IN BERLIN

THERE are no security service goons posted at every street corner, the shops are full of consumer goods, foreign tourists mill about and ordinary people go about their business as elsewhere on the European continent.

That is the Berlin of today.

Things were very much different when I was there in October and November 1989, at the height of the protests that culminated in the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Many people were out on the streets because they were fed up with the regime and wanted a better life. But many – as in all revolutions – were just curious on-lookers, individuals who had no political agenda but still marvelled at the sight of the throngs.

Fear was in the air: the military and security services were out in force and, although they did nothing, they looked menacing.

Rumours spread about worse to come: some said that columns of tanks were sighted on neighbouring streets, and that the East German government was about to implement a “Tiananmen Square” solution, by crushing the rebellion, Chinese-style.

There was also fear about what the Soviets may do. For, although we now know that the Soviet leadership of Mikhail Gorbachev decided to do nothing to save the Soviet empire, the people of Eastern Europe were not aware of this at that time.

Everyone, however, remembered what happened in Hungary in 1956, when an anti-communist rebellion was crushed by Soviet forces, or in Czechoslovakia in 1967, when a similar Soviet invasion took place.

The leaders of all European countries also assumed that the Soviet Union would never give up on East Germany, the most strategic colony in its empire.

So, the belief was that, sooner or later, blood would be spilt. The only question was where this may happen.

In the event, of course, nothing happened: the communist regimes melted away, although in Romania this took a week of heavy fighting.

Either way, the people of Eastern Europe were courageous: they knew that they were writing history, they were ready to take risks and – at least some – were also prepared to suffer the consequences.

Nevertheless, the pictures of crowds storming the barricades, the images which have survived in our mind today, were not so evident to those who were present at that time.

All I remember are the swelling crowds, badly-dressed and suffering from a pungent body odour, crammed into pot-marked roads, marching aimlessly, and often for no particular purpose.

There were women pushing prams, bemoaning the fact that their absent husbands are now "involved in politics".

There were the old men who were busy telling everyone what it was like when Berlin – the German capital – was a united city, and people could travel from East to West unhindered. And there were the occasional pickpockets, who smelt an opportunity for some rich pickings.

All of them are now forgotten: the camera lenses have only recorded the joyous faces of people dancing on the Berlin Wall during the night of Nov 9 1989, and the vast, faceless crowds which surged forward to erase Europe’s divisions.

When the first Trabant car — the spluttering East German vehicle made of fibreglass — drove through an opening in the Wall into West Germany, a roar was heard from the crowd: the revolution had succeeded.

"We are free!" shouted a young, bespectacled man next to me. "OK, but now what do we do?" responded an elderly lady.

Nobody bothered to answer her query; people were too busy rushing to put their first foot on Western territory.

Read the complete story in The Straits Times' Saturday Special section.

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IN KUALA LUMPUR
 
 MORE than one and half years after the general elections in March 2008, the seemingly endless string of by-elections in Malaysia does not look like it will end any time soon.

By-elections are truly becoming a dime a dozen in Malaysia, amid widespread voter fatigue and apathy.

The ruling Barisan Nasional has won only two out of nine by-elections held so far, but with the opposition in a state of disarray, the BN could still end up with the upper hand.

Now up to eight Pakatan Rakyat lawmakers and two state representatives are likely to lose their seats if they are charged over their participation in illegal assemblies in the past.

Parti Keadilan Rakyat MP Tian Chua was found guilty this month of biting a police officer during an illegal assembly two years ago.

He was fined RM3,000 and jailed for six months. It is unclear if he will be disqualified as a parliamentarian pending an appeal which he has filed.

Any elected representatives jailed for more than a year or fined more than RM2,000 has to vacate their seats and cannot contest in elections for five years after serving the sentence.

Seven of Tian Chua's colleagues could also face similar charges, warned Bersih, a coalition of political parties and NGOs which campaigns for free and fair elections.

