It's Jaaanuaryy!! Two thousand ...EEEIIGT!!!!! *gasp, choke, splutter* Somebody get me a drink!

Happy New Year!!

Holiday

I haven't posted anything for a while. There was simply nothing to write. I tried to remember interesting things from Prmk, but I can't remember much. They just seem meaningless and small.
I've actually got a lot of time in my hands. I've got two weeks off, with nothing much to do and nowhere in particular to go. I'm already fed up with Christmas movies, concerts, Santa (I can't believe the extent of the effort people took to deceive children. It's so wrong.), Rudolf, Jingle Bells and all the commercialism and consumerism (I'm not anti Christmas. It's just getting more and more Hollywood). I'm watching tv, switching channels, trying to dodge Christmas-flavored programs. I've just watched a King Cobra swallow a smaller snake. Next would be the history of the British Monarchy. I'm such a geek.
Since the start of the holidays, I've filled my days with housework, tv, dvd, grocery shopping and craftwork. I am happily domesticated. Some of my handywork were beef stew, smoked trout macaroni cheese bake, burritos, and mie goreng. I've embroidered a couple of sleeves, lengthened a pair of jeans (which I previously made too short), and crocheted a pencil case cover. And I'm running out of ideas.
A few days ago I met somebody at the train station. He commented on my two big bags, and we continued to chat. We took the same train. He told me about his work. He said he would give me more information about his organization if I gave him my email address. He got off at Central. A few days later I got an email. Just a friendly one, not about the organization. I didn't reply. On Christmas Day, I sent him a greeting. A few minutes later I got a reply, asking to meet up. That freaked me out. This may be a trivial and ordinary occassion for other people. Not for me. I deleted the email and hope that that would be the end of it.
Since I arrived here I've been hit on by an Italian (60 y/o), a girl (????????) and a ... well, he was quite an ordinary guy (who could also be a psycho, for all I know). Is that an improvement?
The History of the British Monarchy has just ended. Now I know who Oliver Cromwell is. I learned a new word too 'regicide'. What important new knowledge (I'm being sarcastic here, ok).

Summer Days with Coo

Director : Keiichi Hara Producer : Yoshihiro Iwasaki Original Story : Masao Kogure, Yuichi Watanabe Screenplay : Keiichi Hara Cast : Futo Tomizawa, Naoki Tanaka, Naomi Nishida, Kenichi Nagira


Nice movie.

Another person I remember was also a teacher unionist. (What is it with these rebels?) He was about my age. Smiled a lot. At first I thought, " Politician's smile." But after a while I could tell whice ones are genuine (w/ friends) and which ones are political (when dealling w/ management). I didn't know him very well, but he was just nice and friendly, so I thought he was an OK kind of guy. He sometimes visited us at the Materials Department (I worked there for a while). One day he told us he was going to Spain. I collected coins, so I asked him if he could set aside some coins from Spain for me. I didn't expect him to care enough to remember, so I was surprised that he did. That was nice of him, I thought.
Then one day we heard that he was ill and was hospitalized. We went to visit him. I brought a Kahlil Gibran book to cheer him up. It must have been really boring to be in bed for days and days. He couldn't get out of bed, but he was his own cheerful self. He said the doctor didn't know what was wrong with him, but they had heard of similar cases and would try a series of treatment. He was so positive that I felt sure he was going to get through it and would walk and work again. We didn't hear from him again for more than a year. Then there was a formal news that he had passed away. He was so young. It was really sad. I couldn't help thinking that the doctor might have misdiagnosed his illness. The medical system had failed him. I just hope that he was finally free from his pain and suffering, and he is now walking about and in peace on the other side.

Every end-of-term, the staff gathered at the hall for class assignment. Normally, this included nice food and some kind of entertainment. At one particular class assignment, some of the teachers did a music gig for us. Somebody gave flowers to one of the singers. There was a huge applause. Then another singer came up. He sang a love song, but I don't remember what song. He kept looking at my direction and I began to feel warm around the collar. What's going on? I thought. We were just friends. I had never been serenaded like that. How flattering... Didn't last long, though. I turned around to find a beautiful, hot, new teacher. Hahaha! *blush* *blush* A bit disappointed, but relieved too.

I don't really know why I still remember this. One afternoon in the teacher's room, sitting near the corner with two friends, chatting about nothing. I mostly just listened to the jokes and smiled at appropriate times. One friend was singing STYX's Babe (I don't know why he did this). The other friend looked really happy and relaxed. That's what I remember most. He was happy. His eyes sparkled whenever he laughed. A few months later this friend got into trouble with the school management because of his activities as a teacher unionist. There were heated arguments. He resigned. I never saw him or heard about him again. But I remember that afternoon in the teacher's room, and thinking 'What a nice day. What a friendly, happy guy.'

Another interesting character was a gentleman in his fifties. He was actually very trim and very fit for his age. And he liked to show this off by wearing a very tight-fitting safari suit (looked like something from the 70s). With slick black hair and the outfit, he could've been young Elvis (even though he wasn't young). We used to have a giggle about him because whenever he dyed his hair, the dye would mix with his hair cream and would smudge his forehead, near the hairline. He didn't seem to care one bit.
Recently I've started to dye my hair too, to cover the greys. One day I found brown streaks in a white shirt collar. And I thought, Gosh! I haven't changed my hairstyle in about a decade, and I've got hair dye where it shouldn't be. Look who's laughing now.

Interesting Characters

There was a big dining table in the pantry of LIA Prm. It was big enough for about fourteen people. Funny thing, to see the seat at the head of the table empty, or used by one person only. It was as if it had a 'Reserved' sign on it. This was a favorite seat of one of the teachers. She was middle aged, a bit heavy, always wore a skirt/dress, hair streaked with gray, always in a coiffure. Not a stylish coiffure, but a simple round bun near the top of her head. I don't know how long she had taught. Judging from the way other staff treated her, probably from the beginning of the previous century. Maybe it was because of the stern look on her face. Maybe because she always spoke her mind (with thundreous, booming voice). Whatever it was, everybody was always very careful when talking to her. And we usually kept the 'throne' empty, just in case she came around to the pantry and would like to sit there. Some years ago I read a newspaper article about her. I don't remember exactly, but I think she was awarded a very prestigeous degree in Indonesian Literature or something like that.

