Update your links, for I am shifting to a new blog!
This blog shall remain as a legacy of my National Service stint, and will contain updates after I enter reservist service. Meanwhile, all my blogs on my life will be shifting to http://pkchukiss.sgblogging.com
Casual viewers might need to sit out this heavy topic.
Friendship.
A bond forged between two whom met as strangers some time in their lives, with the willingness to play, work, or simply do things together, and to look out for one another in times of need.
Close friends.
Always willing to sacrifice their own interests to protect yours, and would help you even when they themselves are stretched.
Best friends.
The kind of people with whom you can go through the worst of life together. He/She knows instinctively when you are feeling down, and knows as much about you as a parasite on you. He/She knows your favourite brand of underwear (and buys it for your birthday present), pulls off pranks on you, and still manages to get away with a playful punch from you.
Just how much is defined by our actions? There is a reason why humans act as we do -- the seeming irrationality of our reasonings stem from our own beliefs and values, the core of which is the driver to our actions. Actions per se do not signify much; it is the underlying motivations that speak with a clarity that far surpasses the power of spoken or written word.
Just a short few days back, I found myself staying back in the office to the tune of 5am in the morning to help one of my friend (who happens to have way too much to do). That was after I had finished my share of the work the afternoon, which earned me a rebuke from some of my platoon mates.
"You work too much."
"You clock 8 hours, you still get $500. 16 hours, you still get the same $500. What's the point of torturing yourself?"
I don't concur. It is true that I have finished my work due, however, I find it necessary to help my friend who is in need, surely there is nothing wrong with that?
I would not have noticed the anomality had it not been for one conversation I had with one of the Mortar platoon guys who was also transferred to the same office.
"So what do you feel about your platoon?" he asked.
"Ok, we get by just fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. But you guys (mortar) seem to be very close."
"Yar, we go out almost all the time!"
I remembered that there was a point in time when the platoon sergeant had wanted to organise barbecue outings during one of the block leave days to pull the fragmented platoon together. In fact, in anticipation of opposition, he tried to sell the idea that he wanted it done for "his own sake".
No go. Not only were the guys cold to the idea, some even actively opposed it, stating that it was not within the proper boundaries for the platoon sergeant to dictate our holiday programmes.
They were right, of course. The break was upon our leave time, and he couldn't ask us to do stuff that we did not want to do.
What really shook me to the core was the fact that a cohesion was something nobody was prepared to give their time towards. If we take a close look at the definitions at the start of this long post, you would undoubtly conclude that perhaps, all of us are just mere strangers? That we are suggesting that the formation of this platoon was a convergence of convenience: that people cooperate with each other not out of friendship, but out of necessity.
Have all the tough times been for nothing?
There is a huge disparity between talking your talk, and walking it.
And I can really feel the resistance.
I still remember how my parents told me about the wonderful stories in their childhood days spent in wooden huts, more commonly known as kampongs. About how they used to be devoid of all the technological wonders that we take for granted everyday: the television, computers; even radios were luxury items ill-afforded by the more well to-do.
The families in the kampong would gather together, shoot the breeze, share recepies, help to watch over jade bracelets (considered the heirlome of families in those days), and essentially mingle together for no apparent reason, and still manage to have fun. Security was never an issue, since the bond between neighbours were so close that newcomers to town would stick out like a sore thumb.
This spirit cannot be replicated in these brick and mortar high-rise flats, where neighbours don't even know they live next to each other, and front doors are kept tightly shut in the day to keep in the air-conditioning. Of course, there are artificial substitutes for these traditional interactions, but really, instant messenging cannot replace the direct human interaction.
In fact, things are so bad that families get burgler security systems (so totally unheard of in the early days), which then go off with neighbours not giving a care in the world; no one bothers to step out of their house, go over to the unit to check on their neighbours. What if they were really robbed?
In case you were wondering why I am writing this, it is because the exact same thing is happening to one of my neighbours. I was about to go out to check, when I felt waves of resistance overcoming me:
What if it is just a false alarm?
What if the burglers are armed?
What if...
I didn't go out. I was paralysed by the typical Singaporean mindset: that it was none of my business when strangers get robbed.
