Well, well well,

It seems like it is time for another posting. Besides, surely we all must tire of Rich’s gloating about posh international destinations as an intern while poor Shannon suffers in the U.S. Allow me to present our team’s latest adventure in Singapore…

The story actually takes place in Malaysia. In particular, we visited the Malaysian town of Jahore Bahru (JB). Translated, that means “city with an ‘open air’ sewer system” or “smelly town of death.” I am still trying to wash the smell of that Malaysian town off of me. Think of it as Singapore’s poor cousin. Once you clear immigration, a 30 minute process that should only take 10 minutes, you then get on a bus towards the JB. You wait on this bus for over 30 minutes due to traffic. Or you can spend 10 minutes walking the same distance, but they won’t tell you that. After you then clear the Malaysian checkpoint, a 15 minute process that should take 30 minutes (it is explained later), you then are in the city of Jahore Bahru. The only safe place to eat is McDonalds, where we had breakfast to go.

Jahore Bahru is filled with muslim stores in which you cannot buy anything unless you are muslim. I tried to buy a really nice painting at a market stall. When I asked the lady what the writing said, she asked “are you a Muslim?” “Yes” I replied, in between bites of the sausage, egg and bacon McMuffin sandwich. For some strange reason, she did not believe me and said that she could not sell items to non-Muslims. Discouraged, I finished my sandwich and then continued to look around.

Other city tourist attractions include viewing the weekly hunted and stuffed animals of the city’s sultan, playing ‘malaria roulette’ with the mosquitoes that have a taste for American blood, and trying to avoid the ‘smell pockets’ that take one by surprise and saps your appetite and will to live. A sure sign that we should have gone to Indonesia instead was that it rained as we were entering Jahore Bahru and stopped when we left.

To get a sense of the smell, imagine what 100 dead bodies from the last pro-democracy uprising a few years ago would smell like. Then throw in dead animal remains (the only ducks floating down the ‘river’ were already cooked). For ‘ambience,’ add the smell that comes from a TKE room after Spring Day. Bake gingerly @ 90 degrees and then serve to who all dare visit and/or live there.

And while Singapore has adequate border controls, one had to wonder about Malaysia. We had cleared immigration to leave Malaysia when we realized that we forgot to buy tickets for the bus back to Malaysia (tickets cost about $1 U.S.). We would have to walk back into the city (a very short walk…literally across the street) to get tickets for the bus (which are interestingly, not available at the bus/immigration checkpoint). The problem was that we had already handed the Malaysian immigration officers our immigation/customs forms. Despite this, we then walked down the street that the transnational busses use. Half way down we found a security guard. We explained to him that we forgot to get tickets and that we’d need to leave the checkpoint, but that we had already gave immigration our forms. However, the sounds of our nervous voices were secondary to him enjoying his cigarette. Before we could finish explaining the problem, he said “OK, sure” and turned away to enjoy his cigarette. We think we would have gotten the same reply had we said that we planned a mass killing spree. Anyway, after we got our tickets, we walked down the same ‘secure’ street behind the immigration checkpoint. Sure enough, our ever-aware officer was smoking another cigarette (this becomes important later). With a wave and a nod we ‘cleared’ immigration for a second time and got onto the bus and left the country. On the bus, we heard someone complaining that border control confiscated their cigarettes.

So we learned that Malaysia has a beautiful and interesting culture. Just not in Jahore Bahru. Unfortunately, we won’t have time to visit the cool parts of Malaysia, but we expect that some island-hopping in Indonesia next week will make up for the experience. What else have we learned? That the only thing that makes this experience different than the Mexico experience is that Malaysians in poor cities have more teeth. Still it was an adventure and enabled me to write an e-mail update, so the experience could not have been all that bad. 😉

Ciao!

–RC–

Good morning, afternoon and evening sports fans:

Today’s story deals with travel and the wonderful experiences that can occur. But first things first. Today I learned that my ThinkPad can dail almost any location on the planet, except from an a Delta Airlines Crown Club Room. I am not sure why, since I seemed to be following all of the directions clearly, but it was one of those crazy things that one chalks up to ‘oh well.’

My adventure begins with the U.S. Shuttle driver who is not quite sure how to get to Logan Airport. We essentially drive in circles around Waltham for about 20 minutes before he finally realizes where the MassPike is. Armed with this information, he then avoids the MassPike and takes the scenic route, as if to show the MassPike who is boss. Anyway, after finally arriving at Logan Airport (and leaving the U.S. Shuttle smuck-o with a tip to buy a better map of Boston), I go the Business Check-In line at the Delta Counter. It’s me, my bags…and the carpet that my laptop bag latched onto to about 2 yards ago. Little kids are laughing, as are adults. The Air France people actually staffing the flight are laughing at me too. It is only when I wave my business class ticket in the air that they flock like the same way Rich flocks to Kerplackistani oil stocks. That is when I realized the true power of business class. And I made a snotty internal remark of my own. Well, someone in Air France must be able to hear my thoughts, because the Air France staff would get their revenge.

