What in the World?

Hawaii (Day 5)

2007-11-30T16:13:00.000-06:00

This was the day we'd spend traveling between islands...so couldn't really do much. BUT I had to get into the water. I just had to. If you've lived in landlocked Iowa for as long as I have, you'd understand why, especially if you grew with sunny tropical beaches like I did. So, I decided to skip breakfast--SK could have some intimate moments with his parents--I changed into my bathing suit, tucked Aunty Sandy's boogie board under my arm, and I was off!

I hadn't swum in the sea for years...I keep forgetting that there are things like currents and waves and razor-sharp reefs (speaking of razor-sharp, what about sharks?). I swim 2-3 times a week in the public pool in Iowa City and that built up a sense of false confidence. Anyways, I don't think I've ever used a boogie board in my life. I might have at Sunway Lagoon, a resort thing in Malaysia that has a fake wave pool. I followed this guy who was also carrying a boogie board, sat next to him on the beach, and waited to see what he'd do. I'm not sure what happened but soon I lost sight of him. I thought, well, maybe he's out there where there were some specks floating out on the ocean. I ventured to the calm pool behind the breakwater. I was about to go through a break in the breakwater when out of sheer brilliance (or fear) I asked a guy who was swimming there if it was a good place to get out to the sea. He said there were reefs right after the breakwater but said I could float across them on the boogie board. Or, I could use the other break in the wall. I used the other break in the wall.

I paddled out, seemingly in place for 20 minutes. All this while I kept thinking, why did I feel compelled to do this? The waves kept crashing down where I was, threatening to throw me onto the breakwater. I was glad for the little musculature I had from my swims. I finally got close to the specks and realized everyone there was on a surfboard, except for me. Anyways, I turned around and waited for the waves and tried to ride them. I didn't get far. So, maybe this isn't what people do on a boogie board. It is useful for floating though..so after a while, I decided that that would be a good spot to watch the surfers do their thing. A few of them passed me by, said hi, and asked me if I was alright. I wondered why they asked me that...but not for long. I had somehow gotten into the path of the surf and had people running their boards at me...I saw one guy look at me, as he aimed his board at my broadside, look at another surfer nearby as though to say..."tell her to get out of the way." The surfer next to me said, "Quick, get on your board and get out of here." So I did...that surfer would've hit me if I hadn't gotten off my board and scooted backwards. Needless to say, that was the end of my boarding adventures.

KAUAI

We took Aloha Airlines from Honolulu to Lihue airport in Kauai. The flight cost abt $100 per person roundtrip. It was really cheap but the flight got delayed, they put us on another one, and that was further delayed, but somehow we got onto our original flight, which turned out to be earlier than the 2nd one. We got a good package through AAA for hotel and car--about $400 for three nights at what looked like a three to four star hotel in Kapaa and a compact car.

We decided to take it easy that day and went for some local fare that was not too far away. Hamura Saimin in Lihue was highly recommended by the Fodorites and several guidebooks. It looked like a Chinese/Japanese dish of noodles in broth with gyoza (Japanese dumplings), fish cake with the pink swirl in it, pieces of pork. Our guide book said the Chinese say it's Japanese and the Japanese say it's Chinese.

Then there was this mustard-yellow sauce people were mixing with soy sauce that I thought was mustard but a quick taste told me it was wasabi! I ordered the special, which had all the meat for $6 and SK ordered the extra special (which means a much bigger bowl) for $7-8. The normal sized one doesn't come with meat. We also ordered several sticks of chicken teriyaki flavored bbq skewers (teriyaki is a favorite seasoning here, we soon found out). The food was all great! The place was modest--lunch counters that also doubled as storage for napkins, etc. The locals were very friendly--I jumped in on a conversation about local food and got a recommendation for a place that serves stuffed pork chop (which unfortunately we didn't get to try).

That was the end of Day 5.

Hawaii (Day 4)

2007-11-13T16:44:00.001-06:00

We thought we'd let the Wongs take a break from us so we took ourselves to breakfast this morning. SK's dad had explored Waikiki on his morning walks and suggested we go to an Italian cafe that was in the Marriott on Waikiki for the breakfast buffet ($15). I wasn't too impressed with the breakfast there. It seemed to be a "capalang" (Malaysian term for random mixture of things thrown together).

The Italian food consisted of breakfast pizza, which had some tomatoes, cheese and some sort of green bean thing on it; and roasted red pepper soup. The pizza crust was pale-looking and wasn't crusty at all. I liked the soup, which had a strong roasted red pepper flavor, but it seemed like an odd thing to put out for breakfast. They also had brats with mustard (German), and crepes (French). The crepes were a bit disappointing--my mom-in-law said they were made ahead of time and just reheated on the griddle--and you spread jams on them. There was the usual assortment of fresh fruit.