It is really strange. I've read angry newspaper forum letters lamblasting the inaction by passer-bys in the face of injustice, and I was really sure at that time that I would do the right thing if I were to be around a crime scene. Instead, when it happens to me, I just stood there as a spectator.
Now what if my neighbours were really robbed? The alarm has fallen silent by now (cut by the burglers?), and I just sit here typing this confession.
All the training in national service - defending the nation from aggressors is total nonsense, especially so when I stood passively while a burgler alarm echoed throughout the block.
Here's the answer: http://www.azwebcity.com/brospi12/blogster.html (Undesirable link)
A recent phenomenon on the Internet, blog spam is not only distracting and irrelevant to the topic at hand, it is also a blatant abuse of the blog owner's web space, bandwidth, and his site's reputation. Once these bad guys manage to fill the comments with enough spam, the owner's blog is reduced to a mere wisp on the Internet existence, where search engines and visitors shun alike.
Yet here we have unscrupulous vendors selling programs that automate the posting of such menaces on blogs.
I leave his mailbox to your devices.
The time is approaching fast.
Soon, most of the guys in the battalion are going to be civilians real soon, braving the storms of the working world. One where the only uncertainty is the only certainty.
No jobs laid out on a silver platter for the taking. Instead of being told what to do, for once, they would have to learn to navigate the course of Life by themselves.
It is their future at stake: already, some are blemished with a prison record for being absent from service without official leave. Some get into accidents. Some have passed on.
I wonder, how many of us would see each other again? Though I still have some way to go before I ORD, many of us would have gone on to greener pastures, become rich and famous, or simply dropped from the radar
innocuously.
We had our ORD function yesterday at the Neptune Restaurant, an unnoticeable existence among the endless row of glass facades along the business belt of the Central Business District. The building was unassuming, which partially disappointed, since we actually paid a whopping $70 for the entire event. (I wasn't totally disappointed, since this is a camp organised affair, I have learnt to keep my expectations low enough.)
I met the rest at the nearby Raffles Place MRT station, from where we streamed against an incessant home-bound crowd. They seemed to be in perpetual hurry, and kept knocking into us. In customary Singaporean fashion, the inevitable crossing of paths is met with a cold stare, a barely mouthed apology. Rinse, dry, and repeat with the next stranger.
In the same vein, Singaporeans are notoriously late. The event was slated for 6.30pm, yet at around 7.15, barely half the restaurant has arrived. We took the opportunity to take photographs with the RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) and the CO (Commanding Officer). Those turned out red-eyed, and gave everyone who was in the picture a soulless look. Photoshop made all the difference.
Some parts of Scout platoon
Sam, Sylvester, TYS and Teck Guan
Photograph with the CO
Another one...
Photograph with RSM
I remembered to drop my lucky draw ticket stub into the bowl, and arrived at my designated table to find it fully occupied. Along with a few other displaced platoon mates, I went to an unoccupied table, where we got a sound reprimand for not following the seating arrangement.
The proceedings of the event is documented by Timothy in his blog, so I won't be a tired old copycat. Instead, I will focus on the food. I forgot to take photographs of the dishes: I got pretty engrossed with the stage, even as the
food disappeared within moments of being served.
The appetiser consisted of spring rolls, curry puffs, some minced pork cooked with herbs and rolled into rolls. The guys at my table were content to leave exactly ONE piece untouched on the plate, which I gladly polished off. There were some whole pieces of chili cut into decorations, but nobody touched them. (I am sure Mother would have. She loves eating chili at its rawest.)
Next came the sharks fins (I presume). Again, nobody took the last bowl, and I was forced to finish it by the waitress, who could not get the others to take it.
The fried rice was unexpectedly dry and tasteless, which surprised me. This coming from a caterer which charges $21 for a plate of chicken rice, is really a revelation. Nobody is good at everything. We had some fish and broccoli to go with the rice. This time, I had to compete for the broccoli. These guys seem to like it as much as I do. I still remember eating 3 servings of unwanted broccoli some time back...
The dessert came around midway through the magic show, but I was so enthralled by the illusions that I didn't notice it coming. It was when the same waitress came along the second time to collect the bowls that I found my mango pudding untouched, just waiting to tango with my mouth.