They include Azmin Ali (PKR), Sivarasa Rasiah (PKR), N Gobalakrishnan (PKR), Tony Pua (Democratic Action Party), Dzulkefly Ahmad (Parti Islam SeMalaysia), Hatta Ramli (PAS) and Lo' Lo' Ghazali (PAS).

If they all get stiff fines or big jail sentences from the courts, although these perhaps are just a remote possibility, it would mean a big disaster for the opposition.

On paper at least, this means PR could be left with only 74 seats in Parliament, enabling the ruling Barisan Nasional (BN) to regain its traditional two-thirds majority. PR currently has 82 seats in the 222-seat Parliament.

Getting back the two-thirds majority - or at least 148 seats - would be a big morale-booster for BN, which is still struggling to win back voter support lost to the opposition in last year's general election.

BN has, in the half century of Malaysia's independence, always won two-thirds majority in Parliament, until the 2008 general elections, which threw up shocking results.

Additionally, an ongoing crackdown by Malaysian graft-busters, which began this week, may also lead to more charges against politicians, and eventually lead to even more by-elections if those involved are found guilty and forced to give up their seats.

On Tuesday, an Umno MP and five others already witnessed corruption charges filed against them by the Malaysia Anti Corruption Commission.

While by-elections have already fatigued Malaysians, the thought of more to come would make them numb.

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'Happy Deepavali.'

At 06:30 a.m. as I waited in the lobby of the Cinnamon Grand Hotel in Colombo recently, that was the call from the man striding by.

At first it didn't quite register. Then I awoke from my reverie:

Happy Deepavali, to you, Minister!

Perhaps it was fitting that the first person to wish me that day was George Yeo, Singapore's foreign minister. For Mr Yeo is an uncommon personality. Among all the global personalities I have encountered in a three decades-long career, I have met no one with such an interest in other cultures. I have watched him on an early winter morning, finishing up his breakfast, changing into chinos and a leather jacket to visit the historic Mughal built Sunday Mosque in Delhi's old quarter, only his bodyguards in tow. I have watched him in the dusty outback of India's Bihar state, standing amidst the ruins of the ancient university of Nalanda, fittingly in the company of some of the world's best known intellectual luminaries. He was there to participate in a Singapore-backed dream to revive that ancient Buddhist seat of learning for a new generation of Asians. Last month in Hua Hin, Thailand, the East Asia Summit endorsed that effort.

I am not a big fan of blogsites, but one I unfailingly check every few weeks is Mr Yeo's blog, if nothing else to catch up on some speech of his I may have missed.

On this Deepavali day, we would travel in a quiet land where there was little celebration despite the area being home to large numbers of Hindus. We would move by helicopter to Mannar in the northwest of Sri Lanka, then to Jaffna in the north and on to Trincomallee in the northeast. We would be briefed by military commanders and civilian administrators. We would visit irrigation projects and the Prima factory in Trincomallee, that iconic Singapore investment in Sri Lanka whose products have been consumed by every citizen of that nation. We would visit the historic Jaffna library and the famous Nallur Kandasamy temple in that town.

"Did you see the look on his face when he broke that coconut as an offering at the temple?" a Tamil Singaporean who was part of Mr Yeo's delegation told me later. "The reverence was real."

At the end of the day, having dined with a local industrialist and before embarking for Singapore, Mr Yeo sat down for a media wrapup. There, he unerringly pronounced correctly the names of every town we had visited and every person he met. I was taken aback.

I must have been to Sri Lanka more than a dozen times, sometimes for more than two weeks at a time, but I will not lay claim to have the same facility. Yet, this was only Mr Yeo's second visit to the island and the first was many years ago, when he holidayed there with his wife.

Does all that make him less Chinese, or less interested in the culture of his own forefathers?

Not at all.

In Trincommalee I watched a retired Sri Lankan admiral, now governor of the Eastern Province, brief Mr Yeo. The admiral mentioned an area called China Bay. Immediately, Mr Yeo's ears pricked up. He asked how the area got that name, then went on to answer his own question by discussing various possibilities, including a port call by the Chinese seafarer Zheng He.

