Welcome to the Eat, Shop, Play, Love blog. This is a writing experiment that aims to lend a voice to the millions of Asians around the world who have left their native countries to live their lives in a different place, for whatever the reasons may be. Read the authors' profiles here.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Tianni on Love: Coming Home

As far back as I can recall, I’ve always been trying to escape where I was, to go to where I wasn’t. In the years before the maturity for realizing this on my own, the travels took place in the form of an untameable wandering mind (much to the detriment of school report cards). During elementary school, I often rushed back from classes to flop onto my bedroom floor, still in uniform, to continue the narrative of a previous day’s daydream, a favorite theme being running free through the wilderness as a wild-haired Pocahontas.



Taking off from Singapore China Airport

So the minute I could escape the constant watchfulness that comes with living with conservative Asian parents, I took off. It started small, with jaunts across the Causeway. Limited by tight student budgets, college friends and I would cycle hundreds of kilometres up Malaysia’s beautiful west coast or sleep on remote eastern islands in rat-infested beach huts. For some years, I dated a guy with my same measure of wanderlust and together we explored the ruins of the Acropolis, trekked over mountains to ancient Machu Picchu, and walked through a deserted Belfast hours before a bomb exploded. One birthday during my early twenties, I shivered with a girlfriend inside a hovel with no bed or running water on the Nepal-Tibet border. Six days later, we rolled into Lhasa in a truck we’d hitched a ride on at 4,000 meters, heads throbbing from the altitude and deliriously belting out Tibetan songs with the driver.



Conquering the Great Wall

By the time I left for a year of study in Canada, I had satiated my crazed appetite for adventure and paradoxically yearned for something more permanent. Merely passing through a country could no longer satisfy me. Sure, everywhere I went, I learned at least the local parlance for the toilet, and how to knock prices lower on souvenirs. I religiously avoided tourist traps and swore by dog-eared Lonely Planet bibles.

But at the end of each trip I was still a tourist with nothing more than snapshots to show. I longed to immerse in foreign cultures, to live the lives of locals and go through their daily grind -- of jostling with peak-hour commuters on public transport, grabbing a midday bite with the local lunchtime crowd, or idling a weekend away at an inconspicuous neighborhood joint with nothing but a book and anonymity for company. Perhaps, I thought, in this way something from each country will rub off permanently on me.

While I had never once stopped to contemplate my own roots and what it meant to be a Singaporean out in the world during my day-tripping days, over the years of working and living abroad, I have found myself repeatedly confronted with the question of my own cultural identity.

At film school in Toronto, classmates were surprised I spoke English, told me how “cute” my accent was and took me to an exhibition on China’s communist past hoping I could somehow do a simultaneous translation while shedding light on the country’s history. I had to explain that while yes, I was ethnically Chinese, I was really more comfortable speaking English, my accent sounded as “cute” to their ears as theirs to mine, and no, I couldn’t read half of the Chinese descriptions on the exhibits.



Exhibit of love for the motherland ahead of China’s 60th anniversary

In Bangkok, during crazy morning dashes to catch the train to work, I often found myself silently swearing as I tried to overtake maddeningly relaxed Thai commuters who blocked my path as I took double steps up moving escalators. Unlike the Singaporeans I knew who saw escalators as an aid to speed up already burning paces, I was frustrated by laid-back Thais who actually had the good sense to use an escalator the way it’s meant to be used – as a tool to reduce work done.



A Singapore flavour to the 2006 Thai anti-government protests



Thai flag caught in a tropical storm

In Taiwan, it was my femininity as a woman, more specifically a Singaporean female with a typically independent and assertive streak, that was called into question when I found myself quite out of my league among immaculately groomed Taipei women who, with their skilful manipulation of cloying vocal chords, had men eating out of their manicured snow-white hands.

Moving between multicultural newsrooms in different countries, I've also become aware of the fact that as a Singaporean with my pseudo-Western outlook on the world yet distinctly Asian appearance and upbringing, I was right smack in the middle of a cultural netherworld. Not only do we not have the gung ho optimism of the North Americans or possess their global cultural currency, Singaporeans are also not quite Asian like our neighbors. Used to a system that runs strictly by the law, we sorely lack the shrewdness or savvy of the Chinese who have from young navigated a complex lawless universe. Used to clockwork efficiency, we come to demand the same from others and end up much too blunt and straight-shooting for the taste of more laid back Asians like Thais. By the same measure, our ignorance of and impatience with the intricacies of diplomacy make us appear hopelessly rude to faultlessly polite Japanese. Making this disconnect even wider, we speak English that doesn't sound very much like English to unaccustomed ears, and our grasp of our second language (in my case Chinese) is at best, rudimentary, and at worst, jarring to the ears.

