The day I jumped out of a plane. Willingly.

Yup, I did it.

I took the plunge.

Or should I say, the jump.

In Paihia, Bay of Islands, North Island, New Zealand.

I paid good money in to fly up 12,000 feet in a little Cessna, strapped to a big, hairy ang moh and free fall to the ground. Well, a parachute showed up sometime in between. 

(For those of you who still have no idea, I went tandem skydiving.)

And good thing I did it while still young (mostly) with my heart beating strong. Otherwise, I think my heart really would have popped out of my mouth.

The whole build-up of anticipation started with my jump being postponed by almost 2 hours due to weather conditions.

So we’re in the middle of the peak of New Zealand’s summer, everyday was hot and sunny. But on the one morning that I planned to skydive, the damn clouds decided that they wanted to blanket the sky and threatened to loosen their tear ducts on me.

For 2 hours, I stood with the skydiving team in the middle of the Keri-Keri airfield, shivering against this unusually strong wind, and waiting for a “hole” to open up in the otherwise overcast sky.

The “hole” is skydiving jargon for a clear spot with no cloud cover. It wouldn’t be fun trying to fly a little plane through cloudy conditions and then attempt a dive where you can’t see a thing.

I chose to do my dive with the company Ballistic Blondes (love that name! The owner is blonde. And pretty ballistic. Hence Ballistic Blondes. Get it?? Although there's only 1 blonde. So I don't know where the plural comes in.) because they were the only ones that were licensed to land on the beach. And mind you, Paihia’s beach is a very narrow strip, so it would take a lot of skill and an impeccable safety record for the aviation authority to allow them to do this.

Skill they definitely had. Paul, my American tandem diver, had more than 5,000 jumps under his belt. And the 5 skydivers on the team had more than 40,000 jumps amongst them. And as Paul added on the drive to the airfield, “It might comfort you to know that I’ve never killed anyone on my jumps before!”

Comforting indeed.

However, that morning, it seemed that we would have to land in the rural fields instead because the winds were too strong.

When we finally got onto the plane (me and 6 big ang moh men squashed into the little Cessna that had duct tape lining the joints. I told myself if was for decoration.) and flew up into the sky, our pilot, AJ, confirmed that the wind speed was going at 240 knots.

Paul shook his head and delivered the news to me while we were 6,000 feet in the air. At this speed, we could be blown more than a mile off track and could land in one of the hotels along the beach instead of on the beach proper.

He’d rather keep my bones unbroken. Good call.

So we were going to land in the middle of Haruru Falls instead. (Which isn’t really a waterfall of any sort, just a lot of grass. And cows. No sheep though. Just cows.)

There was another chap on our flight, who, like me, was about to attempt his first free fall. Kevin, that was his name, a Canadian.

He got to go first.

I watched him and his tandem diver, Dean, get strapped up in the tiny little duct-taped plane as we approached the fateful 12,000 feet (while the rest of us were still squashed in the corner of that same plane).

Then the door of the plane opened, and the swift rush of the wind outside engulfed our tiny airspace.

I watched in wide-eyed horror as Kevin stepped out onto the little ledge with Dean right behind him. Then suddenly, with a WHOOSH!! They flew off to the side and were out of sight!

At this point, all my gung-ho-ness just went right out of the window. I think I could have peed in my pants (well, for the record, I didn’t).

I was up next.

I’m not sure I felt very much at that point. I heard Paul’s voice behind me as he strapped us together, “Remember, arch like a banana and put your knees together, feet up on my butt.”

I repeated that to myself in my head, not wanting to mess up my virgin dive. Arch like a banana, feet up on his butt. Arch like a banana, feet up on his butt.

I didn’t want to be remembered as the Singaporean chick that couldn’t arch like a banana.  

Next thing I knew, I was struggling against the strong pressure of the wind at the door, trying valiantly to put my feet out on the ledge.

I don’t know if I actually jumped or if Paul pushed me off the plane. But next thing I knew, we were plunging at 200 km/hour, through the clouds and rushing down towards Mother Earth.

