Love in Asia and the Namibian Desert Pachyderms

There is an unearthly connection between love in Asia and the elephants of the Namib desert of south-west Africa. It is an affinity so utterly unfeasible that if a question re their connection was asked in a TV 'Mastermind' contest, or 'University Challenge' programme, or a 'Meet the Academics' variety show, the one constant of all answers given would be the 'fail' buzzer - again, and again, and again, and again. But The Nav has - through persistent, dogged research, often putting life and limb on the line - uncovered the answer to this most intellectually perplexing riddle. He shares the answer with you now to this written Rubic's Cube

In his chapter "Why do men date women in Asia", The Nav began to explain the 28 long steps needed to find true love in this the oriental hemisphere. Taking you our valued reader through the first 7 steps, and then signing off to focus on repeating steps 2 to 7 on another 7 occasions to enable him to eventually move on towards achieving the 15th step. The hallowed one. The electrical moment which one has yearned for. When achieved, concreted in mind and time as something never to be forgotten. A moment so seminal as too be a turning point forever in this little patch of the universe that we all call home. The moment? There can be only one - when the object of your ardor lends you her toothbrush

Because at that very moment, you come to see that you are hers - locks, stocks, and smoking barrel. Like a pedigree poodle, or a prize Angus, or a champion Norwegian Fjord horse; at once groomed and being groomed, sometimes ribbons hanging from your ears, now a real show pony. Because at this same moment you suddenly realize that you have been 'girlfriended', and your life, your time, and your silk boxers are no longer yours, but indeed they now belong to another. But you are happy about this because you have been so busy repetitively repeating steps 2 to 7, and now you've made your way to step 15, that your body and mind are so bleary and befuddled that if your girlfriend suggested you buy Manhattan Island for her, you'd probably agree

And here is the rub. The Namib Desert Elephant is a smaller sub-species - although with a similar sized trunk - of the main central African elephant family. The Namib species is specially designed to survive long periods without moisture, but slowly and surely, step by step, with a hypnotised look, swaying like an exhausted drone on drugs, make its way with its elephantine family across the 50,000 square kilometer in area Namib desert and coastal expanses, taking marathon treks between the Namib’s Kunene region, the Skeleton Coast, and the high Kabere Mountains of the interior in search of that elixir of life - water. A search so tiring in its extreme that the Namib pachyderms go through four sets of feet in their life-times, versus the usual one set of their central Africa cousins

(The Nav’s Ed Note - Only one species of elephant, Loxodonta africana, is native to Africa. Most scientists, however, now agree, that Loxodonta africana appears in two subspecies: the savanna or bush elephant (Loxodonta africana africana) and the forest elephant (Loxodonta africana cyclotis). The Namib Desert belongs to the former of these two species, although as noted as a slightly more compact version)

And this is what steps 8 to 15 become. A wonderfully exciting time, where for the first time in years you find your life fuller than before. The only thing missing being sleep. Because love is a trade off. When you have been smitten, your day to day life does not change - work doesn't stop, social lives don't go away - in fact now there are two of you it gets doubly hectic. Sports doesn't wait, family still insist on regular meetings and communications, and you still have to clean your bathroom - religiously

So at this stage in your search for true love the only thing you can sacrifice - to have time for your new girlfriend - is sleep. Your body becomes conditioned to rest less, and you find yourself taking regular 'cat naps' on buses, in taxis, at your desk, and while walking. Thus you do take on the look of a Namib Pachyderm, everything completed slower, more considered, your head drooping and ears flapping, one foot put in front of another and again another. Long long hours 'between drinks', as you struggle to survive alone, only one thing constantly on your mind - the divine 'Ms X' and where to find her. Until the moment. A slight breeze, essence of fem brought to your nostrils, your memory electrodes ignited, dilated pupils, a suddenly flicking trunk tasting the air, your stride quickens, your internal compass on auto-pilot. Then miles and miles of navigating in 'Monty the BRG Mini' later - and despite not having that GPS that you didn't buy for the Targa Tasmania - you still find her. The new elixir of your life. And then you are able to drink in her fragrance again. Calm returns

This is The Nav - cat-napping. Who needs water when you've got love

The Saints' Go Marching On !