Far from being the 'global citizen' I've fancied myself to be, one who could blend effortlessly into the backdrop of any culture I chose to be part of, I've found that outside of Singapore, I inhabit a rather unique space, one that doesn't really identify with any age-old civilization nor to the Western hegemony of current times. It is one that, quite simply put, is just Singaporean.

This burgeoning awareness of my national identity was fed with each trip I made back home. Among local friends, I found I did not have to consciously ee-nun-cee-ate every word I spoke, lest my listeners did not comprehend me, nor did I have to explain the back stories to personal anecdotes I told. With fellow Singaporeans, especially those with a shared history, I could literally just launch and take off, confident of having a common cultural starting point. I became aware of just how at home I actually felt, back at home.

Let me first confess. I’ve always been one of those who snicker at the overly conscious scores of heart-tugging Singapore National Day songs. Throw a whole bunch of people together and get them to sing along to rousing chords and my bet is, everyone is going to shed at least a few tears and feel patriotic emotions they may not even possess. But recently, I’ve found myself eagerly craning to see through the plane’s tiny windows when flying home on visits.



Touching down at Changi: the feeling of home

And invariably, just as the island’s eastern shoreline appears with its familiar clusters of high-rise HDB flats, interspersed with the careful rows of urban greenery, the first strains of a Kit Chan song will begin its refrain in my ears. “This is home, truly….”

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Cirrus Cloud on Shop: Junk and Junkies

I checked into a "clinic" last weekend for five hours. It is one of the best in Manhattan. It never fails to soothe me, make me feel pretty and make me feel good all over, at least for a bit. Then it makes me feel guilty and broke.

The "clinic" in question - Saks Fifth Avenue.

Retail therapy is such an overused and abused term. Women love it; men loathe it. Women squeal with each purchase; men feel their credit card melt with each swipe.


Shopping!

In Singapore, shopping for clothes is much easier as it is summer all year round. I have lived in Singapore for most of my life and do not have enough winter clothes now that I live in New York.


Snow storm in New York winter 2009/10

So I told my dear husband that I needed more clothes. He stared at me and said innocently, “Our walk-in closet and the two others in the adjoining room are already filled with your clothes.”

I glared back at him and muttered, “I do not have enough winter wear.”


Frozen tree in Central Park

And so I managed to drag him to my favorite clinic. He was tasked to be my retail version of a wingman and to give me comments about each piece of garment.

Being a woman is not simple. We are complex creatures to begin with, and when we shop, we make truly important, mind-blowing decisions. Men should be more patient with us if we cannot decide between smoky-grey and charcoal-grey, or salmon-pink and rusty-pink. We always strive to dress the best for them. They should be constantly reminded: You are the main reason why we dress up (clears throat).

For starters, we looked at mink coats. I have been trying to envision myself in fur for a while now but I still cannot get used to the thought of wearing an animal on me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to play animal activist and I do wear leather. Just not fur. The image of the whole animal on me is just not alluring. To convince myself otherwise, I decided to try some on.

The first coat made me look like Sesame Street's Big Bird. The only thing different was the color but I still felt like a bird. A clumsy bird.



The second coat made me feel 50 years old. Perhaps it is the connotation that most older woman wear fur. It is no doubt that a fur coat looks luxurious and expensive but somehow, I felt my youth dissipate in it.

The third coat, by then, would simply hang in its glorious mane, on the rack.

We ventured into the "Young Ladies Fashion” department. I had a smirk on my face but was feeling apprehensive at the same time. I do not consider myself old, but not that young either. I consoled myself by incessantly chanting, “30s is the new 20s” in my head.

We immediately stumbled upon a sleeveless fire-engine-red shift dress. On closer inspection, the dress was made up of hearts sewn together. I decided to try it on for the fun of it. I never thought that I was going to buy it as I always thought that hearts look too girly for my persona. The only size left was a US 2, which translates to extra-small. My husband and I laughed out loud but he convinced me to put my definitely-larger-than-extra-small body into the dress.


THE red dress

VoilĂ . It fitted well. Shocking! I had to buy the dress. I do not own a size 2 in my closet. I needed to buy this dress then, if not the day before. No debate, no questions, no nothing. Just a yes to size 2. I felt super slim when I walked out of the shop with the dress in hand. The sales person was shocked to find out that I am in my thirties. Ooh, I love cheap thrills. Even if she had lied through her teeth.

