Singapore Post No. 4: Rejoinder to my "kiasu" day

As a rejoinder to my blog yesterday, here is a link to the online version of a local newspaper's headline: "Expats want the right school too."

For the entire story click here: http://www.todayonline.com/pdf_index.asp

Singapore Post No. 3: Oh yes, I can be “kiasu,” too

We all woke up early, Enzo, Ate and I. Today is Phase 3 and last day for Singapore’s Primary One Registration Exercise, the only day left for children who are not citizens or Permanent Residents of this country. That is our category. Enzo has turned six and there is no other way for him to enter school come January 2008 if we miss this process.

Being last in the pecking order, I can only wait in frustration and dismay while primary schools recommended by friends have either disappeared from the on-line list (yes, there’s an on-line update of available slots) or they simply do not do Phase 3. With whatever is left, one can just say, “whatever.” But as I am, without shame, an academically-inclined parent, I had to choose the one with the best annual competitive scores.

Ate, Enzo and the nice sidewalk...

If there is one thing Singaporean’s are so obsessed about, it would be sending their children to the RIGHT school. Nothing abnormal, I share the same passion. While this, to me, is a normal parenting exercise, in here it IS a ballgame. Much like managing a football team where tightly-lid strategies are carefully laid-out. There is no other goal but the championship which, in this case, is getting there FIRST. Stories abound of mothers doing volunteer work for years just to get a slot in a very reputable school. Or of camping out on the queue the night before.

“Kiasu” that’s how they call this attitude. An online dictionary on Singlish says, in Hokkien, it means “to be scared to fail” and due to the varying degrees Singaporeans would manifest this, its connotations can mean something that is very endearing, to one that is outright derogatory. Very much a part of the Singaporean DNA, you would also witness this whenever new HDBs (their public housing) open to the market. People line up a day before. They bring food, water, collapsible chairs, little cushions, and chatting partners whose more important role is to serve as a “linebacker” whenever nature calls. Oh, there can be an endless list where being kiasu can be evident.

Hmm... a mushroom shed.

Nevertheless, in a country where students “fit” for university are determined early on and follow a different stream of education; and where the government and the society, in general, hold in high esteem and give real merits to the brightest, I think kiasu-ness is very understandable.

So this morning, armed with a stern advice from Singaporean friends, I had to be kiasu and I had a big plan. Ate, "my linebacker," left the house at the crack of dawn, traveled 15 minutes to West Coast and, with whatever glint of daylight, navigated the streets with confusingly similar signs. The school is at West Coast Avenue but this avenue is not so straightforward after all… it would disappear somewhere and you would come across a West Coast Road… West Coast Lane… West Coast Drive… West Coast Walk… West Coast Terrace… West Coast Grove… West Coast Rise… I’m not joking!

Ahh… such costly digression! She lost a good 15 minutes! But as I was as kiasu as I can get, such scenario was carefully anticipated. And when she finally got there, we were rewarded with THE stub with the big, fat number “1” on it. Hah! Ate told me that a few minutes later, a Singaporean arrived and had disbelief written all over his face upon seeing her at the first row chair holding THE coveted stub.

First in the finish line!

Dragging along a visibly sleepy Enzo, I arrived just in time, when the tables opened at 8 a.m. We were back at home, before 9 a.m., victorious... and drowsy.

Mi Qifa.

Tokyo Post No. 1: Lost in Translation

With apologies to my dear friend Rika who strongly felt the movie was unfair to them, Japanese… I remember though that she was very adamant to hear my honest opinion on both the film and my experience being in Tokyo. This blog is how I would recall my reply was to her—that whatever reference to the movie only hovers on a literal interpretation.

I traveled to Japan upon the invitation of the Global Environmental Forum (GEF), an NGO that had a research on the corporate social responsibility (CSR) practices of Japanese companies all over the Southeast Asian region and I represented the Philippine Business for Social Progress—a well-recognized NGO that advocates CSR. It was my first opportunity to be in that lovely country and also my first to be speaking in a crowd using a simultaneous translation process.

Two hours before the symposium, my host from GEF gave a serious briefing on how the system works and what to expect. I thought it was simple but still endeavored to remember all his tips.

1. Speak in simple straightforward sentences.
2. Absolutely no idiomatic expressions.
3. Adjust the volume of earpiece.
4. Remember the voice of your translator and how her voice flows as she ends her translations.
5. Wait five beats to make sure a translation has ended.
6. Always look at the moderator (who would not be speaking in English!) for visual cues.

