a no brainer to you. But that’s because you didn’t have to work as a cook to put yourself thru university. But if you had that sort of life experience then you would probably realize, there’s a whole universe right there in the kitchen – community, shared beliefs, brotherhood, mentoring, apprenticeship and everything that makes up a tribe – to you it’s just throwing overnight stuff in the fridge in a wok and whacking away – but that’s also the same reason why if you go to a restaurant to dine, the chef never invites you to the kitchen.

My point is when you look deeply at a job – it’s not a simple thing. It’d only straightforward to stupid people. It’s multi layered like a kueh lapis and each layer has some structural complexity be it the social, cultural or goal setting component – as what I think we need to remind ourselves time and again is we dealing with qualitative aspects which will always be hard to pin down into an excel spreadsheet – so while it’s very easy to quantify in mathematical terms economic metrics such as GDP and per capita earnings et al. It’s not nearly as simple to capture with the same degree of fidelity the idea of trust, community, well being, hopefulness or even a million other things that has to go in to make a job a job – so what you really need to understand is this whole obsession to measure organizational and personal success by just focusing on the quantifiable is at best a very myopic way to gauge progress- consider this: what is the point of pursuing growth at every turn and opportunity when all it seems to do is to drive out the middle ground of goodness and destroy the very thing that makes the whole idea of nourishing and perpetuating a community possible. To me that idea is reminiscent of the last leg of Phileas Fog’s journey around the world in eighty days – where to get to the finishing line on time. The main protagonist, strips down all the timber on his steamer and bungs it into the furnace. He reached Dover. But it comes at the terrible cost of cannibalizing his boat…the question you need to ask at this point in the conversation – is what are you really cannibalizing before the altar of trying so hard to be No.1 GDP….could it be your health…mental well being….family…or who you were really meant to be and most importantly – is it even worth it?

That’s a question that I shall leave to you.’

For me the most precious and coveted characteristic in a person is his or her ability to give others the gift of calmness.

In a world where everyone these days is jumping up and down like a demented Jack in the box and giving everyone perpetual high blood pressure – there is much to be said about the man and woman who is able to remain still like the calm within the eye of the storm.

That is because all of us are at our very best ONLY when we are calm and not jumping up and down as if our pants are on fire.

To me it is not how the person would look that really matters. Not at all. Or even where he or she was educated or for how long did he or she work in that prestigious company. These things are of course important, but in the relative scheme of things, they fall into the same category of shoelaces and dental floss – because if had to go on a very long, difficult and uncertain journey….I would only probably bring someone who is dead serious about the whole idea of calmness and the only person who can do that is someone who is has enough calmness to give me some.

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‘I need to buy a plot of land that is next to mine. It is not very big, but nonetheless I need it badly in the way a ship needs the sea to do what it is supposed to do – don’t ask me to elaborate why it’s strategic….jugular even necessary that I get my hands on this sliver of land before anyone else’s does – As I can tell you one hundred and one reasons why my fortune hinges on it…that it is the only parcel of land the leads to a nearby river where the waters flows fast and clear…that it rings the most vulnerable section of my other lands…that this is the key the unlocks the opportunity for me to spearhead to buy more lands in the south. I need it like the way my lungs needs oxygen and a fish needs water.

But I have to remain calm…..no one must know my desire. My yearning. My delightful torment. The one that keeps me turning in that sea of darkness – the night.

I shall confide to you the complications relating to this transaction. I fear that it might be yet another elaborate bear trap fashioned by my enemies – after all what else can explain the curious turn of events where this landowner seems to be offering to sell his lands to everyone except me? Strange don’t you think so – when one considers, I am the only one in the position to pay him a good price. As since this parcel of land is adjacent to mine, it makes good sense for me to pay a premium and attach it to what I already own – or maybe that is what he wants me to do – to show my cards and betray that which I desire most….

No I shan’t do that – jump up and down like some dandy on a string of some fancy. I keep very quiet and still. And whenever the subject of the land crops up. I will feign disinterest, yawn prefer to talk about other diversions – like the weather and the lengths of helm lines – yes…it must be incredibly frustrating to deal with a man who one is not able to read. A man written in a strange alphabet….an enigma. That I imagine is what I must seem like to these people who are trying so hard to bait me…a man of infinite contradictions.

Yes…it’s decided then, I shall wait….quietly…calmly. I will be like a metronome – the man who sits in his rocking chair and nurses the embers of his cigar as the remains of the day oozes out like blood to the encroaching death of night…not the fidgety sort, but the variety of man who seems content to watch by as time kills itself while he rocks back and forth in sweet repose – every so slowly – I will wait calmly for their Chinese opera to run the last stanza. After all what is the point of putting on a show. When the guest of honor isn’t even present?

Yes time is a weapon that I will have to learn to use to good effect,if I am going to win decisively – by waiting calmly. By doing absolutely nothing. The chastening passage of time itself will be enough to prise open the door of opportunity – as it ticks away….mystery is furiously at work…the tension will ratchet up ever so slowly like a spring being wound up with each passing day, till it’s tight as a drum – it will really only be a matter of time before my enemies will begin to wonder – why doesn’t the man who lives on the hill make his move? Give it more time and they will doubt, quibble amongst themselves, suspect that there is traitor in their ranks, sweat blood and eventually curse beneath their breath, ‘why does he hesitate…..it’s a bloody clear shot! Why?’ A fog will close in. They will not be sure any longer. Perhaps they might even eat each other up like desperate rats. That is the time when I will strike like a cobra. But for now I will have to wait calmly and quietly and just watch the world go right by in my rattan chair.’

Today I told a man that he was nothing more than a monkey trained to pick coconuts. I understand if some of you may think that I was rude and even harsh. But the reason why I felt compelled to tell this man this was because I believe he has been selling himself short all of his life. As he has invested so much of who he is and would be in the crumbly idea that the faceless corporation is him and he is somehow the very living personification of the firm – that all prospects of him developing his real intrinsic self has more or less being neglected….left to rot….what a criminal waste – result: a hollow man who cannot even stand on the merit of his own two feet without the crutches of his company…..his job….the very source that gives his life meaning, purpose and probably the reason to fuck his wife twice a week.

I told this man in a very serious tone like rolling thunder – that he was not his company and though he may have marinated all himself in that silly notion to such an extent as to somehow convince one part of his mind that he and his company were some how one of the same reality – all that he has managed to do in his whole miserable existence in this planet is to create an intricate illusion to feed his want for a sense of belonging, purpose and destiny – to put it another way, the sum of his life was nothing more than a grand lie. His life was a lie! A facsimile of what was meant to be.

He left huffing and puffing – this man does not know. Not just yet. No…this is the slow burn I reckon – it always is when one decides to cross the line and go beyond the flesh, bone and into the mind of another. You see unbeknown to this simpleton – I have planted a thought in his head. Tomorrow Monday will come and it will I imagine be just be another day for the rest of the monkeys trained to pick their quota of coconuts…it always is.

But it will be very different for this one monkey I reckon – yes….as now his job and how he might even fit into the grande scheme of life has now become a thinking thing – he will try of course to push the idea of our conversation out of his mind by dedicating all of himself to work – he will, but he can never erase the idea that I have planted in his mind – there will always be a residual…a faint of watermark that will have the power of disturb…to provoke…to gnaw deep at him like a rat burrowing thru him to make itself itself – he will struggle. He will. He may even try to reason his way out of this labyrinth – but all the while his doubts…fears…anxieties will begin to nourish that seed in his mind and it will germinate and with it a multitude of doubts will follow….yes, I reckon when he puts himself to do what he has always done – he will fuck it up – this man will ask himself at first why? He will try again and again he will fuck it all up again.

Those who do not know how a man can suddenly wake up from a long slumber may perhaps say – Darkness you have disable a model worker! But how wrong you are – as very soon the very morsel of an idea will begin to germinate in the mind of this monkey. No it will not happen immoderately, but it will come to past.