In New York, it is common knowledge that a woman cannot wear mini-skirts past the age of 35. I have to wear them now before the societal expiration date. With a vengeance, I swept two mini skirts into my shopping bag. With another swoop, the bag was laden with two skinny tops. Now, anxious of the fact that I have gathered only summer clothes so far, I started hunting high and low for winter clothes, before my husband could make any murmur. I took a thick black cardigan with simple details and used it to cover the summer clothes in the bag.


The mini-skirt which I haven't had the courage to wear...yet.

No comment from the man? Phew. The coast was clear. I could sense his weariness and suggested tea. Between tea and stretching our legs, it occurred to me that shopping is like a drug; it is addictive. The more you get, the more you want. The point of satiation is incomprehensible. After you get hit, you always come back for more, and it certainly brings you highs and lows.

I suddenly felt like a junkie. I am sure there is a retail version of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) in Manhattan for rehabilitation and I was worried that label would get stuck on me.

Instead of shopping for more, I told my husband I wanted to go home. He agreed and said, ”OK, tomorrow we will carry on shopping for proper winter clothes.”

Oops. And I thought he hadn’t noticed.



Some pictures taken off the internet.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Una Ragazza on Shop: Is Being Kiasu "Uniquely Singapore"?

Like many Singaporeans, I laugh when others tease us for being a kiasu nation.

For those not schooled in Singlish, "kiasu" is Chinese for, literally, "fear of losing." It implies overzealous efforts to avoid falling behind – no matter how seemingly trivial the endeavor – in a hyper-competitive nation.



The tag line of the Singapore Tourism Board, which comes complete with its own song:www.uniquely-singapore.com

There is no denying the label is well-deserved; we even have our own comic strip for those who need a little encouragement to wear that badge of honor. My expatriate friends who live in Singapore love to remind me of their encounters with kiasu Singaporeans. The rush into the MRT trains is a perennial favorite in the game where everyone tries to outdo one another with stories of the ugliest Singaporean. Another tale guaranteed to draw laughs when retold at parties is the heaping of buffet food on overflowing plates at shareholders' meetings and the bringing of Tupperware containers to cart home leftovers. And sometimes kiasu-ism leads to goals that may not match one's true capabilities. Puzzling and embarrassing behavior often ensues.



Mr. Kiasu, the unofficial mascot of the Lion City

Interestingly, over the years, I have come to realize that kiasu-ism is not a unique Singaporean trait. In fact, there exist many other kiasu species on this planet.

Not so long ago, the U.S. supermarket chain Whole Foods Market decided to raise awareness on recycling by launching Anya Hindmarch's "I'm not a Plastic Bag" tote bag as a marketing gimmick. The company successfully garnered a lot of publicity on these bags, for the night before they were to be sold (on a fall Sunday morning), long queues had formed outside each of the stores in Manhattan. Now, I had seen an image of the bag during that publicity stunt and had decided that it looked like a glorified shopping bag (think Harrods but with a preppy and cleaner look) for which I would pay no more than US$6.99 (it retailed at $15). However, the style (and hype, I presume) seemed to have gone down very well with Asian Americans and Asians in general. Of the hundreds of people in line outside the Chelsea store that night, at least two-thirds appeared to be of Asian descent; in addition to English, Cantonese, Japanese, Korean, Malay and Singlish conversations were overheard.

Unfortunately for the shoppers, it would rain heavily that night, guaranteeing that everybody received a good soaking even before they received their coveted cloths. (It was ironic to see shoppers later leave the store with their bags carrying a recycling message in Whole Foods plastic bags.) Needless to say, when some of these bags later made it onto eBay for resale, the cost of the overnight camping in soggy clothes was promptly factored into the bid price, which went as high as $300.



Satisfied Whole Food customers and their environmentally-friendly totes in environmentally-unfriendly bags

When fast fashion Swedish retailer H&M launched its collection by Stella McCartney, pandemonium broke out at its New York flagship store. Hordes of women – many of them looking like New York-based professionals, not tourists – dashed into the store and started grabbing clothing from the collection off the shelves. They were in such a mad rush and were hoarding multiple pieces of the same design that it was clear their mentality was "grab and buy first, try on later." The situation was so dire that when a sales girl came out from the storeroom with a large armful of clothes on hangers, the shoppers started flipping through them while she was still holding on to the hangers. What happened next was unthinkable, yet unfortunately quite understandable: the sales girl did not bother walking up to the racks but instead stopped short in her tracks and dropped the entire stack of clothes on the floor, leaving the women scrambling for the pieces on their knees.



The queue for the Stella McCartney launch going round the block of the H&M Manhattan flagship store

Kiasu-ism also shines forth when New Yorkers shop for child care. Some parents are embracing the "No Child Left Behind" act too enthusiastically by having their kid jump on the Chinese bandwagon through learning the language from Chinese au pairs and nannies, often employed for this unique skill they possess. It is also not uncommon for parents to move homes to be in a better school district and to undergo multiple rounds of interviews at nursery schools to try and impress their way to a slot for the kid. At times, it sure feels like Mr. Kiasu has caught the direct flight from Changi to Newark.