And it was not easy!

I had an uncomfortable “lost in translation” moment and went through rough patches the first 20 or so minutes. Thankfully, I sort of winged it thereafter… As I am the type who would prefer looking at the eyes of whoever I am communicating with, maintaining this eye contact, listening to the translator and checking on the cues from the moderator proved to be VERY daunting! The following pictures are odd reminders of how unnatural I was in that situation.

Hmm... adjust the volume and keep the hand off the earpiece, please.

May I look at the audience... but the hand...

May I now look at the moderator... still the hand.

But heck! I think I did well. An article on the symposium came out of a local newspaper and the writer kindly sent me a copy through courier. I do not know much about Nihonggo or katakana (their script) but I think this piece is a good story.

Look ma, no hand!

Singapore Post No. 2: Everyday gift

The weather in Singapore has been overcast for weeks with intermittent rains and thunderstorms. Last Wednesday, August 22, the sun had a shy performance and gave us more reason to head for the beach at Sentosa. Perhaps it was nature’s way of conspiring to make a boy feel special. It was my son’s sixth birthday.

Six years and he is still surprised and giddy every time Mommy and Ate would show him this early morning balloon surprise.

My Enzo is a precocious kid who took on reading even before reaching the age of four; knows his musical instruments by heart; has interesting perspectives on whatever he draws; has perfect spelling quizzes; can seriously navigate Google Earth to “travel” to places he read from the books… a typical pre-schooler whose hearty laugh echoes from the pool area; plays rough games with his friends and has an early love affair with airplanes and big trucks.

His side of the beach...

Not bad for someone who had been gravely ill from the moment he came out of this world. The doctors said his chance for survival was slim and if he did survive, he will not be able to walk, talk, see, and hear. That whatever may change their heart-breaking prognosis is beyond the reaches of medicine.

Digging... digging...

Each time August 22 comes I am reminded of how my son fought hard to have his place in the world. It was a long battle and an experience that showed me the beauty and strength of the human spirit... what real blessings my family and true friends have been... and the profoundness of an answered prayer.

My little gentleman

We do have our little fights. Enzo can be picky with his food… forgets to return all the toys, books, drawing pads and coloring stuff to their places… can have a tantrum. Yet, he is more than perfect for me. At the end of each day, we hug and say our earnest thanks to the One who brought us together, whatever the weather may be.

I'm six!

Fighting poverty one hug at a time

It was an ordinary day and I was catching up on some news at CNN. Then I was struck by their feature on India’s “hugging guru,” Mata Amritanandamayi. Everyday, Amma, as she is fondly called by her followers, has hordes of people from all over the world waiting in line to feel transformational love through her hug and motherly advice. Makes you wonder why a stranger has to give somebody else a hug... In an interview, she said:

"There are two types of poverty in the world, financial poverty and the poverty of love; the second is more important."

It is awe-inspiring that Amma has embraced so many lives not only in her own country… Proof of what sublime powers a simple hug can have. Know more about Amma and her philanthropic works here.

Have you had your dose of hugs today? Maybe you need to give some hug, too.

On a lighter note, if we are in a desperate need of a hug and nobody around us is willing to give us one, perhaps, we will have to be content with THIS… (Pls. click on the link to see how. Yeah, this copyright stuff can really spoil the fun.)

Kidapawan Post No. 1: The most beautiful woman

Ten days ago, we quietly celebrated the sixty-fifth birthday of this very special woman. My hero in this world where real virtues and high ideals have slowly lost their meaning.

In her youth, that captivating beauty belied a life of deprivation. Her quiet perseverance, intelligence, and elegance made her taller than any young woman worth her silver spoon… charmed many and fell for another charmer…

She is a woman of her generation—fiercely loyal to her family, loves unconditionally, hardworking, and sacrificing. Her charity is legendary. Nothing for herself, always for others… And thus, we grew up without the usual comforts. I still remember how we used to recycle old notebooks from her writing classes, carefully choosing the clean pages, binding them together and covering them with artworks—just like new and yet, much better. I never felt we had less in life because she was good in making us understand we should only have what is necessary.

No provocation demands her speaking ill of anybody—a sigh and a wistful look, that’s all you get. Small talk and gossip were not allowed at home and if guests started some yarn, her silence is a kind rebuke.

In my father’s twilight years, he sang her many songs… songs of gentle pleadings… of forgiving and forgetting heartaches from the past… adoring songs for his true muse.