The highlight of the night was a highly-energised dance by a Caucasian group. The dancers belted out high octane moves and jumps that would look very impressive on a standing broad jump record. The dancers always managed to land within centimetres from the edge of the stage, and for a while, I thought that they would miss, and jump right onto one of the dining tables.
Like Timothy mentioned, the ladies bared their mammaries in an artistic dedication to their art. The grace of their movements really astounded me. Their slim legs could kick so high, I thought that they would hit their heads. The difficulty is raised by the high heels, yet they spin without hesitance. They could lift off the ground, and land without making a mis-step.
The entire event ended with the drawings for the top 10 lucky draw prizes. They had given out 20 prizes so far, and barely one of the drawn tickets came close to my range.
A toaster came and went, HQ CSM won a cappuccino maker. All the prizes so far had gone to tickets 80XX, 81XX and 86XX.
The 2nd prize got claimed, and we did not think that it was possible at all for one of us to claim the top prize.
The emcee grabbed a bunch of tickets, and hurled it in the air for CO to catch the winning ticket. He barely managed to grab the last one.
The emcee looked at the fallen tickets on the floor: "82XX will go home empty handed. 81XX will hold his hands and they will both leave together," he commented dryly, to the audience's laughter.
He then took a look at the winning ticket.
"Oh, look at this. It is a nice number. A repetition."
"The first prize goes out to 8...."
"Remember, this person might not be here."
"8........ 3."
The person sitting next to me pointed to my ticket excitedly. "Look, you have a chance!"
"I must stress again, the person might not even be present today."
"8...... 3...... 3."
"8.... 3....3... 8! Come on up!"
The winning ticket
I was in shock. I stared at my ticket again to make sure that it really was 8338 printed on it. Then, I dashed up the stage to claim the prize. I was in such a daze that I didn't notice my own platoon mates sneaking up on me. They sneaked up on me, and grabbed me to give me a sound poling...
... and again.
The television was rather large, so I am grateful that Timothy kindly sent me, together with the large box, home.
Timothy, Zi Yang and me
Qi Xiang, me, Boon Keong, Joey and Timothy
The TV
I don't scribble. To me, having to deal with the most minute flaws in the ink is a terrible torture. Every inflection, every curve that is not filled nicely with ink always irk me to no end. That is why my friends all gape at my pencil boxes in astonishment the few times they manage to get a sneak peek.
No less than 6 different models lie comfortably in the tight confines of the cloth. However, the extent of my collection cannot be defined by those few that I carry with me. Instead, I boast a neat collection consisting of various budget ink, gel, and ballpoint pens.
Of which I use only one.
The pen is perfect when I pick it up from the shop. The smooth writing sensation titillates my senses, a sort of an obsession. Then comes the crunch of everyday life, which never fails to trip it up, spluttering with unreliability. This frustrates me so much that I abandon the pen (at home if possible), and immediately rush down to the nearest stationary giant to acquire a new love.
Capricious.
Yet one pen has managed to capture my heart, for a far longer time than the other pens had. Not only has it provided the much needed smooth mileage, it has also accompanied me through countless outfield trainings, scratched through its outer-shell, soaked thoroughly during the enduring thunderstorms. There is only one problem.
I just lost that pen.
I have not had interest in blogging for some time now. Two weeks to be exact.
It is probably just fatigue, because you can't really have time for yourself when you are out there doing other stuff.
I experienced first-hand being a clerk at one of the staff branches in camp. There is a lot more freedom than being in the combat side, where my every single move was monitored constantly, and I could take short breaks as and when I liked without the risk of being accused of malingering. I also like the shredder in the office: especially how it takes pieces of paper and turns them into little christmas confetti with a menacing growl.
But nothing beats sleeping-in back in bunk, going for the occasional run to up-keep my fitness, and then gorging myself on expensive mess food to satisfy my stomach — but I get along. I am convinced that I have a morbid obsession with the shredder, especially since I managed to shred a box of old documents within the time it took the sun to set on Wednesday.
No matter what, the fact remains that I do one of the detested job of the battalion, assisting in the charging of defaulters, and sending them to the Detention Barracks, ceremony and handcuffs: the works. Not only is there plenty of paperwork to do (it is rumoured that 50% of the entire army's charge records came from my battalion), I come face to face with detainees as they enter the bane of the entire service: detention.