On our way back to our hotel, we passed by a bus advertising the Polynesian Cultural Center. That was one of the things that the Fodorites (people on the Fodor's forum) said was a good thing to see. I persuaded my husband to do it with me after telling him that yes, we did want to honor Uncle Thomas, but we also didn't know when we'd be back in Hawaii. The luau cost $80 per person (and additional $19 per person for a round-trip coach ride) but we got 10 percent off (I think) off the cost of one package because of Uncle Thomas' Aloha Diners booklet. That package included entry to all the Polynesian villages (which educated tourists on the culture through dance, song, spear-throwing, stories), we could watch the canoe pageant--young men and women in native costume dancing on a catamaran on a manmade stream--and the big Luau with a whole pig that was baked in an "imu" (an oven fashioned out of the earth).

The Luau deserves special mention. There was free-flow guava-mango juice and other drinks on tap (no alcohol). The food was superb--the pig was moist and succulent, lomi lomi salmon (salad with salmon) was tasty, and the poke (po-kay)--marinated ahi--was out of this world. For dessert, there was a coconut jelly dessert that reminded me of a thai dessert--that was yummy, and a moist coconut cake that quickly ran out.

Even though we were eating with strangers, the emcee (Cousin Benny) made it feel homey. We all held hands and said "grace" together, and were told to greet each other by name. We sat next to a couple vacationing from Pennsylvania. I tried to make small talk with them but felt like I kept saying the wrong thing, so we didn't hit it off very well. One gripe--we had our picture taken with an attractive young man and women who lei'd us just before we entering the luau hall but somehow our picture got lost in the shuffle and we didn't get it, even though we were willing to pay $12 or $15 for it.

Another gripe is that we bought a CD featuring Iz--a famous Hawaiian artist--after the luau because it was without tax and so cheaper than at the gift store BUT we discovered soon after that $24 was WAY TOO MUCH. Even the Honolulu airport was selling it for $22!

Our package included the "Horizons" show, which started off sounding like a musical but wound up being a showcase of the different dance and songs of the different Polynesian cultures (Samoan, Tongan, Tahitian, Maori, Fijian, etc.). The show was well-done, very entertaining. The highlight was the fire-dancers, and this stout guy who looked as strong as a horse, who put out fire with his bare hands. It was funny but right after the show, this guy ran out among the people exiting the performance hall shouting "Come see my art!" He had a stand of what looked like pictures of palm trees made painted in some metallic, acrylic (?) paint. He's a talented individual!

Hawaii (Day 3)

2007-11-13T16:32:00.001-06:00

We were taken for dim sum at Legends restaurant in Chinatown. According to the Wongs, the chef comes in at 10 a.m. but doesn't churn out most of the stuff until 11 a.m. It's imperative to arrive as close to 11 as possible because this place packs up quickly! We had the usual "har kau" (shrimp in rice wrapper), "siew mai" (minced pork and shrimp in eggy rice wrapper), fried yam pockets, chicken feet, steamed pork ribs. It tasted superb to someone who hasn't eaten dim sum in over a year! We also had Singapore chow mein and "har sang meen" (big shrimp on top of a bed of crunchy egg noddles in an egg sauce).

That evening, you guessed it, we ate leftovers from our meal. My mom-in-law also made "siew yoke" (roasted pork with crunchy skin). She got this recipe from a friend of hers. It's really easy--just uses salt and vinegar. Unfortunately, we can't make it in Iowa, even though we're surrounded by hogs, because butchers here don't leave the skins on when doing their thing. It violates some sort of health code--they're afraid there could be cross-contamination.

I had a glass of wine, which was enough to put me to sleep for the day. It looked like I got sunburned!

Hawaii (Day 2)

2007-11-13T16:11:00.000-06:00

Pix: Diamond Head as viewed from the beach outside the Outrigger Hotel

Just to remind you...the first few days of this trip consisted in doing the requisite eating with relatives. Unfortunately, we didn't get to do a lot of sightseeing. That'll come in part 2 of our trip--Kauai.

Day 2

While at Oahu, we stayed at the Waikiki Banyan, a time share that belongs to Uncle Thomas' friend. It was not one of the fancier hotels there but it had a great location and the lobby was beautiful (koi pond and wooden carvings everywhere). There was a very adequate kitchen, which we never used except to cut up some fruits for breakfast (when we weren't eating at a buffet).