The New York Times: To Give Children an Edge, Au Pairs from China

Searching for an apartment brings forth a similar amount of anxiety. When I first decided to move to Manhattan from across the Hudson river, I had spent a copious amount of time identifying apartments and turning up for open houses, only to be greeted by long lines or large crowds in each tiny one-bedroom unit, having been beaten to the game by Manhattanite-wannabes from all around the world. They feature junior bankers from across the Atlantic moving to the city to continue their careers with European financial institutions at their U.S. headquarters, Rich Asian college kids on the FMS ("Father-Mother-Scholarship"), and Americans from all around the country seeking to launch their careers in just about anything – fashion, marketing, law, acting, culinary and hospitality, finance, insurance and real estate.



The apartment listings page on Craig's List likely has the highest traffic of apartment seekers in the city

It didn't matter if I arrived punctually for each appointment; many people would show up much earlier than the designated showing time. It got to a point where I found myself obsessively refreshing the Craigslist housing page every five minutes during work hours, with my AOL chat window open and ready to IM my boss about a housing emergency should the ad justified an immediate departure from the office to place an application and deposit. In one case, I did exactly that but when I arrived at the apartment one hour after the ad was posted, I was informed that two other applications had already been received.

Perhaps the most unfortunate incident resulting from kiasu behavior in recent history is the 2008 stampede at a Wal-Mart store in Long Island on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving that traditionally marks the official start of the year-end holiday shopping season. A 2,000-strong crowd had gathered outside the hypermarket's doors, many of them overnight, for sale items including 50-inch plasma HDTVs going for under $800 and $8 Wrangler jeans. When the store doors opened, the uncontrollable crowd rushed in, resulting in the horrific death of an employee who was trampled to death by the frenzied shoppers. Four other people, including a pregnant lady, were injured.



This New York Daily News photo was taken just moments before the Wal-Mart store opened that fateful Black Friday in 2008

At the turn of the recent millenium, a doctor and a truck driver exchanged punches over a Hello Kitty toy promotion by McDonald's in Singapore. The incident remains a cornerstone of any local conversation epitomizing kiasu-ism.



The innocent party in the most highly-publicized case of kiasu-ism in Singapore

Fighting and fainting over a mouthless toy cat is no doubt baffling, although taking a man's life to save a few bucks over a TV undeniably takes the cake.

Here's hoping that McDonald's and Wal-Mart will never consider a joint promotion in Singapore.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Rojak Timeout (By Tianni)

Just like the spicy rojak salad dish, the postings here are about anything and everything under the sun. They're meant to make you a keen, lean, lovin' Internet machine as you wait for the next story to be posted by our authors.

Today's Rojak Timeout features Tianni in Beijing, who muses about what lies behind the Shanghai Expo mascot.



***

Tianni says:

Of the countries I’ve lived in, China must be one of the most difficult to comprehend.

Its vastly complex politics and a civilization that goes back 5,000 years render it an impenetrable fortress to an outsider like myself, even though my ancestors lived here as recently as two generations ago.

And for someone who makes her living as a scribe, it also means little of what she reports on a daily basis scratches beyond the mere surface.

But surely, some things should be simple to understand!

Like why Haibao, that blue ugly humanoid with a cowlick that stands up, a la There’s Something About Mary, was ever selected as the mascot for the World Expo 2010 held in what is possibly China’s most sophisticated city.



Haibao, meaning Treasures of the Sea in Chinese, resembles Gumby, a giant condom and Cameron Diaz’s hair among other things

Surely if organizers were as concerned about image as to spend US$44 billion to put on such a glitzy showcase event, they should at least have the cow sense not to mar it all with as unimaginative a cartoon mascot as this.

But like the rest of China, the reason for the choice of Haibao to represent an international event remains incomprehensible. Making it all the more baffling, there were also the allegations that its creator plagiarized the design (wh..??) from a longtime American TV cartoon character, Gumby.

I mean, if you really wanted to rob an idea….

Anyway, that wasn’t the story I wanted to tell. What I wanted to let on is the question raised by China’s most famous blogger, the one about whether Haibao had a behind, a derriere.

Yes, you heard it right.

Han Han, who made the top 100 list of Time magazine’s World’s Most Influential People, pondered the cheek-y question on his impossibly popular blog -- 300m hits since 2006! -- and had me all cracked up:

As translated by China Smack site: "When everyone saw that he was flat, it raised a big problem for those who were trying to make three-dimensional Haibaos: what should his back look like? Does he have a tail? Does he have a butt? Does he have a butt crack?”

