Reminiscent of long, languid lunches with friends

One of the things I pine for most from Malaysia, is ironically enough, the Iced Chocolate from Dome. And their Mushroom and Chicken Gourmet Pie, which I have had since I was 15, before I knew the damage of too much butter and cream to the waistline.

Though Dome is an Aussie franchise to begin with, no one here has ever seen it in Queensland. So imagine my delight when I saw this on George Street.



My life will be complete when they bring DELIcious in.

Prosperity

I feel so lucky today. Maybe I should get my Godmother to buy a lottery ticket.

Travel

Maps have a strange effect on me. Think hormonal man seeing a hot chick walk pass. My mouth goes dry, my palms grow moist and whatever I was doing before, well I won’t remember what it was.

My mind wanders to Where Could Have Been and What Could Have Been. Rhetorical astral travel if you will. Take away all my epicurean joys, but leave me my passport. Growing up, travel was not something emphasized in the family. “What for? You’ll have all the time in world when you grow up. Now you must study. Career comes first!” This line was reiterated again and again by my cheapskate pragmatic parents.

So I worked my part time jobs and gathered my equally broke friends and we would take mini trips. We called it backpacking, which brings to mind tanned, lean men with greasy dreadlocks and exotic accents. The reality was more like finding the cheapest non dodgy places to stay and enduring bumpy bus rides via tickets obtained from dodgy touts at the Pudu Bus Station with our mini toiletry packs and too much underwear (I blame my mother. She always makes me pack something like 3 panties for each day. Good grief. No pervy jokes please).

I only got my passport at the ripe old age of 21. And my first visit was to Australia, to see a man I’d communicated with for 6 months, through much anticipated e-mails, phone calls and even letters. Truth to be told, I no longer remembered what he looked like. All I knew, was I trusted him. And this trust sufficed for a seven hour flight, MYR2,300 of hard earned money and a month of my time.

Of course, it all worked out, since I’m living with him now, but I digress. The point was, I’d never wanted to come here. My goal had been to move to the UK, earn in GBP and spend my weekends in Paris and summers in Italy, Prague, Spain. Then eventually, I’d have the financial freedom and the time that buys, to travel to New York, to Mauritius, to parts of the world I had read and fantasized about, whose Malaysianised cuisine I had tasted.

I’d spend every available moment travelling. As my longer breaks were spent fanning the flames/ embers of long distance relationship, I could only afford the time for quickies in Thailand and Singapore.

Di, K and I had meant to do the quintessential Eurotrip next year. Things seem uncertain but I hope it materializes then.

Rib-bit

God is trying to tell me something, I'm sure. It's the message that I can't fathom.

A few days ago, I read this passage in the Old Testament:

The Nile will teem with frogs. They will come up into your palace and your bedroom and onto your bed, into the houses of your officials and on your people, and into your ovens and kneading troughs.

Ex 8:3

Then yesterday, I was getting my usual dose of nonsense from The Simpsons. The plot had the usual cartoons cast as characters from the tale of God's wrath against Egypt. Milton (as Moses) flung frogs into the Pharoah's (Principal Skinner) tent.

And then X got home from work and dropped my subscription magazine on the table. The cover was full of the hoppy amphibians.



I hope the next sign doesn't have a frog appearing in the toilet bowl.

Mount Tamborine

X has recently begun full time work. While I'm overjoyed we no longer need to freak out at every bill, I miss his company. Last Friday, we took an impromptu drive to Mount Tamborine, which is about half an hour away.

Although I do complain an awful lot about missing city life, our current location gives us quick access to many nice, tourist spots within a one hour radius.

My sorry attempt at panoramic photography. But look at the view!

We stopped by Gallery Walk, which is the obligatory tourist trap street. It was a little quieter than usual as most visitors come for the weekend market. The shops were mostly overpriced artsy-fartsy junk and cafes.

Tatra Food & Wine

Rockin' Koala

Note how the air conditioner has been camouflaged into the faux brickwall and how the flowers decorate the ledge.

The art gallery looked so pretty, but the cover charge of AUD1 promptly scared us away. I know, I know, I'm cheap.

The ice cream was apparently award-winning. Always a sucker for official recognition, I bought this boysenberry and vanilla ice cream which had the unpleasant consistency of cheesecake.

Cuckoo clocks!

A rose by any other name

"I'd recommend you omit your visa status, your date of birth and anything that shows you were in Malaysia", a lady at the Job Network services told me. "Remove anything that shows you're Asian."