Sasha's Footwear Fetish

o

Boots, fuzzy slippers, thongs, ballerina flats, sandals, dirty socks, sock covered toes ... Gimme gimme ... gimme... mooooore... (Britney's song).

Nice Quote

From Paulo Coelho's The Zahir:

"And suddenly, ... , I realise something very important: the cathedral is me, it is all of us. We are all growing and changing shape, we notice certain weakness that need to be corrected, we don't always choose the best solution, but we carry on regardless, trying to remain upright and decent, in order to do honour not to the walls or doors or the windows, but to the empty space inside, the space where we worship and venerate what is dearest and most important to us."

Of course, not everybody was that nice. On the last day of the training program I had an unpleasant experience.
It had been a looong and stressful day. Interviews, orientation, class assignment and other shit. When they were done with us, I felt like my brain had been fried. I asked if I could go home, but was told to wait for the DOS to dismiss us. I asked the secretary if I could see the DOS, but she said the DOS was with a guest. So I waited, and waited, and waited. It only took less than a minute to ask for permission to go, right? What if I just knock on the door, pop in, ask, and get the hell out of there? Sounded logical to me. So I knocked, popped in, and ... the DOS (who knew who I was) looked at me briefly and continued talking to her company (the vise DOS). I was completely ignored, like a gecko on the wall. That was when I realized I had made a boo boo. I didn't know if I should stay or go. I was stuck at the door. That was one of the longest 30 seconds of my life. The vise DOS took pity on me and asked me what I came in for. I told her. She said yes, I could go home. I left, feeling totally humiliated. I wished I hadn't bothered asking. Idiot!!
That was my first taste of power display.

Clueless

When I first started to teach at LIA, a colleage commented that I seemed very confident and comfortable in the new surrounding. The teacher's room could indeed be intimidating to a rookie like me. It was huge! It could easily accomodate 50 teachers, with room to spare. The teachers ranges from youngish (20 something) to oldish (70 something). It wasn't always a friendly place for rookies.
Actually, I wasn't confident at all. I was just clueless most of the time, unaware of who is who and how I should behave towards whom. I was a bit of a social retard in that sense. To me everybody was created as equals. I just tried to be polite and friendly towards everyone.
In fact, my first boo boo happened even before I became a teacher. When I was still a student at LIA, break time meant a visit to the loo. It was usually not very clean, and always very crowded. So I was very happy to find a loo that was much cleaner, and much less crowded than the others. Sometimes there were teachers there too. It took me months to realize that it WAS the teachers' loo! Interestingly, none of the teachers ever told me to scram and use the students' toilets. Very nice people, those ladies.

A couple of months after my surgery in May, my stomach was slowly getting back to its normal, temperamental self. Too slowly, because one morning I looked down the toilet and found a pool of blood. Not a very nice way to start the day. The same thing happened the next day, and the next, stopped, and then started again. After a week of this, I went to see a GP. She had a quick look and said, "Too much codeine (pain killer)." She prescribed an ointment, told me to sit in a bucket of warm salty water twice a day, and drink a kind of fibre drink. I followed her advice and in a couple of days the pool of blood was no more. I was very happy. I wanted to tell all my friends the benefit of this fibre drink. I drank it religiously, twice a day, everyday. I even gained a few kilos, something that hadn't happen for almost a decade. Then I noticed that I also passed gas more often, but I didn't relate it to the fibre drink. I thought it was because of the unhealthy garbage that I normally ate. Anyway, it wasn't that bad...well, until it got really..ehm.. bad.
I went to a record store with a friend. I was a few meters away from her. Safe distance, I thought. Unfortunately, the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. It hit us both, hard. My friend didn't say anything, but I was really embarassed. I still didn't relate it to the fibre drink. So I continued drinking, and passing wind.
During my trip to Canberra, we went to a nursery. Just before getting back into the car, I felt the wind struggling to come out. I thought if I let it out before getting in, it would stay out. I was wrong again. The evil smelling gas followed me into the car. We had to open the windows. It was horrible.
When we got back, I went to the computer and Googled 'flatulence'. And there it was, the answer to my embarassing condition. When a person suddenly consumes a high quantity of fibre, the stomach goes to hyperdrive, and the side effect is gas, lots of gas. Fibre is supposed to be intruduced slowly, and gradually. Great! Somebody forgot to write that on the back of the package.
So I cut down on the drink, and the stink bombs was reduced significantly. I haven't gassed any of my friends since.

Regret

One of my biggest regrets at work: When I was a supervisor, I was asked by H& R - through my boss - to video tape some of our classes. The purpose was for trainee teachers to be able to look at and discuss the different ways of teaching. It sounded like a good idea, right? So who would be the lucky teachers? We decided to draw a lot. Then an idea came to take the videotaping more 'beneficial'. Why not tape some 'good' teaching and some 'bad' teaching?
I nominated my teachers, including the 'bad' one. I went as far as asking his permission to tape his class, without mentioning the good and bad issue.
Looking back now, what a mean, insensitive, wise-ass I was. Who was I to judge anybody? What if the coin was turned and I was the 'bad' teacher? And somebody asked to video tape my class so that trainee teachers could learn what not to do?
What IS a bad teacher? Some teachers prepare for hours, others like to think on their feet. Some teachers are quiet and reserved, others are funny and boisterous. My teacher prepared his lessons. He didn't treat students like shit. He didn't abuse or harass anybody. And I was out to humiliate him. In fact, I was so insensitive I didn't think about the effect on him. Horrible.
Good thing the teacher was smart enough to smell the rat. He didn't give me permission to carry out my stupid mission.

Floriade

Nothing special happened in Canberra. We drove a lot. Got lost a lot. Saw several dead kangaroos by the roadside. Sample foods at cafes and stalls. It was fun. That's it.


The Floriade this year? It was OK. A bit sad, because of the drought. The tulips were not as happy as two years ago. Many plants were in much need of water.

Collector

Went to Canberra a few weeks ago. About halfway to Canberra we almost ran out of gas. We drove for miles without air conditioner. The tank was very close to empty when we saw a sign for a gas station. We made a U-turn and turned into a small town called Collector. Population 150, according to the signboard.
The gas station was next to a small diner plus information centre plus public toilet.

