A hare and a hundred eggs

In contrast to Christmas, which is widely embraced by Singaporeans, who will take any excuse for a shopping spree, Easter has never really made it big in Asia.
Yes, the expat shops stock up on chocolate eggs and bunny’s, and the popularity of Easter brunch, brunch being another favourite local activity, is on the rise. But that's about it.
In the international expat community Easter traditions vary widely. Last year I tried to explain our Dutch ones to a friend.

‘Painting eggs?’ my British girlfriend asks, intrigued. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Simple,’ I tell her, ‘you boil the eggs. And then you paint them. With water based paint, or felt tip pens. Or you boil them in special Easter egg paint.’
She shakes her head. ‘And what do you do with these eggs?’
‘On Sunday morning the Easter Bunny comes, or, actually, as we call it, the Easter Hare. It just sounds better.
I let her taste the sound of the word, ‘Paashaas’.

She smiles, and I continue, ‘He will hide the eggs, in the garden, or inside if it rains.’
Now she nods, understanding, Easter eggs hunts she knows. But the eggs are made of chocolate. Not of egg.
‘And what do you do with them, after?’
‘Well, you eat them, off course.’
‘Cold, hard boiled, and hidden eggs?’
She shudders. ‘You eat them?’
‘Sure. For breakfast. Or as a snack. For tea. Before dinner, or after. Late night. Whenever you feel like one. When we come back from a long walk on Easter Sunday we will all dash for the eggs. We eat them straight, out of our hands, with a pinch of salt.’
‘All hard boiled?’
‘Hard or soft,’ I explain, ‘my mother would colour code the eggs whilst boiling, and put details on a list. Yellow for soft, blue for hard, orange half soft, red half hard. And so on.’
She is flabbergasted. ‘And so on? How many do you eat?’
I hesitate. ‘Well. When I was young we used to paint a hundred. At least, often more. After Easter Monday breakfast they’d all be gone.’
With eyes wide-open she stares at me, stunned into silence.
‘But we had visitors too,’ I add. ‘Family. We always argued as the eggs were finished way too soon. And because your little brother would eat your favourite egg, the one you made an extra effort on, first.’
‘Wow.’
My friend is, suitably impressed.
I nod. I wonder, shall I admit my family is slightly eccentric, a bit mad. Shall I admit that not all Dutch families dye and eat a hundred eggs for Easter? That a dozen is the average?

‘To be honest,’ I start.
Across the room screaming starts. We sigh. We wander over, to where her daughter and my son roll in a violent embrace. When they are pulled apart, reprimanded and kissed, we get back to our tea. And our talk.

‘What were we talking about?’ she asks.
‘Easter,’ I say.
‘Ah yes. Have you finished your Easter Bonnets yet for the pre-school parade?’
Now it is my turn to look blank. For what on earth is an Easter Bonnet?

In the distance

We had a Dutch visitor, pale from winter. Sun was needed so we went to the beach. On the way, in the car, small drops splattered our windscreen. Staring at the sky we spied a touch of blue. We carried on.

To show our visitor, who only had one day, Singapore at a glance, we took the cable cars. The rain kept on dropping but in the distance blue kept gleaming so we parked the car, unloaded kids, towels, buckets and spades and divided ourselves under two big umbrella’s. Over Mount Faber’s ridge we walked to the cable car station. Tijm and Linde jumped in every muddy puddle. Only Jasmijn stayed dry under her buggy’s cover.

High and dry in the little eggs we admired the view. We saw the pointy skyline of Singapore’s Central Business District, with papa’s office on the sixtieth floor of the tallest tower. Deep below us the dark green of Mount Faber Park, with its scattering of black and white house where mama would love to live. Further on we count countless row of high-rise buildings. And more, as Singapore reaches for the sky. We saw the container port, with its cranes, where containers are stacked like flats in the HDB buildings.

In the distance, behind the clouds, the sea and resort Island Sentosa gleamed in the sun. Behind that, oil tankers, refineries, pretty or not, they provide Singapore’s as well as our own livelihood. And that of our visitor.

We sailed over a mall, a cruise ship, and a theme park, where we saw dolphins jumping, and kids floating trough slides in bright rubber bands, and then we arrived at our destination. Far away we could still see the blue. But on Sentosa it rained too.