She was perhaps politically incorrect, but her heart was in the right place. And her point of view was reiterated again and again. X's friend couldn't fathom my jobhunting dilemma. A nice man on the British forums offered to look over my CV and told me his wife, a Singaporean faced the same problem.

What I would do is remove the education in Malaysia, the hobbies and interests section. Also let me say my wife is a Phd from Singapore/Malaysia and we noticed the difference when she used my surname versus her own and removed reference from Singapore and emphasised her UK Masters and PHD from cambridge. One client even initially asked the agency if she could speak english (despite obvious tertiary qualifications from the UK). So don't take it personally, its not ethically right what they do but you need a job and for the sake of moral high ground the end justifies the means.

Jan: Can I use your surname?
X: No. We have to be married.
Jan: Can we get married?
X: No.

Now I know my pseudonym (you didn't really think Jan Banks is my actual name, did you?) depicts a person of Anglo-Saxon heritage, but it's actually an anagram and a teenage nickname.

Even Kal Penn (Kumar of Harold and Kumar, and the guy from House M.D.'s team) faced the same problem. Nevermind he was actually brought up in the States. From Wikipedia, Penn says that he chose the stage name Kal Penn (from Kalpen Suresh Modi) as a lark: “Almost as a joke to prove friends wrong, and half as an attempt to see if what I was told would work (that anglicized names appeal more to a white-dominated industry), I put ‘Kal Penn’ on my resume and photos." His audition callbacks rose by 50 percent. Penn has stated that he prefers his birth name and uses "Kal Penn" only for professional purposes.

A recruiter I met last week put it into perspective for me. Due to the increasing number of international students flooding the Aussie uni market, universities have become lax about letting them all get their degrees. Word of mouth is good for business, yes? 87% of the local accounting grads can't even string an English sentence together, and as a result, are unable to effectively execute their duties. "They graduate expecting to find a job and get their PR's and end up working in restaurants and retail.

"Employers look at your CV, they're not going to speak to you, they're going to set it aside. So you have to not give them any chance to eliminate you."

What angers me more is the number of colleges unethically set up as immigration offices. It is not uncommon to find these places crowded full of non-English speaking immigrants who are there just to get a visa. They ruin the image of actual bona fide students and workers who are able and willing to work. Is this an elitist view? Probably. But the way I see it, if you choose to move to a foreign country, you have to learn to integrate and contribute. If you're going to segregate yourself and not even bother picking up the local lingo, then what are you doing here? You are the representative of your culture and country. Many people here (Australians and otherwise) are most likely to encounter less than 5 Malaysians in their lifetime (unless their line of work happens to deal with heaps of us) and whatever impression I give them now, will form their entire view of Malaysia as a country. And mind you, the Australian media does not paint a very pretty picture of my motherland.

Speaking of names, I have a long overdue rant. I'm not actually very fond of my real name. I can't understand why my parents chose such an awkward, unabbreviate-able misnomer for me. Why couldn't I be named something like Ai Ling or Mei Ling or Li Na etc etc? Nooo.... they found the strangest sounding possible title and decided (too late) that they couldn't quite live with it. And end up calling me Jan instead.

And the worst part is, Jan is not part of my birth certificate/ passport. My extremely pro-Chinese father refused to anglicize my name because "Chinese people should have Chinese names and have Chinese babies in China."

I am 99.9% certain I am the only person on planet Earth with my name. My research is backed up by hours of egosurfing. For that, I am grateful. I wouldn't want anyone else to go through a childhood full of confectionary and nut-related nicknames either.

Customer service here leaves much room for improvement

I use the same provider for my mobile and broadband services. I shan't mention the provider name lest I get struck by lightning sued, but it is represented by *cough* a numeral.

So anyway, I chose provider Numeral, simply because most of my friends in Australia are attached to the same network, therefore allowing us a limited amount of free calls.

From the start, I had many minor grievances with Numeral. International calls have a flag fall, meaning each time you ring someone and it gets through, you get charged on top of your cost per minute. I regularly got cut off, forcing me to redial. Worse still, when you did need technical assistance, their representatives couldn't speak/ understand English and panicked easily.

But anyway they had a decent deal on broadband. X, who is not particularly internet savvy, was contented with dial up, but that arrangement drove me to remove fistfuls of hair. So I popped over to a nearby mall and signed up at the same shop. The shop assistant who lived nearby, was a bit sweet on me and even rang up my cellhphone (it was on the form). He was also immensely helpful and answered all my questions satisfactorily.

And then last week, my internet USB donger kept malfunctioning. I kept getting disconnected, even without moving the laptop. The next day, it refused to connect at all.

