more than meets the eyes

In most people's eyes, holidays have become a festival of convivial merry-making, school holidays, time-off from the banality of life to smell the proverbial flowers by the roadside.

These festivals have become so commercialized that how many of us actually truly know the meaning of these festivals, that these calendar dates actually mark the death of these saintly mortals?

During Good Friday and Easter, crucifixions in honour of Jesus take place every year in the Philippines, the only country in Asia that has a predominantly Roman-catholic population.

Children as young as fifteen are pinned to crosses, have 6-inch pins driven into their flesh, and have to endure blistering pain as whips are slashed across their backs hours before the crucifixions take place.

The voluntary participants line up as they wait for their turn to be crucified for an excruciating five minutes under the relentless scorching sun. As pins the size of an adult's little finger are hammered through their flesh, you witness their faces twisting into tormented expressions, and blood pours down their faces and bodies. It is a gory, bloody sight to behold.

Sadly, even the evil claws of commercialization have found their way into such activities. Stalls are set up nearby selling items like souvenir whips and even VIP tickets are sold for spectators wishing to have an upfront view of these real-life crucifixions going on right before their very eyes.

Such events are treated with all-seriousness in the Philippines, being the only Catholic nation in Asia. During the Easter festival, bloodshed has a whole different meaning with the Filipinos. During processions, they cut their backs with broken glass, until their entire back is covered with blood, some of which inadvertently splattering onto the cutter's hands.

In such reconstructions of how Jesus died on the cross, these acts of self-flagellations are seen to be a washing away or atonement of sins, as well as to bring blessings for the family.

The entire significance of the event has been lost through the meaningless blood-fest tastelessly packaged as a spectator sport, ad nauseum in its masquerading as a glorification or tribute to Jesus. The volunteers who have the pins pierced through their flesh do it for base reasons, and lack true understanding of the crucifixions.

I think such processes lend new meaning to Good Friday and Easter, that in some countries, it is more than just cute bunnies and chocolates eggs.

the ugly duckling among the swans

Before I came to Melbourne to study journalism, my friend who is studying media in Perth told me,

"No matter which class you go to, there will definitely be ONE Singaporean. I went to a class, there were 23 students. 11 were Singaporeans, and 12 were Aussies."

My friend's right.

No matter which class I go to, there will always at least be ONE Singaporean.

And, that's myself.

It was hard getting used to the idea. Going to a class full of yellow heads and blondes, where you are the only Asian, where no one bothered to talk to you, where the Aussies congregate, where you feel different, out of place, foreign. Before I came here, I had a very idealistic view. But, after I came here, I noticed that EVERYONE sticks to people who are a mirror reflection of themselves. The Asians stick with the Asians, the Aussies stick to the Aussies. That's the rules of the game. You either stick to it or you rewrite the rules. Most people do the former.

In a world where the Chinese stick to the Chinese, the Westerners stick to the Westerners, being the only Asian studying Journalism (an unpopular course in the East, no doubt), with no Vietnamese, no Malaysians, no Indonesians to turn to (my Modern Asia class is the only exception), you are forced into a situation whereby you have to change things.

Any Asian student who has ever studied in Australia can tell you how difficult it is to make friends with the Aussies. Reasons have been given for this: saying that Aussies may not be as confident as they appear to be, they might have the same insecurities as the foreign students, and so they choose to mix with their own kind.

But the rule of the game is: You have to be the first to throw the dice.

You see so many Asians on the street that you forget this is Melbourne, that this is a Western country (afflicted with the "Sydney disease" - large influx of foreigners). But, then you take a further look, and you realize the great segregation of skin colours.

F1 Ferrari Fever @ Lygon Street

This post is specially dedicated to my friend Dee, who is nuts about F1. Happy 21st babe.

Hand on heart, I did everything I could to dig up every last piece of information bone-dry on the Australian Grand Prix because my friend is a fan of F1 and Kimi Raikkonen.

I even searched the internet for details on Kimi's flight, but some of my guy friends who are into F1 told me that it costs at least $80 for the cheapest ticket to the Grand Prix. So, it would be wiser to watch it on TV for free.

So, I thought that at the very least, I could make my way down to Albert Park on the day itself. But guess what? All the tram services have been shut down due to the Grand Prix!

So when this Aussie friend working at an Italian restaurant informed us that there was going to be a Ferrari showcase ("where people go to see the models, not the cars"), I went nuts.