"No one knew, so when we saw statues of Haibao in the city, the front sides were all the same, but some Haibaos had backs without cracks, and others had cracks. But recently, because the Haibaos without butt cracks were more numerous, the butt crack (in Chinese, this also sounds like Google's Chinese name) has been announced officially as having left China.”

What Han Han didn’t also mention was the observation made by many others that Haibao resembled a giant blue condom.

But I really don’t mean to denigrate the Shanghai Expo. In all fairness from what I saw while covering the Expo opening in May, it was very well-run for the massive number of visitors it expected, and some of the pavilions (Denmark, for instance) were pretty inspiring models for future living.

In fact, I managed to pause long enough from my search for 3-D Haibaos to take this one photo from the Expo…the Singapore pavilion! (Yay!)



The King of Fruits-inspired Singapore Pavilion at the Shanghai Expo, proving once again Singaporeans durian-obsession

I did not attempt to brave the long lines of visitors waiting to enter it, but I did visit on several occasions the food stalls behind it that sold Singapore food like rendang and curry chicken. The food would have been only passable back home, but to a starved Singaporean, they were a godsend.

Anyhow on my final day in the city, I did eventually run into a towering sculpture of Haibao and stole a quick glance at his behind (mind you, I was with colleagues), hoping to catch a glimpse of literal buns of steel.

All I saw was a smooth behind.

Perhaps organizers finally put some thought into this whole mascot debacle and decided that a blue condom-shaped creature exposing his butt cheeks on street corners will really do nothing for the theme of “Better City, Better Life.”

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Monday, June 14, 2010

Horse with No Name on Play: Clash of the (Tiny) Titans

Cultural chasms are tricky things. You don't have to be Indiana Jones to get across one, but you certainly require the same amount of gumption.

As adults, life conditions us to fear failing in social situations. Failing to appear amicable, failing to be culturally sensitive are akin to falling off a social cliff. Stick to your own kind and people brand you a racist. Stick to your own company and they call you a hermit. Flit around and they call you a social butterfly. There's no winning.



But kids? I always imagined that kids have it easier. Stick 'em in the mud, and they all make mudpies together, regardless of race, language or religion.

After all, isn't play universal? The great cultural equalizer amongst the young? Isn't play. . . fun?

Life is a battlefield

To whit, the answer to that question seems to be embedded in this little conversation I overheard at a recent party:

Five-year-old: I'm not going to play with you cos you're an asshole.

Twelve-year-old: So don't.

Five-year-old: You said you were going to cut me!

Twelve-year-old: Trust me, if I was going to hurt you, your head would be so broken by now.

So, enlighten me: I'm a little out of touch with the standard witty repartee of the under-12 set, but when in the heck did kids start talking to one another like that?



Back home, I stayed up many nights worrying about scenarios just like the one above. Would Sweetpea be happy in Arizona? Would the kids here be too aggressive for her to handle? Would they all just embrace their differences and get along?

The little tete-a-tete made me take stock of the sort of behavior that floats to the surface, here especially, when the grown-ups are not around.

Okay, I'm not really so naive as to imagine that children are young innocents these days, what with all the mass media that envelopes them. But seriously. Seriously. The level of social politics among kids here can sometimes be mind-boggling, and I'm more than a little frightened for Sweetpea.

But I'm not going to be a hypocrite and pretend Singaporean kids are doormats. That they don't get into fights or swear. On the contrary, I took Sweetpea off the school bus during nursery school because the older boys (who were just in kindergarten 2, mind you) were harassing people with the foulest language imaginable.



And look, Sweetpea has her moody moments too. She swats at her baby sister, slams doors and throws things. But true-blue violence? Not a chance. At least, not 'til we came here.

Welcome to the jungle

I've been trying to reign in any smidgen of Mama Bear-hovering since we got here. Sweetpea is six, for crying out loud. While that isn't old enough to be going off to college, it is old enough to start learning some street smarts, especially on the playground.

So against every instinct I felt, I let her go downstairs on her own. (By downstairs, I literally mean, down one flight of stairs to the green outside our two-story apartment building). I'd hover at the window watching her the whole time she was out.

After a month here, Sweetpea became firm friends with a twelve-year-old girl in the complex.

They would play with a group of kids on the main green – the new BFF was the oldest and the youngest kid was a rowdy two-year-old who could outswear a sailor. Sweetpea always stayed within reasonable line-of-sight, which was one of my key conditions for letting her play outside on her own.

She seemed happy, returning each evening with some exciting story to tell. She felt like she belonged.

