The Thing About Halal Tobacco

On a recent sales visit to attend a Jakarta Trade Show, The Nav was entertained out one evening by his university-educated Indonesia distributor partners – more his “chums” and “buddies” after working the highways and byways of Java, and Bali and Sumatra with them for the past 8 years. Many an enjoyable bantering session has been had over these travels.

Never to hurt, always to laugh, and sometimes even to reflect. This night The Nav – or “Infidel” as he is lovingly referred to by his distributor colleagues - had one unusually memorable conversation with these same Bahasa Indonesia Islamic chums. He shares this conversation with you now

Diding

"Yes, the Indonesia government, thanks to lobbying by the local childrens health lobby, has made all cigarettes in Indonesia 'Haram', which means non-halal, to try to stop people smoking (through the social stigma attached to smoking)."

(The Nav’s Ed Note : ‘Haram’ in Islam is (something) forbidden for religious reasons or because it is against social custom. ‘Halal’ on the other hand is (of an animal or its meat) slaughtered or prepared in the manner prescribed by Islamic law)

The Nav

"Right. But there's something I don't quite understand."

Agus

"Yes, we know. Why is religion being used to try to change peoples consumption habits ?"

The Nav

"No, that's not it."

Diding

"Why is the government trying to curtail leisure activities, as the small, local, roll your own cigarettes are the only luxury someone can enjoy before death - knowing that use of alcohol, drugs, and any form of sex out of wedlock are forbidden for fear of be-heading under Shariah law ?"

The Nav

"Ah, nope."

Agus

"What, that the local childrens health lobby is using religion to achieve their political ends ?"

The Nav

"Uh ah. No. That's not it either."

Diding

"What is your problem then with ‘Haram’ tobacco !?"

The Nav

"How is tobacco ‘Halal’ in the first place ? What ? Dozens of Imams stand out in Indonesia tobacco fields, a knife in hand, mumbling ‘Allah be praised’ as they scythe their way through each individual tobacco plant stem ?

The poor little tobacco plants, trembling in nervousness, a shrill voice - lost in the windy Java hills - screaming at the level below that recognized by the human ear ‘Please, no, not meeee....!’ as they are sacrificed to Allah before being dried, shredded, mixed with cloves, rolled in paper, packed, and marked 'Haram' to try to severely curtail consumption ?

Why not just triple the retail price with taxes, and use the tax money to build more childrens hospitals ?"

To this there was initially consternation, then realization, then laughter, and finally the comments "No, this cannot be. This is Indonesia !"

Life. It ain’t that difficult. Or so The Nav thought

Why is Malaysia Hot ?

This is a question The Nav has often asked himself during many years of visiting this conglomeration of non-conglomerated states. Where Kuala Lumpur is as far from Kota Kinabalu as Madrid is from Edinburgh. Where there are a variety of peoples from literally dozens of racial and ethnic groups - all tied together by the fact that nobody in Malaysia likes Singapore

I mean think about it. What tick on the bum of a large elephant ever successfully decided the future of that elephant - unless it was tucked up tight at the apex of the tail and the soft, pink, fleshy bits - sucking and at once expunging its toxins into that very, very, very raw piece of rear-wheel drive, jungle-orientated real estate. But a tick on the rear is what Singapore has been for Malaysia

And this has been the want of the little island nation of Singapore during its 30 plus years of independence. An island with one-fifth the population of Malaysia and fully only one four hundred and seventieth the size geographically. An island where the main ‘New Straits Times’ newspaper constantly comments about the harmony and happiness of Singaporeans - despite the fact that broken marriages are rife after trysts with mainland Chinese 'touring concubines'. Themselves seeking a permanent residency card absolutely anywhere - even in Chad - as long as it’s not in China

While the same media comments at how bad it is across the straits - both North and South - and yet when you yourself visit these places North and South there are no riots, no violent robberies, no ice cream cones being absconded and scoffed by the local constabulary. There is only relative calm, and smiles, and a willingness to work hard to get on

The Nav has observed and experienced this frustration of the elephant and the tick, because he himself never utters that most Singaporean of terms - "OK La!" - within 'earshot Malaysia'. Should this happen, there is invariably an instant reaction of a smirk, a gritted smile, a raising of the eye brows, and a bracing for that bite on the bum that is sure to happen. Because for many many years Singapore's Chinese and Indian elite have sought to take the moral, ethical, and business high ground in and amongst what are essentially Bahasa speaking peoples. And what irks Singapore the most is not the debate, the mud-slinging, or the requests for super large elastoplasts for those tick bites. What really irks them is being ignored

Like the mouse that roared, Singapore is always pointing to its development, its achievements, and its status. But like a man holding his small banana, The Nav does feel that this breast beating - or banana peeling if you will - is an insecurity thing. Whereas Singapore holds a small banana, Malaysia has two of the biggest. They are called the 'Petronas Towers', and if they are big enough for Sean Connery to launch himself off, then they must be pretty impressive. Singapore has its architectural twin 'pineapple' cojones in its Esplanade Performing Arts Centre, but what images does that conjure up in the battle for regional 'prowess'?

