SCARF6

(Continued from SCARF5 mktyap@copyright)

Who will care for the beasts of burden?

There’s a story about a man of God who did something he was forbidden. Balaam was bribed into going with some princes to curse an army that God didn’t intended. So as he was riding the donkey saw an angel with a drawn sword and so turned off the road into a field. Balaam hit his donkey to rein her in. Then between two walls the angel stood to block the donkey’s path. The donkey squeezed away from the angel and crushed Balaam’s foot against a wall. She was beaten again. Not realizing the Angel’s presence Balaam pushed on with the donkey, until she was completely blocked off by the angel. The donkey sat down. Balaam beat her with his staff until the donkey began to speak. What have I done to you that you’ve beaten me these three times? Because you made a fool of me and if I have a sword for my staff I’d killed you, Balaam replied his donkey. But didn’t I have faithfully served you all this time until now? I’ve never disobeyed you, except now. When Balaam agreed he then realized the presence of the angel which caused the donkey to speak, and came to his senses. Then the angel told Balaam that he owes his life to the donkey, that if she had not disobeyed, the angel would have killed him.

Now if only beasts of burden today could speak! We also have horses, oxen, reindeer, elephants, camels or sled dogs that work for their masters. Their lives must be hard – working only for shelter and basic food, exposed to the elements, with no salaries, days off or holidays. And when they become sick or frail with age? What do they do with incapacitated beasts of burden? Recently an elephant in Thailand collapsed and died, throwing its passengers. It had been worked to death. Then a poor donkey ferrying a terrorist somewhere in the hills of Waziristan was killed by an airstrike. Who will care for the poor beasts that only feed on wild grass and pastures but labor uncomplaining for humans who enslave them?

Would to be a horde of angels to visit oxens toiling in mountainous fields, camels or llamas carrying loads in the blistering desert sands or elephants pulling chains of logs. Here is a story about sled dogs, pulling their loads over miles of snow, often at subzero temperatures.

In those years before snowmobiles and helicopters supplies to towns in the northern Yukon were done with dogsled. Small outposts between Yellow Knife or Thunder Bay survived on supplies plied by the courageous huskies and their drivers, often in extreme weather conditions. One winter storm a dozen dogs led by the leader Lerner, prepared to make a run of medicines and fuel. Lerner was a mixed husky-hound breed, valiant, stout hearted and alert. For a year since she weaned off a litter she’s shown single-mindedness and independent behavior, never distracted by foxes, squirrels or bear. So shortly after leaving Yellow Knife snowfall became a blizzard and visibility was poor. But dogs have that keen sense of smell as to stay on the trail. Until they tried to cross a stream. A strong wind blew half the dogs and the driver over the bridge, spilling the provisions. Fortunately Tom Last, the driver was only slightly bruised. As if an angel guarded them none of the dogs were hurt because they all landed on deep snow and the crossing was small. Tom unharnessed and gathered the dogs, but what of the provisions? “Lerner go find!” Soon Lerner and the other energetic dogs were sniffing in deep snow, barking excitedly when something was retrieved. When they’ve gathered most of the provisions they pushed forth, snow unabating. After a couple of hours daylight disappeared quickly in winter but Tom and his charge were nearing their destination. Or so he thought. The snow was so high that most signage were covered and he could hardly see the top of a lamp post. With only the Northern Lights to illuminate the path, Tom went around for another two hours looking for the outpost. They were lost in the vast whiteness. Man and dogs were starting to get hungry and cold. It must be around here somewhere, Tom muttered to himself as his breath froze over. Then just when he and the dogs was about to give up in exhaustion a bright light shone ahead. Tom first thought that it was someone from the outpost looking for them with a lamp. But no – oil lamps aren’t that bright. Dead from exhaustion, with dogs whimpering away he decided to follow the light. After no more than a minute he ran into the outpost. The light then disappeared. Tom suddenly realized that he and the dogs had been circling around the guardpost for the last two hours, confused and unknowing that he was so near home. Then he knocked at the guardhouse and after a while he was greeted by his friend warmly. “Did you come after me with a lamp to find us?” Tom asked. Not even if my life depends on it, in this storm was the reply. Then it must be the angel who helped us from the cold, Tom muttered. The dogs seemed to whimper in agreement while gleefully chomping down the dried food Tom had gratefully spread before them.

The bashful dragon and the unicorn’s gift

Many stories of fantasy feature dragons. The most notable today is the Loch Ness monster, Nessie or Chessie from the Chesapeake Bay whose myth has yet to be proven beyond doubt. Mythologies of the Near East and Mesopotamian arts describe serpent-like creatures with mystical powers. Western folktales have fire-breathing, winged and horned creatures associated with evil while from ancient China dragons are wingless, smoking, horned heavenly phenomenon with power, luck and wisdom associated with the emperor. Many serpents of the sea were reported from time to time but like the UFO there aren’t any in a museum or zoo to show. Then perhaps there may be one or some, living somewhere in the depths of the vast oceans, or left alone and isolated somewhere in the middle of the earth. Indeed a dragon-like creature Bo lives in a large underground cavern somewhere in Indochina. These caverns can be so large, extending to unknown underground caves all over the globe and interconnected in numerous water channels below. Bo has always lived in isolation, a freak descendent of snake-like plesiosaurs that roamed the oceans in the Cretaceous period. Being alone he has only one ambition in his life – to mate and multiply his species. So he roamed the undersea caverns – once surfacing in Loch Ness and another time in the lakes of Canada, or the Chesapeake. But he disappears whenever he sees a human instead of a potential mate. So his utter bashfulness and stoic, melancholic life. He’s been more known for his escapades than for his existence. So how is he going to find another survivor descendant of his species?

Bo a descendant of the plesiosaurus

It turns out that Bo has a hobby. He collects pearls – giant ones the size of a softball. Near to his home cavern is a colony of giant clams. Millions of them live and die filtering the undercurrents that feed Bo’s cave. When they reach the end of life they would spring open their shells and spit out wondrous irritants that lived in them. Bo would come along and collect them as trophies that a potential lady might fancy. He piles them in his cave, glittering in whatever sunlight that might reach his depth. Everytime he sets out to find his potential mate he’ll grab a few lovelies to attract some females. But the problem is extinction – who in his God-forsaken world will be around for him? Until one day at some remote mountain lake in the Urals. He met a unicorn.

The unicorn could hear his lonely cries under the lake and raised his foot to thump the ground. Bo surfaced and immediately found a bond. Sure you’ll find your mate, he said to Bo. “But you’ll lose your privacy of your cavern for the treasure trove of pearls that greedy humans sought.” Bo turned away sadly. Like some of us living out our old lives, half a pleasure is worse than having none at all. As the bashful dragon turned to go, the unicorn twirled his horn. Bo looked back and the unicorn flew into the lake. Come with me, he said. “I’ll show you where all your female dragons are hiding. Being the sole survivor you can have all of them or as many as you want. Also there you’ll never be found by humans ever. Just like they’ll never find me anywhere in this planet earth.” Now where on earth could one find such a gift of a unicorn? Actually they all live in the inner reaches of the earth’s core – a cavernous universe of water and life, living on gaseous discharge from volcanic-like reactions brimming with life-giving oxygen. After a week’s journey the unicorn brought Bo to a inner sanctuary. Bo was amazed at the variety of sea serpents living there – various living species from all the epoch of their evolution. Somehow with the absence of predators and natural disasters of earthquake and explosive meteors, they continued to thrive. Bo finally found numerous females of his species, delighted in finally able to reproduce with as many as he wished. Or so he thought. Months came and went, but Bo was not able to make any of them conceive. Why? He asked the unicorn when he finally returned. The answer was shocking. They are all sterile – science and technology only have the magic to replicate them, recreations belong to God, the unicorn replied. But why did you bring me to such a desolate place where I cannot reproduce my kind? “Because you said you wanted the pleasure of a mate, I did not promise you off-springs.”

The unicorn of life

We’ll play in heaven

They would be lying serenely on the grass next to hole 2 around supper time. The black and white (let’s call him Toby as all strays are often called by the natives) is friendly but suspicious. He would sneak up quietly behind while you are concentrating on you putter and shock you out of your skins. But if you approach him with a sandwich he would pounce off a safe distance and eye you while you drop your feed. But he knows friendly golfers often come with food, as he would lick the air on hearing your car approach. Occasionally he and Brownie (the other one) would guard both ends of the green. So used was I to give him his morsel that on days when they are not to be found I would feel a sense of despair that maybe the dog pound might have gotten them. Even brokenhearted.

White owl watches from the trees as golfers declare their scores

But someone’s feeding and keeping them. There’re there for one good reason. To keep the wild boars away from digging up the fairways. Golf maintenance had never been so hard when hunting was permitted in the surrounding forests. Occasionally golfers used to hear gunshots and the smell of spent ammo. But conservationists have put an end to that. Then someone came up with the idea of a boar brigade formed by our four-footed friends. Hardy, a mean single handicapper got so used to them and often gave out scraps, especially Toby. After their usual entree, they would step aside for Hardy. But not the macaques whose keen smell can detect goodies in the deepest part of the golf bag. So once Hardy’s ball hit one of them and his flight mates shouted in horror. But the monkey scampered off the green, apparently unhurt. Then what happened next had the golfers screaming again, gleefully. The ball bounced off for a hole in one. Hardy scratched his head as he wondered if that wouldn’t be a valid insurance claim. So he looked up rule 11.1 of the Player’s edition which states, “If a player’s ball in motion accidentally hits any person or outside influence, the ball must be played as it lies, except in two situations: Exception 1 – When Ball Played from Anywhere Except Putting Green Comes to Rest on Any Person, Animal or Moving Outside Influence: The player must not play the ball as it lies but must take relief.” So instead of a monkey Hardy got an eagle and won the wager from his playmates. But the next game wasn’t so clear. Hardy drove his ball into a bunker and for some reason the boar brigade came running. Toby jumped into the bunker, grabbed the golf ball in its mouth and dropped it at Hardy’s feet. Hardy claimed that he could play on without penalty but his competitors protested that he should play from the bunker. So they had to look up rule 11.2 which states: “

The ball in motion hits any equipment or other object (except a ball-marker or another ball at rest before the ball was played or otherwise went into motion) or any person (such as the player’s caddie) that a player deliberately positioned or left in a particular location so that the equipment, object or person might deflect or stop the ball in motion. Until today Hardy could not agree that his friend Toby deliberately helped him win the wager. He challenged his friends to prove that Toby was his caddy. Animals in the golf course can really distract play. Hardy once missed a putt when his playmates scampered off the green on seeing a python sliding by. Then someone made a hard drive into a coconut tree and a squirrel dropped down dead. How could one continue play when one’s ball just killed a mynah in flight?

Hardy loves golf so much that he’ll never miss a game with his partner Joyce. Simply it was not just the challenge of the game – the variety of vegetation and scenery of every hole is more than enervating for a Sunday afternoon. They both love animals, both wouldn’t run from even a wild boar or alligator on the fairway. He would tell Joyce that if there’s golf in heaven he won’t mind dying in a round. He got his wish on a cool afternoon. “We’ll play again in heaven” – she whispered to him at the wake.

Then the oboe spoke

Tigers are known to be charismatic and mysterious. Endangered since 1986 it is said that there are less than 4 000 in the wild today. An apex predator, it is the largest of the panthera specie and are solitary, except when rearing cubs, which stays with the mother for 2 years.

There are 9 subspecies of tigers living in South Asia and Siberia although this is disputed. The Bengal, Sunda and Sumatran species have black stripes over orange fur while the white amurs are black on white. The majestic beast stands in the coat of arms of Malaysia and Singapore though the latter shot its last tiger in 1952.

There was once a tiger that dwell in the relatively undisturbed forests of South Kalimantan before the age of logging and deforestation. Where she made her den were luxuriant trees and vegetation, streams rich in marine life and insects of every kind living by their banks. The ecosystem was so balanced and complete that birds of every kind in South-East Asia nest there and raise their young. Being the apex predator there was no fear of raising her four tiger cubs. But there was something special about this forest – the birds and animals sang together in harmony. Every morning soon after the radiant sun slants its rays through the foliage the birds and animals would start a symphony of their choosing. The birds would form the high pitched string section and the owls, wood borrows and rodents the woodwind ensemble. Sometimes the tiger would growl a low rumble for the bass drums and the shrill crickets and chickadees compete in the flute, piccolo and clarinet repertoire. Even the night-jar, still awake would provide the timely chop-chop as the rhythm required. One morning they decided on the 6th symphony in F major (Opus 68). It is better known as the Pastoral which Ludwig Van Beethoven composed in 1808, for his love of nature and country. It has been said that the old man once walked in the open pastures waving his arms gleefully like a bird in flight.

So in the first movement (allegro) two red jungle fowl cheerfully cackled with joy of the country. Their repeated cries were echoed by the thrush and the butcher-bird in throaty, soft refrain. At several points the warbler enjoined with slow, up-down trills. Then the hawk-cuckoos added their crescendo and decrescendo calls. These were repeated with rhythmic precision and joyous chatter of the wrens, which grew and fell in intensity, interspersed by the shrill chickadees and the low rumble of the tiger. The wood-lark then gave a soft and drawn-out taper at the end. Next in the andante we arrived at the lake where several black and white swans glided serenely. The musician wren started with their melody of softly flowing current and expanding ripples in the water from fallen leaves. Lively ducklings swiveled around to the soft coots of the great owl. Baby waves pirouetted out in its wake.

The dance ended with the cuckoo’s up-down tonal reply. Then a sudden trill from the blackbird laid to rest the sleepy, repetitive flowing melody of the wrens. Next came the scherzo in the third movement, the orioles skipping down the tree trunks with their lively, strutting sounds making you wish you could do a country dance there. The orioles’ flying up and down was accompanied by a grave, low trumpet-like sound of the horn-bills. Then silence. After a while a frog-mouth chirped. And then the oboe spoke. The shama bird, cheerful and spirited sang with passion, interspersed by the bassoon-like sound of sparrows. It seemed so happy to have the forest for which to live, sing and breed. The horn-bills added their agreement with their low, thumping sounds and tapered to a whisper. After another moment of silence the oboe from the shama started again, this time interjected by the nightingale’s staccato chatter. This went on repetitively and even the mockingbird joined in with its short, sharp trills. It ended with a low chuckle from the grey owl and a trumpet-like call from some distant elephant. Then a thunder clap. Starting with a few drops, rain eventually fell in sleets introducing the fourth movement. Lightning flashed through the bird-less trees. Then as fast as it begun everything went quiet, the thunder rolling away in the distance. The fifth movement (Allegretto) started.

The horn-bills started with a sweet and melodious opening. You’d feel like the earth resurrected from the earlier storm. Then the skylark enjoined with strong staccato tune, vigorous but harmonious. The horn-bill blended in low-high swings in rhythmic prose, which slowly tapered to the rolling chatter of the slate-colored solitaire. Then the singing repeated, but this time the timbre rose almost to a shrill whistle from the sparrows and the whistler. Up and down it went as if describing the rolling hills and rambling streams. A few more rounds and the chatter from the nightingales barely became a whisper. Out from the bush ran a male peacock with a low cackle, as its stunning tail plume of purple, orange and green fanned out. Finally all the birds seem to gather together in voice to a grand finish. The next time if you happen to take a walk in the jungle or forests of Kalimantan do not look for a tiger, for their numbers have dwindled due to the greed of Man. Neither would you be able to hear the choruses of birds because they have migrated to villages or towns where scraps of food can easily be foraged from the open dustbins. However if you try hard enough you might be able to imagine the sound of an oboe lamenting that the natural beauty of this beautiful world have been stained by one of its inhabitants – that from the human race.

The magical horn

The rhinoceros is the second largest land mammal today, next to the elephant. Endangered as the odd-toe ungulate it springs from the specie rhinocerotidae, where two of the extant species are African and three are South Asian. The Indian and Javan rhinos have only one horn, while the African and Sumatran have two. A herbivore, the agile rhino suffered from two unfortunate destructive human activity. Firstly they were sport-hunted to near extinction in the late nineteen century. Theodore Roosevelt, admired as progressive in his time would have appear really foolish today for shooting down a ferocious charging female rhino, probably out to protect her young. Secondly, without solid medical proof, many East Asians believe that the keratin rhino horn powder has many medicinal benefits. Whatever magical is in the rhino horns will probably remain in fantasy. Meet our Sumatran white rhino Hakim. He is a castle on hoofs. His hide appears like armor-plating and for his weight of 2400 kilos he is fast. But the beauty is in his horns. The frontal one is 100 cm long, almost twice that of the upper horn.

But there’s more – they’re magical. You see Hakim happens to love mushrooms – the highest quality known as truffles. It is the horns that direct him where the rare truffles are buried. Hakim would trot along a jungle path and like a homing device the horns would cause him to stop abruptly at a clump of trees. His keen sense of smell did the rest of where to direct the horns to dig up the delectable truffles. Hakim is a fierce custodian of his turf. Though often alone until mating time, even the apex predator – the Sumatran tiger leaves him alone for his brute strength and fearsome horns. But even a hide as tough as his will succumb to bullets. Fortunately he lives in the 21st century and the law protects his endangered status. Hakim would trot around briskly with his heavy armor, ensuring his territory is not encroached by buffaloes and such. But trouble lies ahead.

By this time the Indonesian authorities have ensured game rangers protect the few endangered Sumatrans on Borneo island, numbering about 90. Even more desperate, the last surviving male Sumatran rhino in Malaysia just died in 2019, leaving only some sterile females in captivity. The tragedy is that humans are weak with greed and there’re few things that money cannot buy. And bounty hunters for the expensive truffle mushrooms are willing to bribe the rangers. So the poachers kept the rangers out and laid in wait with rifles for Hakim, having learned of his magic horns that could seek out their prized commodity. It would seem that Hakim’s fate is sealed in the impoverished forest of Kalimantan. One fateful day he could not see beyond his nose for the approaching killers. Although his sense of smell is better, the intruders were downwind. But he must flee out of range of the rifles and his keen ear sensing the quiet poachers would not save him. So must Hakim die too for the greed of man? Not if he had fair-feathered friends.

Hakim welcomes the ox-peckers

It is said that one good turn deserves another and this holds true for the ox-peckers that reside on Hakim’s armor-plated hide that hides ticks and flies. It is symbiotic and on that day, the ox-peckers could see the rifles crouching near. Flee! Do not charge! They cried in his ears. Hakim trotted fast as far as his legs could carry his two-ton frame. The bullets flew but were just out of range.

This year would be the second time that Hakim the happy rhino bull is fathering two calves. His are the sperms of great demand for the species. If he had charged the poachers like the fearsome female that charged at Theodore Roosevelt the poachers would have his horns instead. But as it turned out, the dislodged horns would be useless for finding mushrooms, because its magic originated from living tissues and hence must be on a living animal. How stupid can you get?

The reindeer present

The reindeer whose family includes caribou, elk or moose lives in Arctic type regions and are popularly associated with Santa’s transporters. However it is true they’ve been domesticated to work as beasts of burden in Finland’s Lapland, and are also hunted for venison. Like all herbivores they are viewed as peaceable creatures, with both genders resplendent in their anthers, especially those with the floral shapes. They are vulnerable in North America because of their sudden drop in numbers in the last decade. Some subspecies even have been termed functionally endangered. Reindeer stick to a herd during the rutting season of September until the birthing period, when males start to become solitary. What is interesting are their anthers, which are basically nourished by blood vessels, until it begins to fall off. And when the next season approaches male anthers grew for combat over territory and mates. Not so for the females though and if Santa’s winter reindeer all have anthers the conclusion was that they must be all females. Our story involves a male named Acer. Being the only male born to a herd he didn’t have much of a fight, except when he intend to usurp another herd’s male dominance.

“Now Acer you lucky brat”, the mother once told him. “Just remember to be nice and generous to others in the herd. If you don’t, your antlers will fall off and you’ll be defenseless.” So Acer didn’t have much of a fight until the next season, when two other males were born in the herd. Acer remembered his mother’s words and lived peaceably with the young turks, helping them find berries and green shoots. Until the mating season. The season when males lock horns and smash into each other to prove to the surrounding females which one is fitter to produce off-springs. In Acer’s first season he suffered a defeat and had to leave the herd of females to a stronger contender. So he wandered alone in the bush. Spring had arrived. The fields where they lived exploded with yellow rapeseed flowers. Dashes of white daffodils also dappled the rolling bursts of purple lavender. Acer, bereft of a family herd had to fend for himself. His favorite food was the blueberries that lived on the top of the bushes. So he strengthened himself and as summer rolled around his stags had started to grow again. And the fight for mates heated up among the males. This time Acer felt he must not lose – the baptism of fire for him to propagate his genes. One late evening he met his adversary to whom he lost the last season and started locking horns. They smashed into each other again and again, until sunset. There were no clear winners. Then Acer, in a fit of fury ran a tremendous smack into his opponent. So much force was his winning bout that his adversary was knocked rolling off the cliff. He was never seen again by the herd. Victorious, Acer claimed his prize that summer and produced several off-springs for the first time. He became the king of the herd for several seasons since tasting victory. Acer was not about to give up his throne again and remained merciless in his dominance, throwing off his challengers down the cliff repeatedly. He was a happy man. Until he got old. A new challenger came on the scene one summer. Acer was jealous – no way will any young buck take away his harem, despite his age. The fight began, and Acer had determined to kill his foe just like the rest. The old warrior was confident in finishing his young challenger off as he smashed his head-full of anthers on the young buck. As he was about to push him over the cliff, suddenly his mother’s words rang loudly in his ears. “Acer! Be kind!” But it was too late. With a loud crack his antlers broke off from his skull. The young buck recovered and chased Acer away from the herd. Bleeding profusely, Acer didn’t know what hit him. He was about to spend the rest of his days alone in the forest. Desperate and alone, he had to re-learn how to survive, because even if the antlers regrow his strength cannot match those of the younger buck. He felt his life was about to end, until he met a hare.

It was foraging for nuts under a tree when a shrill cry came from the sky. Acer ran towards the commotion and saw a hawk-eagle attacking the hare and struggling to lift it skywards. Out of curiosity than trying to save the hare, Acer lowered his antlers toward the eagle, scaring it off from its bounty. From that day on they became fast friends. Acer would help by sharing some of his blueberries and the hare would show him where to find the choicest young shoots. The aging Acer lost interest going back to his herd and facing up with the younger competitors. But he found symbiosis in a terrific friend. The sensitive hare would perk up her long ears when hunters approach and Acer would allow the hare to hide under him when a predator eagle approaches. Several seasons passed and Acer was content to retire with his new-found soulmate. Then the hare started a litter of her own and Acer was aesthetic. You could see him gingerly playing with the half dozen kits running around his feet. Acer would lower his horns and gently lifting them on his head, allowing them to play on his back. He had found fatherhood again – step fatherhood.

One cold wintry day Acer was playing with his adopted family when their mother was out gathering food. He didn’t notice an approaching hunting party which his friend would have instantly warned him about. The hare heard two shots and scurried back to gather her young. Acer slumped over, his eyes glazed open. The hare watched from afar as the hunters strapped Acer onto poles. It was Christmas eve. Filled with grief she wondered why would anyone kill an old deer for venison. Sadly she looked skyward in the stillness of the white snowfield because she thought she could hear bells tingling in the sky. There floating by she could imagine a sled pulled by a dozen reindeer, the leader was without antlers. It must be Rudolf, Santa’s pick for that season. Or was it Acer?

The owl – an ever present shadow

There are about 2900 known species of snakes in the world and at least 132 are known to be venomous. But not all venomous ones are deadly to humans as the majority uses their venom to overcome small prey. Most of us do not choose them as our favorite animals and the ill-informed is likely to kill any snake when encountered, even when they’re trying to flee. Most certainly it is pejorative to call somebody a snake and it is likely related to how they hunt their prey. They will stalk, using their tongue to feel the air. Then they lay in ambush to deliver an incapacitating venom to the prey. The story here however, is about the owl, whose favorite food consists of small rodents and reptiles.

Pora is a grey owl that makes his home in an old apple tree in Aomori, Japan. Every night he would perch himself hidden behind a branch in the darkness and glare down the apple orchard like “The Night Watcher”. Then his yellowish eyes would furtively track the movement of voles out eating the roots of young trees – a destructive behavior loathed by the orchard farmer. Occasionally he would swoop down silently on the rodents and make a meal to feed his two owlets. Between him and his mate, they can catch up to several dozens of voles a night – a healthy appetite for his two young chicks. In the day however Pora does not hunt. Instead he would hide in his tree-hole, nestling his young, or make an occasional survey around the tree for possible predators. Occasionally the owner of the orchard would climb up to his tree hole and observe his owlets, grateful that the family is keeping his trees healthy by ridding the grounds of the harmful voles. “Just the voles OK? The chipmunks are our friends by removing nuts that grow into weeds”, he would whisper to the owls.

So the parent owls would regard the chipmunks as friends and not feed on them. And the owl family keeps symbiosis with the chipmunks when one of them, named Chips became fast friends with Pora. Now Chips is of a Siberian genus from the specie sciuridae, a subset of the squirrel family. His diet is all kinds of nuts, grains and seeds, including any plant matter such as shoots, fungi and vegetables. Like all squirrels, he loves to hoard – sometimes storing a dozen or so items in his little pouchy cheeks before shoring it away in some undergrowth or tree trunk crevices. In the winter, you’d see him scurrying among the snow, trying to recover where they’re buried, oftentimes taking those belonging to another. But this problem was soon to end come late spring that year.

One evening one of Pora’s juniors suddenly appeared outside its nest. It had grown too large to remain there. With its sharp claws it climbed around the bough and even clambered on a higher branch. Pora was watching from the shadows, somehow aware that this moment was coming. The juvenile stared for a while into the fading light and suddenly took off in flight. Clumsy in its maiden attempt it almost landed in the water of the surrounding pond. Fortunately it perched perilously on an overhung branch, flapping its little wings. What of the other owlet? Not long later it poked out its head and as if encouraged by Pora’s soft coots and also crawled clumsily on a branch. Night had fallen and in the pale light of the moon, it stared for a moment into the darkness with its baleful eyes. But it hesitated. Somehow it had to leave the nest like it’s older brother. Then after a while that seem like eternity, it swooped down towards him. But it was not to be as it splashed into the cold water. There was nothing Pora could do but watched the fledgling struggled towards the water’s edge. Fortunately she didn’t have to go far and staggered into the undergrowth. But dangers lurked all around. Martens and foxes hunt at night. Elder brother was luckier. From the overhang he managed to flit his dry wings, rising to a higher branch of an apple tree – away from the jaws of predators. However junior couldn’t fly with wet wings. She instinctively stayed low and still, until a pair of yellowish dots approached. The marten was sure it would have an easy dinner. But just at that moment there was an almost imperceptible movement in a nearby bush. A bigger prey was nearby, bigger than the shivering baby owl in front of him. The marten jumped off in search of the vole or rabbit. A rustle followed in the bush as the race ensued. After a while all was silent. The marten emerged with nothing in its jaws. It slink off empty-handed. What of the poor baby owl? It would certainly fall easy prey later in the night if it was to remain where it was. After a while something approached it. It wasn’t a marten or a fox with those yellow eyes. It was Chips. He started nudging the chick towards a tree with its slobbery snout. After some time the owlet was able to get on its feet, its wings considerably drier. And with its sharp claws it started climbing the tree to safety. So that was how Chips saved Pora’s baby by decoy and distracting its predator. For the following weeks the fledglings were able to strengthen themselves to improve their flight and Pora succeeded training them to hunt and find food. Soon they flew further and further from the tree-hole, never to return when summer came. And Pora would then have an empty nest. Or so the farmer thought.

So one hot summer Chips was busy identifying the nuts and grains that he had gathered as well as finding new ones to store away for the coming winter. It is in those moments of estacy in our lives that disaster strikes. Hidden among the grass was a Japanese mamushi, a pit viper that kills most natives. Except for the rat-snake most snakes in Japan are venomous such as the moccasins and the yamakashi grass-snakes. Chips was stalked for some time before the viper decided to strike. Its first hit missed. Chips startled, jumped but was still within range of the viper’s toxins. But someone else was watching. Before the viper could hit again the shadow swooped down from behind the apple tree. Pora’s claws were sharp and strong and managed to rip the viper apart before it could recoil for another strike. Relieved Chip scampered off, but not before hearing what Pora seem to say to him – “Why don’t you come stay in the tree with me and out of danger?”

That fall, the orchard farmer, curious about what happened to Pora and his chicks climbed on a ladder to peer into Pora’s tree-hole. It was dark inside and shining a torch in he was surprised that it was filled with nuts. Just as he was about to climb down, a head popped out. He was so shocked that he almost fell off the ladder. Chips had found a new home and a storeroom all his own.

Butterfly away

Border collies love to herd. Active, intelligent and instinctive they would corral any living thing, including chicken or children. When trained their greatest skill is to remain focused on their ward and the tasks at hand. A good collie can keep hundreds of sheep, cattle or goats together and herd them to where their masters desire. Fiddle is the second in a litter of six puppies. When young the rest would run around actively as all border collies do growing up. But Fiddle would hold back and watch before jumping into any new toy or object. Instead she would watch her human master rather than the rest of the herd. Trainers would tell you that one way of choosing a good puppy is whether it reacts to the rest of the litter, or the human master. So Fiddle turned out top of the class in training school and her future seem secured to be an outstanding herder. Until she discovered butterflies.

Fiddle

Fiddle started her work in the fall and through the winter she could focus only on the livestock. Already the owners were full of praise on her alertness and reliable nature. But she was really inquisitive, always looking at any moving objects around her. The summer came around and Fiddle had never seen all those insects before. One time as she had successfully cornered the hundred or so sheep, a flock of giant monarch fluttered around a nearby bush. Fiddle was transfixed and immediately went down on all fours – as she was trained to do when deciding what to do next. Then the sheep began to scatter and her owner shouted “Git! Fiddle!”, the command to keep the herd together. Fiddle burst forth as usual, but her attention had dropped, because she had never needed to be called to work. The owner had never seen Fiddle lose attention before. Then all summer, when Fiddle wasn’t herding sheep she would crawl next to the bushes, sat down quietly and watched the butterflies flit from one flower to the next. She would turn her head swiftly here and there, wondering how she could herd them in the air. She was obsessed with their beauty, just as Ferdinand the bull would watch the flowers all day.

So the owners decided to send Fiddle back to school, other than her fascination for butterflies and moths, she had been an outstanding herder.

Hence Fiddle went through retraining on obedience and concentration. She passed all with flying colors – ignoring all distractions such as her bowl of favorite chow, rabbits, chicken, birds and any moving objects. But one thing still gets her off – a flying butterfly. The trainers were stumped. How do you get butterflies to respond to a dog who loves them? After several weeks, they concluded that Fiddle would still obey her master but will return to butterfly watching after work. And Fiddle returned to work after the ranch was cleared of flowers that may distract with butterflies. But once in a while a butterfly would come by and her caretaker would shout her back to work. After work, Fiddle would visit her favorite flowers outside the ranch, watching intensely the beauties flitting around. Until one day a neighboring fish farmer came to visit and and saw Fiddle’s fascination with flying insects.

Giant monarch

“You know, Fiddle can come work for me”, the visitor said to her owners. It turned out that the fish which the farmer rear in open ponds was subject to bird attacks. If Fiddle could be trained to go across the ponds and keep kingfishers and other predators from his fish, he thought. So a plan was made for Fiddle to be a fish-guard. The open ponds were laid with planks for which Fiddle could run across and chase off predators. Fiddle retrained again, this time with flying objects such as frisbees and drones. Fiddle found his calling. Today if you happen to visit a fish farm or a marron pool in New Zealand, you may perhaps see Fiddle at work, chasing flying predators away from the fish ponds. But if they happen to be butterflies, Fiddle would sit still, turning her head here and there entranced, watching the beauties that always fascinate her.

Continue in SCARF7 Volume 2

SCARF5

(continued from SCARF4 mktyap@copyright)

I wish mother was a red crown crane

The grus japonensis (tancho 丹頂) a large East Asian crane is among the rarest in the world. Domiciled in North East Asia, they are also called Manchurian or Japanese crane and migrate between these countries seasonably. Mating for life they rarely have more than one offspring at a time and authorities feared for their falling population. This is a story about a crane named Akiko and her son Shunji. Its a son’s touching recollection of how his mother had brought him up and set him ready for the world, something that some of us wish for ourselves.

Akiko and her mate flew in from north east Russia two winters ago. The flock landed in snowy Hokkaido’s Kushiro marsh to breed. They described their joy of union wings flapping and skipping to a dance, crowing with heads pointed skyward and cheeks colliding. Akiko was the stronger one as she had to support her mate during the ritual, wings flapping in balance. That spring following, Shunji arrived. He grew quickly. Because both parents were constantly feeding him. Mother Akiko would bring a grub and dropped it nearby and Shunji would skip to it. Never once would Akiko insist – Shunji was raised to take whatever he liked and reject what he didn’t fancy. He would however follow their red crowns wherever they lead him, bleating like sheep, his brown neck marked him as the junior.

So for the past winters the trio would land gracefully among the diamond dusts and obedient groups of japanese at the nearby observation platform would view the incoming flocks with quiet approving nods and camera clicks. Akiko would strike elegantly with her ward following not far behind. But sometimes she would let Shunji wander a bit off, not over-fretting as some mothers do. However when she and her partner flap their wings, Shunji would come running without a word. He knew well that that was a sign of flying off to their next destination. She was a quiet mother. Her distanced nonchalance exudes a confidence in her son and he would take on a confidence of his own as he strode out to the world. Even in times of potential distress Akiko would stand calmly by watching. Once a red fox spotted the young crane from a dozen meters. They are harmless to adult cranes but are known to attack chicks that are slower to take flight. Shunji had never met a fox before and was more curious than prone to flight. Akiko instinctively sensed that Shunji needed to learn a lesson then and watched from the corner as the fox made a stealthy detour away from the adults. Shunji sized up the newcomer as the fox approached. He needed to learn the gravity of danger facing him. Then before the fox could get within striking distance Akiko flapped her wings once, without uttering a sound. That was enough for Shunji to take flight towards his parents.

Akiko knew that being a single child Shunji needed to learn to be generous. Once she caught a small dace, dropping it wriggling for Shunji to run to. But before he reached it the father came by with a much bigger catch. She knew that it was too big for her chick and likely to choke on it. When she came to break it up, Shunji like all children, wanted it all. So she gave him a sharp look and walked away. After a while the chick gave up swallowing the oversized fish. Mother’s grub was more sensible. Yet the biggest lesson Akiko was to instill in her child remained – confidence. It came one day when an almost insurmountable obstacle faced the trio.

It was the spring of the chick’s first year return flight to Siberia. They were making their way above the Rausu volcano when the smoky top suddenly erupted. Fortunately they were not directly above the blast. Even though several hundred meters away the ash and fumes were asphyxiating. All of a sudden their feathers were swamped with soot. Flight was tardy and they were losing altitude. Akiko cried with the strength of a mother. Higher! Higher! They needed all their strength to escape the rising plume of dust rushing to engulf them. Shunji was almost choked of air but parents came alongside to enhance his lift and lower the drag. Never give up! Go higher! Akiko knew it wasn’t enough. They had to catch the slipstream in the prevailing wind in order to shake off the uplifting dust. With careful tilting and wheeling of her wings the trio escaped the oncoming blast of hot pumice and debris. Only a few anxious moments later when the trio felt the cold windstream returned that danger had passed.

A year passed and Shunji began to wean off the parents. His yellow natal down started to turn jet black at the nape and a shock of red crest getting prominently male. With his bill turning olive green and legs greyish his bleats changed to a throaty fluting call. His hunting skills extended from loaches, his favorite, to toads, shrimps and lizards. Like his mother he would freeze his long neck like the leaning tower of Pisa, looked sideways down the water with one eye and strike with swift precision. Most of all he displayed the elegance of the national bird of China, thanks to his mother’s lessons of independence and self-worth. Akiko had of late, started to distance from him, perhaps getting ready for her next offspring. After all she has at least another 20 years of life. Go get a life! And get a nice girl while you’re at it, she seemed to say. But the trio had become strong in the arduous wintering flight to the South in the Kushiro marsh.

As Shunji stepped into adulthood his memories of mother etched on his mind: Mother’s life was always about others than herself in the family. She’s wont to always fade into the background, never for once demand any return, or any attention for her kindness or sacrifice. Despite the harsh challenges in deep Siberia and daunting dangers life proceeded quietly – the unfailing never-say-die outlook. I had never heard a discouraging word from her, in fact she’s not capable of lecture. She needn’t to. One look and ’twas enough, we’ll all accede. Most of all, she’s always flying higher whenever she could, never mind slower. The world awaits the untiring traveller.

The real hero – many parents would consider giving up on an inconvenient child but there was a Yasuko Kanazawa who single-handedly brought up her Down syndrome daughter Shoko to her full potential.

Once upon a nick of time

Dinosaurs invariably evoke a sense of awe and curiosity that transcends time. Ancestrally bipedal, the diverse species of the dinosauria reptile first appeared in the Triassic period, more than 240 million years ago. Much of modern knowledge about them is still evolving, paleontologists often rely on the rear-view mirrors of archaeology to build our knowledge of how these lifeforms eat, live or be eaten. Let me introduce our subject Trilla – she’s a member of the triceratops, a quadrupedal herbivore that appeared in the Cretaceous period, more than 68 million years ago. She is distinctly recognized by the three large facial horns, a formidable defensive weapon, with a frill that looks like a priest’s ceremonial cowl. But Trilla had a peaceful disposition – she would rather stay hidden in the bushes feeding on her favorite mushrooms.

With her stout legs she would lumber in the shrubs and dig for vegetable delights, or make a comfortable nest for her eggs. Not long after her brood of young would clamber about, learning what constitute edible shrubs. But they lived in dangerous terrains of much volcanic activity. Just off the shores of their habitat subterranean activity had been raging undersea as the tectonic plates readjust constantly. But before the big one comes Trilla had other daily challenges to her existence – predators. The fearsome raptors hunted in groups while at the top of the food-chain sits the T-rex, all carnivores. Trilla had to flee to crevices or rock caves until the hunters loose patience and depart but sometimes when caught in the open she only had her horns for defense. She was once digging at the base of a gnarled tree, engrossed in a bunch of truffle mushrooms between its roots. Her little ones were gobbling up as soon as a morsel broke free from her foraging horn. Suddenly as if from the treetop a velociraptor landed in front of them. Instinctively her brood quickly retreated under her haunches – there was nothing nearby for which to hide. Normally raptors were no match for triceratops – Trilla’s sharp horns can dispense the relatively lighter raptor easily. Shrieking, the raptor was chased off by Trilla’s fierce response. But the commotion was enough to attract a tribe of 5 other raptors nearby.

They cautiously encircled the distraught mother, tails rising and falling, heads bopping and screaming like feathered daredevils. Trilla was at a loss, turning this way and that, wondering which raptor would strike first. Then just in the nick of time when one began to thrust forward a fierce roar pierced the air behind the attacker. The raptors sprung back as the T-rex rose behind the tree. Sensing the chance, Trilla ran as quick as she could with her young towards the safety of a cave. Then the hunter became hunted. The scattering raptors were not as fast as the T-rex closed in on one of them, plucking it from the ground in its hot, smelly jaws, as if it was a spring chicken.

Phew! Trilla panted in the shadow of the cave from the close shave. That was lucky! But the next time she would have to face that monstrosity herself. One hot summer’s day she was with her mate and love was in the air. Her last brood of young had grown, weaned and left. They were among the bushes and there was no cave nor cavern. So engrossed were they in the mating ritual that they failed to notice the abrupt flight of a group of pterodactyls nearby. Suddenly the ground shook, follow by the hideous roar of the T-rex. The stench of rotten meat from its breath filled the air. There was no escape for Trilla and her mate – the T-rex had jaws that could kill them in one swift bite to the throat. They stood back to back, horns brandishing in defense but the odds of both escaping are poor. Then it happen again – in another nick of time. The ground shook but this time with a ferocity many times more severe than the thump of T-rex’s feet. The tyrannosaur reared its head surprised, but this time Trilla had no cave to escape to. The ground continued its violent lift – the earthquake was of the level 8 severity on the Richter scale. But Trilla and mate was still in danger of the deadly jaws. What if T-rex decides to finish them off? But Fate had other plans. A different roar now filled the air – the distant roar of a tsunami wave. Not only was the T-rex distracted from its lunch by the violent sway of groundbreaking, a strong blizzard-type wind was about to blow it off its feet. Then followed the rush of water. The 20 meter wave threw the T-rex like a toy above the trees. What about Trilla? Just before the wave reached them Trilla had the presence of mind to tell her mate – “Quick, lock your horns with mine against these trunk of trees”. So the two head-locked themselves between two large trunks and braced against the onslaught of waves. Twigs, branches, rocks, fronds all brushed against them but luckily, nothing was large enough to dislodge their stout frames. Then the family of velociraptors that attacked them before also floated by, tails trashing in the brackish, muddy water. Trilla could hear their daredevil screams above the roar of the waves. She almost chuckled to herself but realized she must continue to prevail against the elements, as the water level rose. That was the real fear. When water almost reach their nostrils another miracle happened. Just then the water stopped rising and slowly started to flow backwards towards the sea. Now the debris started to hit them in the opposite direction. Rocks, branches and tree trunks rolled back, and also a couple of raptors, now almost completely drowned. Then Trilla looked up and couldn’t believe what she saw floating pass them. The grotesque body of the tyrannosaur that almost ate them not long ago slide by, its long tongue hanging down from the open jaw. After more than an hour, the water completely subsided and Trilla and her mate had to dig themselves out of the pile of debris that almost buried them. Phew! Trilla shuddered. That was unbelievably close. As Trilla shook off the cold, the sun emerged from the clouds. A flock of pterodactyls landed noisily but gracefully on the nearby tree, uprooted lying on its side. A rainbow peeped out past the clouds. It was a time of all times and a nick of times.

Do you sengi?

It is not a rat. Nor is it a rabbit, vole or some hybrid rodent. The sengi is a shrew – an elephant shrew to be exact. But with its trunk it is only the size of a kiwi fruit. The sengi (macroscelidae) inhabits the low savanna grasslands of southern Africa. Insectivore, it can exceed 28 km/hr and bolt off even faster for a good reason – outrun predators. Its trunk-like snout, with its tiny nostrils are superb olfactory tools to detect enemies or insects and often used to mark territory. But its daily activity is to maintain an uncluttered abode on a patch of grass. A great housekeeper or gardener, it knows its byways and highways as if its life depends. And this is what Pico does each day, kicking off grass bits and pebbles or mud with his hind feet to ensure a clear path in his patch of grass. But in his territory he knows exactly how many paths are there in his maze and exactly where each path ends. His life depends on it. But there is something else. Pico loves to build grass shelters – they protect him from enemies from the sky and he has many. Many a times some mammal like a deer, fowl or turtle would barge through his well-tended roads, leaving a mass of grass or mud too large for his tiny legs to sweep. So Pico would come along and with his hind legs lift the obstruction up so that it becomes a tunnel. Then he would consider even sleeping inside it for the security. But not for long – although he doesn’t have a nest or cave to hide safely he is a light sleeper – any disturbance would make him bolt like lightning. One time he was sniffing the surrounding grass for food. His delicate trunk could smell out an insect quite deep in the bush. He was literally tasting the air but unknown to him another creature was tasting the air around him with its forked tongue. A monitor lizard was about a meter away. As soon as it lunged forward Pico was already off with the lizard in hot pursuit. But everything is an advantage on home ground – Pico knew exactly where to run. The relatively heavier lizard could never catch up nor even see where Pico will turn. So sure enough the lizard ended up in a blind alley where the plucky shrew had made a sharp right turn earlier. Then as Pico rested from his flight another danger – a shrill cry came from a buzzard above. At the same time the lizard finally sighted him and the chase resumed. Pico had to run inside tunneled covers to hide from the swifter predator from above. So this time the road was not entirely straight and the lizard gained on him. But just as the reptile got to him Pico heard a loud crunch from behind. The buzzard got the lizard. So it behooves Pico to remain the smaller of preys – one can never be sure who is the predator or prey in this wild world. As you would suspect this is not the end of the story. One good turn deserves another. Pico owed the buzzard a favor and that day would come sooner than expected.

He was doing housework near the pond when the familiar shriek of the buzzard rang out. It was devouring a snake that it had just caught off the pond’s edge. Nearby a herd of elephants were drinking. Pico normally minds his own business. But this time it was different. Hidden from the buzzard among the rushes was a hunter with a crossbow. The arrow was aimed at the buzzard – sport hunting. Pico knew he had to do something. But what can a small creature like him do? Then being small and fast he thought he could return the favor to the bird. He spurt off towards the herd of elephants. Then he sprang at one of them at the water’s edge. Now despite the stories one might have heard – elephants do not fear mice nor sengi. But Pico’s sudden appearance caused a riot – elephants are trigger happy. That sudden commotion and the resulting bellow of the pachyderms was enough to cause the arrow to miss the buzzard. As Pico rushed back to the safety of his grass tunnel the words echoed in in his mind – “quid pro quo“.

Jumabhoy’s last race

The glamor and flair occurring at Royal Ascot races are renown. And so is Jumabhoy. He’s the thoroughbred of thoroughbreds. As far back as his owner can remember Jumabhoy’s lineage have been winners. Each time his jockey leads him out bouquet of flowers and medallions followed. At every derby he would expect to be number one or two, and often with close finishes. Horse-racing industry brings in a betting capital exceeding 100 billion US dollars annually and 1.5 of every 1000 US horses die from racing accidents. Some injured thoroughbreds were said to be even slaughtered for basushi in Japan. However Jumabhoy stretches himself to the utmost at every event. Until his body started to wane. But he’s never been a quitter, unlike his fellow stable-mate. Fresno is also a thoroughbred, except she’s never won a race. But Fresno is always cheerful – their owner always enter the pair in every race and Fresno, though invariably coming in last or second last, always cheer Jumabhoy on. After every race Juma will console Fres in the stable. Don’t cry – you ran well and pushed me to win, next time you’ll be third last and better than before. Trying as she might the result was always the same for her. You’re better than the last horse, Juma would console her and she’ll cheerfully run again. Sadly Jumabhoy cannot win forever. And happily Fresno can’t always be second-last. It happened at the Japan Cup.

Juma’s closest rival in that race was Jumadi, a pure Darley Arabian. Though not a strict thoroughbred like Juma, Jumadi’s reputation preceded him, having consequently won all 10 races so far in the season. As they burst forth from the gate, he had already started building a horse-length lead over the rest of the bunch, while Juma usually breaks forth in his famous middle rally. Some moments later Jumabhoy made his move. His rival was already four horses ahead and Fresno was still bunched behind. Amidst the dust, sweat, wind roaring with the crowd and frantic breathing Jumabhoy burst forth, overtaking three horses in seconds in midfield. With only his top rival meters in front, Juma knew that he would at least win by a snout as the finishing grandstands loom forth. Then in a tremendous burst of energy he did what he usually do. But this time it was different – he felt something was about to give way. There was a subdued pop sound and a whip fell in his path from the jockey in front – a definite no-no. Jumabhoy’s front right hoof slipped on the slippery leather and he tumbled twice sideways, throwing his rider 50 feet towards the grandstand. From the back Fresno screamed. Was it too late to win? Juma was never to lie down in the finishing stretch. With superb effort he kicked himself up and lunged forth, rider-less. But it was only worth a few trots. His front leg gave way, looking monstrously twisted. Go! Screamed Fresno as she burst forth from the bunch. This time she’s amazingly fast, completing the final lap in record time. Jumabhoy could only look forlornly at Fresno as she sped past, with the retinue of racers kicking dust into his diamond mark face. Then he let out a hideous cry of pain, one he’s never experienced before with his broken leg. Later his owner whispered into his ears as he was lifted into the medical trailer. Don’t worry, you’ll not become basushi, nor see the glue factory. He’d better – Jumabhoy had won him fortunes enough to buy dozens of thoroughbred winners. But Fres came in from second-last to second. And that day she’ll retire with Juma – the owner couldn’t bear to part them, even for furlough.

So the 4-year stallion Juma began his remaining days laid to stud in a country ranch. He was not alone, but although Fres remained a constant companion, he had never thought to mate with her. His shiny brown coat and the one white star on his forehead matches her white spotted eyes over her bronze tinged body. There’re other mares on the ranch that produced several yearlings for him but Fresno remained a very special friend. As the days passed they would run into the hills as fast as in a race and at the cedar tree of the hill-top they’d rear into each other, neighing playfully. Then the day came when Juma would suffer the full effect of his last race when he felt something popped in his head.

On a warm summer day Juma and Fres were strolling towards the juiciest patch of pasture, far away from the stable. Then all of a sudden he started walking in circles, snorting uncomfortably. Then he fell, lying on his side and turning his head back and forth restlessly. Fres could only look on and stayed by his side, till dark. The next morning the keepers came looking, having missed them from the stable. Once they were found a vet was summoned. It was hard to figure the cause and Juma was transferred to the veterinary center. Several days of examination led to a stark discovery. The X-ray of his skull showed that his optic nerves had snapped. Jumabhoy would become blind. Somehow in the last race the push had finally weakened his nerves to breaking. With sadness the owners hesitated whether he should be put down. After all he’s only 6 years old, with the potential to produce thoroughbreds. A top notch race horse thoroughbred is valued much more for his offspring than a human genius. So Jumabhoy lived on. But Fres had become his eyes. Together they would still roam the hills, he led by the jingle that Fres wears on her neck.

Months passed and turned to years. One day Fres whispered to Juma – let’s play at the beach. Its a long gallop but the ranch had no fence – the owners had no reason to lose them. Besides Fres had always led Juma home safely. And he had since developed a keen ear for her whereabouts. So one cool spring day they trotted far over the hills. How far is it? Juma asked Fres. Well, you will hear the waves, Fres replied. So after sometime Juma would hear the roar of breakers. Gradually he heard less and less of Fresno’s jingle. The fresh breeze and smell of salt was a refreshing change. They lost touch of how long they’ve been on the pristine sand and Juma realized from the cold that the sun had probably set. But where’s the sound of the jingle? Juma turn and trotted backwards, trying hard here and there to hear his seeing horse. But it was in vain – he had moved from the breakers but still no sound of Fresno. Little did he realized that Fres had collapsed from old age just after they arrived at the beach. His soulmate gone and the jingle silent – Juma will need to sniff his way home, old and quite alone.

Then on the third day the searchers found him wandering by the stream. A jogger had called in after spotting Fresno. After they led him back to the ranch Jumabhoy wouldn’t move out of his stall, apparently heartbroken by the death of his companion. For days he would stay off food. Until they introduced Chappie, the retired seeing dog. The golden retriever took to Juma instantly, wearing a cowbell to sound him out. But actually Chappie’s spirited barks was enough for Juma. Slowly he came out of depression. Slowly Juma would learn to trot with Chappie towards the hilltop. Then at the cedar tree Juma would fall strangely silent for awhile. And there began the happy story of a seeing dog for a blind champion.

Can you do the duck wag?

I will not eat duck. Simply because they are so well designed. On water their boat-shaped bodies make for good progress with their webbed feet. On land their balance allows for a good waddle, commonly known as duck-walk, together with a well equipped bill and flexible neck for fishing or feeding. And they go fastest when they fly low, especially over water. Duck species, including geese and swans have been listed as between 170-180, but there are probably far more, some yet unclassified. Common ducks that are domesticated and farmed are consumed world-wide in the range of 150,000 tons in 2012. Taking an average weight of 10kg, that’s 15 million slaughtered a year. Relatively low compared to chicken, eaten roast, waxed or grilled the duck was once regarded as an aristocrat’s diet in ancient China and is considered gourmet by some today. Here is a story of a duck colony that has helped farmers improve their yield and husbandry.

In the Lopburi province of Thailand rice farmer Somnuek Chosri bought 3000 ducks in 2018. He transports them in a seven level truck and releases them into rice fields to prepare for planting. With long beeps of his whistle the feathered army would descend happily on the watered furrowed fields, eagerly gobbling up apple snails, crabs, maggots and weeds of spilled rice. Some quack vociferously while others just scamper about doing what the flock does. Many could not find their way out or into the cages but others fly low to their quarry come feeding time. Besides eating pests their droppings fertilize without the poisoning effects of agricultural chemicals. And then there’s eggs – up to 2500 free range a day that command a premium price in the markets. How do they organize themselves? Meet their leader Chomchak.

She’s the loudest of the flock, being the first to dismount and standing at the side shouting orders while the rest pushed each other towards the fields. Then when the last stragglers disembark, she’ll wag her tail vigorously and fly low to the head of the column to lead the flock. So when the flock has done their plot, Chomchak would quack loudly, wag her tail vigorously and lead the flock to the next plot. At the end of the day, on hearing Somnuek ‘s shrill whistle the entire column would waddle back to the truck, Chomchak leading in front.

Somnuek loves his birds. They are like saviours to his fields – it is humanly impossible to manually remove the eggs of the apple snails and other maggots of rice worms. Besides the farmers are free from pesticide poisoning and producing safe staple rice. And there’s something else – Somnuek found out something marvelous about ducks two harvests ago.

The Thai meteorological had predicted a monsoon descending in his district but it was only when the incessant rains and the rancor of his ducks’ quacking that he realized a disaster was impending. The ensuing flood wrecked most of his crop. But the worst was to come in the following days. There was an epidemic of snails. So he did what was necessary – call out his duck army. After a week of feeding the ducks saved his fields for re-cropping. Even the neighboring farmers turned to Somnuek for help. They used to mock him the crazy duck master to not rely on the modern pesticides. Now the ducks were fed plumb. But happy. But the ducks have to learn to eat something else – as we’ll see in the next pestilence.

It happened at the least likely time of harvest. It was a bumper crop – the largest in years. The farmers were beaming with joy when the combines rolled in the golden grains. Then Somnuek’s face turned dark as he looked up the faraway skies. In the distance a tail of what looked like a dark stream of something appeared to be flying towards them. Locusts! A huge swarm. Somnuek yelled to his helpers as he raced to his empty truck. Call in the duck cavalry, he thought, although he wasn’t sure at that moment if that’s it. He raced back to the farm to load the birds, now well trained to get ready to roll within 15 minutes. Soon the ducks started to scamper out to the ripened fields. But there was nothing to eat. The locusts were still minutes away. Piles of harvested rice grains were still lying here and there. It was now Somnuek’s men’s turn to scamper. They were hardly able to collect the last piles when the sky darkened and it started to rain locusts. Like hailstones they fell everywhere – on trees, bushes, grass, heads and noses. The grasshoppers’ legs were spiky and insidious and Somnuek again wondered whether his army can handle it. And there was this smell, kind of sweet sourness in the air, along with the constant thuds of landing locusts.