Belonging. It's such a powerful, yet power- sapping feeling, all at once.

In truth, Sweetpea was trapped, stuck in a cultural gulf and desperately trying to claw her way up. On one side was my conservative Asian upbringing. No cycling or wandering around the complex. No hanging out at the clubhouse on your own. Stay where I can see you. There are shadows and murderers at every turn.



On the other side was the carefree recklessness of her American pals. They gleefully rode into traffic in the carpark. They lobbed obscenities and rocks at one another all day. They hung out with nary a grownup in sight.

Nary a grownup. See, that's the thing. I want to let my daughter have her fun, become independent and all that. But as a journalist, I also used to cover the news coming out of the US. And after some of the things I had read over the wires, especially regarding the abduction of kids, it is suffice to say I wanted to bleach my brain afterwards.

So, yes, I'm big on adult supervision.

While it may seem contradictory to what I said earlier, the supervision I'm referring to is to protect my child from other adults. No one told me I'd have to protect her from other kids.

It soon became obvious to me that Sweetpea's new BFF was a queen bee, a stereotypical mean girl who alternately lavished attention on Sweetpea and tormented her. Sweetpea stuck to my rules, and instead of respecting them, and her, the kids would ditch her at the playground to go off by themselves.

And Sweetpea would wait for them. Like a puppy. Because she felt she belonged.

They treated her like a pawn in some crummy political game of human chess. But even a dumb animal that gets its tail trodden upon too many times will snap at you.

Sweetpea returned one evening, calm as could be. She announced she wasn't going to play with the kids downstairs anymore. Queen Bee and her minion soon appeared at our door - to apologize, so they said. Turns out, Sweetpea had bit her BFF on the arm.

Hang on. Rewind, I said. My kid? Bit someone? I turned to Sweetpea, who looked ashen. She fled to her room, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Between sobs, Sweetpea recounted how her friends kept knocking her blocks down while they were playing in the clubhouse. (Which she wasn't allowed to go to in the first place!) She tolerated it at first. Then she got annoyed and walked off. When she returned, she couldn't find her jacket, and her pals sent her outside to look for it, in the trash cans.

When she tried to get back into the clubhouse, the BFF kept physically pushing her out.

“So you bit her?” I asked, horrified.

“It was an accident, Mom. I was trying to get her away from the door by pulling her jacket,” she said, so sorrowful and sorry.



Still, I grounded her for a week. Harsh? Maybe. But she had to know her reaction was unacceptable, no matter what the situation was. And I could see her point of view, even if I didn't agree with it. Faced with a predator larger than herself, she reacted on a primal level.

Would she have reacted the same way back home? Maybe. Did being surrounded by unruly behavior make her own behavior seem somehow acceptable in her eyes? Possibly. I'm still searching for answers.

Forgiven, not forgotten

I worried that the entire fiasco had turned Sweetpea off making friends with the local kids for good.

“The kids here are really aggressive,” she grumbled, adding that she preferred playing with the Singaporean kids we knew.

That gave me pause. I'm not the sort to stick to my own kind. Growing up in a mixed-race family, I never really identified with any 'kind' to begin with. But I couldn't force Sweetpea to run back out and make friends, especially after what she'd been through.

One Singaporean Dad I spoke to suggested that the entire incident with the BFF was racially motivated, while another Singaporean Mom noted that kids behave really differently when they're in school and when they're not.

“Maybe the school environment is just healthier,” she pointed out. “There's a strong focus on character development.”

There's a certain truth in that. And I would add another thought to it: Play is hard work, and kids are learning what is acceptable behavior, and what isn't, when dealing with friends. You add cultural differences to that mix – clashing non-verbal signals, misunderstandings over friendly or unfriendly behavior – and you have a powder keg of bad juju waiting to go off. Having a grownup around – one with some iota of common sense - neutralizes this.



Sweetpea did eventually make some friends - in school. Maybe I should be happy with that. It's a safe environment, with plenty of adults to tone down the playground politics. Baby steps, right?

Despite her issues with some of the kids downstairs, I don't want Sweetpea to assume that all of them will treat her that way. I don't want my daughter to give up looking for the good in people. No matter what their culture, color or creed.

When it comes down to it, navigating any cultural gulf – real or perceived – requires taking a leap of faith. Sometimes others aren't willing to do it, so you have to. But you also have to know how to land on your feet without taking too much damage to your heart.

And your friends? The real friends? You'll know who they are. They're the ones reaching out to you from the other side of that gulf. Culture be damned.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Chrysalis on Shop: My Two-Spoons Worth on the Aussie Way of Life

Aussies are dead serious about keeping the balance between life and work.