I see the obvious fear on their faces as the Military Police started them on their strict regimentation right from the start.
Now if you have not seen what happens to the detainees in the DB, here is a story by the Straits Times (posted on a local JC forum board).
Here's a piece of advice to all 18 year old boys doing, or about to do your National Service: please don't break the law, either by being Absent Without Official Leave, or by stealing, etc. It hurts you and your parents the most. Paperwork is but a small matter which I can handle, but it is the thought of having to send somebody to the lock up that hurts me the most.
Frequent readers of motivational books would surely be familiar with the trumpet to action.
That the need to be actively taking action for success is not surprising: in fact, it is an important pre-requisite. All those lofty ambitions and careful plans are nothing but castles in the air if they born into the physical world. Yet we keep ourselves paralysed by the stifling cloud of fear and procrastination.
Personally, fear is a tough enemy to defeat. It never fails to seek out my vulnerabilities, and to exploit it like a crack in the hole. It encourages procrastination by casting doubts on my capabilities, rubbing it in liberally with its incessant nagging. It is annoying, and should have been in itself a compelling enough reason to incite me to cast this enemy aside. Yet I find myself pausing to entertain the spectre of negativity that it creates, effectively neutralising the positive encouragements that I harbour. Sometimes, I even get consumed by fear itself, preferring to hide myself under the covers of the bed, totally shut out from the world.
What I have failed to realise is that fear plays no actual part towards the achievement of my goals. Instead of focusing me upon the task at hand, I am detracted into a damaging exercise in mis-trust with myself, eventually achieving its aim (ironically) when I fail to achieve mine. So, from now on, I promise everybody to not ever give a thought to this distracting troll.
Inspired by the writing frenzy generated by the over-heated competition that is the [ :: NaNoWriMo :: ], I have decided to dust the thick layer of mold off my series of unfortunate events, and to kick-start my sad story.
I had remedial training this Saturday, and this was done under the shadow of the glee those who had just passed their test on Friday. I felt a little upset at my poor performance, but credit goes to today's training, that I have finally come to realise the mental state that had previously ensured my peak performances in the past.
In fact, it was quite a coincidence that I re-discovered it at all, since I was quite frustrated at being one of the few to be still under the spectre of having to go through the standard obstacle course.
I ran the first 2 km as the warm up round, and I started walking at the 1.5 km mark, which was quite disappointing. As the Officer Commanding put it to me before, I didn't look tired or over-worked, so it must have been a mental block. I have never disagreed with him on that. I knew that by recovering my breath, I could start running again, until I lose my momentum again just metres down the road.
I knew that this couldn't be my maximum performance, so I decided to try a new tack.
For the next 3 rounds of 800 metres, we were to sprint up and down the road, beating the time of 4:30. For the first round, I tried to burst all my energy in the first lap, which severly crippled my finishing run. I came back last, sporting stiches around my left waist, and severly out of breath. Plus, Friday's dinner threatened to come out of my rear. I ended up paying a visit to the toilet, which made me miss the second round. But the loo-trip proved rewarding.
I realised that the key to my peak performance laid simply upon my legs. I only had to concentrate on it, and continually seeking to understand the fatigue that builds up in all physical activities: that is sufficient enough to take my mind off the breathlessness, and pull myself along for a much longer period of time.
I tried this re-discovery for the third round. As I sprinted, I still had my stiches, I still felt breathless, my legs were still burning as usual, but I was struck by a new thought: that I was able to tolerate it ¡ª for the very first time since a long time ago! To prove to myself that my old fitness is back, I reached the end point far earlier than anybody else.
The rest of the training session suddenly became that much easier for me. I could clear the obstacles faster, recover with the swiftness of a springboard, and cut through the tough ones like a hot wire through butter. Need I say I came back first again? (Ok, so I didn't take into account the fact that the few who participated today were not exactly expected to pass anytime soon. But, don't you agree that it is a major achievement?)
Watch out, Sylvester. I am going for the company best timing, 9:02
P.S. If you were wondering, I wrote this post in a record time of 11 minutes, without spell-check, nor stopping to read whatever I have streamed out on the keyboard. All in the name and honour, and of course the spirit of NaNoWriMo! (I won't be doing a 50, 000 word novel though. This is the best tribute I could spare, so enjoy!)
