The Confession: I am a student (still), (stuck) in Singapore

25 days.
Or, four weeks.

That's the amount of time it takes for the Canadian Embassy to renew my passport overseas (and surprsinngly, yes, even in Singapore, a place highly noted for it's general efficiency).

I guess there are two things to take away from this fact:

First, true as tested the Canadian Government is inefficient, anywhere and everywhere.

Second, creativity; or, how to spend time in a foreign place where you are not allowed to work (even for free), nor are allowed to leave, and have already explored its various offerings over the past four months.

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Real time check: currently on last day of week 2. Which means about 2 weeks left. Or, 12 days.

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They say that if you wait long enough and are patient for the good things, time will always turn something up. But feeling slightly more proactive about my life and circumstances (partly out of necessity), I have spent a large chunk of my time trying to plan out 'time', with a guiding question of "what to do, post-grad?"

In the beginning, I gave myself a year. The plan was (is) to graduate in a foreign land, get lost in other foreign lands, hopefully pick up a foreign fling and then in the fall of 2011, settle back in Canada as an eager law student. So, that gives me over a year; Or, four semesters (2 summers, one fall, one winter) to make the best of my life and chase the moments.

With this overall goal in mind, only ideas here and there have guided my steps. Like, for one, apply around and get the best job (fail). Or, for seconds, Fall in love with a man who owns a palace in some far off land and wants to spoon feed me for the rest of my life (fail). Fail. Fail. Fail.

It seems that this plan isn't panning out. (I blame the Canadian Government, always.)

Give me ten years and this one year, in retrospect, will seem like a blurr in time. A second of a twenty-four hour day (? my math might be off on this one here). But in the moment, the hand ticks slowly. Really slowly. I watch it, literally and figuratively. Mostly I watch it thinking I could be elsewhere-- like on some Indonesian beach perfecting the art of surf. Or thinking that there are so many things wrong with this place. Where is their life? (come on, no gum!? no porn!? all work. no play!)

And then I remind myself, I'm the one who is STUCK (literally), and where is MY life?

Well, in the next few days or so it is pending, I admit.
But after that, I swear I get my life back on track and stop being a waste of carbon.

In a bit over two weeks, or 15 days, I will be moving to the Philippines, temporarily. I have volunteered over my hands, my time, and my wallet for 10 weeks. I will be working as a health care volunteer serving a rural village and aiding an overworked doctor. (p.s. This anticipation definitely makes the minute hands tick slower... )

So, this is my life, as it is today.

Four months after I willingly arrived to Singapore, I am now held captive to this very city against my own wishes, dreaming of now impossibly faraway beaches.
Which leads me to conclude a third thing about the facts of this situation:

Exoticism and wanderlust can happen everywhere and anywhere-- even in a place once dreamt of.



In the end, there is one thing I am really happy to add to my confession. You can call it an appendix, if you will. Or a slight correction of details:

A few days ago, I would have had one more terrible thing to add to my list of terribles: I was then considered "unemployed". I had finished school and had moved on from being a student to 'jobless' (or actually, I hadn't "moved" on to anywhere, hence 'jobLESS').

It was a friend, actually, who made me aware of this fact. He greeted me on the very day I had finished my very last exam saying, "Congragualtions, you're officially unemployed!"

Piss off.
This is without a doubt the worst word in my life. It's like the big cuss which should never be spoken, or the the bad picture which should never be tagged.


Well, to my luck it turns out there is one other burreacracy that delays everything: University. Apparently, my official records cannot be released in time for this coming graduating term. Which means, I am officially still a "student" until the summer's end.
Most people rejoice and wait anxiously for their graduation day. Not me.
I don't want to have to figure out my life, its details, just yet.

So, I am a student (still), (stuck) in Singapore.

This is the oxymoron of my life.
That's my confession.

Bargaining High

I’m standing in front of a full length mirror. Side profile. One foot shoved awkwardly in 4-inch heels; the other balancing dangerously on tippy-toe trying to catch Up.

“You think?”

“I know.” He says without ever haven taken his eyes off my reflection.

Guys are so easy to read. I knew the minute I slipped on this stiletto he was sold. The black-skirt-with-white-top ensemble from the store before didn’t take much convincing either.

A very particular look passes across their face when they approve. It’s a momentary thing and if you’re not quick enough, you’ll miss it. But the look is definitely there when they blush approvingly of you and yours. It’s as if they are going to say something, but don’t know how to translate Dick into Proper. And then as quickly as the thought came to them it passes into a grin, only to then fade into the folds of their face to be ever-lost to fantasy.