Foreign ministers come in all sizes of intellect. Around the world there must be a few who can match Mr Yeo's intellect. But what probably sets him apart is his genuine interest in alien cultures and this surely must be of use in what probably is the world's most globalised island state.

Mr Yeo gives the impression of a man overawed by the splendour of the universe even as he marks his own place in it.

That thought struck me after seeing the transcript of a door-stop interview he gave Colombo journalists after bilateral talks with his Sri Lankan counterpart, Rohitha Bogollogama.

Dwelling on the talented Sri Lankan diaspora and how it could be harnessed for the country's post-war development, he had this to say: 'All my four children were delivered by Sri Lankan doctors.'

As a lifelong journalist my only regret about Mr Yeo is that he didn't choose to join my profession. Certainly, he had the opportunity.

My former editor in chief, Mr Cheong Yip Seng, once told me he had talent-spotted a young George Yeo just as he had entered government service as a bureaucrat. They were in Indonesia together, accompanying some heavyweight on an official trip.

Sadly, Mr Yeo declined Mr Cheong's offer of employment, choosing to stay on in government.

Too bad. The Straits Times newsroom could have used his skills to teach how to convey the most complex and beautiful thoughts in the simplest language.

And on that subject here is my favourite George Yeo line.

Turning up at an inter-religious meeting a couple of years ago in Singapore, Mr Yeo had this to say about the Parsis. This is the tiny community of Zoroastrians who migrated to India from Persia a thousand years ago and have been successful in business while being great philanthropists.

"The Parsis," said Mr Yeo at that meeting, "have always sweetened the milk that is their host."

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IN INDIA

REMEMBER Mrs. Lotika Sarkar, the elderly widow who was divested of her two-storey house in an upmarket neighbourhood in New Delhi by a scheming police officer and his family? (Reduced to a spectator, Jan 22, 2009).

The old lady, 87, is finally getting her house back thanks largely to a concerted media campaign.

Mrs. Sarkar is not some illiterate rural woman who could be conned by a trickster. She is a former head of Delhi University's Law Faculty and a social worker. Her husband Chanchal Sarkar was a leading journalist and a former chairman of the Press Institute of India.

That such a person could be deprived of her "old-age insurance" by foul means is a reflection of the problems elderly people  face in India. Social activists say that that with India's population set to touch 137 million by 2021, such problems will multiply.

To recap Mrs. Sarkar's story, a few years after her husband's death, Mr. Nirmal Dhaundial, a police officer who was a family friend of the Sarkars, moved into her house along with his wife Priti and occupied the ground floor "to look after her." Their employed son Nitish had already been living with Mrs. Sarkar.

Though few of Mrs. Sarkar's relatives remembered seeing them when her husband was alive, Mr. Dhaundial claimed "I am like a son to Latika Sarkar. She has no one to look after her. My son has been living here for six years, and after my elder brother's death, my wife also shifted here to take care of aunty."

The Dhaundials were not the only ones who had their eyes on Mrs. Sarkar's property.

Her maid, Rangita Bharati, who had been thrown out of the house, bag and baggage earlier by the Dhaundials, also forcibly re-entered the house and occupied a room upstairs, saying it had been rented out to her by the old lady.

Mr. Dhoundial, who had used his police powers to throw her out of the house, could not do anything this time because a tenant cannot be evicted without a court order.

A statutory tribunal, set up under the Maintenance and Welfare of the Parents and Senior Citizens Act and which heard Mrs. Sarkar's story, was hard on the police officer in its order last week.

"She has been divested, at the age of 87, of her right to life with dignity through fraud by the Dhoundials who took advantage of her age and poor health," it observed.

It also declared as "void" a gift deed that Mr. Dhoundial, had produced as evidence that Mrs. Sarkar had "gifted" the house to his wife, a claim the old lady resolutely denied in a signed affidavit.

Mrs. Sarkar, who had shifted to a relative's house, said she could never have knowingly given the property away because it was her "old-age insurance."

