The Haze Craze

In Western Europe life grinds to a halt when more than a few centimetres of snow falls, or the thermometer creeps above thirty degrees. No one will talk about anything else than the weather.

In Singapore heat or torrential rain faze no one, but we do we have something else: The Haze. Every year in the dry season Indonesian farmers set fire to their land. To clear out old crops, wasteland or forest, to fertilise it with ash. Palm oil, predominantly, but also other crops. The smoke caused by these slash and burn farming techniques drifts over the narrow sea straits to Singapore, where people will have a cough, and a few days where they think the neighbours should really stop having so many barbecues.

This year it is different. With a larger than normal amount of fires, and an unusual dry and cloudless spell, the haze has reached crazy heights. For days the Pollutant Standard Indexes (PSI) have been soaring, from below 50, Singapore’s normal, fresh air, to the first shocking time the ‘unhealthy’ 100 mark was crossed. How we now long for that clear 100 PSI sky…

From 150, it went to 200, ‘very unhealthy’, and while everyone was glued to screens showing latest figures it kept creeping up, to 300, ‘hazardous’. Today, for the first time ever in Singapore, the mark of 400 was crossed. This is no reason for a celebration. A PSI of 400+ is simply extremely hazardous. People are recommended to stay indoors, whack on the aircon, wear facemasks that are sold-out nationwide, and refrain from doing any strenuous exercise.

And just this week we moved to a rickety pre-war bungalow, without aircon, with leaky doors, where we planned to spend most of our time outdoors, in the large and lush garden. Initially we rejoiced. When the haze hit central Singapore we stayed relatively fresh in our forest, the high trees filtering out the worst of the mess. But day-by-day the smoke crept through leaves and now it has reached us too. In the morning we wake up with a headache, a sick feeling in our stomach and a soar throat. Our hair smells like a chip shop.

Only yesterday I complained we were all a bunch of spoiled expats, who just got too excited. Facebook was fuller with haze than the sky, with questions about where to get air-purifiers, or the best ways to get out of this place. Today, with a PSI over 400, I can’t even speak to you about those more important things, about the poor locals in Indonesia living in what must be an inferno, the affected wildlife, the Western countries that share responsibility for this problem, as it is us buying these products, us not wanting to pay more so these farmers can use other, more sustainable, expensive and time consuming methods to clear land. I don’t have the energy. My head hurts too much.

How long this will last? No-one knows, days, weeks, or even a month. It all depends on the weather, but the haze blocks our red stinging eyes looking up at the sky, praying for rain. Rain that still has not come. So we stay inside, play games, shuffle the furniture, watch films, and try to entertain the kids. Today the summer holidays have started. Expats rush out of the city, flights back home have sold out. We are not going, not yet. So we will have no outdoor play, very little friends, and aching bodies.

This afternoon, we will attempt a rain dance. Will you join us?

The mamamonster

When there is too much screaming around me I can no longer think clearly. The pressure in my head builds up, higher and higher, until it bursts. I lose all patience, if I ever had any, and the screaming needs to get out. Out of my own mouth. The mamamonster has been freed.

There is a lot of screaming in our house. The vicious cycle twists round and down, they scream, I scream back, they scream louder and then me too. I barely dare go outside, in the garden. What will the neighbours think? Is it good that they can’t understand my Dutch, and can’t hear how I bawl at every kid’s nagging? Or is it a shame they can’t hear how they moan my life into a living hell, and understand my wrath is well deserved. I know I am the eldest. I know I should be the wisest. I know they are four, two and one years old. But the mamamonster is not sensible. She knows patience nor common sense. She let’s herself be dragged into pools of hormonal fury. The mamamonster talks in low-pitched, separate, demanding words. Stop. Now. Or…. then a silence follows, in which she thinks of terrible things. Or I will hurt you, thinks the mamamonster. I will wring you out till there is no scream left in you, I will kick you flying over the hedge, I will box your ears till they pound more than mine. But she will reach into the depths of her soul and drag out the last ounce of self-control she can muster from the deepest of her monster belly and growls: Or… Go. To. Your. Room. Now! The last word is spoken with her deepest, darkest voice, and all the terrible things shine through her piercing eyes. The frightened children start crying, which works like oil on the monster’s fire and makes her grab arms and legs and she drags the screaming inside, into the study and closes the door.

Surrounded by silence the mamamonster retreats, and when the children reappear, with crocodile’s tears on their cheeks, her last remains are cuddled away, send back to her dark cave deep inside.

But the next time there is arguing, over the colour of the cereal bowl, over who gets the spotted spoon, over the food that is not their favourite, when there is fighting, pushing, hear-pulling, and screaming, the mamamonster will rear it’s ugly head again. At the next tooth that breaks and sets off days of crying. When they throw food, moan, whinge, yell and squeal. When they are bored, when they whine, three times, mama, mahma, mahama. When the shoes are still not on after I asked ten times. When they cry, cry, cry and cry. When they scream. When the sound exceeds by far the allowed maximum of decibels at any other workplace the mamamonster will soar and roar. The mamamonster is mean. Little children beware. She is on her way.