Coming from sunny Singapore where I was used to, ironically, not seeing the sun when I knock off from work, this was a nice discovery about Australians and the way they view and value their time. To them, time is better spent away from work and with loved ones.



Lovers of life, lovers of the sun

I guess it’s what you can call an open secret about Aussie living. Whether they like it or not, they are known for their relaxed outlook on life. When I first shared news that we were moving to Melbourne, the common response would often be along the lines of, “Good choice, you will enjoy a slower pace of life than that in Singapore. ”



A slower pace of life: fishing at Mornington

From the checkout cashiers at the supermarkets who would take time to chat with our local mechanic who once gruffly barked at us for wanting to bring in our car after 4 p.m. (his knock-off time) to most shops closing at 5 p.m., we learnt that the Aussie way of life is truly about the saying: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

And what better way for this fact to hit home than on Australia Day, which fell on January 26 this year.



On this public holiday, we decided on the spur of the moment to head to a park for some fresh air and fried rice. In our haste, we forgot to bring spoons for our picnic at the park. We contemplated going commando-style with the rice but with two pre-schoolers with the attention span of five minutes (minus two minutes considering the presence of a major distraction: the playground) and one put-everything-in-mouth toddler – going spoonless is not such a good idea after all.

While driving there, the hub confidently said that we should be able to buy some disposable spoons from a supermarket along the way. It shouldn’t be too difficult, I thought, surely some shops would be open. I was wrong.

After making two stops at two different suburban malls which were both (not surprisingly) closed, we found luck at a small mall which had a cafe open for business. Or so we thought.

I waited in the car while hub went into the mall. Five minutes later, he walked out empty and gestured to me that nothing is open in the mall. He then went into the open cafe and finally he emerged victorious with two tiny plastic spoons in his hand.

“So you managed to get the spoons from the waiter?” I asked, with the mental picture of my hub telling our sob, spoonless story to a kind sympathetic waiter quickly forming in my head.

The hub broke into a sheepish grin and in a hushed voice, said: “Oh, I nicked it from the counter as there wasn’t anyone there.

At first thought, this picture of my hubby having to steal plastic spoons just because there weren’t any shops willing to open for business seemed all so wrong.

Indignantly I wondered aloud to the hub as to why people aren’t willing to work on public holidays. He said matter-of-factly in his signature coffeeshop Ah-Beng tone: You want to rest, other people also want to rest what.”



Hmm, I'd better finish all the fried rice since Dad had a hard time getting this spoon for me



Back home in Singapore, public holidays would mean big businesses for retail shops. Suburban malls and Orchard Road would be teeming with people hard at our nation’s favourite pastime: shopping.

Apart from the city, why aren’t businesses in suburban areas in Australia willing to open if there are people like us who might want to do a spot of holiday shopping? After all, we did see a few disappointed faces walking out from the closed mall. Demand should spur on supply, shouldn't it?

On second thought, there are other things to explore and do in Melbourne besides shopping. Why hit the malls when you can bring the kids out to different parks, farms, scour flea markets or simply ask friends over for a potluck or a barbeque?

When I recalled what I used to do back in Singapore come weekends and public holidays, I realised that much of it revolved around shopping, the movies and eating out.

Sure, there are parks like Bishan and East Coast. But with the heat and humidity, we much prefer the comfort of free air-conditioning at the malls.

It’s little wonder people in the service industry have to work in order for other Singaporeans to play during holidays.

In Melbourne, big open spaces and pottering around in your own backyards are good alternatives to shopping as an activity I guess. At the very least, it is mostly free entertainment (unless you are entertaining guests at home) and you wouldn’t fall prey to impulse buying.



Grass-rolling: a favorite pastime amongst my kids



As we contemplate getting a barbeque pit (a heavily-considered buy, we swear), it becomes clear to me that shopping is less attractive for me here than in Singapore. Our weekends are spent lazing around at home with the kids, hanging out at parks and playgrounds, having friends over for a meal and drinks or going over to theirs for the same.

With the new barbeque pit, it’s a foregone conclusion where we’ll be come weekends.



Simple pleasures: enjoying a splash with daddy

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Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Shakeleg on Love: Finding Roots, Eating Leaves

Both my parents are Javanese, an ethnic group native to the Indonesian island of Java. My Singapore identity card also states I'm Javanese. Yet, I know nothing about the language, culture and customs.



Naturally, tracing my roots was an item on the to-do list. Let's just say the mission was accomplished after I found my long-lost relatives in a sleepy village located at the foot of the active Gunung Slamet volcano in Central Java.


Gunung Slamet



It was one truly hot May day in 2009, seven months after I arrived in Indonesia.