Mr. Dhoundial's response was that he would return the house to her provided she spent 10 days with his family. Apparently, he thought that would give them sufficient time to work on the the frail, old woman to change her mind.

The tribunal, in its order, said the three Dhoundials (father, mother and son) "may not think of themselves as part of the criminal elements of society but their systematic actions over a period of time have put to shame even skilled professional thieves who make their living by burglary, loot, larceny and robbery etc.

"In this case, the Dhoundials used not gas cutters or house breakers to take over the house of Mrs. Sarkar but used 'nice paper work' as a tool in the property crime."

The news brought cheers to her friends and well-wishers, who have been following the case. It will be their fervent hope that the old lady would be allowed to spend the rest of her life peacefully.

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IN JAKARTA

CONSIDER this. You just bought a brand new red Honda Civic, but on your first ride through the city, you brush it ever so lightly against a wall while negotiating a tricky turn in a bylane. The result — a small dent to the car's posterior which is difficult to spot but manages to spoil the beauty of this gorgeous machine anyway.
 
Having spent a small fortune to buy the car, you are in no mood to spend a bomb getting the dent fixed. What then would you do?

If you are in Jakarta, you immediately drive to the outskirts of the city and park your car in a small, badly lit, hole-in-the-wall workshop and wait for the magic to begin!

As the workshop's doors close behind you, there is not a soul in sight. All you can hear from the adjacent waiting room is a faint knocking sound for the next hour or so, betraying the presence of people hard at work.

When the sounds stop and the door to the workshop opens again, you find your car all fixed, as though by magic, with no trace of the dent and not a scratch on its expensive paint job.

Welcome to the world of "ketok magic", a dingy, inconvenient garage of sorts, where a quick-fix car job takes half the time and one-third the cost — much to the joy of car owners in Indonesia, most of whom do not have insurance.

One of the mysterious "ketok magic" workshops in Indonesia.
PHOTO: Wahyudi Soeriaatmadja

"Ketok" means knocking in Bahasa Indonesia. It is believed that the first person to hone these skills was a certain Mbah Turut in East Java, who first started working his magic on bicycles in 1960s.

He passed on the secret skill to his heirs, but it was eventually leaked to the benefit of neighbours and close acquaintances.

Over time, these secret-keepers expanded their horizons and set up shop in other parts of the country. Now, the third generation of these skilled workers have graduated to fixing larger vehicles like cars.

These workshops have been an alternative to the conventional car body repair shops for decades, thanks to their very competitive pricing.

Their "ketok magic" title comes from the fact that they deliver a quick and effective service in a skilled and clandestine fashion. All you see in these workshops is a dingy room wide enough to park the vehicle.

The customer never gets to see these workers — as skilled as the mythical "shoemaker's elves" — who fix car problems, nor do they ever get to see the tools that are used to mend the vehicles.

But, it is believed that the tools are a wide range of hand-made objects, including hammers of different shapes and sizes, metal rods and sticks and other wooden apparatus, which cannot be easily found in the nearby Carrefour supermarket.

What these tools essentially do is knock the vehicle into shape, ever so gently and with finesse.

Different sets of manually-assembled tools are used to fix different types of problems. They are usually accompanied by patches used to protect the car's paint job while the ketok works its magic.

It is no exaggeration then that some compare ketok repairmen to wood carving artisans.

They remain popular with car owners in Java, especially among youngsters who need quick repair jobs to hide their reckless driving from their parents, all without having to drill a big hole in their pockets.

But, if other customers choose to overlook the inconvenience of location and the discomfort of the waiting room, "ketok magic" remains their most favourable option at an affordable price. Sometimes the patchwork does go wrong, but that is rare.

It is no wonder then that the workshops remain a popular option to its expensive alternative — automobile repair shops.

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IN INDIA

THIS is something we Indians don't like to be told, don't want to hear, that India is a 'soft' state when it comes to dealing with terrorism.

