I didn’t make up the “Disneyland with a death penalty” line. It’s a direct quote from a local resident.

Check out the crazy high fines imposed for things Americans wouldn’t think twice about doing on a subway: $500 for eating or drinking, $1000 for smoking, and $5000 for having flammable goods. (I know that last item on the sign looks like it prohibits hand grenades, but it actually bans a kind of local fruit.)

What? No fines for masturbating or stabbing someone with a knife? What kind of subway system are they running here?

Fact is, there is virtually no crime in Singapore. Want to know why? Because there are only four punishments meted out here: Steep fines, long prison terms, caning, or the death penalty. At least that’s what one local resident told me.

Remember Michael Fay? He was the 17-year old American kid who was found guilty of vandalism and theft in Singapore ten or so years ago. Soft-hearted Americans complained that he shouldn’t be caned, but the Singapore government basically said, “Our country, our rules” and caned the living bejesus out of the kid.

Jamie and I have always abided by that theory when we travel. Last thing I wanted to do was end up in a Russian gulag or Chinese labor camp or on the sharp end of a cane in Singapore.

Or even worse, paying $500 for eating a Snickers on the subway. You know what a cheapskate I am.

On night four, the smoke finally cleared enough to reduce the PSI level down below 300. The skies kind of cleared in the evening so we took a stroll around the bay and snapped a few photos.

Singapore has a pretty impressive skyline. Especially when you can see it.

There was a water and laser light show down at the edge of the water. Must have been a couple thousand people watching, including a quite a few aboard boats gathered in the bay.

We hit the last day of summer less than a week ago, but here in Singapore that signals the beginning of the annual Mid-Autumn Festival. I am unable to explain this odd scheduling anomoly.

The skies had cleared enough so that we could actually see the colorful lanterns that decorated streets throughout the neighborhood.

We walked around, soaked up the atmosphere, had some great Chinese food, and each got a life-saving foot massage.

Don’t let that blue sky in the background fool you. The skies are still filled with unhealthy levels of smoke. Look at the buildings in the background and you’ll see how hazy it is.

I have to say “sounds like the zoo would have been fun” because we never actually saw it. Except from the outside.

The city was covered with thick, choking smoke, so we thought we’d be brave and visit the Singapore Zoo for its world famous Night Safari. They promote it as “Singapore’s Wildest Night Spot” and you get to see all the nocturnal animals that are usually sleeping during the day.

Here we are when we arrived, eager to take the night safari. Then we tried to buy tickets.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of people were milling around, but they wouldn’t sell another ticket unless the reading went below 300. As you can see in this photo, the reading stubbornly stayed over 300. We hung around for a couple hours, but it never dropped, so we eventually gave up and caught a taxi back to our hotel.

It’s tough to be a tourist when you can’t see across the street. And as you can tell by these photos, “can’t see across the street” is not just a figure of speech.

Singapore is covered with smoke. Thick, eye-burning, lung-scorching smoke caused by large-scale burning on the Indonesia islands of Sumatra and Borneo. Our friend Tom told us that they’re burning down jungles and bogs in order to plant palm oil trees and the prevailing winds blow the smoke across the strait into Singapore.

It looks like the city is covered with a thick layer of gauze. We literally can’t see across the street. We’re supposed to stay indoors. Many of the residents who do venture outside are wearing surgical masks.

A PSI (Pollutant Standard Index) reading over 100 indicates unhealthy air. Today’s measurement in Singapore was over 400. No one was supposed to go outside unless it was absolutely necessary. So, of course, we went out and tried to do everything. And failed. Our major accomplishment of the day was walking to the mall across the street from our hotel to have lunch with Singapore friends Tom and Kelly.

The top photo is Singapore’s most iconic building, the Marina Bay Sands, hidden in the thick smoke. The bottom photo is what it is supposed to look like.

The view out our hotel window. There’s a huge, beautiful city out there, but you’d never know it.

Up at Tea Trails, you couldn’t walk the trails or even cut across the lawn without picking up a legful of bloodthirsty leeches.

The photo above shows one attached to Jamie’s foot. I had trouble taking the photo because the woman was screeching like a banshee.

“Forget the damn photo and get this thing off my foot!”

I shook a little table salt — which had been generously provided by Tea Trails before we set out on our hike — on the bloodthirsty little bugger and he immediately curled up into a little ball, relaxed his grip, and dropped off.

I don’t know what she was screaming about. He didn’t even draw any blood. And by the way, any stories she tells about me squealing like a little girl when a leech attached itself to my leg are completely untrue.

I swear.

I’d never heard of a tuk tuk until we arrived in Colombo. It’s a kind of an auto rickshaw that gets it’s name from the sound the small engine makes as it chugs own the street: tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk.