Armed only with the name of a village given by my elderly Javanese uncle living in Malaysia, I launched my search – first on Google Earth and then on foot. With rides on public buses, trishaws and motorbikes thrown in between.

I had knocked on several doors, asking if anyone knew of my uncle but they all shook their heads. Eventually, I was directed to the house of the village chief, who was no scary old man with a moustache and a machete but a fit-looking lad in his late 30s.

He took out a stack of cards with names and addresses of his Singaporean relatives. I could identify nobody.

I was about to abort Mission Impossible when the chief's uncle entered the house. I repeated the name of my uncle and his hometown in Malaysia and suddenly, he said "I know that place. I was there in the 1970's to look for my family."


Map of the village


Village chief's office

My face lit up. Immediately, I rang my uncle on my mobile and got them to speak to each other.

For 15 minutes, the two old men yakked in Boso Jowo (Javanese language). There were Ahhs, Oohs, friendly chatter and breathless guffaws.

He hung up the phone and declared, "You're my grandniece. Your uncle is my nephew but we've lost touch for nearly 40 years. Where are your bags? You're staying with us for as long as you're here."

I was ecstatic. Now, I have a reason to stroll confidently into the famed Borobudur and Prambanan temples through the entry gate for locals, thump my chest proudly and say, "I'm a child of Java. A true-blue Wong Jowo (Orang Jawa or Javanese people). Don't charge me tourist rates."


Shakeleg at Prambanan temple

The next few days were very much like a freshman orientation camp. I was shown poster-sized albums filled with yellowed black-and-white photographs of people who were supposed to be my great-great-grandparents, grandaunties, granduncles and cousins.






My cool-looking relatives (haha!)

I was also introduced to my extended family living in the village.

They were curious about me, my life, and my family back in Singapore.

First question: "Are you married?" No, I replied. "Why not?" – No idea. "How old are you?" – Old enough.

"24?" No. "25?" No. "26?" No. "27? No, you don't look that old. And you're still single. Must be 26 or younger, yes?"

I laughed, a little nervously. They laughed heartily.

"Would you like me to introduce a nice Javanese boy to you?" my grandaunt asked.

I knew that was coming. I smiled and told her not to trouble herself, and swiftly changed the topic to something more interesting. About that cannibal guy who lives in the neighboring village. I met the cannibal the next day (you can google for the article, I won't post it here).

I also rode through acres and acres of rice fields on a motorbike and visited the school where my auntie taught and a small rice mill which another relative owned.




My auntie's pupils during their physical education and Mathematics lessons

Mealtimes were perfect for bonding and cultural exchange. Over assam soup, fried fermented beans and some boiled herbs and leaves, I learned to count one to 10 in Javanese.


Typical Central Javanese lunch. I don't like to eat vegetables but I had to force myself to eat them so as not to appear disrespectful



"Siji, loro, telu, papat, lima, enem, pitu, wolu, songo, sepuloh!" I said.

The family clapped and cheered. "Anak pinter (smart child)!" my grandaunt exclaimed happily.

In the day, I battled stray wild bees, which had swooped in through a hole in the roof, and played fencing with a toad in the bathroom. Come night time, I would be on the lookout for stray field mice sneaking in through the windows.

"Tikussssss (Mouse)!!!" I screamed in fright in the wee hours when I woke up to find a mouse as large as a cat sharing my bed. My auntie barged into my room and shooed it away. She then laughed.

"I thought you're a brave girl! Funny that you're so scared of a harmless field mouse but not scared about hopping on a motorbike with strangers and going to remote unfamiliar places to look for your family," she said.





Since that trip, I've arranged for my Malaysian uncle to fly over to visit the Indonesian family for a week. He returned to my apartment with a box of crackers, fruits and a stack of Javanese karaoke music CDs. He played them on my VCD player and encouraged me to sing, which I obliged because I loved seeing his gaping toothless mouth whenever he laughed.

I've also met up with my relatives living in Jakarta. One was my cousin's family made up of midwives and their children who were medicine undergraduates. I remember one visit during which they dragged me into the labor room in their clinic to watch a breech birth. I just froze in a corner of the room, trembling with fear as they helped the screaming mother deliver her baby. Legs first, head last.

"Traumatized? Haha, nothing to worry. One day, you'll get married and give birth too," my cousin said, tapping my back.


I don't want to grow up, I'm a Javanese kid

This family hunt somehow sealed the love I have for Indonesia.

Suddenly it made sense to live and work in this country and spend some time to understand how it works. Simply because, my roots are here.

Nevermind that I can't speak a word of Boso Jowo (beyond counting to 10), tie a batik sarong, or prepare a gudeg dish of young jackfruit cooked with coconut milk.