The very idea that he doesn’t need a corporation or for that matter a job to even validate his miserable existence on this planet as human being – and very soon the grander idea will begin to appear before this monkey like an unfurling aspiration – till it becomes real – so real – that he the monkey will die and in its wake the man who he was always meant to be will emerge – and with it, the realization that he is his own corporation and that he is none other than the CEO.

No I did not disable this man…..I broke his chains and now he is free….he is now a thinking being. Hardly a monkey….I look forward to our next meeting…I really do.

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‘All of us have seen it before. If you haven’t. You will. I can almost guarantee it 100% with Mini Lee and his crew running the show. Salaried men who suddenly lose their jobs only to find themselves standing with a bag wearing a baffled look as they stand at the crossroads of life in no man’s land – at first they tell themselves – I will get by driving a taxi. Or maybe I will sell insurance. Give tuition.

And like all sobriquet lies the defeated tell themselves – they sweeten it just enough by convincing themselves it’s ‘temporary’ ’till something better comes along’ as it’s only a matter of time before something better comes along.

Soon they’re in the gyre of in and out. The daily grind – I bet they even dream of being stuck in traffic jams. Meanwhile job that they were hoping for gets fainter and fainter till the only thing that seems to get sharper and clearer is long endless road before them – and all the while without them quite realizing it, their self esteem and confidence slowly gives itself off to the atmosphere…bit by bit like a ball of camphor they’re all reduced…till only a shell of man exist.

Yes…a sort of man that you can even give a good hard kick in the balls and he would just look at you as if he deserves another kick. No….I don’t imagine most people know how it’s like to see a man die from within…to shrivel up and just be taken like dust by the wind.

You want to know why? The answer is very simple. They trusted everyone except themselves. They never once saw themselves as their own brand…their own corporation….where they are the CEO. They left it all to some man who they saw on TV. They put all their hopes and aspirations on the idea, the future is bright.

But what happens to the man who trusted only in the idea of himself – if such a man got retrenched I reckon it would just bounce off him like a pea striking sloped armor – it wouldn’t even leave so much as a dent. He would just take a long look at the system and after thinking thru it – he would just fuck it off in one straight line like knocking down a row of bowling pins.

You know why, this man never ever once regarded his job as anything else but a means to an end. As for politicians and what they have to say and offer – it’s all optional! – that is really the long and short of it. The end.

So when he lost his job everything that is him – his identity, raison and entire composition of being remained intact. He did not disintegrate and malfunction like the others – as for why he lost his job, that is a matter of profound indifference to this this man – for whatever reason is equally obiter as well. May have been he was just grist to the mill of globalization…maybe runaway immigration did him in…influx of foreigners or just indifferent politicians hell bent on growing the economy. I dunno. But my point is to this man, these external conditions are truly irrelevant…..why?because he invested in the right things. He never once built his character on the illusion of his job or for that matter where he was once educated…to this man, he was truly his own…before, during and after.

I consider myself very lucky as I’ve had always had good role models to guide me thru out my life. Leaders who know the value of things and most importantly men who one can very easy take too and respect without too much difficulty. And I have always notice one thing about these men – they are all first and foremost great CEO’s of themselves…the person. That’s to say they may sit as directors in a string of prestigious companies. But they don’t derive their strengths and personal branding from these symbols of success. Rather their branding as a person in terms of what they have to offer emanates from who they are as a corporation.

I mean it doesn’t really matter what you do for a living – you could be a taxi driver, ISD officer, policeman, bank clerk, dentist, call girl, dog shooter, cobbler, food court manager, minister, scholar, cookie cutter, street busker or whatever. My point is when you put yourself and what you have to offer before the marque of where you were educated or who you work for and how much you may take home in one given month – then your job suddenly becomes a thinking thing. A new strategic dimension opens up along with the field of possibilities begins to unfurl and this is precisely what I am trying so hard to convey – the very idea that you are first and foremost the penultimate corporation and whatever else comes after.’

This hardly requires any elaboration these days in Singapore. It’s really horses for courses. As not a week goes by when we r all expected to suspend disbelief all in the name of bad communication…out of context…bad reportage Yama yada be it ministers, bureaucrats or civil servants – and this should prompt us all to ask, what does it really mean when a person or institution claims that so and so could have been communicated better? Well if you ask me what they’re really trying to convey is the decision is fundamentally sound in principle, but since you don’t nearly have the IQ to understand it, we should have taken the trouble to break it down into baby soundbites – to put it another way, it’s really your fault!

For me personally whenever I come across people who use that sort of lame excuse – I just know instinctively they’re trying to cover up for lousy decision making and pariah dog low performance.

Experience reliably informs me how decisions r communicated is often more important than the decision itself – that’s understandable as since those decisions intrude into people’s sense of security and control. When surprised, most people even those who are perfectly reasonable and don’t regularly make bombs in their basement often feel an acute sense of being sidelined – perfectly natural – However, if decision makers let users know a decision is underway and give them reason to believe that their needs and anxieties are being heard and understood – usually they will accept even bad decisions with fewer ruffled feathers and complaints.

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‘If it’s really bad communication…then it’s badly communicated and I am by and large fine with that. To my mind any reasonable person shouldn’t have any problems making allowances for bona fide bad communication – simply because it happens!

The problem as I see it is when ill conceived policies which are capable of having far reaching and all pervasive effects are surreptiously implemented with the intention of circumventing the due process of communicating the rationale to users. Now when that happens then the defense of bad communication is really just a cheap ‘get out to jail’ card to cover up for bad decision making along with exonerating everyone who willfully tried to abuse the system at the expense of users – and that to me is not only down right irresponsible, but since the nature of these actions also constitute a clear violation of a duty of care owed by the policymaker to the users. It is by every definition a crime.

Now why am I taking so much time and effort in trying to explain the distinction between a bona fide breakdown in communication and a deliberate attempt to use bad communication as a defense to cover up what I can only describe as a willful attempt to circumvent the due process – because if you don’t cultivate the good life habit of differentiating the two and you remain so bovine and cinchai about the whole matter of setting minimum quality excuse standards that you don’t even perceive a difference between the two beyond just splitting hairs – then I can more or less guarantee you 100% you will end being a very inconsequential person who no one will even bother to treat seriously, let alone bother to respect. Why should they? I wouldn’t respect you! Coming to think of it – you don’t even respect yourself enough to set a minimum criteria when others try to make excuses…so you’re a man with no line! And that in my book simply means you deserve to gamed!

Given enough time…with that sort of shit for brains low quality attitude of managing yourself and others. All sorts of riff raff’s will just come up to you and they will say and do things which they know that even if you catch red handed – all they have to do is just whip out their magic ‘get out of jail’ bad communication or out of context card and that really buys them another three lives to game you one more time. And one day, they will succeed because you were just a lousy goalkeeper of your brain!

But if you cultivate a zero tolerance personal culture against that sort of nonsense – then almost immediately, these hucksters, charlatans, second hand car salesmen and these very lazy people will just automatically avoid all contact with you. Poof! They’re gone lah!

They wouldn’t even dare to spout their nonsense. Because the line is very clear .As they will know instinctively, if they do so, they may very suddenly and unexpectedly find themselves swimming in shark infested waters….very dark and dangerous waters – they will. Trust me, that’s the only way to deal with bengkok people in my experience. Zero tolerance. Because when you manage yourself and others in that way – you can only come across as a serious man and these riff raff’s will eventually come to realization, there’s no gaming you 24/7- as you are a man who has done your homework by bothering with the knowing and you know a thing for what it is and not what others say it is. You know it. So no one can game you. They wouldn’t even dare to try – the risk if you catch them out simply doesn’t commensurate with the payouts.

Take my advise. If you don’t know this. Or you feel whether Germany or Argentina wins the World Cup is more important or that after reading this – it’s just sounds like some happy soundbite in Reader’s digest. Then take my advise don’t ever go into business. Stay salaried. All your working life is possible. It will just much safer for you.