Chomchak was the first to lead the charge. With swift bites of her bill she deftly separated the spiky legs from the locust body and continued the attack, quacking loudly to encourage the troops. Fortunately the ducks were hungry – there was nothing previous to feed on when the machines were turning. Chomp, chomp chomp! Quacking as they went, the eating was fast but not furious enough. Chomchak and her lieutenants were moving helter skelter as the locusts landed randomly. She was directing her charge with agitated wiggling and wagging of her tail. It wasn’t long when the assault ended, as the swarms took off to the next district. But the damage was apparent. Hardly any trees had any leaves left. And there were not even weeds around on the furrowed fields. As the skies cleared the ducks returned, not worse off with the experience of their new diet. But the farmers in Lopburi district were saved from utter destruction that day, thanks to their quacky friends.

The story of Jiro

He’s of a mixed breed – American Eskimo and Samoyed. Like any other pet he grew up normal in a family in Itate, Tohoku of Japan’s northeast. Until the great earthquake-tsunami struck. His human family perished, saved for the daughter, Reiko who was in school then. Jiro escaped through sheer uncanny instinct. When the earth shook he jumped on the family altar, which soon floated away. Then when the waves started to roar higher he jumped onto a water tower, which survived the onslaught.

Days later when most humans had gathered their senses, but not yet their lost families, people started to look for their livestock and pets. Someone found the white fur Jiro loitering around the chicken coop, along with other several dozen lost dogs. There were cats, chicken and cattle too, but somehow they were able to find food better than dogs. Jiro was famished and woofed down whatever the kennel staff at the shelter offered. Many of the other skinny dogs and cats were scheduled for the gas chamber, because the staff was overwhelmed when owners were not identified. Jiro was quivering in his cage – he’ll quiver normally but this time he quivered even more. That morning he was about to be put down, the distraught daughter of the family came to identify. Jiro was ecstatic. He was jumping his tails off licking the happy girl. But joy was short-lived. Reiko had no home to go and Jiro had to be given for adoption, at least for a while. In his cage Jiro was baffled why his mistress wouldn’t take him home. Days came and went. Jiro was restless. One day while the staff was leading out a dozen dogs for toilet and exercise he bolted off. The others were soon rounded up but Jiro found a small hole in the fence large enough for him to wiggle through. He was never found again by the shelter. Hence Jiro began his life as a fugitive stray.

Jiro found an abandoned house at the evacuation zone – there were many but this one was unlocked. Each day he started to hone his hunting instincts – long suppressed for domesticated dogs. Sometimes he would catch for a meal a mouse or a slow bird. At night he settled on an old hammock at the backyard. Occasionally he found sport by barking and chasing wild boars that break into and invade the vacant houses. He drank from a stream flowing from the hills behind and if he got lucky, he might even snare a sweet fish occasionally. One day someone appeared at the house. The owner, an elderly man was surprised on seeing Jiro but he had other things on his mind, such as locking up the house and leaving quickly after collecting items he needed. Jiro kept his distance, but as time went on the owner started to approach him and feed him scraps of biscuits. Then after some more visits he realized that Jiro had been keeping wild animals away from his house and spoke kindly to him. But he did nothing to adopt or take Jiro away. The other house behind was a different story. When the owners arrive the young men would throw stones, or swing a long stick at him. Jiro was confused but made up his mind not to trust humans. This even more so as the kindly older owner did not show up for the longest time.

Jiro felt instinctively that he had lost another friend. But life must go on, in spite of being struck by stones from the cruel neighbor. In winter Jiro hid under the house for warmth. If he fail to find prey in the snow he would try eating some of the leftover carrots in the backyard. His will to survive hardened, Jiro sometimes whimpered to himself during the hot summer. He missed his loving family that much. But then he had a job – that of guarding the vacant house that he invited himself to live in, for the sake of the forgotten old owner, now presumed dead. Once in a while he would bark at unwelcome visitors such as a gang of wild macaques, a herd of deer, and once, a brown bear. He would stand his ground until the intruders leave. Then he would run back around the house to survey that all is well, before settling down to the hammock. One day a uniformed person appeared at the gate. As usual Jiro stoutly defended the property, baring his teeth for a while at the formidable policeman. The police took a few photos and talked into a mobile mike before riding away. Not a few days later a van appeared and several men with nets descended onto Jiro. He put up a fierce struggle, but was darted into submission.

At the koban station a vet examined the two year Jiro and found an ID chip along with his name on the red collar. When Jiro revived in the cage he was scared, angry and confused. Scrawny and skinny – infested with ticks he was not even in the mood for a sausage thrown at him. Then later in the day, Reiko showed up. She at first could not recognize Jiro, his snow white fur now rusty brown in a bony frame. Then she burst into uncontrollable tears. But as she approached the cage, Jiro knew her right away, crying out loudly in long, pathetic whining. She asked the temporary housing for permission to take him home, scrubbed him down to the white fur and treated his insect bites. Meanwhile Jiro could not stop hugging and licking her. But the decision remained unknown – where now can Jiro live? Reiko got on her mobile and called a few relatives but public housing had strict pet rules. She thought of the shelter but the thot of Jiro escaping was painful. Then as she was calling the shelter in desperation, an elderly in a wheelchair rolled by. Seeing Jiro she reached out and petted in enthusiasm. Jiro never had human interaction for months and that warm hand of love was electric. He purred like a cat. That got Reiko wondering – what about hospital care? Her next phone call got Jiro in a dog therapy program.

So from that day on Jiro found a new calling. At first Jiro couldn’t accept someone walking with a cane, as memories of being hit with a stick terrified him. After much love, he became earnest in training and tried to please everyone he met. Jiro graduated top of the class and was soon assigned to hospital rounds. His soft white fur and quiet disposition was a hit with young and old showering him attention. Jiro lapped it all up. It had always been in him to love human companionship – just that the chance came only then. Soon he became top therapist choice for dogs. And Jiro won many awards from grateful patients. But after the seventh annual award Jiro fell gravely ill. The autopsy tests showed that his liver failed probably from the months of radiation exposure while he was a stray.

Just mere meerkats

Somewhere in a grass patch in the Kalahari desert a mouse-like head slowly rises from the plain. Then another – and another. The meerkats stand upright to survey around while around them are long spindly tails that sway like garden eels in the ocean bed. A family of about 40 members dig around for insects or larvae while the upright ones stand guard. A member of the mongoose family (herpestidae), they do not succumb to the toxins of scorpions or cape cobras which they rarely encounter as food. However besides food the family devote themselves to propagating their species and raising their young. Meerkats have a strict matriarchal rule – only the top dog can be allowed to mate while the other females wean the pups. The surrounding females behave like slaves, even if they were actual siblings to the off-springs. And the matriarchal rule dictates that any pregnant slaves be immediately ostracized from the family – often a death sentence because non-siblings are hardly accepted into another family. What about the males? Well there are the jobs of security guards, ground diggers and rabble-rousers, but leaders of a family are unquestionably female. It is not clear whether the matriarch is polyamorous but with only the matriarch to mate with, males in a family may have to leave to start one of their own. That’s where the tension of the next story begins – meet Chuko one of the helper females. She’s a darling of helping around. She’s often the first to discover grub or a nest of insect larvae for the hungry pups surrounding her. In times of emergency, such as a straying pup she’ll be the one racing out to save it from predators. And she’s also quick and strong. When facing a fierce prey such as the cape cobra, she’s the first to lead the charge. Her courage extends even to confronting the giant anteater, three times their size, in competing for termite larvae. The matriarch depends much on Chuko to round up the pups into the burrows at the end of the day or lead them out for feeding.

The meerkat is fiercely territorial. The moment a straggler arrives it would not be long when it gets spotted. What follows then is a mob of rabble-rousers led by the males, their upright tails like calvary flags, rushing toward the intruder. The cacophony of hideous screams is enough to frighten any marauder. One fateful day a male intruded from another meerkat colony. He must be in an amorous mood – out looking for a mate outside the family ken. And who would have spotted in first? Chuko of course, and she was in heat. But instead of arousing the rabble-rousers, she slipped out alone quietly. First date at the beach. They were frolicking in the sand when the matriarch stood upright. Somehow the entire family got the warning call instantly. Then the alarm brigade started, charging toward the beach, tails flicking as furiously as their screams. That night Chuko didn’t get home. Not only that, she’ll be denied entry to the family henceforth. One night Chuko tried to reenter the family den. It drew a sharp response from the matriarch – a quick bite to her hind. The mother-daughter bond had taken a sharp turn.

The following weeks matriarch had to work harder, her star lieutenant now gone. Not only that, she was pregnant again. Meanwhile Chuko and her new mate started a litter of three. Even being a top provider to her previous family there was always insufficient to stay alive, having to scour for food and being sentry as well. And so the inevitable happened – two of her pups died of malnutrition while the third was carried away by a buzzard. So Chuko was left alone as her mate went back to his family. She was skinny and her fur disheveled from lack of rest. But then, when everything was downhill for Chuko something changed for the matriarch.

One day, after having weaned off her new litter the matriarch softened towards Chuko. She didn’t chase her off from the vicinity of the den nor alert the alarm brigade. Gradually Chuko returned to the fold and resumed her role as chief lieutenant. Further, the matriarch started to let Chuko take the lead – Chuko would now on her own lead out the family in the morning and collect the pups at sunset. Stranger even, the matriarch took on the role that Chuko had before – mother became the subordinate daughter, looking for grub. And the most bizarre – some of the matriarch’s former suitors started to make passes at Chuko, without a challenge from the abdicated matriarch. Mother and daughter changed roles, much like what would happen with humans. Slowly it became clear who was in charge. Months passed and one day the dethroned aging matriarch did not return to the den at sunset while out doing slave duty. The next morning one family member found her mother’s body at the foot of a tree, next to a termite mound. As for Chuko, she was then heavily pregnant. Duty of a matriarch. This time she will have success as there are helpers around.

To sing or swim – that’s the question

If you manage to hike beyond the upper reaches of the Margaret river you’ll chance upon several clumps of enchanting tree forests. You’ll first encounter charming rows of pines with the breeze blowing lazily over its thread-like tops. Then beyond a shimmering stream you’ll be met by some junipers, peering out from the Australian bushes as if holding out a welcome. Then lastly, if you have the permit to venture beyond the protected enclave of the National Forest Reserve, you’ll wander upon the sandalwood tree forest. You cannot miss it for the welcoming scent. But there’s more. Amidst an occasional sound of water you’ll hear him – laughing like that mystic world belongs to him. You’ll have to look carefully among the branches to find the azure kingfisher kookaburra, even though you can swear that he’s just nearby. There he sits on a branch overlooking the stream and it is easy to see why he chooses nowhere else. There’s the beauty of the fauna and flora, in every shape and colors that line both edges of the pristine waterway. Watch carefully and you can actually see trouts jumping and many other smaller species that become easy meal for our merry watcher. But this kingfisher is different. You see, Jarro loves to sing, and almost nothing else. Through the most of the day, he will just perch there, either watching the waters rush by or burst into his kookaburra lilt. Kree-kree! And then kree-kree-kookoo-kree. Never mind food – Jarro will entertain anyone within earshot, whole day if he likes.

Now one could ask the time immemorial question: Why birds sing? Or flowers bloom? Researchers will tell you that birds mark their territory by sound, or tell their intentions in mating calls, an answer no less reasonable than flowers bloom to propagate their species by pollination. But Jarro? Well he sings to invite a mate, or mark his presence perhaps. But Jarro will sing whether or not its the season to mate. Its just his DNA. However there’s one interesting observation. Whenever he’s hungry Jarro would dive into the stream and catch fish. But before he sings there would be little to catch. Thus his singing brings along the fishes in the stream. Therein lies the symbiotic relationship between Jarro and the group of otters who reside upstream.

“Jarro please sing! Bring on the fishes to fill our hungry stomachs! “, the otters would shout at him. And Jarro would oblige. Yet there’s something interesting in this enchanted forest. Wait for dusk and you’ll see. As night falls, the crickets begin their chirp. Or at least night time is when they’re loudest. The voles take the crickets call to emerge from their holes. Besides fruits and young shoots they sometimes eat insects. Quietly in the dark shadows of the tree boughs the great horn owl watches them in turn. Then a swift glide and a vole vanishes from the grass, followed by a muted coot. Each night these sequences of sound repeat like clockwork, but it only starts when Jarro stops his laughter to retire for the night.

One day an unusual thing happened. Jarro was singing robustly when out of nowhere a female flew in and perched next to him. You can tell its a girl, as Jarro doesn’t wear lipstick. Jarro was surprised too, because he didn’t think he was calling for a mate. But there she was and Jarro never had a girlfriend before. So they hung on together, although she didn’t quite have his baritone voice. And then she’d have to teach him how to start a family. Together they made a little nest above the water line camouflaged along the stream. Subsequently, because of father’s duty Jarro hardly had time for auditions and correspondingly there were fewer fish and more disgruntled otters. Spring came around.

Guess what? The singer returned full-time. And he had two fledglings to sing along. But somehow for some reason his wife left him. That’s okay. Jarro was back to his merry ways. And the forest was happy again. Until…

That hot summer’s day Jarro was teaching his little apprentices new songs. After a while, hunger from his wards caused him to dive in the stream where he spotted a spotted trout. He struggled to lift it from the water and landed it flipping around on the grass. As he was about to tear into bite size morsels for his kids, out of the bush a furry marten snatched the life out of him. Jarro was so engrossed with the trout in his care for others to not notice he was being stalked.

So from that moment life in that part of the forest began to die. Without his voice the stream was devoid of fish. The otters decided to migrate to another estuary. At night, the crickets became strangely silent and the voles stayed home in their holes. The owls? Well, they watched like statutes from the shadows of the trees. But nothing moved and they remained statutes. Jarro’s babies had to fend for themselves and took off to the juniper trees. The cycle of life ended for their father and they would have to start their own elsewhere.

Sisi loves Tutu

The humpback whale have few predators to worry about, except man. But there are numerous stories how it sometimes care for other mammals and that includes men, or women. Recently a research diver was nudged and pushed by a humpback, even lifting her on its back. The terrified woman, in all her life’s work on whales couldn’t figure why it was so interested in her and eventually had to call out to her boat for help. Only when she was safely on-board did she realized why. There was a tiger shark stalking her in the water and the humpback saved her life. Growing up to 30 tons with lengths up to 30 meters the killer whales, which are only half in size, are no match for a defiant humpback, although young calves have often fallen prey to a pod of orcas . This is a story of a humpback called Tutu that befriended a seal named Sisi.

Sisi first met Tutu on a life-threatening occasion. She was catching krill with the rest of his colony when a pod of killer whales set up an attack. Facing certain death, Sisi swam as fast and obliquely as seals do but the orcas were well placed to trap her. Then as the killers closed in from nowhere out of the deep Tutu intercepted the attack. With a flick of his powerful tail Tutu swept Sisi onto his back and kept her from harm’s way. At first Sisi thought she was about to be eaten anyway, by a much larger predator. But after transporting her to a safe distance from the orcas, Tutu gently slid her off his back. Sisi could only squeak in gratitude and Tutu replied in his own whale language. From that day the pair shared a friendship that defies researchers. Sisi would hunt krill alongside with Tutu and even their respective families do not fear to work together. Tutu somehow feels destined to protect Sisi. When sharks or orcas come near to the colony, he would push Sisi along, warning him and his pups to move somewhere else. Sisi and Tutu may be pals, but recently they became part of a project terribly important to the world of all living beings – that of pollution that imperil our oceans.

The sea turtle is the harbinger of the health of our oceans. Any pollution that hits the seas where they roam will have a visible effect on them. Plastic waste in particular amounts to 8 million tons a year when by 2050 it is estimated there would be more floating plastic than fish in the ocean. They threaten a million seabirds and 100 000 sea mammals by entanglement, or choking. The bulk, if sunken, become biodegraded plastic fibers or fragments and when ingested kills by indigestion. There seems to be enough discarded plastic straws to encircle the earth twice over when lined end to end. Rescuers once dug out a dozen straws from the nostrils of a giant loggerhead sea turtle, enough to cause suffocation. Yet the US petrochemical industries, now even more prolific from new fracking technologies continue to meet consumer demands increasing its plastics byproducts 40%, which form 80% of ocean plastic spewed as land-based sources. And there’s more. The 12-24 thousand tons of plastic eaten by north pacific fish enters the food-chain, ending up partly on the dining tables of humans. Somewhere in the north pacific there is a growing gyre of rubbish one-third the size of the USA, slowly dispersing its waste into the ocean environment. A whale died in the Philippines because the 40 kg of rice bags and other plastics caused starvation. The piles of rubbish that lined some countries’ beaches are no laughing matter. In fact it is a shameful testimony to the country that seems not to be sensitive when compared to nations who are proud of their pristine beaches and clear, green rivers.

Late in 2018 an international effort was made to track and clean the oceans of harmful threats to its occupants. But humans cannot fully do it alone – they need the help of sea creatures who know the environment better than people who operated from boats and vessels. So Sisi and Tutu had to learn how to guide divers to where the pollutants were amassed under the ocean. And so whale and seal would follow the dredger vessel out of shores where Sisi would signal the garbage floating and Tutu dives below. Together with Salu, a trained albatross the marine partners would navigate above, floating and under water for gyres of rubbish to be rounded up by the vessel nets. Often creatures afflicted by trash would be caught by the nets. Many a turtle, pilot whales and dolphins have been saved and restored. And many a sailor would witness the trio working in the high seas as trash-collectors and giving them high-fives to such an important occupation.

The mermaid’s choice

Dave Tucker loves to dive. He has done so many scuba trips that he could not keep track of where the beautiful creatures he’d seen in the marine world. His seminars on the stunning photographs in the undersea world are well known and even grace the glossy covers of the travel magazines. Dave would declare that the creatures he saw there surpass all the beauties he could see above water. Until the last scuba trip he made.

He didn’t even know where was this place he would be making a dive, as he’d left it to his buddies for the arrangements – all he did was to grab his underwater camera, geared up and flipped overboard to his next underwater adventure. What he was about to experience that day would change his life forever. Sure the fauna and flora would still stun any landlubber, but for Dave it was standard fare that his camera had already snapped, and he was just about getting bored for once. Then what appeared behind some underwater boulders shocked him. There playing with seahorses, seals and lustrous shells was a mermaid that looked like an angel.

Instinctively Dave moved quickly behind the boulder and held his breath as much as he could, knowing that any diver would easily scare away whatever he saw. His breath was reduced to small bubbles as he beheld the beauty and grace of the mermaid playing so joyfully with the creatures around. Her lustrous hair floating around gleamed in the sun’s filtered rays, her small firm breasts just like any woman’s, and her lower torso like any fish’s, scales and all, bluish and shiny. Her beauty certainly surpasses all the sea creatures Dave have ever seen in his life. He was so enthralled for what seem like eternity that he completely forgot what he was holding in his hand. When he realized that he must use the camera, suddenly a burst of air bubbles floated upwards from his mask. In a flash she was gone. Dave swam as fast as he could, looking up and down the underwater crevices. There was no sign of her, only the lazy bouncing of sea horses circulating with the current.

When Dave finally surfaced to his boat he was talking gibberish in between gasps of air – and his pals were almost hysterically angry for his delayed return. After he calmed down he didn’t even bothered to explain what he saw – he immediately turned to the GPS panel to record their exact position – some remote island in Polynesia. Nobody would believe him then and he had determined as a marine biologist, that he must seek out the creature again and determine its genus. Little did he knew that it would utterly engulf him personally. But months passed into years as he returned to the spot repeatedly and failing to find the mermaid. His friends thought he was crazy to keep returning to Polynesia but the more he tried and failed the more he was besotted with the enchanted creature. After 5 years he gave up and started his dive trips elsewhere, but not after buying a property in the islands equipped with a swimming pool. He still had plans. Then after ten years he returned to Polynesia and made a dive, alone, as his friends had abandoned him, concluding him crazy.

It was a risky dive that day as he was alone and the weather rough. But as soon as he returned underwater to the spot, all was calm and serene. He still admired the diversity of marine creatures and abundant sea vegetation around. But this time instead of spotting his mermaid, it spotted him first. It was eating seaweeds and anemone as he turned but it didn’t swim off, continuing nibbling a scallop. Slowly Dave removed his mask and mouthpiece, in an attempt to show he was human and not to be feared. As he approached he had a better view – the hair was long, dark and flowing to its slim waist which became partly fish. Its ears were small, the lobes flipped open and close, like the gills of a fish. It had nostrils like that of a turtle but small and cute, much like a girl’s. And its small mouth was prettier, showing a little of fine, sharp teeth. Its arms were smooth like that of an octopus tentacle, but it ended with sharp finger nails that were long and pearl-like. Its breasts were even more human, to say nothing of its lower fish torso, curvaceous and alluring. Dave was excited momentarily as it looked really angelic rather than a monstrous wild mammal. He was cautious because it could easily lash out with those sharp nails, as it slowly looked up from its food. Finally their eyes met and Dave saw the largest anime-like eyeballs with lustrous eye-lashes and fully round brown pupils. Dave, his lungs almost bursting now slowly waved his arms and pointed upwards for his need of air. Then as if it understood him, it rose slowly with Dave to surface for air. When they burst towards sunlight it looked even more human, like a nubile young girl. Dave again tried sign language, indicating to wait and pointing to his boat so he could put away his gear and camera which remained useless. It waited. When Dave returned with a simple face-mask and a free-diver’s dolphin fin that he prepared ready, it followed him to dive into the shallows. So that day both played in the water like a dolphin would with a human. Dave began to understand how powerful its beautiful tail was, propelling it in the water just like a dolphin. But even though Dave had to surface repeatedly for air, it remained in the water for him to resume play. When the sun began to set Dave decided to make a move. In sign language he asked it to follow him. And Dave headed to his boat, showing that he wanted it to board the boat with him. After a while it understood and Dave helped it onto his boat, all alone. Avoiding use of the camera he tried to stroke its hair and then the skin, showing tenderness and kindness. Then he calmly started his boat and headed to his home. Fearful that some humans might spot them, he covered its tail with a large towel and carefully carried it to his pool, then filled with seawater. Then they spend the rest of the day and most of the night together, playing and communicating in sign language. That night, Dave slept at the poolside.

The next day, Dave signaled to it that he was going out to sea, planning to collect seaweed and crustacean for food. When he returned it ate and seem more receptive, even staying still while Dave took photographs. And this went on for some weeks, Dave making copious notes and photographs of its anatomy like any biologist would. He even felt its heartbeat, a slow 45 beats per minute. Sometime in those weeks it somehow became a human to Dave. Naming her Orta, he observed her well, noting that her metabolic system as half fish, half human. He collected specimens of Orta’s skin and waste material, storing it away for detailed microscopic examination. And then it talked! Not in any intelligible language, but somewhere between the squeaks and chatter of dolphins and the grunts of a parrot fish. Dave started a lexicon of Orta’s vocabulary. With time it slowly dawned on him that he had an inexplicable attraction – man and fish started to feel romantic to each other. The times spent in the pool became more intimate, even passionate – so much so that Dave started to feel like a fish! One morning he woke up to a brutal fact – that the secret mermaid cannot remain secret forever. Surely he’ll be famous one day with all the bio-data and photos to show that mermaids are not just the stuff made up in Disney Land. He had to make the most painful choice in his bachelor life. Carefully he put the question to Orta – would she stay forever in the pool or return to the sea? Orta’s reply was slow and painful. She wanted to return home. Dave was crushed. Can a mermaid feel love, he asked rhetorically.

So one gloomy overcast day Dave covered Orta with a large towel and set out to sea. When they reached her usual habitat Dave kissed her. His was a fully human emotion. Then as he was lowering Orta into the water, Dave felt teardrops on his arm. With a heavy heart, he bade goodbye, saying to himself – “she sure is beautiful”. With a trashing in the water, she disappeared. Dave would never see her again, despite numerous re-visits in and out of the water. Somehow in the back of his mind, Dave knew – she was a wild mammal after all. And he would not be famous for her. The photos and biology of one who once was his secret lover would have to remain secret.

To be continued in SCARF6

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SCARF4

(continued from SCARF3 mktyap@copyright)

My bats your bet

Bats can seem ugly to most. Hanging and draped with their skinny wings they look like miniature foxes with oversized, quivering ears and flashing white teeth. Or an upside-down Dracula. However there are about 1200 different species of chiropteran. Some are insectivores, others are fruit-eating, and there’s the notorious vampire that feeds on blood. If you do not consider them dainty creatures to be your pet, you will even be put off by the fact that one species is known to carry a form of the Ebola virus, since they are ready hosts to many pathogens. Yet they make their homes unobtrusively in caves and roof overhangs. Being nocturnal, the house bat feeds at night mostly on fruits of their choice, but not every fruit in sight. The Chinese regard bats as harbinger of good things – so they cannot be all that bad as reputation would dictate. The longevity figure in the Fu Lu Shou painting is surrounded by five bats that portend good luck, life, health, happiness and holding peaches that signify wealth and fertility. Early in the morning they will return from their night forages, hanging outside quietly after you’ve left for work. Then when you return home after sunset they’re gone, collecting fruit and nuts around the neighborhood. You wouldn’t have noticed their presence, except for the reek of manure that rise from the landing. In some countries their droppings, or guano, are collected as fertilizers, where millions of bats live in caves.

Tom loves animals, including bats. He tolerated a family of bats in the attic for one main reason. When Debbie, his wife was sick, a pair of bats came from nowhere and hanged their presence outside Debbie’s window. But when she was away for hospital stay, the bats would also vanish somewhere, until she returned to her room. Tom jokingly used to refer them to his visitors as Debbie’s guardian angels. As time went on two became four. But since they remained outside the aircon room, Tom just needed to wash off their droppings each evening, when bats leave to find food. Years passed and Debbie became weaker. Eventually all medical treatment failed. After she died Tom was completely devastated and took no notice of the surroundings. Weeks later while doing house chores he looked up the roof overhang. The bats also departed. The angels have nothing to guard now, he said to himself. Or so he thought. One time while he was cleaning the kitchen he saw them, two juveniles. This cannot be, he thought – they would infest the entire house, in which now he lives alone. So he drove them off. Months passed, and occasionally he saw the bats returned, but not for long. That he could live with, until one day he went to the attic – a rarely visited place. Outside the folding door, hanging merrily from the roof was a family of thirteen. And the droppings were beginning to stain the parkey floor. So Tom tried many means – insecticide spray, leaving a lamp on, generating high frequency signals – they would work a while, but they would return after the irritation is gone. Tom sighed to himself, half giving up getting rid of them. Maybe I should believe them as sources of luck, wealth and fertility, as the Fu Lu Shou paintings depict, he thought. So he let the non-paying guests alone, throwing out their guano periodically. Tom didn’t realized that that decision would have a cataclysmic effect on his life, as predicted by the ancient Chinese.

First a calamity in life. A series of back luck caused him to accidentally run over his dogs, his only constant companions. He was held up coming home and hurrying in the dark to meet them, he didn’t realized they had escaped their cages. Secondly a calamity in wealth. While he slept a burglar stole a large amount of cash. Never happened for the last forty years that he slept with his doors unlocked. Then some of his investments failed. As regard to fertility? Nothing to speak of. So Tom was ready to throw the Chinese fables out the window. Until one Christmas.

He was cleaning up his attic, leaving the folding door ajar to air the room. A bag of mahjong pieces fell out from storage, spilling the pieces over the floor. Thinking nothing of it, he left for lunch. When he returned, a curious sight greeted him. Pieces of mahjong numbers were neatly lined up on the floor with the numbers 7 3 2 6 8 9 in a row. He looked around and confirmed there was nobody in the house, except the bats, hanging outside the door, chirping sheepishly, their bodies jostled like folded umbrellas. Again dismissing it as nothing he continued repacking items to discard, then went to the restroom. When he returned he was stumped. The pieces of numbers on the floor were rearranged – this time it was 3 2 6 4 5 1. Curiosity aroused, Tom made a note of the numbers and left the room again, to the bats. When he returned he found the numbers changed. This he did eight times and collected a set of different six digit numbers, all generated by no one else but the bats. Now Tom is not superstitious but his golfing caddie is. Tom jokingly passed the numbers to him. A week later his caddie announced he won the lottery thrice with his bat-generated numbers. Tom could not make out what is this new found luck with his house guests. But today if you come visit him, he is still wondering whether he ought to bet on his bats, or his life not withstanding. Oh, by the way it is not clear how Tom’s caddy massaged his numbers to win the lotteries, but you can be assured that none of it has won any yet today.

The bear who loves – to hug

Anyone who suddenly comes upon a bear in the forest have cause to fear. The grizzly, fully grown can strike in defense to easily break your jaw or any other bones. Yet bears have been made in cuddly toys and lovable television icons. How so? Not all bears have the same temperament. The Kodiak, Black, Brown or the Polar bear can behave quite differently from the sun, moon, sloth bear or the panda. Basically the carnivore tend to be mercurial in character compared to the more docile herbivore. Like all animals, they prefer to go on their own business and domain. We tell the story of an unusual Kodiak who loves humans. Koddy, as we shall call him takes to trees, specifically tree barks, on which he leaves his scent for territorial and mating purposes. From young, he would climb trees, hugging them close to reach young shoots, or honey found under the barks.

Sandy works at the Rocky Mountain wildlife facility up north, next to the Alaskan border. Her research is on bears and their sustainable effect on the vegetation, particularly trees and their barks. Sometimes she’d spend hours in the open, with her field glass or video cam, tracking the behavior of a bear species and their family. One late afternoon she was about to pack up for the day to walk to her jeep, discreetly parked some distance away. As she turned she froze – an eight foot Kodiak loomed before her, no more than a meter away. Holding back a choked scream, her immediate instinct was to turn and run. But her background knowledge stopped her – he’s too close to flee from. So she stood rigid holding her breath, not even dropping her gear she was carrying. Then a startling thing happened. The bear approached slowly, sniffing as he walked, upright. Sandy could smell his breath and his musky fur. Then as if she was a tree, the bear hugged her. Sandy could not think how to react as no textbook could. But her maternal instincts kicked in and she started to try to purr affectionately and whisper to his ears gently, as if meaning no harm. After some tense moments, Koddy suddenly walked off nonchalantly, leaving Sandy standing there rigid as a trunk. Then she bend down and noticed the smell of urine. That evening in her camper she entered the most interesting log in her career. But something stirred in her. Why did he do that? Wasn’t it an instinct of bears to avoid humans? She was determined to find Koddy again as a subject of study. And he deserves a special collar.

So for the next several weeks she scoured the area for her love-bear. But no luck. Sandy even wore the same set of jeans, unwashed, hoping that the smell of his urine would bring him running back. But she had to be careful, because she did not remember any distinguishing mark to recognize Koddy – a mistake might prove disastrous. Except when she was holding him momentarily she thought she could feel a scar on his back – but it could very well be some other irregularity of his fur. After winter set in Sandy stopped looking, as he was likely to be hibernating in some cave.

Fall came around, then spring. Sandy could see from her field glass many Kodiak bears come and go in the area she met Koddy, but she had no way to confirm. In frustration, she decided to set a field camera, leaving her marked jeans to bring Koddy into view.

Some days later she reviewed the tape.  There were several bears and many other animals who came by. But nobody stopped by her jeans. In fact some bears even ran from it. After several attempts reloading her camera she caught two bears on tape. Each urinated on her jeans before leaving. And she thought one had a band of white fur on the back but the image was not clear. Anyway she was delirious – she found her bear, or so she thought. She was even more determined to find Koddy – to find why the wild bear formed a natural affinity for humans.

That summer she worked doubly hard. Then one day she hit the jackpot. From her field glasses she spotted a Kodiak that approached and sniffed her jeans for some time. Then as he turned there was a white band on the back. She rose excitedly, bringing a GPS collar to approach Koddy. As she neared him, not 10 meters away he turned around surprised and the unexpected happened. He stood up tall, baring his teeth and snarled. Then he shook his head and paws, growled and rushed to attack Sandy. At about the same time two cubs appeared from behind the bushes. Sandy gasped. It’s a she, not a he – that’s not Koddy! This time she turned to run but the bear was quicker. Just when the female bear was about to strike Sandy another ferocious roar came from behind them. Another Kodiak – bigger than the pursuer appeared. Koddy! The female bear stopped just in time to let Sandy escape and turned back to protect her cubs. For the next few seconds both bears were locked in a fight, snarling and scratching. Female bears must protect her cubs from male bears because the male kills in order to mate with the mother. But Koddy had no such intentions. He let the female ran off with her cubs and gently approached the shaken Sandy. She stood rigid, almost in tears. Then he hugged her. Sandy tenderly put the collar on and stroked him. There was a big scar running across his lower back. Then again he casually wandered into the forest as Sandy half raised her hand trying to wave goodbye.

From that day on, Koddy would occasionally visit Sandy at the wildlife center. He would be friendly to humans, sitting next to any who would stroke and feed him. And Sandy?  She completed her thesis on her study of bears and trees, and the unusual bear hugs. And about that scar? Maybe that’s the reason why Koddy gets to like humans. We’ll get to hear about it someday.

King of cubs, King of Hearts

He is a six year old katanga, a sub-species of the panthera leo.  Domiciled in Southwest Africa, he fathered a litter of four lively cubs. Kim loves children. All day he’ll play with half a dozen frisky cubs, some belonging to other males, as the lionesses were kept busy hunting, unless they manage to land a large buffalo. Some cubs would pull at his long, flowing mane or ears, while others jump on his tail’s bunched fur, playing catch, while he flicked it here and there. One even found joy in biting at his long whiskers as he yawned open his cavernous jaws. Naturally lazy Kim would like to run around with them, but having six clambering all over is energetic enough. At the end of the day with the cubs tired from play, he would lick them in turn and sometimes coddled them near while they slept.

The male lion has been called the king of beast but actually they seem a lazy lot. Mainly because they give up the initiative of hunting to the females – their splendid manes give them away to prey. Although lackadaisical they do have incidental duties – like protecting their territory (and their pride of females) and sometimes lend their size to take down larger prey, after they’ve been hunted. They take first bite of the booty and often laze around, watchful only of usurping males that rob the harem and basically their lives. Like body builders with their magnificent muscles what good can they do you might ask? Well they provide the means to start their off-springs, sometimes 3 to 4 cubs at a time. But finding a good father in their world is quite a rarity. Kim is the exception.

One day the outcome of a hunt showed the tenderness of the lion’s heart. A herd of impala was surrounded by the lionesses, among them a mother with a baby, not more than a week old. The attack was swift, resulting in the killing of the mother. The calf, petrified was bleating for mercy. But one of the lioness that was lactating refused to kill the calf, instead started protecting the terrified calf from the other lionesses. As the others approach to savage the bleating calf, she would carry it in her mouth out of harm’s way. When Kim approached and saw the mortified calf, he seem overcame by compassion. Then the strangest thing happened. Kim and the lactating lioness started to treat the calf as one of the cubs. So the calf was nursed by the lioness and protected by Kim from the rest of the pride. Even in play, the calf started to behave like the rest of the cubs around Kim. Time passed and the calf weaned, earlier than the rest of the cubs. Then Kim did an astonishing thing. He started pushing the calf out of the pride. For some reason he seemed to know, that if the calf remain any longer within the pride, even he will not be able to protect it from harm. So the calf had to leave and somehow rejoin the impala herd. Without a herd he was sure to fall prey to predators. Fortunately a game warden noticed and relocated it to a zoo after tranquilizing him. No sooner that Kim excoriated the impala he faced a challenge to his throne. A young male lion, one of two borne to another pride wandered into Kim’s territory. A showdown was inevitable and had to be decisive – the lives of the six cubs were at stake. But it didn’t take long. Despite his tenderness to the young Kim showed a ferocity and regal posture with his dark mane, enough to fend off the challenge without a fight. How did Kim became such a beast of brawn and heart? He wasn’t like so from birth, in fact he started badly.

If a male cub is born among females, his future is assured, but unfortunately Kim had an older brother. They played well as nursing babies but there would come a day that one must part, or else a potentially deadly contest to lead the pride would arise. Kim grew stronger than his brother but he had a tender heart. He chose to leave than fight, wandering like a ronin for years, finding his own food and hardened by skirmishes with other young lions for territorial supremacy over prey. One day he succeeded in stalking a small gazelle. But as he sprung for the kill, a bear suddenly appeared. It also had intentions for the small deer. Having starved for food, Kim could not retreat but fight. But the Kodiak was equally large. They rolled in the dust, claws and jaws slashing. Then Kim got an upper hand on the bear’s back. One bite from Kim would have ended the bear and the fight. But a shot rang out. Kim paused and turn to run from the rangers,  but not before slashing the bear’s lower back with his powerful paws. After Kim left, the bear turned toward his rescuers.  But instead of attacking them he stood high, paused, sniffed the air in acknowledgement then lumbered off.

By now Kim had developed his fighting skills to face any adversary. So one day, he came upon a pride with an ailing leader. The fight didn’t last long. He chased the aged lion off and took over the pride. Today Kim could reign as long as his strength and age holds up. Sometimes he would look out to the plains, ruminating about Life with baleful eyes. Like why should society be run by the fittest and the smartest? Why should a newborn be branded the rest of his/her life by tests that define their status and future? Even in lion society shouldn’t there be questions of egalitarian ideals? But as long as he’s the king, Kim will continue to play with his kids and strengthen his heart of compassion. And the bear? That’s none other than Koddy, grateful for humans who saved his back.

Enter the lamb, leave the lion

Impalas like antelopes are even-toed ungulates. Although in the same bovid family, they are not like cattle, sheep, buffalo or goats. More like deer or gazelles they are in the lower food chain among the wildlife of Africa and Eurasia. We’ve heard the story of the baby who was adopted by a lactating lioness after his mother was killed as prey.  This is a continuation of his story after he was saved from the pride and transferred to a zoo. While there he had an identity problem. Seeing sheep, goats and deer, he somehow felt he was none of these. He was after all a young impala, no bigger than a lamb. But a lion inside. So while the other deer or gazelles walked around, he would hide behind a tree lurking, then pounce on the startled deer as if playing like a lion cub. After some time, the bemused zookeepers decided that they should release him to the wild, to live with a normal herd of impalas, and be one of them again. They named him Sana and tagged him appropriately. So Sana grew from a young buck to be a full size alpha male in a herd. He learned to graze grass and moved with his herd, even showing some mating instincts. Life was uneventful – until one day a pride of hunting lionesses eyed the herd.

As expected the entire herd could sense danger as the hunters crouched near. But to Sana the smell of lions approaching did not mean danger – instead it was playtime. So when the lionesses charged at the herd, Sana which was the furthest from the predators ran towards one of them, while the rest of the herd flee the other way. Then came a strange phenomenon. The lioness who was used to seeing prey running away from her saw a bull-like animal charging towards her, horns pointed low. She froze for a moment surprised. Then she turned around and ran to escape instead. Can you imagine a lion running away from its prey? Meanwhile luckily for Sana the other lionesses were busy chasing the rest of the herd. He was just as confused why the lioness didn’t stop to play. So he trotted back to his herd. However Sana still felt different from them.

One day he wandered from the herd as usual, to a mountainside. Out of the sub-alpine bush a ptarmigan, with white down feet stepped out, followed by several lively chicks. Sana was enthralled by the chicks as he lifted his head from the grass. Then as he walked nearer to them, sniffing the air, a cry rang out from above. Out of the sky a mountain hawk eagle swooped down to attack the mother. Sana felt like this had happened before in his life. Instinctively he sprung upwards toward the eagle. This saved the mother ptarmigan as the chicks darted back into the bush. Then he did something quite unthinkable for an impala. He roared. Except the resulting sound was a bleating of the deer. Outside he’s still a deer – but inside he felt like a lion. Walking head high he rejoined his troop. The chicks ran to follow him but the ptarmigan mother corralled them with her wings, softly clucking.

My pigeon is home

Feeding pigeons gives one a strange sense of tranquility. Feeding anything would. They would coo around, strutting here and there, heads bopping forward for the crumbs you throw. Some would give you a sideways look, tilting their heads skywards expecting your next move so as to beat others to the morsel. There are 42 genera and 310 species of the colombidae family, of which the domestic and the wild rock pigeons have homing ability, flying up to 1800 km. Messenger pigeons provide one-way postal services in rough terrains and in war. We hear the story of the pigeon that made her arduous journey home.

There was this lonely man, lovesick and longing for a damsel during the medieval period when wars abound. Nothing unusual, except the girl he longed for lived over the range of mountains in the enemy camp. And that’s a typical story too – the one you love is often hard to get, doesn’t care for your attention, or is simply unavailable. So Damien had to make the first move and the best way was to write a note. He first met her at a trading post where they shared a love of pigeons. In the light of circumstances he could only use pigeon-mail but it was fraught with several inconveniences and not a few challenges. First he had to have his faithful pigeon delivered to his target of attention, accompanied with an introductory note of intent. Then he had to hope and pray that she would show some interest and willingness to communicate. Not email, airmail or even regular post mind you, the effort needed to hide the caged pigeon who had come from enemy land and to respond to a strange man’s advances whom she hardly knew was epic. Talk about sexual harassment today – compared to medieval romancing it’s like will-o’-the-mist. Then the challenges – guards would shoot at any approaching pigeons if they could not be identified as allies rather than spies. Even before reaching the guards the messenger pigeon could become easy meals for hawks, kites, peregrines or such birds of prey during their passage home. No predator in receipt of a note of love will find any use of it, let alone understand it’s content. But Damien’s was a lucky pigeon. First it was safely smuggled behind enemy lines without detection – even in a cage. Secondly the bird’s threatened life was worth something in the damsel’s good graces to accept the note. So out of curiosity she responded with a return mail of introductory interest and send the pigeon on its way. So far so good.

As the love pigeon winged it’s way out of the damsel’s castle a palace guard raised his arrow to aim at it, then lowered it as he noticed the correct color of its message tied to its leg – purple for today. Soon it floated upwards to cross the mountain range toward home. But where is home and how to get there? Scientists in modern times have conducted experiments as to how homing pigeons navigated themselves. An initial guess was the position of the sun at day and of the stars at night. A blindfolded pigeon put an end to that. What about temperature and humidity? But the pigeon didn’t err summer or winter and so it must be something else. Trade winds?  But the pigeon still homes on where winds don’t prevail. Eventually the experimenters were able to attribute it to the earth’s magnetic field. Tiny variations of its intensity was detected by the pigeon over different latitudes as modified by tidal variations longitudinally. This was confirmed when the pigeon lost its bearings after a tiny magnet was attached to its neck. But danger still abound for our feathered messenger. As it approached the foothills a peregrine kite descended rapidly. It quickly dived into a thick bush. For a while the kite flew around the bush, but it’s size prevented it from reaching into the branches where the pigeon perched. As long as it stayed patient within it would be safe. After a while, the wind picked up, followed by a sudden downpour. The kite, soaked thru it’s feathers finally gave up the siege. Still so far so good.

So it flew on, north-ward and its master’s village walls came into view. But it was wearing the enemy’s color on its leg. Just then, a large army of heavily armed guards marched past below, with numerous iron chariots. Suddenly the pigeon turned south – in the opposite direction of home. What happened? Somehow its magnetic sensors malfunctioned as the mass of iron-clad movement distorted earth’s weak magnetic field around it. After a while it was far enough from the moving mass and it corrected the course north. But it was still wearing enemy colors – the friendly color that day was green. As she neared the master’s tower an arrow shot passed. Wheeling unstable, she rushed towards the master’s open window. Shoosh! Another arrow came and bounced off her tired body. Ouch! The pigeon stumbled into the master’s room and fell lifeless at his feet. Damien excitedly scooped up the tired bird, mouth opened and panting. Lovingly he nursed it in its cage with water and gently unfastened the purple colored letter from its feet. Before he could look at its contents guards were banging at his door. Fortunately he could prove that he was no spy. But he had to show his love letter to prove so. It said:

Thank you for your interest in me. It’ll be nice to get to know you but…(the words following were blurred by rainwater which soaked through)

Excited but disheartened for not being able to read the full message, Damien smuggled another message with his love pigeon, proposing to meet her at the trading post where he first espied her. He waited and waited.  After a long time his pigeon returned safely. It carried no note.

One day he happened to be at the trading post and out of the corner he saw her again. His estacy was short-lived. She was heavily pregnant with child.

How Panda became vegetarian

The world wildlife fund (WWF) has a giant panda as its insignia. Naturally found in Central China the endangered ailuropoda specie is closest to the red panda, similar except for the fur color. Its population number about two to three thousand (2014) but only 239 in captivity in China, while 49 live in zoos elsewhere. Like all bears its diet is about 90% vegetarian, but the panda prefers bamboo. Why? One study suggested that in their millenia past they lost the use of the meat tasting gene (Tas1r1) when meaty preys died out. Or is it because of a story we are about to hear?

Xiao An was the great, great ancestor of today’s giant panda.  Weighing as much as a small elephant he would have been twice as big and taller than those in China today. As ferocious as the Grey bear he was carnivorous and would have no hesitation to take down deer, squirrels or land fowls. About 2 million years ago predators roam the land fighting for livestock, and we can presume Xiao An was amply equipped with sharp claws and  large incisors. Yet he had the gene of gentleness as a panda. He loved to play. And his playmate was also his soulmate. Then his favorite food was not yet bamboo but a small vole that lived among the shoots.

But Xiao An had to compete for the voles. There were owls, various eagles and hawk species, foxes and martens and of course the regular brown bears who share the forest. He had to grab a vole, stoat or pika quickly as it emerge from its hole before an owl swoops on to it. Or he had to fight off a crafty fox hiding behind the bushes to ambush his prey.

One hot summer voles were hard to come by. Xiao An had not eaten for a day. His mate hasn’t been hunting either as a litter of two cubs were constantly suckling. Night fell and still there were no squirrels, mouse, or birds to fill his aching stomach. As the evening drew on Xiao An saw a rustle in a nearby bush. Then a fox appeared. He readied himself to pounce. But atlas another bear appeared, a large grizzly. Xiao An knew he was no match, but still he pounced. He got the fox but now the grizzly had him. They rolled in the dust claws and fangs slashing. Soon Xiao An limped off, vanquished and hungrier than ever. He stumbled to his home tree and laid down clumsily. He felt a softness under him. Oh no! He had accidentally crushed one if his cubs in the dark. Sniffing at its lifeless form he did the only thing nature compelled him to. He devoured his cub. Though his hunger abated a strange feeling came over him. Why? Must I eat him, my baby? Even more distressing his mate came near, sniffed his jaws and let out a most hideous groan. Why? For the next few days Xiao An didn’t eat. He got thinner and thinner and his scrawny hide hanged down forlornly. Then unknowingly he stumbled to a bush and bit at the leaves. It wasn’t as good as meat but it was not revoking. He took another bite, and another, chewing slowly to let the sap in. For the next few hours he took in the bamboo shoots, chewing at the stalks. His mate watched in earnest and soon followed. In the weeks that followed the pair started to discover the benefits of a fiber diet. No more toothache as the fiber diet reduced oral bacteria. Their bowels even improved in regular movement. Most of all there was no need to hunt. Whenever a grizzly or some adversary came to hunt voles they would move away, preferring the bamboo. But there was a problem. They could not go very far from the bamboo clumps and must control their diet to ensure a steady growth of what was then their stable food. Sure, once in a while a small animal or bird would find its way to their diet, even insects. But the bamboo loving gene of the peace-loving panda have started the world’s first organic health food – for bears.

Busy beaver – its more than work

How many river or sea coast mammals can you name? Otters differ from beavers as they are carnivores but beavers whose diet consists of roots, leaves and twigs build dams. Seals and walruses are not as aquatic in that they have to return to the waters for nourishment and like otters they almost always live on fish or crustaceans. There are 13 different known species of otters while there’s only the North American and Euro-asiatic beavers. Besides beavers are rodents and behave like so along the riversides. A hard-working rodent changing the environment to a more livable space for themselves. We now look at the first water engineers of the earth and their busy work ethic.

Paddy, a male beaver makes his home along the banks of Chattooga, a tributary of Tugaloo river in North Carolina. He dives in and out of his lodge, moving branches and nibbling at roots. Paddy is especially busy between June to November when a string of hurricanes would hit the US mainland. First there was Matthew, then Florence in 2018.

So one late summer Paddy, busy as usual was restoring the dam pile that was partially washed away by the latest hurricane. As he glided there and here he heard a thrashing near the river bank upstream. Approaching cautiously he found a large alligator embroiled tightly in a Gill net. Fearsome and probably hungry for him, Paddy swam around, keeping a safe distance. Then a strange compassion came over him. But he did nothing, instinct being the winner. However he decided to get closer. For a moment he caught the alligator’s eyes. It opened and closed, obviously petrified, as it would surely drown as a matter of time. But after their eyes met Paddy swam off. Don’t tamper with a carnivore 20 times his weight, with bone crushing jaws. After all he’s got work to do – much. Several days later Paddy passed the same spot while looking for more driftwood. There it was, sunk a little deeper with the Gill net wound even more tightly to some heavy bough. Alligators can stay bound without food for days, but now oxygen is the problem. Paddy came closer and now looked into those tired eyes again. This time it seemed forlorn, giving up all hope for life, or a beaver meal. Paddy got quickly to work. His sharp incisor teeth did quick work cutting through nylon as easily as the toughest of roots. Soon with one mighty trash the alligator broke free – as Paddy also took off as fast as his padded tail could propel. He knew that a starving alligator will eat even a good Samaritan.

So Paddy remained busy pushing wood and cutting branches to stand the ever changing gush of river tides with each hurricane. And he also had several pups to keep. One evening he had to swim out to divert a group of driftwood that was crashing into his lodge entrance. While straining against the current he failed to notice a large silvery form dashing toward him in the water. It was a monster garfish – the biggest river fish predator, with razor sharp rows of front teeth. It snapped and could easily cut Paddy’s baseball bat tail in two, but Paddy beat it in a split second. However can he out swim it? As it was closing in Paddy thought he heard a loud thrashing near his pursuer. Something else was stalking the garfish behind. Without pausing to find out he quickly dived under and into the safety of his lodge, where the entrance is underwater. Who could have given him the slip to escape the ferocious fish? Could it be the alligator he saved?

The next day he proceeded towards the spot where the rescue occurred. There he was again! Lying near the bough just like the time he was stuck, but this time without the nefarious net. Paddy kept his distance, unsure whether he would be rewarded with villainy in return for his brave act. The alligator was still, eyes closed. Paddy glided by and as soon as he neared the head the alligator’s large eyes suddenly opened, like the scene from Avatar. Paddy was shocked and spurt off with his tail splashing like an outboard motor. But the giant reptile stayed still, it’s eye glistened with gladness that his river friend was safe. And his stomach bloated with the garfish he hunted the day earlier.

Tonari Ippon – the drinking bulldog

Dogs should not normally eat human food – their body metabolism do not favor the ingestion of salt, pepper or other spices that routinely embellish human fare. Grapes are well touted to be toxic to them although it is not entirely clear why, compared to bears that love them. There is also the cautionary injunction against dogs drinking beer, even though it has not been scientifically ascertained the effect of hops or wine on their palate. This is especially relevant to Man’s closest animal friend because of their tendency to eat whatever is available from their masters. Take the case of Craig who owns a French bulldog named Jake. He had him ever since he was a puppy, and like all devoted canines hangs around with his every movement in and out of the house. Craig is a lumberjack and at the end of each work day would flop onto his couch in his sweaty shirt and dusty boots, pint-full of beer in his hand. Jake, as always stares earnestly at everything Craig puts into his mouth. Not even for a second would Jake leave him out of his sight – he would follow him from bed to toilet and until his tractor leaves the gate. As if it was not enough Jake would mirror his master’s movement as much as he could. So if Craig flops on the sofa so would he. Once Craig was painting his gate white when Jake wanted to get into the act as well. He brushed himself all along the paint. Black dog became white. And when he sips from his large tumbler, Jake would lick his licks. So Craig, aware of the deleterious effect of alcohol would place a similar tumbler of water on the end table, and Jake would enthusiastically lap at it every time Craig downs a pint. You can guess by now how greedy Jake has become. He just could not resist every scrap of food Craig has dropped or left behind. Craig could only wish Jake would help him sweat out at the lumberyard for exercise and he hardly had time to run Jake around outside, except for the perfunctory pee at the road side. Craig’s own obesity is reflected in his dog. Ever so often after a tiring day and several pints of beer man and dog would snore together on the sofa. It had become an amusing problem. One day Craig had some family staying over. His fiancee’s father who also loves to drink and eat had to sleep on the large sofa. One late evening Craig was woken up by large snoring coming from the direction of Jake’s basket. Fearing that it might wake up his guest, Craig came downstairs to Jake and gave him a mild kick, and admonishing him not to wake up father. Two hours later the snores returned and again Craig came down to admonished Jake, planning to give him a mild pat in the buttocks. But halfway up the stairs to his bedroom the snores returned. Craig came down to Jake but the dog was wide awake, wondering why his master was so cranky. As Craig turned around he heard his father-in-law snoring loudly.

“Pa,  you owe Jake an apology…”, Craig joked cheekily the next morning. And so Jake enjoyed the playful life without a care in the world – until a burglar came to call.

Craig is a consummate collector of fine wines – among his jeweled selections is the Moet & Chandon Dry imperial and Dom Perignon, champagne that cost nearly $2000 each. He had celebrated so many bottles with friends that instead of throwing out the empty ones he reused them for storing his lumber agricultural chemicals.

One particularly busy day he had been treating some of his premium lumber.  Returning hot and tired at sunset he slumped onto his couch as he was wont to do, but not before casually thrusting the bottles of chemicals on his side table as he downed pints of beer. Not many minutes later he felt hopelessly drunk and fell into a slumber. Jake was lapping at his tumbler of water by mirroring his master’s swigs at the bottle. And as Craig dropped off inebriated Jake also flopped legs in the air on the sofa. Night came and the front door was left ajar, in Craig’s haste to reach for the beer bottle.