I probably am going to regret ever bragging about my [ :: IQ test results :: ].
You see, now I am caught in the middle of a inter-branch fight for my services. Plus, I volunteered to edit the battalion ORD magazine (ORD is the term used to describe the end of full-time national service, and the return to the civilian world. Until the next call-up, that is.) To further complicate matters, I was selected for some computer simulation exercise. It is gone now, but just looking at all the work suddenly piled upon me, I think that it is probably a better idea to play the same dumb, stealthy, quiet boy in-the-back-of-the-classroom that I did in school. Did I mention that I still have to clear my Standard Obstacle Course?
You heard me, Timothy. I cannot do Javascript. My grasp of the English language totally stinks. I look forward to doing nothing in the office, taking offs whenever there is SOC or ACCT (Advanced Close Combat Training), playing games whenever I have work to do. Thanks for having me!
National service at a tender age of 18 is surely a huge amount of responsibility for the young minds that are still beginning to come to grips with the whiplashes of human relationships, gradual realisation of the many undercurrents moving the world. Not only are they forced to grow up quickly, they also learn inter-personal skills, such as back-stabbing, avoiding extra work through various antics, and a penchant for the ultimate escape from reality: sleep.
But is 18 years old a mature enough age for a teenager to bear arms?
I asked all these at the same time as I witnessed a 5-tonner truck reversed into my Company Sergeant Major's car.
The tonner, already filled to the brim with passengers, was about to leave the camp. The driver put the vehicle in reverse gear, and forgetting about the Toyota in the blind spot, must have stomped upon the accelerator, since everybody could hear the engine roar from the sudden rev. This was followed by a sickening sound of metal striking metal, and the screeching sound of protesting metal.
The impact caused the relatively new Toyota to be dragged a few metres, with its bonnet totally crushed in.
Now, cars in Singapore are extremely expensive black-holes for money. To secure one, a person first needs to bid for a certificate of entitlement from the government, of which the price floats around SGD$30, 000 (Around US$17, 000), before being eligible to purchase a car. To make things worse, these little pieces of paper only last 10 years, after which it must be renewed at the prevailing price. Can you even begin to imagine the mental anguish?
The spectators cheered, either at the the prospect of having another gambling inspiration from the car's licence plate, or they must hate the encik (a malay word which commonly used to refer to Company Sergeant Major) very much.
This, coming from the people who bear arms, and drive heavy-load vehicles. The wielders of lethal force.
Simply magnificent.
I am ignorant when it comes to matters of personal health.
I don't wash my hands whenever I pick up finger food from the tray (though I make the effort to soap my hands before major meals), I shake people's hands, and then neglect to wash mine. I rub my eyes with my fingers after hours at a time striking the keys of my keyboard... the list goes on.
Now, [::: a new discovery :::] to the complete health idiot here reveals that excessive work-outs do affect a person's immune system.
In fact, I am experiencing it right now, first hand.
Still remember the [:: headache I had yesterday morning ::]? It's back, with a vengance. And it is not alone. Phelgm and nasal unmentionables stand astride. All these, thanks to my hygiene habits after a week of back to back Standard Obstacle Course tests and trainings.
Updated: Ambiguity that could be construed as an insult to my friend. Phelgm does strange things to my writing.
Ok, so I got shot by this little meme (that's what they are called):
Rules of the game: Post 5 Weird and Random Facts about yourself, then at the end list the names of 5 people who are next in line to do this.
I now fire the arrows at
My cell phone (Side note to concerned alarmist: also known as a "handphone", which has entirely nothing to do with terrorists) woke me up at the crack of dawn, to a similar crack in my mind. My brain was cold and protested at being jump-started. Moments later, Father came in and woke me up.
"Don't you have to go to camp now?"
"...mmm... it's just 5 in the morning... WHAT?!"
And that marked the perfect awakening that I have not had ever since I enlisted.
Today is our division's anniversary. 29 years ago to this day, the cobra division was created as a reservist formation, housing all the servicemen whom have transited back into their civilian life. On the odd occasion when they return, the old campus at Nee Soon is bound to be a gathering of beer-bellies, whom would gather jovially with their sacks of canned food for their reservist training.