A brave cancer survivor, her peaceful demeanor can only come from a deep understanding of life and an indomitable faith in her Maker’s plans. She has been guiding us with wisdom and gifted us with a “sense of rooted-ness” to simple values that have served as our anchor amidst the vicissitudes of life.

My Mom is one amazing woman. My one true north.

Cause your love is like a river
It runs through my heart and soul
It's deep when I'm thirsty and warm when I'm cold
And when I feel forgotten
I come running to your shore
And find peace of mind time after time
You give me everything and more

--Everything and More, Barry Gillman

Singapore Post No. 1: Weaning over

The weaning period has been going on for a little over a month… no more endless readings (or I’d say bibliographic ruminations if I’m writing an academic paper), hand-straining laptop clucking (carpal tunnel syndrome), heavy handwritings (dis-cursive writings), high-blood inducing team projects (group dynamics), and the balancing anemia due to lack of sleep (sleep deprivation).

Warming up to another day of reading... A typical scene in my study room.

The day-long comprehensive exam (academic synthesis) had been dealt with; all remaining drops of energy dispensed or better yet, wrung out. Interestingly, they call such exams here as “capstone.” I thought a fair warning to put on our hardy caps for the final stone to be smashed into these thickened skulls.

It's night time... feverishly beating a midnight deadline to upload a paper.

Hardwired to a year of academic flogging (discipline), I reckon my biological system (circadian rhythm) is yet to evolve (homeostasis) to its new routine. Nowadays, the brain has random rewinds (reminiscences) of its former hurdles. Classic withdrawal symptoms.

Desperately seeking a dose of Starbucks and a fun conversation to celebrate a minor victory--paper uploaded a few minutes to the finish line... Heck, if you can't have the company at this ungodly hour at least, you can still bring the coffee in. Bravo, Starbucks!

One person once told me I should rather not share so much on these boring stuff. Hmm. It was never boring actually. It has been a swell year for absorbing new things anytime, anywhere. Asynchronous learning, I’d say.

Dawn creeping in... Time to call it a day...

Photo credit: Photo Number 2 was by Celes using a lomo camera. The rest is mine, using my ever-reliable Nokia 6280.

Have a bag, will travel

Like most women, I also live by this aphorism: a woman can never have too many shoes or too many bags. Carrie Bradshaw is alive in me, just like in you. It does not matter if they are spanking new or segunda manos found in the ukay-ukay. I always believed bags and shoes are tools for expressing both our creative and practical sensibilities. They manifest our personalities more than our consumerist or faddish urges.

Most of my bags have their own stories to tell, from the reason of their purchase to the many (mis)adventures shared thereafter. In this respect, my leather teal bag stands out among the rest. A trusty companion in many of my travels, it has been an object of envy and an easy subject for many a pick-up line.

An object of envy

Incident No. 1: Buckinghamshire, London
I was having tea and some serious conversation with colleagues from Europe and Africa. As we were winding down, the Italian lady gestured towards my feet where the bag was peacefully parked. She said, "Can’t help but notice your beautiful bag. Where did you buy that?" At the end of that girly chat, she shared what seemed an elaborate plan to pass by the Philippines in her future travel to Asia.

The bag, ready to go to bed. At my hotel room in Buckinghamshire.

Incident No. 2: NUS, Heng Mui Keng Terrace, Singapore
On the other side of the table, one of the school administrators was seriously checking the documents I submitted. After what felt like an eternity of silence, she declared everything was in order. When I gathered the rest of my files and stuffed them in the bag, she suddenly had that very big, childlike smile and said, "I love your bag." Then in a split second, her face went back to its former mask. Weird, but a breakthrough in an environment where a staid personality means more credibility.

A subject of pick-up lines

Incident No. 1: On board the Emirates airplane above the Middle East skies
After all the hassle at the Dubai airport, I was so tired I wished to spend the rest of that long flight to London in stillness and silence. After more than an hour of self-imposed catatonia, I decided to pick up my bag and retrieved something. Out of thin air, my seatmate said, "You have such an elegant bag." Then went on and introduced himself as an Indian-American architect. I gathered my manners, said my name and added, "My husband is also an architect. This bag is a gift from him." That it was a pick-up line never crossed my mind until, on a separate occasion, an American program partner told me how gullible I was. Tsk.

The bag taking a seat. At my hotel room in Tokyo.