We were taken to the Outrigger Hotel on Waikiki Beach (it was pouring again). The hotel is in the midst of being renovated, but what's already renovated looked good. You could walk right out of the hotel onto the beach but unfortunately, it was raining, so we couldn't do that.

The breakfast buffet lasted until 11 a.m. and was only $12 (good price for Waikiki). There was a wide selection of fruits, although not all of them were fresh. The pineapple was, and that was succulent (much better than the Malaysian variety, I think), honeydew melons, canteloupes, canned lychees and oranges. I found out later that only hotels and fine dining restaurants serve fruit in Hawaii (even though there's an abundance of it grown on the Big Island) for the tourists but the locals don't eat it. Just to give you an idea of local diet: the Hawaiians created a dish called potato mac, which is a combination of potato salad and macaroni.

It was there that I tried poi--starchy taro--for the first time. Not so good! It's tasteless so apparently it takes on the flavors of other dishes when it's mixed together, and that's how you're supposed to eat it. It tasted like glue (the kind I used to make out of starch at home)! Can't think of anything else memorable from that meal but there was a good selection. Mostly Western food though.

That afternoon, we went to the Ala Moana shopping mall--I believe it's the biggest shopping mall in Hawaii. There were so many branded stores there, it was amazing! Most of my shopping was done at Long's Drug Store, which has the cheapest Kona coffee and chocolate-covered macadamia nuts on the island (thanks for the tip, Sandy!).

At night, we went out with the Wongs' (Thomas and Sandy's) neighbors for dinner at a Chinese restaurant (can't remember the name). The food there was really good but Uncle Thomas ordered twice as much food as we could eat (literally, we had it for dinner the next night). The memorable dishes from that meal was the lobster, which was cooked with some sort of eggy sauce and some egg noodles, a Hawaiian creation--fried honey shrimp with walnuts (it had a sauce that had some mayo in it), and some braised beef ribs that tasted like it had five-spice powder in it.

Hawaii (Day 1)

2007-11-13T16:04:00.000-06:00

Oh boy! It was quite a trip. The first five days we spent with SK's family--his parents, who flew in from Malaysia, and his Uncle Thomas and Aunt Sandy, who live just off of Waikiki Beach. Being the typical Chinese family, we ate and ate and ate. In lots of buffets, too! I'm going to document a new post for each day I was there. Some will have pictures, some won't.

Day 1
By the time we all arrived in Hawaii, it was about 9 p.m. (after baggage claim), so we didn't have many choices. We went to Gordon Biersch, a bar cum restaurant in Aloha Towers. The food was so-so. I had a dish that consisted of grilled fish (can't remember what now), ginger rice and some steamed green beans. The rice reminded me of Hainanese chicken rice, and it was good, and the grilled fish was well done too. Uncle Thomas said his fish and chips wasn't up to standard, though.

Since it is now the rainy season, it rained! Luckily we were sitting inside but the those who were enjoying the Hawaiian weather outside weren't perturbed, even though their table umbrellas were blowing in the wind.

Hawaii

2007-10-31T15:54:00.000-05:00

I can't believe that I'm going to be in Hawaii this Saturday! It's a place that permeated my consciousness for as long as I can remember, and yet, I had no strong desire to go there. But, now that I am going, I can hardly wait!

When I say permeated my consciousness, I mean...when I was in kindergarten, I was doing the hula in the very first play I was in. I remember liking the bandeau bikini and raffia-string skirt I got to wear. I missed out on being the princess of the luau, with a guy I had crush on (yes, I had crushes in kindergarten), because I was shorter than the other girl who finally got to be the princess.

The '70s and '80s also seemed to have many TV shows and films based in Hawaii: Hawaii 5-0 (who can forget the show's theme?), Fantasy Island (I actually am going to the island where they shot the waterfall as a beginning scene), Magnum PI, and this is a '90s concession, Jurassic Park.

For those who're wondering why I'm going...well, being the filial daughter-in-law that I am..I'll be seeing my in-laws there for half of the week (we're visiting SK's uncle who lives a block from Waikiki Beach) but there's the requisite SK-and-me time, where we'll be taking off on our own to Kauai.

I can't wait to savor the fresh tropical fruits and balmy beaches! I just bought a new digital camera and can't wait to take tons of fantastic pictures!

2007-10-26T14:06:00.000-05:00

On the job: Week 4

2007-10-26T13:21:00.001-05:00

I think it's been almost a year since I last posted. A lot has happened since then. But I'll start with where I'm at right now.