We passed the Merlion, half lion, half fish, the Gaudi fountain, until we reached the beach. Tijm and Linde by now wetter than the sea. In the distance, above the sea, the sky was blue.

At the beach club COASTES, that looks like it’s on the coast of the cold North Sea, but with better food, where Dutch, French and British expats roam, it was busy. In the spitting rain children swam, their parents in the sand, under their umbrellas. The terrace, that is, the covered part, was full. We found a dry spot and Tijm and Linde and Jasmijn exchanged their wet clothes for their dry swimwear. Not long after, those were wet too.

We had a coffee, some lime juice, and looked at the sky. In the distance it remained blue. Every one stared with us, thinking it would clear, thinking we’ll endure. Tijm, Linde, Jasmijn and papa dived in the waves. They were wet already and the sea was warm.

Now and again the sky brightened, but the sun never came. One by one the families left. When the thunder roared, the sea, and not much later the terrace, emptied. We ate some fries and gave in.

With Tijm in a towel and Linde in my pareo we took the monorail to the cable car station. It dribbled. In the distance blue gleamed.

In the bus

Every morning she packs her bag, sticks her water bottle inside, and hoists it on her back. Together with Tijm and Linde she climbs down the stairs, sits her bag by the fence and plays. Scooting, cycling, running or chatting we wait, every morning, with all the neighbours and their kids, for our respective school buses. When we see the orange-white-blue Dutch school bus appear around the corner Tijm and Linde get their bags, their cool boxes, their bus passes and they board. Jasmijn follows. The bus auntie laughs, sits her in a chair. We laugh too, we wave. And, before the bus takes off, we lift Jasmijn out.

She was not yet two, she couldn’t go. She was furious.

Her birthday arrives, Jasmijn turns two. Jasmijn starts pre-school, two mornings a week. I drop her off. The first morning she clutches my leg, firmly. But I stay, and Jasmijn starts a jigsaw, turning to me after each piece, checking I am still there. When the gym class starts she can no longer resist, she runs and climbs, ignoring me proudly. The next day she waves to me at drop-off, bye mama, and runs off to play. When I come to pick her up she is walking in line, with the other kids, on their way to the buses, and I whisk her off just in time. The week after again she is ready, by the bus.

Now she was two, but she still couldn’t go. She was furious.

I drop her off in the car. Such a little girl, in such a big bus. In the Netherlands kids will cycle to school from an early age, but school buses are unheard of. A child’s comfortable level of independence is relative to what it’s parents know and trust. But there is more. I want to be involved, see and feel the school, chat to teachers and other mums, the things I miss with my older kids. I love to have the time to myself, not to spend half the day in the car, collecting my kids at those inconveniently different hours. But still. So independent, so young? I am not sure.

Jasmijn is. Two year olds are so extremely intense. Intensely annoying. Intensely cute. So small, yet so grown-up. Talking is toddler babbling, from half words to whole sentences, sometimes clear, sometimes frustratingly incomprehensible. Even though we do not always understand, Jasmijn knows exactly what she wants. Not to wear a nappy. Not to wear dresses but shorts. Tijm’s penguin. To watch Pippi Longstocking. She points, she shouts, she shoves, one way or another she makes sure we know what she wants. Large drops will spill from her eyes if she does not get it. The house will fill with cries, ten, twenty minutes if she must. She wants it, and she wants it now.

She wants to take the bus. So we give in, and she may. I never saw a toddler so happy, so proud, to board a bus. She waves at us from her window seat, next to big brother and sister. Papa and I, we wave back, we wave at the bus that takes our children away. Five, three and only just two years old.

A new start

How do you start after a blogging absence of nearly a year? Do you fill in the gaps, do you rewind and retell, or do you just plunge right in?

I think I will do the latter. My stories are snapshots or our lives, our new lives in our new country, and I think they speak for themselves. When you read them you will get to know us, me and my kids, either again or for the first time.

Tijm, who is now 5, a big boy, who has made many friends in his new big school and loves football, writing and plants. Linde, who can't wait to be 4 and start big school as well, who is still a princess, still blond as can be. Jasmijn, who is now 2 and as determined as ever, who never sits still.