The burglar didn’t take long to find the cellar where Craig kept his prized liquor. He grabbed several bottles recognized by their famous labels. Craig was knocked out but Jake was fully awake. However instead of waking his master he growled menacingly at the intruder. The burglar made a hasty retreat while Craig remained in deep slumber. Then as the burglar passed the sofa his keen eye caught the Moet & Chandon labels at the end table. Since it appeared uncorked he couldn’t resist taking several deep swigs at the famous champagne, or so he thought. The next moments saw the burglar rushing out the door retching and vomiting in horror and dropping the stolen haul. Jake just sat down facing the door as the burglar fled. Then he lowered himself flat onto the floor giving out a soft whimper, and thinking how strange humans can behave. Meanwhile his master’s snores wafted over the room ever more loudly.

Orang Tua orang Dua

The word orangutan comes from the Indonesian malay for “a person of the forest”. Coming from either the Bornean or the Sumatra pongo genus, they are red-listed as critically endangered and are fighting an uphill battle now due to the continuing habitat destruction for economic gain. In 2016 only 100,000 remained in the wild, after their Bornean population dropped 82% in 75 years. By 2025 Wikipedia estimated the number to drop to even 47,000. Having reddish hair and four equally long limbs, everything about them appear human, with a face that one could imagine to look like a young human grandma. Foremost among the primates in intelligence, they are observed to have spatial skills and even uses tools for food. Often solitary, babies would cling to mothers till puberty, but their curious demeanor have resulted in their illegal trapping as pets. One trapped year old female was rescued by the Borneo Forestry team. Her name is Annie.

The Forestry staff had been trying to locate her troop. If reunited her chances of surviving in the wild are greater, as well as improving her chances of breeding the endangered specie. But with no visual identification,  it’s hard for humans and Annie was rejected numerous times by different troops. Finally the staff decided to breed her in captivity. If you think matchmaking humans are tricky orangutans can be challenging. So the first candidate was a 2 year old male called Daub. Like all males, he got excited when Annie came into heat, jumping up and down squealing. Then he conscientiously build a nest – orangutan nests are just bundles of leafy branches rolled into a ball on a tree branch, usually high in the tree. But Annie showed no interest, just hanging out on a limb several branches away from her agitated suitor. After many attempts and weeks later Daub gave up and retired to another tree, leaving the empty nest. Annie was willing to return to her cage to be near her human guardian. At least food and water was guaranteed, and shelter from the monsoon rains. The next time she came into heat, the keeper brought along a younger male – about the same age as Annie. Everybody was hopeful for the fresh young start. But alas the introduction was brief. Annie took a sniff at the knave – then bared her teeth. As he approached to smell her and lowered his nose to her genitals she turned around suddenly. Then to the astonishment of the keepers she gave him a tight slap. On the cheeks, just as any harassed lady would. Stunned, the young male sauntered off in a half trot, hooting like a hooligan, never to approach Annie again. So after many such events the attempt to match Annie hit an impasse, and days turned to months. She was content to stay around the cage and grab both hands of her keeper, not caring what in the world romance is all about. Until one day an unexpected outcome.

The forest warden on that fateful morning spotted an injured male lying on the roadside. Old, at least about 8 years, he appeared to have moved too slowly to avoid a speeding truck delivering palm oil fruits. On examining him at the sanctuary they found one of its arms were fractured and parts of his limb lacerated from the accident. As much as they tried the vet could not save one of his gangrene limbs. So old Yacob had to be confined to his cage to receive therapy, walking and climbing on three limbs. All this while Annie must have watched the newcomer from afar. One day while learning to climb, Annie approached Yacob in the playpen. She seemed mystified that he had only three limbs. And Yacob? He had a curved back and only looked down morosely like saying “what’s an old handicapped man to a young lady?” But Annie didn’t reject him. He didn’t show any interest in her either – probably Annie wasn’t in heat. Months passed and occasionally Annie will meet Yacob in the playpen as he went through his paces of therapy. But the staff took no notice of their friendship – thinking that no young woman would ever be interested in a dilapidated old geezer. None of the staff have ever seen Yacob physically near Annie. And he’s always looking down with glassy eyes rather than at her. Until one day a forestry staff came running into the vet’s office. Breathlessly she blurted out that Annie behaved rather strangely around her cage. Then the vet confirmed through tests that Annie was pregnant. News went around and the rest of the staff was ecstatic. But Yacob morosely sat in his corner, still looking down vacantly between two cage bars. If he could talk he would say “orang tua, orang dua” – meaning the senior became the person of choice and that Annie did all the work. But what did she do? It became clear when a primate researcher visited the sanctuary. She started a project to map the DNA of the entire orangutan population. It turned out that Annie was a close DNA relation of Daub and the second young male whom she bared her teeth. In fact they were siblings! But how could she sense the pitfall of inbreeding? Messenger molecules for biodiversity?

Home’s final journey

Several species of sea creatures make their journey home to spawn. The sea turtle laboriously claw it’s way to its shores of birth to lay and bury their eggs. So is the ocean dace and the lump-sucker fish. Domiciled in deep blue waters they will find their way to shallow crags near the shores where they began their lives, laying their eggs and in turn, hatch their young. But we must never forget the Atlantic or Pacific salmon. Their epic journey home, fraught with danger, is nothing short of amazement but is also a final journey of death by starvation. The world’s stock of wild Pacific salmon has fallen to alarming levels in 2010. This is particularly unsettling because the salmon’s lifespan is now deemed to be part of the ecological web of forests, inland rivers as well as the wildlife that thrives on them. This is a short story of Pedro who started life as a salmon fry in the upper reaches of the Miyazaki river. Maybe some of us can identify life’s supreme struggles in the tribulations of this fish.

Actually Pedro’s hard life began earlier, when his mom fought her way up the rapids after the homecoming instinct hit her in the Pacific Ocean. Pedro had to experience what she went through later in life, but here she was, loaded with roe, in a final struggle to hang them on the riverbed stones without the rapids washing it away. It was hard enough to expel them out of her body but around her were the frantic shoving of males. They were of various species such as chum or char, cherry or land lock salmons known as dolly vardon, all waiting to spurt their sperms on her eggs at the crucial moment. Ignoring food in the intense purpose of spawning her body was already ragged, having survived several bear attacks and drawn of strength and nourishment. And Pedro emerged as the smallest of eggs. Fortunately the current swept him deeper into the cracks, hiding him away from occasional predators such as wagtails and salamanders who would eat up his larger siblings. Pedro waited patiently for the right moment to emerge from his cell, the dark spot of his eye rolling around the gelatinous ball of nourishment, the one parting gift from his mother. Two months on he struggled out, smelling the environ that he would need to recognize in about five years. After squirming around the pebbles that hid other eggs he instinctively headed downstream toward the ocean, but not before passing the carcasses of his parents and others strewn upon the rocks. Some were half eaten by seabirds or torn by bears, hungry enough to eat carrion. Pedro mourned briefly that his mother and aunties would never live long enough to see him grow but he had an immediate danger – how to escape other hungry fish downstream and the ocean. Being minuscule he can quickly dart into a small flotsam or allow the swift streams carry him quickly away from bulky predators. But that was the easy part – horrific calamities await him as he approached the open seas.

First the good part – a whole universe of different plankton greeted him. But it is a bounty for all marine life, big or small. For Pedro it was either eat or be eaten. Then the current, it is pointless to swim against the current, anywhere,  anytime. So he was drifted all over the earth where the major streams prevail. Pedro instinctively knew that he had to eat fast and grow bigger –  the chances of falling prey to bigger fish drops as their population drops with size. However a fishing net does not respect size, at least for those he cannot swim through. Although Pedro was not eaten he was even luckier not to be caught. Pedro’s larger adventures in life had just begun, hoping for a bit of luck to live to the full. So one day the ocean currents carried the flock to the Australian gold Coast. Pedro was so busy feeding off a swarm of krill that he failed to see a glitter of sliver among them. Within seconds he was yanked out of the water by an angler’s line. As he flopped clumsily on the deck Pedro’s story would have ended here if he was off the Indonesian coast. But this was Australia and after he was briefly thrust next to a ruler he was thrown overboard – as required by law he was too small to be caught! After catching up to his flock it was business as usual – eating. So Pedro roamed the high seas and grown large enough to avoid predators smaller than him. Five years came and went and he started to get tired of having to run from larger ones, including humans with a hook, net or spear. One rather balmy day in the south Pacific a strange feeling hit him – he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to become a baby fry again. He spun around in the water and felt the magnetic pull of home in the Miyazaki river. And to his surprise it wasn’t just him – the whole shoal had begun to move in unison – Northwest where home was once. So frenetic was this community response that every member of the shoal had the uncanny do-or-die mission to head home to their place of birth.

Days went by as the entire shoal rode the currents – all with the one purpose to hit the mouth of the Miyazaki river. Tragedy struck as they passed the Philippines islets northward – a fishing trawler net snagged a third of the homeward-bound fish. Then as he was past Okinawa a swordfish appeared from nowhere and pierced two of his traveling companions. His journey home had become treacherous. As he approached the mouth of the Miyazaki river a smell of the distant past hit him. He was near home.

Again, not just him. Every salmon in the shoal felt a thrill as if possessed by their hormones. The males began to develop hooked snouts and their scales started to turn shades of purple. The females started to ovulate – their bellies bloated with eggs and they seemed to have lost interest in food. Indeed for once in their life eating was no longer a priority but getting upstream to spawn was. And so each summoned what energy left to face the current. At the river mouth it was easier but became swifter upstream. The weaker ones would start falling back, never living long enough to participate in the spawning process but perhaps falling prey to bears and anglers. For Pedro and the rest, their bodies already malnourished from the strenuous journey, an even greater obstacle loomed two miles upstream. A two meter high weir stood in their path to the spawning ground, water gushing over at a ferocious pace. Pedro approached and thought to himself – “I will never make it”. But some of his female companions did. It required super-salmon strength and endurance. The secret was not to jump too high as to miss the top of the weir, then swim with all their remaining strength below the current. Pedro knew he needed more – luck.

His first jump was quite good, his tail propelled to just the right height. But when landing over the edge the oncoming rush just pushed him over before he could gather momentum to dive under the current. As the mist and spray hit him back into the river Pedro felt a sense of gloom. That was all I had,  and still not enough, he thought. He moved to the side stream to recoup, then made the second jump. Then third and fourth – all landing below the weir, his tail flexing haplessly in the air, as if trying to fly instead. But he was just a fish with no wings, and his fruitless splashing below the spray just added to his dismay. Maybe I’ll just die here, he thought to himself.

Just then several of his travelling companions drew near to the side of the river to encourage him. “Go Pedro – you can do it! Macy, Charie, Gracie, Ling and Picee are up there – all the ladies waiting for  your sperm. Go do your job!” Pedro gave an inaudible groan when Pasquale, a strong male came to his side to cheer. “Pedro – all of us are exhausted – I’ve done my ninth jump already and also totally in despair. Let’s do it together one more time – you and me – we’ll jump together. Don’t give up!” As he spoke, Pedro noticed a dark shadow looming over them. Then a heavy paw splashed into the water to grab him and his friend. Bears! Time to go Pedro, he could hear Pasquale’s trailing voice as he swayed his tail furiously for a last gigantic effort. So Pedro did one last attempt.

With strength and stamina fading Pedro could only give 50% of what was needed to land above the falls. As he was starting to fall back into the spray he had already given up. Then it happened. In mid flight a big shadow at the side of the bank caught Pedro in its jaws. A bear was fishing at the side, catching salmons in mid-flight up the weir. Goodbye friends, Pedro sighed as the bear lifted him up from the rapids, jaws clenched on his dorsals. At the corner of his eye however Pedro saw something comforting – Pasquale made it and was swimming under the current toward the spawning shallows. The bear lumbered upstream as Pedro gasped for the last moments of his life. And then another surprise. In his excitement the bear accidentally dropped the flapping 10 pound salmon back into the shallows. Pedro made it – with the help of a bear. But we were not done with Pedro yet. A man has got to do what a man’s got to do. He’s been lucky to be alive until then for one compelling reason. So Pedro gathered himself in the shallows, still wondering how he escaped, until he was spotted. The ladies who made it screamed in delight on seeing him. Pedro bashful began to feel a little modest – his tattered dorsal fins and lacerated skin showed how defeated he was to have made it. As he swam around Pasquale came alongside and gave him a sideways slap with his tail – a much deserved hi-five. But a sad fact remained – less than a tenth of the shoal who left the south Pacific made it to the spawning pool. While danger was still lurking around the bushes the supreme task must be performed as soon as it was convenient. The next few days Pedro and the other males were rubbing the females’ bellies with their bodies climaxing them in order to release their eggs. As there were far more males jostling for the female’s attention, the stronger males must chase off their smaller rivals to monopolize producing offspring. Meanwhile the ladies had work to do – they must choose a suitable spot where the current will not carry away the impending births, with plenty of pebbles to serve as anchors. There were no midwives nor cubicles to nurse however. Overall it is a hostile world.

As the days drew on the ladies were getting agitated when the frenzied time to spawn dawned. The males were getting wild, competing for the closest position for which to spray their milt with the greatest of success.  Pedro could sense the moment coming when he swam alongside Ling, his favorite, bumping against her belly to stimulate her again and again. Then it came. She involuntarily arched her back, jaws stuck open. There was frenzy among the surrounding males, each rushing to fertilize the dislodged eggs, hundreds of thousands in a clutch. Pedro did all he could – the chance that a hatched fry living to adulthood is only about 0.1 percent. With several thumps of her tail Ling buried the fertilized eggs deeper among the sand. After each male had performed this stupendous feat with any willing females for two to three weeks their bodies began to decay. This single reproductive act would simply suck the life out of the participants. Never before had Pedro spurt his entire manhood out on the eggs as an epiphany of his existence and so were the females’ ultimate experience pushing eggs out of themselves. Then he breathed his last. Soon their limp bodies, one after another would flow down the river, winding along among the shallow pebbles, like worn out tossed rags. And further downstream in the shadows, famished bears waited eagerly.

This fox talks to hornets

How is the fox different from wolves? Though they both belong to the canidae family foxes are smaller, have sharper snouts and are fewer in packs, often solitary. Wolves are mostly carnivores while foxes eat insects, berries and sometimes, small mammals. Foremost of all, foxes tend to be friendlier to humans even though feral. Hornets are far more different from bees than foxes from wolves. They don’t make honey nor pollinate flowers. Predaceous, they will sting repeatedly with their swift mandibles while bees sting once and die. They devour other insects while bees eat only nectar and pollen. Bees only swarm and sting defensively while hornets, like wasps, the Asian version of the European hornet attack aggressively and are known to kill humans. But there is one fox who befriends them. Somehow he had learned their language.

Lee is a red fox and lives in the snow-bound region of the Ural mountains. Mostly solitary, except during the mating season, he makes friends with the nest of hornets living in his valley. Theirs is a symbiotic relationship. He sniffs out the places whether the hive can harvest wood chips for their nests and the hornets keep off predators (and human beings) from harassing him. For Lee the most difficult time is to survive the long winters, because he had to hunt for rodents under the thick layers of snow. His favorite is the field vole and his modus operandi is to stalk them under the carpeted snow with his nostrils. Once a trail is found he follows the sound signals with his keen ears until he knows the precise location to pounce. Then with all his weight he jumps onto the spot and using his snout and front paws to trap his prey. However success rate is low, because the wily voles have many escape routes under the snow, which incidentally, is warmer than the winter air. One day his hunt went so badly that he was incapacitated. He had jumped onto a spot where there was also a rock under the snow. His front paw was injured. Limping in the vast frozen expense half-starved Lee had no choice but to ask for help. He arrived at a cottage at a small Russian village. A boy spotted him outside the storm door when a blizzard was blowing. The father came and carefully brought Lee in. He was docile, instinctively knowing he needed help for his fractured toes. And help he got. The family bound up his paw and fed him to health. After a week Lee got better and the family released him back to the wild. Obviously that is not the end of the story. Foxes too have a memory for good deeds.

European hornet

One winter Lee was hunting in the valley near to his hornet friends. A party of hikers strolled up and spotted him. Though they shouted at him he was wary never to trust big parties, though the memory of human kindness was still fresh in his mind. As he turned to go in the opposite direction, some children started to throw snowballs and a snow fight ensued, though amidst laughter and cheers. Then a terrible thing happened. From the hornet’s nest several of the insects had descended on the children. Laughter turned to wails and the adults started to swing at the insects with whatever they had. This only brought on the wrath of the entire nest. In seconds even the adults were shouting in pain. Pandemonium. Lee turned around and sniffed the air. Then in the midst of the quiet snowfield came this howling. You would have thought that only wolves howl. But Lee had a language with the hornets. He had howled for less than a minute when the hornets got the signal and retreated in droves. The message: leave my human friends alone. Then he turned around and trotted home. Many of the people could not explain why the hornets suddenly left. But one little girl told her mother she thought she heard the fox called out to the insects.

Spring arrived. And so is love. Lee started sniffing around and leaving the scent of his urine in obvious places. He had not been successful before. Some males just haven’t got it. For the red fox in the wild, there are not many seasons to procreate. Two years, five if lucky. This is Lee’s third time and he still hasn’t left behind any offspring. This time he will meet his mate, or so he thought. But he’s got competition and fights over girlfriends are usually ugly. Anyway weeks rolled by and nothing – not even a sniff from another female. Lee was remorseful and he turned to his friends for help. What can hornets do for love?

As a matter of fact we do, said the chief hornet – the queen. Lee complied and agreed to let her do to him what’s best for procreation. So several of the servant hornets came to his back and injected into him what is known as pheromones – the kind of hormone that drives sexual attraction. Does it work? Or is it just quack medicine. Anyway to make a story good, the result was stupendous. Lee found several mates that spring – too many to cause him a headache. A happy headache if there is one.

Asian wasp (hornet)

So Lee had a busy summer raising kids. Or fending off lovers from spring wild from his sex pheromones. But if you happen to hike in the Ural Mountains and chance upon a lonely red fox (male or female), or a nest of hornets, do not take chances – run for your life.

To be continued in SCARF5

SCARF3

(Continued from SCARF2 mktyap@copyright)

The lonely penguin of Philip island

The parade starts early – about 5am. A curious march to the jumping off points. Hordes of penguins report to work in the open seas, doing what they must to feed themselves and their family. After work at sunset they waddle back – ungainly to their seaside-cove homes in droves. That is if they can find their homes, in the dark. It is a quandary for some. Take Pokko a penguin born the runt of the clutch. He’s always the last to head out in the morning as his legs are much smaller and his little flipper wings cannot elbow his way in front. Then in the evening back he’d lose his way. He’ll scramble from one burrow to another blindly hoping to find his real home. But often he’ll be repelled by someone already in the hole, quacking and squealing. Sometimes he ends up sleeping in someone else’s burrow for the night, only to be rejected by a late returnee in the morning. Nonetheless Pokko made do with the colony and survived to maturity. One tiring night, thinking that he had found an empty burrow to rest a stunning chick came to roost. She’s much bigger and stronger than him, but she didn’t mind him sharing the burrow. Also she seem to be the kindest of all, leading him out in the morning and showing the way back to her roost in the evening. Pokko was awestruck with respect and love for her intelligence and kindness. Especially when he felt so helpless and incompetent. Months passed and the couple were so happy together, Pokko thinking he had found the one in a million. Because of her he himself had felt more confident and more assertive despite his size. Before he met her he would hardly make it to a launching point which is a branch overlooking the surging waves. As other larger penguins jump off, Pokko sometimes got pushed over to the side, which meant he had to make his way up again to the launching height. In bad days he had to do this several times. With his stronger partner besides him he no longer needed to jostle with the rest – she’ll let him jump off with her and hunt fish together. Sometimes they lose each other – their little caves are over a hundred meters from the water’s edge and there are many different routes to take. But they’ll eventually be united at home. However they failed to start a family –  the eggs both helped to warm failed to hatch and had to be abandoned. One time Pokko had to chase off a gull about to steal the eggs, but still lost two of them. After several attempts they no longer felt a need to multiply – there were scores of new chicks emerging from other holes every season. Without any young Pokko and his mate would share their catch with the colony and they were well liked. As a colony of penguins the only thing that they don’t share is the upbringing of their young. But there are a host of predators where their defense depend on their size of numbers. So if a rogue raven or a sea-hawk comes into their chicks an alpha male will make a chase while the others crowd around to protect. Similarly their united stand against martens and dingos can be formidable. Pokko and his larger mate would always be at the forefront.  Unfortunately at sea their only defense is their speed under water. And so a fateful day Pokko lost his dearest. One early September she was so busy being the champion fish catcher that they did not notice a large shadow lurking in the deep. Before Pokko could do anything the leopard seal snatched her and tossed her into the air. Pokko could only cry plaintively, darting about underwater to save her by distraction. But the single bite was deep enough. When the seal came after him he had to flee as fast as his little flippers could carry, and escaped by a whisker.

So from that day on Pokko was alone again. He had come so far, overcoming his innate deficiencies by finding a perfect mate. The remainder of his life felt like he was thrown back into the sewers. Confused and deprived he became lost again each time he returned from the seas. Swaying and waddling clumsily back from the seas alone he could sometimes give a doleful cry. And if he was lucky enough to find an empty burrow, the next morning he would be invariably pushed off the launching point by the horde of eager divers. Since fairy penguins are monogamous and mate for life, one wonders if there’s a bachelor’s club or something for him, so that he doesn’t have to wander about, alone.

This cat sees ghosts

Unlike dogs cats generally are less obtrusive. They will often slink to a corner and glare at the scene before them. What goes on in their world? Are there things they know that humans don’t? There are scary stories that jumping black cats can resurrect a dead body and their disappearing acts forth-tell tragedies. Tabs is a tortoise-shell, barely a year old and dearly loved by his mistress, Tan. She’ll bring him everywhere, even on holidays, but always on wheels. So one time Tan had to visit her ancestors’ grave in Malaysia. She’d drive up to meet her outer family at the town of Perak and visit the graves of parents and grandparents together. This was the first for Tabs and her nephews and cousins were thrilled to be introduced to him. So after the events of the day were followed and completed to tradition, Tabs gathered for a group photo. Her mistress Tan was standing on the far left and they decided to put their arms over each other’s neck, even though their hands were soiled. They took shots with the graves in the background. Everything went as planned, although Tabs was noticed to give several meows and jumped off her arms when the photos were taken.

A week passed and Tan decided to send print copies of  the photos for her nieces. There was no email at that time and photographs were not digitized. Not looking much at it she got a call from her niece. She received the photos, but had a strange observation. A closer look at the photos showed a faint shadow standing next to Tan, with something that looked like an arm around her. An idea came to her – she still had not done the laundry after the visit. Retrieving the T-shirt she received a shock. Near where the right neck of the shirt were the soiled marks of her niece’s hands, as the niece was standing on her left. On the left of the neck were clear soiled marks of five fingers! Unconvinced she asked the nephew who was standing on the extreme right when the photo was taken. Sure enough there were soiled marks on his shirt on the right side, made by someone who were not there on his left. He said that somehow the stains remained even though the shirt was laundered. Tabs must have seen whoever was standing on both sides of the group. Shaken by this Tan decided to do an experiment.

During her Malay language class, she asked her teacher whether he believe in ghosts. Of course, as he was once the village vice-bomoh (a sort of medicine man) So she challenged him during class to show that ghosts do exist. The rest of her classmates had mixed reactions – some were clearly reluctant to challenge the idea. So Che’gu (malay for teacher) had a proposal. He will organize a grave visit for the class at 2 am in the morning. He had only one condition when the witching time arrives, at around 3 am – that nobody must make a sound, or move while seated around the fire.

Night came and the small group, some still giggling at the prospect gathered around the fire, at midnight, at the Malay cemetery. Tan had Tabs in her arms, as usual. So the Che’gu started burning incense and started a slow chant. For three hours nothing happened. Some had begun to feel restless and sleepy, wanting to give up and go home. Until 3.30 am. The incantation intensified. Then a breeze came and a chill descended on the group. Nobody moved as agreed, except Tabs, who suddenly jumped off Tan’s arms and ran off. Tan, now fully awake couldn’t see anything unusual. So around 6 am Che’gu quietly announced the event over, and requested everybody to wash their faces as a ritual of the experience, before going home. At the washbasin, Tan looked in the mirror and noticed her friend washing beside her pale and shuddering. What happened Tan asked. “You don’t know? I saw it. I was sitting opposite you and it was there right behind where you were sitting! A tall white figure, taller than the trees.” When? “Just at the time Tabs jumped off your arm,” came the reply.

The wolf who cried sheep

Wolves have a bad reputation. When a man is called a wolf it labels him as one who predates women sexually and takes selfish advantage of the weaker sex. The biblical reference to a wolf in sheep’s clothing warns of attack from apparently harmless or even helpful people whose motives are far more sinister. In modern times wolves were reported to kill far more sheep than the pack needs to eat. The implication is the canis species destroys rather than kills for sustenance. So from the usual human viewpoint wolves appear more destructive to its lower food-chain than locusts do to crops. However viewed from concepts like ecological balance and the sustainability of the food-chain in a resource-limited world such feral behavior may be dismissed as nature just taking its course. Some may even argue that their innate qualities are really good, seeing that dogs, which are domesticated from the lupus family are the world’s most loved pets today. Many birds of prey are demonstrably territorial. So are wolves. Our story begins with a pack headed by Red, the alpha female. She has a stripe of reddish fur round her neck. She may not be the biggest of the pack of five, but her temperament makes her the leader to be feared.  Her mate is actually bigger in size, marked by a dark striped fur around his neck. Black, as we will call him is actually a coward inside. He’ll always cower behind her when the pack is on the move. Whenever a potential conflict arise, such as approaching another wolf-pack in a territorial stand-off, Black would fall back behind Red, tail down between his hinds. At the end of each day, when the pack settles down, Red will give the ceremonial howl first, then Black would follow. The rest of the pack would howl in unison, by pecking order. And he is often given to complaining – when the leader wants Black to chase a field mouse for the pack, he’ll say, “Why me? The others can run too, why should I hunt for them!” So naturally, Black is always the last to volunteer. One hot summer, food was scarce. After wandering a while the pack chanced upon a farm. Red’s eyes narrowed on the chicken enclosure. As the chickens scattered with the first assault Black espied a group of livestock further away. “Sheep! Sheep look!”, he cried to Red. Leave alone! We have enough just feeding on chicken was the leader’s reply. But we won’t have enough, we need bigger meat, there’s five of us, Black moaned. “Shut up and feed, then leave”, came the reply. But Black was still salivating when the cows started to bellow and dogs began to bark. As he hesitated two shots of gunfire rang out. Boom! Boom! Bullets whizzed by their heads as the pack made a hasty retreat to the forest.  So being greedy, Black lost a meal and so Red had to go hungry too. The rest of the day they fed on insects and sparrows they managed to catch. But besides greed Black had to learn another lesson. One hot hungry day, the pack arrived at a stream. The leader Red looked across the water, sniffed the air and licked her tongue to sense whether there were game on the other side. Just then Black saw a rabbit jumped. Without waiting for the rest of the pack, he rushed across the stream and quickly found it beyond his depth. Gradually the flow pushed him toward a boulder in midstream. The rest of the pack started howling in excitement. After waiting for a while Black started to swim back to rejoin the pack. By this time all thoughts about crossing vanished as all possible prey had fled the commotion. However Red was more measured – she started trotting upstream on the side of the bank and found a narrower stretch of water. As the pack prepared to cross they even picked up some salmon who died after spawning. So Black learned patience that day to move with the rest of the pack and not to yield to instant gratification. Then one day came a real test of leadership.

The wolf pack was crossing a pasture when up ahead a pack of hyenas approached. This was their territory and trespassing is always an explosive situation. Outnumbered, Red decided instinctively to retreat. But not Black. He stood his ground while his comrades turned to run. For once he had decided to pluck up courage instead of slinking behind his mate. Before long he was surrounded by eight snapping jaws, with four more lurking behind the altercation. He fought furiously. But his bigger size over an average hyena was no match for eight of them. After several more skirmishes he was driven back to his pack, bruised all over. As he trotted back he had learned the lesson all gregarious animals know. Except for solitary hunters like jaguars and tigers,  others like lions, monkeys, wildebeest (and most humans) have strength in numbers – lose your tribe lose your life. But not after he had lost part of his tail.

So spring came that year as a time to bring new life. For wolves the top couple mates to produce offspring and the rest of the pack bonds with the new arrival. Red had been carrying the growing litter inside her for some time now and slowly giving up the leadership to Black. He now had to sniff out the grub for the pack, whither is the honey from which bush, which hole leads to the family of voles or where in a field of snow the insects are buried. Even when heavily pregnant, Red still gave a strong helping hand – she’s just born to do whatever is needful every time – that’s the stuff leaders are made of. It’s only after the pups were born that the burden started to have an overbearing toll on her. The milk tits always ran dry for the seven struggling, yelping furries and hunger was no help for production. So Black started to learn what hard work meant for surviving the pack. Nevertheless only the strongest will survive to snatch the milky tit from the rest and soon, only three growing pups were left. Red had then became her scrawny self, but still had to help to hunt. Came fall. One foggy day she collapsed – exhausted by responsible motherhood. The pack surrounded their leader, sniffing while her life slipped away. They stood in silence for a time that seemed like eternity. Then the howl.
One by one each pointed their snouts upwards to let out the doleful sound, reverberating through the star-less night. It is nothing like what humans cry out at funerals. Here there were no meaningful utterances – something haunting between a long drawn wail and a utterly sad whine. Beyond words, it was pure emotion that will pierce your soul. Indeed it was a baring of their souls.

For Black it was a fearful farewell cry as a new role fell on him to raise the pups, now learning to hunt, and leading the pack. No more falling behind his mate in blind dependence. No more crying sheep. Since then he never quite got over the grief of his capable mate. But something was hidden dormant while she was leader. All of a sudden his leadership potential fully burst forth at her passing. You see, wolves are among the few animal species who will choose only one mate for life.

This land is mine – hippo security patrol

If you say the lion is the king of land animals, then the hippo must be king of the river. Weighing above a ton on average an adult hippo’s anger against territorial intrusion can kill up to 3000 humans a year. They may not have as menacing jaws as the crocodiles that share the river with them yet their awesome strength is known to snap tree branches like matchsticks and overturn boats with ease. Being herbivore and amphibian many stories of their chivary toward other animals have been observed. Take the case of Zano, a zebra yearling. One hot dry summer the herd had to drink from the river whose extremely muddy banks had receded greatly from the lack of rain. Besides the shortage of life-giving water the hippo’s territory also seem to have shrunken. However that afternoon the group of hippos were visibly absent – they had gathered further downstream where the river bed was deeper providing underwater cooling comfort for the herd. Without threat from the hippos the zebras started wading deeper away from the bank for a fresher cooling quench. But danger always lurk under the surface of a sub Sahara river. When the normally cautious zebras were lulled into the comfort of a cooling stream, the mud suddenly exploded. A giant crocodile lounged and grabbed Zano’s rear leg. Bleating savagely Zano attempted to flee like the rest scattering towards the bank. The croc already had the advantage – the mud was so thick that Zano’s legs could hardly propel him to safety. With a swift trashing of its tail Zano was quickly pulled into the deep. Zano instinctively kicked water and mud in the struggle and wailed as loudly as his lungs held out. Just when he thought his life was over a strange sight appeared some distance down river. Dark blobs on the water surface were swimming upstream towards the commotion. Actually they were half running because hippos do not have webbed feet, and so they were partly running on the riverbed. Meanwhile Zano had remained still, exhausted from the struggle, with the croc’s jaws firmly clamped for the final drowning. As the hippos approached the leading alpha male’s ears could be seen flickering above the water – a sign of fury and anger. Then the loud snorts as six one ton bodies surrounded the croc, nostrils blowing loud hisses. The croc didn’t yield and that was enough for the alpha male. He submerged himself – an ominous sign that the hippo was about to strike. The next moment the 250kg reptile was gripped by the hippo’s cavernous jaws and thrown into the air. Then a curious thing happened. Punctured in the leg Zano was struggling to stand but failed, flopping back on the water. Two hippos approached and with their snouts gently nudged him to his feet, while the croc slipped away beleaguered. As if that’s not enough one of the hippos continued to nudge the stumbling zebra thru the deep mud until Zano reached firm ground. He stood there for some time, dazed and brown all over. The hippos re-grouped.

After Zano recovered, he slowly trotted to the savanna but his herd was nowhere in sight. For hours he searched aimlessly. No zebras – only moving herds of wildebeests, hyenas and deer. Once he mistakenly approached a herd of elephants. The matriarch chased him off, ears flapping wildly. Then in the distance he caught up with them grazing. Zano ran up happily to rejoin his family, expecting a welcome. Nothing of that happened. Instead the entire herd started running away from him. They could not recognize his stripes under the chocolate colored mud. So the next few weeks Zano followed his tribe from a distance, like an excommunicated miscreant. Until the summer rain came.

Months passed and Zano’s leg healed completely. In fact he was strong enough to lead his herd. Meanwhile at the river the hippos had multiplied. Several calves were starting to wean, hanging closely to their mothers. One day a mother and her young left the water to eat some young shoots at the bulrushes. Unknown to them a pride of lions were hiding nearby. Normally the lioness do not attack adult hippos for prey. But this time their interest was the calf, which was about the size of a pig. Soon enough the mother got wind of the danger. But she was on dangerous ground as her defenses are superior only in water. She’s after all only the queen in the river. And then she was outnumbered – this pride of three lionesses were working together for a kill. Just when the attackers were about to pounce on the hapless mother an amazing event occurred. On the horizon, not more than fifty meters away a troop of zebras emerged. Zano and his herd of two hundred just chanced upon the scene – like a line of cavalry suddenly surrounding a besieging group of red Indians. The attacking pride of lions were briefly distracted, long enough for mother and child to rush back to the safety of their herd in the river. Zano and his herd also ran – in the opposite direction. Zebras have this built-in instincts to run at the sight of lions. As Zano led his herd away one thought came to him about the hippos. Quid pro quo.

The eagle Intrepid

There are more than 70 species of eagles – a bird of prey related to raptors. Their keen eyes symbolized perspicacity, courage, strength and immortality. They are also considered “king of the skies” and messenger of the highest god, although the South American condor comes close to being the largest bird on earth. With these attributed qualities the eagle became a symbol of power and strength in Ancient Rome. Qualities of fierce independence and freedom to rule the skies as the top predator inspired the early American fathers to choose the bald eagle as the national bird. They also form the coat of arms of Austria and Germany as sovereign nations. Such noble qualities are the basis of our next story of a stellar sea eagle named Intrepid.

She already has a nest, up high on the Andean cliffs, with three flurry white eaglets to feed. So her work of finding food is cut out for her, almost the whole day, everyday. One day she could not find anything to feed her ravenous chicks, until noon. Then when she swooped down the cliff for the fiftieth time, she got lucky. On the snowy slope was a ptarmigan with her two chicks. There was no place to hide in the almost barren slopes. But she flew right over them. Why? Because Intrepid is no ordinary bird and live on certain principles. Her first principle is: never attack prey with offspring. Too many people in our society do not think beyond the call of duty – history is filled with those who blindly follow rules and political expediency. Many leaders failed to leave a legacy by not thinking about what should be done than what must be done. So this eagle believes in the future – that the young prey must be allowed to procreate to sustain the food-chain. Eventually she was able to snatch a female salmon about to die after spawning. On hauling this heavy fish to her nest, she did something extraordinary. Normally one or two eagle chicks will compete for food, with the stronger one always winning and eventually killing the younger. But Intrepid feeds them all in turn – tearing the booty with her talons and ensuring all three chicks get even portions. Her second principle: The eagle spirit is fierce, stalwart but fair.  As she set out again, her generosity gifted her the sight of a cluster of rabbits. She swooped down as they scattered each to their holes. Except one. It moved too slowly to the burrows. The eagle’s sharp eyes clearly saw this rabbit was lame. Intrepid soared off. Why miss a free lunch? Her third principle: Never make a bounty from the sick and the weak. You may think this as far fetched – any eagle would’ve starved to death by now. But again Intrepid is no ordinary bird. She’s doubly blessed – first with the generous spirit and second as the lord of the skies in the prolific coast, full of life-forms. Her favorite is snakes, as toxic as they come. There are extremely poisonous ones near the coast and somehow birds of prey are immune to the toxins. Intrepid takes pride in her elegant glide into the shallows and effortlessly lift a wriggling, sinewy form with one pendulum-like swing of her powerful talons. And because of their poison snakes are abundant. She has a principle to the challenges of taking on life to feed herself and her brood: The harder the goal the greater the challenge – never give up however foreboding the undertaking.

When pursuing a goal Intrepid holds on to an uncompromising standard of the relentless search to improve. When came for her chicks to leave the nest Intrepid was strict in their maiden flights. The two older chicks needed less push, but the youngest would quickly wobble into the eyrie with each wind gust. When the oldest took a tumble on her maiden flight, the mother led the fledgling out again and again to clear the cliffs, after each arduous task clambering back to the eyrie. When it comes to trying Intrepid insists on one principle: Never settle, aim high, then higher. But all these ambitions not without integrity. You could see it in her angry eyes.

One time she was chasing her prey – a swift swallow, one of the three flying together towards the sea. After a while she suddenly wheeled off from the chase allowing them to escape. Just as she did so, out of the sky another eagle appeared – a sea-eagle which immediately took up the chase of the swallows. Why? Principle number five: Respect the territory of others. This may appear obvious for birds of prey, but fights to the death have often occurred when the unwritten code is not respected. And humans have not fully assimilated this fact – countries today are still guilty of taking over land and violate the sovereignty of others. One might have thought that respecting the territory of another human being is just that – never intrude into the personal space and business of another. But it actually goes further – to acquire the possessions of another by theft or deception is intrusion of a heinous kind. Intrepid will not hesitate to intervene when one of her kind engages in robbery or any malfeasance.

It was a wintry day – food was scarce and competitors were aplenty. A dozen stellar eagles gathered on the frozen shores. Then there were scores of ravens, several seals and a couple of polar bears, each eyeing about to see which will become prey or predator. But most of the prey were swimming, hidden under the ice-cold water. Then a sudden splash as water sprayed from a threshing pike in the jaws of a fur seal. Soon the seal clambered on a floating ice to work on his meal. But before he could set his jaws again on it an eagle swooped down and deftly picked it off the seal’s paws. The thief landed on another floating ice, chased by the noisy ravens. The ravens could only make stealthy jabs at the droppings of the meal as the eagle tore at the morsel. But not for long. Intrepid landed next to the thief with a ferocious squawk. She rose high on her 5-foot frame and extended her wingspan to the maximum three meters. As if that’s not intimidating enough she turned around, livid, on the slinking thief with her blood-red and yellow neck feathers raised menacingly. You would have thought that conquerors always take the spoils of the vanquished. But not this Chief Justice of the skies. She picked up the half-eaten fish and dropped it near the seal that was watching the altercation. Nonsense you might say – what wild predator would work against the law of the jungle where might and strength rule the day. Not until you meet Intrepid – the messenger from the God of justice, truth and mercy.

And they will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not grow faint (Isaiah 40:31)

But the two wings of the great eagle were given to the woman, so that she could fly into the wilderness to her place, where she was nourished for a time and times and half a time, from the presence of the serpent (Rev 12:14)

Who satisfies your years with good things, So that your youth is renewed like the eagle (Ps 103:5)

Welcome to my charming nasty goose bumps

Harry leads a very private life. Ever since his wife died he finds great consolation in nature. For hours, camera in hand, he’ll get close to birds, insects and other wild life. But his greatest love is in how the flora and fauna express themselves, as if talking to him in his loneliness. So fascinated was he that he bought a beautiful home in the most enchanted forest area of the Swiss alps. His study faces a charming waterfall, not more than 20 meters high, with myriads of colorful butterflies, moths and other insects flying around the crystal-like stones where the spring water laps. The surrounding flora on both sides of the fall, scintillating with the morning sunlight, defies description. In the morning Harry will be awoken by the melodious orchestra of the different bird species taking their first feed of the insects that rise with the sun. So when Harry first moved in he thought that he’ll at least enjoy a foretaste of heaven that he believes his wife is now enjoying. But there’s one problem.

The cottage is next to a public park. Each summer groups of tourists would descend on the forest paths that radiate from the parking area. Students, mothers with energetic children unleashed, barking dogs and other trekkers would laugh and chatter along their day long expedition through the charming forest. Harry’s house sits right next to the path which cuts through his land. At first he tolerated the peripheral intrusion of his reclusion, as an ancient law requires that one must provide public access to anyone if that is the only conveyance available. But soon the noise and sometimes litter started to jangle his nerves. What’s more people would linger around the path for hours to admire the waterfall panorama that he thought was his quiet privacy. All his protestations to the authorities fell on deaf ears, as the forest, including the waterfall is state land. After pondering for months an idea dawned on him. He roughened up the access area, creating small bumps here and there so that intruders would not hang around than just passing through. It is his land area after all and although he did not deny public access the law cannot dictate how to landscape it. But it didn’t work. People still ignore his “private property” signage. What to do?

So one day when he visited a friend’s farm it struck him. He bought a gaggle of geese. Using an electronically control gate, he would release them whenever people over stayed on his land. Hissing with heads low they would waddle, beaks opened menacingly towards the strangers and getting under their skin. Some girls even screamed in terror, but it was the prefect scare tactic. No one has ever suffered more than a mild nick on their heels and the geese never venture outside Harry’s land. However there’s someone that the geese love.

Claire is a chubby 6 year old. Like most children she loves animals. For a long time she’d asked for a pet-dog from her parents. As they live in a flat this had been out of the question – Switzerland has among the strictest codes in the world regarding noise and disturbance from pets in close living spaces. But their flat is close to Harry’s cottage. So one day when Claire and her sister were on the path in his house the geese happened to be on their nasty rounds. As the gaggle approached them hissing low, Claire’s older sister let out a short scream and ran off to safety. But not Claire. She squatted low and extended her loving arms. Surprised, the geese fell silent and calmed down. With a tranquil voice Claire encouraged the geese to approach. Harry who was watching from his French window was first taken aback, and then bemused. The four geese drooped their heads submissively and allowed Claire to embrace each one in love. She even proceeded to kiss their napes gently. Then something curious happened. The geese each extended their long necks and cradled Claire’s neck lovingly in turn, their short tails wiggled in joy. A loud applause erupted from a group of tourist watching in silence nearby, outside and away from harm’s way. They had been regular visitors and had grown skittish about the geese ever since they became Harry’s security guards. As from that day on, Claire had free access to come visit anytime and Harry even allow her to take them for short walks around. Today if you’re visiting Switzerland and happen to pass through Harry’s house you’ll see the sign saying:

“Private property – beware of Goose Bumps – children are allowed petting.” And then

“Trespassers will NOT be persecuted“

Hickory Dickory Frog

Want to know how many species of frogs and toads in the world? About 6000. Some are painted, some slimy and many are toxic. The humble frog or toad in your yard is ubiquitous – suddenly it may be on the side of the pond, or hanging by a branch, or crawling along the window-pane. Just like the proverbial mouse that ran up the clock, it is just there – maybe because there can be so many of them as they are prolific breeders. The poet Basho describes their incidental presence with his world famous haiku :

Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

There’s no English translation that will fully justify the spirit of the 3-5-3 verse. Like “An old pond – frog jumped – a plonk sound of water.”

Our frog in this episode is Hockeye. Living among the reeds of the reservoir he must hide assiduously because his enemies are many. The tawny eagle is the apex predator in the lake but fortunately it has many goldilocks choices. Then there’s the egret – still as a statute moments before it strikes. The toman is a fierce snakehead fish and luckily it’s favorite is smaller fish, although there are scenes of it eating a toad or a small turtle. With these enemies all around you need friends. Who’d want to befriend a frog? Certainly not the reptilian denizens of the lake – for the green snake and the monitor lizard frogs or toads are the haute cuisine. So Hockeye found friendship with Woody the mongoose. Woody occasionally goes to the water’s edge for a drink. At the same time he would rustle the reeds, dispersing the insects resting there. Then Hockeye would collect them with a flip of his long tongue, or spit. But where is the symbiosis between them? It’s a dangerous liaison. Hockeye would draw the snakes out and the mongoose has his meal. But it has to be just before the snakes have theirs. So they’ll wait near the clock tower around lunchtime and Hockeye would start to croak at the bulrushes while Woody crouched low. Sometimes a grass snake would show up as Hockeye started to sweat (yes, they also breathe through their skin). Then they would dart off for other more delectable meals like a loach lurking at the water’s edge. Hockeye will catch his breath before resuming his croaks.  There are times when Woody would be beaten to the snake by the eagle which circles the lake. And then they both have to flee, in case the eagle next turn on them. But when something like a cobra appears Hockeye will hop off before it strikes and Woody will confront his prey. Come the rainy season and frogs will start to mate and croak vociferously. Hockeye will have numerous females in the corner of his pond, which he’ll take turns to mount. He’ll get brushed off often but as if nonchalantly, he’ll get onto another nearby, sometimes mistakenly on another male. He has to compete vigorously with the pool of harem afforded him, noisily but often by sheer strength from his two hind legs. They have to be strong through these exercises – many a time his life depends on it. After a week tiny tadpoles will hatch from the numerous clusters of yellow-dotted translucent eggs. Of the millions of eggs in the pond only a tiny fraction (1%) eventually survive, fully-grown to breed the next generation. The eggs either become breakfast for fishes and seabirds, or lunches and dinners for lizards and snakes, much like what humans make of the billion chicken eggs a day world-wide. Therefore frogs and toads, unlike humans do not have the luxury to select true-love mates for life. Or is it the other way around? But for the Romeo Hockeye he doesn’t mind – life for him is a blast hopping off in time to escape the jaws of death and letting his friend eats his prey. Hockeye also has a human friend. Not a few hops away is the Reservoir Experimental Station. One time when he chanced to be there a researcher scooped him up and placed him among the experimental rice stalks. Hockeye started feeding on the harmful apids.  Sometimes the researcher would put him on tea stalks, or some citrus plants. Hockeye would feed on the psylligs and the researchers would make copious notes, as there is a current infestation of these bugs in Asian citrus plantations. So the researcher would use him occasionally but always let him return to his waterside home, after putting a little tag on his feet for his research contributions. But little does the researcher know that Hockeye would not return again the next summer and that in the animal kingdom no one respects tags.

It happened at the usual lunch hour at the clock tower. It was a beautiful sunny day and Hockeye was croaking merrily for his friend. The sky was deep blue without a bird in the sky. After a long time he would feel a vibration in the reeds like a slithering body approaching. As it approached Hockeye was getting ready to jump and Woody readied himself. But no – instead the cobra lunged at another frog nearby. Shocked, Woody let the snake slipped away and Hockeye lowered his guard. Not sooner than Hockeye was about to croak again, a slithering body darted out from the reeds and grabbed him in its toxic jaws.  There was not one but two snakes! Woody sprung into action nonetheless. He jumped on the cobra’s tail. But his bites failed to dislodge Hockeye, instead the snake had started to swallow. Woody recoiled and bit on its head, shaking it violently to rescue Hockeye. After a while the snake stopped. Then like any mongoose would do Woody proceeded to swallow the snake whole, bloated with his friend inside.

Hickory Dickory Dock
The frog began to crock
The clock struck one
Two snakes are done
Hickory Dickory Frog!

The dolphin that whistles back

Dolphins, like whales have lungs and blowholes are their nostrils. But more remarkable are their brains, larger than most fish relative to their size. Their performance in aquatic shows belie their intelligence. You’ll have thought that they learn from humans under training. But there’s more. Even in the wild dolphins have been observed to hunt intelligently in groups and their behavior follows logic absent in other fishes, like innovation. Above all these extremely social mammals have an inexplicable affinity for humans, even in the wild. Take the case of Davie, a bottle-nose adopted by the Marine naval research facility. He’s been taught to be a lifeguard at a secret location somewhere along the Californian coast. Discovered accidentally after he was lost by being separated from his pod at birth, Davie took to his human keeper like an infant to his mother. As he grew, the keeper found an abnormal birth defect – his blowhole does not seem to open completely like others. Fortunately Davie had adapted to it and it was considered not life-threatening. But it was a probable reason why he was unable to keep up with the pod at birth. So when he grew strong enough he started the lifeguard program, helping to recover disabled seamen and other operatives under water. One day something curious happened during his training.

Once for the whole day the keeper was shouting hoarse to Davie.  Then she decided to use a whistle to get his attention. Davie whistled back. It was not the usual dolphin whistle from air within its mouth but a human-like one. Startled the trainer blew twice to made sure that it was not an accident. The dolphin whistled twice through his blowhole. Then to make absolutely sure she whistled a rhythm like: -, – -, -, -. Davie could respond to the rhythm exactly. From that time on, Davie started to communicate with his trainer using different short-long blast sequences. So if she wanted to call Davie it would be a long sustained whistle. Davie would show up from underwater and acknowledge with a short note. Then when she wants him to fetch, two long whistles would send him dashing out to catch the ball. A long-short blast would mean “go” and two short blasts to “stop”. Jackie the trainer would have so much fun with Davie devising interesting aquatic performances. Sometimes she’d make a mistake and Davie would wrongly throw the rider overboard, much to laughter from the crowds. But Davie is part of the naval team and sideshows like this are just to supplement the cost of his upkeep. Now dolphin researchers will tell you that besides using sounds of clicks and whistles from its mouth to communicate, the essential use is in echolocation – sensing echoes to determine where its prey or predator is, besides navigation. In a real naval operation no humanly detectable sound must be made and hence Davie would be instructed with a different, inaudible frequency, outside the range of 20 to 20000 Hz. Still Davie enjoys whistling through his blowhole, a birth defect that he has turned into a fun activity. But what about underwater?  Davie would choke or even drown if he tries to whistle likewise there. So he whistles the normal way, like all dolphins do, thru his breathing apparatus underwater. Davie and Jackie worked 3 years and like all dolphins had to make way for younger ones at the project. But Jackie would not let her companion go to seed. She took a job as a lighthouse keeper so as to live close to him in a private cove out in the sea.

It was a worthwhile calling. Seamen caught in rough seas would take refuge in the cove and spend the night in her tavern until the storms pass. Sometimes ships would run aground on hurricanes and Jackie, assisted by her son as keepers had to run the logistics of recovery and providing shelter at the medical assisted center. Stragglers would be given food and board for a modest fee so Jackie could get by, while her son ran the cafeteria. And then there’s Davie – what a great help as we soon find out.

It was a day when the storms made it looked like night. The waves were huge enough to overpower a luxury yacht and it had to shelter in Jackie’s cove. On board were parents with their children, aged 15, 8 and 5. As the day drawn into night they had to radio for Jackie’s help. So in pitched-black darkness she set out in the motorized pontoon, guided only by the light of her lighthouse. After everyone was lifted off the yacht, Jackie ensured that each was properly life-jacketed. But no sooner when she headed toward the tavern the wind picked up. A monstrous wave flipped them overboard. All the adults screamed. However the children though terrified inside, managed to remain composed to take instructions from Jackie. “Everyone grab onto the pontoon!”, she shouted above the noise of wind and waves. So after everyone was accounted for, hanging to the ropes of the overturned craft, Jackie reminded them to stay calm, while she prayed inside her that Davie comes to help. For half an hour nothing happened when they floated in the darkness. She whistled and called out for Davie. But the waves and wind was louder. A pod of dolphins swam by. But it wasn’t Davie among them. The children had started to cry, shivering in the cold. Jackie herself was about to give up but she whistled anyway. Then from the darkness the familiar whistle. Jackie made a loop with a mooring rope, small enough to fit his bottle-nose. It was slow, but soon Davie pulled them to shore in the pitch darkness.

Once they were all safe, warmed and fed in the tavern, Jackie went out to the jetty to thank Davie with a bucket of fish. At her whistle, Davie showed up chattering with his happy clicks. The wind was still howling with the waves. After feeding him Jackie stroked his snout and asked, not expecting a reply from the dolphin, “How did you finally find us?” Davie clicked several times and whistled with his blowhole. Jackie immediately understood what he was trying to say – “That pod of dolphins that found you earlier – they told me.”

 

Cheeky, the bonobo face artiste

There are over 260 known species of monkeys. Of the hominoid simians we often hear of chimps, baboons, gorillas, orangutans and gibbons generally classified as apes. But there’s also other macaques (non-hominoid) like the mandrill, capuchin, colobus, marmoset, tarsiers and tamarin which are rarely heard of. Then there’s the endangered ape bonobo, a so-called pigmy chimpanzee which is a closest extant relative to humans. We meet one of them, appropriately given the name Cheeky.

Cheeky likes to make faces. Not just mimicry, which monkeys are known for. He’s also  able to sense the feelings of people and reflect in his face – one of joy, sadness, surprise, anger or puzzlement. Sometimes he’ll accompany with an appropriate monkey giggle or shriek but often the expression will last briefly for a second and he’ll saunter away. How did he learn these emotions? By watching videos – endlessly. His keeper tried this as an experiment after noticing his facial expressiveness. Sometimes Cheeky doesn’t seem to care about the endless stream of videos, but somehow things get through. So when a visitor comes to him, he’ll briefly gaze at the face and then reflect the mood as he thinks fit. So Cheeky was just an academic research interest at the national zoo, until a notorious theft occurred at a nearby cage. Two rare peregrine falcons disappeared. Investigations revealed that the theft occurred late morning after feeding time. The mystery was solved the very next day. The butcher shop was delivering meat to the lion’s keeper passing by the peregrine cages when Cheeky became very agitated. Did he see the thief? This happened a few times. So the zoo security decided to furtively follow the butcher truck. The falcons were found hence incriminating the delivery staff. Cheeky not only can read emotions – he can never forget a suspicious face. Where and when did he pick up this habit? Turns out that he became quite close to the young elephant calf in the next enclosure. The young is always taking in new sights and sounds from the new environment they’re born into. And Cheeky started to communicate with the baby elephant in an animal language that scientists still hardly know. So every time a visitor comes to the enclosure to interact with the pachyderms Cheeky would take it all in, observing how they smell and probe with their trunks. Hence he learned to always remember an individual.

So a new experiment started. Cheeky would be shown photographs of different people and he is able to pick one that matches the visitor. He could even match as well as the face recognition software developed for security systems. But a deeper question was posed – if he can read emotions,  wouldn’t Cheeky be able to pick up suspects? The research keeper scratched his head a while and the airport project was started.