A tuk tuk has a sheet-metal body, three wheels, a canvas roof with drop-down side curtains, a small cabin in the front of the vehicle for the driver, and a back seat big enough for two passengers (three if they’re either very small or very friendly). The driver steers, accelerates and brakes with handlebar controls instead of a steering wheel.

I read that there are a million tuk tuks in Sri Lanka. That’s a huge number, but I believe it because every road, every highway, every dirt path is clogged with them. They’re lined up by the dozens in front of any building from which a potential passenger might possibly emerge. They swerve crazily through the worst rush hour traffic and appear to risk the lives of the drivers and passengers.

Vilmer, the lucky tuk tuk driver who was parked outside the Colombo Hilton Residences at the moment we walked out the front door, knew he had a couple suckers as soon as he laid eyes on us. We told him we wanted to go to the Odel shopping center and off we went. After pulling into Odel’s parking lot, we climbed out of the tuk tuk and I asked Vilmer how much we owed him.

“Nothing,” he said. “You go shopping and I’ll wait for you over there” as he pointed toward a line of competitive tuk tuks.

We shopped. We came out. Vilmer was waiting for us. We climbed back into his tuk tuk and headed for The MC, the next shopping center on Jamie’s list. Again, Vilmer said, “Go shopping. I’ll wait for you out here.”

After four hours we had seen it all. Or at least as much at least as much as we wanted to see. The Government Shops. The White House. The “heart” of Colombo (where the nation was founded). The fancy schmancy new theater complex. The beach. The dark alleys that looked like something out of Indiana Jones. So Vilmer took us back to the hotel, we climbed out of the tuk tuk and I said, “How much do we owe you?”

“Four hours. One thousand rupiahs per hour,” he said. “That will be 4000 rupiahs.”

That’s about 28 American dollars. I laughed because we had been told that the going rate for a tuk tuk and driver is about $5 per day in Colombo and we had only been with Vilmer for half a day.

My normal inclination would be to haggle, but I figured it was my own damn fault for not negotiating a price up front. And I thought, Hell, this $28 won’t make a difference in my life, but it might make a big difference in his.

I peeled off 4000 rupiahs and made our tuk tuk driver’s day. Maybe his month.

More about those dark alleys in the next post.

Before haircut. Neither Jamie nor I can begin to explain why Vilmer has pulled up his shirt to expose his belly.

After haircut. My new Sri Lankan stylist looks rather proud of his artistry.

My Dutch genes kicked in a couple days ago and I told Jamie I was determined to get my hair cut by a street barber in Sri Lanka or Bali. I have only about 100 hairs left on my head and it pisses me off when I have to pay $16 to get them “styled” in Texas or California.

So after Vilmer the tuk tuk driver was finished showing us the sights in downtown Colombo, I asked if he knew a good barber.

“Oh, yes, sir. I have a very good friend who is a barber,” he said. “He cuts my hair.”

Vilmer had a full head of closely cropped hair and I thought, Well, his hair looks ok and it’s tough to screw up the few hairs I have left. Let’s do this.

Vilmer’s turned away from the main streets and we dove deep into Colombo’s narrow network of serpentine alleyways. After ten minutes or so, he pulled the tuk tuk into a small spot along an alleyway, climbed out, and motioned for us to follow him. It really did look like we were in the middle of an Indiana Jones movie. We didn’t have a clue where we were or where we were going or where we had come from.

He led us into a small shop and introduced us to a young barber who motioned to a chair and indicated that I should take a seat. Next thing I knew, I was getting one of the best, fastest haircuts I’ve ever had. Ten minutes later I was done. Jamie gave me a thumbs up.

I hopped out of the chair and said, “Good job. How much?”

The barber started to tell me, but Vilmer interrupted and began speaking in Sinhala. Next thing I knew, Vilmer was in the chair, getting his head shaved.

When his haircut was complete, I again asked the barber, “How much?”

Again Vilmer and the barber began speaking in Sinhala. The more Vilmer spoke, the more the young barber furrowed his brow. Finally, Vilmer spoke.

“Five hundred rupiahs.”

That’s equal to about $3.54 give or take a couple cents and depending on the day’s current exchange rate.

Hmmmmm, I thought to myself, that’s about double what I expected this haircut to cost, and it seems to be more than the barber is willing to ask for, and I think I’m paying for Vilmer’s haircut, too, but it’s only $3.50 and he did as good a job as my $16 barber back in Texas, so I paid in full and also gave him a 100 rupiah tip.

These rupiahs are burning a hole in my pocket, baby.

I doubt if most Americans could find Sri Lanka on a map. If you’re one who can’t, you should learn, because it’s a remarkably beautiful country — by far our favorite of the five countries we’ve visited so far. In fact, we’re already talking about coming back again because we know we just scratched the surface here.