Incident No. 2: Akasaka, Tokyo, Japan
Before the sake’s spirits have descended, the post-symposium party room was a virtual parting of the Red Sea—the Japanese male executives on one side and women on the other. Two hours later, a flushed gentleman approached me with a courteous bow and said, "I would like to tell you that we were impressed by your presentation. You are a beautiful speaker… Er, that’s a beautiful bag you’re holding…" (Eject button, pls...)

At a museum in Tokyo.
‘Love my bag!

Samar Post No. 2: A fascination was born

Samar is a hardship post. Many typhoons pass through this island each year. Most areas are upland, difficult for farming staple crops like rice and corn. Some would say people there are either fisherfolk or they tend huge coconut plantations owned by only a handful of landowners. Scores have also migrated to urban areas or become OFWs to find that elusive pot of gold. Yet the other end of the rainbow has set foot in Samar and not many people knew this.

In recent years, the hardy Samarenos have seen the potential of our lowly “banig” or traditional mat, enhanced its design and has built a cult of avid user and collectors. I’ve seen these mats when I went there and the infatuation was instant. But I was terribly dismayed… As in many fascinating Philippine-made products, they are not to be found in your local shops. Yes, there they are in those swanky home decorating ateliers—a few locals but mostly, abroad—tagged with prohibitive values.

It took three years for a chance to get hold of one or two... And when it came, thinking was out of the question. Let me show you some of the loot—

It takes a month or more to finish one piece.
This is one of their gaudiest designs.

Understated elegance...
This large piece with matching floor pillows took much longer to make because the design and color are more arduous to the eyes. According to my supplier only her mother can weave this pattern and has yet to teach one of her siblings the technique.

The same mat with small colored pillows of the same material.

What I have seen in Samar created this ardent fascination for Philippine crafts. I love them for their beauty but more than that the rich heritage imbued in each piece is truly invaluable. Fanatic as I am, you can only imagine the pains I have to go through in getting hold of them as well as in ensuring they come with us when we moved here in Singapore.

Samar Post No. 1: That which started all the crying

After only about three months in my previous office, I had to travel to Samar with a well-respected Filipino journalist who used to write for Reader’s Digest. It was a good break on three counts: the person I’m with; my first time to see Samar; and my first visit to one of the organization’s most respected programs.

But all the excitement were quickly forgotten as my husband and I were on our way to the airport. I was crying my eyes out because it was also the first time I would be away from our son. He was only ten months old then. After taking care of him 24/7 for seven months, going back to work had been a guilt-ridden, painful experience. The husband kept on assuring me five days would be over fast and burned the lines to cheer me up. Still, I cried each night.

I could never thank my good fortune for having the opportunity to travel far and wide. Yet, I never got used to the loneliness of being away. I only got better in hiding my tears as I enter the airport. And in making sure I put cold compress on my puffy eyes in the mornings and do my work as though nothing bothered me the night before. I would describe myself as mildly sentimental but the anguish has been really due to the fact that I have become fully aware of the consequences of each moment of absence on the child and on the bond everybody has been building for the family.

Samar opened my eyes to all these. Admittedly, there is serious fun involved in traveling but serious work is also needed to get back on the groove of family life once again. The people we left are not on suspended animation waiting for us to press “play” when we return. All our lives evolve. While we are apart we could miss a chance of a lifetime. Or just a pixel which completes the family picture. Or which leaves it undone.

It did not help that Samar is mired in poverty. I have never been to a place where concrete structures can only be found in town centers. The long road trip from Tacloban, Leyte to Maqueda Bay in Western Samar was only punctuated by these and by little huts displaying a few bunches of bananas, hoping to attract the palate, or the pity, of travelers. Yes, we crossed the San Juanico Bridge which to my consternation was the only thing I knew about this area at that time, aside from the infamous family who could have made a lot more difference. Unbelievable. It used to be a source of pride for the nation, notwithstanding the many issues shadowing its stature, but there it was—as lonely as the whole landscape.

Or maybe it was the gloom I had in me. Even now, I could not be too sure which one fed the other. Lest I would be accused of painting such a sorry image, I believe Samar is one of the amazing places I had been to. In no small measure due to its rustic nature—however pillaged it has been—but mostly, this admiration springs from the resilience and creativity of its people. This is a subject deserving of a full entry so watch out.

After that fateful trip, I came home much more thankful of what I have. Cliché. This was one of those places where these words can truly mean what they mean.

Someday, I should be able to include photos of that trip in this blog.