Cheeky would be stationed at the arrival booth of a terminal to work with the sniffer dogs. But his job was with the customs officer to pick up suspects in contraband and passport fraudsters. So weeks of training began and Cheeky would learn to sense fearful and jittery people. After a while Cheeky’s success rate began to climb. He would be right in 6 out of 10 arrivals, jumping up and down everytime a suspect is led away. Then when a feature on him appeared in the news the airport somehow became a tourist attraction. That was when Cheeky the inspector began to fail. He became a celebrity  – and a spectacle. Children would run around him and shout “Gorilla! gorilla!” Others would hang around the entry point and regard the uniformed chimp with curiosity. It came to a point of him losing his job. In a last ditch effort the keeper decided to put Cheeky in a cage away from the inspectors, using a video screen to show the responses of each visitor expressions. It failed. Cheeky was bored to death, crouched in the corner of the cage, ignoring everything. He lacked the smell and sound that he learned from the elephants. Or is there something else that cognitive scientists has yet to discover on our “sixth sense”?

So Cheeky returned to the zoo cage. Today he occasionally appears on TV commercials flashing his famous facial expressions that people would coax out of him. But if you happen to visit him at the zoo, know for a fact that his expressions are real and that he understands exactly how you feel.

Sheepish is not stupid

It is said that you can lead a sheep or goat anywhere, even willingly to its death. The term “sacrificial lamb” is not coincidental – any shepherd can attest that sheep often need help to help themselves as if the animal is only bred to be killed in absolution. Each year the world consumes 2.2 million sheep and lamb as well as 1.5 million goats. If not for demand in mutton New Zealand, which has more sheep than human population, would have suffered in its top export commodity. Lamb and sheep sacrifices had its religious origins – King Solomon’s feast had 120 000 along with 30 000 oxen, lasting 14 days and the Islamic Eid al-Adha annual ritual of slaughtering sheep also had biblical origins from Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaac. But just like the pig can we find an exception? If you meet the baby lamb Alfa you’ll find it.

Alfa is unusual because he answers to his name. How often does a shepherd call his sheep by name? Alfa would lead the flock and one would know where he had led them from the bell he wears. He knows where the cliffs are and where to get water. Most of all Alfa would lead the flock back at dusk, avoiding places where you might expect a wolf or some predators lurking. So when he bleats on returning to the stalls the entire flock would bleat happy to be home. But sheep cannot count and so how does Alfa keep the flock? Because he has help from Beta, a doe no older than a year. She keeps so close to Alfa to copy every action of his, like a sidekick. And Beta has this habit of never entering the stall until all the others are back. How does she know? Perhaps sheep can sense each other. One day Alfa and the flock returned during sunset, but Beta refused to budge. The next morning the shepherd sensed something was wrong. A brief search found two sheep caught in the thicket of some bushes, bleating away in desperation.

So Alfa and Beta went on famously to help run the flock. Then August 10 approached and so came the Muslim festival of Eid Al-Adha – the festival of Sacrifice. Every year hundreds or thousands of sheep would be shipped out to countries that observe the event. It honors the willingness of the Biblical Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac and for his faithfulness was spared the agony when God provided a ram caught in the bush. All of a sudden Alfa watched as dozens of his ward were herded into trucks for export for the gruesome slaughter. As time went by it became clear that one day his turn would come, and so would Beta. What is there to do? Alfa would constantly turn to ask his companion Twig, a lorikeet that loves to perch on his right ear. And when Beta had reached the right age, she was gone too. Alone and getting on, Alfa would look up to Twig for solace. Grow more wool! Twig would seemed to shout into his ear. And so Alfa had been one of the most prolific in wool sheared from his back. But still with age there will come a time when it would be more economical to ship him off as mutton quality falls with age. Then what? And then one day it happened.

As usual Alfa was getting his usual shear. That morning Twig flew round his head with excited chirps. “Today is the day your life will be commuted!” Alfa walked into the stall as usual. Then as the shears clicked a shout came out of the shearer. “Hey mate look!” he cried to his fellow workers. They all dropped their shears and crowded around Alfa. There among the purest of white wool were bunches of golden ones. The gaped at the quality and luster of the golden wool. The master was called and they figured it must be a most marvelous product that will ever come out from the ranch.

So Alfa spend his evening years producing golden wool. And not only that, the master tried to sire him, hopefully to reproduce golden fleece from his offspring. Twig would fly around happily chirping away at Alfa’s fortune and pleasure – to enjoy old age with all the fuss and a harem to boot.

(Continue in SCARF4)

SCARF2

(continued from SCARF1@copyright mktyap)

Caged Canary sings about Life!

Joe had a happy childhood. Until his parents divorced. He grew up in a wealthy home, father being a well established banker and mother an equally well known socialite. Unlike his siblings Joe does not really care for the ready luxuries of the world that their mother constantly brings into the home. After his parents separated he keeps to himself and often is found alone at school. He has only one interest – animals. Most of all Joe loves birds. Every day he would leave earlier with his field glasses and stalks the woods behind the school until the bell. Sometimes even after lessons had started. He would keep a log of feathers and could rattle off the names of the owners. So Joe was contend to live through high school thus. Until his mother announced she’s getting married again, to her Indonesian boyfriend.

As expected he’s also a wealthy man, with conglomerates all over Indonesia. Joe couldn’t care less, except that now the family will relocate to Jakarta. Every time one starts a new life in a different country and culture there will be some excitement, until the exotic feeling fades. But Joe continued to find his passion in the exotic birds, now in even greater variety. Hornbills, magpies, starlings, lorikeets and even the weird-looking frog-mouth. They became his textbooks, only. Until one day he accompanied his step father thru the main streets of town. He came across a lane of birds, literally. Cages and cages lining the sidewalks and the cacophony of bird-calls is unlike what he had ever seen, or heard in the US. He felt sickened. That night he remained in somber silence at dinner. What’s eating you Joey? He hates the name the father now calls him. After some simmering silence he blurted out – “Dad can you give me 200 dollars?”. Without asking why dad said sure. After all that’s small change compared to his two million profit that day. Finishing up hastily he quietly left the dinner table and strode into the study. He began flipping thru a companion book of small birds.

The following day Joe made his way to the lane of caged birds. Choosing which he thought to be healthy ones he started buying cage after cage. You can buy a lot of birds with 200 US dollars in Indonesia. Asked how he plan to bring them home he stunned the shopkeepers. He began to release them one by one. If you keep the empty cages can I have more birds? The bemused sellers agreed and Joe went home with 6 more free birds in return for 200 empty cages. He planned to study them as they have unusual plumage and sung superbly. At home, nobody notice the new arrivals Joe got, as the residence is sprawling and Joe had his private corner. He started talking to them and recording their songs. After hearing them for a week, Joe had enough. Time for freedom. But not so fast.

That week the birds started talking among themselves. Fantail and Forktail were constantly wishing they were also released at the shop. Their song goes like this: Oh but for the blue skies and breeze; For once life outside the cage gives freedom and peace. (Repeat). The aloof Monarch kept saying what lowly company she’s found herself in, wishing she had remained in the shop with the other monarchs: “Our whole life in a cage like a red dot on a map. Oh that I can fly away to America and Europe where I hear birds are free..food and life!” The spiritedly orioles kept shouting for food from the insects that fly around the compound. Only the lowland Canary whistler stood quiet, resting her throat for her daily morning sonata. What about you? Fantail squeaked to the Canary.  Don’t you want freedom too? “All my life is singing in this cage, and food with water is always there. Besides our new master listens to my song and records them, he is the best audience that I’m living my life for.” Hearing this, the other four birds sneered and taunted the Canary, that when they become free they will return to laugh at her prison in her cage.

So that sunny morning Joe opened their cages. The orioles were the first to fly out toward the midges buzzing around the water pipe. All of a sudden a dark shadow zoomed by. Birds of prey became prey of bird. The goshawk snatched the Orioles so fast that only few strands of yellow plumage drifting downwards remained. Fantail, Monarch and Forktail escaped but a few weeks later they were trapped again and returned to the shop. Canary remained inside the cage. Puzzled, Joe pushed her towards the opening with a stick. She flew out, wheeled around and went back inside. Then she began to sing: Life for me is just a song; Nothing but a song in a cage; For you it is but a cage; But me it is my whole world; Take what life gives you, cage or not; For in just a while we’ll be gone with nothing. (Repeat)

So from that day forth Joe left Canary’s cage door open for her to go and come as she pleases. And when the goshawk swoop near she’ll hop into the cage for safety. Every morning Canary would wake Joe promptly with her melodious tweets. And Joe would oblige with birdseed and water. Oh to be free and safe, she tweeted.

Two summers passed and Joe completed his ornithological studies at the US Forestry Research, leaving Canary under the care of a house helper. He left her $400 to release another 400 cages from that shop. Among them was the Monarch and her friends. That autumn Joe, while making a rare bird-call recording suddenly collapsed at the Sumatra aviary forest reserve. He passed away peacefully of brain hemorrhage. Still today at the crack of dawn outside Joe’s bedroom on the branch of the jambu tree you can hear the melodious tweet of a canary.

“How but for the cage where I lived since small; Will I live happy and long?; Take the world given to your little luckless life; And live what you have and now; But for my love lost forever; I will see the world.”

Since then she would no longer return to the cage but for the goshawk.

The golden Phoenix that flew backwards

In the study of an old professor at Harbin, China stands a golden statuette. One day a student puzzled by its monstrous-looking shape asked about it. “Oh, that’s a phoenix. ” But why the wings point forward? Because it is flying backwards, said the professor. But why? Scratching his head the professor couldn’t offer an answer. The answer actually can be found in an ancient tablet from Iraq, ancient Mesopotamia.

The tablet gave details on how Noah’s Ark was to be populated. Aside the pairs of animals described in the bible there was an obscure reference to a bird that served on the altar. But it had no partner, implying it’s extinction today. But they were said to rejuvenate themselves, by rising from its ashes, every 500 years. What details could be given about this mysterious bird? Where if any is the existing resurrected bird today? It was known to stay uninvolved in its perch near the altar, for unknown periods of time. Its behavior was to be the harbinger of things about to unfold. Because each time it takes flight a cataclysm of events follow.

Moro the altar keeper worked with the Phoenix to neutralize the evil mariner Ghaust, who used his army of swordfish to attack Moro’s peaceful cormorants.

It came about when Moro would not share his fishing catch from his 2000 cormorants that roamed free in the Persian Gulf. Ghaust had advanced well, training his attackers to drive the groups of fish catches away from Moro’s flock. Moro however  trained a pod of dolphins to protect his birds but they were no match against the deadly swords. Luckily the smarter dolphins possessed a potent defense.

They could generate sonar that will confuse their enemies or predators. Moro fitted devices on his dolphins that modulated their natural frequencies targeted at the swordfish. A group of dolphins would work together, confusing several swordfish to swim against themselves to self-destruct. How these technologies existed more than 3000 years ago is a mystery. But Ghaust was crafty – he would mix his group of attackers with barracudas and other fish of prey. One day Ghaust launched a surprise invasion of Moro’s fishing harbor. The birds all at once suddenly took flight while the dolphins scattered and dived deep. Moro was praying at his temple when this happened as the walls began to shake, scattering candles, bowls and everything on his altar. It was at an unusual day in history.

There was an incident recorded in the bible when the sun moved backwards for about 40 minutes. Israel’s king Hezekiah had asked God to let him survive his illness for another 15 years. To verify his wish the sun’s shadow was allowed to go backwards on Ahaz’s staircase, then used as a sundial in the absence of clocks. If this were true our modern clock would have turned back 40 minutes. Even NASA is reported to have acknowledged this phenomenon. Time travel into the future is forbidden by the rules of known modern physics. But travelling into the past with superluminosity is getting acceptance today, except development of such a practical vehicle is still science fictional. How is it related to the backward sun movement is unclear although some ideas of quantum entanglement can only provide wild postulates. Now back to Moro.

In desperation of the impending invasion and the destruction of his temple, Moro turned to the Phoenix. As the walls fell around him, the extraordinary thing happened. The phoenix took off from its perch. It started a tsunami. Minutes later scores of Ghaust’s invading swordfish and barracudas were thrown onto land by the towering waves. The cormorants had flown to safety on higher ground and the dolphins had sensed the earthquake to stay deep underwater. But the waves didn’t stop. It pushed Ghaust’s trashing army further inland, engulfing Moro’s house and family. Looking out Moro screamed at the Phoenix for mercy. For a while nothing happened but crashing waves. And then time stopped. Literally. The phoenix stopped in mid-flight – and began flapping backwards. It happened exactly 40 minutes. The waves also moved backwards, everything happened like a video running in reverse. The miracle saved Moro, family and his birds. But for some unexplained reason Ghaust’s retreating army of fighters were caught on the still standing trees. The inhabitants were blessed with a feast of swordfish meat and barracuda. Moro chopped up many as offering of deliverance. But what of the Phoenix? You see, when he was first created by the Greek god Ethos he had a strict code – to always fly forward. Any reversal of time would turn him to a golden statue. So in sorrow Moro picked up the statue that dropped dead on the temple floor after its 40 minutes bravery. Through the centuries the relic was subsequently lost to the invading armies. Today you can still see it somewhere in China.  But you’ll not find a living phoenix, anywhere.

Love-struck antelope stucked

Rein deers are the beautiful cousins of the antelope family. It is not clear whether animals choose their mates the way humans do, and there are lots of observation that points to preference of producing healthy offsprings or the physical ability to protect mate and young. But the predominant task seems to lie with the female, once a goldilocks choice presents itself. But love? Meet Toby the sika deer.

Toby came from a litter of three. He loves to play with his two sisters, even at adolescence. Normally a deer starts getting romantic about a year but Toby doesn’t get attracted to any doe, even at two years old. All his male friends in the herd had started fathering with multiple partners while he plays with anyone platonically. His mother, like all parents was getting worried, chasing him off when he wants to play. One day he met another mother with two fawns. He approached to play with her but she gave a stern snap. Toby sprung off but surprisingly one of the fawns approached to play. Toby excited started prancing around the young fawn, who responded, even nipping at his ear. Also the ewes at this time was in heat, but Toby  was clueless. He was so happy finding a playmate until she suddenly stopped, quivering strangely. Toby froze for a long while when the apparently bizarre happened. She started mounting him. Toby was so shocked, struggled furiously and bolted away. The young fawn was unfazed and none the wiser. Not that kind of playmate, she must have thought, that stupid man.

Again Toby passed that summer, a celibate bachelor. He was beginning to feel lonely as no one wanted to play. With a full head of antler horns the other males only wanted to fight him, leaving him befuddled. So he wandered further and further from the herd. One time he was resting by a waterhole when he thought he saw another deer approached, brown like him, though smaller. He was excited. So was the female fox, sniffing the male in the air. He began prancing around, bowing low and up again. The fox responded, strangely. They spend that autumn together. Animals of different specie are known to mate and even produce hybrids. By this time Toby could feel a tinkling sense of warmth with her, something he’s never felt before. Spring came around and Toby now felt the urge, a force to copulate and reproduce, just like all his fellow male herd, all the mammals, marine, insects and the plant-flora in the world. Even bacteria or microbes reproduce – a universal force of life. Instinctively he did the courtship prance to his new friend. Again and again, he tried, even attempting to mount the same way that fawn did to him. He was love-struck, at last.

She was unimpressed. She just wanted to play, like him. And she wanted just his company, period. Toby chased and chased, pheromones bursting all over him. But it was all in vain. She couldn’t see pass his snout. It’s just another sad, love story that you may have heard so many times before. Life has so many instances of someone wanting another, but she or he just wanted someone else, who in turn prefers some other people. After that fox Toby could never find another fawn who attracts him, but many fawns were interested, some madly. Even today, you can still see Toby wander forlornly in the grasslands, wondering why his love for the fox was unrequited.

Because that fox was born with a poor sense of smell and little eyesight. She only found out later that Toby was not a fox. Who says love is blind?

Bauxa the firefighting giraffe

Zulu is the tallest giraffe in captivity, standing 19 feet at Pembrokeshire, England. So long is a giraffe’s neck that it has to lower it’s head ever so often to get blood pumping enough to its brain. Surprisingly it has the same number of verterbrae as a human – seven. Using the tongue they pull leaves from their favorite Acadia tree which other animals cannot reach. Tall animals, like tall people must have some use for their height, and Bauxa is one who found a unique job.

Bauxa’s close friend is Jana, a farm boy helping his family’s apple ranch in South Africa. They became friends after Jana found him in the wild, limping from an embedded thorn. Grimacing in pain, Bauxa didn’t avoid him as the boy approached and removed the offending african boxthorn from his hind foot. For an animal so heavy it must have been awfully painful to walk on it. Towering with over thrice the boy’s height, Bauxa easily picked him up with his strong neck in appreciation for releasing him from the misery. Since then they have been pals in the savanna. Occasionally Bauxa would appear at the farm and Jana would feed him some apple leaves. Jana’s family hardly make a living from their apples even though Bauxa did helped pluck those higher than they could reach with ladders. Until a fire occurred. The impoverished village did not have a fire squad, especially when there are only several dozen thatched houses, with an average height of three meters.

Jana and Bauxa sprang to action. As a pair, Bauxa would lift Jana on his neck and he would direct a hose closely on the flames leaping from the roof, as water pressure tends to be weak in the village. The duo again saved the village from razing to the ground a few more times and it was then the village chief decided to start a fire squad. Who was the fire chief? Of course Bauxa as Jana was only a twelve-year-old then. Years passed and Jana grew to be fire chief. Bauxa could not lift him anymore – if you know mechanics you can see how much a full grown man can create a considerable moment on a long giraffe’s neck. But the pair were called to various missions – saving a cat from a tree which it can only ascend, removing a python from an electric pole, and disentangle kites from wires – things considered normal for firemen. One night the village chicken farm was invaded by a pack of hyenas. Desperate the owners called the fire squad. In the midst of the hyenas’ shrill, whimpering howls and the mayhem of fluttering feathers a tall shadow emerged. The hyenas retreated, knowing how a kick from a giraffe would feel and the fire chief didn’t even have to get out of bed. Today if you happen to go on a safari in south Africa and espy a giraffe wearing a fireman’s helmet don’t laugh. He takes his job seriously. Even if the helmet has to sit jauntily over his two furry ossicone horns.

The indefatigable rat

Of all the wickedness of war mine-laying is the most wicked. And landmine-clearing is patently the most dangerous job in the world. 15 to 20 thousand landmine casualties occur yearly in peacetime, and Mosha the prosthetic elephant is one. Mine clearing is dangerous because they can explode with a light touch, or heavy compression from say a vehicle. It has been reported that a rat was trained to detect mines, because their weight would not detonate a mine as would a human’s. But rats cannot unarm a detonater,  a human has to do the final job, until now. Rufus was a laboratory rat, a Wistar of the albino breed. Her researcher has been modifying some of his neural circuits to improve intelligence, as well as enabling dexterity to the toes. So successful has this been in the lab that she decided to train him for field studies. Just then the de-mining project came on stream and Rufus was summarily enlisted. The results were no less stunning.

Rufus wears a transmitter connected to the brain and wirelessly, to the lab computer-cum-cellphone. On command he can begin sniffing for munitions in a direction transmitted by the lab. Not just that. In the lab he had learned to recognize colored wires and gnaw thru them by command. A camera attached to its back provide vital images to a disposal expert online anywhere. Once several experts all around the world was watching him at work and giving inputs to the lab director, in situ. Rufus owes his life to sound advice. Sometimes, when humans are in doubt he would be asked to gnaw at a wire and then jump off as far as he could by a small electric shock to a part of his brain. That’s a gamble on his life, as are all heros called to do. Rufus doesn’t mind the job as he looks forward to the nuts bonanza for every successful detonation. Besides he loves the outdoor life compared to a laboratory cage. And the children of Myanmar and Cambodia loves him – rodents are either killed, poisoned or devoured by snakes in these countries but Rufus being so docile is both cute and quaint, having clusters of wiresockets coming out of its head. Also Rufus has a companion worker – Wally the fruit-bat. Sometimes Rufus would need a helper to hold one end of the wire to prevent an accidental shortcircuit when severed. Wally would hold it in her tiny front claws while hanging upside-down from a branch. How did these two odd couple come to work together is another story. The problem is that bats work at night and so unless there’s a night expedition, Rufus had to work alone.

Rufus had begun to have a reputation of top mine detective. Many countries have been requesting his services. So he was dispatched to Pakistan in Taliban country infested with mines and snakes. There he ended his job as a mine-clearing sleuth. He was directed to a bushy area where he began sniffing.  As he approached the detonator Rufus sensed something amiss – the spot was awfully quiet. Then when he was about to sever the trip wire something darted out at him from the bush. Fortunately his trained senses enabled him to leap off in time just as the cobra struck the wire instead. Boom! The mine went off and Rufus was thrown meters away. Fortunately his leap had already bought him safely out of concussion zone and he survived. But the cobra was not so lucky. His researcher decided that that was enough – Rufus is too smart to be killed working as a mine-detector. So after rewiring his brain he got a new job – as a maze rescue rat.

Maze exploration is familiar territory for researchers. Solutions abound. In point of fact there is an annual competition on solving mazes with a wheeled robot. But it is not a walk in the park for Rufus. He has to help cave explorers find alternative routes and exits. In spelunking there are no internet signals and no GPS. But Rufus is indefatigable – he can go for miles, hit a dead end and head off to another opening. Each time his paths sensed by a digital compass get saved to form an internal map by a microprocessor mounted on his back. You can call Rufus a digital mouse although he’s actually a rat.

So Rufus lived to a ripe old age of nine, working up to the last day. He was taken to the laboratory where all dead rats were disposed after they were used. As someone once said on a graffiti board, after running and winning the rat race you’re still a rat.

Post-note: Recently a Cambodian rat called Magawa was honored for de-mining 39 mines and cleared 35 acres of explosive land. (https://edition.cnn.com/2020/09/25/asia/hero-rat-landmines-award-intl-hnk-scli/index.html)

The sly magpie at swallow hotel

When Rossini composed the thieving magpie overture he probably knew more about the bird than most of us. Our story begins however with the swallow. They nest near human dwellings for some reason. And like humans, they love to have neighbors of their own kind. Noisy cacophonous neighbors. Being non-paying guests they come and go as they please. So when nobody’s home, comes the thief. Many birds however do not take advantage of the safety of roofs and awnings. So nests built on trees are susceptible to predators who climb trees, or fly in from the skies. Jackie the thief knew this. So the magpie would slip into the nests of the swallows and deposit her eggs. But being an incorrigible she would also deposit eggs and what not from other birds’ nest. In her mind, being in the Swallow Hotel is safer than being swallowed by the dog-toothed tree snake. What an agent of disruption that knave!

Soon the hotel became a depository of sorts. Mixed with swallow eggs were also eggs of geckos, myrnahs, wrens and an unknown one, along with rings, brackets, hairpins and pearls. Months passed and the wacky magpie forgot her eggs at the hotel. The swallows there were baffled at their offsprings not looking like themselves, but soon left the young to face life. But the unknown egg finally hatched, last. Both the young cobra and the swallows shocked each other. That ended events at the swallow hotel. Because baby cobras can start hunting at birth, venom and fangs ready.

Accidents of births have been a great emotional disruption since babies were delivered at a same location in hospitals. So also accidental mishandling of procedures allied to births such as sperm samples and eggs. Ova and oocytes must be carefully identified and marked just as sperm samples but accidental mismanagement still occurs, such as taking home the wrong baby. It is a lifetime mistake and lawsuits have prevailed. But in the animal world? Other than smell one wonders whether animal parents recognize their off-springs by size and color. Probably not so much at birth, but we have to wait for an animal psychologist to report.

Aargh, bet there’s something beyond my nose that’s different from yours!!

The Rooster called Hope

Jake works hard all his life – really hard. He had to. Born to a family with modest means, his parents were always working to make ends meet and it grew on him. His family wasn’t close-knit. Through the struggling years however, society permitting, they made it to middle-class. But Jake didn’t stop. The trauma of poverty leaves a chronic scar. There’s another reason Jake kept up his ambitions. It is said that if one is poor talents like academic brilliance or athletic prowess can create opportunities. But Jake had neither. So in school being poor and last in class he was stigmatized by his classmates’ disdain. And teachers in those days never knew about the permanent damage of poor self esteem. In fact they’d join the sneering class against the down-trodden. Elitism may appear efficient and economical in developing a country’s resources but untold deficiencies can be inflicted on the critical mass of average citizens. A lifetime’s damage due to ignorant teachers.

So by dint of hard work Jake went thru college. With savings from a first job, he pressed on to graduate degrees. Life has its ironies – hard work alone certainly isn’t enough to do well economically. He started several business and either broke even or suffered losses. His investments were laughable. Life to him was hard work and luck, but invariably luck eluded him. Until he met Jane. It was like night meeting day. Jane was brilliant, a sports star and well liked by all. Her family was warm, supporting and gave her all the security and confidence that gave her the leg up to start life. But that’s not all – she was kind, generous, sensitive and disarming – all the qualities Jake wished for when growing up. She would ace her exams effortlessly and still find time to do sports well. Most of all she had leadership and confidence – the quiet assurance that everything will be ok. And talk about luck…Jane had it all. Somehow things and events would work to her favor but Jake would often curse Murphy and his damned law. And she was not plain Jane either. So when he married her he thought that for once he had his life in order. Everything went like a dream came true, some beyond his expectations. For 30 years. Jake would think that if he’ll meet his classmates again who despised his class standing he could now stand up to them. And his bullying teachers too. But it was not to be. The stroke struck her out of nowhere. No symptoms nor pre-conditions. The coma lasted four years and Jake, already completely devastated, lost everything when she died. He felt like being thrown back into the sewers, his sun taken away like a flash. He had already left his job to care for her four years. Returning to hell Jake felt there was nothing left nor look forward to but wait for the time to join her in heaven. Then one early morning when at the lowest point of despair a visitor came.

After the rain he looked out the bedroom window and he thought he saw a wind vane. But he never needed to know wind directions, never installed one and was mystified. Until it moved. The rooster tilted it’s head, eye looking skyward, it’s red comb quivering. Then it flew from the roof to the front yard. Curious, Jake rushed downstairs for a closer look. It was magnificent. It’s feathers long and glistening flashed in colors of vermillion, blood red, yellow and bright orange. It strode boldly and confidently, turning it’s head here and there, as if declaring there’s no obstacle that will deter him. Running not two meters ahead were two hen, one with a fluffy brood of chicks darting in and out from under her. The mother constantly was giving a soft cackle with authoritative concern. They moved like a family full of hope and solidarity that life afford. Then the Rooster crowed. It’s golden beak glistened in the light as he shook it’s multi-color coat. Its wattles, brilliant red quivered.

Jake had always heard the cock crow as a child. At the crack of dawn in his village he would stir in bed at the sound – the sign that there’s another day in life. But never has the significance of a Rooster call strike him as deeply as today. It tells him that after thirty married years he is no more the bumbling child his classmates despised him for. It is a call of hope.

Accountant squirrel with the forgetful llama

There was an amusing study that squirrels forget where they have stocked 90% of the nuts they found. Often they’ll find someone else’s but be no wiser for it. Humans aren’t that forgiving – try that in a community fridge and you’ll be put to shame.

Not so Pedro the squirrel. Not only does he know where last summer’s nuts are but also the summers before. Pedro has a good friend in Dunbar, a south American camelid. Together they roam the countryside Pedro hunting a variety of nuts while Dunbar the llama seeks alfalfa and bromgrass. Llamas are known to be smart but Dunbar has a weakness.  Sometimes he would wander far from his herd and got lost. After days adrift his squirrel friend would show up and the pair would amber back.

One winter Dunbar wandered into the Colombian mountains. Snow was thick and Pedro would not be found, hiding where squirrels will hide in winter. Soon he approached a hut and fearful of humans, trotted back into the bare clumps of trees. A group of men had come out from the hut and approached the woods. They were calling out with loud-hailers. Scared, Dunbar ran further into the woods and rested until night fall. That night temperature plunged. Dunbar is well equipped – soft and lanolin-free his wool served him well, but he was hungry, as he had to dig deep snow for grass. So he let out a soft bleat. He heard a soft cry in reply. Curious he wandered about and in the shadows he saw a human. But somehow Dunbar did not flee. Instinctively he knew the boy crouching there was no fur hunter. He approached slowly. The shivering boy, no more than ten years old, reached out and touched his snout and coat. Dunbar sensed the boy was freezing and went closer, letting him feel the warmth of his wool. The boy hugged him, starved of the company of his family. That night the mercury hit zero. But the pair survived, thanks to Dunbar’s warmth. Dawn came but he was still hungry. Then as the sun rose he saw a movement in the snow. Initially far off, it approached slowly, seen by the occasional disturbance of the powdery snow. Pedro! Thank God! You could almost hear Dunbar shouted. The pair reunited, Pedro unperturbed by Dunbar’s new-found friend. Sniffing around the base of surrounding birch, Pedro got busy. Not long later Pedro succeeded in collecting a bunch of nuts which he kept hidden so long ago. Acorns, walnuts, pecans, Brazils, almonds…the hungry boy helped himself cracking them with a stone he found. Pedro only ate the acorns while Dunbar continued digging for shrub. Several hours later the sun warmed up and the trio headed out. Then out of the shadows of a clump of bare trees the group of search party emerged, unsure of the trio but recognizing the boy. They shouted in adulation, so the frightened animals ran off. As the boy ran to his ecstatic father, he turned round and waved to his furry friends. They were the real heroes but their backs were turned from the waving boy.

Toki the bird that returned

The crested ibis (nipponia nippon) once native to Japan went extinct there in 2003. Their numbers dwindled during the industrial explosion from 1960s because of habitat destruction by deforestation and chemical fertilization. Since then their artificial reintroduction using the same bird specie from China have painfully succeeded on Sado island. Once again their coexistence with humans in the Japanese rice fields are becoming commonplace on the island. Their ability to flourish and breed naturally in the wild depended on an elaborate program to establish a food chain as well as nesting sites. This is the story of one bird, called Toki.

I was born in 1787, during the Edo era, in the town of Atsuka. I was a happy chick, my parents being free to roam the rice-fields for toads and such. Besides there’s always plenty of rice stalks left behind at harvest. You see the tradition of satoyama – the peaceful and co-prosperity between man and nature have been practised since ancient Japan. Life began happily there in the peaceful town and I would fly out to play with my two brothers. But one fateful day over the trees we heard two shots. Boom! Boom! My two brothers fell toward earth. I quickly flew into the cover of the tree. Then I saw two hunters gathered up my brothers, one saying to the other to let me go, so that I could breed. It would only be in early 1980s that crested ibis are protected in Japan. During the Edo period peasants lived hard lives. It was lucky to have rice, let alone meat. Besides toiling in the fields, they had to give up most of their rice to support the gentry. Hard as life was Japanese sensitivities persisted then. Their divine regard for all things, living or dead suppress the greed to take everything from the earth, or sea. Even today they worry that the huge proportion of seafood consumed may render some specie to extinction. Hence I lived to breed. But I missed my playmates. Shaken, after they were shot I reached my nest. Time passed and fully matured but lonely, I tried in earnest to breed. One autumn day I met a very tired crested ibis at the edge of the field. He had migrated from a very far China. Feeding from the few leftover stalks he made a pass at me, bobbing his head, and from that day he became my partner. So we would spend our days in that field, feeding off frogs, loaches and an occasional water snake. Hunters avoided us as they saw we were a breeding pair, thank God. But producing a family remained a challenge. Often I tend to eject eggs deemed unhatchable. Months passed and I had several eggs produced in my nest. I began warming them and at times my mate chipped in, the nest perched high on a pole. But luck couldn’t have been worse. That summer a typhoon blew in and knocked three eggs off the nest. A raven carried them off and nothing was heard of it since. With a couple of eggs left, I resumed my perch. Spring came around and the eggs remained eggs. By this time male birds, though monogamous each season, would have wandered off for other mates, but my mate started migrating home. So sadly alone, I resumed the business of living.

That autumn evening I was pecking at the edge of the field when the farmer walked over. Bent and gnarled from hours planting rice he spoke to me. Oh bird thanks for keeping my field from being overrun by toads. Just wait for the mantis to eat the harmful aphids,  then eat the frogs after they’ve eaten the praying mantis. I understood him and flapped my wings. But I’m all alone I thought – you’ll need many for the large fields, I tried to tell him. But these fields were only rented to the poor farmers by the daimyo and they had very little say. So I trudged on. But I was confident that there’ll always be some stalks leftover for me and others like migratory storks every harvest. Or so I thought. Because a few days later a funeral procession lined up in the field. My kind farmer had passed on – life was too hard for his eighty years. Even his poor wife and children, co-laborers, were getting on. Soon I saw less and less of the family. Then one day a younger man began coming to the fields daily. Although he didn’t work as hard as the old farmer he never leave any stocks for us after harvest. When he saw me looking at the edge he would shoo me away. So I became a thief – flying off when he came and stealing stalks of rice when not watched or at night. That went on a while and I noticed fewer birds or ducks visiting. There was simply less frogs or loaches around, because the rice stalks were getting scrawny and unkempt, attracting less insects as food. But there was another reason. I continued stealing. Until one day I felt sick and vomiting. I was so weak and couldn’t walk or fly. I stumbled into the tall leeks around to hide as the wicked owner was out to kill me. Instead of him I espied from the leeks a group of men wearing what looked like plastics over their head and body. They were using a long tube and spraying the rice stalks. I was wondering what it was until a breeze blew a little of the spray over to me. I threw up at the scent and fainted.

I couldn’t know how long I laid there but I could sense a pair of small arms lifted me and carried me some distance. For a few days this young girl washed me and fed me water. When I got stronger Keiko offered me some grains of rice but I still couldn’t eat. I flew off, Keiko waving goodbye. For the next few days I laid in my nest, weak. Until the storms came. I walked to the small flowing stream and managed to pluck a couple of loaches from the moving water. Then I found a toad. Strengthened I flew into the forest to recover. I must hide from the wicked man and his loathsome spray because my nest had been too open. Another day came and I met another tired ibis in the trees. He also came from Shanxi, China. And he also started courting me. How lucky I thought – another chance to breed but I’m not so sure this time – there was no nest.

So we started building – on top of a torii gate. Maybe we will be protected there. And so we started again – this time I had a clutch of 6 eggs. As we took turns to hatch them, harvest came to an end. We began looking for food in the paddies. Then one evening my partner didn’t return. The next day I flew out and found him lying near the stream, dead by drinking the polluted water. Why? I continued on my own alone again, sitting through winter. But nothing happened. It appeared that they were not fertilized, pesticides sprayed on the rice stalks had also made him sterile. Winter became Spring. I decided to migrate from the polluted fields. When I arrived at Ishikawa I found many friends – all migrated from China. I will start a new cycle again, determined to start a new generation, by all means.

And so I did, mating for a third time, with this immigrant at the danbo. But this time success, two chicks arrived this spring. The following summer I planned to migrate to Shanxi with my mate and his friends. You might think I’m crazy having so many mates. I had tried so hard. It is not just the joy and thrill in love-making. Don’t you think you should be happy for me to finally produce the next generation? Because two hundred years from now we would have become extinct in Japan. And if we don’t try the beauty of the crested ibis would be lost to future generations of children who’d love to see us alive than in an encyclopedia.

And so Toki became the great, great ancestor to the two chicks that China presented to Japan in 2008. Such is the power of the call of Nature.

The fifth leg

The capuchin spider monkey is lithe and agile. Foraging high in the upper reaches of the South American tree canopies they have strong limbs, including the prehensile tail. They are gregarious,  social animals, with strong family bonds around the alpha male. Their young form strong ties with their parents through play and fight, just like much of the other subspecies. This is a story of Camus, a 9kg strong alpha male of the black headed atilae specie.

If there is a king of monkeys in that part of the Amazon Camus would be the likely one. He not only protects his harem of seven and 12 young, sometimes he also goes after a dubious group of harem from another tribe. But he usually wins in a scuffle, because he was born fortunately or unfortunately wih a pair of razor-sharp fangs. And his claws are formidable. He even once overcame a baboon twice his size. A hero not just to his tribe but to every spider monkey in the enclave, he will show up at every trouble, even settling scores of dispute just by baring his teeth. So there is more peace than war. One fateful day this was going to end.

It happened when he was out getting fruit from the blueberry tree. In full bloom the fruits are a boon to monkey and birds alike. But a sinister plan had already been laid, worse than any predator Camus could imagine. Bird poachers have sprung traps to capture the beautiful singing birds that chose that tree as habitat. As he reached to grab a bunch of succulent blueberries an almost transparent nylon string snagged his hand. It got tighter with every desperate tug he gave. He screamed loudly in pain as his family gathered around. For the first time in his life he looked at them, begging for help. But they could only whimper in apathy. Hours went by and one by one his tribe retreated, leaving him crouched alone on that branch, his arm swollen and numbed. His mind raced as night descended into darkness. Live! Live! He thought to himself. But he had lost all feelings in his right arm. And so he fought back. You were fighting with strength and might. Now you must fight yourself. Fight the urge to quit. Fight the pain. With his sharp front incisors he started chewing on the nylon. But it was tough and thin. After a while he said to himself. If I want to live I must give up my hand, which by now had turned blue. Fight your mind. So he started chewing on his blue fingers and dark drops of blood came forth. Surprisingly by now there was little pain. Except at the end, when his sharp fangs cut through the bone and released his arm from the cord, now a bloody stump. He jumped off, but only on his three legs. With the greatest of agony, half jumping and limping he found his way back.

Days passed. Camus could no longer hunt. Neither was he top dog, or rather top spider. A younger male started leading the troop. But he couldn’t care less, just nursing his missing hand and eating whatever was thrown him by his juniors. He had been their superior because of his size and ferocity. Now his disability was dimunitive. Again it was now the battle of the mind. He knew his life would end soon without the tribe behind him. At worse he just becomes a dependent, like the other juniors. Fight the mind! Months passed and something strange began to take place within him. He started to strengthen his remaining limbs. As he climbed, his tail worked even harder. In fact his tail became even stronger and thicker than his maimed arm. Slowly he began to regain his agility. Though his right arm was missing a hand, his tail made up for support and balance as he hanged from branches using his left arm. It is in the mind! And something else happened. With his recovery his fellow monkeys started respecting him again. Except the new leader. A showdown was inevitable. He was sipping from the creek when the younger leader approached, standing tall to emphasize his size. All at once his inner strength returned. It’s the mind, not the size! Camus turned round with a snarl, fangs flashing and with a mighty swing with his tail flung the other into the creek. So from that day on he was king again. He is now no less a leader of the tribe fighting for them with renewed vigor. You see, he might have lost the use of a limb, but he has a fifth leg.

The parakeet composer

There is nothing like the message you convey in music. There’s something primordial in it that predates language. When facing someone who’s grieving a great loss there’s really nothing you could say. Except play a touching music or sing a song. It just gets to the soul that no words do. With your presence. Animals don’t naturally speak, but can they sing? Sure do. Think how a chorus of birds wake you in the morning, or the crow of a cockerel,  or the chop chop of a nightjar. Animals communicate by emotions, not words and hence are great comforters. Kimpo the yellow-naped cockatiel budgie mix is one.

Her mistress is Dawn, a music teacher. Each time a student comes to the piano or organ, Kimpo will listen with rapt attention on her perch. Quietly she’ll take every note and chord in until the end of a lesson, then quarks in approval, however poor the student. Dawn doesn’t have the slightest idea what goes on in the little birdbrain of Kimpo. But once in a while comes an effusive rendition of one of her lessons. She’ll sit up and wonder when was the piece taught. Then one day in one of Kimpo’s spontaneous songs she sat on the piano and accompanied, throwing improvisions as she was wont to do. To her surprise, Kimpo sang to tune. Aark! aark! she croaked, pleased then bopped her head twice in quick succession. She could compose! So began their impromptu routine, when Kimpo would start randomly with a piece she’d heard during lessons and Dawn would add variations and themes, which the parakeet would sing along in unison. All this went on for several months. Then one day one of her better students came to class. As usual, Kimpo would listen attentively when the student continued the routine. Then for the first time Kimpo interrupted in mid-stanza and sang a variation impromptu. The student was thrilled and started improvising, much to the amazement of the teacher. Quickly, she recorded the composition. Thus began the parakeet  slowly taking over the lessons from the teacher. As more students got used to the teaching parakeet, the lessons became sessions of spontaneous fun. Poorer students started to improve and actually looked forward to music lessons, unlike the down-crested face they used to show in class. Arrk! arrrk! Kimpo would shriek in joy as the students progressed, then did her sideways dance routine, head bowing. Dawn started to get more and more students, until she could hardly cope. But Kimpo took it all in fun and jest, welcoming everyone with several bows of her head and the usual cacophonous cry. Until Dawn fell sick and had to be hospitalized. Kimpo sat silent. Even when more enthused students show up she would brood in her corner, head bowed. Time passed and Dawn didn’t improve. Just when it was to become worse, her mother, a nurse came to visit. She came to the hospital with a covered cage. Dawn was so overwhelmed to see her pet again and Kimpo was thrilled by climbing up and down and round her cage using her beak, head bowing. Then she began to sing. It was a song all to familiar to Dawn, and a rush of tears ensued. From that time on she started to really recover, and soon was back to her home, starting her music lessons. But Kimpo continued with her song therapy, singing whenever Dawn had her down moments. So Kimpo started being a therapy bird, visiting hospitals with Dawn’s mother. Arrk! aarrk! She would start what looked like prancing around and up her cage before delighting the sick children and elderly with her songs. She’ll sing with cheer and lilt that children even started dancing.  So popular was she in hospitals that she stopped composing music with Dawn. It was only when Dawn’s mother passed away that Kimpo found herself back on the perch, next to Dawn’s piano. For she had another task to do – comforting daily, heart-broken for having lost her mother. Today you can sometimes hear her doleful song. Maybe if you’ll bring your distressed heart or pains there it’ll turn on a stream of tears. Yet strangely comforting.

The buffalo’s strength

Since time immemorial the water buffalo was a beast of burden. Its strength produced the staple that fed thousands, before rice planting was mechanized. Grateful farmers were often reluctant to chop them up for meat when they grow old and weak. But certainly this buffalo that we’ll get to know got to retire to old age – his name is Honka.

Being a beast of burden is hard enough for the average human, but Honka had to work in Sri Lanka where the fields would be hardened mud in the dry seasons and overflowing uncontrollably in the monsoons. Besides there’s the heat. However he would trudge on as this is the only life he knows. Or is hard grimly work and muscle the only thing Honka has? It would seem so, until the South Asia tsunami struck.

That day when the ground shook and the sky suddenly darkened Honka was tilling the field for the next planting with his master Rama. And when the sea came swallowing, Rama quickly unharnessed him and ran towards high ground. Instinctively Honka headed to Rama’s shed where his invalid father was. He knew his strength may be needed. When the waves knocked over the poles like matchsticks Rama’s father held onto a tree trunk for dear life, legs flailing from advanced arthritis. Honka trudged thru the rising water like any water buffalo would, and locked his long horns on the tree trunk. Then when the old man got on top he moved towards the hills where Rama was waiting. They barely saved themselves when the retreating waves returned with even greater ferocity. So Honka gained the greatest respect for his strength. But his strength was needed even more. Soon after the sea retreated Rama’s field was filled with debris and both of them worked day and night to clear and rebuild the hut. Mountains of tree branches, boulders, not a few bicycles, trishaws, corrugated sheets and even a few cars needed to be towed away. Turning to Honka after weeks of toil Rama said: “You have been my most helpful worker ever since I bought you as a young calf. I’m sorry to work you so hard now with hardly any hay or grass to feed you. The field is now so salted by the sea that I’ve now no need of you to till the ground, neither can I afford to buy you hay, except what little food for my father and me. So I’m letting you go. You’re free to be wherever you can find grass or hay.” With a bellow Honka couldn’t make of the outcome, just standing there flicking his powerful tail. Three days and nights passed and Honka stood faithfully near the partly built hut. Rain water was what he drank – with no food nearby as he persisted to remain with his master, unemployed, sadly and tearfully stroking his faithful servant. Then on the fourth day he vanished – Rama woke up early to find Honka gone.

Months passed and the monsoon brought drenching rain. As the seawater began to get washed away the soil started to yield fresh shoots. Rama was glad not only to start planting again but also that he did not sell his faithful buffalo. But where can he be now? He searched high and wide, up hills and down the river calling out his faithful beast. For weeks he searched, asking around for people who might spot a wandering buffalo. In Hindu societies it is forbidden to kill or mistreat cows and such, so Honka must be around. But months passed and no buffalo. Downcast and heart wrenching he headed back to his fields and started to furrow by himself. He toiled alone with sadness, wishing for his beast of burden again, when he’d appreciate him better. But inside him he felt better for Honka – at least he is free from the punishing harness. Gradually through dint of hard work Rama’s fields prospered and he managed to buy a used truck and simple farming implements. Rama attributed his good harvests to his letting Honka free and not taking another beast of burden. He even managed to get a couple of hired hands and increased his outlay. A year passed and Rama managed to build a brick house where his shed was and settled in comfortably with his aged father. However he became terribly lonely – before he was too poor to afford a dowry for marriage, but now, he could afford to entertain the possibility. But no girl in sight. Those that Rama fancy prefer the city life than toil in the fields. Rama started to wonder whether life would have been better poor with his companion buffalo, or rich with nobody but his old man. So he took to pleasure in toddy and reveling with his men friends late at night. And he got even lonelier. Despondent, he would think to himself – the tsunami took everything, even my buffalo. So I worked my daylights out and now I’ve everything but nothing. One stormy night feeling that he had enough he decided to take his own life.

He strode out toward the river, toddy in hand. It had not begun to rain yet but the dark clouds and furious flashes of lightning and thunder portend the worst weather coming. Stumbling along with a heavy, lonesome heart he wouldn’t mind to be struck by lightning and ending it all there. But fate would strangely twist his life that night. The wind blew stronger and stronger, clouds build with more flashes of lightning. No rain. Nor moon. Then he reached the river mouth. He could see huge waves forming with the gusts, rolling with such force to the shore. And the sound of the waves and wind – deafening to say the least. Rama felt a strange calm, the elements all-round jolted him into sobriety. As he walked to the balustrade at the raging water, cold mists sprayed all over. The moon had peeped out occasionally from the darkness of the sky. Looking towards the rolling waves far out to the sea a curious sight greeted him. He could make out the shape of a large animal swimming strongly to shore against the waves. Was I imagining he thought, still sipping from the toddy bottle. Again the lightning flashes made out the shape swimming in the darkness. It was black and shiny seen against the moonlight. When he saw the horns he gasped – Honka! Is that you? But no, there was another animal – dark, black and shiny like the first, only smaller, without horns. Swimming alongside the first, it seemed reluctant at first to join him towards the shore, but relented. Rama couldn’t hold back longer and called out to his long lost friend, waving frantically. They were strong – like bulls, overcoming the crashing waves with ease. Then there was the howling wind.

When they reached shore Rama couldn’t hold back tears as he hugged the beast. Turning to the smaller animal, Honka grunted, as if introducing his mate. That night Rama felt like a family again.

So Rama spent his days with Honka and mate as his family. Sometimes the buffaloes would help out transporting load by pulling a cart, but now Rama have machinery such as a combine doing the heavy lifting. Soon calves arrived and Rama took upon himself to wean them like his own children. One day he whispered to Honka – “You’re really luckier than me, although you’ve suffered much…” Then from the back the old man carped with a raspy voice – “You can certainly learn from a buffalo, son. You don’t need a pretty face for a wife, just a strong helper in the fields and a stronger heart to share your adversity.”

The gecko that wouldn’t fly

The ordinary gecko or house lizard has no wings – only suction cups for toes. However the specie Draco, a genus of agamid lizards also have wings for which to glide short distances. These defense mechanisms enable them to escape predators. Like humans all animals are born with differing personalities and Soje, one of these lizards was born timid and fearful. He struggles with everything new and all his friends call him coward. From young, he’ll always stay home in the tree hollow where he emerged from an egg. His mom even had to encourage him out of the shell, after all his siblings had already clambered out of the trunk. So learning to live is a daily struggle – Soje’s first steps took a whole day. Then as he saw sunlight thru the tree hollow he shrunk back. The noisy chatter from the birds outside was no help. His flight instinct is acute – that explains why he lived longer than those born with him. But with all the time he had inside the tree hollow he learned to walk and that was an achievement. Meanwhile all the other lizards have gone outside hunting insects and running from predators such as crows and snakes. Soje was content to eat an ant or a lost beetle that happened to wander into his liar.

One cool morning all was quiet outside and Soje, now completely alone was curious enough to peep out. There was a whole new world outside. Slowly and jerkingly he crawled out on the bark. Tock-tock-Tock! The sound of a woodpecker made him dashed back into the crevice, and safety. Many times a day he’ll make these home runs – once it was the mere brushing of leaves from a sudden breeze, another was the thud of an acorn drop and another a clap of thunder. After a while he realized all these were harmless and became bolder. Then one day he met one of his brothers out on a branch, picking out ants crawling from a sweet bunch of berries. Emboldened he joined in the feast. Suddenly the brother turned to him and said “Run, back to the hollow, quickly! I’ll decoy the snake to the upper branch.” No sooner did he finished speaking a slithering green shape moved up towards them. Soje scuttled behind the branch to hide from the green snake, while his brother ran up the branch in plain sight of the pursuer. As the snake slithered pass Soje made the longest home run in his life. After he settled safely in the crevice he saw a strongest sight never thought possible. His brother was flying through the air, landing on the next tree trunk. Just when he thought he was safe, suddenly thru the crevice a fork tongue came towards him. He moved in deeper, the tail barely escaped the flickering tongue. Phew! That was close, he thought, feeling grateful to his brother. Little did he knew that his baptism of fire will come some day.

It was a bright summer’s day and all his brothers were gathered on a branch overhanging the stream. “Come on out coward! Play with us!”, teasing him as they called out. Soje moved jerkingly to the branch, stopping here and there in fear of predators. Then as he was about to reach them they all jumped off, gliding to the next tree. Come on coward! They taunted him. Show us you are man enough to jump! Soje just clung onto the branch, shuddering and shaking in fear. Coward! Coward! Coward! Soje couldn’t move as all his limbs went numb. Jump! Jump! You can do it! Soje felt faint. And with a weak kick he fell like a stone straight into the water. Terrified he kicked and trashed with all his might. While all watching thought he was about to drown, something amazing happened. He began to run on the water surface and jumped to safety on the grass. All those home runs had strengthened his legs to run on the water. Among those watching him was his mother who sighed. “This boy will never escape forked tongue, until he learns to fly.” And so the fateful day came.

Spring time and everyone was feeding. Soje likes a particular butterfly that flies to the blooming flowers. The spring food chain in full swing with those in the lower end eating or be eaten. While Soje was taking his fill a sudden rustling of the leaves send everyone scurrying. Out of the sky a raven descended on the flowers. Soje was taken by surprise as he wasn’t used to a predator appearing from above. His instinct was to run but alas the escape branches were blocked by the abundant flowers. He froze in abject fear – sometimes this can confuse the predators thinking he would be part of the branch. Jump! Jump! His friends all croaked in unison, as they all took flight. The raven pounced. Luckily the soft cushion of the flowers gave way and he fell. Falling in midair with the raven behind Soje thought it’s the end. Then it happened. He stretched his limbs opening up the flaps of skin that was always there. The first glide thru space was exhilirating, he felt for the first time the up rush of cold air as his tail naturally guided him like a rudder away from the bird. Swoosh! Swoosh! He could hear the wind as the earth came up to meet him. Then he landed with a thud. Dazed from the hard surface, his legs naturally carried him into the tall grass. The raven rushed forth but Soje was good at hiding – he’d been doing this all his life. After the raven left Soje spend the rest of the day finding his home. He’s no more a coward. Neither a timid sissy. He flew. However he still have to learn how and where to land. But he knew then he will survive the forked tongue. Somehow he is certain to succeed flying and escaping. Still a long road ahead. Even if he’s been robbed of his greatest potential by fear and intimidation, he knew he’ll be great one day, greater even than the sniggering friends who taunted him from youth. Maybe even winning their respect and becoming their leader. Because he will keep trying. Life begins, carte blanche for him hence. Never give up.

(Continue in SCARF3)

SCARF – Short Children’s Animal Related Fantasies

1000 VIGNETTES FOR CHILDREN (AND ADULTS)   @copyright mktyap 2017

Children read less these days. It’s easier to google at TVs or YouTube. When I started this blog the aim was to write stories on animals or insects with a fantasy that appeals to younger readers. With time it became more real. Truth had somehow slipped in. And then it comes through more interestingly. But there’s also fantasy and imagination in some. Most of the fact-like introductory remarks are taken from unverified sources such as Wikipedia and I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies arising therefrom. However the reader should be warned that at no time did I preface any fact or fiction declaring its reality or truth. This is a blog involving fantasy. Giving fiction a chance to be stranger than truth. Any names used as characters are not intentionally aimed at real individuals, unless they are taken from public domain news. Events or incidents that mirror anybody’s are probably coincidental, and unintentional.