I checked out the surrounding while my friend filled the car's tank. A few meters from the diner there was a quiet, green meadow. A cockatoo flew by the green trees but I didn't have time to take photo of it. There was also a small stone monument with Lest We Forget written on it and the names of soldiers who died in war. Very well placed, I think. It's been a long time since I visited a place that invoked such feelings of peace and tranquility.

My First Students

My first student was a mistake. I went all the way to Pasar Baru, found the posh house, and met my student. She was a uni student. I thought I was going to teach her English. She thought I was going to teach her Accounting. COST @#$*@ ACCOUNTING!!. I told her that that was not my area of expertise and that she was probably better than I was in Accounting. I went home and called the agency and asked them to assign somebody else.
My first real student was young Taiwanese girl. She went to an international Kindy. She was as chatty as chatty could be. She spoke Mandarin, Indonesian, and a little Javanese (from the maid). When mommy was not around she ordered the maid around like a princess. Most of the time she taught me songs from her Sesame Street Book. We played with her Barbie dolls a lot. Mommy said that her pronunciation improved a lot after I tutored her, so I was quite happy about that.
My second student was an elementary school Korean boy. I was supposed to help him with his homework. He wasn't interested in doing homework. He usually drew comic strips throughout the lessons and then told me the story, in broken Indonesian. I'm sure he improved a lot in speaking ... Indonesian.
My third student was a bit older than the others. Since didn't ask me to play with his toys or read his comics, it was much easier to teach him.
All three of them lived quite near from my house (+/- 30 minutes) by bike. Yep, I rode my bicycle to their homes. (I didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was a uni student. But that was another story.) The job kept my quite fit.

Reading an old friend's blog brought back a lot of memories. Nine years of my life I spent in LIA. I've got a truckload of memories.
This was how it started: When I was a kid, the future had always looked bleak, with my father being ill and me caught up in growing pains and all. Then my father died. Then I finished high school. I wanted to study English. That's one thing I knew I was good at. But I didn't know what kind of job I could do if I chose English. I didn't want to be a school teacher. My own experiences at school kind of turned me off teaching. My brothers and sister were already working. They would pay my uni tuition. So I thought the sensible and responsible thing would be to choose Accounting as my major, even though I couldn't put two and two together without a calculator (I still can't).
I spent four and a half years studying something that I had no interest in. I actually did okay. I got some A's and B's here and there. I got a job as a finance staff (3 months) an accounting staff (3 days). I hated those jobs. I was a disaster at work. Then for months I was jobless, while my friends from uni had started building careers and making money. I felt like a total loser.
One day I read an ad in the newspaper. Private Tutors Wanted. I gave it a go. I went to the agency's 'office'. It was far, far away in old Jakarta, which I had never been to before. It wasn't much of an office at all. Just an old, dark, dingy place on the second floor of a house. There was an old, roughly made table and several long wooden benches. There was one lonely yellow light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There we were, a bunch of teacher hopefuls, getting a briefing while somebody was cooking and minding the kids downstairs. A few days later I received my first assignment. I got paid around Rp 10.000,- per visit (around Aus $1 and 20 cents). On one hand, the pay made me feel like a loser still. On the other hand, I was very happy to get a job, any job, after months of being unemployed.

Little Monsters

My friend from work's story: When she was little she used to have a competition with her younger sister. They dipped their heads in a bucket of water to see who could hold their breath the longest. One time the little sister came very close to breaking their all time record, so my friend 'helped' by holding down the sister's head in the water. The little sister flailed her arms wildly and desperately while my friend 'encouraged' her to 'hang in there' a bit longer. Don't worry, the little sister survived. She's alive and is doing very well.
When I heard that story, I wondered why I never did anything like that. I was a little angel compared to my friend. Then I remembered an incident involving a very unfortunate grasshopper. When I was about seven or eight, Mom bought me a kitchen set. There were tiny pots and pans and they were made of tin so I could really cook something in them! So I arranged some bricks and lighted a candle in the middle as a stove. Then I put a pot on and filled it with water, leaves and some flowers. I'm going to make a lovely soup, I thought. But a soup is not complete without meat. So I caught a fat grasshopper from the backyard, shoved it in the pot and closed the lid. After a few minutes, I opened the lid. I didn't know what I expected to see, but what I saw was a very dead grass hopper, bobbing up and down grotesquely in the boiling water. My stomach turned and I suddenly realized what a horrible death I had given the poor insect. I don't remember what I did to it next. I really hope I gave it a proper burial. If you think kids are angels, think again.

Pronunciation Lesson 2

Last night we talked about electronics in the classroom. My students told me about the famous brands in Korea. When it comes to LG, they told me that it means 'gold star' or something that sounds very much like a rude word. I knew that they couldn't possibly mean that word and it was probably something else mispronounced. I rummaged through my brain frantically, trying to guess what the word was.
"Gold business?" was my first guess.
"No, no. Gold star. Penis."
"Yes. Penis." another student confirmed.
I think I blushed a bit. I began to panic. Then suddenly Ping! 'Venus' They were saying @#*% 'Venus'! I secretly heaved a big sigh of relief. I thought to myself, OK, guys. We've got a lot of work to do. More pronunciation lessons coming up next week.

Pronunciation Lesson 1

People who go abroad sometimes find that the locals can't pronounce, let alone remember, their names. This happens to my students here. Hyo Bin, Se Min, Hye Young, Chan Uk, and Siu Yin sound all the same to non-Asian locals. Some students persevere and keep their names. Others caved in to the pressure and adopt a western name for themselves. Sometimes the new name is a translation of the original name, other times its a soundalike. Thus Se Min becomes Simon, Sun Mee becomes Sunny, Chan Uk becomes Charles, and so on.
One day a new student came to me and said, "I've got an English name now. It's Leo."
"Oh, you do? Leo is a nice name."
"Thank you. It means 'liver' in Spanish. My Korean name means 'liver'."
I was a bit confused at this point (ngga mudeng). Leo means 'liver' in Spanish? Korean parents name their children 'liver'? Why on earth do they do that?? But all I said was, " OK, I'll write it down on the attendance list."
I wrote down the name and showed it to him to check the spelling. It turned out that his new name was 'Rio' and that indeed means 'river' in Spanish. (Aaah.., I see, I see... (Baru mudeng.) We have a problem with 'l' and 'r' nih.) When the words come within a context, it is easier guess the meaning than when they are not.
So the week after that we did some pronunciation practices. When it came to 'l' and 'r' I showed off with Ular melingkar di pagar Pak Umar. The oohs and wows from my students showed how impressed they were. Those who know me know that my Indo 'r' is pathetically embarassing, but my students didn't know that (:

Korean Fest

Seeing Double

I usually have my haircut at KYS hair salon. The price is ok and the hairdressers never tried to yank my hair off or scrape my scalp away (like some hairdressers did in other salons). There is one branch in the City and one near my home, so it's pretty convenient too. Last month I went to the City branch. I was greeted by a familiar face, by the owner didn't seem to recognize me. So I asked, "Don't you usually work at Burwood (branch)?"
"No, that's my twin," she said.
They looked exactly the same. Same hairstyle, same dress style, same face. Same occupation, same work place!