To commemorate this vital event of our lives, we have enthusiastically stretched ourselves out, bowled over each other in a frenetic attempt to be selected to join an extremely coveted bunch of lucky NSFs to join in a parade filled with polished-boot dirtying mud, a sky that keeps taking a toilet break, and a murderous sun that threatened to preserve us like plums.
I thank my lucky stars that I was selected for the exhibition instead. Our display was located at a secluded part of the camp, which is very easily missed amidst the adrenaline of Bronco tank and Light Strike rides. That meant only the dedicated seekers of our exhibit could find us: The big shots.
Soon after the parade over at the other side of the sprawling camp finished, we found ourselves drowning in a crowd of Majors and Colonels, together with their family. Camera-totting, with some even delicately carrying their ladies' handbags, they seemed far from the commanding figures that hundreds of soldiers fear. The pot-belly helps too.
Taking special advantage of the situation (cameras are not normally allowed), I snapped a few photos of our motley display.
(To any potential enemies: the photos of the equipment you see are so widely distributed, you won't even find them the least bit interesting. See for yourself:)
The armour display on the parade square
The primus in action
120mm mortar
Our exhibition of infantry weapons
The humble ordinary servicemen have all left in a thunderflash, leaving the catered lunch with little takers: Ponnifer shoved a handful of chicken drumsticks on my plate, and I managed to eat many servings of ice-cream, all just for being the only few to grace the "buffet". I didn't take any photos there, since I was too busy eating.
Due to some unforeseen technical difficulties with my will-power, I am forced to delay the production on the long awaited series of unfortunate events. Rather unfortunate, it is.
Anyway, things back at camp have largely settled down into a steady routine: I go on a very tiring physical training in the morning, then slump on my bed for the rest of the day, occasionally rousing to interrupt some excited debate going on in the bunk.
Lying on your bed motionless, even when you are not really sleeping helps aplenty, especially when you get to overhear interesting opinions about you that would normally never fall within the cavities of your ear... Talk about reconnaissance.
The schedule for these few days are evenly split between Advanced Close Combat Training (which teaches us to do fight unarmed) and the Standard Obstacle Course, which is an eleven-obstacle long run, with a 700 metre run down, and a 600 metre dash to the finishing line. SOC is tough, we have to finish it under 9.5 minutes to pass. The course in the camp ups the ante with a continuous upslope gradient all the way from the start till the finishing line. I can't see myself believing the words of conducting officers who claim that the ground is actually flat.
We got partially lucky today. They managed to book a much easier obstacle course in another camp. It has very steep down slopes, little hindering gradients, but a seemingly long run down and finishing dash. I took the test there before (which I very obviously failed) so I pretty much had a pre-conception on what to expect.
To further improve my chances, I applied all the psychological techniques to mentally prepare myself for the test. At around 3 pm, all the test takers assembled on the ground, and boarded the vehicles that would take us to the camp. Just as the vehicles got into the second gear, the first drop of trouble fell onto the roof. Then the second. And then came the third. Soon, the road was wet with the sudden downpour. The conducting officer had no choice but to cancel the test. This coming after two weeks of running, and an entire day of mental psyching, was a real wet blanket.
You couldn't see the urgency in my passing the test right?
Well, a few weeks ago, the big bosses up above suddenly decided to impose unrealistic sleeping timings, and have largely curbed the nights outside camp, such that the only realistic chance of even going out for a little bit of LAN gaming would have to depend totally on me passing the SOC. I won't go into a discussion into the morals of the people involved, but I have to say that I am quite disappointed. Call it the feeling of betrayal if you would.
On a lighter note, I would like to congratulate all the commanders from 4th Battalion Singapore Infantry Regiment for having completed their National Service. ORD! Time for you to return to your civilian lives, and make that painful transition back to civilian life. Time to worry about your next paycheck, your future, not to mention waking up at an unearthly 11 am in the morning!
Life is full of uncertainties, but one thing is for sure: the road will reveal itself to you when you get to it. There is no point fretting too much about the dark unknown. Take the plunge, and things will fall into place by themselves.