Job-hunting wore me down after doing I did it for almost a year. But, I've since started a one-year stint with University Relations Publications, which produces public relations materials for the University of Iowa. It's been great so far. People here are really nice, I get my own office...they spent several hundred dollars on a new keyboard tray for me...did I say I like it here? My boss is really open to new ideas, which I think is important for me. I brought up a few things to him today about how I think I can improve my work experience here and he was all for it!

In a couple of weeks, we'll be going to Hawaii! Almost everyone I've told this has the same reaction. Their eyebrows arch, their eyes widen and this look of envy comes over their faces. I've never been there and am excited. We're going to two islands, including one where Fantasy Island (old TV series I used to love) and Jurassic Park was filmed! We'll see SK's parents. who're flying in from Malaysia; we'll be visiting SK's uncle and aunt who live in Oahu but will get a couple of days to ourselves. Nice!

Cowboy Justice

2006-06-12T10:53:00.000-05:00

OK, so I don't know much about war. I know it happens, and people die. I don't necessarily understand the strategies or choice of weapons, but how is bombing someone to death a fair trial? (See NYTimes article, Zarqawi was killed by blast, autopsy says) If the world could grant Nazi officials adjudication through the Nuremberg trials, why couldn't the same be granted to an Iraqi insurgent?

Some of you may think I'm simple-minded. When one thinks of Al-Zarqawi, one thinks of terrorism. Terrorism is now not only synonymous with the Twin Towers but also with the ongoing killing of American soldiers in Iraq. The U.S. government is only doing its duty in preserving the lives of its soldiers by killing the man responsible for planning their deaths. But that is not at all what the U.S. government thinks. The Bush administration, in fact, said that Al-Zarqawi's "death would not mean the end of the insurgency he had led." Killing one man does not equal killing an insurgency. Associated Press reported today that a new insurgent leader has already been elected.

The only tangible outcome of Al-Zarqawi's death is that he is dead--it doesn't mean that the insurgency is over. The heavy-handed U.S. has swatted one mosquito but the country knows that it will continue bleeding. And yet, the U.S. government can do what it wants, without any punitive action because the man who was killed did not have the support of an elected government. The people who supported him were just normal, everyday people.

My outrage doesn't mean I don't care about the many American soldiers who have been killed in Iraq. It does not mean that I empathize with the methods taken by the insurgents or that I support their cause. It doesn't mean that the U.S. government does not have a right to stop the people who're killing its soldiers. I'm outraged because I don't think anyone, not even the most powerful country in the world, can impose its justice on others by blowing them up sky-high. If they could, what makes them any different from those who blew up the Twin Towers?

As the saying goes, "With great power comes great responsibility." The men who blew up the Twin Towers did not hold the keys to a large nuclear arsenal, as President Bush does. They used box-cutters and plane tickets to hatch their fatal plan. Yet, they were able to execute a plan that shook the United States to its core. It is frightening to think that the United States could be following in the footsteps of the very people they are trying to overcome. Because this time, the people doing the killing have more than box-cutters at their disposal. The United States has 60 years worth of nuclear weaponry and veto power in the U.N. Security Council, which of course, is made up of its friends who are the only countries in the world that do not have to answer to anyone else about what they are doing with their nuclear devices. Who is holding them accountable?

My toaster

2006-03-09T13:48:00.000-06:00

Just as an aside...I found out a few days ago that polzter means "pole star," or what I know as the north star, in Dutch. Or so my Dutch friend Jeremy tells me. I can live with that...

I have a few odd bits of writing to do but decided to do this bit of odd writing instead. Besides odd writing, I'm supposed to be looking for a job but that sounds too sensible, doesn't it?

Today, I took apart my toaster oven. It became my toaster oven about four years ago when what was SK's also became mine. He has had it longer than we've been married and I believe this will be verified if we carbondate the crumbs in it. Which is why I decided to take it apart...to get to those crumbs. Unfortunately, many of them were stuck in this little space between the toaster's body and door. When I open the door, only part of that space can be reached, when I close the door, I can reach some other part of that space. But there's one more portion of that space that I can never reach with the paper-towel-covered screwdriver that I was using to slide around there.

So, I got my philips head screwdriver and started taking out screws...the pile of screws grew. Crazy spritzing of 409 cleaner all over the place. It was ugly....I used up close to 10 paper towel rectangles.

Then came the time to put it all together again. Just when I was putting all the bits into their places, one screw fell into that small space that could only be gotten to if I took the whole thing apart...again. When I opened it, that darn screw was nowhere to be seen. I shook it around...I heard it clink onto the floor. I'm on my hands and knees and thinking this is a really painful experience, more painful than the job interview I had a few days ago.