Because men like me will have absolutely no hesitation in gaming the shit out of you! None whatsoever!’

Jungle trails

July 12, 2014

There are times when one just knows instinctively that a line has been crossed in a journey. There might not be even so much as a milestone to mark this division between where one was and is – it’s really like walking into a different room. One just knows….it’s a very different space from the one…one just left….a space with its unique blend of smells, light, sounds, colors and textures – it could just be an imperceptible shift in temperature or even how the gravel trail gradually gives way from the sea of granite grey to the slightly mossy green of basanite volcanic rock.

One just knows. A line has been crossed. I wonder is this line real? Or does it just exist somewhere in my head?

How long have I been walking for?

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Many years ago in South America after Africa…..

‘Along the 249 and a half mile dust road between Cuiaba and Santos del Norte in the part of Brazil where angels fear to tread, there are no fewer than three provincial land registries.

Only the land office in the makeshift township of Guaranta overlooked the Madiera rivers and it was here, the Chinaman decided to register his land claim – just two months ago, Guaranta did not exist – it like the many cowboy towns along the meandering Madeira sprung right out of the ground like wild mushrooms just around the period of the Great Amazon land rush – when Brazil’s military dictatorship pursued the infamous land reform policy of ‘integrar para nao entregar’ – a free for all where settlers were given title to the land they worked.

It was just around the end of the harvest season in Guaranta – a period when fleets of pickups, yellow and green John Deere’s tractors hauling cane and soy from the Amazonian interior had ceased rumbling and now they were all splayed out like the drunks and spent prostitutes. Running parallel to the zinc roofed container township on the only boulevard known as Ignacio da Silva. A great Madeira ran fast and deep – on the quay river barges belonging to ADM, Cargill and Bunge laden with golden soy rested indolently like rust colored hippo’s cooling their heels – the sight of these strange rusting behemoths must have reminded the Chinaman of Africa. As he had paused to light a cigarillo and leaned on the railings to watch them before entering the land registry. It struck the man just then that this was first time in his long treacherous 1,600 mile journey starting from Argentina to Brazil southern ports that he had ever paused….he wondered to himself why had he paused – why had he suddenly come to a stop in the way a raging river suddenly loses it’s vigor as it discovers the infinity of the sea – he hadn’t done so till then.

The Chinaman had not paused. Not even when he had heard rumors of a large swathes of new lands opening up in Santarem in a bar down south in Beuno Aries and had decided to travel all the way to brigand infested jungles to stake his claim before a frenzied land grab ensued. Neither did he pause when he came across a band of brigands after driving his stake on a piece of land that overlooked a bend shaped like a shoulder of a woman on the Madeira Rivers – the man only remembered narrowing his eyes at these menacing marauders when they had told him…the land he had staked had already been taken by a rich landowner….he did not even pause when one of the trigger happy grileiros leveled his lupara at him…the Chinaman just blew the man’s head off….and told them…he would be back to put their boss in a coffin…he did not pause as it felt right…just like Africa…this the man reckoned was after all the way politics was conducted deep in the Amazon…or for that matter anywhere else where men carried guns like cowboys – the man did not pause…not even when he came across a wandering priest preaching to Panara Indians deep in the Amazon who suddenly turned to him, read from chapter five of Matthew and asked whether he would like to confess his sins with the words…

‘Bem aventurados os que tem fome e sede de justica, pois servo satisfeitos.’

He did not pause. The Chinaman merely got up and walked away. All the while wondering with each step how long could such a fool in his silly frock last in grileiros infested lands who roamed a godless sky – maybe a week….maybe a month….he did not pause….only when he was leaning against the railings by the harbor overlooking the Madeira that day did he pause…there was something he needed to do – though it escaped him just then…something important…then suddenly as if remembering. The Chinaman took out a dog eared color postcard which he had always carried in his breast pocket long before he even boarded the sardine tub in the coite de noire which eventually berthed in Santiago….the man looked at it again as he had always done during the hour just before the sun would slip over the mountains in Africa. He knew all the buildings framed against the clean cool paraffin skyline by heart and even those which he didn’t quite know such as the white half lion and fish in the foreground which was vomiting water – he claimed to know it, as a creature which had eaten something that didn’t agree with it – then he tore it up in two and threw it into the dark waters of the Madeira.

It was a picture of a distant dreamy place that he had always wanted to try his luck in..to met the right girl, settle down, forget his past, get an ordinary nine to five job, grow fat and to just lead an ordinary life…it was Singapore.’

That was the only time the Chinaman

Someone dropped me a mail informing me, there is a gathering in Hong Lim Park to debate whether ‘our Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong is the right person to lead Singapore?’

I told this person along with twenty others in the forum, they needn’t waste their hard earned Saturday trying to make heads or tails out this moot point. As one can easily answer this question by asking….has your quality of life improved under his watch? How confident are you about your future? Do you believe Singapore still offers the same opportunities for your kids that you once enjoyed?

I mean if the answer is yes…carry on with what you’re doing. But if it’s no. Then the best thing to do is to devote one’s energy to turning the wheel of life elsewhere….to me it’s really that simple. After all what’s the point of harping on and on like a broken record about the same issues and gripes that we all already know by heart. Besides most of blogoland have been at it for a whole decade and do you see anything changing?

This should prompt the perceptive reader to ask, how smart is it to keep at a thing only to get the same results all the time. I am not saying one shouldn’t try when one fails, but all means do so – but if after failing and trying ten million times and the result is still the same without even one percentile variation – then to keep at it IMHO just happens to be the very definition of insanity. As I can argue you could just as well invest all that negative energy to some worthy endeavor like growing an enterprise to better your lot.

That’s what smart people would do. They would cut their losses and get on their bike. It’s nothing personal…strictly business.

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‘For me if I don’t believe or understand something. Then usually I don’t want to be part of it. That’s why I don’t ever read the Strait Times or listen to politicians who keep on saying one thing only for me to perceive another. Coming to think of it, I don’t even want to deal with Potemkin sites like the Singaporedaily. If you’re wondering why none of my articles are ever aggregated by them – it’s because they are not given the permission to do so. It’s very simple. Now coming to work. If you tell me that I should work beyond my contractual eight hours even though I have finished all my task and if I don’t stay on like the rest of the zombies. Then I will be marked down in my next performance appraisal.

I would probably go and start my own enterprise. Because if I stay on…my brain will hurt.

There you have it – it’s finally out now. The naked truth. My kryptonite .Actually, this is quite an embarrassing revelation.

There was this time when I was a salaried man in Singapore and that was exactly how I felt. My brain would hurt. Whenever I felt this way. I would go to the polyclinic and tell the physician that my brain hurts as my boss wants me to stay back like the others and I needed a MC.

When I told the doctor this. She kept insisting there was nothing wrong with me. According to her it was all happening in my mind. Although she gave me a MC, she made me promise never to tell anyone that it was on the account of my brain hurting. She would only say, it’s for your own good. As if you go around telling people this. They will put you away for a very long time. From time to time, she would call me to ask whether my brain felt better. I told her only when my boss doesn’t insist that I stay back after five. And this made her so angry on one occasion she made it a point to meet me in Safra in the gym where she demanded to know where exactly did my brain hurt? I told her I couldn’t pin point the pain exactly and this frustrated her even more. That was when she sat me down in Long John Silver over a combo meal and began explaining with the help of medical literature. That no such malady existed. but I continued to insist my brain hurts and there is nothing I can do about it.