But a senior state official in West Bengal did exactly that — threw it on our face, so to say, to our utter embarrassment last week.

Of course, the official, Home Secretary Ardhendu Sen, said it to justify the state government's action and probably to save his own skin.

It was Sen's unpleasant task to carry out the communist government's decision to release over 20 Maoists in exchange for a police officer abducted by the rebels.

"Release or ..." was the threat by the Maoists, who hold sway in a large swathe of the country – over 200 administrative districts out of over 600.

The threat had to be taken seriously because only days before they had beheaded an abducted police officer in the neighbouring Jharkhand state after the central government refused to give into their demand for the release of three top rebel leaders in police custody.

The West Bengal government lumped its own decision not to talk to the Maoists "unless they eschewed violence" and released the Maoist suspects, many of them tribal women from one of the most impoverished regions of the state, in exchange for Atindranath Dutta, officer in-charge of a police station, who had been abducted by the rebels in an attack on his police station on Oct 20.

Armed rebels had raided the police station, shot dead two other police officers and looted the armoury and a nearby bank before taking Dutta away.

While the government quietly released the Maoists in custody by not opposing their bail applications when it came up before the court, the rebels made it a point to gain maximum publicity to show how they successfully arm-twisted the government to concede their demand.

The Maoists took a large group of media personnel, TV cameras et all, to a hideout in their jungle stronghold ringed by heavily armed rebels to witness the release of the police officer.

After keeping the journalists waiting for about three hours, a group of gun-totting Maoists brought the police officer with a large prisoner-of-war tag hung round his neck before them.

After warning the state and central government of dire consequences if they continued their clamp down against the rebels, a Maoist leader removed the tag from the officer's neck with a flourish and declared him free.

"The decision of not talking to the Maoists unless they eschewed violence is a long-term process but when you are placed in such a situation you have to make a compromise," Home Secretary Sen told reporters later.

Did it not amount to meekly giving into the rebels' demand and demonstrate the weakness of the government, he was asked.

"We had to make a choice between getting the officer alive and freeing some Maoists."

Then, he went on to say that India had behaved liked this always in such situations.

He referred to the release of three Pakistan-based terrorists in a exchange for 176 passengers of an Indian airliner after it was hijacked to Kandahar in Afghanistan in December 1999 and that of five Kashmiri militants in exchange for the release of the daughter of then federal home minister in 1989, an incident that observers say marked the escalation of separatist violence in the Himalayan state.

"India is a soft state. We have seen these instances earlier in the 60 years since independence," Mr. Sen said.

And, he drove home the point, saying India is not Israel.

"There is a difference between the Indian government and the Government of Israel. We cannot do what they can do."

Is that good or bad, to be not able to do what the Israelis would do in similar circumstances?

Bomb the hell out of the rebels, no matter whether innocent civilians get annihilated and their properties destroyed or not?

These are difficult questions to answer.

Like the state Chief Minister, Mr. Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, under fire for the swap not only from the media and the central government but even from his own party colleagues, said: "This was an exceptional decision taken on humanitarian grounds."

He also said that the government would not repeat the mistake.

Until next time, he should have added, perhaps, going by his home secretary's pronouncements.

While the debate about the right or wrong of the swap will continue, the picture of the released police officer's reunion with his smiling wife, relief writ large on her face, their infant child in her hands made one realise the importance of human lives and that the Maoists cannot be the role model.

Maybe for all the bluster, we Indians think with our hearts even at the risk of being dubbed "darpok", Hindi for "cowards."

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SQUEAMISH me. I never thought I'd find anything at all to love about rats.

But now I can call them HeroRATS, a transformational name coined by Bart Weetjens. The innovator trains giant African rats to sniff out lethal buried landmines in Mozambique, so people can move back to their land. And the nation can move on.

Mr Bart Weetjens trains African Giant Pouched Rats to detect land mines. PHOTO: LESOIR

Rats are a powerful conceptual leap from the practice of sending humans into danger with clunky mechanical detectors or dogs. The good thing is, rats are too light to trigger bombs. Maybe they are not as affectionate as dogs, but they are less pricey to house, feed and transport.