Spring

My azaleas and little pink flowers with black-berries.

Drummoyne Walk

To celebrate the coming of spring, we went for a walk along the coastline. I found this beautiful, strange tree. And these beautiful strange flowers.

Sasha came along as usual.

After a while, it got too hot for her and she refused to walk. Then the sun disappeared and she got all energetic and ran and jumped at all the joggers we passed.

Junkies

A few months ago, during break time, at the college…
One of my classmates suddenly beckoned me to look out the window towards the quiet alley below. At first it looked like three friends, a young woman and two guys, were having lunch at somebody’s doorstep. After a while, I realized that it wasn't lunch. The girl took out a black elastic band and tied her arm with it, just above the elbow. One of the guys held a spoon over a lighted candle. The girl took out a syringe from a plastic box and started filling it with the thing on the spoon. Then she casually injected herself with it. The owner of the house seemed to hear something suspicious and he went out to check. The three junkies grabbed their ‘equipments’ and ran away like spooked chickens. I’ve seen things like this on TV, but to see it live was really freaky.

Lucky Escape

I was standing with a mob of people by the side of a busy intersection, waiting for the walking light to turn green. The light changed for the intersecting road to our left. The lady in front of me apparently believed that it was for our road and she confidently stepped forward. A stranger grabbed her arm and pulled her back, just as a bus zoomed by, missing her face by an inch.

The woman’s lucky escape reminded me again of how fragile, tiny, and insignificant life can be. One stupid, absent-minded step and BAM! Goodbye life, goodbye family and friends, goodbye world. Who knows when and how we will go? Take it easy and take care, friends. Keep safe!

Mad about avocadoes

One of my favorite treats. A colleague saw me sipping one during break time. ‘What is that?’ Avocado, with milk and chocolate. Everybody went, ‘Whattt???? Avocado milkshake???? How could you drink that??’

Hey, it's not bad at all. Ok, ok, so it doesn’t look pretty. But it tastes great, really. I convinced one of them to make some at home and try it ((((:

A Japanese friend spread avocado (like butter) on a piece of bread and sprinkled some sushi soy sauce on it. I did the same at home, and my folk thought it was crazy. But they're used to seeing me trying out alien food combination. (I think I've passed that on to one of my nephews. He likes cookies with his rice dish.)

If you read this, feel free to experiment. Let me know if you like either one, or both, or neither.

Avocado Milkshake

1 ripe avocado
1 glass of cold milk
1 tablespoon Milo OR
1 teaspoon cocoa powder
sugar

Put all ingredients into the blender and turn the blender on for half a minute. Pour into two glasses. Serve with vanilla ice cream on top (optional).

Botanical Garden

It was a warm day, so I thought it was a good idea to check out what's blooming in the Botanical Garden. Here are some of the best shots.

Late Winter BBQ

We had a BBQ for Wawa's birthday. Winter was almost over, but by 5 everybody's anxious to get back in the warmth of the car (((((: We didn't even cook the marinated chicken.

My Plants

The Black Prince (menurut labelnya).
A Gift from a freind.
Beli di pasar.

I thought about my father this afternoon. I suddenly realized that I don’t know much about him at all. He passed away when I was around fifteen, I think. Before that he was sick most of the time. I remember him walking me to school – before he fell ill - probably when I was in Grade 1 or 2. I remember his cigarettes – 555. I remember that he had thick hair, and that sometimes he dyed it black. He liked white, short-sleeved shirts. He never wore black because it was the colour of mourning. Even now, whenever I choose a shirt, black is out of the question. My father had dentures. He told me that it was because of an evil watermelon seed. From then on, I meticulously dug the seeds out of my watermelon before biting into it.
Once there was a big portrait of grandpa, I don’t remember where. So I asked what grandpa was like. He said grandpa was a huge man, and when father was small he would sit on grandpa’s lap. I asked him what his childhood was like. He said he used to wade a small river to get to school. And after school he would explore the backyard (somehow I imagined a railway). Sometimes he caught cockroaches, roasted it (I imagined a small twig as the skewer) and ate it (Eeuw…)

He had stroke, three times. During each and every episode, he fought valiantly. As soon as he was able to, he would crawl out of bed and moved around the house. Family and friends helped him learn to walk again. He exercised religiously. It was a losing battle, though. In the end, there wasn’t much left of my father. He couldn’t get out of bed at all. He couldn’t speak clearly. What he did say didn’t make much sense. He didn’t recognize any of us. Despite it all, his eyes were never dim. They always shone, sometimes a bit wildly. When at last the light dimmed, Mom knew that the end was near. She called all of us to sit around the bed. We all prayed. My father closed his eyes. His breath became fainter and fainter. Then it stopped. Now what I remember most about my father is his fighting spirit, his courage and his spirit to live. (This ending sounds like an essay. Yuck. I’ll edit it in the future, maybe.)

At the Food Court

The next Wednesday we met again at the food court. This time we sat closer to the corner. Two guys were sitting next to our table, an elderly man and a younger bloke. But they were not talking to each other. There was anticipation, nervousness. A few more guys joined them. Two of them sat across from one another. Others stood around them, watching. More guys came. By this time the group was a mixture of guys between twenty-something to seventy-something, from various racial backgrounds. They watched the two sitting guys intently, their faces dead serious. There were no pleasantries, no chit-chat. The air was tense. At one point there were shouts and exclamations, in many languages. Then everybody moved, very quickly (including the seventy-somethings). They stood up, barked a few words at each other, changed seats, and banged things on the table. All these in a few seconds, and then all was quiet again.