Even with the leg all bandaged up, X and I made way to the same shop. I got tired of hobbling, so we snuck away one of the public wheelchairs. The same assistant was there and I'm pretty sure he recognised me. X began ranting and raving at him, but he wouldn't budge. No, sorry, I can't give you a refund/ replacement. Yes I can get it fixed but it'll take two weeks. No we can't give you a loaner etc etc.

Thankfully, he did manage to suggest a solution in which I would use my current C902 phone as a modem. I signed the relevant forms before we left. After X and I got home, however, I discovered the sim card was not in the box. Annoyed at myself for not checking and at the assistant for being so careless, I called the shop while X made homicidal threats in the background.

The guy was cool, completely unapologetic and even though he'd once told me he lived "nearby", refused to send it over. Poor X, who was already not having a good day, had to drive all the way back to get it.

Conclusion: If you want good service, leave the boyfriend at home.

Update: They won't fix it on the account of "physical damage"! (insert multilingual swear words)

The Ring

He won't tell me where he got it, but I'm pretty sure it's:

a) From a 20 cent vending machine
b) Picked up from the ground
c) Stolen off a child who will be permanently emotionally scarred by this incident for the rest of her life and grow up to become a crackwhore.

Anyone know anyone else hiring?

It's almost been here 5 months and I have still not been able to obtain work. I've had to reiterate to many well-meaning friends the same things over and over again and am getting RSI from so much repetition. So here's an FAQ.

1. Are you working yet?
No.

2. How many jobs have you applied for?
About 150 or more. It increases on a daily basis, depending on my level of self-pity that day.

3. Why can't you get a job? You've got the qualifications and experience!
Beats me. They usually reject me on the basis of "no Australian experience". Of course, there's also the minor inconvenience of the economic downturn coinciding with my arrival.

4. Why don't you get a part-time job?
This is a long one. You can't just get part time jobs. You have to have specific qualifications and experience. Especially with Gold Coast. Below is a non exhaustive list of certifications matched to the commonly suggested positions.
a) Waitress - RSA (Responsible Service of Alcohol)
b) Nanny - Blue Card (to indicate you're not a paedophile or something)
c) Administrative positions - though not 100% necessary, they prefer people with Certificate III
d) Retail - Relevant local experience

5. Why don't you just get the certifications then?
Hello. I am poor okay (which is why you should *cough* feel compelled to peruse my ads!). Unlike all the other Asian chicks who are well-funded by rich mat sallehs, mine's very much working class.

6. What about Mc Donald's?
Fast food chains in Australia generally do not hire adults. Reason being, they will be legally compelled to pay us higher (albeit minimum) wages. Whyever would they do that with an abundance of snotty, rude little teens to run the show? It is unfortunate how my youthful looks are unable to reap me any benefits in this one.

7. Move to a different state?
I've already started applying. Unfortunately most employers won't even consider my applications as my current mailing address is in Gold Coast. Even though I did mention relocating won't be an issue though it will be because I will miss X to bits and cry myself to sleep every night.

8. Ask around?
I have been endlessly nagging everyone I know (and hardly know) on this issue. Unfortunately, some of the people I am closest to fail to realise how this is really stressing me out. However, I discovered I have about 50 odd readers who are currently in Australia. Is anyone willing and able to help?

9. Go back to Malaysia?
This will be like, a last, last, last resort. I used to work for one of the highest paying companies there and was deeply unhappy with the working culture. Unfortunately, I had little choice then - if I'd moved on to somewhere smaller, I'd be taking a pay cut of 40% or more.

10. What are your options?
I don't know. At the moment, X is sub-contracting for a massage centre and earns enough to keep us sheltered and fed. I still have enough savings to last a few more months. I'm not eligible for welfare for another 1.5 years. But it's awful living so frugally. I mean, I'm not even that materialistic, but I've spent the last couple of years before this living very happily and comfortably without having to give much thought to money. If you've read my old entries, you've probably noticed my laissez-faire attitude towards personal finances. I've got a few close friends in Singapore who are urging me to give the republic a shot.

I'm giving it some thought.

That's it. I am allergic to nature.

Last Sunday, X and I headed out to the beach nearby. After a bout of hemming and hawing, we proceeded to enter the water. Now Gold Coast waves are nothing like puny Peninsular Malaysian ones (though Malaysian seas are extra scary thanks to the opaque water and the chunks of rubbish floating about everywhere).

We splashed about a bit and X went off to body surf, while I stayed within waist deep water. I'm not exactly the best of swimmers and tend to run out of breath easily so I'm pretty cautious.