A new start and a new name, don't worry, the old address still works, but I think my new name, Bedouin mama, or bedu-mama for short, suits me better as it reflects our nomadic lives. A camel in the tropics. It is weird. But I can tell you, it is also great!

Read with us and let me know what you think. I love responses, and if you write too let me know where I can find you so I can visit you back.

Time, or lack thereof...

Yes, I do wish to keep writing in English. Yes, I know there are people out there who love to read it.
But. I have so little time at the moment.
So bear with me. One day I will post again. I promise.

In the meanwhile, for those of you who read Dutch or want more information on me, please visit my blog, http://k-meel.blogspot.sg for up to date information about our new life in Singapore.

To a warm country

Three sad noses press against the window of the back door. The glass is studded with drops. It is raining. Again. And it is cold. Come, Tijm pulls his sisters away. They get their rug sacks, their suitcase and climb up the stairs. In the suitcase they pile clothes. Linde’s new pink sundress. Tijm’s favourite checked shorts and his new giraffe shirt. They don’t forget swimming costumes and towels, and in the side pocket they stuff toothbrushes. Tijm puts his new flowery short on, and Linde slips into her strawberry dress. Flip-flops on their toes. Jasmijn toddles around with her baby float. She stuffs and stuffs, but all inflated, it won’t fit in the suitcase.

When they walk down the stairs fully loaded I ask what they plan to do with all that stuff.

‘We are moving,’ answers Tijm, ‘to a warmer country.’

‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Can I come?’

I can.

Tijm puts all the chairs in a row. The little bear chair, the old wobbly one, the dining chairs and the orange high chair.

Jasmijn climbs on the bear chair.

‘That one’s for you, mama,’ the stewardess points.

I sit down while Tijm loads the luggage on the plane. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Australia,’ yells the pilot.

‘No, Singapore,’ screams the stewardess.

Before things escalate, I propose: ‘What if, we go to Singapore first, and then fly on to Australia? That’s how it happens with real planes. It is too far to fly to Australia at once, so planes always stop over in Singapore to rest and refuel.’

Only when all of the staff have agreed we take off. But, somewhere over the Indian Ocean danger arises. One of the passengers decides to leave the plane.

‘No, Jasmijn,’ yells Linde. ‘She will fall in the sea, help!’

But Jasmijn has left already. ‘Let her go, she’ll be all right.’ I point out. She brought her float.

We fly on, calmly and without further problems.

‘We are going to land, in Singapore,’ the pilot announces.

We fasten our seatbelts and hold on tight for landing. When I want to disembark the pilot and stewardess protest loudly. We still need to go to Australia.

‘No mama, we won’t have anyone left.’

I look around and have an idea. I put Poppa, Nelly, Miss Piggy and Duck on the empty chairs. ‘You guys fly on,’ I say. ‘Mama has work to do. Mama is very busy. Mama has many things to organise.’

Because, yes, it is a lot of work, moving to a warmer county. Removers need to be found, flights be booked, temporary houses be located, kids registered at schools, houses de-cluttered, assets sold, a rabbit re-homed, and leaving parties organised.

Later, behind the computer, Tijm stands behind me. ‘How many days until we move, mama?’ he asks.

I count down. And, counting, both euphoria and panic strike. Only forty. Forty days. Forty nights. And then we will move to Singapore!

Power to the princess!

Yesterday a little girl turned three. A very special occasion, off course, and a princess party was requested, o yes, and a puppet show. Since mama is not too mean a mummy, she complied, grudgingly, but readily. However, there are limits. There is just so much pink and sweetness this mama can handle. So when it came to the puppet show, and the story line, she decided that all those disney stories were just not exactly what little girls needed in the twenty-first century. So she wrote her own. And, just in case you have a birthday coming up soon, of a little girl in need of some princess glitter, I'll share it with you. In hope we can reach all those little girls out there and show them what a real princess is made of!

The princess that did not want to marry

Once upon a time, in a country far, far away, lived a princess. Her name was Linde. She had long, blond hair, and eyes dark as coal. She had beautiful dresses, and her favourite one was pink.