At around five-thirty I had to leave my friends to go to work. I stood up and had a better look at the group and wondered "How could playing chess be so damn intense???"

One Winter Afternoon

I had just found a seat on the train, wiggled into a comfortable position and was preparing to daydream all the way to the city. Then I heard some familiar sounds from the seat behind me:

Man: Ashpil (Asfield) … Masih jauh, Dek. Hombus (Homebush) sih… rada jauh dari City.
Woman: Iye, Koh. Kagak pa-pa. Sambil liat liat. Disini beda ama di Pet(Perth) ya? Kagak banyak poon.
Man: Iye. Liat aja. Poon-poonnya pada mati. Apalagi kalo dibanding ama Indo. Poon mangga, poon pete, poon durian… Banyaaaaaak…
Woman: Kenape ya?
Man: Pemerentah sini, sih… Kagak ngasi bawa tanaman dari luar. Goblok! Bla..bla..bla…

Bajuri and Oneng di Sydney???? ((((((((: How I miss home…

Note: Oz Govt is super strict about plant and animal quarantine. They are afraid that the new comers would wipe out the indiginous plants and animals.

Next Days at Hospital

The stomach is indeed not very smart. It was the last part of the body to wake up after a drug-induced sleep. I threw up most of the things I ate on the second day. The nurses gave me anti-vomit pills to take with the painkillers. They also gave me several kinds of laxatives. I normally love food, but even a whiff of food made me sick. This must be what it feels like when you're pregnant. Very sad. In the meantime, the bruises and swelling began. After fighting the pain for hours I gave up. That night I put on my most pathetic face and asked for morphine. The nice nurse who smelled like Body Shop’s White Musk injected some into my stomach. It worked wonderfully and I slept comfortably through the night.

There was no drama after that. I learned to raid the pantry for Arnotts biscuit to eat with my pain killers. It kept me from throwing up. The next night nurse was a young Asian guy. He looked a bit like Tuo Ming Se, with Hwa Ce Lei’s haircut. I guessed that he was from Thailand or the Phillipines. When I saw him I immediately thought of my dear friends back home who are big fans of F4 and I tried very hard not to grin too widely.

Days began to pass more quickly. I couldn’t wait to get the drain off. The good doctors visited me throughout the weekend. On Monday the nurse announced that the doctors said it was ok to go home. Yeeeiiy!! She would take the drain out soon. Yippie!! (Actually I was also a bit scared of the procedure.) She left and I watched TV absent-mindedly, and trying not to panic. I heard the nurses chatting outside my room.
“Can I watch? I’ve never taken a drain out…”
“Sure.”
When a nurse came half an hour later, I recognized her voice. She was the one who said “I’ve never taken a drain out..” and she came alone… That freaked me out a bit. I asked her where she was from. 'The Phillipines.' I told her she looked like an Indonesian. 'Many people said that.' Then I asked her if she had done this before. She was miffed.
“My dear, I have been a nurse for years!”
Ooops. But my dear, I heard what you said, with my own ears. What were you talking about, then?
“I’ll just cut the stitches here (snip) and here (snip)… Now take a deep breath. I will count to three and then I will pull it out.”
“I don’t like the sound of that…”
“I’ll give you some pain killers later if you need it.”
“OK. I’m ready.”
“One, two, three …” the tube came out, then the absorbent tape. It looked like a big, fat fettuccine. And about that long, too.
“Wow, that’s long …”
“I’ll put a bandage over it. Place your hand here … Yes. And put some pressure on it for five minutes. OK?”
Big sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Waking Up

I couldn’t remember where I was when I first regain consciousness after the surgery. I’ve got an oxygen tube up my nose, an IV tube needle in my left forearm and a draining tube under my right arm. Despite all that, I felt quite comfortable. Must be the morphine that they pumped into me through the IV. It was very difficult to wake up. It felt like pushing a truck uphill. I kept drifting back to sleep, but I fought it. I know I had to wake up to prove that the anesthetic didn’t damage my brain.

It’s funny how people have the most irrational fears. Mine was of peeing into a bed pan. You can’t stand up a few hours immediately after a surgery so if you need to pee, you’ll have to do it in bed. The nurse would put a pan under your bottom and you’ll have to do it on your back like a roast turkey on a plate. I had to do it last year. It was one of the most humiliating experiences that I’ve ever had. So this time around, I prayed that I wouldn’t have to repeat it. It was mid afternoon when I first came to. I had a sip of drink, listened to the nurse while she checked my vital signs, and talked to my sis a bit. Then I went straight to sleep again.

It was hard to wake up, but it was impossible to really sleep. How strange… A part of my brain kept waking me up right before I really fell asleep. It’s another one of my irrational fears. My brain was subconsciously warning me that if I fell into deep sleep, I would never wake up again.

When I woke up again it was past midnight. I calculated the hours. Yep, the nurse might just let me get up and go to the bathroom by myself. I rang for the nurse. She said it’s ok and helped me up. She arranged all my tubes so I wouldn’t trip on them or pull them out by accident. I leaned on the IV pole and pushed it along to the bathroom. I peed in the bathroom. Strangely, I felt very proud of myself.

ME Day - Part Deux

I went outside into the bright sunny day. It was still two thirty. Too early to go home. A cake would be nice. I bought a slice of chocolate mud cake from Mitchel’s. A girl was giving away bottled tea near the station so I took one. I found a seat at the courtyard of St. Andrews cathedral and munched slowly. The cake was really, really sweet. It made me crave for something savoury. My eyes caught KFC across the street. Nooo… Bad food… I wasn’t even hungry. But then again, what the heck. It’s not like I have better things to do.

I went to KFC. The Indian girl who served me was very rude. I was quite annoyed. I finished my food and left as much garbage as I could as a tribute to the Gringe behind the counter. My ME Day had turned out to be rather disappointing.

As I left I suddenly remember that I had to buy some cartons for my lesson plan at the childcare center the next day. I headed for Dymocks. There were some homeless people in the streets. One was selling magazines, another was sitting across the street on a wooden crate. A piece of paper was stuck on a board in front of her, explaining who she was and what had happened to her. Another was a haggard looking bearded guy who was sitting with his back against the wall of a mega shop. I know it would be freezing at night so I felt sorry for those guys. I hoped they had a good place to shelter from the cold.

A man in a suit passed by and gave the old lady a five dollar note. Good on you, mate.