Wave after wave after wave. I ducked and leaped accordingly. Then a seemingly large one loomed ahead. It was getting bigger. Uh-oh, it wasn't breaking. I tried to duck.

I miscalculated.

The massive wave was about a foot or more taller than my petite 5'. Normally, the damage would be confined to some saltwater swallowed, possibly a bikini top undone and a momentary loss of dignity, but not me. I swerved to my right, with my right foot was caught in the sand at that very moment.

I landed on my immobilised right leg.

I was stunned by (and from) the pain. Logically, I knew I should have tried getting out of the water before getting struck by another wave. Physically, it was impossible. I pinched my nostrils and let the water carry me back to shore, where I then crawled back to our beach towels.

X continued splashing about, occasionally turning around to give me a smile. I waved back, not wanting to spoil his fun. After all, I was pretty sure the pain would eventually wear off.

Unfortunately, I still couldn't stand by the time we went home. After a few failed attempts at hobbling, X gave me a piggyback ride instead.

The pain the next morning was enough to ensure a visit to the Tweed Heads hospital. Thank God for Medicare. After several hours of waiting, prodding and poking, waiting, X-raying, waiting and bandaging, I emerged with crutches set two inches too high.

The verdict? Torn ligament. Though my nice doctor did mention that "if I've missed any minute fractures, the radiologist will call you".

They haven't called so far; I guess my record is still clean (never broken anything in my life, except my heart).

Having never sustained such a severe injury, I now realised that it affects the entire body. My armpits are bruised from resting on the crutches. My wrists are sore from balancing myself against walls, doors and ledges. My left knee is killing me - hobbling was too painful so I resorted to hopping around on one leg. Not a viable long term solution.

I've spent most of the week confined to the bed, with the cellphone, the housephone, the laptop and an assortment of junk food littered around me. X's No Eating In Bed rule has fortunately enough, been rescinded temporarily.

Getting up and down the stairs has proved to be an exhausting task, requiring all joints bent in funny angles, carefully coordinated lest I further damage my leg.

X has been patient and loving and even finds the time to take me out on drives (I have found the Wisteria Lane of Gold Coast! It's this amazing suburb in Elanora, just 10 minutes away, surrounded by a huge park and shimmering lake. Swoon)even though he suspects I'm exaggerating my injury to escape housework. He even loaned me some magazines from the library. Although he did get French ones by accident, it's the thought that counts.

Through sickness and through health indeed.

Just call me Bob

As you know, I hacked off my almost waist length hair recently. Since then, I've suffered a style which AG describes as "like an afro", thanks to humidity-induced frizziness.

Last week straight after getting back from Brisbane, I headed to Stefan's at Pacific Fair. Earlier, I'd responded to a notice for short hair models figuring they couldn't possibly reject me. Being short, with short hair to boot, I fit the requirements to a T.

Having had many nightmarish experiences at other salons, I'd brought along a picture of a bob I found online. With hair as thick as mine, it's pretty difficult getting it to sit nicely on my head without having to resort to some form of chemical treatment. My trepidation was compounded by the fact that I have never once heard an Asian person compliment Australian hairstyling skills.

I won't bore you with the exact details, but I basically had four people working on my head, snipping, washing, blow drying etc. After about two hours (in which my glutes were cramped into a coma), I emerged like the proverbial butterfly out of its cocoon.

It was totally awesome.

The layers weren't overdone and framed my face perfectly. Here you judge for yourself.



I ♥ my hair. After that, I took a quick stroll around the mall eyeing for Positions Vacant signs as usual and bumped into a friend. To my utter amusement, she and her friend had been admiring my crowning glory earlier, though they failed to recognise me.

I felt (and still feel!) like a Pantene ad model.

An unwelcome warm and fuzzy feeling

Last week, I headed to Brisbane for a CPD event. For the unenlightened, CPD stands for continuous professional development, which is a way of forcing professionals to keep the associations' coffers full keeps professionals updated with the latest industry and regulation changes.

Since my association is UK-based, many of the people I networked with were migrants and all were sympathetic to my current situation, one even going out of her way to check internally circulated vacancies for me and even sending me back to AG's. Such are the kindness of strangers here.

The next morning while walking to the train station so we could meet Min Wye for breakfast, we strolled across a park. AG grabbed my arm, "Jan! Did you see that?"

Oblivious, I followed her index finger. "What's that?" I wondered why she got so flustered over what appeared to be dried grass spread across the footpath.

We squatted down. I squinted carefully.

We screamed. Then we patiently waited for the pedestrian behind us to step into the fuzzy mess.

She trusts me with her kid!

I cried when I read the draft of this. One can only ever hope for such awesome friends.