Eventually we spent more time together. Where our relationship could be defined in terms of how she always insisted – I was making it all up in my head to game the system and I for my part denying it vehemently. Eventually she got around to asking me what I really wanted to do with my life. I told her I wanted to be a farmer and I added that if I could just pull that off then my brain will never ever hurt again. She rolled her eyes and told me that I could be delusional. I insisted there was nothing delusional about it – as whenever I sit in the park and watch the birds as I often do. My brain never ever hurts. She wanted me to prove it. So after that day, we spent a lot of time in the park together. So much time that she even ran out of recipes for sandwiches and even bought a tan picnic basket from Isetan. She wasn’t fond of it at first, but that’s how it usually is in the beginning with nature…when one doesn’t really get to know her intimately…eventually when she got into the flow she must have found it immensely calming, relaxing and even theurepeutic. As that was where we only met – parks. Usually I would just tell her stories of where I believe the winds came from or I would point this tree or bird from that – one day when we were just lying on the grass in East Coast park – she confided to me that her brain was starting to hurt as well and usually this would occur whenever she’s forced to fill in last minute for another physician which usually required her to work a twelve hour shift. All I could when she told me this – was to ask her, where does it hurt specifically. To which she would only say, all over her head though she couldn’t pin point the source exactly. I told her I have it under the best authority – no such ailment existed in the body of knowledge known as the medical compendium and advised her to just fabricate a story that she had a fever or period cramps if she didn’t want to put in a twelve hour shift. When she asked why. I just told her it was for her own good and if she went around spouting such nonsense in Singapore….people will just put her away for good.’

If we are what we eat – a notion that seems irrefutable in today’s makansutra fixated Singapore. Then a corollary, at a time when personal identity so often derives more from the mind numbing nine to nine life of the zombie worker would probably mean – we would be WHAT we work.

Think about it – you are essentially your job. That’s to say the work you do and the conditions which makes work possible shapes you. I am just not talking about the blob of abstraction that is you. But the real you that even believes that this whole idea of you being your work and your work being you is preposterous….but do bear with me.

Whether you work in a 23 degree Celsius peppermint air conditioned ambient somewhere in some pigeon slot in some faceless high-rise corporate center in the CBD or a steamy sweat house SME somewhere in forgettable Jurong doesn’t really matter – you will ultimately be your work. Your work becomes you. That is to say your work defines who you are along with probably what you stand for. Your views about life – what car you would prefer to drive….the neighborhood that you see yourself staying in….the type of school that you see your kids studying in….the places that you want to spend your holiday in….right down to probably every aspect and feature that makes up the whole idea of your life.

It should be paradise – the idea that work can fill in so many blank canvases in our lives……it’s better than industrial grade emulsion paint I reckon…just imagine…a concept that can fill in all the nooks, crannies and empty spaces in one life, till every empty space is plugged – the idea of work being all pervasive and omnipresent that it even governs the way we see the world along with define organizational and personal success along with all the attitudes we hold and may hope to hold in our heads…Yes, the idea of work being us and we being the sum of the work.

But something is wrong with this happy picture. Yes….you the perceptive reader noticed it.

Recently workers in wealthy Singapore were polled the most unhappiest in Asia and nearly two-thirds would like to quit their jobs in the next year, a regional survey by recruiting firm Randstad Group.

But why? How can one go about explaining this?

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‘If I had to point to one big reason why most workers feel dissatisfied about their jobs it’s because they feel life is just one long endless ‘in and out’- that’s to say the vast majority of Singaporeans work really hard to earn money just to pay off stuff that they have already committed too. A car…house…insurance plan – this feeling of not being able to break out of the cycle of ‘in and out’ no matter how many hours one puts in must be crushing to the human spirit.

Some people I am sure cope better than others. But I am sure everyone finds it a litany of sorts – not the idea of work per se, but the litany of ‘in and out.’ Those who claim to be able to handle this idea better than anyone else may get by with what I can only call the necessary prosthetics of living in Singapore which requires one to first suspend disbelief which in turn makes possible the idea of believing in the illusion that you’re in control of your life – some join a mega supermarket church where at first they may very well derive some sustenance to carry on living the life of in and out. But since all of life is just designed to reduce the average worker into a tool that serves the imperative of making more money, but never earning quite enough to break free from the gravity of the in and out hamster wheel – one can only feel trapped, frustrated and exhausted eventually.

You know most people don’t know this. They wake up every morning. Drink their kopi and munch on their economy behoon and join the rest of humanity to dedicate themselves to twelve or more hours of work everyday and if you stop any of this people and ask them – hey what are you doing day in and out? What’s the goal man? They all give you that dumb struck look…like what the fuck are you asking me this stupid question for? Can’t you see I have no time for your nonsensical diversions? I need to make a living…to pay the bills…to get by.

My point is this is exactly what one should do – press the pause button and reflect about the whole idea of work and how it may fit into the whole idea of life. Preferably before you get to the point when you’re so ground up to a point when you’re so terminally cynical that all you can do is believe this is your lot in life and things will never ever improve or that you just don’t see any point in trying to break out of the ‘in and out’ lifestyle any longer – most people unfortunately have already reached that chronic stage of zombification – I am not saying they’re necessary stupid, unsuccessful, poor or need hand outs – many are intelligent….some of them are even relatively well off and they even seem to be able to accumulate all the symbols of success to earn bragging rights. But my point is because none of them have really given much thought to that idea – WHAT work is…and HOW it should fit into their lives – then it just means all they r really doing despite their relative appearance of success is being darn good at living the ‘in and out’ life.

Fact remains many of them still despite their apparent material success often find the idea of living life under their own terms elusive….and at times even beyond their grasp. And there you have it the reason why people are unhappy with their work and their lives.

As for me. The idea of work needs to be fulfilling. And by that I mean work needs to nourish the human spirit…it must be edifying otherwise it’s just a chore…a litany that keeps going one without any rhyme or reason and when you sit down and think about it a large component of what comprises of edifying work requires financial independence – I mean I don’t want to work beyond 50. But if I am going to be in position to say ‘no’ to that then I need the financial firepower to go with it….and I reckon when you start to think along these lines then your work becomes a thinking thing….it’s something that you see fitting in the greater scheme of things.

I once worked for this manager who always wanted me to stay back and put in more hours like the others. I had a problem with that sort of work culture as to me work is really just a means to an end. To be honest, I don’t see myself doing what I was doing. If anything I was just doing it to get by, to pay the bills. Besides I already know what I want to do with my life and that was to farm and so I needed to get off work on time to further my studies on farming.

But this guy would hassle me all the time and even obliquely threaten me by telling me that I would be marked down in my annual performance appraisal if I didn’t show more commitment to the company.

So one day I decided to visit his wife when he was hard at work in the office. We struck up a very cosy friendship. His wife and me. She was a bit cagey at first, but once she got used to it – and trust me. I am the sort of guy who can grow on you – eventually she found it immensely liberating talking to me and we used to bake cakes together. One day my manager came back home early and saw me in the kitchen. He went berserk and after that he began to break down telling me that he knew it all along that something wasn’t right…as his wife had grown distant of late etc etc. I just listened impassively and after he had finished I asked him, ‘so is it worth it….working late?’ He told then that he was going to sack me. But when I told him that if he did that I would have no other choice but to spend all my time with his wife baking more cakes. He decided against the idea almost immediately and eventually asked me what I really wanted.

I told him that all I wanted to do was to save up enough money to farm abroad.

I don’t know whether my manager experienced a moment of epiphany or whether the heavens opened up and he could hear angels singing – but that was how it came across to me. Because thereafter his face beamed as if he had been spell blinded by some light and he began to confide to me in a very determined tone that he would do everything in his power to make sure that I succeeded in materializing my dreams.

After that day. Whenever I would leave early. He would always beat me to the lift and ask me where I planned to go. He even volunteered to drive me to the library and on several occasions he even followed me around. Presumably to make sure that I was really dedicating myself to my farming studies instead of whiling my time playing online games. From time to time, he would even make it a point to top up my library prepaid card and for a period of time even allowed me to use his Border’s book card to buy really expensive books relating to agronomy.