On my way home from Dymocks I passed those homeless folks again. I felt bad because just like the millions of people rushing around me, I didn’t help. I took some money from my coin purse. I know that if I bought a magazine from that guy, half would go to his pocket as his share of the sale. It wasn’t much, but at least I’m trying.
I smiled as I approached him. I took a magazine and was about to pay.

These AREN’T FREE, you know?! He snarled.

I gasped and showed him the money. He was so embarrassed. So was I. People were staring at us. He quickly apologized and gave me a lengthy explanation about his back. He had arthritis and only had two hours of sleep the night before. I assured him it was alright, paid him, and wished his back would get better. I walked away quickly and didn’t turn back. Even when I heard him cursing himself IDIOT! loudly.

NOW I’ve really had enough. I was desperate to come home. Before I reached the ticket gate at Town Hall I burst into tears. I retreated into a quiet corner and faced the wall and cried like an idiot. I stopped long enough to go through the gate and find my platform and sobbed again. I buried my face in tissue so people couldn’t see. Not that anybody cared. Only one middle aged guy looked long enough to show that he noticed I was upset. But that wasn't important. What's important is that I could finally cry. The anger, sadness, anxiety, fear, and helplessness that had been poisoning my system for days were slowly melted and were flushed away by the tears.

I cried a little bit more on the train, then felt calm and at peace with the world and with my health condition.
I never read that magazine. I put it in the Dymocks’ plastic bag and never took it out. Today it is still somewhere in the magazine stack.

ME Day - Part One

It was Thursday. On the same day next week, I’d be at the hospital, having my surgery. I felt depressed. Usually when I’m upset or depressed I just need a good cry and then I would feel all better. So far I had been depressed for days and weeks but the tears just wouldn't come. I had a lot of negative feelings inside – fear, anxiety, sadness, helplessness. I was desperate to get rid of them.

That day was my last day to be alone and to get away from school, work, everything. I decided to skip school and go to one of my favorite places in the world – Sydney Aquarium. Something about the sea creatures swimming gracefully in the gigantic tanks is so relaxing. It usually cheers me up.

I had an easy morning. No rush to do anything at all. To day is ME Day and I’m going to take my own sweet time. After lunch I took a train to Town Hall and walked to Darling Harbour. It was a nice sunny day in late autumn. I bought a ticket and walked inside the darkened halls. I revisited all my favorite sea creatures and some new ones. The seals were wonderful. I touched a baby Port Jackson shark. The skin felt rough, like sandpaper.

The underwater tunnel was crowded and noisy. I waited until the noisy group moved on then I walked slowly through the tunnel, and on to a glass room. It’s a fairytale world. The walls, ceiling and even floor were made from glass. It was dark and cool and nobody else was there. I sat down on the glass floor, put my face as close to the glass wall as possible, and watched the rays and sharks swimming like space ships around me. The UFO music in the background helped create the out-of-worldly atmosphere. I was miles away from the real world.

The wail of my cell-phone (Come On, Eileen) beamed me back to Earth.

Hello?
Hello. My name is …(not clear)…… MEGT. …….(not clear)…
(Somebody from my school? One of the managers? Wanting to talk to me about
my three week leave? Let me make sure …)
Mmmm. Sorry, who would you like to talk to again?
I’m looking for …(my name)…
Oh, this is her.
Good. Is this a bad time?
(Very bad. It’s my ME Day. Could you hear the UFO music in the background?)
No, that’s alright.
Right, Irish told me that bla..bla..bla…
Yes, I’m going to have a surgery next week, on May 31. The doctor said five to eight days at the hospital and then some rest at home. I’ll have the surgery here at … (Damn! I can’t remember the name of the hospital. Prince? Wales?) … at the New South Wales Private Hospital (or something like that). That (name) doesn’t sound right, does it?
That (situation) ‘s OK. Just make sure to bring a certificate from your doctor .. bla..bla..bla..
Thank you. Bye..

The glass room lost its magic. I moved on. Past the reefs there was a big glass wall that looked like a movie screen. I sat down on the steps in front of the glass screen. People posed in front of it and have their pictures taken. When they left it was quiet again and I could feel a tiny itsy-bitsy tears creeping down from the corner of my eye.

Excuse me, could you help me take a photo? A nice young woman asked pleasantly. She looked like a student. Maybe from another state.
Sure. (sniff…sniff..)
Just press here.
Here? (sniff..)
Yes. Thanks.
BLITZ.
Here you go. It that (photo) alright?
Yes. Thank you very much.
Your welcome (sniff).

I blew my nose. It’s time to get out of there.

Farewell Potluck

This is a photo of some of the dishes.

ATM Cards

I have always been amused when I heard about people who left their cards in the ATM. I feel sorry for them, but I also think it is silly to leave such an important thing in a public place. They should have paid more attention to what they are doing. Me, I’m always very careful about my ATM card.

One afternoon I went to an ATM on George Street, near Woolworths Supermarket. I had been waiting for my payment for weeks. I was getting a bit anxious. I wanted to know if the money was finally in or not. I inserted my card and chose account balance. Dang! It’s not there yet. I wondered why they hadn’t sent the money. I took the receipt and walked away. About 30 meters down the road I got the feeling that I had forgotten something. I checked my wallet. My card wasn’t there. I left it in the machine!!! My heart dropped to my feet. There goes what little money I had left, I thought. There was still hope. Maybe the card was still there. I turned around. I wanted to run back to the ATM.

“Is this yours?” A stocky, bald man in shorts and sunnies stopped me on my tracks. My card! I gasped with relief. I thanked the kind stranger. He nodded. I couldn’t see his eyes but the look on his face clearly said, “You should've paid more attention to what you are doing. It’s very silly to leave such an important thing in a public place.”

I checked the balance again on my way home, and my savings was intact. Somebody had bothered to chase me down the street to give me back my card. I was really touched. It’s good to know that there still are some good people out there.

Hatred

One afternoon I was walking from Town Hall towards my school. The city was full of people, as usual. Office workers in suits, tourists, students, all in different colors and languages flock the sidewalks. It was mid April. It was clear and sunny but the wind had a cold edge in it. Winter was coming. I took a mental note of the homeless people in the street. As winter drew closer, more and more of them would gather near Town Hall and Woolies Supermarket. Most of them were peaceful but some had really nasty looks in their faces. Some were plain crazy. I had several unpleasant encounters last year.