The Nav believes Singapore is insecure because to the North and to the South they just don't care. And why would they when the biggest decision that the tick has to make is which fleshy protuberance to bite. Whereas the elephant has to face daily decisions on how to keep a relative ocean of flesh, blood, and bones fed, watered, safe, alive, and on the move. And if you've ever seen or experienced an angry elephant charge, you'll understand why Malaysia is always hot – it’s because of that bloody tick!

This is The Nav. Reaching for another jalapeno

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

The Dangers of Gecko Poo

In Asia the Gecko is ubiquitous and everywhere. In every land in the Orient the sound of a “Geckow !" is heard as it sits stuck on ceiling, on walls, and under floors waiting for its next meal of mosquito, or cockroach, or Ribena to happen along. In the steaming, humid heat that is Asia it is almost a comfort to see these little bug eyed, big-fingered, saurians running around your home; you would think helping to keep down and control the hordes of blood-sucking, bacteria-carrying, toe-nipping insectoids and arachnoids that can blight your life here

And the geckos’ in the east vary in size massively, from the inch long beige babies of HK, to the long striped leopard-like leapers of Thailand, to gecko’s as big as a rat - eying up your infant - in Bali. And they are carnivores - with a capital C - eating anything that moves, is powered by blood, emits CO2, and can fit into their mouth. The Nav often wonders what it would have been like if the dog breeders of old had started their genetic experimentations not with the wolf, but with the friendly little gecko. Many a suburbanite of today probably would have disappeared without a trace on their way to collect their morning newspapers from their mailbox – the blame swiftly apportioned to the next-door neighbours new 8 foot long pet named ‘Gordon’

(Nav Ed Note – Gecko is any of numerous small, mostly nocturnal tropical lizards of the family Gekkonidae, usually having toe pads that can cling to smooth surfaces. The largest species, Gekko gecko, is sometimes kept as a pet)

But far from being a benign helper in health, gecko’s poo – alot – and it can be both a danger to your home and deadly to the little gecko. On many an occasion, The Nav has awoken in the morning and stumbled out to his wider apartment to see in the blink of an eye or hear in the buzz of an ear one of these miniscule dinosauric monsters scuttling around his home - following an age-old instinct to avoid being caught, skewered, and barbequed by a human that looks to them like Godzilla

Initially all has been well, The Nav smiling to these friendly little fellas, talking to them the way you talk to your pet puppy – until The Nav sees the poo ! And boy, given the scale size of these little beasts, what poo it is ! Long, brown, sticky smears along The Nav’s walls; somehow defying gravity as these slicks are invariably oriented upwards towards the sky. These offerings the little beige buggers’ assistance to keeping our planet green, the acid content burning long brown marks into The Nav’s beige walls, difficult to explain to a potential new apartment buyer, the smears so high up they represent a cleaning challenge requiring mountain climbing crampons and belaying ropes to reach and delete

But this relatively minor indiscretion to you or The Nav is nothing compared to the risk to the poor little gecko of slipping on his own poo. You or The Nav would merely raise our foot, issue a similarly meaning expletive, and wipe the ooze off. But for the little gecko it invariably means muerta, dood, and death. Imagine yourself hanging to the side of the Empire State Building, at once moving at speed across its external glass and granite walls, detaching and lifting feet in tandem, thereby at any one time only attached by two appendages. And what if these two momentarily connected appendages happened to hit a brown slick at speed – decoupling you from your secure situation over a thousand feet above the earth – you then cartwheeling downwards the relative equivalent of over 100 stories towards a bone-crushing death on your bathroom floor. Many a time The Nav has tried to give cardiopulmonary resuscitation to a poor little gecko found in convulsions on The Nav’s floor – but never with any success. The Nav’s roof pot plants now littered with many little wooden crosses, his domestic saurian friends sent to the big roof in the sky, to be judged in front of the ‘Big Gecko’ above