SCARF1

• 1. The prosthetic elephant
  2. Spottie the cow that learned to talk
  3. Goldie the basenji wizard
• 4. A tale of two tails
• 5. What a smart pig!
• 6. Cana – Deep sea rescue whale
• 7. Toba the AI tortoise
• 8. Dragonflies never stand down
• 9. The walrus said
• 10. Behold the slumber beauty
• 11. The tree that would not yield

• 12. Caged canary sings Life! SCARF2
• 13. The golden phoenix flew backwards
• 14. Love-struck antelope stuck
• 15. Bauxa the fire-fighting giraffe
• 16. The indefatigable rat
• 17. The sly magpie at the swallow hotel
• 18. A Rooster called Hope
• 19. The squirrel accountant and the forgetful llama
• 20. Toki the bird that returned
• 21. The fifth leg
• 22. The parakeet composer
• 23. The buffalo’s strength
• 24. The gecko who wouldn’t fly
• 25. The lone Penguin at Philip Island SCARF3
  26. This cat sees ghosts
• 27. The wolf that cried sheep
• 28. This land is mine – hippo security patrol
• 29. The eagle Intrepid
• 30. Welcome to my charming nasty goose bumps
• 31. Hickory Dickory frog
• 32. The dolphin that whistles back
• 33. Cheeky the chimp face artiste
• 34. Sheepish is not stupid
• 35. My bats your bet SCARF4
  36. The bear who loves – to hug
• 37. King of cubs King of hearts
• 38. Enter the lamb, leave as a lion
  39. My pigeon is home
• 40. How Panda became vegetarian
• 41. Busy beaver – its more than work
• 42. Tonari ippon – the drinking dog
• 43. Orang Tua Orang Dua
• 44. Home’s Last Journey
• 45. This fox talks to hornets
• 46. I wish mother was a red crown crane SCARF5
• 47. Once upon a nick of time
• 48. Do you sengi?
• 49. Jumabhoy’s last race
• 50. Can you do the duck wag?
• 51. The story of Jiro
• 52. Just mere meerkats
• 53. To sing or swim that’s the question
• 54. Sisi Loves Tutu
• 55. The mermaid’s choice
• SCARF6
• 56. Who will care for the beasts of burden?
• 57. The bashful dragon and the unicorn’s gift
  58. Golf dogs, macaques and wild boars
• 59. Then the oboe spoke
• 60. The magical horn
• 61. The reindeer present
• 62. The Owl – An ever present shadow
• 63. Butterfly away
• SCARF7
• 64. Shit Work
• 65. Congratulations! He’s pregnant
• 66. Heidi the improbable hyena
• 67. The hermit and the octopus – a parody on success
• 68. The narwhal’s tusk and the marlin’s bill
• 69. Pardon my slowness I’m just a snail
• 70. Courage is from the heart
• 71. Keep the change please – a lesson on temper
• 72. Truth stands up when the rooster crows
• 73. Flying higher and faster – a lifetime dream of restoring self-esteem
• SCARF8
• 74. Lest we forget – pointing our noses in the right direction
• 75. Sharing feathers and make life-long friends
• 76. Imagination the spice of becoming a genius
• 77. Social skills for life – the capybara
• 78. Don’t shoot me I’m just the clown
• 79. Love makes us truly human
• 80. Retirement – day of our becoming fully
• 81. When the crowing stopped
• 82. The jaguar’s strength
• SCARF9
• 82. Dreading school – shutting out past demons
• 83. Random tiles of brilliance and madness
• 84. Beauties for a lonely stag
• 85. Baby Love
• 86.The economy of death
• 87. Slither hither and thither
• 88. Precious is my unspeakable companion
• 89. The gorilla with a problem
• SCARF10 Volume 2

• 90. Strength from weakness – chameleon’s doodle
• 91. A salute to our rooted friends
• 92. Shall we or shouldn’t we?
• 93. March of the Mighty Wag
• 94. The Kudu’s chalice
• 95. Not so fast – let me think
• 96. Men still don’t get it
• 97. Needs wants or desires
• 98. Just fishing
• 99. The zebra’s defense
• SCARF11
• 100. Make my day a dentist
• 101. Partners for refuge
• 102. Hey Cupid, see you at periwinkle rock
• 103. Blood sweat and Heart-wrenching
• 104. Not on my blood you don’t
• 105. Kemp’s story
• 106. Monkey sees monkey doodle
• 107. Reckoning Death
• 107A The cheetah whispers
• SCARF 12
• 108. Tigers Ahoy!!
• 109. The mountain cat and the butterfly
• 110. The Eldorado horse
• 111. Love makes a cold house warm
• 112. Handsome not pretty
• 113. Winsome partners
• 114. Growing up to fight champions
• 115. Luck would be hers the happy goat
• 116. Bombs away at reservoir bridge
• SCARF13
• 117. Caterpillar fare
• 118. Beggar thy badger
• 119. The mantis who didn’t pray
• 120. The camel that refuses to run
• 121. Tiger in the tank but none in the wild
• 122. Dream of the black panther
• 123. Arawana talk
• 124. Savage lessons from the Birds
• 125. A conversation in the mountains
• SCARF14
• 126. The world is now our oysters
• 127. Animal love
• 128. The never ending tail
• 129. Memories of a thousand birdsongs
• 130. Saving the Arabian oryx
• 131. Babies are forever
• 132. My beloved varmint
• 133. The tree king
• 134. Why the spider jump

SCARF15

• 135. The coyote bandits at Liberty gate
• 136. Donkey Butterflies
• 137. Cicada has spoken
• 138. When the serow meets a stoat
• 139. The curse of anonymity
• 140. The king learns to swim
• 141. The elephant with no name
• 142. Welcome to my parlor
• 143. The magic arrow

CHAPTER 1

The prosthetic Mosha

Mosha, a 12 year old female elephant lost her front right leg at the age of 7 months after she stepped on a mine at the Thai-Myanmar border. She now uses a prosthetic leg, which needs to be resized regularly as she grows larger. The vet Miss Crueahtong Kayan hopes one day Mosha will be able to walk in the forest like other elephants do.

Then one day lying in her pen watching other young elephants playing and unable to join them she fell asleep. A genie appeared from among the tall green bushes which she could only look at. “Mosha, would you want to fly like a jet plane?” Mosha startled with amazement at the green genie standing on her trunk. With tears streaming down her little trunk she sobbed, “Ever when I was little I had to stumble on 3 legs until they became deformed from my weight. Now I can hardly walk with this fitted stump but I’d love to play with my fellow elephants just running.”

Thoughtfully the genie tilted her head while looking at the normal front leg. OK,  when you wake up I will fit 2 jet engines for your two front legs she said, and puff! she disappeared. Mosha dreamt that she woke up and sure enough, both her front legs became jet engines.  By bending her front legs she could propel herself forward and using her ears, steer herself as she soar through the sky over the rice paddies.

Traveling thru wormholes and such deformed time-space is more magic than science today – when it becomes more science than magic mankind will then get to see the universe. One time Mosha was circling the pines when all of a sudden screaming Hyena shot out of the Bush, biting at her heels. Tried as she could her ponderous size could hardly escape its snapping jaws. Fortunately Green Genie popped into her view. “Quick, fly into a wormhole that I’ve enabled you to see!” Remembering how the Genie had taught her to recognize a wormhole, she spotted one above the reeds beside the pond. Wroom! She disappeared, leaving Snapping Hyena biting air.

She emerged from the time tunnel into a gravity-less planet. All around her are floating transparent pieces of what seem to be glass crystals, sparkling and scintillating.  But they didn’t hurt when she floated towards them – alive they seem to float away avoiding collision, but also giving out a sound like that of a saw uncoiling, soothing and comforting. She had begun to realize how much easier to get around without gravity, even flapping her ears without the jets would propel forward. But droplets of water-like fluids would fly past her which her trunk playfully suck in or blow away. Oh if only I can play with my fellow elephants without having to jet around, she sighed. Your wishes will be granted – a voice whispered in her ear. She turned left and it was genie. Let’s go back to earth and I’ll show you how. She led Mosha by the ear until they find the shimmering entrance of a wormhole. It has to be a bluish one so that we can return from where we came, said the genie. After floating around for sometime they chanced upon a shimmering blue wormhole. They dived in and landed right in front of Mosha’s hut. Then she woke up. The jets on her legs were gone – just the stump on her right prosthetic leg. Before she could lament her unchanged state she suddenly remembered what genie said. She tried to get up on her own but the weak leg failed. Crying out her keeper came by. “Poor thing what do you want?” Then Mosha moved her head left and right – a sign that her keeper understood that she wanted to go to the river bath. With a few helpers slowly shoving forward Mosha lumbered into the river. But she didn’t stay at the place where she would get a scrub-down. Slowly but getting less painful she pushed herself deeper into mid stream. Soon she was floating effortlessly like the gravity-less planet. She continued to scream with joy in elephant cries, tears flowing, ears flapping with glee. Her keepers watching by the side finally understood her. From then Mosha would spend most of the day in the deep end playing with other elephants who would venture out to her. Only in the evenings the keepers would load her onto a wheeled floater into her shelter. Mosha was so grateful as she found a calling for her disability – she was so dexterous floating in deep water that she would help propel boats or move floating logs about. She was such a cheerful beast being useful to her keepers and is often helping spray down the other elephants at bath time. Such is the constant water rehabilitation that her three legs are no more distorted by her weight. Today you can see her by the river in the deep end, with screams of joy as she frolics alone and spraying high streams from her trunk. But there’s more. Several months later her keeper managed to deliver her calf. He is a perfect baby.

Spottie and the milk cow revolution

In the impoverished foot-hills of Nepal stands a stall housing milk cows Blackie, White, Brownie, Grey and Spottie. On a hot afternoon they stood milking and chatted.

White: We must stand here whole morning until we’re completely milked but there’s often little grass.
Grey: Be careful the moment our udders run dry they will send us away for beef, even though we’re more skin than meat.
Blackie: Just like all our brothers being shipped to the choppers.
Spottie: And leaving us forever without babies, so the milk goes to their industry. What, we’ve nothing to live for, just our skins and bones.
Brownie: Why? Why shouldn’t we live free like the rabbits. Running where they want and breeding when they want.
Blackie: Isn’t there something in this life Spottie? You’re the smartest among us – they say the more spots you have the more brains.
Brownie: Yes Spottie, think of something. I’m just a plain brown hide.
Spottie: Hmm…ah…tell you what…
White: What! What! I’m running out of milk. Please let’s do something.
Spottie: We run away. Away to places where grass is greener and richer.
Grey: But how? They’ll get us and muzzle us to the abattoir.
White: I’m frighten. Last time they roughly hauled Mixie away as her milk didn’t flow.
Spottie: We work together. Grey you run fastest and decoy the wicked masters away down the valley. Blackie the slowest and bigger will creep uphill and hide and wait for my signal. When they have gone quite far Grey we will join you and push the milk cans to block our path from the pursuers. White will follow me. Brownie you have good eyes will signal us when they’re at a distance and turning the corner to the pigsty.
Grey: But they will catch me and kill me after you flee to the hills. How can we meet up?
Spottie: Remember that tall tree among the seven bushes? By the stream? Let’s meet there. Grey hide yourself and turn when the masters are looking elsewhere. We’ll all hide there until dark and cross the river in the morning.
Blackie: I know in my bones a storm is coming day after tomorrow. If we cross the river before the storm the swell after the rain will lose their chase.
White: What of the caimen and crocodiles? Oh I’m scared! They ate Goatee when he strayed too near the river’s edge.
Brownie: We have to chance it. Maybe it’ll be too cold in the morning for them to get us.
Blackie: Grey you seem silent – what’s on your mind?
Grey: Err you know Spottie, after we escape where are we going? What will we do?
Spottie: We’ll be eating all the juiciest grass and whatever we can find. What’s more we’ll be FREE!
Brownie: There’s only one thing left – who’s going to milk us when our udders are full to bursting?
Spottie: You’re right Brown. Oh God what do we do? The evil humans have industrialized us so that we must depend on them to exist. Oh wish we had our natural nuclear families. We are no more wild to live, breed and die like the foxes on the hills.
Grey: Say you’re right Spot! Let’s give our milk to whatever wild young who needs suckling. Maybe they can protect us in return – bears, foxes, martens. Let’s find them before our escape. They know the country well and can shelter us.
Brownie: Let me whisper to Foxie when he comes to steal the eggs near our stall at night. He can talk to the other animals that need milk. Harry the bear can protect Grey from the pursuers at the bushes.
Blackie: Yes yes and Foxy can scatter the chicken to distract the pursuers.
White: Hmm, after we escape we must hide from humans out to capture us…
Spottie: Right, if they recapture us we will most certainly be shackled, or sent to the choppers. But why are you in tears Whitey?
White: Because where we hide there will not be water – the humans will trap us at the streams. So how can we live without water let alone make milk? Now they deliver water to our troughs from the wells. Then when we become sick? Or pregnant?
Brownie: You know…it’s useless – let’s forget the whole thing. The humans have made us domesticated cows their slaves and we now cannot live without them. If they don’t feed and care for us we cannot just run away. We’ll just die…

So Blackie started walking away and later White and Brownie started to follow. Grey stood there looking at Spottie and shaking her head slowly. This is our life. And sadly she too turned away towards the stall, leaving Spottie alone.
For a while Spottie stood – wondering what brought them down bursting their dreams. Then in a flash it dawned on her. I must learn to talk to humans, she thought. Only then they will improve our livelihood. I must speak like humans, I will moo and moo, until they understand me. I must try, because if I don’t no one will.

So from that day on Spottie can be heard mooing at the crack of dawn while the other four cows keep munching grass. Only after the keepers gave her more and better grass would Spottie stop. Soon the keepers understand Spottie. She’ll moo 3 times for grass and twice for water. 5 times she’ll moo to be taken out of the stalls for walks. Then when an intruder like Foxy comes she’ll moo until the owners comes to rescue the eggs. Slowly the keepers grew Spottie’s vocabulary that included shaking her head or rear legs for various cues of weather, cold and storms. So amazed were the keepers that they’d follow what Spottie says – more grass, better grass, more water, exercise and so on. From that day on the 5 cows got fatter and healthier with extensive walks to better pastures, Spottie telling the keepers of any problems and care that any of them had need. The stall prospered and mates were provided so that each cow reproduced off-springs to share the milk. Whitey had 7 calves. But one was a male and had to be shipped away when yearned. Spottie had only one called Stripes, a female, but she doesn’t talk to humans. And Spottie died at a ripe old age of twenty five and was buried behind the stall – next to the mango tree.

Goldie the basenji wizard

Goldie was the runt in a litter of eight basenjis. They are hunting dogs that have upright, forward-facing ears. But she had another setback at birth besides being born small. A few days at birth her mother accidentally sat on her left paw. Nobody noticed this until all the other litter started to walk after a week and Goldie began limping. But there was something else about Goldie nobody knew until she became a year old. Something special that sometimes handicapped animals are blessed. All the other healthy pups of the litter were quickly sold or adopted as pets. But nobody wanted a maimed mini-sized hunting dog, even though her yellowish coat gleamed like gold befitting her name. For many months she remained in the cage by the store window, unsold and unwanted. Often Goldie would sit silently in the corner, inquisitively training her ears hither and thither as customers gazed past her. She also trained her eyes to look out and far beyond the window and developed a keen curiosity of the world around. So curious and alert she’d jerk up at the fall of a pin in the store, sniff around and crane her ears to every possible sound. Then around the ninth month in the store little Donnie came by with his mother to buy bird food for their parakeet. Donnie was immediately enthralled by Goldie’s bright, darting eyes and sensitive quivering ears and nose. The feeling was instantly reciprocated as Goldie wagged her tail furiously, quivering with excitement as if saying, “Take me, take me home please!” You see, Donnie is deaf and somehow Goldie immediately felt a special need to be his friend when they met. “Please, please mommy, can I have him? His eyes so sparkling and he seems to like me much…” Oh I don’t know, said the mom, we might not be able to afford another pet. Coincidentally the shop owner walked by. Seizing the moment he piped. “Oh, you can have her for almost nothing, since she’s maimed and small, just the vet costs and I’ll be happy to let her go.” Donnie was esthetic but her mother wasn’t so sure. OK,  ok I’ll throw in a couple bags of dog food, please take her home, said the shopkeeper. Little did he knew that he was about to sell the most prized puppy for a song. When Donnie led Goldie out of the cage limping her mother was still unsure but Donnie didn’t notice. They were hugging and licking and Goldie’s tail looked like it would fall off the joints. Then they discovered Goldie’s first talent walking out the store. Donnie stepped out so excited that he didn’t notice a speeding bicycle ringing a warning about to barge into him. Goldie jerked the leash so hard toward the sidewalk, pulling the boy to safety. She could sense danger to her new-found deaf master. Thinking nothing of this her mother started the car and proceeded to drive them home. Goldie, inside a car for the first time was all ears, her head cocked to the side. When they reached home she sniffed at everything and observed her new home with a keen eye, tail slapping in contentment.

The second talent was found the following day. Goldie by now noticed Donnie only respond to sign language. He received special education at home while his single mother worked as a grocer to make ends meet. In the evening Goldie started excitedly barking at Donnie and pushing him toward the locked door. Looking out the window Donnie wondered why, as it wouldn’t be for another 5 minutes before his mother comes down the driveway. Sure enough, Goldie could hear her mother’s car. When his mother heard this she was amazed. “Five minutes before I was still on the freeway. Can Goldie hear this far?” Unconvinced, she decided on an experiment – this time she came home from another highway after visiting the supermarket. Yes, Goldie could hear her car from a mile away. Super hearing, even for a dog. And only after one day.

What about her nose Donnie wondered. So they took her for a long walk for the first time in unfamiliar paths. Over a freeway they crossed and several bridges. Goldie did not even pee for markers. “Goldie, bring us home!” Donnie called out after removing her leash. Goldie passed with flying colors, climbing up walkways, overpasses and crossings.

One day Donnie said. “Mommy, I want Goldie to be my hearing dog, so I can go out alone.” Goldie had proven to be a really good guardian. So from that day on, she was Donnie’s ears, warning him of cars, trains, bikes. She could even warn of impending rain, nudging Donnie for his umbrella before a downpour.

One day something really impressed Donnie. While sitting on a park reading some of his friends walked by and one noticed Donnie some ways off. Forgetting he was deaf he called out his name. Guess who responded? Goldie by now could recognize Donnie’s name. She’ll nudge Donnie when someone calls. How’s that for a pet!

You know, maybe we should increase her vocabulary, for my sake, Donnie quipped to his mother. You mean a sign language dog? Sure why not, her mother rejoined. And so Goldie started sign language school. Helped by Donnie she’ll learn sign commands to open the fridge or retrieve objects. Goldie enjoyed every task, thrilled to play the game, tail flailing. But can Goldie do more? Donnie and his mother was about to discover she was much more.

It happened when Donnie’s mom lost her car keys. Donnie held up a bunch of house keys and commanded Goldie to find. Goldie is after all a dog and appeared confused, barking aimlessly. Donnie was unfamiliar how search dogs are deployed to sniff out objects. So after a while Donnie went to her mom at the garage, discouraged. Not Goldie. She stood there wondering why mommy didn’t get into the car as always to drive to work. Then as if hit by a spark she dashed back into the house clumsily on threes. Donnie followed. Goldie was going room to room. In the kitchen she curiously jumped at the light switch. In the darkened room Goldie crawled under the crockery cupboard and her eyes caught the glint of the missing car keys. Amazed Donnie retrieved it after watching her pawing at the keys. It was also then that he knew Goldie had an IQ far exceeding any normal canine. All those months confined to the cage at the store, Goldie had also trained her eyes in the dark. A dog that stayed on top of adversity.

Years passed and Goldie sharpened her tenacity to find things and Donnie grew to be a fine young man working in delivery. But Goldie was only discovered by the police dog division after a tragedy hit the town. Numerous planes land and take off at the busy major airport near the house, surrounded by several deep water lakes. One foggy day a plane overflew the runway and sank. Scores of rescuers combed the area to retrieve bodies and crash debris. But they could never find the black box. Weeks passed and the pings have fallen silent. Surely Goldie’s superior scent can help, thought Donnie. But a large lake, with flowing rivers feeding it? Surely it is too much to ask, he thought. Still he tried. This time Goldie was given an identical black-box to sniff for and she went around the lake on a pontoon boat. It took days. One sunny afternoon Goldie barked excitedly. Divers got under but found nothing. But Goldie was barking at something else – a freshwater alligator. It was huge. Donnie knew Goldie had found the box and told the officers that it must be in the reptile. Goldie had proven she had the most uncanny sense of smell.

So soon later Goldie got the part-time job of  being the top police search dog. Donnie could not part company with his hearing companion and became her handler. Unfortunately Goldie could not serve very long. When her hearing started to deteriorate with age Donnie could still sign-language with her. She was found collapsed under the sofa one winter’s day at the relatively young age of eight. Heart-broken, Donnie and his aged mother buried her under a birch tree near the lake. A dog that nobody wanted at birth had succeeded against the odds despite a short time on earth.

A tale of two tails

The cheetah’s body is built for speed. Smaller than a wild boar but longer than a wildebeest it is the tail that controls balance. In the open plains of Namibia it hits more than 100km per hour easily and stably. It runs over its prey at short bursts because during flight the tail maintains a dynamic balance point of its body called the ZMP to within a stable zone. But being smaller than the lion, it’s jaws are less crushing and its energy runs out in a failed maneuver to catch it’s prey. But in the bush, and Namibia’s bushes hide a variety of prey, the cheetah moves at a third of its top speed and can make tortuous turns using its tail, hence ambushing it’s prey.

Sheena was one of two cubs reared by his mother among such bushes. He’s a happy cub. His mother hunts small catches like springboks and rabbits and provided ample food, except in dry seasons. But he had a big problem which did not bother him as a cub. He was born with a broken tail. His sister couldn’t understand why during play Sheena does not run as fast, stumbling often. His mother sadly looks at him, knowing that when time comes for him to hunt, he will not survive. So Sheena plays everyday with any living thing he could find in the bush – beetles, butterflies, caterpillars, oblivious to his bleak future. His joy in life was in the little things that crawled around him and meat was just a happenchance. He watched his mother in the shadows as she stalked and streaked around her prey with ease. Oh, when will I able to do that, he thought, thinking that must be fun too. At times he would sneak up behind his mother while she stalked, jumping at her tail end which flickered like a butterfly as she stared down the prey.

After each successful hunt his mother would set more meat apart for him, thinking he was undersized for his distorted tail. But Sheena would eat just enough and leave behind for his younger sister, who had grown fatter and larger than him.

Soon the time came for independence – his sister had long left for her own life of hunting and breeding. Sheena could stare down his prey but when he burst forth he would stumble and roll over in the dust. Some of the springboks began to laugh at him, like a comedy show. Fortunately his mother continued to fend for him. But one day she purred gravely at him – it won’t be long when I’ll be in heat again, she warned. If one of the males come near to me I shan’t be able to protect you. Sheena could only shudder at the outcome. As days drew on he started to get hungrier as her mother kept her distance. So Sheena began to climb trees to hunt small creatures like squirrels as he had sharp claws and climbed well in constant playing with butterflies and flying beetles. One day on a tree he saw a strange oval object high on a branch and his nostrils scented something sweet. Driven to starvation he climbed to it and clawed at it to retrieve the honey. Soon he was completely covered with bees and angry stings. Falling and writhing on the ground he cried out in desperation. Then something strange happened. Some of the bees spoke to him. You are a cheetah, why would you eat honey for the meat than roams around here? As if a miracle Sheena could reply in bee language, which came out as a buzzing of various frequencies. I can’t hunt, please help my hunger. Thinking a while the bees replied: Alright we make a deal – chase away the honey bears that raid our hives and we’ll feed you. So from that day on Sheena survived on honey and the occasional squirrels or field mice that ran around the hives. In return he would bare his teeth and claw at mammals that rob honey. But as he needed to eat meat he would approach his mother or sister, for an occasional handout of the spoils. So Sheena became a beekeeper and on hot days you could see him eating a comb of honey discarded by the landlords of the tree. In return he was their body guard against intruders. He may not make a 3-minute mile but he certainly had acquired a sweet tooth.

In the out-backs of Australia roams another mammal with a strong tail. Member of the marsupial family the kangaroo balances superbly at every long jump using its tail for leverage and as a spring counterweight. So massive is it relative to its body, it cannot walk backwards. It is also muscular.

Dorray is a wallaby, a young kangaroo. Like all young she likes to play. Any object in her reach – sticks, stones, golf-balls, plastic spoons and even live spiders become toys. But she really likes the round ones. One day a tennis ball came pounding to her, thrown accidentally over a house fence. Dorray instinctively caught it with her puny front legs and loping off in play. She began to toss it around with her snout, until accidentally her powerful tail swept at it. Oh, she thought, this thing could fly using my tail! While the ball got lost among the eucalyptus trees, she began hitting round objects with her power tail – acorns, seeds, mangos, even a loose football. She whacked the football so soundly that it caught the attention of Joe, who was playing a local league game nearby. Well, well a roo kicker eh? Joe couldn’t help but approached Dorray to find out her skill. But she is a wild kangaroo and ran away, towards his friends who were still playing in the pitch. Luck would have it that her tail hit a running ball at the penalty box and scored a winner. A roar came from the winning side but the referee was scratching his head. Joe however was impressed because you see, he’s an animal trainer at the local zoo. Also he knows that kangaroos are almost untrainable. Besides it will take some effort to trap and house Dorray. So he did the next best thing. He followed her to her family group and left many objects of play in her bush – tennis balls, softballs, golf balls, beach balls and the like. Dorray was delighted, playing everyday by herself. But she found a favorite among them – the softball. Picking one up from among other projectiles from her pouch she’d throw it up with her tail, table-tennis style and propel it accurately to any tree she wants. But someone was watching. Joe had set up a hut nearby and filming all her antics. So enjoyable was this that Dorray would sometimes turn around with the ball up in the air and hit a home run. Joe caught it on film and decided to show it to her girlfriend, a TV producer/advertiser. Soon every TV in Australia had a commercial clip of the Roo softball star. So Dorray became famous and a tourist attraction but she couldn’t care less. You see, Dorray was born partially blind. And play was the only way she would develop her senses.

What a smart pig!

Pigs have gotten a bad reputation since time immemorial. They are considered defiled by Muslims. When a lady calls a man a pig she means someone with an uncontrollable appetite, a mud-loving slob or worse. Over a billion pigs were slaughtered world-wide in 2017, averaging 24 million a week in the US. On TV today you can see them shoved tightly into pens with the considered impression they’re always feeding, though not all are that greedy – some even appear cute. But most get converted into quivering chunks of meat, getting ready to be frozen or shipped to restaurants. Of course there are vegans in the world who wouldn’t consume pork or the other 10 billion livestock killed annually in the USA.  Like cows, sheep or poultry human beings have developed a meat industry which assumes they exist only for food – their existence have no meaning in life when there’s no market to eat them. But is there? Among the billion pigs this year destined for the dinner table wouldn’t there be exceptional ones that can coexist meaningfully with living humans? Like a pig who thinks he’s a dog.

Carrie was 5 years old and has a natural love for animals. When her farmer father caught a thieving rat she’d cry that he should transport it far away than exterminate the vermin. One day she was with the family eating lunch at Wendy’s. Looking out the store window she espied a pickup pulled up outside. But this was no ordinary truck. Closely packed in clear view on the back were many piglets, no more than a few months old, their curled-up tails flipping like little flags from a platform of pink flesh. Look! Carrie screamed. How cute! Carrie’s mother knew instantly that it will be a long lunchtime. So Carrie ran out abandoning her half-eaten meal. After several minutes patting the animals around the truck it’s driver returned and smiled cheerfully at Carrie. Where’re you bringing them sir, Carrie asked innocently. Oh, to become pork chops, the driver replied casually, and climbed into the truck to start the engine. “Wait wait!”, cried Carrie.  “Can I take one home? Just one? Please?”, almost in tears. By this time her father came out, Carrie pleading and pulling his hands. After many minutes the father finally relented to buy her a pig. But which one? The one that talked to me, Carrie sobbed. What? The father exclaimed incredulous. Yes, the one with the black eye whispered to me when I was holding him, said Carrie. Thinking it was just children’s imagination the father reluctantly complied and proceeded to pick up the lucky piglet. To everybody’s amazement it started licking his arms and hands, as if grateful that he was spared the knife or whatever shocker used to knock out animals. After the hasty meal Carrie couldn’t wait to get home to the farm. The first task her parents gave her was to clean up the car – pig’s poo can be quite overpowering. Then she had to scrub her of the smell from the sty. Every day she was to feed her with whatever farm food she could gather. All these Carrie did bravely, at first. After a week she begun to feel the drag and one evening walked dejectedly to her father. She wished that he would return Cheezy to the abattoir. The father laughed quietly to himself and said he would do so the next day. Then it happened.

The family had a dog. Suzy was a two year old dachund they adopted from the pet shelter. That night Suzy sneaked out to the stall where Cheezy slept among the hay. She was there for quite some time. The next morning when dad went to pick Cheezy he heard a bark, but Suzy wasn’t there. Then another. And another bark. The pig barked like a dog! Mystified he took Cheezy into the living room where Suzy was. And Cheezy started to wag his tail, just like Suzy. Carrie was in school at that time. But when she returned that afternoon her first surprise was that Cheezy was still around. The second was when Cheezy started wagging his curly tail furiously as would Suzy. Then the bark. Hysterical she ran out to her mother who was helping in the cowshed. Her mother knew better but kept to herself. For a week Suzy has been sneaking out to Cheezy for companionship. And soon he learned to be a dog. But she didn’t realized how much a dog the pig had become. So the father allowed Carrie to keep Cheezy, even let him stay in the living room sharing the dog basket with Suzy. More surprises awaited them.

The following few days Carrie realized she didn’t have to clean out Cheezy’s droppings. He had learned to house-train watching Suzy. Cheezy had found a mentor and teacher. Even though he did not quite take to dried food, Cheezy even tolerated Suzy’s. Very soon he began to learn tricks that Suzy already knew. He had some difficulty fetching the newspaper as pigs do not have quite as long a jaw as dogs, but managed. But there’s one thing Cheezy surpassed even Suzy. The family didn’t know that until that Thanksgiving.

Carrie was doing homework. Suzy and Cheezy were snuggled together in the basket, sleeping. If you think that was funny wait till you hear the snores of a dog and a pig, in unison. But Carrie was distressed – she just couldn’t figure the solution to her math problem. Desperate she spoke out loud – “Eight minus four divided by 2… hmm, why the answer must be two!” Then someone whispered, “Wrong!” She looked around the room but no one was there, in that there were no humans. Mommy and daddy was busy preparing the fields. Thinking it was her imagination, she continued: “Well, 8 less 4 is 4 and half must make two…”. Then she heard a bark. But it wasn’t Suzy, who had meanwhile sneaked out the door to greet the postman. “Wrong!”, came the voice in her head again. She stared at Cheezy now sitting upright on the basket, looking back straight at her. “It’s six”, the voice echoed in her ears. Unbelieving Carrie looked at the back of the text where the correct answers could be found. “Cheezy you know math?” Amazingly the pig nodded his head, but no human words were spoken. You’re a wizard, exclaimed the 5-year old, except that she probably didn’t know the full meaning of the word.

So when the parents heard from Carrie that Cheezy could do more than just count they pooh-poohed her – again yet another of her childish imagination. Or so they thought. But since then Carrie had found a math tutor that Thursday afternoon. Ever so often she’ll turned to Cheezy for her math homework and she’d began to excel in it. At her year end graduation she won the top math prize. Her parents were doubly pleased because they knew math was her weakest subject.

So Suzy and Cheezy remained Carrie’s companion until her high school graduation. Few knew that she could communicate with Cheezy in her mind and she kept it a secret, even from her parents, to prevent the pig gaining celebrity status and being taken from her life. But her father suspected something. One day at the vet when they had to put down Suzy for chronic rheumatism due to old age, he asked her. “Tell me, what did Cheezy tell you when you first held her at Wendy’s?” Daddy, promise me you won’t laugh was her reply. “Yes?”, the father answered straight-faced.

“When I asked Cheezy how many piglets were in that truck he said he could count 25”.

Cana the deep sea rescuer

Earth is covered by more than 70% ocean. Some places are as deep as Mt. Everest is high above sea level. Everest is 8848 high compared to the Mariana trench’s depth of 10994 meters.  Recently in 2014 a Boeing 777 aircraft disappeared into the ocean. It’s been four years since and no one can say with certainty where it lies at the sea bottom. If only we can survey the underwater mountains and valleys like we would above the sea, with modern aircraft, only it has to be an underwater vehicle that can withstand tremendous pressure and see clearly through deep seawater. Introducing the blue whale.

You will not find any blue or humpbacks in any of the world’s aquarium. Simply because there’s just insufficient space for it to survive. And cruel too. Their home is always the ocean. Or a fossilized one in a museum. But given a little imagination, you can have a friend as a blue whale – let’s called her Cana.

Cana is a friend of Olaf, a Norwegian fisherman. One day while surveying the underwater cliffs, he saw a blue whale appearing to be in trouble. So massive was it compared to his skiff,  Olaf trembled as he steered near.  Then he saw the problem. The weakened whale was covered with a gill net caught around the head, partially blocking its blowholes. Fearing that it might drown soon Olaf radioed for help and slowly talked to the whale to calm her. Apprehensive as he had never tried this before, he was surprised that the whale remained calm and still, as if not to rock Olaf’s skiff over. Then he did something that nobody but the brave would do. He got into the water and stroked it’s eyes, while using a pair of scissors to cut the net. He did not know how long he was doing this but he knew it was an impossible giant of a task. But amazingly, it lay quite still in the water, it’s nostrils bubbling at minimum to keep alive. Soon help arrived and slowly more hands were cutting away the strands of nylon. When Olaf and his friends got back on their boats, Cana began to free herself, blew hard and long gush of water high into the sky and promptly disappeared into the depths. Feeling great that they had saved a gentle giant, the rescuers started their boats home, thinking that was the end of a good act. Or so they thought. All of a sudden from about 50 meters away from them it leapt. Any closer the ensuing giant ripple waves would have capsized them all. But it was a leap of joy and thankfulness – Olaf imagined he could even see the glint of gratitude in the whale’s eye. After the giant splash Olaf thought he would never see Cana again. Months passed and several winters came and went. But no Cana. Olaf soldiered on making his sonar maps of the fjords. Then one hot summer’s day he spotted her.

It was beginning to get dark and Olaf was keeping his gears for home. A very big shadow came alongside. He knew it was Cana,  a faint squeak could be heard. It was the first time he’d seen a blue so close and now he could tell that it wasn’t even fully grown, as a matured blue would be at least 3 times the length of his boat. But it appeared so sudden that he lost grip of his expensive hydrograph and the cables slipped thru his hands into the deep. Dear, dear he moaned. It could cost me months of pay to replace them for the institute. Then a strange thing happened. Sensing the loss the shadow disappeared and moments later Cana resurfaced with part of the cable in its mouth. With a flick of her giant tail, the loose end of the cable landed on the boat. Grabbing the slithering cable, Olaf let out a scream he learned from his graduate school friends at Woods Hole.  Yeeeee yah! And he jumped legs outstretched. Strange these humans Cana thought to herself, maybe that’s the equivalent of the leap.

That summer Olaf spotted Cana several more times. With each encounter Cana came closer and closer to Olaf,  physically and emotionally. Olaf would talk to her in his calm soothing voice and Cana would respond with her whale speak. One time Olaf was having some difficulty getting an image of an occluded cliff. Cana, would you be able to help me map part of this fold? Olaf asked, half hopelessly. There was no response. Five minutes passed. Then the whale surfaced close to the boat, so close that Olaf could see her eye fully, a good five centimeter across. Their eyes met. It was as if asking Olaf, tell me how? Olaf thought quickly, went into his cabin and came back to Cana with a HiRes camera to attach onto her head. Soon Olaf at topside began to receive closed up views of the cliff in his monitor. Cana had dived up and down, transmitting the underwater mountainous profile to the boat. Such was the working understanding of man and whale. That summer passed fruitfully.

If you know basic hydraulics you’ll know that a creature as large as a whale can only descend to a certain ocean depth before the pressure prevents the lung, or any internal organs from functioning. Even if one is equipped with deep ocean breathing or built to withstand the bends, the whale can become a giant flat-fish, or a giant ball of whale meat, depending on its structural directional strength.

So MH370 is different. It could sink beyond the crushing depth of the searcher. But deep sea submersibles are designed to withstand extreme pressures, even that of the Marianas. But Cana can be different. Like a soaring eagle surveying the skies even a mouse could be spotted – if the vision is clear. So she’s born an underwater eagle. Of course no one knew of it, until Olaf met her again one Fall at the Tronheim fjord.

He was still wondering how to have a helicopter view of the fjords when the idea of the eagle hit him. If only I could see through the eyes of Cana…he didn’t finish when it struck him. He went to the side and called out to her. Knowing whales communicate he wanted to track the frequencies they emit. So he set up the auto frequency sweep receiver and proceeded to talk to Cana. After countless attempts he found the visual band thru the long range camera. It wasn’t enough. It had to be the visual band of Cana’s eyes. After many attempts he did it. Applying surface FFT analysis he could map Cana’s view of the underwater mountains. So he devised a plan to search the missing aircraft.

At the International Hydrography conference he broached the idea to the operators of the search team – he already was known for his paper using a whale for deep sea valley topography. Nobody believe a whale can survey ocean depths the way an eagle scour the mountainside. But they were willing to try.

The day came for escorting Cana to the search site. But Olaf and her understood each other so well the he was able to get her to follow him for weeks to the southern oceans. He was full of apprehension. Will she adjust to the climate? Can she find food? Will the sensors destabilize her?

But the attempt got underway.  The team and Olaf searched and searched with Cana’s bird’s eye view. They found many other historical relics and filmed wondrous discoveries of the undersea universe. The economic returns of these finds was enough to make anyone rich. But no Malaysian MH370.

That spring Olaf and Cana parted ways. He with considerable wealth would set up a floating laboratory for whale communication. Cana, by now fully grown must start her family. Many months passed and Olaf missed his blue friend, hoping to espy her again off the Norwegian coasts. But it was not to be. One day the tag that he had attached to Cana’s fin was returned in the mail. Because of her smaller size a Japanese whaling boat had mistakenly shot her for a minke.

Toba the AI tortoise

Tortoises are known to live long – one named Jonathan was 183. How so? One reason is the protective shell – its hard for predators to dig them out of it, unless they are swallowed whole, as would a monitor lizard to a small turtle. As they lumber along a tortoise can take its time to feed and nourish itself from the forest floor. Hence food depletion is hardly a problem. But what are tortoises good for? We will meet one who helps guard the forest against poachers. And a pretty smart one too. Artificially.

There’s a secret farm somewhere in the Himalayan mountains where extinct or near extinct creatures are kept. Its a secret so people are not aware of certain extinct animals being alive. Ligers, dodo, quagga, unicorns and even a miniature triceratop roam in the secluded farm, where attempts to mate and reproduce them are done in a lab. Besides reproduction the species are also studied for their behavior in the wild and this is done by secret video. Enter Toba the 200 pound tortoise. Heavy, slow but stable, it’s shell is ideal for mounting cameras and transmitters. So daily, Toba transmits valuable videos on how the rare animals feed, court and mate. Valuable data of their food preference in plants, ferns or berries assure their health and longevity. Nightly the data gets reviewed and studied by only two researchers, who live only in the lab 24/7, sworn to secrecy in their work. But boring, simply because there’s no one else they could share their excitement. Until one fateful day.

Toba has been trained. Using a vibrator attached to its shell the control room can direct her to stop, stay still or turn. The GPS module also gives her position and altitude as well as speed. However Toba retained her basic instincts – she’ll freeze whenever a predator or a large object such as humans approach. That fateful day Toba could not be traced nor contacted. It had happened before so the men was calm – at first. The last video clip viewed that night showed her at the edge of a ditch, so it was assumed that she must have fallen in and disoriented the sensors. Not a problem because Toba is a skillful swimmer, with strong, webbed claws. The problem was what they saw on the tape minutes before. It happened just as a loud flapping sound could be heard from the pterodactyl nets.

A large shadow had loomed before her as Toba froze. It was large, standing about 8 feet high. And hairy, black. It extended it’s hairy arm towards the camera and accidentally touched the vibrator. Shocked, it quickly withdrew and knocked the camera upward. It zoomed onto its hairy face and chest. “Yeti!” exclaimed one researcher who is native Nepali. Soon everything tumbled out of view and the screen garbled.

The yeti is the Nepalese equivalent of the abominable snowman, the north American Bigfoot or Sasquatch and the European Monogrande or Almas. It was recently seen in the years from 2005 and was even analyzed for its blood and hair samples. But results were inconclusive and still there was no concrete video proof. Until now. But the men had yet to find out what a hero Toba was. Hastily the two organized a night search party. They couldn’t radio more help other than inform headquarters. HQ is just one man – the secretive owner.

After a short trek they approached the ditch and looked in. No Toba. Then around the edge they saw a dent in the grass, about the size of Toba’s shell. And some blood. The camera and sensors were scattered around. Taking a test-tube they collected blood and noticed hairs around it. Must be the yeti’s said one of them. Shining their torch further on they beheld the gruesome sight of a half eaten Pyrenean ibex. But where’s Toba? As they walked around a while, they saw the triceratop limping around. There was a gash in its front leg and both its large horns were bloody. How could he escape from his pen? Approaching it’s opened gate they found the answer. Toba was lying there unhurt. And scratches at the lower latch on the wooden post implied Toba must have let the triceratop free to confront the yeti. What a smart girl to have snapped back at the intruder said one man as he patted her head. There was mud on her shell where the yeti must have picked up her 200 pound weight and slammed her on the ground. But she was none the worse from the attack. But that night they had more than enough concrete evidence of the elusive yeti. Unfortunately the farm was secret no more as the whole world got wind of Toba’s heroics. The farm specimens became a public curiosity and Toba became unemployed. But not for long.

Toba became a game warden for an African national park for tagged endangered rhinos. Due to its size the park engaged several tortoises, each equipped with cameras and GPS to track their safety from poachers. Toba even carry a LTE-equipped laptop computer on her back from which cloud data can predict the location of each species – so that she can verify their migration, with known fauna and flora mapping. Today, if you happen to visit her reservation perhaps you can see Toba lumbering from tree to bush ungainly under her weight, filming away whatever field studies she’s conducting.

Dragonflies never stand down

Kai is born shy. His mother took him with her when she parted from his father. That after a decade of hardship and persecution from the grandmother in the troubled marriage after his birth. So he is timid too and ostensibly so because of his small stature. But the milestones of life must be reached and his mother had him in a rural primary school. She was so busy having to earn their upkeep that she only sees Kai to school and collecting him late in the evening after all the other children had gone home. Left to himself Kai developed an introvert character of self entertaining. He would play imaginary marbles and combat games, using stones and other props from the yard which his mother couldn’t afford. Many leisure hours of playing by himself made him easy to keep as his mother’s too preoccupied sewing curtains and clothes at home for daily sustenance. So young Kai was relatively happy. But there’s one problem – he would never have the temerity to approach his busy mother for. Bullying at school.

It started a month after opening classes. A burly boy would go around and harass other children. He started by demanding the timid to surrender their stationary, throwing away used ones that aren’t new. Kai had to quietly retrieve them from the wastebasket when bully was not watching. He had to be careful that the teacher does not know either or he’ll face hell from bully at the following recess. Then the next level of torture came. Bully, who now has two wicked companions would push their homework to Kai and demand that they be ready before the bell next day. Kai must camouflage the writing so that teacher would not suspect foulplay. If Kai fails to do so, bully will hold a “gym session” with his henchmen. At recess each would take turns pushing, slapping and kicking him, making sure there are no telltale scars or bruises. Kai, already traumatized would withdraw into his corner even more. But he had an outlet. At the school garden he would watch butterflies, spiders and such. His favorite is the dragonfly. He’d notice that they never retreat but always go forth to every spot in the garden. Dragonflies and butterflies are the insects he doesn’t collect in his matchbox. But spiders and caterpillars are often snatched by the bully for his own collection of champion fighters. But the harassments didn’t end. The most hurt occurred during drawing classes. Kai had devised a way to account for his drawing sheets so that he would know when to ask his mother to buy a new book. Then the hoodlums descended on him while he was marking up his sheets. They started making lewd remarks, laughing and mocking him and belittling his conscientious book keeping. That hurt more than the gym sessions he received. He could only bite his lips and moved away. But there’s more to come.

The last week of term came around and the teacher announced to class the prizewinners for the term homework. When it came to the math prize the teacher started with Kai, the usual winner. Then she started heaping praises on bully and his two villians who in spite of fooling around with their mischief could still win the runner up positions. Seated in the corner the hoodlums started to giggle sheepishly. Kai who knew better, just looked out the window when the bell rang for the day. He bolted outside for fresh air and turned to go to the library. Just then bully grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. “Hey smartass! You can do better next time. You make sure we’re first and you the runner up OK? Give yourself more wrong answers ok or else you’ll answer to me.” Then wicked laughter came from his companions as they shoved him off until he almost tripped. Kai entered the library and casually picked up a book – mother won’t come till an hour later. It was titled “The samurai of Japan”.

He was reading it quickly when he came to the emblems of the samurai. There, was a dragonfly – emblazoned on the helmet and the armor, with the kanji words: Never back down – face your foes and challenges – never concede or settle. Kai closed the book slowly and strolled to the garden. Nobody was left in the school. But there were dozens of dragonflies. They darted here and there, some absolutely still in midair. Resolutely they buzzed and dived and as expected, never retreat from their objectives. Unlike butterflies or hummingbirds they were never built to fly backwards. Then something interesting happened. One of them when approaching a stalk had to face a praying-mantis. As it slashed with its claws, the dragonfly merely moved sideways. Kai when home thoughtfully. He had a plan.

The following week came the last day of term. The teacher had announced the day earlier that the last hour of term will be a composition test when everyone must write what they’ve learned in the term. Kai had prepared for this. He had committed to memory all the bullying that happened to him and other boys in the class, right to the details of the day and time they happened, and even what the bullies said, done and planned. He was first to finish. On top of his essay he wrote: Confidential – only to be made known to staff and the principal. Then he left for the garden to wait for his mother.

That term-break holiday was the best he ever had. And when he returned to school, there were no more bullies nor their lieutenants around. Neither was the clueless teacher of the class. And Kai’s mother didn’t know either.

The walrus said

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.” Lewis Carroll wrote in Through The Looking Glass in 1871 this poem when he was 39. Why he chose the walrus is unclear but he gives children the message of the largeness of life. There’s more than all the small things you play as a child, or all the miseries struggling when growing up. There comes a time we talk of different things and let it be things of wonder that our little minds will grow out of.

Chai was born to a poor fisherman’s family soon after Merdeka Day of Singapore’s independence. Life was hard, but full of hope in the national scene. His parents hardly made ends meet. Even a toddler Chai had to help out his father at the boat and fishing. Everyday his father heard the national call for hard work and sacrifice for the future and there was nothing else to do but to tighten the family belt tighter until there was no stomach left to enjoy life. But for Chai it was hell – because the quarrels at home of his father’s unfaithfulness was constant and unsettling. Mother was worked to the bone to care for food for four children, including supplementing income by her home sewing. She was stressed between the grandmother and the hard and bitter life of her husband. There was terrible low esteem because she was not much financial help in spite of sweating through housekeeping and sewing. And the persecution of being unable to keep cost of children’s food down. Aside from food there was nothing else for the children. So Chai played at the used-to-be pristine beach all day – with shells, crabs, urchins, sea slugs and an occasional eel. But the turmoil at home worsened and the children bore the brunt of it. The abuse was so bad that on two occasions they had to be hospitalized, on the pretense they hurt themselves from accidents. Punishment for misbehavior was like torture. Once Chai’s younger brother had to kneel on sharp seashells for hours before being sent to bed without dinner. A sewing scissors was thrown on his sister’s back, drawing blood. It was an accident, everyone conceded at the hospital. Chai himself had withstood so much knocks on his skull until he wondered whether he could think in school. But as he grew stronger he could run away from mother’s rod. Once he thought he could run out of range from his father’s heavy rod. Never could he imagine that his father could throw it so well. It landed hard and smack on his back that it would have been less painful to stand and take it. And then there’s school. Beatings followed every red report cards. Until Chai couldn’t even have time for sports or non-academic activities. But he joined the scouts anyway. Until his red report card came in. Another beating and another social repression. In those days teachers had no clue – they already had too much on their plate. Some teachers were known to have spat on the faces of students who did poorly and knuckle-busters such as the chalkboard cleaners were the usual weapons of choice. Any misbehavior was dealt swiftly by the teacher pulling Chai’s ear so hard that if he had not stood on tip-toe the entire ear would be ripped off. Having only spoken his dialect hokkien at home, Chai’s English essays were so bad that the teacher would read aloud all his mistakes to the entire class, amidst sniggers. Then after reading his essay book would be tossed directly into the wastebasket at the front. Sometimes it would be out of the window. One would have thought how someone like Chai could have properly grown up in the 1960s when the concept of abuse was not to children or animals, but only in gangland feuds. But children are born tough and injuries heal with time. How about mental and social maladjustment? Chai would not develop leadership qualities at school nor endear the kind of friendships kids engender that lasts for life. It was a spiral downwards of self esteem and confidence to face life. Sometimes his mother would get so low as to gather the children for group suicide. After tears of entreatment she would relent. But at that age, what can children do to help but cry? Once his father, in a moment of madness held his small hands and strode out into the open sea. He went on and on and on, until Chai, screaming, feared for his life when it was over their depth. They survived.

Somehow by dint of hard work Chai made it pass high school, then university, then post graduation. His fellow siblings didn’t do that bad either. Why because the country’s economy pulled through to good times and creature comforts improved with social standing. Chai would sometimes take comfort in the sea, where he imagined to be met with a walrus or some wonderful creatures with comforting thoughts. What about brain damage? Today pediatric neurologists can show you brain scans of shrunken hippo-campus due to family child abuse and social oppression. However, good news. They are found to be temporary and regain normal state when the child grows into a better environment or have life-changing marriages. So would someone like Chai might turn out ok after all just like any other normal kid? Almost, because occasionally he would wake up in the middle of nightmares – past images of his brain would surface uncontrollably. But Chai can now say that he understands what is the secret of his stupidity, slowness and social awkwardness that sets him back in the world. Hopefully he’s got what remains in his life to sort it out.

Today in Chai’s society the problem of child abuse continues to be hidden, mainly as an issue best handled within the sanctity of the family. But there are limits that are broached that comes under the purview of family laws of protection. Devastating psychological damage such as public caning is believed to be abolished. How or when can lasting mental damage be nipped in the bud? Listen to the Walrus. No child left behind?

Behold the slumber beauty

There is a recent report of a new mental illness. It is called digital overload affecting mainly the young. And the cause? – the mobile phone. Studies using brain scans and cold turkey treatment concluded that students who spend more than 4 hours a day engrossed in their hand-phones do poorly in their exams than those using less than 2 hours each day. So far fortunately there is a cure for it. The medical term? Digital detox. Two thirds of the world population (5 billion in 2018) have these devices, more than toilets per person. Currently there is no corroborative evidence of brain tumors or cancers from cell-phone radiation leaving only its cognitive negative effect on human attentiveness. That is measurable in a sense. Then there’s the “text neck” or “text thumb” that keyboard addicts suffer from. Now there’s even a horn that grows in the heads of cyber addicts. However the benefits of mobile device is unquestioned – imagine the trouble of dropping someone to board a plane without asking back for your house keys.

Kim works as a logistics coordinator – a better title for the sundry salesman. He takes orders online, schedules delivery and ensures goods are collected and delivered safely. In short he’s a one-man company – secretary, planner, delivery-driver, QC and accounts manager. His smart phone controls him. Every second. When he eats, drives or walks, he’ll stare at his website or WhatsApp screen, or he’ll stare into space talking while wincing through his earphone. Sometimes a call would come thru when he was doing all of the above and “sorry – a moment” or “what were you saying?” were his usual vocabulary. One day he took so much time in the toilet that when he emerged, still with phone in hand, it was time for lunch. Does he have a life? Not much. Try to have a conversation with him and you’ll be cut off, or he’ll stare vacantly at you in mid sentence. Of course there’s no proper working hours. There’s always a change of plan, from someone, somewhere, sometime. Can you imagine what is family to him? Or what is he to his family. So much so that he sees less and less of them or his friends. He’s no longer the likable person he was when he interviewed for this job. Somehow something must give. Fortunately the phone broke first. It’ll take half a day to fix and couple more hours to restore his data.

He almost went berserk. He walked out of the store aimlessly. Then his eyes fell on a shop window transfixed. There in a fishbowl swam two beautiful goldfishes. Enthralled, not only the beauty of the color, but also the grace of its movement. He felt like another world, mind lost in tranquility. Suddenly he was human again. After some time he lost touch of, he entered the aquarium and ordered a clutch of the beauties.

After eating a proper meal that he ever had for a long time (proper because nothing interrupted the food) he went back to collect the phone. There was still work. The madness resumed, but this time is different. Kim had planned at the aquarium that he would spend at least an hour each evening with the beauties he just purchased – sans smartphone. That turned out to be the best decision he made in his life, other than who he’d marry. But it was what happened the next day that made up his mind.

That evening he sat distraught in front of his aquarium. The phone incoming text broke his attention. He ignored the business text. And then it ranged. And ranged. Kim had decided moments earlier that he would take cold turkey an hour each day from his smartphone. He also resolved that he would not made important telephone decisions while driving. Also, he made sure that all detailed emails will only be answered half an hour after receipt. So every evening his business friends knew he would be unreachable for an hour. Asked why, he replied – “Digital detox with my goldfish.”

He was driving his children for a MacDonald, the first time in a very long time. Then an important customer called in. The conversation became very engrossed, even intense. Absent-mindedly he shot a red light. He was unscathed in the accident but his children was hospitalized in emergency.

It was a life-changing decision. Funnily his business didn’t suffer. He made better quality, un-rushed actions. His emails and messages were replied only once, not like multiple times of corrections before, even after he arrived at his destinations. Most of all his friends made more eye contact. There was warmth in the family again. Some friends wanted to know his secret and he invited them to his detox hourly session. From 6 pm they would sit in the large aquarium locked out of their smartphones with tranquil background music. In silence they would unwind their minds to behold the slumber beauties swimming in grace and peace. He was back in control. But he is not alone facing detox. It has been reported that more than 10% of China’s youth suffered from gaming addiction in 2019. The numbers are rising elsewhere. They had difficulty sleeping, schooling, or even eating. Cold turkey for phone addicts anyone?

The tree that would not yield

Trees are deeply animal related. Firstly oxygen and food. One acre of forest is said to exchange 6 tons of carbon dioxide for 4 tons of life giving oxygen. Koalas, elephants, giraffes and hosts of mammals live on trees of their choice in leaves and fruits. Macaques and birds eat flowers and insects suck nectar besides finding tree-holes for homes. In the hot Kalahari animals like leopards, lions or predator birds find relief from the sun while elsewhere tree roots hold the soil from storm flood erosion and provide food and shelter to underground voles or similar mammals. Even in winter trees sacrifice their remaining barks to starving deer or bears. Above all trees alleviate the effects of climate change – cooling the earth from the greenhouse effect of carbon dioxide, ensuring long term survival of Man and animals, as well as retaining moisture and water for sustenance of all life. Tomitaro Makino, the father of Japanese flower taxonomy once said that plants and trees have survived without humans for eons, but humans cannot survive without them even for a day. Yet mankind deforest 18 million acres of trees yearly, for developing industries and living space, giving up over 100 million tons of CO2 exchange a year. Removing trees the size of Panama yearly would eventually threaten their support for our survival. And trees can be beautiful – some majestic species take hundreds or thousands of years to attain their present status, only to be felled within a day by the power chainsaw. They’re a community, only immobile. Recently it was discovered trees can communicate among themselves through underground roots. They exchange information on soil nutrients and water quality and even compete for survival using their underground network. There are many inspiring examples of hero trees today and we’ve never heard of evil trees, except the biblical tree of death. A lone pine stood against the north eastern tsunami in Tohoku. Lots of ancient sakura trees are still delighting viewers and the California red pine giants still remain awesome. The steady oak, resplendent in its aged fortitude and sturdiness is an inspiration even to trees. During the invasion of the Japanese imperial army in 1941, a giant tembusu tree stood high, firm and imposing over the port of Singapore. Instead of regarding it as a moral challenge against the invaders, the British forces decided to blow it up with explosives, fearing it might serve as a target for naval gunships. Here is a story of a tree that did not yield to man’s destruction. It still stands in the Kalimantan Borneo island of Indonesia – where almost 80% of its tree cover will be stripped by deforestation in 2020.