Perhaps facing the demons that plague me as a journalist won't be as bad as having to put together a Magic Chef toaster oven. These demons have names--pride, insecurity and anxiousness. I know "angels"--diligence, integrity and intellect--are combating the demons but that doesn't make it any easier. On good days, the angels get to sit on the demons. On bad days.....I fix toaster ovens.

Pallet moving, an allegory of life

2005-11-28T13:34:00.000-06:00

LAKE CHARLES, La.—Well-intentioned Christians find themselves in over their heads, sleeping on ships, performing feats of manual labor they never envisioned.

That’s the lede I would’ve written if I were to write a news story on the trip I took to Lake Charles, Louisiana, last week. Simon and Garfunkel, and U2 performed the soundtrack of our journey, as we passed through miles of brown and barren countryside, which had lain down for the winter.

I thought my phobia of worms would impede any and all efforts to rebuild homes and cities that had been ravaged by the hurricanes of several months past. TV pictures of bloated bodies and stories of decomposing food in fridges played in theater of my mind, causing my queasy stomach to squirm. Instead of rebuilding, we were relegated to working on the grounds of the missionary organization we had affiliated ourselves with. For me, that meant moving hundreds of splintery pallets into a greenhouse, as well as hundreds of potted plants that had been donated to the organization, and learning how to distinguish a Boston Fern from a Bougainvillea.

Moving pallets was a humbling experience. We were told to put those nailed-together pieces of wood, sometimes an inch at a time, at certain places. The two ladies who were choreographing the effort obviously had a plan but we just couldn’t see it. We had a beautifully organized greenhouse after two days of work but that wasn’t an outcome we could foresee when we wheeled wheelbarrows and repotted plants. All we knew was our muscles were aching, our skin was peeling off, and what?? I have to move this pallet three inches to the right again?

This experience, unfortunately, is a great allegory for my life.

My life has been a series of happy and not so happy accidents. Take the four years of engineering I endured as an undergrad. I knew after a semester that I was a nut amongst bolts but hey, Singaporean universities don’t really like people changing their majors. One semester dragged into many and I convinced myself so thoroughly that I could do this that I forgot I hated engineering until I held the degree in my hands.

Another instance would be how I got my first job as a journalist, in spite of a bachelor’s in mechanical and production engineering, when a friend offered me a job after reading bits of my undergrad thesis, which was spread out across my living room floor. Who knew that a report on particulate emission from a diesel engine would launch my journalistic career?

You’d think that I’d have learned from these experiences and would be making more informed choices now. But that would make life less exciting, wouldn’t it? That wouldn’t do for someone like me, someone who loves scuba diving, baking, reading and clubbing (on the dance floor and not of people). So, what am I doing? You’ll think I’m crazy but I’m letting God decide where my husband SK and I wind up and what we do with our lives.

It’d be a waste, wouldn’t it, after I get my master’s in journalism, and he, a doctorate in environmental engineering, that we’d stay put in Iowa City and do whatever, which could mean nothing much by the world’s standards….but…by the way…did I mention that I gave up a career in engineering? Life doesn’t always make sense. I know mine doesn’t, at least not to me. But I know someone sees the bigger picture, even if I don’t. If God tells me that I need to move three inches to the left again, I guess that’s what I’ll do.

I love being a journalist

2005-10-14T14:20:00.000-05:00

OK, don't get cynical on me now. You Poynter peeps know what I'm talking about....the thrill of being the first one to break a story, to get a source to leak something to you that he or she won't tell anyone else, or just having someone tell you that you got the story right.

Unfortunately, I still haven't left the safe womb of journalism school yet, so I can only live vicariously through my friends who're "real" journos, who sit in a newsroom surrounded by lively banter. But I still get a little journalistic high in writing the series of stories I'm writing for my final project for my master's degree.

Like how I can conduct interviews sitting outside, on the Iowa Memorial Union terrace, where ducks quack a few feet away, as a lilting breeze fells autumn leaves loose from branches above. Thanks to the miracle of wireless technology, I can talk to someone on the cell phone and go directly to the website he mentions, because my computer is wireless and so is the Internet. How oblivious my source was to where I was, what I was doing or what I was wearing (I could be in my PJs for all he knows)... until I had to apologize to him for the ambulance that blared by, so we could hardly hear each other. What other job allows you to do that? OK...I can think of a few others.

Or how I'm interviewing the mayor of Indianola, a small town in Iowa, and when I ask him if it's a good time to talk, he says, "Sure. I'm only trying to get some masking tape off the floor." And we go into a few seconds' worth of discussion about conditions that would make it easier to get tape off the floor.