Skype-ing with Bart - a Belgian based in Tanzania but travelling in Colombia - he shows me the flipside of a problem: Opportunity.

For Bart, 43, has made a virtue of vermin, which is plentiful in the Third World. "Social change is often based on turning problems into opportunities," he remarks.

He believes new opportunities can arise from the troubles of our time: growing population, climate change, urban waste, for starters. But turning vast problems around needs an innovative spark plus heroic persistence, despite loud ridicule.

"People laugh at you in the beginning if they think it is a strange idea," he says. "But if you have persistence, the results of your action can be enormous."

An African Giant Pouched Rat is trained and handled by a Tanzanian geared in protective demining clothes and mask. PHOTO: Xavier Rossi

Supporters are certainly vital, and our homegrown Lien Centre for Social Innovation is one. Bart is one of eight winners of the centre's Lien i3 Challenge, a global contest that seeks and scales up social innovations that can impact Asia. The contest offered a S$1 million purse to spur innovative non-profits.

Winners like Bart create much impact from very little, observes chief judge Willie Cheng, who chairs the Lien Centre.

Casting light on the innovative spirit, which the Lien Centre hopes to fan, he adds: "Much of what makes a solution work is not new in itself. If it was, it would be an invention, not an innovation. Innovation occurs when someone takes an existing tool or technology and sees for the first time how it can be applied in a new way."

All the winners did that, with imagination and efficiency. They show that solutions can lie inside very messy problems. They convince us that even the small and despised things of the world may not be what they seem, if we choose to be creative and attentive.

Even rats can change the world. So what about people? There has to be a changemaker inside us.

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IN BANGKOK

THE big old man in a wheelchair did not look like someone whose name once inspired loyalty, fear, or hatred depending on whose side you were on.

Those were the days of World War II and the Cold War. At the time, Chin Peng as he is widely known, was the head of the Malayan Communist Party.

Chin Peng is the former head of the Malayan Communist Party.
PHOTO: Nirmal Ghosh

I was at the hotel in Bangkok to join The Straits Times' Senior Regional Correspondent Leslie Lopez, who had flown down from Kuala Lumpur to interview him. It was an occasion, perhaps even a historic one.

Chin Peng, who will be 85 this month, is locked in a legal battle for the right to return to Malaysia to die in his homeland. He has been living in Thailand for decades now and has not given a media interview in years.

Almost always, he paused to think before answering a question.

Chin Peng was a legend while in the jungle. Tales about him included his supposed mystical powers which it was said enabled him to avoid capture by the police and armed forces of three countries - Britain, Japan, and finally his own Malaysia.

But the man himself dismissed the tales.

There was nothing mystical about it, he told us with a laugh.

Referring to one incident in which he managed to escape being captured, he simply said he left the place by a different route. "We knew the area well," he said with a smile.

He expressed no regret for his beliefs or his decision to wage an armed struggle.

When asked which world leaders he admired most, he paused for a long time - perhaps up to three minutes - and then broke into a sheepish grin and said, "Mao Tse Tung."

But he hastily added a caveat: "But, but - for many, he was not a perfect leader."

We spent a few hours with him, and after Leslie was through I popped in a last question of my own.

Is the world a better place now, is there less or more injustice in the world? I asked.

He thought for a while, as we sat patiently, surrounded by the leafy trees and the sound of water in the landscaped garden, by then in the half light of the gathering evening.

Then he smiled and said the answer was too complicated for him to venture a short reply. It seemed a fitting comment nevertheless.

Chin Peng being interviewed by The Straits Times' Senior Regional Correspondent Leslie Lopez. PHOTO: Nirmal Ghosh

Read Leslie Lopez's interview with Chin Peng in Wednesday's edition of The Straits Times.

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IN KUALA LUMPUR

WHO contributed to Malaya’s independence? What was the role of the Chinese, and the Indians? How did they get along with the Malays? What legacy did the British leave us?