And whenever I confided to him that I am not sure whether I could pull it off – he even motivated me by driving me all the way to Malaysia to look for land along with writing a letter of reference to the banks to vouch for my creditworthiness – that was the degree of his commitment and dedicating to see me succeed, all the while reiterating his promise that he genuinely wanted me to succeed in my dreams. He was also very generous. Often insisting that I follow him whenever he went abroad for business trips where I would often be given free rein to explore my various fields of interest in farming – he just stuck to me like Velcro. And when the day came when I told him it was time for me to leave and pursue my dreams. He was so happy that he cried…. I don’t think I will ever have a better boss in my whole life.

This just goes to prove that when people are given the right motivation and incentives, they can do almost anything and nothing is impossible including breaking away from the hamster wheel life of ‘in and out.’ I am so blessed to have met such a kindred spirit! I hope to visit him one day in Singapore. The problem is whenever I call his phone these days….it just goes to his inbox.

Maybe I should pay his wife a surprise visit like I used too and bake him a cake….that’s the least I can do for a kindred spirit.’

To secure a decisive victory, it is not nearly enough to win the battle of the hearts and minds in the kampung by sowing the seeds of mistrust and enmity between the villagers and my business adversaries. This at best is only 50%.

The other remaining 50% that completes the strategy is to leverage on the existing power and politics of the ruling hegemony who make up the movers and shakers in the palm oil world. To accomplish this I need to circulate amongst the well heeled toffee noses in the city. This cannot be accomplish in the kampung.

This is something that all my business adversaries cannot do. As since most of them have 50% body fat instead of my lithe 5% super duper fit Olympiad frame and they all belong to the Chinaman ‘Yam Seng’ stock. They can never gain access to the frivolous floating world of the very rich and wealthy whose only purpose for living (to me, at least) is to prove that the singular purpose of all culture is to decay through over-civilisation.

In this cloistered world of endless processions of luncheons in well manicured lawns and perpetual wine and dine well past beyond midnight…..power resides not in men, but in women. Curious. But worth mentioning nonetheless.

Women who have all never ever set foot in a plantation before simply because they can always hire the help to do so. Theirs is a world of perpetual fantasia laced with trivia pursuits, gossip and tete de tete….but it is here that I will recruit the allies to destroy my business adversaries.

But to do this….I need to get into the grove….I need to be able to make the ladies laugh….above all I need them to like enough to stick their necks out for me. That shouldn’t be too hard to do.

To the city then….into the decadent pit of the very rich whose world I abhor.

The things that I am prepared to do to secure my future. At times my zeal even surprises me no end.

I have very powerful business adversaries. Not only do they outnumber me. But they also have hundreds of times more resources than tiny pocket battleship me. Not that I am bothered. As with each successive attempt to drive me out of business I just seem to grow more accustomed and adept at fighting against extraordinary odds with loads of make do spirit, superglue and potluck – this does not bother me. Not at all. Besides I’ve known no other working conditions since I ventured in the plantation business. After all we are dealing with a bunch of daughter fuckers who don’t seem to subscribe to any of form of fair play business ethics. So bring it on lah!

What really bothers me is why do they all see me as such a threat? This is the part that I cannot seem to understand for the life of me.

After all its not as if I regularly go around kachauing (disturbing) people. I mind my own business, work hard to make the best of what little I have. I am respectful, but stern and fair….but I don’t ever go out of my way to disturb people. So why do they all want to wipe me out? What have I done to them!

They mean to drive me out of business this time! It is no longer theoretical any longer. Recently they have even set up a cartel to prevent any of the landowners from selling land to me – without land I am like a bonsai. Its no good. I cannot grow. Given time, if I stay the same size they will pick me off – so I need to engineer a crisis…..a regime change….a mini black ops clandestine dirty war.

Three weeks ago my enemies engineered a harvester’s strike that was designed to cripple me – this was a Pearl harbor attack. I can take many things in this world, but I draw the line when a man doesn’t even see the moral or ethical requirement to fight fair. So the rule book is out of the window – from this point onwards I can no longer afford to be a gentlemen – it’s not as if I want to be evil. But these people are making it impossible for me to be a moral person. Fortunately I was able to blunt the harvesters strike by bringing in a new crew of harvester’s.

This I cannot forgive nor forget….will not…absolutely cannot! The way I surmise it, these bullies only respect power that comes out of the barrel of the gun. No other language will work with them. That is the Tao of unreasonable people who do not ever see the wisdom of live and let live.

So I am now projecting into their lands. Taking the war directly to their living rooms lah in full technicolor and stereophonic sound. They would not expect this. As till now all I have done is to defend and conducted myself as a perfect gentlemen.

I may be just a small pocket battleship outfitted with a peashooter, but I believe I can still give as good as I take – I am here to sow the seeds of discord amongst their harvester’s, farmhands and their entire business network to create chaos that I hope to capitalize on later to carve a competitive advantage.

I am well equipped to do this. I know the local customs well and can blend right in like a chameleon. Can even speak the language complete with local parlance and can quote chunks of the Quran to come across seamlessly as a brother, friend and trusted advisor to the villagers in these parts. The goal is to undermine their influence and sow the seeds of discord to turn the servants against their masters till all attempts at command and control becomes futile.

By the time I have finished my handiwork here as a saboteur par excellence. My enemies wouldn’t even the slightest idea what hit them. They will just be spinning like a top running here and there fighting fires from all directions.

If a war is what they want, then I am more than happy to give them a professional serving and by the time I finished here. I can more or less guarantee 110%, there will be so much schism, mistrust and enmity……and when everything is smoking nicely all I have to do is stroll right in an offer to buy up all their Panadol inducing troubles at fire sale prices….I bet by then they would even thank me and call me a kindred spirit.

As usual when everyone ask me whether I am involved, all I would do is shrug my shoulders, give them my well rehearsed, dunno look and exclaim, ‘I never kachau people one! Aiyoh. This one you also dunno meh?’

Meanwhile I will need to run deep and silent.

The process of successfully bringing down a thing is not so different from hunting. First you need the power of invisibility to move unseen and unheard to engineer consensus. This will gain you the key to surprise. Surprise is vital as without it there can be no such thing as a decisive victory.

Then you just need to pick the right moment to deliver the death blow.

Thereafter there will be nothing except silence….I like to blog about many things. But I don’t think this is something that I ever want to blog about. Less said the better. It is after all a very unpleasant business – a dirty war always is, but what else is there to do the other side isn’t fighting clean and fair either.

That is life.

Run deep and silent.

One word lah. Farmers! Farmers all over the world stand in solidarity against the TPP. Not even US farmers want anything to do with the toxic TPP which incidentally is frequently marketed by big conglomerates, Wall Street and people who have never ever put in one honest days work in their life as a free trade agreement. Truth is the TPP has absolutely nothing to do with free trade and everything to do with enriching the already rich by rigging the market in their favor at the expense of the common man….and since farmers by nature are a noisy lot who frequently resort to ear shattering ways and means to get their point across to politicians who they don’t usually respect enough as they don’t consider politicking a real man’s job.

I just don’t see how the TPP can ever fly without the support of all the farmers in the world giving it the mother of all rotten tomatoes treatment. As for Obama…well the short answer is he’s well on the way out….and the last thing he wants to do is take on a fight that he knows, he doesn’t have the stamina or support to see to the very end. Besides he has bigger problems on his plate other than the TPP.

So it’s a dead duck lah.


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‘The Internet has allowed me to conduct my own clandestine lobby campaign against the TPP which I do in secret. Since I am by nature someone whose very comfortable with the idea of taking off my shoes and banging it on the table to drum up popular support. I happen to be a very well know figure in probably ever farmers forum through out the internet world.

If there is one thing that scares the living day lights out of any farmer – it’s the idea that his son will not be able to continue turning the wheel of life through the good earth. There is something fundamentally brain stem scary about this idea – the very idea that their way of life as they know it will just be obliterated and the way I do this is by first pitching the idea….