And the Ribena ? Gecko’s love Ribena. On many an occasion a gecko has been caught taking his morning bath in The Nav’s drink detritus – the little lizard licking all parts of this delicious drink from lense, and sucker, and tail. Rather than being angry, The Nav encourages his little mates to joyously experience this the nectar of the supermarket fruit world, knowing that it could well be the poor little guy’s last supper – a dead gecko walking – and The Nav would want his little saurian mate to enjoy his last meal in ecstacy

This is the challenge of the little gecko in Asia as it negotiates your ceiling at speed. And imagine if they had vocal chords as they hurtled headlong towards the floor. You wouldn’t get much sleep

This is The Nav. Wiping his feet

Why do men date women in Asia ? A blokes view

This is a question that has perplexed The Nav for 8 long years. Lets face it, finding a partner in Asia for the night can be like brushing your teeth, or clipping your toe nails, or changing channels – mindless. But deep down what we all truly deeply want is love. Not puppy love, or lust, or infatuation; but complete, heart-wrenching, gut-sucking, mind-altering love. Where you own someone and yet you are the property of your partner. The kind of love that makes you breathless, asks you to ignore buses and other on-coming traffic, where you are so totally immune to everything around you that you don’t know what day it is. But the problem with this kind of love is that to get it you need to plan and execute a mission more physically difficult than Everest, more technically infeasible at the outset than putting the LEM lunar module onto the moon, and longer in length than Tolstoy’s War & Peace

It is this scenario that The Nav faces. How to win total love in Asia. Recently a mission presented itself which The Nav shares with you now

THE PURSUIT

Scene - A Bar in Wanchai Hong Kong

The Occasion - Post theatrical play drinks

Act 1 Scene 1 - Friends introduce The Nav to an absolutely georgeous individual, here-named Ms X. Several hours of jokes, stories, and anecdotes from The Nav later – no laughter, nor smiles, nor glistening eyes - Ms X is dragged back to the New Territories by her great friend and confidante. Again downtrodden with loss, The Nav buys another Guinness then calls it a night

Act 1 Scene 2 - Months later. Another theatre. Another show. This absolute beauty walks in with her friend. The Nav, busily blogging on his Blackberry, tries not to drop it in shock, and swallows – hard. Heart fluttering, eyes glistening, mouth dry – all the while talking to himself – he MUST find some away to say ‘Hi’, be totally casual and disinterested, but just stand next to this glorious thing all night – ogling. After several hours of buying drinks, trying to hold this divine creatures gaze, throwing every joke in his ‘play book’ at her, he wins it. Her phone number. Mission 1 of 28 accomplished

THE CIRCLING

Act 2 Scene 1 – mid-week following, The Nav at home, at once walking towards, then away from, then towards, then away from – his phone. Long minutes of hand-wringing, angst, doubt, and uncertainty. Decision made. Phone lifted, number rung, ringing, Son “Hello ?” Nav “Yes, hi, is your Mum there please?” Son “No she’s not.” Nav “Oh, ok thanks, I’ll call back later.” Son “Who is this ?!” Nav “A friend.” Son “Who ?!!” Phone quickly placed in its cradle by The Nav. Hmmm he reflected, Ms X’s got a 7 year young human Rotweiller protecting his domain. Switch to Steve McQueen in ‘The Great Escape’ mode to try to fly over the carefully laid barbed wire and also to ‘Phone Plan B’. Stay cool. Leave it for a few hours until just after bed-time and then phone back nonchalantly

Act 2 Scene 2 – “Hi, X?” Helper “No, sir, just hold the line please.” Ms X “Hello?” Nav “X, hi, it’s The Nav.” Ms X “Oh hi Nav. Look can I call you back, I’m just finishing a bed-time story for my son.” Nav “Oh, ok, sure.” Many minutes pass. Nothing. The Nav walking up the wall. Suddenly ‘Rrrrrring’. Stay cool, walk slowly to the phone, count the rings, must not sound keen, must sound cool, right. Nav “Hello?” Ms X “Hi Nav it’s X.” Nav “Oh hi X, how are you?” Ms X securely in one on one conversation with The Nav. Mission 2 of 28 accomplished

Act 2 Scene 3 – The phone conversation. Nav “So X, re the restaurant, do you have any specific food issues ? Vegan? Vegetarian? Are you immune to hotpot ?” Ms X “No no. I’m none of those. I eat anything. But come to think of it, I don’t do seafood. Oh I like shrimp, but not shell-fish. Fish is ok. But not squid. And I don’t do fried food. Love curries, anything spicy, but not into too much dairy. I’m a carnivore of course, any kind of meat – but not beef. No no, I love all food.” The Nav busily writing down many notes, rapidly mentally crossing off all but about 2 restaurants in Sai Kung Town. Restaurant Plans A and B discarded, he quickly switches to Plan C. With no Plan D in place, God help The Nav if he can’t get a booking at Plan C. He hopes and prays Mission 3 has been accomplished