The answers in the history textbooks rarely satisfy everyone.

Some years ago, the Malaysian Chinese Association complained that the role of Chinese leaders like Yap Ah Loy have virtually disappeared from textbooks.

Former Malayan communists said their role in fighting for independence had gone unacknowledged. But in his memoirs published this week, former Information Minister Mohamed Rahmat disagreed that they had a role.

History is far from being a dry and dusty subject in Malaysia. It is very much part of the soul-searching that underpins the changing racial dynamics in Malaysia.

But it is not just confined to political squabbles.

An idiosyncratic historical tour of Kuala Lumpur that I joined last Sunday was enlightening in its take on race relations a century ago.

It was led by Malaysian writer Kam Raslan.

A motley group of tourists and Malaysians, we walked through the oldest part of KL built by Chinese tin-miners who came to the region to seek  their fortunes. (These days it seems to be a "Little Nepal" as migrant workers congregate there.)

The tin-miners survived disease and deplorable living conditions, and developed the area where the Gombak and Klang rivers meet. It was a hard life.

Apparently, Yap Ah Loy's men would stand at a bridge nearby to shoot at crocodiles as boats from Klang docked.

Locals and tourists enjoy an alternative view of Kuala Lumpur's history on Mr Kam's walking tour of the city. PHOTO: Carolyn Hong

But Mr Kam pointed out that it would be a misconception that KL was an entirely Chinese creation. There were also many Malays there — some tin-miners, some farmers — although most of them lived further away along the coast.

"That was before the British came. There was a mutually beneficial working relationship between the Chinese and Malays, without a referee like the British, or in these days, Umno," he said, to much laughter.

Interesting. On foot, we took a closer look at the architectural beauties that the British built and the old shophouses, and ended at a Chinese temple built by Yap Ah Loy. His portrait is in there.

Mr Kam's tour is part of a History series by an arts group, the Instant Café Theatre. It includes conversations, performances, and films.

For more information go to www.instantcafetheatre.com.

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IN TAIPEI

I TOOK two big plastic bags, stuffed with more plastic bags, back with me when I returned to Taipei after a trip home to Singapore in August.

Although I am happy that these plastic bags are not dished out to me without thought in Taiwan, as is the case in Singapore, this does mean I am often short of bags to line my bins.

Taiwan is generally more environmentally friendly than Singapore and has often come up with good ideas to go green.

These include subsidies for buying energy-saving washing machines and refridgerators, and promoting cycling.

But two initiatives, reported in the Taiwan media on Wednesday, have caused many people to go green in the face instead.

The first is a crematorium in Taipei, which uses smoke from the burning of corpses to power its air-conditioning system.

On average, the crematorium burns 52 corpses a day and the recycled fumes can help save more than NT$3,000 (S$150) a day in energy costs.

Still, the idea of using fumes from cremations to supply cold air has given some people the shivers.

Isn't it creepy, some ask. And how will the kin of the deceased feel?

One fengshui expert interviewed also believed that the fumes from burning bodies are a kind of dirty "qi", which will bring bad luck.

Surprisingly, though, given that the Taiwanese tend to be a superstitious lot, six in 10 people polled by Apple Daily newspaper are okay with the crematorium's recycling move.

Meanwhile, in Taichung, the local authorities have announced a novel scheme to encourage people to pick up litter from the streets.

Folks who pick up things like discarded paper or styrofoam cups can turn these in for vouchers in a scheme starting next week.

What has raised eyebrows though is that residents will also get rewarded for picking up dog poo, with every 1kg exchangeable for NT$100 in shopping vouchers.

While the intention is good, many, including me, wonder if it can be enforced. As the common saying here goes, the authorities have policy, the people have contingency.

"Who can tell if the brown substance handed in was really picked up from the streets? What is to stop people from turning in poo from their homes in return for vouchers?" I asked a colleague.

She almost spat out the pomelo she was eating.

I guess when it comes to green causes, Taiwan has no taboos.

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