If you ever get a business class ticket, relish the opportunity to go into their executive lounge. They say that they have a dress code, but you can be dressed as badly as Brian and still get in because they even allow Structure X-Pants. The drinks are free and flowing thanks to overwhelmingly strong opposition to turning business lounges into cash bars or getting rid of alcohol entirely (thus keeping ticket prices high enough so that people like you and I couldn’t normally afford them). Anyway, I was loving the lounge until I was ripped away like a newborn baby from a mama’s breast.

Once on the plane, they served us some sort of salad as an opening course. It was a ritzy salad with mayonnaise on the side. I told myself “don’t eat that stuff, Rodney, you’ll do untold damage to your innerds.” Then, in a Homer-like retort, I also thought “hmmm, sweet mayonnaise.” Then, the mother of all temptation struts along in her Air France uniform and says “Monsieur Cornelius, eat the mayonnaise. Join us. Join us.” When in Rome…so I ate some of it. She then laughed crazily and said “ha, boy, your innerds will pay for giving in to the desires of mayonnaise. And didn’t you leave your Immodium AD in the bag you checked in?” She then disappeared and almost immediately I felt ill. At that point, I asked the crew mechanic to stuff my business class seat in the lavatory because it was going to be a long flight.

Upon landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, I went directly to a pharmacy, where they laugh when you present them with bodily function problems. One eventually helped me, but I had to wait until they removed the original pharmacist who passed out from laughing so hard. Now, when I say pharmacist, I mean that in more a figurative sense then a literal sense, because one only needs approval from Sally Struthers to be licensed in France. Skipping the mindless drivel, the ordeal took 30 minutes and I ended up with something like Immodium AD…it was called Immodium AD. When I got the counter to pay, I realized that I was so into my French Airport Bathroom Fest ’99 that I forgot to get money. So I said “excuse kind madame, could you see your way to giving me this medication today and I will gladly repay you on Tuesday?” Since she has never seen Popeye, she scoffed at me and I had to use my MasterCard. I still don’t feel better, but at least I am not acculmulating frequent guest points in French airport restrooms anymore.

So now I sit in the Air France Business Lounge, waiting to live, waiting to die, waiting for that evil Air France flight attendant so that I can place her in the guilletine for suggesting the mayonnaise. On this connecting flight to Singapore, I told them to only give me bread, since I cannot trust anything else. Or maybe someone out there has an immune system that I can borrow for the trip. I’ve been in the lounge for about 4 hours now. I even fell asleep here with my wallet on the table. Good golly, executive lounges are like living in Saudi Arabia. Pretty cool.

Anyway, that food concern may not really be a problem. We have been informed that due to strike by the catering service personnel, we will not be having any catered meals. Not even in business class. Or first class. We had boxed meals bought in and that was an experience. It was being in summer camp. And since I like sea food so much (this is sarcasm here), of course they only had sea food boxed lunches. Yipee! So I had nothing to do but sleep. But for my troubles, I swiped a bottle of wine from the galley before I got off of the plane in Singapore.

So now I am in Singapore. The hotel is awesome. The food I have eaten is very good and my digestive track is slowly recovering. The hotel even provides free early-evening cocktails, so that is even better. But i guess that is a story for another time.

Sianora

–RC–

Mexico City, the city of love. Oh wait, that’s Paris.

Mexico City, the city of dirt. No, that’s Egypt.

Mexico City, the city of no dentists. True, but London surpasses Mexico City 7 days a week and twice on Sunday.

Mexico City, our poor neighbors to the south. That works.

As I write this from 29,000 feet in the air (but you’ll get this e-mail after I have landed), I have the occasion to reflect on my travels to Mexico City. What is interesting is that we seem to be getting closer to the ground before our time, indicating to me that the Captain and First Officer enjoyed one too many pre-flight cocktails. You know we are in trouble when the Captain says ‘and to your right you’ll see we are flying over the airport in Little Rock, Ark…poor Brett…hey, did they forget to remove his carcass from the runway when our plane crashed a couple of weeks ago?’ My seat is right in front of the curtain, so I get that special look (with a Smirk) from the Flight Attendant that says ‘so close, Rodney, but yet so far, far away.’

I guess I should say what I’ve learned on my vacation…uh, work assignment. Think of it as a Top 10 List:

10. You will always get to your destination faster on a burrow then on Mexico City’s crowded road. Renting a borrow cost $200 pesos. Taking the damn animal off the owner’s hand is $40 pesos.

9. Personal hygine, like traffic lights, is discretionary.

8. Just like people think they see Elvis, people in Mexico swear they’ve seen Juan Valdez and his coffee burrow.

7. ACELAB Ted is scary and should be avoided at all times. If you have a gun available, shoot him with it. If not, ask the police guard with the m-16 outside of the ‘Candy Store’ (it is really a money laundering operation) to borrow his. One look at Ted and he’ll do it for you.