We’ve shown you lots of beautiful photos of the highlands and tea plantations and safari country, but we’ve been remiss in not showing more of Colombo, Sri Lanka’s capital and largest city.

We saw the worst parts of the city during our taxi ride from the airport to the beautiful Hilton Residences. Luckily, we took a half a day tour of the city by tuk tuk. Otherwise, we never would have seen half the beauty Colombo has to offer.

This is the view from our room. That’s the Lotus Tower being built across the Biera Lake. It’s 1150 feet high now and won’t be complete until it’s another 300 feet higher.

The Golden Buddha in Victoria Park. We always try to take photos of Buddhist things so we can report back to our Buddhist friend Ritchie.

Independence Commemoration Hall, located on Independence Square in Cinnamon Gardens, was built to commemorate independence from British rule.

Jim and Jamie standing with the Standing Buddha Statue at the Kotikawatte Temple.

Vilmer assured us that Colombo has beautiful beaches when it’s not high tide.

Now let’s get to the three most beautiful parts of Sri Lanka:

This is Achala, the guest relations director at the Hilton Residences. I drove her crazy with questions and requests for months, yet she greeted us with a huge smile on her face. I know she drove across town to pick up our tickets for the Rajadhani Express, and I suspect that she may have had something to do with the fact that we got an oversized room with an incredible view. Thanks, Achala.
This is Yoshini, who answered all our questions at the front desk. She was almost perfect (the only thing standing between her and perfection was that she told Jamie where all of Colombo’s best shopping centers could be found).
Finally, here’s Amanda, who works the front desk at the Hilton. She did everything we asked and never lost that beautiful smile. And she tried to give us a free trip to the airport.

Some people are nice enough to call me quirky while others opt for freakin’ crazy. But Jamie calls me Sheldon because my obsessive/compulsive behavior reminds her of the character on The Big Bang Theory. Some days she says I’m just somewhere out on the edge of the autism spectrum. Other days she’s convinced that I have full-on Aspergers Syndrome.

She may have a point. I accept that I am an odd man. I have enough quirks in my behavior to keep a team of psychologists busy full time.

I used to have an employee who took it upon herself to compile a complete, comprehensive list of all my strange habits and odd mannerisms. Apparently the list had made the rounds of the agency and other employees had a real hoot adding items to the list. By the time it reached its final form, they had alphabetized and categorized 19 separate quirky habits. Other employees told me that originator of the list had also worked up a dead-on impression of me, but I could never persuade her to let me see it. She also declined to show me the list of mannerisms.

Why do I tell you this? Because we were having dinner at Tea Trails the other night and on the table sat a candle that tilted at an odd angle inside a small lantern. Let’s say it was 5 degrees off center. I endured it as long as I could before I was compelled to do what any sane, completely rational person would have done under the same circumstances — I squeezed a finger inside the lantern and attempted to adjust the candle into a perfectly upright position without burning my finger.

I looked across the table and Jamie was rolling her eyes. Well, in the interest of complete journalistic accuracy, I should note that she actually stopped rolling her eyes when I accidentally snuffed out the candle, and said, “No, seriously. What is wrong with you?”

“The candle wasn’t straight,” I responded.

“And now the candle is still crooked,” she accurately pointed out, “but it doesn’t have a flame.”

A few minutes later the waiter noticed that our candle had gone out, so he whisked away the candle and lantern, re-lit the wick, and returned it to our table.

We continued to eat until Jamie looked at me and said, “You can’t stand it that the candle’s still not straight, can you?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I lied.

We continued eating.

I fear the woman is some kind of Svengali, mind-reading, spirit witch, because she stopped eating and sighed, “Go ahead. Straighten the candle.”

I did it. I felt better. Much better. What rational person wouldn’t?

OK, the truth is that Jamie deserves a medal for living with me. My obsessive/compulsive habits would probably drive Mahatma Gandhi to violence and yet she merely laughs at them and humors me.

On this trip, for example, I had EVERY detail of our hotels and transportation worked out and reserved months in advance, and color-coded on a series of spreadsheets. I always have to sleep on the side of the bed that has the clock. I must sit on the aisle in airplanes. I won’t sit with my back to the door in restaurants. I must talk to strangers as if they’re my best friends. There’s a website called StatCounter that provides accurate, realtime updates of website traffic and I will stare at the screen and click the refresh button every few seconds for hours until our website traffic reaches a round number. The other night I tried repeatedly to straighten a crooked picture in our hotel room despite the fact that I knew it was nailed securely to the wall. I always order the same meal in each restaurant I go to on a regular basis (at one McKinney restaurant they don’t even wait to ask me what I want. As soon as I walk in the door someone hollers, “Jim!” and my regular order gets to the table almost as soon as I do.)

It’s no wonder I love Jamie. Who else would put up with me?