One of them approached drunkenly and asked me, “Ish thish Noo Yorkh? No??” Another time a different guy glared at me and asked for money, in broad day light. I was with a friend so I just shook my head, said sorry, and walked away.

Most of these guys are painfully bitter. They’ve had some really bad experience and have given up on life. The government supports them with money. Eight hundred dollars per month, as long as they don’t have a job. So they don’t. Eight hundred per month is barely enough to live on. Hardship changes people and turns them hostile. One time when I was walking with a friend a bearded guy shouted, “WHY DON’T YOU GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!!!!” My friend was Asian too. He was deeply offended, and they had a shouting match with the guy for a few minutes.

After all these experiences, I am quite wary of homeless people. I stay away from them. So with the warning alarm buzzing at the back of my mind, I continued walking. The conscious part of my brain was thinking about the terrible news on TV that morning. A university student in Virginia went on a rampage on campus and shot students and lecturers in the classroom. Then he shot himself. Over thirty people died. He was Asian. The word Asian was repeated over and over again in the news. My head was buzzing with questions. Why did he do it? Had people been very mean to him? Why didn’t anybody try to stop him? Or did they try and failed? Why was the word Asian mentioned over and over again? They didn’t say Caucasian over and over again when a criminal was white, did they??

I was coming near a traffic light. There was a guy in black shirt and pants. He didn’t look homeless, but I could smell the unmistakable smell the unwashed. He flicked something with his finger as I approached. It landed on my hand. I looked down. It was spit. I turned to look at his face. “Filth..,” he breathed unemotionally and walked away.

I took out my water bottle and rinsed the spit off. I didn’t dry my hand. I couldn’t bare the thought of wiping my hand and getting traces of the spit elsewhere. I walked on. When I got to school I washed my hands thoroughly with soap, several times. I still felt dirty. The feeling stayed with me throughout class and afterwards when I went to work. Sometimes I imagined the smell of spit lingering around me. I got home in the evening and washed my hands with medicated soap, and then put all the clothes that I wore that day, including the jacket, in the washing machine. At last I felt clean again.

So what did I do right after I saw the spit on my hand? I looked him in the face, scowled as fierce as I could and hissed, “Fuck you...” then turned away.

Not as satisfying as using my handbag to club him on the head repeatedly. Or spitting back. (A spitting contest might follow and I’d lose, for sure). A few years ago I would have just walked away, pretending nothing had happened and that I wasn’t hurt. I thought to myself “Not bad, for a person who had never cursed at anyone before.”

Well Mr Spit, whoever and wherever you are, I don’t know which aspect of my person you hate so much. Be it my colour, my face, the way I walk, the way I dress, or God knows what. I don’t know what tragedy had befallen you to make you so hateful of me and ‘my kind’. I just hope that life would be kinder to you, so that you will change your mind and be a happier person.

Mom's Visit

My Mom came! She was here to visit me. I picked her up at the airport. She brought some of my stuff from home. I was happy to see her after two years of being away from home.

It was great to have Mom here. I wish it had been a pleasant time for her, but it wasn’t. She didn’t like the food. She didn’t even like the food that we bought from an Indonesian restaurant. On the second day, she kicked a leg of the coffee table and was limping for a couple of weeks. Her skin became itchy and flaky. Her bones ached. She had a mysterious rash. I went to several Chinese herbal shops and pharmacists because she refused to see a doctor. Finally she came along with me and we found a lotion that cured the rash.
We never asked her to do anything around the house, but she said she couldn’t sit around on her butt and watch TV all day, so she cooked, ironed, and tidied up the house. After almost a month of suffering, she had enough of Sydney. When I asked her if she wanted to extend her stay she said no. Her body couldn’t take anymore. She wanted to go home. I tried not to cry on the day she left, but successfully failed.

Interesting Guy

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon when the door bell rang. I opened the door saw a tall, wiry man in jeans, t-shirt and a vest. His hair was grayish and was tied neatly in a pigtail. His face was covered with gray stubbles. He asked me very politely if I knew where number forty-two was. The house that was advertised for rent. I knew the house had been empty for some time. I told him where - next door, behind the convenience store. He said “shieh shieh” and I was a bit surprised because he was not Chinese. He smiled cheekily and I was reminded of a wolf. I thought, what an interesting guy. Was he going to be our new neighbour?

A few minutes later I heard somebody coming into the neighbour's house through the back door. I heard some noises, like somebody was hitting the wall with a hammer. I felt a bit suspicious. Should I have a look? What if there was a gang of thieves there? I was alone at home. What if they saw me and decided to silence me? Should I call the police? Half a minute later the hammering stopped. Phew…, I thought. Perhaps it was just somebody that the owner had asked to repair something in the house.

Several weeks later I found out that the water heating system of the neighbour’s house had been stolen. And I thought of the interesting guy with the pig tail. So he was actually a burglar?? A very well-dressed guy, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, asking for directions to the house he was going to break into, and saying thank you in Chinese??????? Mate, the world has gone mad for sure.

All three of us had been fasting since morning and we were hungry. My turn would be at around three. I was tired and quite numb by the time a nurse call my name. We walked to surgery and she told me to lie down on a bed with wheels. A male nurse pushed the bed into anesthetics bay. The anesthetist greeted me and introduced me to his assistants. There must have been about four of them, walking in and out of the room. The doctor inserted a needle into my vein and chatted with me and his assistant. He told me that he was going to Jakarta in two days for a conference. I was going to ask him “Are you sure?” because I know there was a big flood there at the moment. My home and my friends’ home had been submerged. But he was chatting with his assistant about the way anesthetists were trained in Indonesia and my surgeon just came in so I didn’t ask him.

A few minutes later I was wheeled into the operating theatre. They put a metal plank under my bed sheet and pulled the sheet, and me, onto the operating bed. An assistant put an oxygen mask over my nose. The anesthetist released the knock-out liquid into my hand. I felt a burning sensation creeping up my arm. I was worried. What if it burned through my whole body? One, two, three… “Wake up. It’s over now. You’re in recovery.” I was given some food. I changed into my own clothes. The nurse took out the needle and cut out the labels. My sister-in-law came and we went home.