After that, who knows if he still cares about the shoes, the skirt, or the white top I’ve worn to bring out the highlights of my hair. But at least I got his attention. And of course he’ll reassure me once more with a casual nod to the shoes. “I know this is the one.”

(Grin fades to neutral sheep.)

If only jobs and life were as easy to know as boys know the right shoe for you.
To them, as long as it’s got height, it’s right.
To me, even if the job fits into one of my 100 or so odd keywords (such as: “interesting”, “social”, “people”, “travel”, “sun”, “window”, “underwater (?)”) it’s only maybe right. In short, there is a complex combination of keywords that will go into making me satisfied.

I clearly haven’t found it. In retrospect, as I look at myself in a half-length mirror back at home it’s obvious that a man helped pick this outfit; or at least, that it is worn with men in mind.

In two hours, I’ll be one interview down (It’s worth noting because this is my FIRST interview post-graduation). In two.five hours, I’ll be thinking to myself that said-employer offered too much (given what I was worth); and yet too little (given my keyword quota).
In three hours I’ll have an awkward date that will stay pending (did he say lunch, dinner, or never?). And in five hours, I’ll be right here, sitting where I am, thinking what I think: the shoes were too high.

But a girl does what she must. And to find my first keyword combination post-graduation, the look had to be perfect even if it got me what I never bargained for.

The Guilty Little Secret We ALL Share

(This piece was written as a response to an article featured in Glamour's June, 2010 edition. I am not normally a magazine reader, but I came across this one and felt something had to be said for the girl's side. So, here it is. Hope it can stimulate some interesting conversation, if not imagination.)

"jake" is the pseudo name of a "real, live single guy dating in New York City" and writing editorials for Glamour magazine. "jake (a man's opinion)" is the title of his editorials.

"Highlight reel" definition: the mental tape that rolls in one's head of other sexual partners while in the act of making love to your partner.

“Off in your own world again”?
The Guilty Little Secret We ALL Share: A Response to Jake’s confessional “Highlight Reel”

Looking beyond Vince Vaughn’s “highlight reel” scene in the popular Hollywood blockbuster hit Couples Retreat, is an equally telling scene in the less popular romantic comedy Young People Fucking. The latter film intertwines the stories of various couples in which one of the main plots is that of The Couple, Andrew and Abby. The long-time daters are having trouble with their sex life and, looking to confront the issue, girlfriend Abby challenges her partner to open up sexually.

Unlike Vaughn’s scene where the men assert their guilty pleasure of thinking about other women during sex, in Young People Fucking the so-called “highlight reel” of sex isn’t gendered as a purely male phenomenon. Indeed, when broached by her prodding boyfriend for being “off in her own world again” while in the act, Abby reveals that her imagination often takes her elsewhere and most often to Ian Ziering (in his Beverly Hills days as the heart throb, Steve Sanders).


This is an interesting comparison and it brings to question Jake’s confessional article in Glamour. In an overtly apologetic and revelatory tone, Jake tells his readers that he is guilty of sin like other normal men of mentally wandering during sex. What was well done by Jake is that he reassures us (the females) this is nothing to worry about, for what he and our men are doing is rather quite healthy for relationships. As he points out, nearly all men do it and at the very least it can serve to keep the guy going for longer, if you know what I mean.

Thanks for the reassurances, Jake, but no need to apologize-- women are guilty of sin too! Indeed, watching Abby acknowledge and confess her affinity for Hollywood hottie, Ziering makes the audience realize that women, like men, are wanderlusts. We too fixate on various other fantasies during sex.
Perhaps we are not as vocal about it. Perhaps we do not recycle through as many people in our reel. And perhaps some of us won't ever admit it, either to others or ourselves. But women too have wild imaginations that help keep their sex life going. And as Jake concludes this is healthy for men; it's healthy for girls. Actually, it's healthy for US.

So I don’t think Jake should be expecting any "serious hate mail" for his revelatory confession. If anything, after reading this revelation about women and our wanderings in bed I hope he’ll be able to accept the fact that Strawberry (the pseudo name of his female Lover) isn’t 'there' half the time either... .

The Anti-Climax and Borneo

The idea came to me about 3 months ago. You see, when you think of Borneo, you think of jungle, trees, orangutans, and carnivorous plants... but surf? So, I began to ask around, casually.
Most people just gave me blank stares. “Surf in Borneo? No can.”

Until finally a local Malaysian gave me my first lead with a nod of her head. And that was that, I was going to Borneo in search of surf!