All the instructions about arching like a banana went straight out of my head as I first felt this fleeting panic attack that I was going to die, followed by an incredible rush of excitement after I realised I wasn’t going to die, and then allowed myself to be mesmerised by the panoramic views of the Bay of Islands and feel the air pressure pounding against my falling body.

I wanted to scream with excitement so that my cameraman, Dave, could capture some great scenes for me to show my progeny in the years to come. I attempted to open my mouth but the dryness of the rushing air made me think twice and I shut myself up as quickly.

I don’t know how Dave managed to do it. He had jumped out of the plane before me so that he could capture the shots from the 2 cameras he had on his helmeted-head. I literally saw him swim in mid-air, while falling at the speed of gravity, towards Paul and myself, so that I could wave into the camera. All in mid-air. Like suspended above the clouds. I kid you not.

If that’s not skill, then I don’t know what is.

It seemed like a long time (it was probably not more than 30 seconds) before we finally hit the atmosphere when the parachute came up and we started gliding down slowly.

Paul asked if my contact lenses were still inside my eye. (He had earlier told me that if my contact lenses stayed in my eyes I could push my goggles up my head to get a better view once we started gliding; but if my contact lenses popped out, then at least I wouldn’t lose it inside the goggle!)

One leg of my jeans had come up half my calf during the free fall and I tried to use my other foot to push it down. I was thinking about the photos that Dave would capture as I was descending. Who wants to look unglam with one pant leg up and the other down?

Fidgeting wasn’t such a great idea. I think I almost destabilised our parachute. Paul was like, “Umm you might want to stop moving. So that we can get down safely.”

Oops.

Since I couldn’t get at my jeans, I started pointing at various things at the ground below and asking Paul questions. After some silence, he said, “Hang on, I’m trying to concentrate on getting us down safely at the correct spot.”

Oops again.

Now I’ll be known as the Singaporean chick who fidgeted and talked too much. Well, at least I did pretty well with my banana arch. I think.

When we landed, I was pretty woozy. My head was in the air (literally!) and I couldn’t walk in a straight line. And Dave was trying to catch a final shot of me while I looked like a drunken maniac babbling away.

One of my guy friends told me I had balls to do this and he had newfound respect for me.

I like that. (I mean the respect, not the balls.)

The geriatric road trip. And other stories.

I've had a preview of what my next 10 days is going to be like.

Dad: " Can you come home from work earlier? We need to have dinner at the airport before we get on the plane."

Me: "I can't come home earlier. I'm working. Why don't you all eat first before we go to the airport?"

Dad: *makes annoyed tsk-tsk sound* " But Mummy needs to have dinner and there's nothing at home. We need to leave the house at 6."

Me: *rolls eyes* "Mummy can eat at home. She's not the hungry one. You are. We can't leave till 6.30."

This goes on for a while until my Dad realises that there's no way he'll get his way because the sheer logistics of it cannot be pulled off.

My family loves the airport. Going to the airport, even just to pick up or drop off someone, warrants the amount of operational planning as though the army was going for a field exercise. Incessant phone calls about what time we're leaving, who's driving, what should we eat etc. etc. Grandma will pack a fleece or a scarf in her handbag as though it was winter because the air-conditioning at Changi is "freezing".

We're going to New Zealand on our annual family vacation to spend Chinese New Year for the next 10 days. The excitement boiling under the surface and of the impending trip to the airport is threatening to erupt and scald everyone.

It'll be me and 4 other geriatrics / semi-geriatrics. I'm the trip planner, driver, secretary. I'll need to read the map, drive the car and feed the hungry mammals in the car. And at specific times too, mind you. Breakfast at 9, lunch at 12, coffee at 3 and dinner by 7.

Otherwise, the flood gates of caffeine / hunger-deprivation will open.

Example:

Dad: "Ay! It's 3 o'clock! Mummy is hungry!"

Me: *looks at Mum* "Mummy are you hungry?" Mum shakes head.

Dad: *momentarily flabbergasted* "But I need my coffee! And cake! Mummy needs to have cake!"

My Dad has a great penchance for using my Mum as an excuse to make everyone stop and fulfil his gastronomic needs. Never mind that we will be driving through the great plains of New Zealand, surrounded by lush greenery and lots of sheep and cows, with no coffee shop in sight.