It's funny, the things that I get used to from being a journalist. Like, how I can't seem to sit down and write for extensive periods of time unless I hear other people clacking on keyboards around me too, punctuated by the occasional, "hey, what's up" from people passing by. They don't necessarily need to be talking to me....

When I first came to the United States, I didn't have a job. I followed the news for four years and had withdrawal symptoms from not doing so. Several times, I had to stop myself from chasing an ambulance that passed by, camera in tow and notebook in hand. After some time, I realized it was silly to carry around an old-fashioned SLR all the time. Even real photojournalists don't do that anymore.... now that they have digital cameras!

I'm on the verge of graduating, on the cusp of getting back into the business. Something I've been longing for for years. But, I'm now in my early 30s, I need 8 hours of sleep and I have a husband to go home to. If we have our way, we may get a little Ooi in a year or two. Do I give up the thrill of the chase for the diaper pail? Exchange my notebook for a safety pin? How do I balance who I am and who I want to be?

True North

2005-09-05T20:00:00.000-05:00

Take I-380 north to Cedar Rapids. Take Exit 28. Turn north at the four-way stop towards Alburnett. Take the last right and there'll be some signs saying AG Expo. Follow those signs. So said Larry Jons, the farmer from Central City, Iowa, whom I was trying to locate with GPS-like ability...not.

I bet those directions sound comprehesive to some people. Unfortunately, they weren't sufficient for me. For one thing, I discovered that there needed to be supplementary directions before the four-way stop. Also, I have no idea where north is. I mean, where I come from, people would say, "Turn right at the gas station, take a left at the sign post that says 'Best Satay Outside of Kajang' and stop when you see the blue-and-white house at the top of the hill."

I tried to figure out where north was by looking at the 2 p.m. sun and realized, after trying all three other ways at the four-way stop, that roads that say they're going north don't necessarily do that, especially just off of Exit 28s.

So, after squandering almost 1/4-tank of gas and being half an hour late, I find myself sitting in front of the Alburnett Veterinary Practice. Flies buzzed into the car from the window I'd rolled down. Meanwhile, I'm waiting for my escort in his electric-blue minivan to come get me.

I open a copy of "Lost in America" by Bill Bryson, as intrigued farms-people drive by in their machines. They look at me, sitting in my rusted-through 1989 Toyota Corolla, the only Asian I could see for miles around, and I look back at them, driving by in a green and black tractor towing some funny thing I can only guess is a hopper.

Bryson is/was? an Iowan who gave up America for England, only to come back years later after his father died, trying to relive the journeys he took with his dad. His words leapt out of the page at me--not the least because I'm trying to swat an errant fly with the book.

"Directions are very important to [Midwesterners]. They have an innate need to be oriented, even in their anecdotes."....

"This geographical obsession probably has something to do with the absence of landmarks throughout Middle America. I had forgotten just how flat and empty it is. Stand on two phone books almost anywhere in Iowa and you get a view. From where I was now I could look out on a sweep of landscape about the size of Belgium, but there was nothing on it except for a few widely separated farms, some scattered stands of trees and two water towers, brilliant silver glints signifying distant, unseen towns."

The prose paints all Midwesterners the same shade of grey but it was creepy how accurate some of this was. And I was darn sure I was lost until I saw the big water tower with the name Alburnett on it.

When Larry finally escorted me to the site of the AG Expo, I knew that even the US Geographical Information Service wouldn't have gotten me there. First off, I had to find this dirt track between farms, and turn down a mowed down strip of grass between grain silos. And I had to drive beyond that, flanked by rows of soybean on my left and corn on my right. My destination was a white tent at the end of that grass catwalk.

In case you're wondering, I'm writing a series of stories of Iowa for my master's project. But I'm writing things here that I wouldn't write there.

One of those things is how farmers are insanely comfortable with their self-image. I was in the middle of an interview with Larry, tape recorder running, notebook in hand, when a farmer walked up to where he and I were seated, and said very simply, "I think I have to go home and change. Split one of these this morning," he said, looking down at his pants.

"S'right," said Jons, "I did that this morning," as a ragged seam flapped in the breeze. I wish I could walk around with a gaping seam like that. Instead, I sat there, ensconced in my sports shades, Skecher sneakers and Adidast t-shirt, unsure of how to react.

That day, I learned more about BT corn--a genetically modified breed of corn, how an "event" in bioscience crops does not refer to harvesting or the hoe-down dance after, but to a modification in a plant's genes. I learned that farmers weren't all that I thought they were. I had images of farmers only fertilizing with what their barnyard animals (John David Sutter--oink, oink!) left behind and that they spent their entire days toiling in the fields.