The Nav has so many fond memories of his 8 years in HK living close, sometime too close, to the hippy, happy, many times on hops Saint Family of HK. He shares some of those memories with you now

His first day of arrival, landing at Chep Lap Kok, little money, few friends, limited experience. And collected by Mother Saint in her banana yellow, convertible, often coughing Saab sports car – with 4 cylinders, a dodgy air con, and black bumpers so big they were a risk to local giraffe. The Nav was whisked home by Mother in the sunshine, ignorant of traffic and road regulations and rear view mirrors, to the then Stubbs Road ‘Castle’, over-looking the massive Happy Valley cemetery, the ‘Castle’s’ Fung Shui so bad that few people of note risked living there. But Father Saint proud about the controlled rent situation afforded by the local dead, and The Nav commenting with some alacrity that the local children’s playground at the steps below the ‘Castle’ seemed to be constantly devoid of children. Possibly again because of the local dead

Then there was The Nav’s initial sleeping arrangements. Father Saint kindly put The Nav up in the spare room, by the front door with the dodgy lift just outside, within shouting distance of the kitchen, and in direct line of site of ducklings one and two’s bedrooms – and extruded a goodly rent for the best part of 6 months - with The Nav keen to escape to ‘Bachelor’s Quarters’ in Happy Valley. But Mother Saint having nothing of it, demanding her portion of company in the form of nightly SAS training jogs along Black’s Link, meandering Sunday ‘Walkies’ to the South Side with ducklings in tow, with all these energy sapping activities fuelled only by salad, black tea no salt, and singing

Many a morning The Nav - busy recovering from a 4am sojourn finish with Father Saint - would be in his room of penance, Stanley Boxers and Cathay Pacific airline eye shades on, reeking of beer, food, and fags; gaseous emissions so bad his little abode would be bursting to bloom. And yet despite the ‘Lan Kwai Fong Toxic Zone’ notices posted to his door, the little Saint ducklings were still set on their suffering Uncle – always early. His door flung open, their initially smiling faces then blinking, dumbfounded, as they took in an apparition more akin to the now long-extinct Dodo than what had said good night to them just hours previously; the ducklings' standing for long seconds and mentally processing how could evolution have gone into reverse – before they screamed, jumped, and pillow hit the poor, suffering, sad Nav before he was further assailed with the choir voice of Mother as she uttered that one word so dreaded by a tired, sore, hung-over Wanchai warrior of the night – “Walkies !!!”

And what holidays were had. Probably the funniest was the ‘guaranteed great time’ at the Thousand Islands budget resort many miles across open ocean north of Jakarta. Upon arrival greeted by the staff pointing out proudly the large swimming pool – broken – on this a waterless coral atoll. Four days, 40 degree heat, three adults, two infants, no helper, a beach so full of deadly inhabitants you needed gumboots – and a swimming pool more useful as a tennis court. Days of observing fruit bats, stray cats, and monitor lizards, interspersed with the same buffet food, Mother Saint developing a nervous tick in her left eye, forced to travel again by boat in open ocean with her brood to seek a working swimming pool and a fresh lunch buffet. After the holiday, the trip back to Jakarta at speed in a covered long boat, her brood sewn to her, the boat broke-down. Open ocean again, a deep swell, night approaching, The Nav nonchalantly explaining the various types of large and unlit Jakarta port traffic trundling by our now human pontoon. Mother Saint drawing her brood closer, staring at The Nav with a look that would have stopped Napoleon at Austerlitz

And the many, many, many meals enjoyed by The Nav – or perhaps better described as being monitored by Mother – with the Saints'. The HK Cricket Club, Hebe Haven Yacht Club, Jaspers in Sai Kung, and the American Peking Restaurant in Wanchai to name but a few. Father Saint tucking into his French Onion soup and/or Minestrone soup and/or Club Sandwich and/or Full English Breakfast and/or Chilli con Carne and/or Sirloin Steak with the regularity of a musical metronome; all under the oft-approving gaze of Mother, big glass of cold Sauvignon in hand, seeking to best nourish and make better her brood. The Nav always though sitting close by, nervously pointing the waiter to the lettuce sandwich in pita bread, no sour cream, hold the onions. Mother making points about excessive kilojoules and calories, health benefits of “Walkies”, at once putting the pepper and specifically the salt shakers in her purse – out of reach