Free Trade Agreements (especially where the US happens to be major stakeholder) have a vile track record of dispossessing farmers, destruction of local food economies, and resulting rise in hunger and poverty.

You want proof! Chew on this! In the 10 years following the passage of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), 1.3 million Mexican farmers went bankrupt because they were unable to compete with highly subsidized US corn entering the market.

In the same 10 years, Mexico went from a country producing virtually all of its own corn to one importing nearly half of its staple food (in exchange, it exports cheap clothes and appliances made in maquiladora border sweatshops). Mexican consumers are paying a higher price for their (now GMO) tortillas, and it is no surprise that riots broke out when corn prices tripled in 2008. Mexicans, now dependent on the global market for food, go hungry when the gambling addictions of Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley and Barclays Capital reach into the agricultural commodities market.

In regards to the TPP, similar fates will befall farmers and local food economies, where significant numbers of people are dependent on agriculture for their livelihoods. Around 37 million people within the TPP zone are involved in the agricultural sector. For these people, and all the people who eat what they produce, the TPP could be devastating.

By the time I have finished my sales pitch on why you need the TPP like you need a big hole in your head….I kid you not…you can literally hear a caterpillar chew a leaf in these forums – fear has been planted in their hearts. That’s how I know the TPP is dead!

The way I see it. There is nothing subversive about what I am doing by going around forum to forum all round the world and selling the idea to farmers worldwide that the TPP makes as much sense as drinking weed killer. There is however something very subversive about the way the TPP negotiations are conducted in secret faraway from public scrutiny – which seems strange when you consider it’s likely to affect the lives of so many people. So you go figure out why something that’s marketed as the next best thing since slice bread needs to be couched in so much secrecy.

I am just very happy that I can throw a big spanner that will make the TPP juggernaut freeze, wobble and My fervent hope remains it will simply do me the courtesy of the next logical thing which is crash and burn.

At the heart of the TPP debate is also the issue of morality and ethics. For example the TTP proposes to extend patent protection for pharmaceutical companies – consider this: why is there even a compelling need to do that for an industry whose profits are already well sheltered from the vicissitudes of the free-market? Seems like a very odd way to promote free trade…if you ask me!

Let me just illustrate starkly the incongruity of the argument with some figures – it has been estimated that, without patent and other similar protections, the U.S. would spend around $30 billion per year on prescription drugs, instead of the $300 billion we spend now. That’s a $270 billion transfer from consumers’ pockets to Big Pharma profits, and the TPP would extend their reach across both time (more years of protection) and space (to countries where generic versions of name-brand drugs improve health and save lives) – what this means is poor nine year old Abdul would probably not be able to get access to affordable medication. It would also mean folk like myself would probably have very little trouble selling off my plantation and going into the illicit generic drug manufacturing business by getting myself a second hand sardine ship and outfitting it into a mobile drug factory like those baddies you see in one of those James Bond movies who always stroking a cat.

My point gentlemen is I am all for the idea of capitalism. Aiyoh. Like that also dunno ah? But the TPP isn’t capitalism as what it attempts to do is to give so much power to corporations that it’s a revival of institutional serfdom. As what it attempts to do is shift the center of power from the consumer to firms to such an extend where the later will have absolutely no balance of power whatsoever. Tell me where is the free trade there? I only have one thing to say to all these lazy good for nothing air con addicted parvenu’s who have never worked one honest day in their lives and who are now trying to build their TPP gravy train in secret faraway from the prying eyes of the public – go and work honestly for your money like the rest of us! Men like me will always be there to roadblock you at every turn and opportunity.

Do you all see how I don’t want to be evil. But unfortunately conditions beyond my control force me into a life of organized crime?

To me those big pharma companies can go hunt me down for patent infringement. Good luck to them lah – that’s what I will do lah if TPP comes into effect.’

In the Hollywood blockbuster, the postman. A nuclear war wipes out all of civilization and society has returned back to the age of barter and the warlord. The main protagonist Kevin Costner discovers a postman uniform in a cave with a few letters, yet to be delivered. So he goes around from one gated community to another claiming the postal service has been restored along with spinning a yarn that a new United States administration is currently the newly restored de facto government. Soon an impromptu postal service comes into being staffed mainly by youths under a fictitious executive order.

Some fifteen or twenty years back ago in Singapore when the internet was still in its prototypal IRC baby puking stage when chatrooms ruled the digital sphere – I ran a private forum called bunkerworld. The forumers in Bunkerworld were mostly undergrad geeks and it was platform that I used to sell blue mountain instant coffee – we all believed that a day would come when a zombie plague would sweep planet earth and all civilization would descend into a feral man eat man dystopian Will Smith, I am Legend cityscape. (This was way before the movie came out. This only goes to show that my script writing talents were definitely wasted in Singapore).

Since I was the man who ran Bunkerworld. I would regularly post survivalist write ups on how to make a meal out of your old army boots, eat your pet dog, make a post apocalyptic hand bag out of the dead iguana…those sort of off the wall articles that no one really bothers to read unless they find themselves suddenly and unexpectedly living in post nuclear war society. For most of the time, the forumers in Bunkerworld would occupy themselves by chatting about how to turn your urine into potable water, how to survive on canned beans for six months without turning green. The forum had just the right cinematic mix of mystery and even a clandestine spy feel to it to hold an eclectic audience and since most of them were pimply geeks who probably just spent most of their time in rooms where clothes and pizza go to die – most of them saw me as a mysterious James Bond archetypal he man who used to jump out of airplanes, rappel thru the air and do all sorts of dangerous stuff that they could only dream of doing (fortunately no one got around to asking why would a secret agent who leads an international life of mystery and intrigue need to subsidize his salary by selling coffee online. In those days netizens actually respected the privacy of others even if they didn’t deserve it.)- the combination of these cinematic overtures in Bunkerworld coupled with the off beat survivalist lifestyle just managed to keep everyone riveted to their chairs and create just the right buzz needed to sustain a small online community.

One day I decided it was time to shut down Bunkerworld. At that time, I just thought to myself this whole idea of prepping wasn’t making much sense in Singapore – as bird flu didn’t turn out to be so bad after all. The nearest we all ever got to a global extinction event was SARS and the tsunami. Even that wasn’t any where near the end of the world dooms day scenario that we commonly discussed in Bunkerworld.

Before I shut down the forum, I told the forumers that as their leader I expect every man to dedicate their lives to earning as much money as possible and rising to the highest position in their respective vocations. As that’s the best way to guarantee survival in an uncertain world – true to the spirit of chupatz in Bunkerworld, I signed off my last message with the cryptic words, we shall met again somewhere….sometime….in the distant future…some where in the underground.

Fast forward to present day and I’ve been coming across smiling strangers who I hardly know giving me the secret Bunkerworld handshake and wink – the way I see it the kids who used to hero worship me then have all grown up, got married and some of them have even managed to rise so high in their respective vocational fields they are now multi millionaires who can even afford to build their own private dream bunkers complete with bowling alley cum James Bond helipad.

What I didn’t count on was Bunkerworld did not actually just die off and disappear into oblivion – many of the forumers continued underground and in secret as they believed my cryptic farewell was some secret coded message (presumably like the Da Vinci code) to press on – apparently my farewell message was riven with so many spelling mistakes and a reoccurring uppercase ‘A’ and ‘J’ that a code breaking cell in Bunkerworld began to see it as confirmation of a hidden message. (if only they all knew the keys on my china made clone Apple keyboard was permanently stuck in uppercase for those two letters). To cut a very long story short…. today what was once just a casual hang out for geeks in one obscure corner of the net has morphed into full scale reality….air scrubbing filtration….automatic hydraulic doors….freeze dried food etc etc etc.