What I learned was that 280 acres wasn't as big a swarth of land as I thought it was if you have farm machinery. And even though that's the size of Larry's farm, he only spent 2 months of year being a farmer. The rest was spent being a spokesperson for bioscience crops and promoting it all over the world (the guy has met Castro!).

As I crunched my way back to the car, rumbled out of the test field, and looked at the dust storm my car was kicking up behind me, I wondered, how on earth did I get here? And, I still don't know where north is.

Injustice

2005-08-09T14:03:00.000-05:00

I don't know why the news gets me so worked up.

Maybe it's because I tend to put myself into it. It's like I can totally see myself being the person profiled at the airport. I can totally see myself as the person being ridiculed because my features are "Mongoloid," the not-so-politically-correct term used to describe the features of those who have Down Syndrome. Victims of of the birth defect have features that were described as Mongoloid because people thought they have somewhat Chinese features.

So, yesterday, I read about six white men who beat up a black man in New York. Who knows why? And I flip through a coffee table book at the local book store yesterday and see a picture of a white man, wearing a tank top that says "White Patriot," in a KKK outfit, holding a sleeping child. What got to me was his outfit, not that he was holding a sleeping child.

I don't immediately shout and rave, as that's just not my personality, but it steeps and brews, until the draft becomes bitter and rancid. Hopefully, writing about it will be cathartic.

Growing up in multi-ethnic Malaysia, I had friends who were from different ethnicities than I. The fact that we were different didn't stop us from being friends. Our differences were not because of our skin color--I often had differences with people who were from my ethnic group. Our differences were mostly philosophical. They were debated heatedly but they were also cause for celebration. I would have long discussions with a Muslim friend of mine about the Syariah law's opposition to Muslim apostates but I'd go to her house for a Hari Raya Aidil Fitri celebration and share with her family a meal of curried goat and tumeric sticky rice.

The first time I felt marginalized because of the way I look was while I was in the United States. I'd lived here for two years before hearing a slur hurled at me. This incident does not accurately represent my experience here but it has tainted it. I don't understand what inspires someone to shout, as they drive past me, "Go home, you f**king Chink." I did nothing to invite his treatment of me. I was just walking back to my car after a night shift in the newsroom.

Ironically, the other time I experienced something like this was also while I was walking back to my car. My husband and I had just finished a game of squash and was debating some issue heatedly--it could've been U.S. politics or whether we should go to the grocery store, I can't remember. But, while we walked past a car that was waiting to get into the parking garage, two black men made monkey noises at us as we walked past.

My husband was fuming but he knew that it wouldn't do us any good to confront them.

I, on the other hand, was puzzled. It was puzzling to me that they felt they were acting superior by making animal sounds to ridicule us. To me, their actions debased them, and not us. It doesn't take a lot to come up with the sound a chimp makes or "Go home, you f**king Chink." How many neurons do you think are fired for those thoughts to happen? Not very many, I should think.

If I let myself, I know I can be upset. These insolent people didn't know anything about my husband and I and yet, they could devalue us so quickly. Did they care that we were earning advanced degrees, had traveled all around the world, or could debate the finer points of U.S. foreign policy with them? Did they care that we were dog lovers, food fanatics or that we consumed science fiction with a vengeance? Did they care that we were bringing wanted dollars to their economy and that we have no reason to stay on in this country, that we could very well go home, as they want us to, as soon as we're done with school?

What is it that makes someone judge another by their appearances or skin color? What primitive instincts override the higher functions that I presume these people must possess since they've evolved along with the rest of humanity?

The first person to insult me was a white man, someone who may not have experienced such racially inspired insults. But it still puzzles me as to why the two black men felt they could malign us like that, considering their history in America before the emergence of civil rights? What is it that brings humanity to such lows?

Rantings

2005-08-04T12:42:00.000-05:00

OK, so I just read a couple of things that make me want to rant. First, Pres. Bush's reiteration about the "War on Terror." Second, a Newsweek sidebar about the shoot-to-kill policy Scotland Yard has adopted since the bomb blasts in London a few weeks ago.

I know that terrorists are waging a war on the world, a war that touches all lives, whether they're directly affected or not. Since I started living in the U.S. three years ago, this "war on terror" has clouded my existence.

For instance, I was returning to the U.S. after a family wedding in Vancouver, Canada. It was the first time I'd left the United States since it had enacted the rule that non-U.S. citizens coming into the country need to have their fingerprints and irises scanned. So, I knew I would have to do that, going through U.S. immigration and customs at Vancouver International Airport. Of course, it had to be at 5 a.m.