After a night and morning of sleep depravation, Saint SAS training, and now enough food energy to fuel a salamander, The Nav habitually became desperate for further sustenance. Spying left-over chicken nuggets and/or a childrens hamburger and/or a hotdog and/or macaroni cheese and/or chips – all slippery in a slick of ketchup sauce – The Nav would surreptitiously seek to steal these soggy morsels straight from the newly hatched teeth of the Saint ducklings' with a sly “D’ya want that ?” On most occasions though Mother Saint would be one step ahead of the game – Mother Saint is always one step ahead of the game – constantly monitoring food ordered vs food delivered vs food consumed by her brood; calculating calory burn rates, optimum muscle building food ingredients, and protein to carbohydrate mixes. Mother would always have one eye on the fare for her family – and one eye on The Nav’s fingers. Constantly ready to verbally lash out like a feline leopard, cornering a poor starving little mongoose back into his corner, while her family fed on the huge Koodoo carcass – big enough to feed an Ethiopian refugee camp

And what tasks over the years The Nav has been commissioned to complete for the Saint Castle

A fully 3 car load delivery of duckling Oli’s birthday gifts from the HK Cricket Club to the Stubbs Road Castle – The Nav commenting “Why don’t you just re-wrap them and give them back at the next duckling birthday?”. Mother Saint's nervous tick returning

The family SAS ‘Walkies’, with Father Saint pushing stroller, Mother Saint holding her hot Starbucks – black, no sugar, added caffeine – and The Nav managing the 3 ducklings', 3 dogs', 3 leashes, 3 childrens leashes, a backpack, and drinks. All with his pen, clipboard, and whistle in hand – usually on a Sunday

The boating tasks. With the small but lethal Saint and Susa sport craft designed to carry four, but commissioned on occasion to deliver to the beaches of Sai Kung's Millionaires Island 7 adults, 5 children, 3 dogs, a chilli bin eski the size of Rhode Island, and enough ‘Dee’ handbags to fill Saks 5th Avenue – the HK police launch always close, monitoring, watching. Waiting for the little craft to make a break for China - at its maximum 6 knots speed when overloaded - to sell said handbags to Canton’s Triad wives. The Nav as boat ‘bowman’, nervously preparing ropes, and buoys, and flares - searching for any anchor - as the storm washed South China Sea surged over the gunwales. Fathers’ Saint and Susa, faces glistening and eyes ablaze, laughing at the sea Goddess ‘Tin Hau’ and yelling “You call this a storm !!!”

And so the Saints' Go Marching on to Singapore. Life will somehow go on in HK. Less beer will be drunk. Per capita consumption of Sauvignon will drop precipitously. Less container traffic of nappies will be needed. Nights will get shorter as all the Saints' friends get more sleep. The friends of the Saints' ducklings will now be able to get their 4 years of over-due homework done. And in Singapore ? Quite the opposite. Already The Nav has learned that the ruling Lee Family has commissioned a new Minister – with portfolio – as ‘Saint Social Secretary’ to handle the hordes of additional parties and lunches and outings – carefully camouflaged as “Walkies” - that this new brood will bring to that sometimes colourless island of concrete, surrounded by a sea of cultural colour

And can The Nav now wind down his life in HK ? No chance. Mother Saint is always watching, monitoring, waiting. The Nav on his next visit to Sing to be thrown into garden chair, bright light bulb brought to bear, cross-examined about day to day activities. Claims checked, cross-referenced with quick calls to HK gal pals, and re-checked for authenticity. A glass of Singapore Metro water at hand – no ice – and another lettuce sandwich in pita bread at hand, no sour cream, hold the onions. With the now Saint Singapore brood tucking into char kway teow and fresh curried crab and chicken satay and seafood laksa and beef rendang - all oozingly tantalisingly close on the side server just metres from The Nav – the sensory overload calculated to kill him should he not tell the truth. Because very very soon the world will realise what the two best things are about Singapore. The food. And the Saints'. Not necessarily in that order