In the district of Jambi about 80 years ago in the 1940s the Dutch East india company was responsible for exploiting the resources of Dutch colonies. Their helicopters landed in virgin tropical forests and dozens of Dutch operatives assisted by native guides in their log-hauling trucks would descend into the luxuriant pines with their axes. They were also armed with rifles, because the dense undergrowth were rife with wildlife, such as the West Irian tigers. Sometimes the Dutch masters would shoot the now critically endangered tigers for sport. In those days chainsaws had yet to be widely available for logging and strong natives were employed as tree cutters.

One day the team had surveyed and chosen the trees just about dusk. The weather had turned cloudy and a thunderstorm was brewing. In the thick hallowed space of the looming forests you could actually feel like the trees were alive. The axemen could feel the trepidation of being surrounded by ancient giants swaying with the screaming wind. And darkness was falling quickly. One of them wielded his axe high to land his first cut. The blade swished through the air to land on the meter wide trunk. But instead of cutting the tree something entirely unexpected happened. The axe bounced off the bark and flew off the cutter’s hands. The rest of the natives were in shock, never to have seen this before in their lives, skilled woodcutters all. The wind blew even more fiercely and they felt as if the tree itself was screaming. The gruff Dutch supervisor pushed the axeman aside and looked closely at the fallen axe. Use this one, he said, throwing another axe he thought was sharper. A heftier native took over and swung the axe with all his might. Again it bounced off the bark like it was a rubber stick. You could hear the ringing ping as the ax blade struck the steel-like bark, separating off the handle and heading towards one of the men who had to duck quickly. This time the rebound was so severe that the axeman slumped over, holding his wrists in great pain. That was enough for the rest. All the natives fell on their knees at the root of the tree in worship. By this time darkness had descended around. The jungle had a foreboding sense of hostility, the surrounding giants as if glaring at them in anger, screeching and howling with the wind. The supervisor decided to stop for the day – there was nothing he could do against a deeply superstitious crew. While they were packing up one man collected some twigs from the forest floor to use as joss-sticks. Another encircled the trunk with ropes to appease the deity living there. As they bid farewell to it they prayed, apologizing profusely for disturbing the spirit they believed in residence. Since that day no logger dare to touch the tree. Today if you happen to trek to Jambi you will probably feel the presence of the stalwart warrior of a tree that once stood in defiance of deforestation that have come to bedevil humankind.

Continue in SCARF2

The last ten years

Retrospect

In a sense I’ve lived my life. Life in the usual sense. From birth most of us have little choice of how it should be lived. The mental and physical formative years fly by with schools, sports and skills. At the back of our minds was always the agenda of the future and the endless train of preparation, tests and qualifications rolled on. We compete, excel and compete again. Settled onto a career or family and as if suddenly today we reach the afternoon or evening of our lives. If you managed to jump off the train of career, family or work, here becomes a salutary pause. The days are getting shorter as we age. Decades have whizzed by and now we face the prospect that perhaps we have only a decade of good years left. What next?

End the Mind Game

Humans are not just social – we unconsciously tailor our thoughts depending on who we are with and what “rules” we should follow. So for instance we were taught to be patriotic from young. Any departure from nationalistic thinking is dangerous ground. So we harp the right tune and nod the right vibes so that we become a part of the nation. This may not be true for every nationality, but for a country where most of life is influenced by a  strong government (or media) we tend to march blindly to a credo of sorts. We build our life and thinking as the familiar comfort zone. And before long you’ve lived a life like so many others of your countrymen. Now you’ve retired. Now is the chance to think for yourself. Live your own life. State your own view. End the mind game. Be yourself. But what is that?

We become who we like

Our lives were formed by the interactions with others. Growing up we form the “self” inculcating values gleaned from other humans, whether friends, teachers or family. That’s the order for me. I soon learn that human interactions can be complex and irrational and resolved to choose a career with minimum interrelationship.  Fifty years hence and I’ve found how wrong I was. The fact is that our well-being depends greatly on our relationship with fellow human beings. It is said that living in isolation handicaps one mentally. The frontal cortex tend to shrink for the socially deprived.

The call

Today is probably the most important of my life, because I think I’ve found its calling. At 5am June 26 it dawned on me I can do this task. It’s the most sensible thing to do. Sure, I dreamt of my ideal job as a top notch mechanic, with a steep engineering background, tinkling with dynamics electronics and systems and become a god of my trade. But life is not always filled with our desired surrenpidity. We do with what’s at hand and now. But no more working for a lousy boss – spare me the pejoretive insults and deprecatory dismissals from well qualified upstarts of an authoritative city-state, who put down subordinates that are not top-notch, super sensitive of their own meritocracy and the craving for recognition. No more tyrannical weight of offices. Then there’s more. You know when you live several decades in a belief, then realized that you’ve lived in what others want you to believe. Let me explain. In Christianity you have preachers and teachers who expound and persuade you the right way that the Bible says you should live. Very soon you’re tied to a creed, not a faith in a God. The creed becomes stronger and condemns and judges you into conform. But what of the One you believed in – does He have a say, and what is it? There are just too many shackles of faith and now I know it had held me back in many instances of my life which only I can detail. Then suddenly, I felt the shackles fly off – you go direct to God than through the pontificate.

Life in the cell

Science today knows a lot about how life sustains itself. But not enough to know why. Since the discovery of DNA we have a handle of how cells live as a primitive form according to a blueprint. But a fuller sufficiency of this fact is needed to answer why the cell grows and metabolizes. What is the Hidden Hand that starts the process of cell growth, its self-preservation, health and eventually death? What mechanism within itself makes the decisions to send messages out to its environment for the well being of the whole? There is a wealth of information out there to explain the effects, even to alter the effects as driven by our health needs and well-being. These recent discoveries are epochal in advancing modern medicine but remain at best, neccessary  conditions to alleviating sufferings. Finding sufficiency to each discovery is a (or several) lifetime’s work. But let’s not be distracted, or engulfed by facts. The basic question is this: Can the entire cycle of cell metabolism and it’s ramifications be viewed like a grand biochemical program code that starts the creation, maintenance and end of complex lifeforms?

A) regulation

A cell is living because it can nourish itself and grow. How is this process started? Given an environment something within the cell structure must have started a mechanism to take in oxygen and other nutrients so that it can go on living. Compare this to a computer program code. The first order of business is to march to a clock and taking in precoded instructions one at a time. Where is the clock in the cell that start and coordinate a series of instructions for taking in nutrients and making the rest of the cell function? And where is this stack of instruction? Secondly a series of actions from these instructions can be directed to perform other series of actions due to a detected need. So a sensing mechanism within the cell flags the program control such as to stop growing nutrients, or start dividing (mitosis), to shut down or reproduce (meitosis) or any other biochemical pathways. So what are the “programming codes” that instruct the creation of enzymes to maintain the cell structure and start other metabolic pathways? Or maybe there isn’t a clock to regulate the sequences of activity but just switches. For instance today (2018) we know quite a lot about how cells transport nutrients and other cargo within itself. From our human standpoint we’re used to looking for a brain, or a central control from which such molecular transport mechanisms are controlled – just like how a main program decides what part of a code needs to be executed. But a possibility is that in actuality they are autonomous – their basic mechanism are switched (chemically) from one binary mode to another. Still we need to find a supervisory mechanism to throw the switch – just like how a transfer mechanism in a modern factory are autonomously run with motors and sensors, with only occasional commands from a human operator.

So the difference between a living cell and an inanimate object are:

1. Its molecular structure enables electrochemical energy exchange with surrounding nutrient enhancing proteins in order to grow and multiply.

2. It follows a self preservation regime, driven by a masterplan within its DNA to reproduce and organise clusters of cells, which communicate within itself by molecular messages. But what is the monitoring mechanism that drives this self preservation process?

B) Fight or flight

Perhaps a third and most elusive mystery of lifeforms is a hidden hand or a “life-force” that supervises the first two qualities. Is a brain necessary?  Perhaps not. But in its most primitive form the cell must already have this self-determination to defend itself, or run away.

C) The age of digital information

Sounds like old hack but new innovations are disrupting daily life as we lived through the 2 decades of internet and ubiquitous computing devices. We will live more and more through our hand-phones. Most use it for social media but the advent of cyber currency working through new avenues of trust in our daily transactions would be a revolution in slow motion. October 2019 introduction of the Libra cyber currency by Facebook Inc, is just the beginning. Many do not appreciate it but Zuckerburg is probably the most qualified person who understands what it involves to effectively scale up the process of block-chain transactions and achieve efficient and reliable throughput. For too long the world had to pay too much for the velocity of money. Banks simply lived off our need to entrust them to enhance the time-value of our hard-earned income as well as the friction to money movement we pay for each transfer. World competition to do both of these more efficiently and reliably would put best practices at our fingertips. The trusted system of distributed ledgers will populate to all that we now do with personal signatures on promissory notes. I can’t wait.

Deeper Haiku (重俳句)

On a country road (Dec 15 2012)

Sun rays slant through the morning mist

Burst on a fallen log

Mushrooms thrive

朝霧が光線を射貫くれた

落ちた丸太を裂ける

茸は生茂てー生死います

Citizen’s army (Reservist Jan 1989)

Thrown in with the riff-rafts and the noble

Minds of startling contrast

Emptying self in training

Kizuna 絆 (Dec 2012)

Dashing through the bushes

One came tail wagging to rejoin the pack

Familiarity!

草叢を駆ける

尾を振りて群れに帰途

きずなね

Necessary Tragedy

Brown kite gliding over the lake

Pillow-like worm wriggling in its beak

A baby dies for another

What is Time at the Bayou?

Leaves rustle in endless twirls by a sudden wind

Stop near a tree undisturbed since it fell

Then quiet

突風で枝葉はさやさや捻く回ぐれ

円滑倒木は隣り留まれ

そう長閑

An egret stood one-legged frozen askew

Head riveted on a prey

Time stopped

Love unrequited (2010)

Unfathomable! Indefatigable!

Her looks like a sudden find

Besotted, vulnerable smitten empty

計り知れない逞しい

彼女は偶然に目をかけた

欲張れた

Animal instincts (July 2012)

Flurry of wings from a bird in heat

Urges for highest survival of the specie

Regardless of current mate

鳥の発情から風翼いた

生存本能の意欲

伴侶が別に

After the rain (2009)

Rivulets of water rattle into the storm drain

Joins the rushing deluge below

Air crisp and clear –  the birds chatter

細流が溝にがたがた

湧くれます

空気は涼しい鳥寄せ

Morning reverie (April 2012)

Monotonous drone of the motor-bike

Follows the “plonk” of a newspaper thrown

Starts another day

自動二輪車の単調は

朝刊がぱたんと続く

未明は起きる

Geese (2011)

Lone Canadian migrating South

A plaintive cry for his hunted mate

Nothing for life of fidelity

孤雁は南部へ遊走

悲調で迷た仲間を泣きながら

今から一人暮らし

Equatorial Cauldron (1995)

Days when the bronze-colored skies

Mercilessly beat down the sun’s heat

Into the steamy reaches of the night

Life and Death (Dec 2012)

Intricate structures built from birth

From complex brain to simple toe

Reshuffled like mahjong

誕生から繁雑創造した

脳から指までは黒尽め

麻雀ように死出時に再編しまいました

Relentless (Nov 2011)

Young, sacrificing for career and family

Old looking for shared retirement

Barring illness

After the Lunar Year (Feb 2012)

Red packets strewn over the street

Like discarded condoms after the pleasure is drawn

Spring renewed

Rainy View from a roof-top (2013)

Defiant sunflowers and umbrellas

Shafted into the sky

Against elements and human predicament

Still Life to Live (Jul 2013)

The angry eye of a goshawk chick

Shifts with the side-way jerk of the head

Prey unsuspecting temerity of life

Jungle Fowl (Feb 2013)

On the roof stood statuesque a weather-vane?

Then its head tilts, right eye skyward

Comb quivering

川柳 (SENRYU) A comic 17 syllable haiku

is a Japanese form of short poetry similar to haiku in construction: three lines with 17 or fewer total morae (or “on”, often translated as syllables, but see the article on onji for distinctions). Senryū tend to be about human foibles while haiku tend to be about nature, and senryū are often cynical or darkly humorous while haiku are more serious. Unlike haiku, senryū do not include a kireji (cutting word), and do not generally include a kigo, or season word.

The Japanese

Disciplined by societal mores

Pushed throughout life

At deathbed what would they think?

Out of the Dust Pan

The devil wears a mask

Until recently I never thought that I was a misfit all my life. No – not to the extent that I have become a deviant monster or a miscreant worthy of life behind bars. Its just that I have become uncomfortable staying in the mainstream ambitions of society. I thought I am the minority in a strictly ordered country but I realized that there are many people (and not a few respectable ones) who are intellectually residing in the fringes of the mainstream with rather unconventional views and practices. When I was born as a third baby grandma “Purse String” was reluctant to feed an extra mouth. My parents drifted apart when I was weaning and mother had to endure much anguish, insecurity and anxiety during my arrival that some of it must have formed my present countenance. But I was born strong, and chubby-cute – one of the few blessings throughout this life. Because early years was living alone with mother, separated from the other siblings there were several accidents. But physical robustness endured. Only the periods of lonely play formed a melancholic disposition. Early school years though happy academically had several emotional letdowns. My parents were often late bringing me home, after all playmates have left. Being chosen troop leader, the cubmaster abruptly and mysteriously dumped the troop and the puzzlement of not being leader had returned to haunt later in life. Later school years were worse. Academic disappointments in a premier high school left an indelible mark of needing to build self esteem. Hard work became a constant, inward consolation. But it was a poor substitute for family disunity and instability. Christianity became the best moral and mental support for a disparate family life. At that time hope lay also in academic excellence but that also deluded me due to a lack of mental focus. Hard work alone did not pay off in the university. There were just too many burdens and obligations of time so those achievements were at best mediocre. There’s the uncanny ability to nullify every valiant endeavor in life. Every task was an uphill climb, be it the first university year, first job, first assignment. Why? I once asked in my dream. Can I trust anyone, or is it just me? Then I saw in the dream one that holds a specter of justice in His right hand. It was like a cursor in the form of a cross, brilliant and thin like two cross hairs of laser light that extends to infinity.

“Trust everyone, except the Devil” was His reply.

“But who is the Devil?”

“The Devil wears a mask”.

“But everyone I meet in life doesn’t have a mask!” There was silence.

“That’s the point.”

In another dream the reply came from a Foundation offering a job in the United States. I had waited for an inordinately long time for this break in life.  I appeared before the search committee, whose chairman was a man with a large, square face, large-set jaws and a bulbous dwarf-like nose – a splitting image of Bob Hope.

“We have carefully evaluated your desire to come to the USA and work as an engineering consultant for our Foundation. Thank you for your patience in waiting 20 years for this. You were one of the very few interested and it was easy to shortlist you as the only recipient of this offer. However our sole benefactor of the Foundation is a devout Hindu and has stipulated that the recipient must devote the rest of his life serving others. (I gasped, as secretly I had wanted to do this all along but as usual, not acted.) Therefore you will have to fulfill one condition of this offer and one only, if you should decide to take up this job.” The next words waited like infinity to come.

“You must become a devoted Hindu, renounce everything else and then come to the USA.”

I woke up sweating. Not less than three quarters of my expected lifespan was trying to become a devout Christian. Now the lure is to give it all up and start over. The lure could not have come at a worst time of life – countless doubts on had been searing for the last decade searching for a meaningful retirement. It seemed like the easiest thing to accede to.

It is just like Moses – when he raised his staff Israel wins but with tiredness the staff falls lower and Israel loses. How much like us when we are vigilant – confidence and strength returns against all adversities and pitfalls. But when faith fails for disappointments and sinful pleasures the battle against life’s problems falters. How much must we keep our hands high with help from friends – to be on top of our challenges mentally, physically and psychologically! (March 2001)

Just this once

I had mourned her loss for nearly two years now. But the dream I had of her return was so surreal that I was awestruck long after the dogs barked me awoke. I had searched long and wide and finally found her under a rock. But given up for dead I was so pleased to find her at her birthday dinner, sane, conscious and lucid.  I was to give thanks. But I was so awkward that words hardly appear – just disconnected utterances. (22 August 2013)

Dejavu? (April 2017)

I wanted to die. Last night I was brought back to my teen years struggling to get out of an oppressive upbringing under a deeply stressed parent. It was not entirely clear what I was punished for but I knew all the siblings had to undergo brutal beatings. In this nightmare I had to resolve the unjustified anger but could not. Then the horrible recollection of how I beat the dog the same way I was beaten. I’m sorry, so sorry I cried, for not knowing better that I was taking out on a lesser creature and for not being greater than my tortures. Even the swear words were identical, exactly as she would treat me as a lesser creature. So that is how one’s upbringing brings all the disadvantages when growing into the world at large. No one gives you a discount for being abused as a child, God does not side with the non-confident and the misfits. So I determined I will marry someone entirely different. But she was relatively short-live.

The return of my angel

“Where have you been all this time?” I cried and cried uncontrollably. He had just returned to my safeguard, looking strained. Having “left” me since birth I remained weak as a lost sheep in a storm. “Now what are you lacking?” said he, giving me a withering look. “All the grace due to me since birth”, I said. Everything that other “normal” people received that somehow was omitted in my life – why the curses and the privations? My vulnerability started when I was borne the appendix child. And life is such that vulnerability is always easily abused or exploited. Anyone who has examined historical events and still insists God protects His own all the time (physically) ought to have his/her head examined. The disciple Peter crucified upside-down, Paul beheaded, James put to the sword, Steven stoned, John banished and many unnamed others went through severe incarcerations. But now I say, so what? Who cares if I was behind the door when they handed out luck, or charm, or some such qualities that give you the edge in Life? We do have some other quality that is not so dramatic. Take Daniel who survived the lion’s den or the boiling cauldron. When we give up, perhaps there comes divine protection and certainly there are numerous modern examples of it. Not a norm and we do have the responsibility to look after ourselves. (September-October 2008)

4 am Visitor

He is an angel. Standing unobtrusively at a corner, I knew he must be. Because in dreams there appear certain people or beings that you will be certain what or who they are. He is here for a reason not entirely clear to me. But now Miranda is still in coma and I will plead my cause for him to help restore her. Besides scores are still praying for her recovery. Surely there must be some way of delivery from life’s supreme struggles against suffering other than Death? (June 30 2013)

The evenings of our lives bring along unsettling thoughts of death. Well-being becomes unsustainable we must not just trundle along into nothingness. (Feb 29 2016)

I won’t kill another spider again…

He was acrobatic when I came near to it at the washbasin, making repeated somersaults, so happy to be alive. It was a juvenile so full of delight of living in a nice environment in my clean toilet, as if to shout at me, “See, I can jump !” Then a dark cloud came over me –  imagining a fully grown brown spider leading her brood of offspring around my marble basin top. After the spray and it was crumbled up to this day I’ve never felt so morose. How I wish that young life can come again to my parlor, celebrating life. I looked and looked, but no more signs of life came to my mirror.  (June 2013)

The  train

Two weeks of distressed mind after a costly break-in left me unhinged mentally. One night I dreamt I was in hell, tour-guided by some devil. The place was like a huge slaughterhouse. Animal parts were everywhere. And the smell of blood and death. So oppressive and macabre that the gloom will drive you to escape by any means. Then the tour guide will gleefully point to one severed body part and another, gruesome and grisly. The sight and smell was enough to made my head explode and I struggled to wake, but could not,  paralyzed.  Then there was a sudden loud noise. An ironclad train rushes by – one so solid and strong that no one can get in if you’re outside and anyone inside completely safe from the savagery outside. I yearned to get on board. Escape this terror! But it zoomed on with such ferocity that its impossible if you’re not already on board. I stirred with great effort and finally woke, panting. It was the gospel train. (Feb 2018)

Out of the dust pan

Grandma’s hostility increased when she saw how fat I was getting. That was the time (around 1949) when they introduced re-constituted baby milk-powder. In my growing years I had determined not to fit the black sheep label that had befallen me. Already the highest consumer of powdered milk I had the redoubtable reputation of wearing out the most sandals. Three of us were allotted each a new one only at the new (Spring) year but mine was getting frayed months before. If I were given the chore to transport a bowl of soup, invariably its contents will be spilled or its container dashed to pieces. Of course I’d have fallen over it and soiled my clothes. My accident-proneness included walking headlong into moving bicycles or street pillars. Mine was the mouth with the most teeth extracted- besides saying the wrong thing at the right time. This was equal to the propensity to lose school textbooks, stationery, even entire schoolbags, or invariably lose my way in un-crowded places. I got pummeled or knuckled on the head for forgetting things as soon as I turn the corner. I would buy corn starch instead of flour (they sound almost the same in my dialect), measured the floor lengthwise instead of breath or eat from the wrong bowl. Mother would have spiked father’s bowl with some temple incense to minimize infidelity. Yet there was fight left in me. It developed the mettle of some fortitude to get up and soldier on. Circumstances larger than life at those moments were our lot to take. Experience impinged. (August 2008)

Roadside Nutrition

Each morning my dachunds walk me. Their incessant barks at the crack of dawn ensure this.  Invariably we would stop by the roadside. Have you ever wonder how much specie of herbs, shrubs, fern and other flora exists on the other side of the bitumen? It takes someone of knowledge to tell which are edible or which have medicinal value. But the dogs knew exactly which to ingest with one sniff of their nostrils. No one taught them nor have they gained knowledge from books or television. All three will take dozens of bites at the edible ones, and then one would lift one hind leg to neatly pee on it. Like saying, “That was delicious, now grow!” (2012)

“Plants can survive without humans from time immemorial. But without them humans cannot live even for a single day!” – Dr. T Makino, renown world botanist.

Breathless days

Remember when you had to do the “big” things in life as fast as possible? Life was so “short”. You’re beginning to be too “old” to get a degree, train for a new game, learn a new musical instrument. And get a life partner! Those were breathless days. (July 2008)

The Ginseng root (or the primitive sense of racial origins)

When I was denied the chance of settling down in an affluent, Western country as a young man, little did I knew that I’ve been circumvented from the larger (and deeper) question of being comfortable with my racial Chinese-ness, until my later years. Once caught up with Western values of advancement and “progress”, freedom of self-assertion and fulfillment, you tend to lose your Asian roots – and cannot escape the spots of looking and behaving “Chinese”, different from the mainstream “white” establishment. Some sense the envy of not being the same as “them”, as they compare the discrepancy of recognizing their achievement. The legacy of passing this “burden” to your children and future descendents is very real. They may even attribute their loss to you, unless they lose their Asian-ness by genetic assimilation – but then you have effectively lost your genes. Not a big deal. The beauty of being comfortable in your own skin is authentic. However I am often persuaded that being away from your countrymen may give you a little inspiration to rise above them. Beyond any economic comparison. (September 2008)

Leopard skins

People in the world’s richest country today may not realize that back in the fifties many Singaporeans lived in abject poverty. In the village I hailed from clothes were worn till they became rags and rice was accounted for every grain cooked. Thrifty to a fault this frugal mentality was burned into us even in days of wealth that it takes a nightmare to have it surface once in a while.

Me and my friends were on our way to attend a grand reunion. All our friends, relatives, associates, neighbors, former teachers and classmates would be looking forward to seeing and sharing what we have achieved and gotten over our hardships in life. Some would be so happy secretly to learn about admired seniors falling into hard times while juniors would flaunt their successes to their envious seniors or contemporaries. This was the time for outcasts and the despised to become accepted and respected. A lot of pride on the line. As we approach the venue, horror of horrors we found we were not dressed for the occasion. We were wearing rags and torn sleeves – clothes recycled from garbage bins. They were of garish colors as if the material were sewn together from patches of rags. And a musky smell of neglect. Try as we might to rip them off we couldn’t – they were the only garments on our backs. We felt like escaping convicts or lunatics, unable to cast off our identity. Despite our gleaming Mercedes, pompous homes and fat bank accounts, deep inside we were church mice. Even after waking up to find that it was just a dream. (December 2013)

The flip side – another kind of society

The ability to make choices is a treasured pleasure. It can have its difficulties, but it gives a strange sense of freedom. Western societies see this most in their choice of governments. However here in Singapore a whole generation has grown up without having a “real” choice there. The ruling government in our history will probably be known in the future as “The LKY era”. The members are a law unto themselves. That “law” ensures the continuity of the party and synonymously, for a long time, the survival of Singapore. Dwight Eisenhower observed rather succinctly in the 60s, that Singapore is a small boat with an over-sized engine. The culture of success can be compared to the iron grip of once impervious Tito’s ruling council of Yugoslavia, but for the sheer intellect of foreseeing many problems long before they arise. Few if any crisis will sink the country, barring really unforeseen events capable of that. The other element not so clear is that of political will among the rookies, that something which won the hearts and minds of people against all odds and threats. Otherwise everything is fine-tuned through the years; with checks and balances to ensure the “right thing” is done all the time – throughout all levels of society. What is left is the product – will new generations of the future appreciate, and more importantly, assimilate the effort that has been put in place, rather than flee to larger havens? Singapore’s influence in the world has exceeded all expectations from such a small place. But it will forever, as it is, be often dismissed by larger world powers as too small a place to be of any significance. One always itches to see what life is like in the flip side. Will there truly be some benevolence in being able to get another point of view in politics? Another day in another generation? If you ask me my view is grim for future of Singaporeans. Because nobody is born with a natural penchant for working hard – so hard as to ensure our last 50 years of prosperity is not just a one-off event from an unusual founder. Future generations will not want to work that hard. There must be an easier way. And the tendency is to slide downhill. (December 2008)

Failure is an option (Feb 2014)

Failed experiments done flawlessly hide the seeds of greatest inventions or discoveries. The first tragedy is to give up repeating the experiments without pondering the source of inconsistencies. The second is to delude ourselves taking shortcuts to justify our failures, or not even to try at all. The third, and greatest tragedy of all is to be punished, directly or indirectly for our failures. (“The discovery of radium” by Pierre and Marie Curie)

Absence of hunger

The youth today is in dire need for ideals. Not that kind of youthful exuberance that they can do anything great or fantastic or something unrealistic – but the conviction of tested values of honesty, integrity thrift and self-reliance. Just the other day I espied a boy waiting for his father to ferry him to school. His face then must represent many others of his age. It is like an expression of resentment that he must wait for dad to bring him around, but that he would rather spend a whole day frolicking with his friends than 20 minutes with him. Ha ha his friends must have jested – always dependent on father! But perhaps time will graduate them into sterner beings. Like having an imagination, which must come with hard work, reliability and attention to details. Most of all, the absence of an impenetrable sense of changing history, given the situations that throw their destiny into what, where and why they are what they are. Having said that I must admit that there is more than hard work needed in this world. You can work your butt off, but often, if you do not have a boss who will root for you and generous enough to push you upwards, or some other “luck” it can be quite futile. True, it is better to be lucky than good. (Oct 2008)

The shop-house on Amoy Street

I would bawl with tears at the top of my voice when my mother told me that it was time for my weekly stay at the shop-house in Amoy Street. Why because it was a most depressing and desolate place. But at 6 years old all my protestations will be overruled and I would be brought, deeply crest-fallen and down-casted to spend several days in “purgatory”. If you ever walk down Amoy Street in the ‘50s you will be greeted by the dank smell from its drains and the dirty, dilapidated shop-houses. Then especially in the afternoons from about 2 to 5 pm there would be nothing – no sound of birds or the sight of flowers, or even the occasional cacophony of Cantonese opera from Redifusion loudspeaker boxes, as if the world was at its end. Hardly any soul walks the drab street in the heat and humidity – with no one to play with I was left to my devices which was nothing in the bare floor of the shop. Often I would fall asleep on the broken wooden stool but on awakening I would feel even more morose with nothing of interest happening around to cheer a curious boy. Bleak, barren, mournful and hopeless – no word can adequately describe the God-forsaken-ness of that Amoy Street corner. The only bright spot was the jumping with joy as my father drove up to collect me back to civilization. (1955)

Disgusted looking up (or the failures of those I respected)

I once had a dream about three friends growing up in Singapore. He was skinny and pale looking, a bit winsome for his 45 years. His face seems to break into a dimpled smile any moment but hides the scars of his life. Then there was this plumpish girl. The plain Jane type – the kind that seems to have made practical decisions all her life. And there was me. (Feb 2008)

I met her by chance at a food court somewhere that I cannot recall. She said that Shan had disappeared mysteriously 5 years ago after CP but she continued to live in Holland Road. He reversed engineered a very high-tech bomb while working on firing pins for nuclear devices. Quickly she gave me a small shiny canister and said to give to him. Abruptly she disappeared into the crowd. Have not seen Shan since RI A-levels and vaguely remember his wife. I thought I saw a flash of her in the corridor earlier but she was not with him. Someone was stalking her – a sexy, striking blonde, tall and stunning. I said hullo, not realizing that she had been watching me too. Then the tall blonde came and sat opposite me, starting a conversation and starting to sexually arouse me with her legs and hands from under the table. I moistened and felt the urge to escape. Quickly excusing myself I asked the waitress where the men’s room was. I took leave but her eyes followed me two floors up and to the left. I found the toilet, but eyed her from a distance. Suddenly Shan appeared from nowhere and pulled me off to a side, out of view. I passed him the exchange. “Dispense of the dud”, he said, “she’s a killer – usually gives sex first.” As we walked to the lift she spotted me, in her hands what looked like a bazooka. “I am a piece of meat- she’s a top agent”, I could hear myself speaking. I saw her sauntered towards the men’s and slipped in as Shan and I entered the lift downwards. Parting ways I thought I’ll never see him again. On level 4, I saw him walked to the stairway and entered a door. I glanced through the glass partition and saw her waving at him and then pointed the bazooka at me. I ducked just in time behind a walled divider, exited the elevator quickly and mingled with the shopping crowd in the food court. On the way out I saw a baby in a tram. As I leave I could hear the young mother talking to the infant.

“Where did you get that Jimmy?” he burped gleefully, with the shiny tubing in his hands, too young to know not to accept gifts from strangers.

I walked into the sunshine with a spring in my gait, relieved to escape the clutches of the hot, black nymph. (October 2008)

Post-note July 2013: NSA get real!! I was inexorably satisfied with the nymph but not the shiny!

When Truth confronted the Catholic Church

It recoiled. Not since medieval times has the Papacy ended in resignation when Pope Benedict decided it was enough. The Devil had predated the Vatican to destroy it from the inside with predatory pedophilia practices and fiscal corruption. So established was the Papal bureaucracy that subterfuge pervaded at many levels and yet operated in a cloak of spirituality. How came it so? The answer appeared in the simple response – “I’m a priest and I have this need.” It could very well be a teacher or any respectable occupation other than a priest. So close to home and so close to God! Humans, unlike animals know too well the dangers of being socially indiscreet and non-circumspect, even in a sovereign state like the Vatican City, a country having a law to itself. We all know there is a time and place for pleasure and serious work. And who we enjoy our pleasures with. But it may be much easier just being an animal. (2013)

A time for giving and believing despite all odds

Singing carols like a nonchalant child mumbling words vacantly because he was dragged to Sunday church. Why is it usually in church encouraging words about God and His care for us are so real? Once we return to our own world the reality of God seems doubtful – the relative we prayed for deliverance from her suffering – she still suffered – and died. The wandering jobless vagrants still comes to the door, the rich wicked still rule and rub the noses of the oppressed into the mud. But few men hardly escape the touch of the Spirit of Christmas. The enchantment of carols, the yuletide cheers of people kinder than the ordinary, and the traditional trappings of giving and receiving. (December 2008)

The Mary Complex

Call themselves followers of Christ with love for fellow beings and believers, but when it comes to the crunch it is each man or woman to themselves. That is the mainstream church-goers’ unspoken creed, even if they know or have heard often of the proclamation of love or charity for one another. We see it all the time – whether it is the rush to the toilet, the best seats on the bus or theater or the most delectable viands on the table. Rarely will you meet one who is altruistic enough to sacrifice one’s discomfort for others, let alone lay down one’s life that others might live. The act of selfishness goes one further degree in protecting one’s spouse or family. But there is one exception. You can seek for yourself to the exclusion of others – even family or parents if it is to selfishly seek Christ. Forget about husbands, wives, children or friends for you to be worthy of Him. It may appear to be the pinnacle of self-centerness but consider this: If anyone wants to detract you from your affection and devotion to Christ let them try it for themselves to seek Him wholeheartedly. We all ought to do the necessary work of Martha but better still keep the heart of Mary. (July 2011)

Devoid of me (the bane of our existence)

Have you ever seen yourself interacting with other people in a video or a mirror? If like me, you had the agony of hating the un-loveliness of yourself you would wish you could consciously change your demeanor, or even your personality, into someone more likeable, approachable or friendly even. I would sometimes recoil at the utterances that spewed from my mouth or the body language that followed. It will be really good to be able to see the few opportunities that came my way than the disappointments that scarred my life. We hear of the “Love that will not let me go”, who in spite of our “filthy rags” is willing to transform us into Beings not unlike the angels of eternity, and even more. If God does not love me no one else would. But I still do not like what I see of myself – if I get to see it.

Dogs are different. They will always come pounding home to you, their ears upturned. Have you ever read Natsume Soeseki’s “I am a cat”? We tend to call them or even talk to them, expecting them to face us, like children do. But probably why they often do not is because they already knew our faces and expressions, from their viewpoint. They are just being themselves. And therein is the crux of the matter. (Dec 2008)

The apparent ordinariness of Jesus

He was a nobody in the sense of royalty or political might, in the current status of societal life at His time, although His earthly lineage, in a tortuous way, traces back to King David and Solomon. He was, in the main, known to walk the streets with a ragtag of followers doing superhuman things. Yet there was not any ostentatious show of force towards those He criticized and others who eventually succeeded in plotting His death. It does however open a door to many doubters today. Isn’t it possible that he is after all, an ordinary man, succumbed to pain and death just like any of us? And doesn’t the sustainability of the faith in Him today depends on the reality of His presence in the lives of believers? Not make-believe that He will solve all your life’s problems like He did on the streets of old Palestine, but a real-life response as if human to human. Only when God is felt truly relevant in His dealings with the travails of our daily lives will faith stand on its own merits, nothing less. And herein lies my failing of my so-called “faith”. (December 2008)

Flailing Trek

It is a dark night, bitterly cold, so cold that you could even see it in the dark. I am struggling to walk up the road home. Almost impossible to walk forward because the wind is so strong that it pushes me back each step I take, like a wall against me. Despite all my effort I could move only in painfully slow motion. I lower myself to resist it, knowing that I only have a few hundred yards to go home. As the cold wind begins to bite me deeply I suddenly realize that I am walking in circles. Then I realize it is just a dream – just like the Kurozawa movie where a group of mountaineers battling certain death from the snowstorm suddenly find that they had just circled base camp. (October 5 2012)

Death Struggle

Nine out of ten dreams are morbid to me. Often to escape instant death. Bullets pierce my body and I expect searing pain but there was nothing, shot after shot – as seen on TV. So I get multiply shot, stabbed or choked on but for some reason I kept running. Just last night I knew I was visited by the angel of death. He had a sweet cherubic face but I had no doubt of his power. Somehow he entered my bedroom – I guessed through the window (which was closed). But instead of fighting him I knew it was best  to beg for mercy. Then somehow he relented and left. I quickly secured all doors and windows but upon returning to bed there he was again, his hand choking me on the throat. I knew I could fight back by choking him with all my strength but inside me I knew it would be instant death for me. That was when I awoke. (June 2013)

Nocturnal ruminations

On some nights when all sleep flees I could lay there for endless minutes trying to cut off uncontrollable random thoughts. I could hear my heart. It either sounds like a pile-driver going off in a construction site – the resonating “bang”, then a hiss of escaping air, or the muffled beating of a mattress when being sunned outside. These random thoughts could go on for so long that it might be worthwhile going to the bathroom at the slightest of unease. Sometimes the aches of the day’s labors shoot through the limbs as I return to the bed and, in the ensuing silence you can hear the sonorous drain of water through the faucet piping. Then after a long time, you’d have thought that all water is drained – but no – I could still hear the rippling, ringing of continuous flow echoing into the night. I must have left the tap running, I thought – and dragged myself up into the bathroom except that there was no water. Strange, I thought, and proceeded to lumber heavily back to the bed. My hands moved over to feel the cool sheets and received a rude shock. I had actually never left the bed, either to ease myself or to return to turn the tap off. But the sound of running water was still ringing in my head… then after some time there was a “shoosh shoosh” like a giant scythe slashing at jungle brush. I turned but it was just my heavy breathing seconds earlier…. (Nov-Dec 2008)

Requiem – a night of sorrows

It was as hideous a storm as you could get. It was about to break out of the sky, awash with rapidly moving clouds in the night sky. But we were expecting something – our pet seraphim. It was about to fly through the dark clouds any moment to rejoin us – me and M. But why a seraphim and not one of our dear dogs? I don’t know – perhaps one of the departed ones coming back to us at a most difficult time of our lives. M had to walk out to the garden to see whether it was flying in, and for some reason I was hanging in the shadows. But I had a warm feeling that its return was to comfort us at a time of deep sorrow. (June 15, 2012)

Unforgettable cries of helplessness (Dec 2020)

She was gone but I cannot forget the sound of her throes of death. How can I repay her constant companionship with hopelessness? She’s the last remaining comfort from my loved one. Utter loneliness from separation. Then I slept finally last night. And the dream was so real. The cab-driver I seemed to know and he was driving me out of downtown. I could see main street so clearly. Then as we start to drive out of Raffles Quay I could see the brilliant lights passed the top of Esplanade roof.  It was not just lights – it looked like shooting meteors from some space-ship attacking Earth. It hit the road around us and I could smell the burning heat. We’re being attacked by space-invaders – the burning around frightening! Quick! Get out! Drive! Is this real? Bizarre at a sad, sad time like this…

The Lanyard Tree

Two lesbians were frolicking in the Jacuzzi when God said to me – Go into them and I will show you how unreal the Christians are in my church in their white-washed clothes like the Pharisees– condemning the world. So I joined them and I felt how trapped are they in their pleasures and lust – there seems no end to their desires – trying everything in their imaginations to fulfill themselves despite feeling empty each time. They even instruct me to join in their cavorting, hoping that doing the natural thing will fill their longings. And God said: I am able to save them and deliver them from their imprisonment and eternal depression. How much more is there in the world of sufferers who are imprisoned by events beyond their control and not of their own sins – people who lost jobs and going hungry – people shivering in the cold of abandonment and forlorn, without family, status, or even self-respect, the masses that have lost everything in conflicts not of their own, without even a face, that needs me. I come that they will be delivered.

And I said: Lord, even if you do not help me in my needs and will not give me the desires of my heart where I have kept your Word, I will still remain true, because at the end I do not need to feel that perhaps if I had kept my bargain with you things will be better…

Then the Hand of God came forward to me with a bunch of branches and Sacred leaves. (Jan 28 2009)

John 3:16

The prevenient basis of God saving the world here starts with the motive of Love. The puppy that we gave away from birth is always in my mind whenever I am in the neighborhood – I will always need to give it love whenever I can. Her response to my cuddle makes it easier but the human need to give and receive love is basic, and unconditional. Such is the image that God has left us.

Just last night I had the sudden discovery of what completely renewed means. Salvation transformed me back to the Original design, sparkling and utterly pure in contrast to the filthy, stained oily body, ruined by whatever I tend to blame on – parentage, surroundings or just plain bad luck. Immaculately polished to be like the unspoiled newborn again (only better), I am free to be the best and highest that can be – true blue and a yard wide. (Feb 2009)

Church subculture deadens

Is God in church today?

We go there every week, doing predictable things – the liturgy (if any), simple folding of the hands and heads bowing of prayer. Even the words of bible-based hymns or tissue-type choruses can be muttered mindlessly. And amen said ad nauseum. Some may be afraid to say anything else for fear that the church “authorities” were not expecting anything other than something “sacrosanct”. Is God limited to this ritualistic practice of Sabbath? Then He is not my God. He is not even to be held ransom to the scriptures, as some preachers have done in a demanding way. He is a God of surprises, an active movement of Love and Majesty that no human mind can even try to second guess. He is not constrained (nor ever was) by the customs of men, however devout they thought themselves, even if they were meant as acts of worship. God is presently in the company of those with dire needs, in, around and outside of church, in far-flung oppressed places where His serving children are under threats of darkness. He is in our hurting hearts crying with voices hoarse with pleadings for His hand of deliverance, sometimes seemingly so slow in coming. O God if only we can live in your Presence as Moses, Abraham and the Twelve! But silence is also a magnificent attribute of a Thrice Holy God…(Feb 2009)

Two Cultures

I get rather impatient with local speakers coming with predictable or non-sequitor utterances in church or otherwise. Maybe it is my exposure to western audiences or communication, a rather unfair comparison to locals speaking only local English and going to schools with local English taught by teachers who were taught the same way. From the Colonies comes a psyche of audiences different from those with post Independence upbringing. You will really appreciate some speakers for their straight-faced unflappable humor. Contrarily, there is a severe depth of seriousness of substance and grimness of purpose in their liturgy, sometimes in a draconian headmaster style of delivery. The gravity of thought is a rarity in the levity of fun-filled discovery of knowledge. To them the locals appear frivolous, to the locals they come across as stifling stuffed shirts. But speaking is only the symptom – if you come from a suffocating, strait-jacketed, stifling education system, with neither imagination nor fun in learning, you reap what is sown. (Oct 2000)

Two Pleasures

Like the human race, dogs and other living things eat whatever they can, and mate whenever expedient. Often, I do not seem to be able to get enough of a drink or food I like. It is a tonic to the monotony and grime of a hard day’s work. However much I drink, the satisfaction yearns for more and one can only drink or eat to a level of non-ingestion. Sex on the other hand can be a healthy pleasurable release of an extreme degree. However consummate, food binging brings only a hangover of sorts. Immoral sex is hemlock. So then can one conclude therefore that a sexual release that is not immoral a reasonable pleasure that is also necessary to escape penned-up emotions and the body’s in-built instincts and urges that has been denied? (Feb 24 2009)

Max Revaldo

The coffee is free there. But with so many varieties today that does not amount to much. Besides many would not touch the brew at the time of the happy hour. But it is a place to ponder life anew. Once a while oldies would permeate from the music-box and you can swear that you can remember exactly the settings when you first heard the song from long ago.

If you like me tend to review the hardships life has offered us, maybe sometimes we can take comfort not by comparing how others have done better but how far we have already come from our humble or distraught beginnings. If we all have the same starting points in life then comparison may be realistic but no – why not just reassure ourselves that though we have to go through dark tunnels we have still arrived not too far behind others. What about those behind us? Indeed, had it not been for dark tunnels maybe we would not have the fortitude to come thus far? Perhaps we should be judged not so much by how far we completed the race but in spite of the vicissitudes that came our way. Such is the struggle against life’s challenges – sometimes to the point of despair. We can be down to our grey hairs and buckled knees and still the obstacles keep coming…

Can it be possible that one be born with absolutely no serendipity? Maybe just fling this thought to the wind and like Max’s Popcorns slogan, “Eat all you can, and maybe leave some for me.” Sometimes it is not about eating all you can, but eating while the going is good. Take the occasion when we had a visiting expert and we were entertaining him for dinner at a joint like Max’s.

He was an authority in welding and my friend, a tall ex American GI-specialist was playing host. Being a smoker and aged seventy-five, my friend could not stop coughing when we entered the diner. But he knew the staff well and after making our steak orders, settled down expecting good service. The steak did not come soon, even though the restaurant was not crowded. When it came, my friend had difficulty slicing it. After much hand waving, my friend, coughing incessantly managed to get the head-waiter. He was livid. In between gasps he shouted, “What kinda service is this? Take this piece of crap and show me how you would eat it! ”. Then he grabbed the meat in his large hand like you would a piece of rag and flung it onto the head-waiter’s tray. “I am paying only for the drinks, not the steak! “, he burst forth. Both the visitor and I continued, sheepishly eating our portions, quiet as mice. We did not get to discuss welding that evening.

(Mar 10 2009)

(Picture of Max Revaldos’ joint here)

The bull that will not be cowed

He was a big one – black and beasty. But he was confined to the enclosure for transport to where I do not know. All I had in my dream was that he kept coming to me – agitated and snorting. Why? – to run from the unfamiliar smell of the enclosure. It was the smell of deodorant or shampoo that Sister had used excessively – to him it was that overpowering that he thrashed and kicked to come away to me. My heart welled up in sorrow. Why must a rich, strong life end up in Suffering and Death?

Three Useless gifts (July 22 2015)

First – being a worry wart. I think and fear for everything and every negatively conceived possibility but do nothing nor persevere to change. Second – a sexual attractiveness to females (Yes – a gift !!). What use is that if you only mate once in your belief? And then what after a voyeurism? Lastly a gift to have great hindsight.  What for? It’s like driving by the rear-view mirror. Nobody can prove you wrong but nobody can praise you for seeing it coming. But there is one “gift” I crave  – that was given out while I was behind the door. Call it what you like – luck.

If only eggs have wings

I stared at my ball in dismay. I had expected worse after it hit the tree with the disconcerting thud, but approaching it I found it nestled next to the foot of a lamp-post. But wait, what’s this? Next to my white golf ball was another elliptical, bluish object – an egg not half the size. So helpless and vulnerable as if cowering from me with trepidation my heart went out in sympathy. It could be easy breakfast for the numerous wandering lizards, or squirrels or other slithering creatures near the lake. It must have felt warm when I scooped it up in my palm. If I place it at the neck of the nearest tree perhaps its owner may find it, or maybe (shudder) something else.

Didn’t we all start this way? One weak move in our growing years and we could be dead meat. Remember we were so short in every department that mere existence was the only daily preoccupation. So now we have legs or wings even. But we can be still short. (April 2009)

One night (in my dream) I thought I met someone from church. He was a youth worker, responsible, conscientious. But that night he looked grim. We were staring at the large padlocks that he had just put on the door to the church basement. “I had to change the locks to a stronger one – the young people are having wild parties and smoking pot down there till the small hours.” I looked at the locks closer – they were large bicycle locks – U-shaped that thread through the door handles. The basement room was actually rather small – much like a dungeon. Why would they party there, except it was exclusive and secretive? Then he took out his new tiny hand phone – seems like the latest gadget, to call his wife. But he could only hear the words “I can’t, I can’t…” It was then that we knew she is dead – unable to communicate from beyond the grave.

Jungle Fowl

He was up there on the roof, statuesque. I didn’t put up a weather-vane there did I? Just as I was thinking its head tilted, right eye skywards. Then it turned forward, its full comb quivering, like a army general. It was staring in full commanding view of the road in front. It is the first day of the year of the Snake. We were also visited by snakes in the year of the Rat. I wonder what good luck it would be if a Rooster comes visiting in the year of the Rooster. (10 Feb 2013)

Its beauty belies the venom

This morning I saw a snake on the road which wasn’t dead or headless. I had first thought it was a large blue rubber band that had fallen off some motor-cycle as it whizzed by. As I stepped closer to examine the fallen fastener it moved. Its beauty belies its venom – that of the blue coral snake. Another lesson of being blindly attracted to an object (or person) of beauty without realizing the extend of its bite. (Mar 2013)

The epiphany of being oneself

Today I discovered something of myself with a significance that emerged slowly of epic proportion. All my days before retirement were spent on achievement of one thing or other. And I dare say, the same for most of my cohorts growing up. This bent on climbing upwards the economic ladder, like saplings stumbling upwards to the sunlight through the forest canopy, have distorted our natural bow born within us. Now that I have nothing to prove to the world I have started to feel that my natural shape in the bow is coming into form. Gone are the days of agonizing to be best in something I am not born with – such as academic excellence. It was such a sheer waste of time and energy in return for utter disillusionment. How suddenly it dawn on me the tenuity of it all. I can now take my time to say or think exactly how I feel. Or outburst with a sudden clever fashion that I did not even know existed within. Gone are the inhibitions and control for fear that I will make another mistake. Or the curse of our legacy in upbringing – they say that terrorists have a bend to self-destruct and usually come from a fractious family-life. And therein lies the danger – a mistake can be so grave that it is irrevocable. But what is life become then? The bow has been straitjacketed for too long. Give me the toss and throw of the ravages of life anytime. Now we can be a “natural” on auto cruise control in life. For us under the old world influence (the British rule) it was always mindful of our limitations first, delimiting ourselves and being “realistic”. Such self-deprecation has long stayed in our culture to our own detriment. Release the Spirit of adventure and exploration – that is the clarion call from the New World. We should instead leave room for cautious optimism – plenty of it. Let the old, self-diminutive habits and culture die and just trust that the sky’s the limit. Believe in the boundless renewal of our spirits. Long live the King and long die the dead. Maybe then it is possible for eggs to have wings. (5 August 2009)

It took me a long time to take things in stride than fret and flap. We tried too hard sometimes and failed to get at the way things should be, at least for my frenetic state of mind. For instance after more than 10 years I now understand the golf swing and really enjoy it without overdoing. It’s like sex. Never had it before marriage and then it came like a trance. From now all things should be enjoyed at its very best and at a pleasurable pace. (22 Jan 2013)

Calm after the Dawn Fury

You can almost feel the heat of the lightning. It is only 3 am and the clap-clap of distant thunder rolls in nearer and nearer to the roof. One wave after another the flashes seem to go on forever, like some giant hand playfully waving a megawatt flashlight over the dark sky. Its surreptitious, cacophonous surging and easing speaks nothing of the almost imperceptible flush of water splashing down the walls. Gradually, here and there, the rattle of running rain is interrupted by a searing, crackling sound, as if the giant hand is breaking up huge tree branches like matchsticks. It is as if you can feel the heat of explosion splitting a tree in half, with the ensuing acrid smell of burning peat. But there are neither falling trees nor broken branches. As abrupt as its arrival, the light and sound cease, leaving the rhythmic purring of water flowing everywhere. It is soothing enough to put you back to sonorous sleep. This seemingly interminable serenade all of a sudden quietens into a morning hush. What pleasure is there to compare with the chorus of bird-calls as daylight breaks? The warbling chirps follow no scores. It is almost poetic, randomly interrupted by an irresistible and uncontrollable outburst from some furry throat, the diabolical cackling laughter of another or the soft cooing of a wood-pigeon announcing its nesting intention. Timeless it observes no agenda. It will be there for many tomorrows despite changes in government or dynasty. And it greets you regardless of what station in life you’re at, working or retired. It must be a delight – to announce that the worse is over, time for humankind to face another day. (May 2009)

Second Chance People

The gospel is in a nutshell, about second chances. How many times in our infirmities which are bound to the Fall of Mankind we tended to go astray? For me, brought up in abject fear of poverty and privation, I will tend to cheat and conspire to acts of avarice. In a diabolical way my hide consists in gaining something for nothing. The other day I had thought of cheating the hospital by not accounting for a service rendered. But thank God He pricked my conscience again. He makes an escape possible from our foibles; He pushes the Damocles Sword aside and I flee unscathed. By a simple act of remaining honest, my heart rushes forth in a deluge of thankfulness. Who wouldn’t? Then there comes an uncontrollable effusion of gratitude again and again for being spared His Look of displeasure and the heat of hell-fire. (Nov 2 2011)

The reluctant mate

I was alone, leaning on the railing – the kind on a seafront that keeps people safely from walking into the sea. The sky was covered with thick dark moving clouds, on an otherwise sunny afternoon. So thick that you might think that it is after 8 pm. But what were really frightening were the thunder flashes and the deafening vroom – vroom – like I was in the midst of a war zone. Then there were the huge, terrible waves, crashing into the beach-wall again and again. I could even taste the salt in the spray. The combination of its sound and the thunder was really scary in such a desolate place. What creatures could be in the sea at hideous time like this? – I asked myself. As I looked out into the darkish, boiling ocean I spotted a bull, pitch black as tar, swimming towards the shore. Its hide was so black that it was almost shiny. But it was strong – its sinews pushing with such force against the slant of the furious waves. Then I saw it turned towards another pitch black animal like itself in the water – except it was female and of a slighter built. Its hide was also pitch black and shiny, reflecting the ocean spray on its back. He was trying to coax her to follow him to the shore. But she was reluctant. For some time he persisted, until at last she relented, and swam alongside him. I must have turned over my bed – for the next scene was totally different. The sky was clear – almost blue and the sea calm. A huge circular float was on the ocean – so big that it could carry numerous people from every nation on earth – young and old – men and women. They were happy and cheerful – gleefully chatting with one another in diverse languages. I could actually hear their happy voices. And that was when I woke up. And I knew from inside me that that was not a usual nightmare – for it evoked a curious sense of hope and wonder for the future. (1968?)