A nurse took me to a quiet room to calm down. Then she took me up to day surgery again to wait for my turn. There was another person sitting in the waiting room. I sat next to her and started a conversation. She told me her whole family was riddled with cancer. Her parents had cancer, and her sister was terminally ill. She herself had had an operation to remove some nasties from her tummy and now she had seven funny stuff on one breast and nine on the other. I started to cry again. This time because I felt sorry for her, but I didn’t tell her that. We chatted about the programs on the TV and I felt better after that. We even laughed very loudly at one point because she said something really funny but I can’t remember what she said.

Another lady came and told me she had had a tumor the size of a golf ball removed from her breast twenty years ago. Last year she had three tumors removed from her stomach. The biggest was ten cm in diameter, the smallest was five. I really began to feel like a big crybaby.

Hookwire Biopsy

My brother and sister-in-law were on their way home from the airport. I took the morning train alone to go to the city and continued by taxi to the hospital. I was late for my eight o’clock appointment. The nurses were waiting anxiously for me at day surgery. I met the anesthetist there. He was the same doctor who helped me through my mastectomy last year. He still remembered the case, because at that time he tried to put in three types of tube down my throat, and failed. The fourth one, a fibre optic disposable something finally went in. No wonder I had a horrible sore throat the day after. Other than the difficult intubation, I was very good, he said.

After a brief check up and filling out a form I was taken to the breast clinic. I changed into that ugly floral gown and waited. My turn came and I went into the ultrasound room to get the wires inserted. My mom was shocked when I told her about the wires. “WIRE???” So I lied and said, “X-Ray, to locate the funny stuff.” The doctor took out the pain-killer needle and I started to cry, because that was going to be the beginning of the pain. I cried throughout the procedure, even after I didn’t feel pain anymore. I guess it wasn’t a physical pain that hurt me most. Lately, I cried every time I went the breast clinic. I cried after the mammo, and again when I was asked to have a needle biopsy. I even cried at bookings when I asked the staff what is the difference between a private patient and a public patient and she said, “Private is private, public is public.” I’m turning into a big crybaby. I wasn’t like this last year. What’s going on??

Absurd

One week into 2007, I was on my way home from a trip to the city. I was thinking of how absurd my life was. I had resigned from my job here, thinking I was going home to my own country. Then the doctor told me that the result from the needle biopsy was not good. After all the horror of the surgeries last year, I would be going through the whole nightmare all over again. So I resigned from my job in Jakarta, hoping that the superannuation money would help me through some of the bills. My family had been urging me to stay here permanently. But I can’t. Not without further studies at uni, which costs too much.

I’m 35. Jobless, penniless, with a costly medical condition, and truckloads of emotional baggage that had kept me from making anything out of myself. A parasite in the family. Stuck. What am I living for? Nothing. Maybe it would be better if I didn’t exist. I wanted to disappear. How could I make myself disappear?

These were my thoughts when the cell phone beeped. It was a message from a close friend in Singapore. “May, adik gue, Huat, meningggal tadi pagi.” Her brother had passed out and died that morning. He was only 30, with no known history of illness. I was shocked. My poor friend, and her grieving parents...

Life, indeed, is absurd. I don’t understand any of this.

New Year's Eve

It was New Year’s Eve. On exactly the same night last year, I was at home with a bandage across my chest from a surgery, feeling very miserable because it was difficult to sleep and I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t even go to the living room because my niece’s boyfriend was staying over and sleeping there.

This year I was alone at home. Most of my folk have flown back home for a holiday and my niece was out with her friends. I didn’t want to stay home, so I planned to go to North Sydney to see the fireworks. When I got to the station there were a group of noisy teens lining up for train tickets. It was like the whole school had gathered there. After waiting for half an hour, I couldn’t stand it anymore and walked back home. Then I called my friend to say Happy New Year. She was going to the city to see the fireworks with another friend and she asked me if I wanted to come along. I was so glad I didn’t end up spending New Year’s Eve alone at home.

The Statue Man

This is a photo of the ‘statue man’. He was taking a break after a long day’s work. When he was working, he stood very still, just like a statue. Passersby put coins in a box in front of him. Sometimes they took photos with him. The statue man would put his silver shawl around the tourists’ shoulders and made them wear wreaths of flowers for the photos. He gave lollies to children. As I sat down to watch, I saw smiles on people’s faces as the statue man entertained the tourists. Young girls giggled. Children fascinated and happy.

As the statue man was taking his break, I could see that he was very tired. It must have been sweltering in his costume and make up on that sunny day. There was no shade to protect him from the sun. Just seconds after the picture was taken, a jogger passed by and slapped the statue man across the face. It was totally an unprovoked attack. The statue man was surprised but was quick enough to call out to the jogger. The jogger stopped and turned back. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other. The statue man was obviously asking for an explanation and an apology and the jogger seemed to be too cocky to take him seriously. The argument grew hotter. The statue man stripped down to shorts and singlet and raised his fists. He was much older and appeared frail compared to the muscular jogger. The jogger also raised his fists. Punches flew but they both managed to avoid getting hit. The statue man pulled the jogger’s shirt off in the fight and threw it back at him. The jogger walked away, but then came back, shouting abuse at the statue man. I guess his ego was badly bruised.

Several ticket men from the jet boat arena nearby approached. They asked the jogger what happened. It was not clear what was going to happen next. Then punches flew again. This time they rained on the jogger. He was outnumbered and outnerved. A group of by standers, me included, cheered and clapped as he ran away. He scowled at us but we ignored him.

Kindness

The people you meet just surprised you sometimes. I was sitting in the breast-clinic’s waiting room, waiting for my turn. I was scheduled to have a fine-needle biopsy on that day. A middle aged lady was sitting next to me. We were both wearing hospital gowns. She looked at me with huge eyes. “What you here for?” she asked. I told her. She looked surprised, but then she said kindly, “Don’t you worry, dear. It’s going to be alright.”

“They took one of mine, and I’m alright. See..” she pointed out where her breast had been. She had had a mastectomy. “Don’t you worry. You’ll be fine.”

We had a chat and I found out that she migrated to Australia as a refugee 40 years ago. She was from Egypt but was actually Greek.

The nurse called her and that ended our chat. She followed the nurse, grumbling all the way. It was clear that to her, as I also knew, the treatment for cancer was not a walk in the park. She was obviously scared and worried about her own health, but she took the time to comfort me. That made her a very wonderful person to me.