We might as well bring our own coffee powder and milk the cows directly along our drive as and when Dad needs his coffee fix.

New Zealand is famous for its caves, natural formations and beautiful scenery. So of course it would make sense to visit one of their more famous caves.

I hunt around trying to find one that is wheelchair-friendly or at least accessible to people with limited mobility.

Grandma hears about one of the caves that has a boat ride as part of the tour. We haven't decided to visit this particular one yet.

Grandma: (in Mandarin) "Huh? We have to take a boat? Don't want lah! Don't take boat!"

Never mind that the boat in the middle of this controversy is more like a mini sampan that goes at like 1 km/h on a little stream that flows through the cave. And she's worried that she'll have to bust out the sea-sickness patches.

In the meantime, I decide that I should go and try tandem sky-diving while my robust heart can still take the excitement.

Family's unanimous response: "Huh?? You want to jump out of a plane??"

And then all the chatter as I valiantly (though not very effectively) try to explain that I'm jumping while attached to a professional, we'll land with a parachute and that the risk of any unfortunate ending is really quite unlikely.

Try pacifying their over-active imaginations. Tough.

Oh well. It should be rather amusing if I keep a zen mindset.

If all else fails, I'll climb out of the car and into the farm with the sheep and cattle for company.

The breakfast club. Wild Honey.

There’s always a queue outside Wild Honey at Mandarin Gallery.

Seems people can’t get enough of all-day breakfast/brunch. And they’re prepared to wait at least 30 minutes or more for a seat, to get a choice of brunch plates from around the world.

Don’t expect to find anything particularly surprising on the menu – they’ve taken the usual pancakes, eggs, sausages, waffles, paired them up in different combinations and given them a belonging to a certain country.

The dish I enjoyed most at Wild Honey was actually not any of the breakfast plates but the Goat’s Cheese Salad.

Fresh salad leaves accompanied by beautiful deep-fried slabs of goat’s cheese. What’s not to like?? (Unfortunately I lapped up my salad before remembering to take a photo. Oops.)

I’m also a huge Eggs Benedict fan – which they call the European. Unfortunately my poached eggs came a little overdone, which kind of ruins the whole point about Eggs Benedict really. But the Hollandaise sauce was nicely done and the ham was a bit more like prosciutto than the usual sliced meats. 

The European - Eggs Benedict served on brioche

The Tunisian breakfast is supposed to be rather popular, but it turned out to be maggie-mee-seasoned tomato sauce in a pan with eggs. And some chilli. Not so great after all.

However, Wild Honey does a very soothing honey, vanilla, cinnamon drink, served warm, called Nature’s Remedy. It’s the perfect antidote to a long day, or a non-alcoholic nightcap to clear a stuffed nose or revel in warmth.

What irks me, though, is the semi-self-service format – they don’t take reservations so you have to wait to be seated. But then ordering is self-service at the counter, and you pay upon ordering where they charge you service charge although they haven’t done much “serving” up to that point! Subsequently, the food is served at your table but none of the wait staff are particularly warm and welcoming.

It’s a very strange not-here-not-there way to run a restaurant. I’m ok if it’s novel and it works. But I don’t think it actually adds value to anyone’s experience really.

Pity because the place is actually quite cozy with cool art-deco-type furnishings.  

All in all, I doubt I'd be back often, unless I'm craving a fancy-ish meal, mediocre service and prepared to wait for them.

Le gâteau d’amande Parisien

I adore macaroons.

Those French little crisp, round, slightly imperfect-looking almond sweets that melt in your mouth and come in every colour of the rainbow.

Good macaroons are pretty hard to come by.  Macaroons are really difficult to make well, because of the skill required to keep the almond pastry at a consistent temperature in order to achieve that light, fluffy, yet crisp texture.

My friend, KK, was passing through Paris en route to Singapore, so I requested for a box of those pretty little sweets from an established Parisian pâtissière - La Durée.

The macaroons came wrapped in an exquisite decorative pale green box, carefully encased in tracing paper.  KK said that La Durée even offered different coloured boxes for their customers to choose from – red, blue, green etc.