The entire Lygon Street was brimming with activity, restaurants having outrageous promotions, Italians who are HUGE, HUGE fans of F1. Trust me, I hear the word F1 wherever I go.

The F1 merchandise is sold for crazily high prices, a jacket alone costs $180, and an autographed memorabilia of Kimi costs $200++. It's crazy.

The night ended on a note of disappointment, as you can see from the photos below. There wasn't much to see at all, even when I returned at a later timing.

Lunch at the famous Lygon Street. This is seriously the only place I know in Melbourne that operates on a 24-hour basis.

It has built up a well reputation for housing a smorgasbord of high-class dining eateries. The prices of the food are equally high-class.

Here you see me having pasta for lunch. See the wine and see the plain water that I'm having. The wine owner recommended the sweetest type of wine to me, and I still found it bitter! Apparently, its a medley of rose and raspberry, and the bright, ripe colour gives an idea of how sweet it is supposed to be. I guess, unlike Aussies, I don't have a 'European's stomach' ( a term used to describe people who can consume large quantities of wine in a single seating) for wine.













A giant poster of Kimi. Or at least what I think is Kimi. For god's sake, I have no idea what Kimi looks like exactly, so please forgive me, if the guy in the photo is some random dude instead of Kimi.

youth is wasted on the young

My friend ruffles through her bag, takes out a cigarette and brings it to her lips. "Ahhhh..." A mild form of ecstasy passes her face briefly as wisps of smoke danced around her. "I haven't smoked, like, the whole day."

I sit beside her, witnessing my friend in her marathon run to get lung cancer. She's doing well in the race.

"So..." I begin. "Your aim is to get lung cancer, huh?"

My friend's face tells me she doesn't like the sound of that. She is silent for a moment before asserting, "I don't smoke a lot. I only smoke, like, once a day!"

"Yeah, that adds up to 365 times a year." I pause. "That's like, 365 attempts to get lung cancer!"

My friend doesn't look pleased at all. Honesty is a rare commodity, nowadays.

My friend, who is a heavy drinker and smoker, laments that I do neither of those. "It's a pity you don't drink, because it's when you drink, that you talk crap." And, her argument is that you can have a hell of a great time, bonding and talking crap with your friends when you are drunk-pissed.

What good is verbal diarrhoea if all that comes out is shit and crap? (pun totally intended)

This is why George Bernard Shaw said: "Youth is wasted on the young." We are at the peak of our physical health, our minds are at its most alert, and what do we decide to do with this boon? We go out, party, and get ourselves drunk-pissed.

Nice.

"So, basically, you don't drink, you don't smoke, and you don't do weed." One second later, "That's pretty good, you know."

Sometimes, I forbid my friend to smoke, and she listens. And, because I don't drink, it means that time spent with me isn't spent on drinking.

I think that I'm a very positive influence. This is the reason why people should try hanging out with nerds more often.

road trip

On an early Saturday morning, the seven of us made our way to Mount Dandenong. We set out in two separate cars, and it was a one-and-a-half-hour journey from the city.

Halfway, we had some car trouble. One of the car's wheel got stuck in a pile of debris and had trouble reversing. So, we had to get out of the car, which was halted in the middle of a down way slope. Meanwhile, a middle-aged lady living nearby was peeping her head outside to see what the ruckus was all about.

One of our pit-stops - where we could feed the birds - the cockatoos and the parrots. The cockatoos were an aggressive bunch, and one of us got bitten. Here, you can see a cockatoo happily munching on food.





















































This is the part where supposedly you can see the whole of Melbourne from where you are standing.




















Just your typical English Garden - flowing gushes of little streams of rivers, green shrubbery, flowers (some in their full bloom, others in a withering state), bridges, benches, old and young people.

The girls - on one of the benches in The English Garden

The guys - on The Giant's Chair.

Apparently, there is a legend (to trick small kids) that whenever the monster who lived in the Stone Age got tired, he would traipse his way to The Giant's Chair where he laid to rest.





















































Miss Marple's Tea Room, a cute cottage outside flanked by acres and acres of creeping greenery, inside is like straight out of a movie set - replete with teapots, cackling firewood, photos of Miss Marples (a movie character), and waitresses decked out in cute, tablecloth-inspired dresses and aprons.