This is The Nav. Sad but marching on too. Out

The Most Dangerous Animal in Asia – The Canto Granny

In the cold, hard light of day Hong Kong is not an easy city. Oh yes at night the lights are bright, the city awash in odours, your senses constantly stressed. But in the day the place can be grey. Grey buildings, grey roads, grey clouds, grey air. It is in this grey realm that that most dangerous of Asian animals roams - a myriad of filled plastic bags in hand, ready to be used as rams, the head at an angle, the shoulders hunched, pressing her territorial claim to be able rest her weary limbs - the ‘Canto Granny’. On the helter-skelter streets of HK ready she constantly is to go to war on the city’s other unsuspecting under-classes for that one thing most cherished by all HK domiciles – a seat

Yes a seat. HK is not a city blessed with wide open spaces, or public parks, or places of calm. It is a city constantly on the move. At once shaping and being re-shaped, its people constantly psychologically burdening themselves as being ‘underachievers’, pressing each other forward professionally en masse and at speed towards an early grave, while having one of the highest incomes per capita and living standards in all of Asia. The HK government, progressive and educated and sincere, trying to satisfy the people - despite being under the constant yoke of Gnijieb - provides a world-class infrastructure and social environment in which a compressed city of 7 million can live in relative harmony and mostly happiness. And yet, with all this constant pressing towards greater success, greater monetary returns, and greater social status amongst the worlds’ preeminent cities, there is one thing that HK just doesn’t have enough of – seats

From the underground MTR train network where there is little encouragement to linger, to the sidewalks and streets where people abound and are fused together on the move due to their sheer weight of numbers, to the harbour’s edges where new expressways and tunnels and thoroughfares are being constantly planned, or added, or upgraded. These rivers of people, these arteries and veins pumping with human life, these constantly pulsating homo-sapien pressure points of yin and yang and chi. But HK’s people do need rest. At night the streets are mostly empty, more like Tombstone than the Ginza, as the old colony’s residents return to their tiny apartments at an early hour to take in canto pop music, or mahjong, or bird whispering before retiring responsibly to ensure another early rise on the morrow in their fight for personal success. Exhaustion is dominant, glazed tired blinking eyes a constant, slumbering bodies in public a given. With no place to lay their weary heads, the fight for that seat can be biblical

And what of that most deadly HK denizen – the ‘Canto Granny’. At 4 feet 11 a reminder of Mao’s wholly misguided national nutrition policies, the Granny roams the streets of HK like a miniature silver-haired sledge hammer ready to slam The Nav in the back – targeting his kidneys – to move him bodily away from tram or bus or train entrance to ensure the Granny has a flying attempt at winning one of those cherished empty abodes. The Nav moved bodily aside, a tide of Canto, Pinoy, and Indo humanity next, arms and legs and torsos ripped asunder on tram track or under bus wheel or against truck bumper – the Granny will not be denied from achieving her most important mission today. To lay luxuriously together with her packages of worldly possessions on a HK public transport ‘seat of heaven’, regally reviewing those commuting mere mortals surrounding her - standing

Being HKs ‘Schwarzenegger of seating’ the Granny is never stopped, nor frisked, nor questioned – neither by tram attendant, nor bus driver, nor Chief of Police - for fear of a retribution so severe a grown male lion would himself cower in the corner like an adolescent feline were he to be assailed. The secret of the Granny’s intimidation is her height. Think about it. If a sledgehammer - with a very low centre of gravity - were to wind up, swinging its physical weight around and then upwards like an Olympic hammer thrower, opposing ribs and teeth and tibia would become directly at risk. And given the cost of HKs emergency healthcare for the assaillee, the immediate result would invariably be one of three things, a) a wheelchair b) a life support system or c) bankruptcy

Additionally there is the added risk of loss of hearing as the Canto Granny then assaults the poor assaillee with some of the strongest South China swearing heard this side of the solar system. Altogether the numbers bear witness to the dangers of going ‘toe to toe’ with this the most feared animal in Asia. It has been statistically shown that the most dangerous job in our hemisphere is that of the HK tram driver – the SARs hospitals and sanitoriums full to the gunwales with men and women in green uniforms, wrapped in white jackets and rocking on their toes at their windows, staring, screaming out like a Tourette’s sufferer every-time a grey-headed Granny passes by their window. The Granny gently smiling in triumph

This is The Nav hopping off. Kidneys newly covered in Kevlar