I am just a tad uncomfortable today about settling into the idea of being regarded as the founding father and going to dinners where everyone takes the kooky Bunkerworld culture so seriously that I am even expected to give a speech….the ultimate irony is even if I told those bunkerheads the real story….no one would ever believe me….they would all probably give me that cosy inderism look of complicity and say, ‘this is another test right?’ But for what’s its worth. I am glad to see many of those pimply kids have made something out of their lives – at least they took and ran with one advise that I once gave them all – never work for anyone, be your own boss! Be big! Because bunkers cost millions….on that, they all certainly did not disappoint, so I am happy it all turned out well.

Bunker on lah!

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To most people their definition of fine cellared wine is probably a beverage that just goes exceptionally well with a serving of steak or halibut. I understand. Nothing wrong with that. After all ignorance is supposed to be bliss…wot!

Only for me there’s always much much more to a fine bottle of wine that usually goes beyond flavor, color, marque, lineage etc – in my book, it doesn’t even have to be expensive or rare….I just need to know under what conditions it was grown in to truly appreciate the full range of experience to give it the respect that it deserves.

I guess it’s a very peculiar way of appreciating wine. A tradesman’s way …a planters way… Just as probably how only another watchmaker can truly appreciate the élan, verve and panache of another watchmaker’s complication, it’s probably such a specialized field of interest that only a very few people would get worked out about it….or even bother to drill deeper to discover the many hidden nuances in a thing.

Whenever I am drinking wine. It’s almost automatic for me to put myself in the shoes of the grape planter and try to imagine what growing conditions he had to work with…..what kind of soil conditions were the grapes grown in? Was it very frosty that year? Or did it just rain cats and dogs the whole time. All these questions float around my mind along with endless other questions as I try my best to peer into the darkened interiors of that wines history with my palate – along with what it has to offer and the whole usual litany of questions like did the mythical wine grower manage to tease out the various nuances of flavor under a given set of growing conditions – at times the suspense is so great that I even find myself hunting down that specific grower… e-mailing him and having a profound conversation for hours over farming.

Unfortunately in the heady world of wine – most wineries these days are run very much like factories mass producing toasters. I have a term to describe these industrial wineries…jam makers…liquid jam laced with alcohol to be specific. These are your ‘always in your face’ genre Paul Mason’s and endless Californians new world wines such as Mondavi, Carlo Rino et all – I have nothing against per se, if your goal is just to get to the station of 13% proof alcohol land – in fact I think they’re rather good at getting you to the station – if I harbor any gripes, they all seem to taste exactly the same every season – they all seem to even be able to produce the same kitsch full bodied bloom of reds, that’s because most of the flavors are really formulated in a lab by men dressed in white coats busying themselves over testubes. There is no mystery there….no art…no beauty…no Da Vinci code…no chutzpah just the run of the mill pop soda Chardonnays, Merlots, Shiraz and many other forgettable new world whites ranging from a sharp Reisling to Preseco…all seem to be able to deliver the full range of notes without too much difficulty, like a Yamaha size 32 violin… only they all seem to suffer from one common failing – they’re all counterfeits.

But the Pinot Noire is very different – the undisputed jewel in the crown…the aqua vitae. As only the aristocrats of growers will attempt to run a season with such a finicky breed of grapa – firstly it’s skin is wafer thin and since it bruises easily, it requires nothing less than the utmost skill in handling and care.

It’s not very productive either as the grape bunches of the Noire are usually very modest, unlike the voluptuous Dolly Parton sized Merlots and Sauvignons that’s much prefered by volume wine growers and since it only grows in tiny nooks and corners around the world where the temperature, sunlight and rainfall is just right, it ranks as the king of grapes. Above all to successful grow a Pinot only a certain ilk of farmer dares to take on such a risky enterprise – a master grower.

One day I would like to try my hand at growing the Pinot. The very idea of a man pitting his skills against mother nature to produce a masterpiece is a very challenging idea to me. Just me and her…no one else. I just want to see whether I can pull it off,

In my minds eye, I can see it right now. A small vineyard maybe in Tuscany or the South of France and next to it maybe an abandoned Chateau that’s seen better days. I will probably work at restoring the Chateau when I am not in the field. I am good with my hands. A sort of place where there’s less than a hundred people in the village. A quiet place where no one ever bothers to stop over. Where the breeze is always scented with hints of Extramadura and Seville oranges in June and during winter the morning frost doesn’t quite bite so hard that grape growing is grief. I don’t need a big hectarage, just a veggie plot will do very nicely with a small cottage winery to produce maybe less than a thousand bottles per season…that’s what I really want to do with in the second half of my life.

But it’s so faraway….nonetheless….I can dream on and from where I standing it’s sweet and clear….the wine that’s called Pinot Noire that is.

Iraqi Meltdown

June 26, 2014

In the world of clandestine services. It is often said, lighting never strikes in the same place twice. So when a friend I have haven’t seen for over ten years shows up and offers me a job in Iraq for second time in the last two weeks….I had to say no. I told him that things needed time to ‘level’ out in Iraq first. He asked me what I meant by that. I was only prepared say, ‘water needs to find its level…’

I have never totally agreed with the crack brained idea of invading Iraq. I have always believed it was a war that was only pursued to enrich the oil barons and their international parvenu lackeys. I remembered balking at Bush juniors summary of how all Arabs desired democracy…really how true is that? What he and the CIA didn’t factor in was that may well be true, but since the devil is always in the details – the Arabs much prefer a version of democracy that’s much closer to an Iranian theocracy than anything resembling the western model. In my view that’s perfectly natural given the sectarian tribal make up of Iraq. Result: the Middle East is well and truly fucked! And everyone who is allied to George Bush junior stands to lose money big time!

Many people who will be losing money very soon. Huge sums of money. After all their contracts have been summarily nullified ex parte as Iraq goes into a tail spin – my take is this. Let it all burn and once nothing of the old order is left, then the time will be ripe to go into business with however should rightly run the country.

A $2,000 fish

June 26, 2014

Last night I decided to dine out on for a change. I am after all in the city. Ordered a mid sized fish. Enjoyed it very much despite being a bit touristy. When the bill came I couldn’t understand why it cost $2,000. The manager raised his voice at me when I began to ask for a breakdown. I told him it was not necessary to raise his voice. That was when a few burly men surrounded me. I smiled and said to him, ‘I now understand.’ As I was counting off the notes, I gave an extra $200. The man looked very surprised and asked what is the extra for – I said to him given that this meal comes along with a complimentary night with his teen daughter and wife…I just thought it was a bargain….the man tensed visibly….we continue facing off and I after a very long while….as if reflecting he finally insisted on returning back all my money and told me I only had to pay the standard rate of $50 for the fish.

I said to him, but I insist on the complimentary service.

It’s the hot season and working conditions in the field can only be described as debilitating. Even breathing in this heat feels like sucking in glowing embers. Usually this time of year, it’s not uncommon for some of my farmhands to come up with 1,001 cocker meme excuses why this or that cannot be done the way I insist a task should be done – in my book complaining is well and fine….it’s perfectly natural for disgruntled folk to complain – I don’t see that necessarily as a bad thing as it’s probably their way of coping with stress by releasing their frustrations. I understand…

But I draw the line when those who I work with decide to take the lazy man’s way out by cutting corners. Whenever I see that the discipline slacks in the crew. Usually I don’t require words to enforce discipline. Less talk is better. I just do the work the way I want it to be done quietly…consistently and that really my way of shaming those who choose to stray out of line into compliance. I term this process for lack of a better – tightening the line. As without discipline nothing can be achieved.

Usually when I decide to ‘tighten the line’ its never a pleasant business. It starts with me shadowing the crew like Velcro. I do what needs to done consistently. I never make small talk…never and I don’t mix with the farmhands during rest or cigarette breaks as I want to convey to them my displeasure.

From time to time those worker’s who require a quick spin with the wrench to ‘tighten’ their wayward ways will feel so embarrassed and small that some of them would say to me, ‘we know how you want it to be done now. Why don’t you leave it to us.’ I just ignore them and continue doing what needs to be done and very slowly but surely a deadly silence pervades the entire crew till they rendered silent…serious and reflective…and that in a nutshell is how a man learns the error of his ways and rights them…a la kampung style.