I mean, haven't it always been this way? Remember when you first stepped into BMT as a bald head always getting pushed around by instructors? You have managed it magnificently, and had even qualified to go to SISPEC, a commander school. You have what it takes to go through the works, grit and mettle being your tools, digging your way through your national service till this day.
So lift your heads up high, strut your stuff with confidence, and all the best in your future projects!
I will be joining you come 9 April 2006. Wait for me!
The lives of ordinary people ¡ª lives yearning for normalcy only just recently restored ¡ª have been brutally disrupted by the very selfish act of terrorists: again.
Bali, an island dependant upon the hospitality industry has been dealt a set back by these monsters, dead set against the establishment at large, and determined to establish their own regime through acts of terrorism.
But what all these dastard deeds have done is to strengthen the world's resolve to continue their lives as best as they can.
Historically, war has always been waged around the hearts and minds of people. To win them, or to strike fear in their hearts would mean a tremendous advantage to any side in a war, regardless of the original purpose of the conflict in the first place.
We also know that fear is a poor motivater. People can, and they will, eventually overcome the terror struck in their hearts by these faceless, merciless killers, and get to the root of the problem. That we see dictatorships which rule through instillation of fear collapse through the test of time is simple proof of fact that terror will not work towards the eventual motives of the terrorists. If their cause is worthy of the world's consideration, shouldn't they come out in the open to present their ideals? If what they do is rational, surely the cause would survive the test of critics? Won't the best idea be embraced by the world with open arms?
It is obvious that these terrorists have no real contribution to society. They are merely misguided folks tightly binded by their blind faith in psychotic manipulaters, whom use them for their own agenda. At the same time as I hate these people, I pity them. They would never gain acceptance in this world.
The world will rise up, and rid itself of this scourge, just as we overcame the two world wars. The world goes around, long after the terrorists are defeated.
Dedicated to the victims of terrorists:
Humans don't really care about the finer details about all the things they use. As long as it works as advertised, they would be content with just the basic knowledge required to operate those technological goddesses.
With that in mind, here is an introduction to the insect killer, Permethrin, and how it affects to military personnels.
We all know that staying inside the forest for days at a time can be a disturbing experience. Campers curse about it, while soldiers lying with their faces in the grasses are resigned to their destiny. Those blood suckers really know how to annoy, taking extreme pleasure in drinking human blood, and imparting a torturous itch reflex after it is done with its business, which makes us wonder whether those pests have been unloading their wastes at the same time as they enjoy the scrumptious snack.
More fortunate soldiers (read: behind the front lines) have the pleasure of relieving themselves of the consuming desire to scratch the itch, while others (those with their faces in the grass, having to stay motionless continuously to maintain stealth) would have to expend already scarce willpower to resist the burning urge to move. Their fingers start to tremble with the effort. Soon, the body follows in harmonic motion, which sets the surrounding grass into motion, which then shows the uninitiated enemy observer the location of their potential ambushers.
To solve the problem, armies have been ordering soldiers to roll down their sleeves whenever entering an area with trees and grass patches. That usually stops most mosquitoes. But there exist an unusual breed of the elite, capable of extreme piercing and penetration, which the thick nylon and cotton cloths fail to block. Not surprising, these commandos also harbour the same ability to create bigger bumps, and itchier itches. Sometimes, it gets so bad that the itch feels painful to the touch.
Such is the suffering of soldiers having to operate in these mosquito infested forests.
As if that were not enough, to break the camel's back, many species of mosquitoes harbour vectors and parasites, which they present to its host in gratitude for the involuntary donation. Dengue, Malaria are just some of the many diseases people have come down with, days after their encounter with the pests. Many survive, while some succumb to the disease. All the prep talks by training officers about how "men don't die so easily" seems to have taken a new meaning altogether.
When all seems dark and gloomy, the policy makers from their cushy offices have come to the rescue!
Introducing.. Permethrin!
A revolutionary insect killer in a bottle, it promises to kill insects on contact!
First, you pour a little bit of the solution into many parts of water. Make sure you have those gloves on!
You should see the entire solution turn chalky. Dump one piece of your uniform inside it and soak it. Do the same with the other pieces.
The manufacturer promises that insects coming into contact with the treated uniform will drop dead and fall off.