Linde: Hello children, how nice to see so many of you. Are you having a birthday party? Who’s birthday is it? It is my birthday too today, did you know? Tonight we will have a fabulous ball, right here, in the palace. We will dance all night. I love dancing, it is my absolute favourite. Do you like dancing too?

But, do you know what is so stupid? My parents, the king and queen, they want me to marry. With a prince. A real prince. In a minute a lot of princes will come and visit, and I have to pick one to open the ball with tonight, dance the first dance. Yuk. I am sure they will all be horrid. I do not want to marry. I want to dance, and play. I do not want to be queen. Then I’ll have to do bow for people all day, and wave from the golden carriage, and be nice, and formal and stiff. No!

Queen comes up: Come on Linde, the princes have arrived. Let me see your hair, and your face, is it clean? Hurry up, and stand straight, dear.

The king and queen sit on the throne. One by one the princes are presented. First, a young boy in a football outfit comes up, running about.

Football Prince: Oi, princess! Got a ball, or something to shoot about? Nah. Come and see my big game tomorrow. You can sit in the stalls, be beautiful, smile and wave at me!

Linde, angrily: I do NOT like football. And I don’t want to sit, be beautiful and wave. I want to dance. And play in the wood, with sticks.

‘Next,’ shouts the king.

Prince Monkey comes up, bows, says ooh, ah, ooh ooh ooh, and monkeys around.

Linde, angrily: What a terrible prince. He has no manners at all. He acts just like a monkey!

‘Next,’ shouts the king.

Prince Penguin bows, ‘good afternoon princess. How do you do?’

Linde, icily: Hello.

Prince Penguin: Sweet princess, you are so pretty. I would love to take you to my Ice Palace, with it’s winding towers of sparkling blue. We can slip and slide down the stairs and have so much fun.

Linde: No. I do not like blue. Slipping and sliding will ruin my dress. And most of all, I do not want a palace made of ice. Ice should be ice cream, three scoops in a bowl, with a cherry on top. No. I won’t marry him. No!

Linde shouts: I will never marry, do you hear me? I won’t. Tonight I will dance with my friends. Or, even better. I will dance with a frog. That will show them. Pfft (blows raspberry) I don’t want some poncey prince. I am going to the woods, and I will play with sticks and get very dirty.

Linde, in the woods, with a stick: I told you, I won’t marry those stupid princes. A snobby footballer, who just wants me as his trophy? Or a crazy monkey? Or that ice penguin with his frozen palace? You wouldn’t want that either, would you? I don’t want to marry anyway; I don’t want to be queen. I’ll have to make stiff bows, wave from the golden carriage, and sit still and straight, and host dinners. No. I won’t do it. I want to always stay a princess, and dance all day and play in the woods. And when I grow up, I want to decide what I’ll be. Maybe a doctor. Or a pilot. Or the king. Yes, that would be good, because everyone would have to do as I say. Yes, don’t you agree, being king is be best.

Frog comes up, ribbiting.

Linde: Look a frog. I will take him to the dance, that will show my parents. Hello frog, would you like to dance? Linde and the frog dance and play.

Linde: Children, do you know what I am thinking? Frogs are often enchanted, aren’t they? He could be a prince? What do you think, shall I kiss him?

Unsure: No, maybe I shouldn’t. He is very green, and very slimy.

The children encourage her to do it anyway, and what do you think! The frog turns into a handsome prince. The prince gives Linde a big hug and a kiss. He seems very happy, and then retreats.

Prince charming: Thank you, princess, for kissing me. Very decent of you. But. I suppose I have to marry you now? He looks at the children. That is the proper thing for a prince to do, isn’t it, when a princess kisses him back from being a frog?

Linde: Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to marry at all. I do not wish to be queen, and bow, and wave from the golden carriage, and sit still and stiffly. I want to run in the woods and play with sticks. And when I grow up I want to be what I choose. Pilot, or doctor.

Prince charming: Oh, I love playing with sticks! And I don’t want to marry either, at least not yet. Let’s be friends, and always do what we want.

Linde: Yes! And can I then be king when we are bigger?

Prince charming: Well, we’ll have to see about that.

Linde: All right. But, one more thing. Would you mind dancing the first dance with me at my birthday ball tonight?

Prince charming: I’d be honoured to. I love to dance!

Together they dance away.