6. Don’t drink the water. Don’t eat the food. Just live off of phlegm. Like everything else, it probably tastes like chicken.

5. When people say hello to you, reply with ‘turkey sandwich.’ Keep doing for several days…you’ll see why later.

4. Say hello to the person in #5. They should reply with turkey sandwich. Give them a thumbs up, go into your office/room and laugh. Tell others to say hello as well.

3. Most English-speaking tour guides recommend a healthy dose of pencillin before going out to the clubs.

2. Rich Bozzuto is a clown. I guess I’ve always known that, but the fact that his clownness crosses international boundaries was previously an unknown fact.

1. Most Mexican people have very light skin. However, you’ll never know because of #9. It’s really just dirt and exhaust from the cars that give them that roasted turkey color.

TIME PASSES

Now I am writing from the U.S. Shuttle. My CD player is not working and I need to listen to my Pure Moods CD before I throttle the driver. He took a wrong turn an now he is not sure where we are going. This would be amusing if it were not 11:30pm and had he not spent a full hour looking for other passengers to try and fit into the van. At one point, everyone in the van threatened to take Boston Coach if he tried to pick up one more passenger. We think he got the point and decided to get himself lost so that we’d pay for our mutiny. One brave soul asked to be let off on a corner in Revere so that he could catch a cab. In Revere? We’ll never see him again.

Anyway, that’s my story and I am sticking to it. See you around.

–RC–

Well Rich started this….

I damn well know that you are not all that interested in my adventures in Mexico because many of you have been (you may not remember it, but you were actually there…that was not just a drunken 4-day daydream). But, I have some time to kill, ACELAB Ted has his fingers up his nose, and Audit Team Leader Sue is blabbering something to the effect of ‘I wish the IBM Cafe here in Mexico made Bloody Marys.” So here you go…

Although in Mexico, I am not fortunate enough to go chasing Geisha Girls around with $1 bills (Mexico would translate them as ‘Fish Girls’ anyway and that is entirely unappealing), I have other wonderous sites to look at. For I am in Mexico City, where every cab smells different. Ah yes Mexico, where their national flag and the fact that no one here vists the dentists binds them together in unity. Glorious Mexico, where I can go shopping for souvenirs at an ancient Aztec city, and be offered a $40 peso discount if I give the vendor my hiking boots. But hey, he’ll throw in the malnourished cat for free so I should have contemplated it. Mexico, where the police abandon the war on drugs and the restaurants intensify the war on the stomach. Mexico City, where I am sure if the inhaitants of the city knew what Immodium AD was, would give that company enough money to run all of Mexico. Come splash in “pea soup” green water, come to the city where everything comes with cheese, come to the country where you can bargain at Macys. Ah Mexico City!

In all seriousness, the place is quite cool. There is lots to do and it is generally a lot of fun. What Mexico lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in nightlife. When my toughest decision of the week is tequila with almond or clear tequila, I ain’t got no complaints. I miss home at times, but not Jon’s bastard cat from hell (the only, and I use this term loosely, ‘domesticated,’ cat I know that prefers the taste of human flesh to Meow Mix). Right now, Jon is renting out my $700+/month room at reasonables rates, so jump on it now before he decides to make it the cat’s litterbox. The most interesting challenge each day is trying to speak enough Spanish to get food. Somehow, with every restaurant I go to I end up with: a) A spanish waitress who is the size and has the facial hair equivalent of Barry White; and b) some meat involving chocolate spicy sauce because everything I say (expletives, the word ‘furby,’ and the phrase ‘get those kids out of your headlock…oh you just forgot to shave your armpits…please don’t hurt me’) translates into “ah, he must want the chicken with Mole (spicy chocolate) sauce.” But seriously, all joking aside, they put us up in a very nice hotel, there’s a 55 year old member of the team that wants to do shooters at a bar sometime this week, and I am learning a lot. So it is all very cool.

So now that I have had my taste of Spanish culture, I look forward to my taste of Asian culture. My next assignment brings me to Singapore, land of unnecessary rules like no chewing bubble gum, no spray painting cars, no hanging out with the women who want to “love me long time,” ad nausiem, yadda yadda yadda.

One piece of advice before I go…stay an intern for as long as possible. I work about 55-60 hours a week, while I only get paid for 40 of them. Rich, Shannon and ACELAB Ted might laugh now, but they’ll miss those extra hours once they start full-time. I must resort to purchasing IBM stock to make up the gap. C’est la vie.

Anyway, here’s hoping that Shannon will continue the trend by reporting from Asswater Junction, USA. And I don’t mean Maine because that’s affectionately titled ‘Cousin Country.’

Livin’ La Vida Loca,

-RC–