We had British-style breakfast of Scottish origin - freshly-baked Devonshire scones, complete with a heavenly combination of soft vanilla cream and jam.

pardon me.

For my previous post, I recieved some flak from a couple of total strangers for NOT raising my hands when my lecturer asked if there were any Singaporeans in class.

Many seem to have gotten the idea that I was ashamed to raise up my hand become I was embarrassed of the country that I grew up in.

YOU GUYS ARE SO WRONG.

However, to say that I didn't raise my hand because I was a Singaporean, and because I was born that way, then you've got it right. As one reader put it, "Shows how much of Singaporean indoctrination you've gotten into you already."

I once read an article that Singaporeans who have emigrated overseas or are just staying in foreign countries on a temporary basis, love to fade into the background. They seldom do or say things that makes them stand out from the crowd, but rather, they seem contented to remain just another face in the sea of crowds.

Another reader lamented that it was a shame that I choose to melt into the background, and that "The country has no connection with you, apart from the fact that you were born there. "

REALLY???

I have no idea why he would choose to romanticise the entire scenario. The truth is, people have their own biasness and prejudices, and people form baseless opinions of you just based on your nationality. For example, I would say that China people have a pretty bad reputation among Asians in Australia. And, even if you were just a product of your country, there is no denying the fact that the culture you grew up in has a very vital role in shaping and forming you as an individual.

Also, just as a final thought, as another reader also pointed out, if I had really went on to raise my hand, would the lecturer then have minced his words? On the other hand, wouldn't it be interesting for the lecturer to speak with unbridled flow, without biting his tongue or toning down his language just because there was a Singaporean around? Maybe only then could he really say what he intended to say.

And, that's probably the best excuse I can give for not raising up my hand.

singapore, the concrete jungle

"Are there any Singaporeans around here?"

The lecturer waited patiently, for anyone, anyone at all, to raise their hands. Mine remained nestled in the cradle of my thighs. No way was I going to raise that hand of mine.

"Oh, come on," the lecturer conjoled. "There HAS to be a Singaporean here!"

Still, my hands remained stubbornly still.

Is it any surprise that Singaporeans just love fading into the wallpaper roles when they are overseas?

Now, the entire lecture hall had heads turning. Some shook their heads, indicating to the lecturer that, "No, there are no Singaporeans here."

"Well then," the bearded man clasped his hands tightly together. "Then I shall go on to slight Singapore!"

Thank God I didn't raise my hand, I thought.

Call it instinct, but I just KNEW that the lecturer was going to pass some offensive comments on Singapore. It seems that, in a school culture where Singapore is more often than not a talking point among the lecturers' teaching materials, nobody has anything good to say about Singapore.

As some of you might know, Reporters Without Borders did a survey of press freedom internationally, and Asian countries consistently ranked the lowest among these rankings.

Singapore, OBVIOUSLY, has no press freedom to speak of. It came out 146th place in the rankings. The Straits Times is the government's mouthpiece, and Lee Kuan Yew once said that the purpose of the daily newspaper is for "nation-building".

What with all the ethical talk of journalists, my lecturer then went on to criticise Singapore. We have to pick a country for our assignment, and I'm thinking Singapore. Because I have so many things I would like to criticise about Singapore's press. But, Russia would be a good country to scrutinize too.

For our Modern Asia class, we watched a documentary of Singapore (AGAIN!) on the Lonely Planet. Basically, the show portrayed Singapore as a concrete jungle and its citizens having a real passion for food.

I watched the video and had the same effect a bulimic sticking a finger up her throat would induce. Fake. Try too hard. Just playing it up for the sake of the cameras. Couldn't understand a word the guy was saying - were just some of the comments my Aussie coursemates had to say about Singaporeans.

And, sadly, I could only agree. Come on, I grew up in Singapore, and people DO NOT speak in that ang-mohish accent, DO NOT speak in proper English and full sentences and CERTAINLY DO NOT just whip up a chick onto his bike.

So, anyway, Kumar (Singapore's most famous drag queen) was featured in the video, in an all-too-obvious attempt to portray Singapore as anything BUT the sterilized country it is. So, there we have Kumar with his trademark slap-stick antics, talking about sex and holding a vibrator for his Grandma.

And, the best response he could elicit from my Aussie coursemate was: "I couldn't understand a word the guy was saying."

Well, guess what?

Half the time, I have no idea what my lecturers are saying.

It's been a long wait, but...

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