Mendicant traveler

A foreigner in Japan can be over-awed by the living cost. Or by mere ignorance. One such traveler had to take the rush-hour train. As he got on it was standing room only. But he had a heavy, important sachet. So thoughtful to have these shelves to rest our load on he thought, as he flung his working files on the griddle support. At the next stop, passengers were starting to cramp his space. A few more stops and the influx of people were such that he had to move further away from his sachet. More and more they came, squeezing and pushing making it impossible for him to lift his heavy sachet to where he was standing. After several more stops his sachet was looking smaller and smaller as more bodies forced him further and further into the next carriage. At last he lost sight of it and he was resigned to having it lost for good as his station arrived for disembarking. He got off the train and tried with much gesticulating and hand-waving explaining in vain to the station master what had happened to his precious sachet. Finally a passing Japanese lady speaking in halting English managed to explain to the station-master and gave him instructions how to claim lost articles. At lunchtime he got on the required train as instructed and again it got more and more crowded. But this time he had no carry-on and was pleased to squeeze himself onto a seat next to an exit. He started to feel hungry, having missed his lunch-box, which was also in the lost sachet, along with all his valuables, for he had thought how smart to have them in there than to be pick-pocketed. Besides he thought he was getting a headache hearing the repeated announcements in the intercom, for which he had absolutely no idea what it was all about. Then after a few more stops, all of a sudden the crowded train started to empty very quickly. It seemed as if everybody on board had seen a ghost – or running from a ferocious animal let loose in the carriage. Mystified, he looked around and it appeared that everyone had gotten on the platform, except himself. A few moments later the sound of the electric driving motor stopped and silence. He was alone and the doors have closed. He could only stare blankly at the loudspeaker. (May 2003)

Elevator Hotel

Ever had the fear of losing all your money when traveling alone? I was staying at a budget hotel somewhere in Europe and petrified by pickpockets because my wife was not with me. It was almost full and so room 1535 was assigned to me. They told me that the main building could only house the first 14 levels but the 15th floor is at the top of an adjacent building reachable by the main elevator. It runs vertically to the 14th floor then horizontally across to the next building. I was so nervous in the packed elevator that I got off too soon – at the 14th floor of the adjacent building and promptly got helplessly lost. Dragging my luggage I asked around how to get to the top floor and a gruff heavyset man said to turn right, pass the kitchen and right around to the stairs. After some wrong turns I saw a group of maintenance workers who directed me around. Exhausted and lost I sat down and just realized I left a wad of all my banknotes in my pocket and proceeded to take it out to my satchel where it will be safer. Just then I was distracted by a workman who appeared to be looking at me through a telescopic device. I turned back in time to notice his hand extracting the banknotes from my pocket. I grabbed his hand and tried to choke him to release my money. He started to say something apologetic when I woke up, relieved that all my money was still intact. (October 2013)

Teresa of Windsor Park

Hardly anyone can see her without being moved, even slightly so. She could barely drag her gnarled feet along Windsor Park Road, her head bent over carrying several plastic bags of saleable items foraged from some rubbish carts. Ever so often she would stop in her tracks suddenly and lift her head, checking to ensure that her way is clear until the next check-point. If you would ever look at her directly from afar, you could almost be sure she was smiling at you with her crinkled face. No one should be so happy. Not with this hot sun burning you as you trudge along. But Teresa could be happy in her own way. She could even be of much use in the Catholic Church that might have been more than a provider for her needs. Or she might be someone of hidden potential. No one knows for sure, just by looking. (1999)

Lining in the Green (The passion of a golfer and his divine calling)

Growing up as a 10-year old his uncle introduced him to golf. He was petrified of losing his ball with each slice. One day his mentor sat him down and said: “Look at it this way – I paid $20 for your game. Each hole costs more than a quid – so the hole costs more than your ball. It pays for your lesson not to slice the next one.” As he grew so was his game and he reached the highest proficiency to compete in the majors. He sees so much parallel in golf and the Christian life. Each game was a microcosm of his life’s struggles. He learned to forget a bad hole quickly, patience to wait his turn, living for the moment, emphasizing on finishing well despite poor starts. He was at the epiphany of his game when the truth came home ever so severely – God had called him for full-time mission. He knew that each lesson learned on the fairways and greens contain a lesson for eternity and he integrated it well in his sermons and teachings. He was peaceful in the rolling plains of Mongolia – teaching and helping younger believers. But the peace soon turned into a longing for the game as the wide open fields beckoned. He had missed challenging himself so much. Soon he was distracted – he would spend hours into the sunset playing by himself in the makeshift fairways and improvised greens. No less than twice was he admonished by a spiritual rebuke that he had forgotten his calling by showing up late for services, Sunday school or bible study. But he continued to see precious spiritual lessons with his play – lessons he would quickly translate into his sermons. He saw the vanity of trying too hard with a stroke, or thinking too much in a putt – equating it to the worldly pursuit of success. He felt the emptiness of hurry in the world in frenzied pursuit of wealth, when an abandoned sense of relaxation gains more. Most of all there was the peace of being with himself and God in the open hills and rolling fields. But his distraction caused his dislocation with the Mission directors. Forlorn, he reluctantly returned to his passion. It was another upward struggle to play competitive golf again with the years taking a toll physically against younger players. However his faith did not leave him. He once prayed that whenever he had a chance such as in the locker rooms he will share his faith…

Golf Dogs

They would be lying serenely on the grass next to hole 2 around supper time. The black and white (let’s call him Toby as all strays are called here) is friendly but suspicious. He would sneak up quietly behind while you are concentrating on you putter and shock you out of your skins. But if you approach him with a sandwich he would pounce off a safe distance and eye you while you drop your feed. But he knows friendly golfers often come with food, as he would lick the air on hearing your car approach. Occasionally he and Brownie would guard both ends of the green. So used was I to give him his morsel that on days when they are not to be found I would feel a sense of despair that maybe the dog pound might have gotten them. Even brokenhearted. (Jan 2014)

Warmth of the Heart

So besotted was I with her that the thrill of being out, dating for the first time was exhilarating. She would lead me confidently around by my hand and I kept telling myself that I have not felt this warmth in such depth for such a long time. Then at the end of the day she would bring me methodically to her home and introduce me to her mother. Wanting badly to remember her address I was intently to see that name and number of the street. The sign read “Neumann De Pearlite” or something of that sort. I could see every letter clearly, but fail to make sense of the name. That was because I was dreaming.

Bird Drop

What is the probability of walking at just the right speed, pass a street lamp-post at the exact instant when a minor happened to be ready to poop? I felt rain but it was sunny. Then I felt the brownish wetness right at the center of the top of my head. Looking up I caught sight of the bird,  seemingly having a look of satisfaction. Am I so lucky! If that luck were to extend to mating a girl in a million I would be happy. In this case it could be bird flu! But I had to endure the painfully slow walk home to run under the shower. (Jan 24 2014)

The butterfly and the Chrysalis

She suffered a long time. Death definitely delivered my mother from it. Like a butterfly looking at the chrysalis that formed and protected it you would have thought that it will be grateful for its existence. But I think more gratitude comes at its passing, because that is when the butterfly can truly celebrate life. If only we can consciously separate our good and bad inheritance of habits, character and behavior the world will be a better place each time we pass on. Conversely, as children if only we can just retain the good ones after our parents’ passing.

Not four months after she left I dreamed of meeting her again – she sitting on the balustrade of our family home. She looked quite unlike herself – confident, wise and self-assured, something that she missed all her life. Words of warning and wisdom seemed to effuse from her face. I sensed there was limited time and was only interested in one thing – was she in heaven and did she meet her Creator? The response was most interesting, again something totally unexpected from one whose earthly life was a continuous struggle against low self-esteem. She merely nodded with a wink of her eye. I knew then that that was the most important change in her, like she was inside heaven, looking out. Or was it outside, looking in? (June 2005)

Just the other night I decided to sleep on the couch, which is placed against the bedroom wall. Then I heard her! Softly like a whisper, from beyond the wall. Must be a dream I said to myself, why don’t I ask her a question, and if she answers logically I’d know I am not dreaming. So I asked her a question and back came the logical answer. But I now know for sure it was a dream, for I now remember neither the question nor the answer. Does it really matter?

Sharper than knives 

It would squawk the most hideous sound when you come visiting. That was at my father’s old run-down house. I had never understood why he would keep a parrot in a cage all by itself at the entrance, often out of touch with humans. One day the squawk was so hideous that even father would rise from his couch to look. He was only in his underwear. It was too late when he did, as the noise had suddenly stopped. There at the cage a large python had sunk its teeth on the poor captive bird. But its body had became too big to retract from the cages’ bars. As if to save the parrot he clung onto its tail and shouted for a weapon. Just at that time a visitor chanced upon the commotion and had managed to pass him a small kitchen knife. Furiously he sawed at its scaled body but alas it was too blunt to produce any instant effect. Soon it pierced the python and blood began to squirt around. Then the unimaginable happened. Father dropped his pants as it worked loose in the fracas. The snake slipped away stunned. (1990)

The shoe is on the other foot

It couldn’t happen a second later. The crustaceans were clambering on the rock, tottering, as successive waves sweep them nearer the edge into the ocean. Then a swift shadow descended on them just before a wave could knock them over. Wheeling around the gulls appeared to broadcast their success with repeated caws. Nearby the pacific otters went about quietly on their business. Not quite quietly. One continues to show off his skill, swimming backstroke style and hammering a shell on a flat rock on its belly. Cluck, cluck, cluck… Then he dived under, only to re-emerge balancing the same rock and beating a new shell on it.

Now if you mind taking a walk into the tropical lushes, be warned that there exist a variety of poisons. There are frogs, spiders, snakes and flora, some more toxic than others. Take for instance the pernicious moths or wasps. There is a kind that you must not let it land on an exposed body otherwise its mandibles will swiftly inject a tiny poison, before you could even say “zorro”. It happened to me five times already – once when I had to remove some grains of sand from my socks, leaving my bare foot exposed.

Sustainable growth

History is filled with textbooks that will help us understand the economics of modern countries. It serves me well to ponder it – makes my unemployable hours at old age worth the while. But taking it in one gulp is not only to cause grave indigestion but will end you up in knots. The pieces that make up the wealth of nations is certainly complex but it seems, from past observations, to include among other things the following: a critical mass of the country’s resources, the enthusiasm of the populace resource culturally and demographically, efficiency and political will of governance and structural build-up. The last must have cradle-to-grave nation building together with sustainable ecology in development. Everyone can see that the rise and fall of powerful nations came about with changes in history. Staying relevant through socio-political and technological changes is one of the keys. But human beings tend to choose personal survival above national prominence. (Feb 2014)

Lone marauder

Every so often one of the macaques, being the numerous denizens of the forest surrounding our house would lose the herd instinct and wander into the compound. You can tell by the shifting electric cables on which they perch and tightrope-walk to your fence, or sit statuesque on your garden wall, eyeing a kitchen morsel. Like roaming ronins they show no fear, with survival as their only instinct. They will stare disdain at the barking dogs and casually toss a spent banana or papaya skin at them. Once in a while, rocking on their haunches, they would bare their teeth, as if to state their right to extol a food tax from the residents. Yes the forest does have ample store of monkey food – but you will begin to understand when their numbers explode. Doesn’t it remind us of ourselves? Modern migratory refugees are known to take extreme risks just to carve out a niche in a foreign, un-welcoming land.

Haze Daze

Minding my business next to the French window I heard a loud disconcerting thud. Laid on the floor, the mother bird’s eyes were closed. But next to the dead mother the fledging was trying to get up, its red-rimmed eyes dazed. A warm cradle and a soft blanket in a basket was what it needed to get out of shock. The rain poured in the rest of the evening, clearing most of the haze that assumingly caused this tragedy. Then it flew ungainly towards the trees for its much needed drink. (September 2015)

Goodbye Ah Pai

In Asian societies family members are affectionately called with the prefix “Ah” to their nicknames. When she and her sister came to live with us, for want of better names, we could only call them Sweetie and Pie, because they really looked so. Ah Pi (pronounced like the Greek pi for π) survived Sweetie and is ferociously jealous for attention. Her eyes will scan back and forth each time you talk to her, in English or otherwise. Such is the level of intelligence she exhibits, bore out by an occasion when she could find her way home alone, across a busy highway when lost in a park two kilometers away. She was only a few months old then. She reads human cues really well, like moving over to make room for you on the comfortable couch, or looking back at traffic whenever crossing a road. She’s not a genius, she’s a wizard. Her obsessive greed is understandable, because somehow we raise her that way. Like her other four housemates, black dachunds are noisier than their brown cousins, who are usually seen and not heard. And so they would romp together chasing anything that flies or creeps. Doing things together extends even to toilet habits. They would invariably queue in line to pee on the same hallowed spot started by Ah Pi.

It happened on the 15^th night of the lunar New Year – a time considered auspicious for certain animals to visit us. The yellow-banded dogtooth cat snake was first spotted under a bush. Attempts to chase it away only drove it up the MacArthur palms, and soon out of sight in the darkened skies. Both snake-catchers and owners gave up the search for dinner. Upon returning, the canines started barking at another bush and much to our relief the three meter snake was soon snagged. Everyone gratefully retired for the night. But not the dogs. Within the space of the hour they started yelping again at the same bush. The snake-catchers had barely reached their office when they received the second call. Later a friend told me that had it been the Year of the Snake, 2005 would have brought us loads and loads of good fortune. Instead it cost us double to pay the snake-catchers for their good fortune.

A few days after she left us suddenly, I chanced upon Ah Pai’s unused leash sitting idly on the couch. Something stabbed me right in the middle. I could still remember vividly her dead-tired eyes after a night-long bleeding from a stomach virus and numerous vomiting. Pi – Goodbye and really sleep well. (9 August 2011)

Who put out my light? (Dec 2016)

Two acorns were fallen side by side, but one sprouted much more vigorously. Soon the grown tree overgrew and overwhelmed the other fledgling plant. But the weaker sapling was enjoying the shade and protection of his companion from the wind and snow and was quite happy with its soulmate and the companionship. One day the stronger tree withered and died. Why? I was so happy staying in the shadows and enjoying the rest of my life without effort. But it soon got the full energy of the sun and rain, the hail and the gale. It strengthened its roots fighting the elements alone. The fledgling grew without bounds into a gigantic oak tree, much bigger than its fallen partner. Now I know. Growth unlimited. (Collected words – YKT)

 Days of Nineveh

Being educated in a British colony has always given us an awe of Western civilization. Its quality of life, compared to the East, have given dreams of emigration, not to mention other desirables like climate and advances in science and technology. Its influence through the English language extends beyond schools, through television and other foreign media. Not just as lingua franca, but a way of life enjoyed by such school children. No wonder so many have gone on to countries of Britain and the US for postgraduate education. Many found their ideals of a truly free and liberalizing society. If one were to dig deeper, one would discover the strength of such societies lies not merely on the enjoyment of a quality of life but on the basic virtues of honesty, integrity and such.

Recent trends are troubling. In fact the breakdown of a stable, one-spouse family is not so recent. The freedom to exercise moral degradation becomes more important than issues of a stable and ordered society. Celebrities get to flaunt it, while several US states and parts of Europe now recognize same-sex, non-procreative marriages. The lack of integrity is certainly the business of the day prior to the meltdown of Wall Street in the US, and the thievery expense claims of British MPs. Not illegal, but still lacking. Honor has gone to the dogs. Where is the strength of a nation, as reflected in the mighty blast of the Space shuttle, or the confidant roar of a Rolls Royce engine? You still have the finest and most advanced US army in the world, and the most prestigious universities in Oxbridge. But the moral fibre of citizens does not come from the barrel of a gun, or clever learning, or sidling up to people who invested in your currency. What remained is the same – the old curse of Original sin. (2009-2010)

Military Heat

When you are resigned to mandatory military service, somehow you encounter lots of time between frenetic activities. And your ears are unlikely to be too tired to hear idle banter, or stories from instructors just as willing to pass time. Once the instructor started a wartime story, not a personal one but passed down from his mother. She told him that when she was expecting him, his father was run down by a Japanese military jeep – for failing to stop and salute it at a junction. She had just sent him on his bicycle to buy some delectable spice for their nonya curry night, not expecting never to see him again. But there was a twist to the tale. One of the Japanese officers heard about his pregnant mother, and feeling remorse, send regular bottles of milk for a while to nourish them. Another time the story was not so altruistic. One of his nieces was growing up as a pretty teenager but had to keep out of common sight during the raging Japanese Occupation. But being curious she would peep out of her 5-story warehouse home to stare at the street below. Luck would have it that on one occasion that when she poked out her head through the window a Japanese military was strolling past. And at the same instant looked upwards and espied her pretty Eurasian face. Sensing trouble she ran and hide. Soon she could hear loud commotion from more than one Japanese soldier tearing the place apart. We were not told how she hid herself so well as to defeat her lustful voyageurs, but she could hear loud swearing in an unknown language as they left. (August 1975)

The Two

Changi at Singapore’s East end won several international acclaims as the world’s best airport. But not far from the runways are idyllic sand beaches. Tourists strolling along today can still espy a dilapidated pillbox, left behind by retreating Japanese Imperial Army around 1945. Some young Japanese could even be seen posing for photographs around it, not knowing the gristly tales behind. During the Occupation, one of their nefarious ruses was to promise jobs to able-bodied young Singaporeans. Scores were gathered, expecting to be deployed gainfully. Among them, a young man, somehow smell a rat and jumped off the ill-fated truck. His name? Lee Kuan Yew, founder of modern Singapore. The others were never seen again. Except two, who lived to tell the tale. Somewhere around the said beach, at high tide, the men were unloaded from the trucks, at gunpoint. When the reality of their fate dawned on them, many moaned and some hurled expletives in native dialect at their captors. Then a funny thing happened. One soldier gruffly shouted “Itchy sen narande! itchy sen narande!” (form one line). Baffled and in fear, they complied – by trying to scratch themselves all over. After being trussed into line by rifle butts, they were made to face the sea. As the soldiers opened fire, two men looked behind to see one gesticulating toward the undergrowth and firing into the air, shouting imponderables. Quickly the duo ran from the sea for their lives, gunshots still ringing out behind. But today, what of the Imperial Angel of life? Where is he in Japan, if still alive?

http://www.facebook.com/therealsingapore/posts/570378506340654

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sook_Ching

http://www.news.gov.sg/public/sgpc/en/media_releases/agencies/pmo/transcript/T-20091228-1

A dip in the pan (an imaginary speech from the PM to a group of golfers)

Friends, colleagues and of course, fellow golfers:

It is my pleasant duty to address you on an occasion such as this. Many of you can testify that this game alone may not have put you in the pink of health but it certainly saved some from a completely sedentary lifestyle. Indeed it is a curiosity how a ball that small can evoke both utter frustration and comical, unexpected outcomes. For those of you who have persisted to play it to a decent level of proficiency you may have developed a kind of accomplishment from the innate challenges of the game. When I started in the early 1960s there were probably less than a hundred serious local golfers among only a handful of golf clubs. Today we have 56 clubs and I am told about 15000 active and occasional golfers in Singapore, about ½ % of the population, as compared to less than 0.01% in 1960. Over the years my Cabinet colleagues and I have always bemoaned the lack of inculcation of self-imposed integrity, honesty and self-discipline in the general population, to a level comparable to Japan. Many of you, I am sure, have consciously or not imbibed these values indirectly from playing the game. Of course this is common in all gamesmanship, but true golfers are known to wear these qualities around their necks. It is with such credo in promoting the popularity of golf you have helped in part advanced the national cause of good citizenship. Concomitant to this is the spirit of gentility and fairness – moral values that may be completely out of reach by mere good government. I wish you the best.

A bullet in hot soup (1963)

The rhesus monkey crouched timidly on the plate, docile as a lamb, awaiting slaughter. Thousands turned out in the pouring rain to watch, their umbrellas like the leaves of water lily bobbing on a pond. Such is the end of any yakuza chieftain – trussed up dead with a bullet in the head. And as they walked off the pond a gaggle of white geese hissed with heads lowered, their pointed tails twitching as they waddled off clumsily.

When we were young we were spoilt for being ferried around by mother. That was the problem.  We were being watched by kidnappers. One day a bullet came in the mail. Not in the usual mail but in an envelop handed to our shopkeeper (Grandma ran a sundry shop). The note threatened harm to brother unless cash is paid to the messenger.  So he had to live with a relative far away while father made arrangements with the law. Would you believe who was the culprit caught? A relative. And of course when the messenger confessed. (1963)

Road-kill

The carnage on our roads is man-made. Imagine our cave-dwelling ancestors trampling on a baby turtle or a fawn or dove on their walking paths, unless they meant it for food. Many still trample on snakes or scorpions today, whether or not venomous or life-threatening. I have accidentally killed a fly this way, but only because those pithy creatures chose to fly under my sandals, but never accidental if it is a centipede, cockroach or tarantula. Self defense is paramount. Animals are no different. Once a monitor lizard wandered its way onto my side of the fence and immediately set the dogs to fury. They banged on the fence until it dropped and then the carnage began. Seems such a waste – Mankind cannot even reproduce the simplest of these living creatures in the lab – even if we do someday, how can one make them as perfect as Nature produce them at birth. But those trampled may be even more terrified having met a human being on its daily walk. (Aug 2009)

And another thing…

I was just focused on finishing my run among the humid flushes of the reservoir then “swoosh” a furry wing slapped my head. Thinking that it was just a bird astray I kept going when this time a painful scratch came upon my back. I looked up just in time to espy a kite pirouetting off in the sky for yet another strike. Feeling my back for signs of bleeding I saw none, but realized that the territorial instinct must have mean business this time. I ran out of his way but I could then recall a close incident when I could have been hurt bad.

I was among a group of Japanese undergrads taking a hike in the Jebusha mountains, just outside Kyoto-Osaka area. The vegetation was rustic, dwarfish and quaint – like most things Japanese. After trekking uphill some time we came upon a sheer overhanging cliff. One at a time we hitched up – rock-climbing style and with group behavior, no matter how daunting the task there was never a question of retreat. But I was the oldest and the last to attempt – with neither training, equipment nor stamina. How I managed to flip myself over the top is a mystery to me. I was beginning to feel relief as I summoned my last muscle. Then it happened. A cold, clammy wing brushed my face and fell off clumsily to the dizzying heights below. Bats! Then another, and another, protesting their territory. Undeterred I clung on. But it was one of those memories that make you shudder if the consequences have turned out badly. (June 1987)

Deep End

In 1974 Singapore was to build an army from nothing. It was determined by the then defence chief that we should use our fledging funds to buy used ordnance from other armies so we’ll learn to run the army in a jiffy. (Pardon the pun). So fresh from engineering school and having only played with toy trucks but never build nor designed one I was to lead a mission to Germany to evaluate a fleet of 200. So I took my first plane ride with a colleague chuckling that my passport was still a virgin. We came to a Darmstadt depot experiencing the first winter of my life. What was I to do without even a spanner to recommend 200 army trucks? But I never forget the hotel meeting the night before – “What’s our plan?”
The next night I was to make a phone call to the chief – my first. No internet, and I’d never called long distance before. I remembered talking without a pause. The cold voice at the end dismissed me with just two words – come home.
So the moral is that even though you can swim a little, it’s nothing like being thrown into the ocean and face the survival lesson. Forget engineering and all that stuff. Weeks later only when the fleet landed that I became the defacto father of the army’s LDO program (limited depot overhaul). We were the real pioneers then, engineers all, unsung. There are many other untold stories, some funny, many cans of worms but mostly first-time challenges to attain a first world status. Later some of us were made to forey into education, banking or the arts, building on the investments brought in by earlier engineers. When you build a country you won’t  go too far wrong with a team of dedicated engineers who had no choice but to solve the problems before them. (1974)

A reason to live

Sometimes the cry of a dependent baby or a puppy can tilt the suicidal towards life. The death leap seems the only way out when all doors slam shut in your face – and everyday life a dark, brooding, never-ending spiral of depression. The terror gets even more frightening when all life around you seems pretty normal, and not a single soul knows you have no way to go from the crushing cause of debilitation. All thoughts of the opposite – the joys and pleasures, sumptuous food and drink, celebrations, victories, love, beauty, kindness and top of it all, the desire to give and meet a need are non-existent, as if by magic, they were erased off your neurons. The law already has innumerable reasons to put a person, guilty of heinous crimes or some nationally repugnant misdeeds, to death. There is therefore, always a cause to find a reason to live.

Flurry joy white or grey

For me who grew up the first thirty years of my life not seeing snow at all, it must be magical during the first winter. Despite the biting cold it was hard to imagine frozen rain. Also the relief of not sweating in an atmosphere of high humidity. To stay off sweaty palms and cool dryness for the first time it was heaven. But as days drew on I started to take it for granted. Until I took off on the highway in snow-bound wintry roads. Grey snow and sludge dirty ice. Tons of it. Could not imagine that back home during a rain storm all of the water would be gone in minutes. So for a long time since I returned home I had forgotten dirty snow or brown sludge ice. Until I woke up in a dream that I had trudged along for miles trying to lift each footstep off the cold, brown sludge.

Share my light (or a scintillation of nothingness)

I had just finished 18-holes on a prestigious club and felt dog-tired. As I heaved my gear into the opened trunk I heard a clink in the darkness – my favorite marker coin has dropped somewhere on the road. Frantically I yanked off my spectacles to grope around as I did not have my reading glasses. Every pebble I flipped was not the coin to be found. Meanwhile cars with headlights glide over my figure in the darkness – but no one bothered even to ask what I was doing, let alone stop to inquire whether I was alright. More cars moved off, as if I was the diseased leper to avoid. Finally after moving my car to a nearby lot was I able to catch a glint of my miscreant metal. Such is the culture of a formerly surviving society. Fend for yourself first – it may be unsettling, even embarrassing to look out for others. How comfortable to retract into your own shell and scamper off – no questions to ask or be asked later. No wonder sometimes I wonder whether the Enlightened Society comes from the West while the sun rises from the East.

Cruising home

Life can be conceived to be a journey. It starts with a puny, primitive carriage – you develop power and other capabilities as you grow older. After a while, including maybe a few non-fatal accidents you become skillful in the drive, avoiding obstacles and perhaps beating a few competitors you start to add on even the luxuries that make life easier. But nothing sustains the wear and tear of age. Years fly by like blown pages of a book. As the old clunk approaches the end you’d have hoped that the major impediments to your life are finally behind you and maybe you can turn on cruise-control. Maybe, just maybe. But then the unsustainable gets worse with age and you fight another battle – preventing those components that you’ve strived through the years from breaking down and falling off. And like my mother the engine, however strong, finally cannot take the strain of their drag. Unless the components can be replaced, or in more life-like term, re-grown??

Hard Reckoning

I did not know how long was he trapped in the cage. But it was a juvenile, pulling weakly at the metal springs here and there defeated. Nearby was a most touching sight. The biggest one was obviously the father, moving furtively looking up and down and casting quick glances sideways, as if expecting a predator to descend on the troop any time. The rest, young and smaller, hover around, as if in corporate mourning for their sequestered sibling. Nearby stood an older, larger female, quite obvious from the worn tits on her chest, with an expression on her face that you would easily associate with a distraught mother. I flung my golf clubs aside and slowly approach the cage to release the lever, feeling sorry that starvation would be certain outcome at a remote forest like this. Suddenly the male monkey lounged at me from the rear. He screamed and I screamed as we both jumped apart, equally frightened. Out-numbered I retreated. But I had vaguely remembered swearing under my breath that even humans do attack what good that was coming to us. (Jan 2011)

Last man on Earth – a complicated problem

Isaiah 4:1 “In those days several women will catch hold of a man, and say ‘We will eat our own and wear our own clothes, just take me and take away our reproach…’”

Jeremiah 31:22 “…For the Lord has created a new thing – a woman encircles a man!”

The declining population trend among the developed nations is well-known. And if the rest of the world grows economically it will be an entire world trend. This will be accentuated by other factors such as the acceptance of same sex marriages. Imagine if, by some quirk of genetic mal-degeneration, only 10% or some small fraction of future world births are male. With declining births, the future will be predominantly female and demographic planners will be hard-pressed for human replacement levels for productive women to look for suitable mates. Imagine if among the 10% male children born, only 1% among them has the genetic make up to have male off-springs. If you are among this 1% the future of the human race non-extinction depends on you to successfully copulate, and produce enough males for population balance among the sexes. What a life! You will have to impregnate at least 10 nubile females a year in order to produce a high enough percentile of such males of specific gamete. If things get worse this number will rise from 10 to 200 or maybe even 300, or more. The thought of women gang-rape men instead of the other way around is becoming non-ludicrous. But it means a necessity based on the survival of the future human race. Will there be women with such altruistic ideals? By that time by some stretch of imagination the State would be already taking the economic burden of family support. Why not? Because it hinges on the survival of the human race. The fact of present worldwide decline of male potency of virile sperms is enough to threaten human existence. So the psychology of one wife to one man would have to revert to the heydays of socio-economic malaise of unmarried women, with one difference – this is a matter of State planning and legitimizing it. If you are a priest or some sworn celibate to be the last man on earth such a proposal will be quite a conundrum. What about a sex-starved male with a moral authority by keeping himself sexually pure all his life? How enticing! (HK, December 2009)

Think of it this way. A fertile man in his lifetime is potentially able to impregnate millions of fertile women, barring defective sperms and eggs. But societal norms force a man to choose exactly one mate. The Christian mandate (aka the Pauline doctrine) in strict orthodoxy implies this economy of one man one wife. But since Adam various factors have reduced family size, either for gynaecological or economic reasons. Then when you lose a partner? You can’t just go get a replacement like buying a dress or a garden hose. And it is unacceptable for a man to go reproduce himself with any women of his choice the way rabbits do. Also women do have choices, you can bet on that today. (Dec 2018)

Yellow ribbon man. 

Here is how the dream went: We were skipping along a most charming forest trail when a curious lanky man runs along. You can see from his sharp facial features and bright eyes darting here and there that he was a most sophisticated and shrewd person – almost to the point of arrogance, but not. As he runs his legs trace two circles of yellowish, ribbon-like flashes, much like a spoke wheel but in a funny, child-like way. He fun-lovingly whispered that we’re heading to a “cook-in” and we proceeded in mirth as he sped ahead and disappeared. I was feeling a bit alone when I saw a chubby little bird – sized like a fat sparrow flying ungainly into my path. Instinctively I grabbed it with one hand – it didn’t resist. I felt my hand rather greasy when it said kindly, “It is cooking oil – lava oil…” Just as I let off my grip I asked it to accompany me as I felt lonely traveling. It will be real fun was the reply. “We will be there at the second tide of Anchorage.” Not knowing what that meant it didn’t matter, as I seemed to have a real good feeling as we skipped along the enchanting glen. (Jan 28 2010)

Cramped and nauseous (another cramped dream)

The swanky new complex combines industries with living space – spartan at best, though beaming with lights at night. We arrived – four of us in a Volks beetle, to meet four others brought there earlier by their friend. Then while eight of us inspected a living room a musky smell reeked from whatever was stored there. It suddenly dawned on me that it would be dark soon and the nearest hotel was hours away. We could not squeeze eight in the car so the next best thing was for two of us to bunker there for the night. I looked depressingly at the dusty floor and surveyed the shelved items. To my chagrin I spotted a dead rat. “That will have to go out for the smell” as we threw it out unceremoniously. But a small squeak later dashed my hopes for an undisturbed night. Even as we made the best comfort as possible the flying insects chased away all sleep. The next day the car came for us and we sauntered out bleary-eyed. (2007?)

Tattered silence

Ever dream of being a showman? I was playing like an accomplished pianist with each note floating out to the audience. The compeer nodded appreciatively and I felt so pleased that now I can perform. Suddenly the notes started disappearing – not all at once but parts will be muffled while others would reappear. I would play a few measures clearly followed by the “cluck-cluck” of my fingers hitting the keys but no music. Then followed by a string of audible notes to be lost again later. It was as if someone cut the piano strings off and on intermittently. Devastated I sank my head in my hands. The lesson seems to be that I will always need to disabuse myself of any delusions of grandeur. (6 Feb 2010)

The pulse of life

Many among us know it is true but seldom talk of it, while others may not even know it is there, consciously. I am referring to the need for timeliness of events in life. It is as if for any event, be it a spoken word or responsive act to be effective it must occur at a certain time – not a millisecond earlier or later. To the astute, a disciplined restraint of word or action to be released at the right moment is the touchstone of effective communication. When is the right moment? Just a guess, it is the sum total from our instincts of 5 (or six?) senses. It is as if the river of time flows digitally, rather than continuous. Life’s events are like distinct rungs on a ladder. Every thought, word or deed must sync with a right moment or beat in order to harmonize with the rest of the conscious world around. When one understands entirely how our socio-cranium works in communicative acuity or acumen, we would have arrived at understanding how our brains work.

It is the ultimate discovery – the pinnacle of a fulfilled life – that we should at all cost live to the fullest in harmony with everything else around us. The beauty of math in its completeness – the awesome harmony in the heavens and the universe – even in our partial knowledge of the physics behind it – exists in harmonious synergy. Even in my sleep – it comes soundly when the mind rests in perfect peace with the surrounds. Why have I not practiced this earlier? It would have saved me countless heart-aches throughout my life. Indeed it would have lifted me to the highest level of gratification of whatever I strive to do. That reminds me of a young girl struggling to be a starlet in the 60s of Singapore. She was nothing, almost – except for a crisp, clear voice. She did not compose anything original, just pelted her rehashed Chinese folk songs mainly in Singapore and Malaysia, and so did not attain further international acclaim the likes of Teresa Teng. But she did cut a dozen labels and did them with the fullest gusto of her vibrant, dynamically ranged voice. Quietly disappearing from the music scene in the late 80s one would have consider her a nondescript. With the dawn of digital information works of art became more far-flung – but even when Singapore finally came to recognize local artists she was re-invited to perform but with little fanfare. Today more people would have heard her sentimental tunes on YouTube than read anything I would have published. And she would probably be much happier passing the rest of her life as grandma. Conclusion? Does it matter whether anybody hears or notice?

Trained Listeners

Back in the days before television how did families make do for home entertainment? Radio of course. Today some of us, with smartphones and internet would consider it preposterous for five or six busy people sitting in rapt attention ears glued to the sandwich box. Come every Wednesday evenings or so we would drop everything to listen to the likes of “Ong To” stoically delighting his audience on the swashbuckling episodes of Old China, only to interrupt at a most enrapturing moment asking to tune in again next week. Then there were the stories of intrigue and murder, each event precluded by a haunting fragment of Rimsky Kosakov’s Scheherazade. It didn’t matter whether it was in my native Hokkien or the Cantonese dialect – story-time was always the highlight of the day. Sometimes we would even bring our dinner plates around in order to catch up on last week’s outcome. But alas nowadays some people have lost the skill of a keen ear. (August 2015)

Another flip side

Last night in my dreams, I met a short, grinning man with a sunny, lion-like face, who looked like a clown but was actually an angel of good news. I had the deepest joy that finally I will have the monkey off my back. All my life I was dragged down by the need to be recognized but somehow always failed to achieve what was needed. I had fallen into the groove of needing to prove myself, but the harder I tried the more severe the fall. But now I have reached the stage where these things do not matter any longer – when you have retired out of life’s mainstream these are non-issues. Most of us assiduously go through the early preparation for it so that living becomes independent and decent. The drills of education up till a hard science degree moves one away perhaps from a life of crime or even to escape from a hangman’s noose. Imagine pursuing a rigorous education to the hilt, filling the head with tons of knowledge which, at a stroke of ill luck can be merely thrown aside in this society. What a lifetime’s waste! And sixty years hence I am still panting from the gorging of knowledge. The meticulous chasing of equations and formulae, with mathematical understanding will at night, find peaceful sleep to have all but fled. But now the truth has come home to roost – I am judged not by how much I know but how I lived my life. We are not gods – our knowledge cannot be all-encompassing – we cannot tell the future, only with past knowledge. Starkly, it is time for a course correction – after two-thirds of life is gone. What a release! It seemed that I had somehow jumped out of a groove of despair onto the flip side, escaping the despondency that blighted the simple joys of living. I have escaped Bellman’s law – no more am I helplessly grooved into a path of sub-optimum endings. Now it will be different. That in itself is joy enough. More famous people have died incognito than among the infamous criminals I know. (Mar 1 2010)

Crooked no more

My father was born in October 1920, about 29 years before me. But he was born again after me, almost 40 years after.  Grandmother only had two surviving children considering the state of Singapore healthcare in the ‘20s. But you can imagine how grandma doted on him being the only man alive. Poverty in the war years was his lifelong affliction – and remains a mental disease even today. He had to eke out a living from discarded tin cans and half smoked cigarette butts. He started as an office boy in Chung Khiaw bank, the HSBCs of the ‘20s and there learned his ropes of winning customers among the grass-roots. Not long later he joined Bank of America where he remained for over 50 years and rose to the rank of “comprador” whose job was to get merchants to surrender their cash from under their money belts and pillow covers. He did a sterling job at that, judging from the roomful of year-end presents we received from his clients. Together with Mr. Van Oenen, then VP of BOA, among others, they were credited with starting the “Asian dollar” in the 1960s and ‘70s, which not many are aware of today. As a boy I could remember how often he left us in the car while he went about his business, sometimes late at night, and mother had to give him the benefit of doubt that he was merely bringing in the bread. He was also active in community service – a stalwart at the Telok Blangah ward CCC– here is a picture when he was recognized with Mr. Govindasamy, an illustrious MP in the ‘60s. I was often told (by wife) that among his children I am the one who most inherited his genes. I hope the good ones, as I will not hesitate to tell you the not so good ones, but this is neither the time nor place for it. He would be pottering around the house fixing everything to save money on repairs and new purchases. He loves to read so widely as if the National Library resides in his bedroom. This love of learning was probably seared on him when his studies at Raffles College were interrupted by the War. Once he told me he went for an interview during those years for a scholarship and appeared before several British officers with his invention in his hand – a boat made from tin can. He was laughed off the interview. To improve himself I remember him having to read the (now defunked) Institute of Bankers pamphlets and the Government Gazette after a long day’s work. He even took up brush painting, kungfu and learning Japanese. Father had his problems too but he never told me. Sometimes in his silence he would take me swimming, walking so far out to sea from the Pasir Panjang beach that I feared for my life. However for a long time I had given up hope of him ever concerned about eternity, so we worked on my mother instead. Can you imagine how stunned was I when after telling him of mother being born again, that he would do the same? That was in 2005, 42 years after me.

Father loved his mother. I daresay that that would have been his greatest virtue. In her dying days he would piggy-back her around the house. When she passed on he would keep a photo of her with an ancestral altar next to his bed. But grandma was a secret believer in Christ. No one knows this except me.

As we think of our elders I cannot help but ask the question – so what was their legacy? I guess it is simply their contribution in their own struggles to survive. For him, many successful financial workers today probably do not know how the early bankers laid the foundations. For us, it is just a memory.

<Picture of Father, MM, President Sheares and MP Govindasamy>

One time when I was old enough to notice things, as he held me I asked him why his right forefinger was crooked stiff. He was walking down a track during the War years when he espied a group of Japanese soldiers approaching. Quickly he dashed into the underbrush. Healthy young men were known to be trucked away, never to return. He slipped and caught his finger on a thorn. It never healed. But it was the next best thing than to be shipped to the then dreadful Changi beach. One of my uncles was not so lucky. In those days everyone publicly had to bow to the Imperial Japanese soldier, at pain of the sword. He got up a bus not noticing a trio of soldiers seated. Swiftly one soldier slashed at his knee so hard that he crumbled over. He looked for blood but there was none –  his leg intact. Fortunately the blade was still in the scabbard. But at my father’s passing and cremation the gnarled finger will be crooked no more.

Postscript (Feb 17 2014)

Father passed away 8 months ago and only last night I had a dream about him – very briefly. I saw a huge storm approaching our house (the back once faced the ocean). Father, an excellent swimmer, told me nonchalantly that he was staying outside to face the wave. I couldn’t move him, and for some reason I didn’t even try persuading him to come inside the house. As I shut the door a monstrous wave came and engulfed him in a cloud of mist. Turning away from the scene I realized that he was truly departed and awoke at the same time.

Memory Kungfu 

When I was 16 father would reserve his Sundays for me. He would assiduously go for his art classes on Chinese painting. But not before stopping at a local temple for kungfu lessons. But I was neither an artist nor had any inclination for it. However kungfu was different for a strapping young boy. Father would be a paying martial arts student and I a mere spectator – an observant one. I would remember every move as he drove to his classes at YMCA, by playing back those moves in my head, so as not to forget the sequences and motions. As soon as he starts his art I would steal to the back of the building where no one would see me. There I would play back exactly what I saw and remembered of the kungfu for that day. I would do it so well that I will remind father if he was doing it wrong at home practice.

One day while I was doing the playback moves, two young Malay boys chanced on the back alley of YMCA. They stopped in their tracks, agape. With wonder and admiration they watched me repeat the weeks’ sequence, starting from the first lesson. As I turned and saw them I nonchalantly completed my moves, unperturbed by the uninvited audience. Maybe they will repeat what they see when they get home…(1965)

Grooved (Dec 2016)

Horror of horrors – ever felt the consternation that as you get older you become your parents? It is probably self-defense – easier to go back to the roots you know that to face the unknown of old age and dying. But if the roots were bitter the embarrassment of becoming my father can be excruciating, especially when growing up I swore that I will never follow certain obscenities. That said maybe I will follow my wife.

The end zone

Up the street someone just died. It could very well be me. That time may come sooner than you think. Everything you know, feel or hope for, disappears. All you did, said or think then become judged by history. Everything you hold dear or dreadful neutralized. The defining moment of all moments. One wonders how could all the memories of a lifetime be summed up in a flash. How could all the pleasures and yearning become moot? And you move from living to inanimate, to be disposed by fire or canker. The unsaid thoughts that you easily communicate to loved ones vaporized with time. Incognito. How can this be? (Feb 2018)

My Eulogy

You may wonder why I chose to write my own eulogy. Not that I believe in voices from beyond the grave, or some such spooky thing. For one I’ve been to many funerals when I thought that nobody may know the whole truth that was eulogized, except perhaps closest relatives too mortified to speak ill of the dead. Secondly we detract from what we believe that all men are sinners – something that may have been referred to already in an occasion like this.

I hate long funeral services. They should be conducted mainly for 3 persons. Firstly to the aggrieved who need to be comforted and may or may not include family members. Secondly it is for the Lord, the Creator of all and Who collects us to Himself – for “precious in His sight is the loss of His saints.” And lastly it is for the living. For death, however expected or sudden have a salutary effect on all sane men, or women. Beyond it you will never have the chance to make any impact on earth, physical or not. It must be excruciating for great masters to have died before they could finish their masterpieces. It will be a dreadful time to think of our unfinished symphonies, painting, will, “best-seller” or any matter that will transcend time. Even for none of these, think of those meals that transcend hunger or the perfect game that is now but a memory to be reminisced with. What best time then to reflect on the tasks ahead than at the passing of our friendsⁱ?

I wonder praises alone will comfort the mourning if we do not see the person as a whole. Surely for honesty one will be able to dig out the sins of the past along with the trophies of life. No amount of regrets can erase the past except as an example of what not to be. But then again that is life. We cannot separate the marred from the perfect and wish for a hypothetical life on earth. He makes all things beautiful.

Memories are what make the possessions of the departed meaningful, living or not. We chose to remember the good times. It must be a comfort to do so.

As we gather before our dead in Christ the most significant (whether such an assembly is of any creed or country) is that the Creator is there. You have to feel it. After all He is going to say that we are just sleeping and that one day we awake together, or be found awaken in a different, immortal form. That must be comforting even to the dead, if they can hear it. When nothing is spoken and the Lord is there isn’t it enough? Men often speak much hoping that mourners will feel better.

Would to it that the living live up to the words that many will say, on the occasion when they are as dead as the wood they lie on. This is in spite of great knowledge amassed at great pains in that ashen head to be viewed. Another reason to write while you still have your mind. I wonder whether people will say such good of me as the many good I hear of our dearly departed. Since I was still living when I heard it, I could still do something about it. Thank God that we’re alive and still able. Even to sing¹.

I have often noticed that when great people like tall trees, after they have fallen in the forest, there followed a long period of rain. The earth mourns its loss but the showers are for the living. There is really a great difference between the living and the dead among the crowd of well-wishers. You can tell by what they do and what they say. Listen around if you will, afterwards. And if you can, listen to what goes on in their heads. Therefore it is not impossible that the dead will continue on living while those apparently living are already dead in their tracks. And while this thought hangs in the air momentarily in time, our existence, less than a glitch in the timeline of the universe, hope seems to be passed along. Christ, among the very, very few who walked the earth not needing a eulogy appears to have given us that. That alone is a grave thought for those still living.

“Those who are prepared to die have most to live for” Philippians 1:21

“Those who really believe they’ll die will really know how to live.” Morris Schwartzⁱⁱ

“Everybody lives a full life. Given a choice, prefer a strenuous life.”

Revised October 2010 (updated April 2010)

Incomparable hardship?

Ever so often you will meet or read about someone whom in this life can finger a period of such intense hardship comparable to a personal “holocaust”. It could be a period of intense army abuses, or maltreatment from foster care, or worse. For me perhaps the closest period was when we were inducted to be the pioneer engineering graduate for a newly introduced university curriculum. The stress to perform was carried to an extreme with a parallel pioneer ROTC program. Never again will a group of pure, innocent hardworking 20-year-olds be worked to the bone as each professor outdoes the others in terms of rigueur of the course offered. The product of such extreme toughness in training can be of two extremes – one can remain a prisoner of the past, still panting all these years, bellyaching at every obstacle or inconvenience in one’s paths. The other is to go deep into building a character of substance, fearless in all endeavors with gravity of purpose in every station of life. As my army corporal used to say – what is the hardship that the poor and destitute struggle with in comparison, once you have seen the worst in army life? Only then can grief be good. (April 2010)

• “It helps to be on the clumsy side – the skillful may become too vain to improve” – Jusaburo Tsujimura, renowned Japanese doll-maker

Death of the Sun

“However hard one may push the envelop it is still stationary”

Mankind has planned for this escape in decades, if NASA is ever to be taken seriously. Biblical prophecy depicts the end-times of the “Firmament”. We now know that the solar system is unsustainable – 8 billion years or thereabouts. But can all humankind escape the Collapse? Will colonisation of a tenable alternative to Earth be for everyone?  Will Mankind be trapped forever in the Milky Way? Herein lies the plot. Whoever has the technology and the resource will dictate the priorities. For instance, will one survive a wormhole that can transport one billions of years in a given direction, provided one finds one? Sure eight billion years is a lot of time – provided there are no intervening events. However any astrophysicist worth his/her salt cannot assure you of no galactic phenomena between now and then to thwart the plan of escape – if there is one. Meanwhile we soldier on with the daily realities of life – a lifetime is less than even a blip over 8 billion years. (July 2010)

The Magic Easel

Even when I could only see his back vigorously chalking something on the board, I recognized him as the Cardinal. But wait, a painting is resting on the easel and as his chalk marks all over it seems to reveal something underneath. The more rigorous he wrote the less of what he wrote can be seen and the more paint disappears. Slowly this went on for some time and the old paint fades to reveal a most spectacular masterpiece underneath. I gasped. Then I realized that it was only a dream, and I have actually had this dream before.

Stupidity is learned behavior

I believe everyone is born intelligent – in some way or other. For instance, if one is adept at some physical activity, that in-born intelligence will help one to be highly accomplished in the activity. But not everyone is a genius. That has to come from some gray matter, or instinct that is inconvertible. Therefore stupidity has to be learned – such as chronic laziness, or indolence to thinking. I also subscribe to encouragement for one to do better, or think deeper – the environment serves as the grist for self-betterment. (August 2010)

The unbearable lightness of being smitten

Unfathomable! Indefatigable! Ineffable! Beyond all feelings and desires!! It came from that sudden, transfixed look. How can such endorphin-like pleasures arise out of nowhere? All at once the pheromones burst forth in a galactic explosive climax. You just cannot get enough of it until the issue is faced squarely – it is often a one-sided, mindless fantasy and one day walk away from it feeling rather sheepish or silly, mindful of the reality that love often is not long-term economic, unsustainable and can spring devastating disaster to one’s life. But a good experience to walk away from. (Alone with Vet June 2010) Then one night she appeared to me in a dream, fully exposed breasts and all. (Feb 14 2018)

Mind before body

There comes a time in our life when the foot could not move fast enough to escape the slamming door, or the other side of the road seems so hard to cross. We turn the page of our books but our eyes still stuck on the one before. (2015)

The dance of life (2017)

The recent spate of sexual harassment like skeletons coming out of the closets have taken a toll on US public figures. No longer is any form of male voyeurism able to escape shame and dismissal. For most of us average males it raises red flags when we get close to the opposite sex. No longer is the mating game a norm. One cannot just make a pass and not be exposed to some injurious accusations. No more love making towards matrimonial couplings. It may not be far-fetched to say that the future of human race is at risk. Why so? Because sexual proclivities in marriages are getting cloudy in many countries, starting from America, thru Europe and to Asia and Australia. Same sex marriages do not procreate the species. Unless medical science can make a way. You may say statistically these marriages will not worsen the low birth-rates that is already prevailing in the developed world because biologically (or mentally?) LGBTs can already pre-disposed to not reproduce. That leaves us the other incumbents to provide the offspring of human race. But tread carefully as a faux pas might cause your jobs, your friendships, or isolation from greater society. The new paradigm then is that the female should do the chase – sexual harassment do not apply to them. This curse to human reproductive instincts is so because we fail to see it’s balance to life – much as God gave mankind ten fingers instead of only one. There are so many other aspects to life to pursue, such as love and generosity. Some fingers of course get used more than others – they aren’t all equal, but unused limbs atrophy thru the ages. (Nov 2017)

The magic fundoshi

It has been said that if you happen to put on one of these any woman you desire will be swooning to be your mate. But it is nothing but empty self-delusion.

What you do have is the frailty of age. Once after a visit to the dentist I was so relieved to be able to resume having a meal. I was away from home and any dentist will do – particularly when I just had a bout of chicken pox. We were riding in bus with a hastily bought pizza in our hands. Outside summer was in full bloom, pollens a spraying in the breeze. I was looking at a young man seated opposite. Suddenly a mighty sneeze convulsed me. The man did not know what hit him. But as he raised his hand to feel his cheek where the missile struck he noticed I was on all fours. I had soon found my precious crown. It had to be my temporary fix for the wedding event. Mine. (1981)

God wept

For as long as I can remember I had harboured a feeling of injustice untold, so deep that it numbs my spirituality and everything else. I can never understand the abuse that so often easily befall me, and resulting helplessness of being unable to set it right. Then…that night of the 11^th – I dreamt that God wept – for me. Suddenly that is all that matters. Nothing else seems impending any more. Deliverance, sweetest revenge, retribution fades into silence. Only God knows the struggles inside and that is enough. Even justice seems to have no consequence. Is this when healing starts? (11 Sept 2010)

The man God forgot

One would have empathized with Job that a God who noticed obedience and loyalty would fail to remember, just like any foibles of humans – hunger, thirst, tiredness and righteous anger. But it would easily befallen anyone today where your life’s journey goes through long periods of sultry weather and windless sails that you wonder whether God has forgotten you. Time does have limits for mortals and we cannot wait forever. May be a spike of blessing would hit sometime soon but if I hold my breath I might as well be dead gone. Just as the admiral on the Yamato had waited long enough for the last recon plane in would have turned the tide of the battle of Midway. What a hackneyed life! (Dec 2010)

Wishing pigs have wings – Patron saint of the toiling under-dogs

Since time immemorial working animals tend to be abused. The economic struggles of the poor have become the curse of many beasts of burden. Not long will they be spared from rest or relief, or medical attention, if any, before their human drivers return the yoke to their necks. And often at the end of their lives comes a slaughter for food and other animal products. A vivid scene was at the end of war-torn Germany when a large sow was cruelly yanked by the ears in frantic plaintive squeals to be hung on a board to be sliced. What about the long eel sitting in a basin at a Hong Kong market, turning around in apparent puzzlement to see why the other half of its body is severed completely from itself. Oh where is the protection of an animal Saint to help the oppressed beasts?

Lab report

I had never been delinquent when it comes to completing them – homework, quizzes or drawings/sketches, but it seemed to me that lately I must have slacked off. In a rigorous engineering undergrad how many of those are required weekly – lab-sheets, spot-quizzes, tutorials, design proposals, project reports, training reports. In order to progress to the senior year you have to contend with these besides the looming term exams. I had started to feel wearisome and with deepest misery had to appear before a panel of tutors who had assiduously determined that I failed for two missing reports. The senior tutor (who looked like the top world golfer L. Donald) turned to me kindly: “Don’t worry – just show us that you’ve done them and you can throw them away as we will not bother to grade it.” I actually felt a little insulted inside. Not just always trying to be a stellar student but ever conscientious to produce good work, let alone missing them. I awoke and realized that 40 years have passed since I had to fret about having to complete one of those things, and Luke was not even born then! (June 2011)

On the edge

Dreams of anxiety invariably involve the need to escape from something harsh. Badly. For me it could either be shielding from a hail of bullets, avoiding deadly karate chops or the insidious sword and swishing daggers. It is amazing how often my body can take in bullets without feeling pain or mortally wounded. Just when the final blow is about to finish me off there is often some miraculous escape – either I kicked the assailant off or that his punch missed in my desperate dodges. You wake up stunned that such fearful escapades must always border on the slimmest of margins. (2008?)

Cranium full of maggots

She looked like a man with short cropped hair dyed blonde. But I know she mean me harm so I flee, and turning back I saw her removed her cranium (the upper half). Crawling out are maggots – full of them, greenish yellow in color and famished for flesh. Suddenly they were on me – my face, hands, arms and torso, slimy and starting to devour me. “Incinerate them!” I heard a shout from my Protector. I brushed them off into the fire. As quickly as I could I flicked the rest into the roaring, blazing flame. Then silence – and I awoke. (Nov 2010)

In another dream I somehow became a POW. I saw beyond a barbed enclosure a huddle of condemned prisoners, like sheep to the slaughter, disheveled and mud-filled. And the smell of dirt was retching. The guards shoved me forward to the Sergeant who stood at the opening the wire fencing. He had an ugly, pock-marked face, almost cruel to behold. My God, I told myself – I am done for – sure to be thrown towards the condemned. Then he eyed me briefly and thinking for a moment that seemed to last for eternity, he waved me off. Freedom from certain death! I thought to myself. Never have I a dream where adversity let me off so easily. (April 2011)

Dawn runs

SINGAPORE: Like all cities the urban areas fade into quietness a couple of hours past midnight, except for the occasional scream of ambulance or patrol cars. Then as the twilight peaks out nothing of interest seems to move in the streets. However if you would sit around at four hours past, a curious scene develops. First the monotonous purr of the two-cylinders as the newsvendor scoots around, newspapers jauntily piled high in front and the back of them that you wonder how they would see traffic. Then the market vendors, no more using the trishaws of old – but with their trusty Datsun-pickups, moving clumsily along with their loads unhindered by traffic. A little later the school-pickups appear. The little girls and boys with their pressed uniforms – some with eyes hardly opened – but you will know that their wards had duly filled them up with breakfast – scurrying along with their overloaded school-packs. The street lights would remain on – it is so dark you would have wondered when dawn will actually come with such activities all around. Slowly traffic starts to build with the early commuters, with their head-beams occasionally shining askew into the dark skies. This would grow for a while, when all of a sudden – “plonk” – the street-lights would go off at once at the sound of the trip-relays. (Nov 2010)

SAKAE (a suburb of Nagoya, Japan): You can hear the city running down at sunset, not from traffic noise, but from the melodious sound of the traffic-light crossing. Apart from it the monotone of the city underground trains and the kling! kling! of the train signals when passing a junction goes on thru the night, albeit with increasing frequency as dawn breaks. In the wee hours you can see children – single file, with identical backpacks seemingly too large for their tiny backs, trudging across the traffic signal, not even looking at the lady warden, busy and conscientious as a mother hen. Then cars, trucks and cute mini-motorcycles converge the streets in neat orderly rows, without the squint of as much as a horn to be heard. As the crowd swells at the station, people lined up stoically for their hot something that breakfast overlooked. Once a while someone in surgical mask would strode by, a rarity in other Asian cities, but in Japan no one would bother even hesitate to look, being much more impolite to cough unmasked in public.