I can't verify this claim since I've still been bitten by those monstrosities after treating my uniform, yet I have seen buzzing mosquitoes drop dead in front of me after I have sprayed them with a pure mixture of water and Permethrin, which makes me extremely suspicious about the killing mechanisms: does the chemical simply chokes the insect to death, or does it kill by overloading the mosquito's desire to feed?
My pieces of luggage still laid strewn chaotically around my room, and Mother has been nagging me to clean up the act.
Did I think I was in an action film? I doubt so. After assuring Mother that this mess was not an act, I was given a deadline to clear them out. My brother would have sniggered had he heard that.
I didn't resist the commands of the lady who gave birth to me, so I picked up the pieces, starting with all the dirty laundry I accumulated from the trip to the-country-that-must-not-be-named. I was really thankful that I had the sense to at least dunk them into ziplock bags, because the moment I opened the flap, I was treated to a cacophony of my own smells, totally corrupted by days of stewing in human sweat and pherohormones. Oh the joy the bacteria must had.
That task done, I decided to cluster the remaining pieces of luggage together in one corner of the room. As they like to say, presentation is everything, so I am sure that dressing up the room would help it look less dilapidated. Needless to say, I was only just being lazy. Playing dress up to my room is definitely a tough job, though not something unfamiliar, since I had to do it many times previously in camp.
I've started on writing about my misadventures (is it the right word?). It is a series of unfortunate events (which luckily still pales in comparison to the film/story with the same name) that happened to me while I was in the-country-that-must-remain-unamed. Inside that post, you will find fairy tale stories about how a camera decided to declare independance (not unlike the-country-that-must-not-be-named), of sore eyes and broken backs, of lost disembarkation cards, road near-misses.
Starring myself, a platoon of homesick scouts, battalion HQ, the kind police of the-country-that-must-not-be-named, taxi drivers, and hotel staff whom-insist-on-communicating-to-me-in-English-when-I-could-speak-Chinese-natively.
Coming Soon.
After taking that IQ test, I have been egged on by Tickle to take their advanced IQ test, which essentially picks my brain apart, dissects the choices I make, and churns out a very descriptive description (verbose would have been a better word, but for want of a pun) of my personality and thinking style. Here is a small excerpt:
Your IQ score is 117. This means that you are smarter than 87.0% of all other Super IQ test takers.
This number is the result of a scientifically-tested formula based on how many questions you answered correctly on the Tickle Super IQ Test.
But there's more to intelligence than a single number, a single score, or a single label. Tickle uses 8 distinguishable dimensions of intelligence in the Super IQ Test. By analyzing your individual scores on those 8 scales, we are able to look beyond the raw IQ score into how you process information, and which intellectual strengths you're best at.
Your test results indicate that the way you process information makes you a Concrete Thinker.
You have unusually strong verbal and numerical skills. This dynamic combination gives you an exceptional aptitude for solving equations and then communicating those solutions to others in lay terms. Your intelligence is grounded and based on a very clear interpretation of what is happening around you. Because you are so realistic, most things are crystal clear to you, while others may get confused by this or that.
Your objective is to make things real and clear. People count on you to find and give the sober, cold-hard facts. You learn most easily when things are explained in numbers and words and so you enjoy the education you get through books and lectures. Unlike others, you do not have to experience something first-hand to understand it, nor do you have a lot of interest in how things work mechanically. On the other hand, if you find the information in your books or lectures too abstract, you might tend toward first-hand experience as you'll get nothing but the facts that way.
Here's an example of your Concrete Thinker thinking skills at work in a real-life situation:
You are at a travel agency with a friend contemplating the several different types of vacations you two could take together. The agent gives you the pros and cons of each vacation (including the prices), along with the options you have within each package. All the details, facts, and figures confuse your friend, who asks the agent to just recommend the best one so you two can be done with it and get out of there. But you are able to take out a pen and a piece of paper and write down all of the relevant information. The comparison sheet you create helps you both figure out which is the best choice, and you prevents your friend from feeling overly confused. Thank goodness you think the way you do!
Head-hunters gather your weapons: grab this rare talent before your prey is seized by others!
I accept employment for a mere pittance at SGD$10, 000 per month.
(Do I see my head swelling, or is that just my ego?)