As I carefully unwrapped my prize, those colourful jewels stared enticingly at me from the box....they looked so pretty in their casing that I couldn’t bear to take them out to eat them!

But temptation gave in.

I picked up the signature caramel one and slowly bit into it.

Crisp exterior gave way to a soft, chewy texture just underneath, which quickly led to a smooth, creamy caramel centre.

The sensation was indescribably heavenly.

My dad happened to see me entranced in mid-macaroon-savouring-pleasure and promptly came lusting after my new sweets.  It took a lot of quick reflex and agile on-the-spot feet-swivelling and hand-swiping to push the box out of sight and convince him he must have been mistaken.

Later on that night, while my family was tucked away in their rooms, I deftly ran into the kitchen, dug out my La Durée box from its secret hiding place inside the fridge and picked out the pretty pink raspberry-flavoured one.

I must have looked crazed sitting in the corner of the kitchen, protecting my little box of macaroons with an oh-so-satisfied look of utter delight on my face.

I am NOT sharing these! J

It's that time of the year. The "new" part of the year.

New Year resolutions are overrated.

Well at least I've always thought they were. And the best I've ever come up with in years gone by is a feeble aim to lose 10kg or a number close to that. I blame the old Singapore school system for ostracising me in that horrid TAF (Trim-And-Fit - don't laugh!) club when I was in Primary 1. Look at how it's scarred me forever....!! *roar*

But I've decided (after some internal procrastination and self-conflict) that I really should get down to putting some real goals down and hold myself accountable to them instead of fluffy weight-loss attempts.

After all, 2011 marks several milestones in my slightly-over-quarter-life-crisis life.

It marks the 10th year since I started college as an innocent, doe-eyed freshman. That was the start of a major transformation in my life, opening up an entire intellectual and social fabric previously unknown to my protected little head, and the experience of which would mould much of my adulthood (thus far anyway). 

2011 is also my last year of being in my twenties! I don't know why people celebrate the big THREE-OH when they have the next decade to celebrate all of that. We really should be celebrating the end of the TWO-OHs and embracing auntie-hood!

Although I still struggle when friend's kids call me 'Auntie'. It's 'Jie Jie' dammit.

And this year will also open up a possibilities of new opportunities for growth - both personal and professional. After signing my decade of twenties away to an organisation when I was barely out of teenhood, I can almost smell the whiff of a new-found freedom within grasp.

That being said, it's not like I was ever really a prisoner in any way. In fact, I think I got along quite well, much better than most, some would say. I enjoyed a lot of what I did, and grew tremendously in many ways that only on hindsight are recognisable.

The problem is, now that I do have the chance to pursue anything I wanted with all my time and even the rest of my life, what do I do?

It isn't so straightforward as I would have thought.

I used to want to save the world, armed with the idealism of world perfection that only a fresh grad could have. I had grandeur plans of making my mark on society, making a difference to real people's lives, pushing for change and development where the world needed it most. Heck if I had to steamroll through barricades, fight tooth and nail with guerillas - I was going to make things happen.

Do I still want to save the world? Yeah, I guess, why not? But somehow, reality has jaded me to some extent, I know how unfair the world can be, be it socioeconomically, politically or culturally. And I don't have the anecdote to save it from itself.

I'm also scared. Of what, I can't quite put a finger down to it. I can only attribute it to growing older, becoming a little bit wiser, and therefore also more afraid of change.

I could so easily fall back into my comfort zone, meander along in familiar settings and manoeuvre a structure that I've adapted to over the years. Find some new challenges to sustain me and grow them over time and hopefully make some sort of an impact somewhere.

The irony for my generation (yes, that probably means you too who are reading this) is that we were given a whole new world of opportunities that our parents never had. We were pushed into a world without borders, we were given licence to create our own dreams and live them out in any way we saw fit; we were empowered with education and doused with ideals of new world orders, new frontiers, new everything. We could be anything we wanted to be.

And that's precisely the connundrum. I could be anyone I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do if I set down to it, but I have so much choice that I don't know what I want anymore.

But that is no excuse nonetheless for not getting off my butt and doing something good for myself and the people around me.

So, here I am, about to create the first substantive resolution list in the longest time ever. And may the powers that be hold me to them!