What makes for a good song?

When we were children our elders call the shots. It doesn’t matter if you don’t care for tomatoes or school, or some drab, depressing place. You go where they go and do whatever they require. When I was old enough to appreciate music there wafted over the public radio Chinese songs from the ‘60s. I can remember them to this day – almost 60 years later. Singing in times of distress touches the soul unlike any other. It was once described as opium for the economically struggling masses. Like ganja to the poor from the countryside – something to cheer one-self on. But to us growing up it remained an indelible mark, a curious paraphernalia from the past. Songs on the memory of a place, or struggle long gone always bring a lump to the throat (such as 春之晨 or 萍水相逢). In those days songstresses will have to continue singing willy-nilly, like caged birds whose raison-d-etre was to tweet musically. And the tragic tale on the “kiss at the countryside” would make even the stalwart weak on the knees. Certainly so for an incurable romantic. (Dec 11 2010)

There comes a time in one’s life when hearing songs of long ago brings back sentiments of bygone days where life will never be the same again. (Jan 2014)

Death and Consciousness

We trundle along in life because we feel the impending impact of events as they unfold. Death comes when all of a sudden (an end point is always sudden) these impacts are of no consequence to our consciousness. But the depth of our lives depends on the severity of our determination to deal with each event. The vigorous life is to face each event with rigueur. (Dec 10 2010 HK)

An urge to purge

Any old fogy who feels inclined to read a book may find that as soon as you hit the last page you’d have forgotten how the first page starts. Now besides saying the adage that it is merely the sign of old age, let me be quick to point out that the assimilation of information has gone frenetic in the last decade. How many books come into print each day? How many can one read a week? Besides books are not the only media worth reading – the plethora of nice-to-know matters pile up. With electronic publishing you don’t even have to sell by the thousands before the publishers consider it worthwhile. But even when your eyes grow dim with age, the activity of reading keeping you engaged with the world outside your consciousness becomes necessary. Then also each article is dated. You will have to update and upkeep. I call this an urge to purge. It is relevant at any age. As some kungfu master used to say, “Good food is easy to get with your means but few things in life are comparable to a good shit.” (Dec 2010)

Even rabbit stew?

If pride or arrogance is the Father of hell then avarice must be the Mother. Ask any growing toddler to dispossess any new toy to share the joys with others and you will understand how quickly greed ingrains in us. The instinct to have more (and more) is infinitely proportional to whether we had suffered the lack of it before. It is the cause of every excess and intoxication of things we desire, which at first, may even appear good or natural. It goes beyond possessions. In the realm of senses people want more and more of attention, fame or love, if they had felt famished in it before. If one grows up in dire straits, there can be an insatiable urge to hoard money. Or an unloved child becoming an adult yearns inordinately for a world of secured attention. Or the sexually deprived lusting, ad infinitum, for predatory sensuality and sexual conquest. If there is perfection in heaven, there sure are a lot of valleys to fill here on earth. I recoil from it, but there are some who have an insatiable appetite for every living thing – even dogs or rabbits. (Jan 2011)

Anarchist or rabble rouser?

Today whoever insists that unity is strength or might is right ought to have his/her head examined. Necessity dictates the rule. Take the case of the peasant China girl.

China opened up to the rest of the world thanks to Deng XiaoPing and emerged from an agrarian, impoverished countryside to a noticeable world power. Ever since its economy has been growing at a feverish pace, an increasing number of young migrants to foreign shores have also been building its external economy. She was among the first, alone, having to fend for herself as a lowly clerk in a construction project. She would rather walk the kilometer to the site than take a cab. What a lonely life! Then China came to her. The floodgates for Chinese construction labor have opened and now artisans involving mechanical-electrical, plumbing, or mere dirt shovellers can be seen in droves trudging along the same road. The daily wages must be a bonanza because they seemed to be quite a slap-happy lot – come rain, shine or whatever holiday. (Dec 2010)

Psalms 10 – a modern rendition

God, why are you uninvolved? You seem to ignore the troubles of your children by standing far off. So much so in today’s world the wicked kills the weak. The powerful in the world device schemes to dominate. And when they do they boast arrogantly, satisfying only their cravings. They advance only their own agenda, becoming even greedier each time. When their greed increases in their hearts they also insult you God. They appear upright and religious, but their final goal is themselves – there is actually no room for God. In their prosperity they become haughty over their own efforts, thinking that your way of salvation is a losing proposition in the world. They think they are invincible from their competitors, claiming more and more fame and power to protect themselves. They believe that they will never again suffer from their past. So they speak impressively meaning nothing but self-gain. But actually their goodwill aims to exploit the innocent and helpless, to crush them for themselves. When they defeat their competitors, they say to themselves – Who says God’s law of justice rule? God is blind today – or even dead.

Please get up God. Do not fail to help you children overcome by the world. The self-made man insults you, saying that God does not matter – only himself is accountable to his destiny. Isn’t that an insult to you? Don’t you see the trouble and unfair grief on those who commit their future and safety to you? Break the arm of the wicked and the arrogant! Get him to account for his own self-centered ways. Because he thinks he can escape while you seem to be absent. (Jan 2011)

The uniqueness of being unattractive

Perhaps those of us who continue to get the short shrift of things in this world ought to remain as we are. Can you not see the beauty of ugliness, or the joys of being unpopular and avoided? Firstly your real estate remains pristine. No one bothers to invade your turf and so you remain unadorned from the vanities of say, celebrities. You are spared the choices to make from people who want to be friends but unsure of their motives. You don’t have to thread the slippery slope of staying at the top, or retaining the affections so liberally showered. To top it all even if you try to be like them you will be continually exasperated because the world despises those trying to be an upshot of someone not themselves. Then you will sink to ever greater depths. There is one such person who did not beguile Himself for being rejected and despised by the high and mighty of society. And He would not be a winner of popularity contests either, except to the poor and needy. But He was authentic to the bone. The irony is that some people, not the majority, still remembers Him. (Feb 2011)

Dejavu

It happened again – exactly. I had recalled it had occurred before, but like one of those things, you just took no notice of it until you start to think of it. The circumstances were eerily identical. The setting an exact copy. Did my mind played a trickery of sorts? Or was it self-fulfilled prophecy in situ. One would never know – until one is out of the system. You will never expect the brain to objectively analyze itself. (1990)

Tiong Bahru

I can only recall vaguely back through the time tunnel. Only perhaps at age four or five I was living alone with mother in a pre-war flat – not more than four levels. Left alone, play would often be at the balustrade while she busied herself sewing curtains for extra cash. There you would be able to see only the tops of cars, vans and lorries plying along Tiong Bahru Road. And the noise from car horns was deafening – people use it to get their way in a developing country. But time flies if you know how to gaze out – albeit un-objectively at such a young age (in those days my only toys were the empty cotton spindles after the thread were spent). But the exciting part of the day came around 5pm, when she started to cook. I would perch at the edge of a stool and pick off fresh, hot morsels each time she completes a dish.

One time, for some unknown reason she left me perched there reaching for some more. In those days kerosene was used as cooking fuel. They would be dispensed using a mechanical siphon by pumping with a long tubing each time fuel is needed for the fire. In my greed I overstretched myself, slipped off the stool and sat on the funnel.

For a good reason the flesh is quite substantial around the buttocks area. The funnel tube left a puncture there, but it could be a better place than elsewhere. I survived only slightly scathed. Up till today, any attempt to steal yet-to-be-served food is done with a little trepidation. (1954)

Grandfather

He had a puny, round face, with unshaven short stubs – one that most opium addicts would look like. But it must take more than just bravery to sail the perilous journey escaping Starvation China to find a life in unknown Singapore, with just the shirt on his back. In those days the most lucrative trade was to sell to the British masters – cigarettes, beer or any such pleasures sought by lonely servicemen. So grandpa started a shop.

One would be surprised that an infant not three years old can remember a face, but I do. He was standing two rows ahead of me and everyone around was posing. Dressed in black, loose laborer garbs I was a bit repulsed as others had more cheerful colors on. Over the years since, I was told to have good reasons to appreciate grandpa – he was besotted with the latest arrival then – me. He was perhaps the reason why grandma hesitated to dispose me off – being the extra mouth of burden. This was reflected in his nickname for me – “Little Mao” – the Revolution in China at that time (1949 to the month of my birth) was the hope of many overseas Chinese. Hence my mandarin name – 建中 (build China). But for political correctness it was modified later by my aunt to建忠 – (build loyalty). Ironically, throughout life I have not the least of such ambitions. (1960?)

Dance lessons

In the early days of Singapore’s education system, schools were not well regulated. They would spring up whenever some enlightened principal felt the need and as long as schools were available for the young they were not discouraged. Worse was the training of teachers. I remembered my first school was within walking distance of my temporary residence – in the 1950s. It was a Chinese pre-primary school. Mother would deposit me there in the morning so that she could earn a living doing odd jobs till evening time. What did I learnt there? Not much. Unless you would want to count the introduction to dance music.

The lady teacher seemed to have a bee in the bonnet to produce a ballet event. Only girls need apply. Every morning session she would activate the tape recorder and her toddling wards would go about their routine, leaving us boys gaping on the side. Some would just run around the classrooms on their own for entertainment. But for us boys nothing beats recess time. I guess for the very young, even today, the first lesson of fun was disorganized behavior. (1955)

Fast forward ten years – and teachers remained neither motivated nor creative in the late 1960s. I remembered literature class when the teacher – variously nicknamed “Soporific”, “Sleeping Pills” or “Sir Bore (from the Holy Grail fame)” would take the lesson, from start to the end in a rambling, sonorous voice, monotone and in monologue, while the class, all boys would go on chatting on their own. He was an earnest man, with a large mouth like a frog’s, just completing a day’s work whether the students respond or not. One time I decided to do something about the class’s nonchalance and shot my hand up. “Sir, you said earlier there were two points. You’ve discussed the first but what is the second point?” Silence, as the rest of the class turned round to stare at me in wonder, as I was always quiet as a church-mouse and never wont to participate at all. “Er, yes…”, the teacher brightened, “thank you for that…” What he then said was of no consequence – the only thing I can remember now is that I sat down pleased as Punch.

One teacher I would never forget for the rest of my life. He was from Cambridge, England and unlike the locals would not hurry through lessons, just to keep time. In my ‘O’ level English class, I used to shudder in trepidation when the local teacher enters with a pile of essay books to be returned to the students. Those few at the top of the pile, he would fling them out the window, on into the trash bin after announcing the owner and how poor the grade was. When I told this to my contemporary friend who grew up in the sixties, he said I was lucky. He had a teacher who “phui” (spit) right into the face for poor homework. But not Mr. Hernon. He would call my name and sat me in front of his desk. Then he would go through every sentence of my essay, pointing out how they could be improved, verbally. All this while the rest of the class chatted among themselves. When the bell rang, he could only help one student – me. Perhaps I am today his only student who remains grateful for his tutelage.

A judgement from high

It was one of those days. News of the state of the world couldn’t be bleaker. With the worldwide web you get instant replay of man’s inhumanity to man and animals. Atrocities from civilian genocide of Ruwanda, Sarajego, Cambodia, and Vietnam ranged back to the Holocaust and further back to Armenia and beyond. And now Libya, followed by the tsunamis of north-east Japan and earlier, Indonesia. Humans remain outrageously cruel in the way of consuming animals and fish. Somehow justice will be served. That came in the nightmare that night.

I had somehow expected the Creator will do a terrible thing to humankind such that the imbalance of justice is set straight and the answer seemed to come in a whisper – “look upwards”. I did and to my horror I saw a huge object falling towards me. It was such a big asteroid that its shadow darkened the earth around and getting bigger. I could see its craggy, shiny surface, turning this way and that as it fell headlong. As it did it pushed along a large down-draft of wind in its form drag, howling and kicking dust sky-high. It was descending fast as its shadow loomed larger. You could almost smell its heat – somewhat like burning glass. I tried to run but somehow could not feel my legs. Any second now I will be crushed, I thought, and waited with bated breath. I was expecting to hear a loud bang or explosion with my demise. Then it happened. But there was nothing. Silence. I woke up and felt something extremely heavy at my chest as if expecting an impact. But it was only the pillow, light as feather. I finally opened my eyes and only then did I realize that I was only dreaming that I awoke. There was no pillow.

Milo thread of life (1966)

In the early days of National Day Parades there were no refreshments for participants until much later in the day. As students, volunteering for the parade was compulsory and we had to be up before dawn to await our turn to perform and march before the tarmac. The still-dark dawn soon became a hot day and the participant queues were long. Our stomachs were growling as, for me there was nothing for breakfast; except for a timely hot chocolate drink that mother hastily concocted. As the sun bore down on us you could soon see here and there some of us falling like bowling pins from the heat. Many were stretchered out for dehydration. And then our turn to perform and as far as I could remember, it was over in a flash – perhaps 5 minutes out of the three hours we laid in wait. That Milo drink really gave a lot of mileage that day. In another occasion we had to do police national service duty. This time we did not have to perform – and getting up so early was not required. But this time I managed to grab a navel orange for breakfast, stuffed in my bag with the police uniform. As I arrived at the parade in the Riot police bus I began to empathize with the jostling youth, teeming for their mass effort, as I could see from their faces that many had plucked themselves from bed much too early for their liking. After the day’s events I returned gratefully to my bus, remembering I had squirreled away my quick refreshment. I looked and looked. Then I started to wonder whether I had dropped it in the changing room. But it was nowhere to be found, and I noticed there was only the bus driver around, a policeman, with a smirch of a smile as he looked away.

Vietnam Race (1974)

It was nearing the post-Vietnam era and my friend had just jumped into private contracting from a cushy civilian job. After a long journey in Saigon he and his companion was longing for a meal at a GI-based brasserie. He looked and noticed that they were the only Asians around. So they sat and waved, fidgeted and shouted for service and attention. But no one came – the native Vietnamese seemed too involved serving only American servicemen. It was getting long drawn and frustrating. He was a big man. And when he became furious he became bigger. Soon the adjoining table of GIs was starting to take notice with sniggers and whispers. “Francis, please move away from the table – I don’t want you to get wet, we are starting to look like china-men gorillas signaling for a hand-out,” he told his companion. As Francis moved off, he took the table cloth with one hand and with the other flipped the entire table, spewing tea, stools and broken glasses around. They were both ready for whatever might ensue. But to their surprise the tables around were GIs clapping appreciatively. Then they strove off.

“What if they called the MPs and have you hauled off for causing mayhem?” I asked my friend.

“Well, let’s just say I got clumsy” was his reply. I was sure he felt inexorably pleased for his actions.

Homecoming Rat (April 2016)

• We felt it’s presence only after gnawing bites appeared on the new rice cooker.  Then other items appeared in the kitchen such as an avocado seed dug from the garden. Twice it jumped from behind the microwave oven and hid behind the toilet pipes. One day it’s luck ran out, trapped inside the plastic trash liner when sniffing papaya skins. I unceremoniously kicked the secured trash around before throwing it out, hoping that it will be scared out of its wits never to return. Was I wrong! After chewing itself out it ran into the neighbor’s and took residence again behind the plumbing. That was when I decided to invest on a trap – cage. But it was not to be as my elusive tenant disappeared.  For months I dared leave my kitchen door open again, until today the varmint appeared in my back garden,  all drenched and docile. It stumbled about as if it just survived a drowning. It wouldn’t even run from the dogs who regarded it with curiosity.  Then it tried to enter her room where she was sickened 4 years before passing on. Rats! she is a rat too, I thought. Finally I decided to clamp it with the floor swipe and transferred it to the roadside, hoping it will finally say farewell. But the bash on the head was too much for her and  she lay unceremoniously in the sidewalk, dead. Grrr, can’t I keep her as a pet??

Passing of an era (Aug 2017)

I had chanced upon a YouTube featuring Lee Kuan Yew months before his passing in March 2015. Here was a giant of our generation standing alongside the likes of Lyndon Johnson, Helmut Kohl, Mao Tse Tung, Margaret Thatcher and other luminaries of the twentieth century.  In his nineties he still fielded questions on stage though haltingly, pausing often as if waiting for the neural synapses to complete their passage. But still moments of abbreviated brilliance flashed through, even as pale images of his former self. The pragma still there as well as the realism of life. We had grown up through the nation’s formative years, often seeing the true grit of dogged determination, tenacity and pragmatism of his steadying hand. We had seen it all, challenges, crises and excruciating uncertainties. When the video ended there was this overpowering sadness of the end of an odyssey – the struggle beyond mere survival to a first world city-state. A salutary moment reminding the participants of the finality of life, even when so well-lived. (June 2017)

Can I also make it?

Her words hit me like a slap on the face. “If you heard it somewhere don’t preach it as your own”. Since then I had always want to do something of my life that’s not a copy of another.

Bob Dylan as the 2016 Nobel laureate for literature is an inspired choice. Now even a songwriter can be acclaimed an enduring impact on the future of Mankind.

Death (Oct 31 2016)

As I lay here on my sleeping mat I felt the passing of the epoch of Man’s existence, exemplified by my living, dying and passing. Like Adam and such creatures from time immemorial. People who might have once said wistfully that in 10 or 20 years they will be no more do not have the slightest inkling of what death is like,  this side of heaven. But they will say it confidently  – everyone will.

How to spend in your evening years (July 2017)

Money-wise. The question of how to live it has been debated et nauseum. If you have nothing or only a paltry sum, net, then the answer is trivial.  Actually many rich and famous have died broke and that may be the optimum. Optimisation theory has a long history but I have not heard of anyone planning his career so as to optimize the value of his life earnings and possessions. Is it a question of zero sum gain? Say you have 500k with projected x years of life. Deduct your obligations and exigencies. Then the tough part of cost variations. This is not a question of financial planning you hear from everywhere. It is a question of personal satisfactions. You cannot analyze that. But the more you are probably leaving behind the complex your analysis. Maybe this is a good problem that is best left unsolved

1 http://www.ntu.edu.sg/home/mktyap/myhymns.doc

ihttp://www.ntu.edu.sg/home/mktyap/hucky-strauss-sweetie-pi.jpg

ii Tuesdays with Morrie

Journal of an ordinary man

PART TWO – FURTHER A-FIELD

Just take me to church on time (1981)

The snow was unrelenting. But they (my family back home) had already set the date, according to a Chinese belief. I remember telling the pastor on the phone – “We had to get married in a hurry” and there was a brief silence at the other end. Grandma had passed on and the belief was that anything auspicious should not happen after 100 days.  Everyone was so encouraging that the wedding will go ahead, snowstorm or tornado. Then up till the day itself, the snow abated and the sun shone. What a window because the heavy snow continued the day after the wedding. The people at the lab decided to share the ride avoiding the messy snow-ploughed streets. I forgot his name, but let me call him Ralph. He was the anything-is-ok guy who will drive the four ladies. They piled in with their heavy coats and piled out near the church. But it had ceased to function as a church and did not appear like one. Now ask any groom what they remember of their wedding many will tell you that it went like a blur. Many said they were glad they came. But Ralph didn’t make it. The ladies in the car forgot to tell him which building when he proceeded to park.

Bicycle fling (1980)

It was an impulse. There was the bicycle and there was the open park in the arboretum, inviting. And I was distressed to take a break. Soon I was free-wheeling so fast, sans helmet, sans knee-guard and sans caution. All I could remember clearly soon afterwards was that my face was acting like a brake pad. It wasn’t for long when I sat on the path-side trying to look through blood streaming down the right eyelid. “Are you OK?” asked a young jogger. “OK I guess, but I need my spectacles”, I replied stunned. Soon a female jogger joined him and helped gather the bicycle and the mangled spectacle. “We have to do something about that gush of blood – could you spare your T-shirt which is drier? “, he asked her. Of course not was her reply and he proceeded to bind my head with his sweaty shirt, as mine was filled with dirt. They said they will deliver my bicycle to the house, as I burped my thanks. Later an ambulance came and I was soon lying on a hospital sheet. While waiting a familiar face loomed over me – it was Jeff, my room-mate, interning at the hospital. Can you count slowing backwards from 100, he asked and I succeeded. I managed to follow his finger with my right eye too. “Seem to have normal brain function”, he quipped to the attending physician.

He was a portly person with kindly eyes although I would not be able to recognise him through his face mask. “Well, we are going to do some plastic repair of your right eyelid, which is almost torn off by the spectacle frame. Also some suture on your lips – and oh, you lucky fella not only your right eye escaped the broken glasses – I happen to be a dentist before, and so I may be able to do something about that broken tooth too.” And as he proceeded to do his work, he softly hummed the tune “Nearer my God to you” under his breath. While this was going on, I could hear two people walked into the room, one apparently an important visitor. “Here, we’re doing some facial work on that fella who took a fling off his bicycle,” the supervising physician said pointing in my direction. I remember thinking to myself that I hope not to remember that event again, when there was a click. “You will not forget this,” Jeff beamed, his camera in his hand.

The avuncular civil servant (July 2001)

We haven’t been driving in North America for years. So long that our driving licenses became obsolete. So one of the first things we did when starting our sabbaticals was to head for the Boston Office of Vehicle Licensing and Transportation. It was a hot afternoon. Like most government offices we entered a stuffy room, thick with people waiting for a few female clerks, chatting among themselves oblivion to the teething tempers in queue. I tried not to overhear their banter about cupcakes and colored braids and patiently waited for my number. I look up to a squarely build black gentleman serving me, looking down and the air of bureaucracy seemed heavy around him. What a most boring and depressed place to be, and to face a bureaucrat. What happened next caught me off-guard. He beamed and said dead-panned, “Are you superstitious?” Unprepared, I blurted out something inaudible. Then he explained that the number he will assign for my license has a pattern that some people might take offence. “Not at all!”, I smiled bemused. Then with a deft hand movement, some stampings and swishing of papers he send me packing with a lilt in my walk, license in my hand.  Why cannot the little people in the world sitting at front desks facing ordinary folks practice a little avant-garde once in a while?

Dog Show (2000)

We were both delirious when we see so many species of canines congregating together. You see we both love dogs – especially so when we were away from our pack while travelling. In the small American town, women tugging at their look-alike were so colorfully dressed and the men, smart in their outdoor sport-jackets leading their equally smart-looking four-legged pals. We were admiring and looking out for our breed, when the loudspeaker crackled on and a gruff voice announced officiously: “Will all the bitches please leave the field so that the males can start their competition?”

Oriental dinner (1980)

Somehow it is natural and instinctive for people of the same cultural group in a foreign country to dine together. We were freshly graduated then and we had just filled ourselves with the most delectable Chinese dishes that can be cooked at home in America. All of a sudden I was wracked with stomach pains. Never been used to any but my own toilet I needled my wife to hurry home. But you know – goodbyes go niggardly – from the dining room, to the living room, to the landing, conversations just dragged. When I finally got into my car I drove like the wind. Soon enough the sound of a siren peeved me to stop. The officer walked over deliberately and motioned with a sweep of his hand. “Sir you were going at 47 in a 30 mile per hour zone.” Sheepishly I bowed my head while he proceeded to write a citation. “May I say something?” I carped out in a strained voice. He gave me a cold stare when I proffered the excuse. “I’m not well, had a stomach-ache and was rushing home.” After a second passed, he pointed to the hospital building ahead and drawled: “If you are sick you go there – not drive over the speed limit and endanger others!” I quickly retrieved my license from his opened gloved hand and almost crawled home that night. The pain was gone.

Left hand right hand (1971)

How about trying your hand at cooking, if you’ve never cooked? One of the things you’d learn quickly is that the sequence of action can make or break a meal. One friend learned the hot lesson of cracking an egg nearer to the boiling oil than making a scalding splash. Take the case of my friend who started when he had to cook as a poor student. He would peel the prawn while the pan is heated and proceeded to drop them into the sizzling oil. Once in a while the shell went into the oil and the peeled prawn into the dustbin. Another time a friend, returning from groceries rushed into the house to retrieve the garbage when the collection truck arrived. Guess what went into the ever-rushing truck and what he took back into the house? Can you imagine going through a garbage truck trying to retrieve a camera that he placed in the grocery bag? Or the case of my friend driving the US Interstate for the first time, so eager to try his friend’s Porche in exchange for the rental car he was driving. In those days there were no such gadgets as cell-phones that you can correct errors of haste in situ. So keen was he to get into the faster car that he automatically pocketed the rental car-keys, leaving the Porche owner fuming by the wayside. Or the classic story of a couple who had reached the stage of their marriage that they hardly talk, even while going on a long car journey together. She would lie, out of sight, sleeping in the back-seats and he would do the monotonous task of a long drive, broken perhaps by the occasional toilet stops. One time at such a stop, she decided to answer nature’s call too, without telling the driver, who will notice the missing passenger only at journey’s end. Nowadays a mobile device such as a cell-phone would fix the situation quickly but woe-betide the couple who only communicate by the cell-phone or by email.

Quid Pro Quo?

Perhaps psychologists can explain why we often dream unsolvable puzzles, which are so obvious the moment we awake. I have dreamed it many times, often saying to myself that I have dreamed such a problem before, while in the dream! The most numerous retake is being lost at a familiar location, where I kept telling myself that I know my way to the destination, but kept going round in circles. And every step seemed to be always going uphill, even when walking in a circle, making the knees tired to collapsing. On one such seemingly interminable walk I was so exhausted and sleepy that I decided to sit down and take a nap. I actually dreamt that I was asleep, but I also knew that it was unsafe to fall asleep in the open, especially when I had a wad of dollar-notes in my wallet. Sure enough when I awoke, my wallet was gone. But wait – nearby sat provocatively was an alluring young girl, whom I knew instantly to be the thief. I knew that I could never get my money back for all it’s worth and my morose was only lifted when I actually awoke.

I am who he is not (Jan 1978)

Often what is in a name depends on who your namesake is. For four years I worked for the Army and had wanted badly to get out and see the other side of the world. I was on contract and when the time eventually came I had applied for a student visa to do postgraduate work in the US. A senior official of the government at that time, equivalent to the rank of Assistant Secretary of the Army share my family name. So when I appeared at the US Customs and Immigration after a grueling 27 hour flight, the officer asked to my incredulity, why would a diplomat be becoming a student at a university. I had not known from Adams what a diplomatic visa was, but was grateful that I could continue my quest without much of a fuss. Indeed I had no use of the visa throughout my status as a student – except for one small trip I made across the Canadian border during one Spring Break. My car passenger had brought along some possibly taxable gifts for her friends and we all had to duly surrender our passports. Not long later they were returned with a smart salute from the officers. It could be that my “diplomatic” status saved the day for us, but I had no guile in it – indeed I was told I could buy much more goods tax-free if I wanted to, although I doubt that is the case. Now who would like to guess what visa my Assistant Army Secretary got for his travels?

Trespassers will be persecuted (1979)

Being non-native speakers of English it was sometimes quite common for us to mix up our words when growing up. Other times it was just the sheer lapse of pronunciation. Take the case of the welcome dinner my American host family gave to international students at Thanksgiving. After quite a substantial entrée one Chinese girl tried to say “Thank you, I’ve enough” when seconds were passed around. To which the gracious hostess replied, “My goodness, only the second dish and you’re in love!” On another occasion, a Japanese hostess in Singapore was awaiting guests when the maid brought in the sushi to the table. “Fry! Fry!” she said emphatically, waving her hands this and that before proceeding to close the windows to prevent more flies entering. The maid summarily brought it back to the kitchen and brought the sushi back later, fried to the crisp. Then perhaps the caption above might apply after all. That is if you live in a country where trespassing into the national religion is forbidden, at pain of death. Maybe now the Land Authority can find some use of the discarded signs.

Wanted: Alive than Dead (Mar 2011)

Recently it was reported that they found Asian’s unicorn in Vietnam. Had it remained alive meaningful tests could have revealed more of how the saola specie came about as well as its preferred food and reproductive behavior. Though that heritage seems lost to humankind it is hard to imagine how staple food such as venison could one day be as wanted as the dodo. Livestock today is valued more dead than alive, the meat by-products used to the optimum, otherwise farmers would have ceased to exist long ago. It is interesting to think than mankind in exploiting the animal kingdom’s basic need to reproduce has made the feedstock industry as widespread as it is today. But we can find exceptions – such as the cash-cow and the egg-producing hens. To me such symbiosis appears more attractive – the birth of an Angus, Hostein or Hereford or a swine litter is still a miracle, irreproducible in the lab.

Chocolate zebra(2015)

Fortunately there were no lurking crocodiles as the foal thrashed through knee deep in brown mud. The herd has since left for greener pastures on the African savanna leaving the young zebra’s plaintive bleating. After jumping desperately mud coated it completely brown. Soon it broke into firm ground but only an elephant nearby appear like it’s mother. But it’s advance was rejected, huge ears flapping and trunk trashing with hideous screams. But where is my tribe? Fortunately some time later the herd returned as the foal leaped joyfully towards it’s seniors. But they ran from him as he was not the color of zebras. Dejected it could only straddle along. Until the rainy showers.

Moral Progress and Animal treatment (1987)

When Gandhi referred to the greatness of a nation he was probably thinking mainly of maltreatment and abandonment of animals. We could, of course go further than that. Once while jogging in the countryside I felt a slap on my head from a furry wing. Thinking that it was just an accident, I continue running until I felt a scratch on my back. Although no blood was drawn I could see the kite circling above on its territorial watch, thinking perhaps that I was a competing mate. Other instances take on a less aggressive stance – perhaps more effective for a more well-to-do society. In my backyard we once espied a busy mother building a nest on a lowly branch. It was only at night that she would retreat there and flew off routinely in the morning to gather more material. Soon we could see a brood of twin chicks, ever so ravenous for morsels from the returning parent. One shake of the branch and two quivering heads popped out, beaks wide opened. We could hardly wait for the day of first flight. Alas it could not come at a worse time for one – for the mommy dog was too quick for the floundering nestling.

Careful where da wind blows (1993)

Few people dread the prospect of a nature call – until they start travelling to far flung places. For the American lady who was told by the raft operator on a remote India river that “all India is the toilet”, sometimes even a well constructed toilet up in the mountains can be an experience to remember. During our trek to the Nepal foothills we chanced upon one perched over a ravine. The steep drop to the river was the sanitation system. No problem – remote as it is. However, right in the midst of Nature’s call a gush of wind may be funnelled back to the toilet from the ravine below. You can imagine what a spray that can produce – upwards!

In the early days of China’s development the subject of toilets have turned many a genteel traveler off. Imagine a long bus ride to the North-West Sin-Xiang area. Out in the wind farms only the bus divides the men’s rooms from the ladies’. You can hardly hide by squatting between the dunes. Also finding the wind direction first would be a wise thing to do. But travelling by China’s trains is luxurious by comparison – the toilet outlet goes onto the tracks and the rule is not to use them when the train is stationary. Why because the train operator might be caught polluting the environment (just a guess)?

In the early days of public transportation all Singapore buses moved with opened windows, without air-conditioning. Public behavior was also not so well regulated – there were no “Fine for spitting” signs. Therefore when we got up a bus we had to choose our seats in the rear of the bus carefully – watching where the wind blows…

Tipperary Deeperary Creeperary(1960s?)

I met this guy – let’s call him EB, at a barbecue. Along with his old cronies the slap-happy jokes turned to ghosts. In the old days, civil servants seeking promotions like EB had to take remedial lessons in Malay. Such classes can be quite relaxed, with senior civil servants trading garbs with the teacher. One time, everyone in the class starting deriding Che’gu (teacher) for insisting that Pontianak (a Malay ghost) exist. The ridicule ended up in a challenge – class will meet Che’gu at a Malay cemetery at midnight. Everyone turned up, seated around a fire, Boy Scout style. Che’gu had only one strict proviso – no one is to talk or move at or around 3am. When he had finished his incantations the incense were left to burn till the witching hour. Boredom had already set in then and some had started to fidget, except EB. He had noticed his friend sitting opposite in the circle had suddenly turned blanch, with his hand to his mouth suppressing an utterance. But no one moved or talked and the event passed quietly till dawn. Che’gu then told everyone that it is imperative to wash and clean their faces in the toilets. Someone said it was a sheer waste of time sitting up whole night for nothing.

At the wash area EB approached his friend who sat opposite why he had turned pale. “Didn’t you notice?”, he stammered. “Right behind you there was a thin figure, twice taller than the trees, white robed and floating around your back. I could not even shout for fear!” EB would not have noticed, as it was strictly forbidden to move his head.

But then no one else saw it.

As a young Boy Scout recruit what a thrill it was when mother allowed me to join in the first night march. In those days the MacRitchie reservoir was not so well developed – the foot paths were crowded by brushes and the night was really pitch dark. We recruits though scared of whatever animals there may be around found safety in numbers, huddled together. Then the section leaders decided to play a prank on the Scout-Master. Quietly they passed the word to stop still, while the Scout-Master continued unaware. After some tense moments we saw someone approaching us in the pale light. Frankly, some of us recruits were more terrified of the pale figure quietly waving his arms in the darkness. But the excitement chased all sleep from me and in the early dawn, I was the first to espy a wild boar at the edge of the reservoir.

Ghost fingers (July 2011)

She was warned to heed her steps when visiting her ancestor’s grave. But it was a hot and musky day of the visit. She had a light colored blouse on and the travel of the event was a full day’s undertaking. After fulfilling her piety she went home alone to meet her mother who was not with her. Her mother soon realized there was a smudge on her left shoulder. Examining it closely she saw that it was the imprint of someone’s left hand – all five fingerprints clearly marked on her white blouse. “Nobody touched me”, she recalled – in fact she had not met anybody at all throughout the visit to her grandfathers tomb. And she had not stepped on anything unusual except her grandparent’s gravestones.

Attempts to wash off the stains were in vain – somehow the mark was permanently indelible. It was as if someone had stood on her right side, placed a left arm over her and grabbed onto her left shoulder with such force for such an imprint to take hold. But she swore that no one had once even come close to her during the visit to the tomb.

Thanksgiving Rain (July 2011)

Two weeks of gruelling, sticky hot climate can leave you dazed with broken sleep. No amount of wishing could deliver you from the cauldron’s blast except that it is released from the heavens. It came last night in a deluge, with such severity that you can almost imagine a sizzling, like cold water over a hot plate. The cooled planet, responded like a satisfied withered plant, recovering, slowly at first, in the windless night. Then from an almost imperceptible crescendo of water crashing on the roof culminated in a burst of song. Thank God for rain as it chases away the lingering heat – a small but vital beginning for the spirit of thankfulness, absent in a society greedy for any winning points in life and ignoring whatever that is already in our favor.

Hiroko’s gift (June 2017)

I chanced on TV the story about an elderly Japanese lady, who for a decade gave away postcards she made with encouraging words for anyone who will choose to take them. She’ll sit on the chilly castle ground and call to tourists and strangers to come view the words on the pictures she drew on the cards. Insisting only for a handshake, she’ll wish the takers the best as they leave. One time a 90-year granny, having heard of her made the long journey from the orchard where she farms citrus fruits. In grateful return for the card she gave her a luscious fruit which she and her husband had recently harvested. Hiroko took the prime fruit home where she proceeded to draw and color its brilliant orange-yellow skin accompanied by a phrase of hope and strength. “So much joy to receive and pass it along to someone who might need it”.

Going where no man dare imagine (Oct 2014)

Fifty six years after its creation the Starship Enterprise of today is still without its two enabling technologies – warp and tracker beams. We know more about outer space today based mainly on electromagnetic and subatomic particle wave telemetry but little of the weird and flamboyant life forms encountered by captains Kirk or Picard. So far signals received from our remote-sensing exo-planetary probes tell us that we are still alone. Astrobiologists struggle to justify their profession. Strangely or not, imagination of the weird and bizarre is more rife from the little we know than from the largely unknown.  Extrapolation from the basics of modern physics in the film odyssey is laughable. The advanced medicine practiced in the Starship series appear like child-play. But if anything these ignite the imagination of the man-in-the-street. It has been said that finding worm-holes and time-gateways to transcend time-space is almost statistically non-existent and creating the conditions for it is still in the domain of pipe-dreams. However there is still lots of space, and more recently, accelerating deep space boundaries. Probably not traverse-able by Enterprise – its structure alone defy all principles of dynamic stability, even when traveling at subsonic speeds in vacuum. Humankind is still bound to a time-based molecular form. And that is where the conundrum of space-time still defeats our curiosity of going where no man has gone before.

Wonder no more (2016)

“Twinkle twinkle little star” :- Stars don’t twinkle – the light reflected off them somehow got interrupted on their way to our eyes. Only because they are so far away that we can look directly at them, clearly at night because the light gets more focused then. They may appear little but they are not small. It’ll be impossible to look directly at our parent star – the sun.

“How I wonder what you are”:- Well wonder no more! Ever since Galileo pointed his telescope in January 1610 discovering the moons of Jupiter we have come to know a lot more about stars and extra terrestrial bodies. Indeed the composer of this lullaby in 1806 would be able to find out so much about them from the illustrious English astronomers at that time.

“Up above the world so high…” When we gaze to identify the heavenly bodies, properly with a telescope there is no “up” or “down”. Stars are identified relative to each other and well established landmark stars form sectors in the visible universe from our terrestrial locations – the world.

“Like a diamond in the sky…” Really? Maybe it was a more intelligent guess than the author intended. Over the past 500 years we have collected much information about the content of different planets, exo-planets and stars. Among samples collected from comets and shooting star rocks silicon is one of the candidates. But diamonds? Maybe. But if so we’ll be getting into something big. The astrobiologists would be thrilled with the hint that a carbonaceous material comes from the stars. You see, as curious as the little kiddies learning this song Mankind would be exhilarated to find another earth-like habitation for the future of earthlings once our home star the Sun, burns out.

Beyond beholding (Jan 2018)

The so-called Cullinand diamond at 3106 carats being the 5th biggest ever, was found in South Africa. So dazzling was it that the cutter fainted under pressure. Can anything so overwhelming be found in a rock? Think of how humble one starts in life. Nobody will bother to dig you out of a rock. Unless you’re the product of eons of pressure and purification unknown and hidden.

A leaf on Die Moldau (New Year’s Eve 2011)

I grew up on a house behind the hills. They can hardly be called hills – compared to mountains elsewhere maybe they are better called hillocks. Ever so often before leaving for work I would stroll up to the top of one, where in ancient times was once the bottom of an ocean, as you can still pick shale and shells at some places. There my imagination ran wild. I became a leaf – tiny enough to float on rivers and waves without sinking or breaking.  Here is my story…as told by Bedrich Smetana  on Vlatava: (the numbers in the text are durations from the H. Von Karajan’s conducting of the Berlin Philharmonic)

A drop of dew, glistening in the morning sun, ever so slowly grows bigger and finally runs down a branch knocking me off into the little stream (0.39). It is hardly a stream – tiny now, but with the next drop it will grow that much bigger and jostle me downward. Slowly, I inch along by gravity, to be caught occasionally by a blade of grass, a small pebble or just earth, but jauntily downwards.  The flow is minuscule but unabated and before long, I will be cruising along a small rivulet of shallow cold spring flow, so shallow that I can feel the earth as I inch along (1.09). Still a rivulet but growing, but I can espy another nearby, also flowing parallel for now, and I can see us joining somewhere downstream. On and on we skid along,

with bend branches almost brushing me off-course, and occasional splash of purple, blue and white flora playfully thrusting its petals into my face in mischief (1.56). Then the bulrushes swaying in the wind, with butterflies and other insects of myriad colors hovering peer at me from every corner. Hidden beneath water toads croak rhythmically. With regularity the moss clumps at the side looms up giving a bump to my ride.  I now toss and turn as the stream widens and water colder. Then all of a sudden I am pushed gently aside as the other stream joins and I shoot forward sliding to and fro in the confluence flow (2.42).  The slipstream propels me like skiing downhill – twisting and winding left and right (2.55). And the almost imperceptible sound of water rushing underneath (3.24) – not loud now but a drone as I feel the undercurrent pushes me down and up, away from the earth underneath (3.59). The current is stronger now – but all this time it comes in cycles of strength – it bursts forth and then quickly ebbs away gracefully and powerfully. Now the pace quickens and the sauntering left and right loops bigger as I sail downstream, spinning me on my back like a pinwheel. As I careen uncontrollably I can see other leaves have been joining me, falling from the trees around and cart-wheeling into the water. They then spin and turn in bigger and bigger eddying circles around the stream. More and more leaves and debris fall, skipping along deliberately over the crevices and rocks and sand, like little lambs (3.50). The scenery quickens as more shrubs appear and trees taller, the skips stronger and quicker. I realize that soon we will be finding the river and the sound of swift streams of water grows increasingly louder. Now I can see rocks, mostly covered with green, slippery moss, surrounded by slimy underwater ferns. I cruise around them like a waltz as if in a dream, the clear water turning white as it entrain air while rushing over them (4.38). Then suddenly all slow to a crawl (5.05) as the river enters a large lake. The slipstream drops in speed to almost standstill as it expands into a large body of water (5.24). The flow becomes eerily quiet, echoing across the body of the lake. But it is still there (5.37) – the undercurrent stubbornly pushing below – like singing an undying melody. A soft, almost imperceptible breeze comes out from nowhere, floating me about aimlessly on the water surface. A small water fowl glides unobtrusively among the reeds, its rear feathers a splash of red. Overhead a giant sea-osprey glides sinuously but gracefully against the backdrop of an ever-brightening dawn. Its head, small in comparison to its wings turning here and there, spotting prey. Nearby some fruit that has fallen from a tree bops quietly and calmly up and down, in response to the whispering melody of water moving. On and on it whispers in serene progression of small enchanting, gentle echoes (6.13). It seems to go on forever, repeating itself in heavenly peacefulness, when gradually a rush comes upon me as the lake pours out towards a waterfall (7.41). The rush gets faster and faster, spinning me around in dizzying speed and pushing me under. They twist along like never-ending tendrils of jets playfully caressing the onrushing rocks. Again and again, more rocks appear, bigger and steeper and the jets are beginning to be thrown in mayhem. Large sprays of white foam arch over the rocks as the torrent crashes into them. Bigger and higher they go, spraying again and again as the river widens downwards and the flow gushes forth. All this time the giant sway of force persists – bursting forth and dying off as before – like a melancholic wail that refuses to go away. The river bank now appears and you can see mini-wavelets lapping at the rock edges, like making repeated dance moves, teasing and cajoling each other, growing larger and larger as the torrent sweeps through. Then the terrifying edge of the fall approaches nearer and nearer and more of us floaters are thrown in utter confusion as the water reaches terminal speed, crashing down in free fall. All hell breaks loose and I can feel being tossed wildly into space (9.17), not knowing where I will land, with chilly cold sprays blowing me hither and thither, up and down, across and over (9.48). After sailing in the air away from the cascade I see-saw downwards and finally land with a muffled splash on calm water below (10.02). Before I can stabilize myself, suddenly a wave takes me over and I realize that I have reached the fast center of the river (10.14). Wave after wave churns me over and under the foam and rushes me pass majestic cliffs and towering vegetation. They are loud, as if screaming me to go forward with the current providing the relentless push of the river (10.26). Faster and faster it goes – and then as if someone suddenly turns a giant faucet off, the flow slows almost to a stop as we reach another body of water (11.44) – this time the large mouth of another river – the Elbe. As my slipstream winds down toward this huge waterway, a colorful vista opens out in front of the sunrise. The mist splashes the rays across the broken sky and the river appears to flow into it. Everything now slows – the flow, the sound and the debris floating around me – like a record running down – until you can almost hear a raindrop. A feather, seemingly defying gravity descends from the sky above and stops dead on the water surface next to me. The pristine quietness that follows seems to come from very far away as we follow the large river out to the open estuary. Slowly, like forever, the sound of the water dies…until silence. There ahead is the sea in its vastness and majesty.

Until death do we meet?

He pointed to two faint dots dancing a twirl on the screen. “That’s Algola Uris, a twin star system that has been around 20 billion years. What keeps them together is centrifugal – the balancing force against gravitation. Several years ago something happened to one – maybe an asteroid hit, or some stellar implosion. Its twin was never seen again.” Dr. Sykes paused as his students waited. But for a full second his mind was raring back 25 years ago in his own life.

It takes two to die

An unbearable sadness descends as I feel the giant wheels of Time, unstoppable, grinding away people, feelings and memories gone by. So final is its passage that there’s nothing you can do to trap the joys and peasantry through the years.  Then the person closest to you has gone ahead, and now there’s no one even to share this thought with. (Feb 7 2016)

Harassing the future (Nov 2017)

The recent spate of sexual harassment like skeletons coming out of the closets have taken a toll on US public figures. No longer is any form of male voyeurism able to escape shame and dismissal. For most of us average males it raises red flags when we get close to the opposite sex. No longer is the mating game a norm. One cannot just make a pass and not be exposed to some injurious accusations. No more love making towards matrimonial couplings. It may not be far-fetched to say that the future of human race is at risk. Why so? Because sexual proclivities in marriages are getting cloudy in many countries, starting from America, thru Europe and to Asia and Australia. Same sex marriages do not procreate the species. Unless medical science can make a way. You may say statistically these marriages will not worsen the low birth-rates that is already prevailing in the developed world because biologically (or mentally?) LGBTs are already pre-disposed to be impotent. That leaves us the normal, fertile incumbents to provide the offsprings of human race. But tread carefully as a faux pas might cause your jobs, your friendships, or isolation from greater society. The new paradigm then is that the female should do the chasing – sexual harassments do not apply to them. (Nov 2017)

Eventide (July 2016)

The relentless March towards death at old age is a reality for all. But we must never lose the temerity to always looking up, for positive signs to go on renewed and encouraged, that at the end of a day gone is the start of a better one. Our lives reflect the turbulent times we are born in. Those who strived and bitterly suffered in times of conflict and utter wanton-ness became deeper and severe persons.

Nothing shocks one into realizing the finality and coldness of Death than the departure of a loved spouse. From everything about her to now, nothing. And soon enough it will be your turn. Then, everything you’ve thrown to slow the wheel of time gets crushed into oblivion.

The matrix of life (possible title)

Ever understood what a matrix is? I mean really understand the math of it. Basically (say, m by n matrix) it is a linear grouping of an ordered set of numbers. Each set defines a direction whose numbers determine the weights along predefined axes (called basis). Naturally the dimension of the set gives the total number of (n) defining axes (basis). The dimension of the groupings however determines the number (m) of such directions. Therefore, if you like, an m by n matrix can be viewed as a collection of m straight lines, with individual directions weighted by each of the n numbers corresponding to n defining axes (basis). The m-collection of lines can be further viewed as an object whose space is delineated by the m lines. However – a point on the object must lie on one of these lines (or more if the lines intersect in the case of degeneration) and thus interstices between the lines are not of the object. To cover these interstices, we can introduce another dimension to the matrix. Thus a p by m by n matrix is a p-collection of m-collection of lines. For the object to cover every interstice between the m lines p would have to be very large – even infinite. Indeed even without p (p = 1) with an infinite number of m, one could already make the lines as dense as necessary to include every interstice. In point of fact that is how we can define the space of a regular, planar object. Take the m by n matrix, and post multiply it by an 1 by m vector, which is basically an m-collection of variables. But because they are individually m variables they simply act to change the directions of the n straight lines to as dense as we want, in order to describe the object. There is a catch though. These changes only occur in a plane whose normal is defined by the respective row of m numbers in the matrix. Of course we have n such planes and the object look like the n-parallel plates inside a battery cell. In general they need not be parallel, like a jumble of embedded cardboard boxes but for a matrix it is often referred as a linear map where the n normals to the planes called covectors. We can of course make n as large as we want, infinite in fact, to define a regular, solid rectangular object, assuming the RHS 1 by m vector carry a continuous range of m variables. Therefore in short, an m by n matrix defines a linear space of n planes, whose normals are vectors formed by the m columns of n numbers, each. But mathematicians will cry foul here. A vector defines a direction only, and hence the n numbers must be normalized such that its squares sum to one. The variations of m line directions must presume a normalized line vector acted on by the post-multiplication of the vector variable as a linear map. Therefore each row of the m by n matrix must also have the squares of its n numbers summed to unity. This leads us to the idea of the determinant of the matrix. Consider a 3 by 3 matrix. Each row can be viewed as proportional to the unit vector of a plane normal containing lines whose direction vector is changed by pre-multiplying the matrix with a vector variable, as explained earlier. Now a parallelepiped formed by the 3 vectors has a volume given by its triple scalar product (TSP). If the vectors are each normalized then this volume is exactly unity. Therefore if the vectors (matrix) are not normalized, dividing it by the TSP would. The value of the TSP is better known as the determinant. Its value gives an idea of the structure of the matrix – it is singular when null. Still with me? If so let us consider the structure of a matrix. Consider the structure of a kite. The fabric that catches the wind and creates lift is held by a structure of bamboo sticks, if you like. The structure shapes the fabric. If the kite is rectangular, it must allow a rectangular fabric to catch the wind, just as if it is a rhombus, a crucifix structure will do. Because it defines the shape, there must be a property of any matrix that defines its “shape”. We then use this property to study the matrix and ignore the other extraneous numbers that form it. Consider again the pre-multiplication of an m by n matrix M, with an n by 1 vector v. The vector defines a point in space, and the result of the multiplication, Mv produces another vector w. We can see that w is simply the transformation of v to point into another direction and having a new length. What if the vector v is such that it does not change in direction by M but merely changes in length by a factor? Thus we have Mv = λv. This allows us to solve for possible vectors of v and scalar λ that characterizes the matrix M. Because they are unique to M the solutions are called the eigenvectors and eigenvalues respectively, of M. They represent the structure of a matrix, just as our skeletons determine the size and shape of clothes that fit us. When we decay away in time, our skeletons remain and so if one were to “stress” a matrix their eigen properties become apparent. More on this when we use matrices to represent regular, linear bodies. Let us return to how we represent a series of parallel planes earlier. We have stated that the pre-multiplication can be viewed as an m-collection of parallel planes, whose normals are vectors formed by the m rows of n numbers. What if we post-multiply a 1 by m vector variable with the m by n matrix, producing n columns of vectors representing n parallel lines, whose directions are varied by the variables? Thus we can also say that the object space is also an n-collection of parallel planes whose normal vectors are formed from the m rows of n numbers in the matrix. We have just described the dual nature of matrices like Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. They both have the same body – much like a matrix having a unique determinant or eigen properties (ignoring exceptions of degeneration here, for the moment). But looking horizontally at n parallel planes (column vectors as normals) for the pre-multiplication, the view is vastly different if we look vertically at m parallel planes (row vectors as normals) for the post-multiplication case. But the object space is identical. Assuming the planes are parallel affords some rather nice properties, though it need not be so. For one they avoid the degenerated problems of intersecting planes, and if normalized, its transposed is its inverse. Plus its eigen values are symmetric and real, a treat to handle for real world bodies. However life is not all so nice or simple.

Now let us represent a polygonal solid using the p by m by n matrix, where p and m can be as large as possible to attain the resolution of the resulting sculptured tessellations. Like the kite example earlier such a solid would have eigen properties as well as determinants. However the surfaces are planar tessellations. To attain curved patches, the matrix elements are no more constant scalars but non-linear functions of some parameters. Even then one cannot produce any arbitrarily desired surface patches, but representations are limited to polynomial expansions and eigen properties, if any, become meaningless. Some types of these patches are well researched (e.g. Bezier, bicubic, or even bsplines) and mathematical formulations suitable for computer representations are readily available. (May 2009)

Guns are killing America (2016)

While driving interstate from Orlando to New York alone in 1980 I happened to pass the glittering pillars of a university campus at night. Now State-grant university grounds in the US used to be open – any bona fide visitors are welcome to its portals of learning. So I stopped by to admire the multicolored lights adorning the main entrance. It was like 2 am in the morning. Thinking back I think I was lucky to be alive. A treat or trick foreigner was killed by a resident when he approached the wrong house at Halloween. So if you strangely walk into a precinct at a unlikely time you’e likely to be shot. What happened to friendly neighborliness? When I was growing up I was used to stories of fights, sometimes mortally, when some gangster as much as stared at an opposing gang. But taking a gun at a stranger? Unheard of let alone permitted.

Serendipity and luck (Nov 2017)

In our armchair world cable news stream into our living room ever so conveniently. Political leaders in their world stage tout their words, actions, gaffes and humor. Its so easy to say – hey I can do better, or differently. But the fact is that it is they who are on the spot – not you. Through luck or din of hard work they’ve gained their status. Easy for us away from the heat of the spotlight or the opposing sounds to offer ourselves, but our destiny is not. The point is that one should always be ready and willing, if we deserve the spot. And available, to do the right thing. Serendipity can then be the fuel of greatness.

Spoken like a true Libran (Dec 2017)

The double standards held by many world politicians is stunning at best. Then reprehensible. Mixed with religion it becomes a potent sauce of deceptive behavior. Seems so jaw-dropping that one can lie, straight-face, completely blind-sided to previously held personal manifesto, for purely political gains. No one cares anymore about a consistent mode of conduct and speech. Anything convenient and expedient is fair game. What gall!

Bulldozer nation

As I drove down my well traveled road home all of a sudden a left hand drive sedan steered dangerously close, going the wrong way. As it sped along I felt the civic duty to warn it. I U-turned, caught up with the errant car and proceeded to wave furiously to go back. It stopped as I pulled alongside. The chauffeur, an American dressed in ornate green-striped uniform with a VIP passenger was proudly unimpressed. When I pointed to her to use the correct half of the freeway she seemed indignant and drove off without a word of acknowledgement nor apology. Such arrogance I thought, reflecting the USA of today. Then as I turned I saw with the corner of my eye the car weaved erratically thru traffic horning as it bullied others on the road. It was jerking wildly too, like there was as something wrong. It was then when I woke up, realizing how easily the weak can be rough-sodden by the ebullient bullies today.   (November 2018)

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