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‘The section in Sun Tzu’s art of war which is often misquoted is – treat your soldiers like your own children and they will fight courageously…but this misleads terribly as when one reads on – the famous strategist issues a stricture and warns against spoiling your soldiers and even goes as far as to say, if this warning is not headed, then they will be good for nothing.

And this should prompt any leader to ask the next supplementary question – how do you go about the unpleasant business of managing ‘good for nothing’ people. This makes perfect sense to me as in life whether you succeed or crash and burn hinges not on whether you yourself have the seven habits of highly effective people. That’s the easy peasy part.

As it remains the very simple brasstack case of how well prepared are you as a leader in dealing with the seven habits of highly ineffective people!

Don’t believe me then consider this. Why is MH370 still a persistent mystery like where is the lost city of Atlantis? The simple answer is there was a total breakdown in discipline and the person who was responsible for tracking flying objects the size of a shopping mall was probably playing solitaire instead of keeping his eye on the ball. The same thing can be said about the riot in little india. These people did not bother to train realistically so when the shit hit the fan, everyone in the chain of command was mumbling and covering their ass. Result, a bad hair day lah. Same goes for Roy versus Mini Lee. The person who is responsible for scaling threats and opportunities in blogoland gave Mini Lee lousy advise and the result, the man is locked in the basement with his keys on the other side of the door. I don’t even know how he’s going to get out. He’s stuck solid! Can you now see why it’s so important to build the core competencies to manage ineffective people?

CPF also same. Don’t complicate your understanding for a thing by trying to make sense of what Zorro Lim said. He will just confuse you no end as he is a very ineffective communicator. It’s very simple, if the custodians of power stayed true to the goal of CPF at it’s inception – there will be no problem today. Hong Lim park will be empty. Roy Ng will be just another voice in the great digital wilderness. But somewhere along the line, a few ineffective people decided to change the focus of CPF, they used it for housing, healthcare and ten other things which all had the cummulative effect of shifting the goal. I am sure at that time when these planners began tinkering with it, they felt perfectly justified to do so as the trade offs must have mesmerized them. But fast forward today and the thing which was supposed to provision for retirement can no longer fulfill it’s primary goal. It’s so bloody far off the mark today and encrusted with so many sub goals that it’s doubtful that they even have a clear line of sight to the original goal any longer. Now you go ask yourself whose fault is it? Ineffective people lah!

In every case when one peruses thru the anatomy of failure, it was due to an abject failure to intelligently manage ineffective people.

In the olden days when men were still real men and took their jobs seriously – there was hardly a need to manage ineffective people who let down the side down. Since these duds usually felt an acute sense of shame. In those days they could always be counted to do the right thing by putting a revolver in their mouths and doing the honorable thing and this served as a poignant warning to others to keep their eye on the ball and this was how the system perpetuated itself.

But these days it is very different. My feel is if this social convention was still around – then all our problems will disappear like lemon drops.’

These days it’s social hara -kiri to speak with admiration about the “rugged individualist” – that old fashion idea of a man who decides to take on a mammoth endeavor and succeeds by his own industry and relies on no one except himself to make something of his lot.

These days even that classical idea of self emancipation of “great men” doing “heroic deeds” leading along the rest of humanity is seen as passé and closer to Hitlerism than something desirable. In an age when everyone lays claim to the elemental right to be the individual…to he heard…respected…even when they spout rubbish…wonder no more why the rugged individual is as rare these days as a Cheshire cat.

Never mind that somewhere in the present day post modernist cult of ‘all men are the same and the only difference lies in the details’ can never fully supply an explanation how it’s possible for the Rennaisance, industrial Revolution or the advent of the digital age to have come about if the idea of the rugged individual never really existed.

In the kooky narrative of the air conditioned addicted new age metrosexual who much prefers to mull over skin enhancing creams where the only active ingredient is water rather than dwell into any deep discussion concerning what drives society forward – this theme of individuals taking on big endeavors merely amounts to an abberation of history. A necessary lie perpetuated by the capitalist manifesto to justify all sorts of social equalities in the name of progress along with supplying the raw material needed to mythologize the new aristocracy brought by new found wealth.

But I and my tribe will always reject the contorted worldview of these new age prophets and their poisonous sermons. Above all I despise their useless vanities and affectations for frivolous pursuits along with their vapid philosophies concerning how society should be ordered. If these hollow men have their way – then the sum of all society has to offer will be the anti thesis of the rugged individual – an air conditioned addicted half man whose allergy to hard work, industry and strife is only matched by his morbid fear of having to put up with mosquitoes and creepy crawlies.

My hope is El Nino will unleash hell. I pray that it bites so hard that it doesn’t even relent so much as once that it’s vigorous and singleminded like a man who just wants to thrust a dagger into the heart. There are times when I feel a tinge of guilt for my yearning. Yesterday while shaving before the mirror I felt a wave of acute embarrassment when these evil thoughts flitted thru my mind – but is it so wrong? Why does nine tenths of the world’s prime agricultural land have to be in the dead grip of old money and their idiot sons? Why have the millers and the rest of the plantation owners ganged up on me to ensure that my ‘imperialistic’ tendencies are checked – never mind that whenever they buy new tracts of land it’s always seen as diversification. But for poor me, whenever I get my hands on a measly veggie patch, it’s always see as a sign of my hidden agenda…. imperialistic tendencies…and failing as a social climber who dares to challenge the landowning classes – fuck them lah! Fuck all them like bowling pins… My only hope now is for the El Nino to shake and rattle their world and in the process winnow the boys and men – and somewhere in all that wasteland following that epic fuck day just after the mother of all the big shits have hit the mythical fan – I will be proven right…the rugged individual will be the only man left standing….they the soft flabby privileged undeserving land owning classes will all perish….only men like myself will stand….as we are true planters of lore.

He will win! We will win!

This remains my fervent hope of hopes.

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‘Let me share with you succinctly what is fundamentally wrong with society these days. Now picture this scene. A man comes to see me because he’s fallen on hard times. Out of the goodness of my heart and the general love for humanity and my deep desire to redeem myself of my evil ways since I do surf porn after all. I give this man a sum of money to help him get up on his feet again. One week later the same man comes to me again and tells me another sob story. I give him the benefit of the doubt and again I give him a sum to help him out. On the third week, he shows up at my door again and this time I know almost intuitively he’s gaming me. In other words he thinks I am a bloody fool.

So I take off my shoes and bung it at him and since I am a crack shot. My shoes hit the mark, duh duh! Like the classic double tap from the execution arm of the state of Israel, the Kidon. This man falls down and ends up in Tan Tock Seng with two mega balaku’s. Each the size of a jumbo nasi lemak with otah…the $3.50 one lah that the auntie sells in Bedok bus interchange from eight to only nine.

Do you all know what will happen to me if I did all that in Singapore? I will go to jail. And not only that some fuck in blogoland will highlight this story and they will call me a reincarnation of Adolf Hitler. Do you see the irony…the person who games the system now has more rights than me. That if you must know is why the rugged individual can never thrive in a place like Singapore. He will end up in jail or become such a misfit that he ends up in the IMH.

And there you have it, all that’s wrong with the world today. And don’t get me started on how a man who dedicates himself to hard work, risk taking and industry these days has virtually no rights whatsoever. The poor have a right to dress down the rich for whatever reason known only to themselves. But the man who puts him thru university by holding down two shift jobs. The man who summons the courage to put everything on a number and grows an enterprise and dedicates himself to hard work twelve hours a day, seven days a week with not even so much as an off day to materialize a great enterprise. The man who puts everything on the line and draws out his parang in the pale moonlight and does battle with those who choose to take away his dreams…no he has no rights. None whatsoever it seems.

That is the sign of the times we live in today and that is also everything that is wrong with our age.’

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