So, here I am about three months post-revelation and after five days on the northern end of the Island. Sad to say but I came back without having had my surf :(

We headed to Kota Kinabalu for two days of island hopping. From there, we gave ourselves three days to find surf at the most northern end, Kudat-- a land that boasts some of the most beautiful beaches.

Given the season, the time of day, etc. I’m sure our plan would have come through. Simpang Mengayau, for instance, had some solid beach break surf that could prove quite exciting given the right time. But in any case, even with whatever surf we found we couldn’t ride because there were no boards to be found. Our guide didn’t even understand the concept and kept calling it “standing tree” (which he probably thought meant standing under a tree and looking at the waves. Poor drawing skills on my part).

Moral of the story, surfing doesn’t figure into the locals’ lives. And it wasn’t going to figure into our holiday either... But I wouldn’t rule it out forever. I’ll be back some day with board in hand to chase the waves in a land of jungle on the South China Sea.

Despite not having found what I came looking for, the trip did not disappoint. Instead of surf I found some of the nicest waters and beaches. Stretches of white sand looking out into the ocean without a single other person there to take it away from you. I reckon when backpackers first started traveling and discovering Southeast Asia-- in places where they would stumble upon like Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia-- this was exactly the highs they were getting. Lonesome, lost, foreign, guide-less. But, with nature unfolding and unwritten right under their feet.




Overall, Borneo was the perfect beach holiday-- a welcome break before the turmoil of exams!

Now I’m back in Singapore with two weeks left of my undergraduate degree.
Suddenly I’m having flashbacks to day one: running through the Vancouver Airport, drying my tears and hopes high for the Big Wild World just across that ocean.

Well World, you definitely did not disappoint.

With the End in sight, I feel slightly nostalgic about the adventures I’ve had and equally scared about what is to come next. For once, I really don’t know where to be. I don’t have class attendance to make; nor a flight to catch. And I definitely don’t have a commitment that can’t wait a year... .

I have my bags, and a world that just got a whole lot bigger.

Slowly I'm beginning to realize, there was no “first day” and there sure as hell isn’t a last either. So I’ll stop keeping track of time for now...

Shame on Us, Quebec

This piece is a response to a Globe and Mail article concerning the recent niqab case that has surfaced in the news.

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“I think it would be better if everybody could stay calm,” said Shaheen Ashraf of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women. “There is a fear factor in this province that doesn't do any good. But I don't know why a niqabi [a woman who wears a niqab] would come here and expect to live in comfort as the only person wearing it. Why would you come to a society where you know you will be shunned?”

- taken from article


I am deeply concerned with Mr. Ashraf’s comments on women who wear the niqab. As a member of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women, I am shocked that he could be as unforgiving of his own people as to ask the following of niqabis, “Why would you come to a society where you know you will be shunned?”
Shunned?
Really?

I would at least give Canadians more courtesy than that...

Overall, as a resident of Quebec, I am ashamed that this case has unfolded and of the nature it is acquiring. Whatever happened to our ideals of laissez-faire?! If it doesn’t hurt you, nor me, nor them, who cares. Remember Pierre Trudeau? He told us that the private affairs of individuals were not for us to judge in law and state. What could be more personal than an individual’s right to express their faith?

Canadians espouse themselves as being multicultural. As I write this, I am currently sitting overseas in Singapore where religious tolerance would put Quebec Canada to shame. And this is an authoritarian government we are speaking of...

Are the burqa, hijab, or niqab really symbols antithesis to Canadian culture, or democracy, or modernity? As rational people I think we could all agree that, at the very least, the best way to settle this cultural clash (for indeed, this is an issue of cultural bigotry) is not to go the French (France) way as this case seems to be, but to agree to disagree and let the women be!
If Muslim women choose to cover their bodies, so be it! If Canadian women choose to reveal cleavage, so be it! Let the women choose for themselves what is appropriate for their own bodies.

And as for what is appropriate for society at large, let time speak for itself in terms of what is wrong or right -- not uninformed individuals venting a moments ego. Do not force people to change simply out of caprice and ignorance. Remember-- ignorance is not a defence under reason.

It is in tolerating ‘others’ that we will bridge the bonds of social harmony. By disregarding or failing to understand the ‘other’ or to accept practices of the ‘other’ we breed hatred. French Canadians are all too good at this. Even though the Quite Revolution sought to break society free from a religious orthodox bound, a disconcerting social orthodoxy still seems to cling to much of those in the province.
Let it go.