Act 2 Scene 4 - Directions to her home. Ms X “Number X Sing So Wan Road. You can’t miss me. Right next to the big Sai Wai construction site.” The Nav, not sure where Sai Wai was, pushed on with his pen - again mentally cursing himself for not buying that hand-held GPS for the Targa Tasmania. Ms X again “You head up the main hill road, turn sharp left, past the ‘Glorious Gold Villa’ Estate, another 50 metres till you come to a big roundabout, and mine’s the off-white village house past the road roundabout and on the right.” Taking a breath, again writing furiously, The Nav considered his options, aware of only two things – there are virtually hundreds of road roundabouts in the New Territories in HK, and there are literally thousands of off-white village houses there as well. Nay matter. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Now how to physically locate the locale of this maiden, in the time allotted, and still make Sai Kung Town before the kitchens there close. God Bless Google Map dot com ! Directions to her home obtained, Mission 4 completed

THE EXPEDITION

Act 3 Scene 1 – Saturday afternoon, a quick call to ‘The Quarry’, The Nav stressing a wee-bit, telling the divine Ms X that he has maps, a printout from Google Map, a compass, night vision goggles, and a magnetic rock floating on a model junk in a small tub of water in the middle of his car - care of the Cantonese sea Goddess Tin Hau - to assist him in his expedition to locate the domicile of the maiden; and that The Nav plans to get on his way to the divine Ms X’s place hours before designated pick-up time. Showing her care and appreciation for his days of research and preparation, Ms X chats back “Oh I’m sure you’ll be ok. See you then. Bye!” Staring at his now silent phone, drumming index finger on thigh, The Nav’s starts to really appreciate how much work you have to do to find true love. Maiden vehicular pick-up completely confirmed, Mission 5 completed

Act 3 Scene 2 – Leaving home hours before ‘Time over target’ deadline, The Nav’s car ‘Monty’ clattering not from bad shock absorbers but from all the navigational aids sliding throughout its vehicular cabin, the expedition to find Sai Wai began. Through the HK cross-harbour tunnel, on through Kowloon, another tunnel to Shatin Town, one eye on the road and one eye on the navigational aids – The Nav snailed his way though Sha Tin, and Fo Tan – whoops, wrong way, U turn, right ear assailed by local taxi blaring horns – and finally Sai Wai. Phone calls in transit made to Ms X checking on weather conditions, wind speeds, and visibility over the target area, The Nav navigated a HK Government road construction project so big it would make the Road Authority of Thailand envious. Finally target road spotted, 'Monty' drops effortlessly into 2nd, up the hill at the speed of a yak, following pace notes provided by ‘The Quarry’, and there it was – the roundabout and a big white village house. Parking Monty and hopping out, The Nav admired a local HK driver in a big Volvo 4WD SUV negotiate her way round the inches high roundabout, completing a 14 point turn to circle it, no thought of just driving over the thing in her rough, tough, high profile, 4WD – designed specifically to conquer such places as Ben Nevis and Mount Snowdon with ease – confirming The Nav’s notion of not attempting to reach the South Pole with anyone from Canton. Target address achieved, Mission 6 completed

Act 3 Scene 3 – The stunning Ms X safely strapped up and stowed in 'Monty' who was gurgling and rumbling and chomping to scream on though the slippery streets of Shatin, The Nav locked himself in and ignited the ‘Careening British Racing Green Mini Cooper’ and then he was away. Hebe Haven Town reached in the blink of an eye. In for dinner, 'Monty' gleaming proudly in the car park, Ms X safely tucked away in a corner of the restaurant under the admiring eye of The Nav. There followed 6 hours of fine food, fine wine, and fiddlesticks. Later, after being thrown out of the restaurant to the verandah, and then banished from the verandah to the tent, the Nav commissioned 'Monty' to deliver the divine Ms X to her abode, and then go on auto-pilot to seek, search for, and successfully find home. Glorious dinner finished, Mission 7 completed

THE DAY AFTER

Act 4 Scene 1 – Waking in the morning, The Nav reflects on a successful 7 step mission. But this is a search for true love and its just isn’t that easy; you cannot go onto Step 8 until steps 2 to 7 are repeated approximately seven times. And so The Nav commenced plans for a new expedition in his search for true love. You our loyal reader will have to wait and see. Stay tuned

This is The Nav. Appetent about Love. Out