2011 Resolutions
1. Figure out my direction in life. 
2. Pray more.
3. Take at least 2 travel adventures to places I have not been before. 
4. Do more community work.
5. Learn more photography. 
6. Spend more time lindy-hopping. 
7. Complete another 10km race.
8. Love my size. (as opposed to attempting to lose weight all the time!)

So there it is. Black and white.

Wish me luck.

The Story of the Pencil

By Paulo Coelho.

A boy was watching his grandmother write a letter

At one point he asked;
'Are you writing a story about what we've done? Is it a story about me?'

His grandmother stopped writing her letter and said to her grandson:
'I am writing about you, actually, but more important than the words is the pencil I'm using.
I hope you will be like this pencil when you grow up'

Intrigued, the boy looked at the pencil; it didn't seem very special.
'But it's just like any other pencil I've ever seen!'

'That depends on how you look at things.
It has five qualities which, if you manage to hang on to them, will make you a person who is always at peace with the world'

'First quality: you are capable of great things, but you must never forget that there is a hand guiding your steps
We call that hand, God, and He always guides us according to His will'

'Second quality: now and then, I have to stop writing and use a sharpener; that makes the pencil suffer a little, but afterwards, he's much sharper.
So you, too, must learn to bear certain pains and sorrows, because they will make you a better person'

'Third quality: the pencil always allows us to use an eraser to rub out any mistakes.
This means that correcting something we did is not necessarily a bad thing; it helps to keep us on the road to justice'

'Fourth quality: what really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside.
So always pay attention to what is happening inside you'

'Finally, the pencil's fifth quality: it always leaves a mark.
In the same way, you should know that everything you do in life will leave a mark, so try to be conscious of that in your every action'

Agra and the Taj

One couldn't visit India, stop by Delhi, and not take the trip down to Agra to visit one of the "newer" wonders of the world - the Taj Mahal.

Ideally, I would have loved to hike down to Agra, spend the day there, then head on over to Rajasthan to revel in the famed beauty of its palaces and opulent architecture.

Pity I didn't have enough time to do that this round. Next time for sure.

Instead, I hired a driver, and took the almost 5 hour ride from Delhi to Agra in the pursuit of this beautiful white marbled mausoleum, a symbol of love that has lasted since the 17th century.

I'm surprised I didn't go cranky just talking to myself considering I spent practically 10 hours (to and fro) in a car without company save for my very kind driver. Thank goodness I had a guide to entertain me during the 4 hours or so that I spent in Agra.

But it was worth every second of butt-soreness in the long car ride.

The anticipation started to build up the moment the we drove into Agra. Tourists and buses and guides and drivers filled every nook and cranny of an otherwise sleepy little city.

Vehicles could only drive up to a certain point in front of the Taj grounds before tourists had to disembark and switch to electric trams to take them up to the front gates of the Taj. This is to to prevent vehicle pollution from causing further damage to the Taj - which in itself takes an entire army to restore and maintain.

We entered from the North Gate - in itself an architectural wonder - and as I was marvelling at the red stone structure, I turned around and was suddenly awe-struck by the white dome a distance away that I had especially come to see.

North Gate entrance to the Taj Mahal

Everyone knows that emperor Shah Jahan, mourning the death of his beloved wife, Mumtaz (who died during childbirth of their FOURTEENTH child), commissioned the building of this tomb in honour of his wife.


But did you know that the Taj Mahal and the surrounding grounds were designed in perfect symmetry and in an octagonal shape, mirroring the Islamic concept of heaven? And the mausoleum - with the sarcophagi of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz in the middle - sits right smack in the centre of the entire octagon. Right in the centre of heaven.

Did you also know that the Pakistani architect, commonly known as Lahauri (incidentally also from Lahore!), designed wells underneath the pillars of the Taj to act as shock absorbers for any earthquake tremors to prevent the Taj from collapsing?

And look closely at the 4 minarets guarding the dome - they're not ramrod straight. They're all slightly leaning outwards, away from the dome - another architectural spark by Lahauri to ensure that if the minarets ever fell prey to an earthquake, they would collapse away from the tomb and not onto it, thereby protecting the precious dome.

Amazing, really.