This is Phnom Penh

I sit back and flip through pictures from three days of travel in Cambodia. It’s hard to believe that it was just three-- I am quickly reminded of suffering, poverty, war, desperation, and equally, hope, comfort, and happiness. These are the toils of humanity. The ups and down. And this is what we put each other through, day in and out.
How bizarre it is to be human.


Day 1:

The room is on stilts, hovering among twenty others over the river, a dirty brown. When the men take their prostitutes you can feel their movements from down the boardwalk. The unit rocks back and forth, threatening immanent collapse down into the water below.

It smells-- everywhere. People are too poor, or uneducated to worry about proper plumbing. Garbage litters the ground that children play, piss, and shower in. There are beggars-- all over.

Day one is reserved for the sites, and it begins early with a somber walk through S-21. Tuol Sleng is the infamous former-high school-turned-prison. It is a museum of a three year genocide. It is a memory of atrocities; a reminder of our darkest side.
In between the rows of prison cells and barbed wire walls I see blotches of dark red taint the tiles. I think of Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge. How could they have done this?
There is a picture of Comrade Duch, chief torturer of S-21, where his eyes are scratched out and writing is scribbled across his face. I thought of the pain he caused others, especially whoever defaced him. And then I thought of the people’s faith. How could the Buddha expect us to offer compassion to a man such as himself?


We followed the prison with a walk through the nearby Killing Fields in the city’s outskirts. Hollowed out pieces of land dotted the field. These were the graves of prisoners who had been forced to dig their own beds.
Around the premises, on the other side of the fence, kids pressed their faces into the grills, hands outstretched past a barricade commemorating their own, begging. They had mastered the art. Cunning little bastards: they would grab your attention first by asking you to take pictures of them, or by asking your name, and then they would turn on their puppy eyes and stretch out their hands. I hesitated for a moment not wanting to be outplayed by 6 year olds. And then they begged for my water. And I thought, these bastards have every right to win.




The tuk-tuk ride back home seemed longer than usual. The seats were stiff and sticky. It was hot. The sun had heated the land and offered it no shelter. The grass was dying, not because it was the dry-season, but because everything else was dying. The Buddha taught us this a long time ago. He also taught us that life is suffering.

And yet, he also taught us that there is a way out. Back in the city, people walk the streets.

This is Phnom Penh.

The Speak Good English Campaign

Singlish
part of speech: noun
definition: English as it is spoken in Singapore; an English-based creole

If you have never had the honour of hearing a Singaporean speak, then you are truly missing out on one of the great wonders of the world. There is nothing quite like Singlish...

A few months ago, Nic sent me this amazingly hilarious youtube link that more or less lets you hear Singlish at its finest: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIW8WfqoJUA.


(2 minutes and 6 seconds later...)


I guess you wouldn't be too surprised now to hear that in 2000 the Singaporean Government came out with the Speak Good English Movement.

"The Speak Good English Movement is a nationwide movement to encourage Singaporeans to speak grammatically correct English that is universally understood."

When I first heard of the Movement, I thought it was a joke.
Having been in Singapore for only a few weeks, I couldn't fathom why the government was trying to control their language-- It's bad enough they can't chew gum...
At that point, however, I didn't think there was anything odd about their speech. When I first started hearing Singlish, I simply shrugged it off as the speech of new immigrants.
But when I realized that it was there at the beach, in the clubs, and in the classroom I realized that Singlish really did exist, and it really was the unofficial National Language of Singaporeans.

I was nothing short of amazed.
How did the English language ever become so bastardized?
(And unfortunately, Singlish doesn't have the sex appeal of other bastardized tongues such as Trinidadian English.)

So, after a month of trying to re-learn my mother tongue, I started to fancy the idea of the Movement. Suddenly, English Pronunciation workshops seemed like a brilliant idea. And, Giving your citizens Skills for Reading Aloud? Definitely. Priority.

That was, until now...

By this point, I've had many conversations with locals in which they tell me about their identity-- or, lack there-of. What is Singapore? What is Singaporean culture? "What makes us, us?" They ask, wide-eyed and lips quivering.

Well, I can't completely answer that, but whatever it is, I know Singlish is part of it.

As much as Singlish hurts the ears and works the brain, it gives these people their own... thing, for lack of a better word. So, there's something about the idea of changing it that stricks a chord. It is in every way a rejection of something that is uniquely Singaporean. For a country that is looking to define itself, then, I say start by keeping the Singlish.

After a couple months of being here, I have to admit it's growing on me... slowly. And actually, I kinda think it's cute... .

So as of today, I'm For Singlish.

http://www.pitara.com/news/news_world/online.asp?story=162