After waking up at 2.45 a.m., returning the rental car, and going through the airlines' check-in, I waited behind the velvet rope for half-an-hour before the counters were open. Now, anyone who's known me for any period of time knows that I'm not an a.m. person. Walking up to the counter, I find out I didn't bring a document I was supposed to. So, I was kinda panicked, but I was feeling the panic through a blanket of haze.

We sorted out that I needed to get my records called up on the computer. So, the officer progressed to the next thing. Which was to ask me for my left index finger. Now, where I grew up, we didn't call it that. So I lifted what I thought was the index finger and asked the officer if that was it. He said, rather sternly, "Yes." And then he said, "Right index finger." And I thought he said something like, "[You got the] right index finger." So, I just left my left index finger sitting there. Until he repeated, "Right index finger, please." And I said, "Oh, sorry." And switched index fingers. Then, he asked me to look into that camera thing so he could record my iris and it brought up memories of "The Minority Report." Was someone going to steal my eyeballs now?

Then, he did the same to my husband. My husband hesitated on some request of the officer's and asked a clarification question before doing as requested. I just said conversationally, "It's early in the morning." To which the officer grimly replied, "You're up about and walking. You're awake. It's not too early in the morning."

"Oh," I said.

He wasn't finished yet.

"But, you," he said, nodding his head in my direction. "We know mornings are not for you."

I don't know if the officer was trying to be nice or gruff or both. Either ways, I got shuffled off to some room where they could call up my records.

While going through the security checkpoint--I got "randomly" selected for the full-body screening. They made me take off my sports sandals, which was basically a rubber sole with 2 straps. And a woman ran her hands over my body--the only other woman, besides my doctor, who has handled my boobs.

I thought it had all ended when I got back to my bedroom in Iowa City. But while unpacking my checked-in suitcase, I found a Transportation Security Authority note in it that said my suitcase had been "randomly" selected for checking. Good thing my dirty laundry was all in a plastic bag in my husband's suitcase.

How random was all that?

Summer 2005

2005-07-31T23:11:00.000-05:00

Hola!

I have taken up someone’s brilliant suggestion of letting someone else manage my updates and signed up for this blog. Now, you can access this bedtime story anytime you want, anywhere in the world. Don’t nod off now…

Ten shades darker and at least five pounds heavier I come to you, thanks to a rather intense summer. I’m in the process of uploading seven months’ worth of pictures so if my writing seems a bit off, it may be due to a case of karpal tunnel caused by constant hand-on-mouse motions.

Since finishing the spring semester in late May, I’ve traversed the length of the United States. Besides Iowa and Illinois, which I count as one, I’ve seen: Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and Florida. Those of you who really care about me, uh, I mean, those with good memories, will remember me mentioning that I’d be in Florida for six weeks. Well, we took good ol’ George, our 16-year-old Toyota Corolla, all 1,500 miles to Florida from Iowa and 1,500 miles back again. While in Florida, I put another 1,000 miles on the old geezer. Boy, do we need a new car.

That paragraph was for those who’re geographically and car-ically inclined. Now, we can get to the update proper.

So, some of you thought I may have dropped off the face of the planet. Yes, this planet. The fact is I was at the Poynter Institute for six weeks (I did try to sneak off to the dorm for some “sleep” at nights). [In some ways, it felt like I was on another planet.] Now that I’ve been through Poynter, I know that this was exactly what I needed, as a journalist. It was a good place to learn about newspaper writing, since my experience is in magazine writing, and I networked with some of the top names in the industry. Unfortunately, I still have this master’s degree to complete.

I met 27 other budding journalists—both reporters/writers and visual journos—and a wide range of faculty from all over the country. Baby Js was what Jacqui, our Pulitzer-prize winning editor called us. And at the end of the program, we had a recruiting day and met recruiters from many papers—some from far-flung corners of the country but most were from Florida. Two of my friends have been hired after the program, one because of an interview at the recruiting day. Now, if only I can wangle something like that when and if I graduate in December.

If you’d like to read more about my adventures at Poynter, go to the side bar below. Just a few highlights—it involves hookers, hurricanes and nude dancers (Boy, am I selling this side bar!)

Besides Poynter, Seng Keat and I also made our way to Vancouver, Canada, for Seng Jin’s, SK’s brother’s, wedding. There, we met all the relatives we’d been avoiding for three years. The last time we’d seen any of them was at our wedding. Jin’s wedding proved more raucous than ours. Uncle Thomas tried repeating the “miracle” that happened during our wedding—and tried jiving to the music--but unfortunately after two knee replacements, his joints wouldn’t cooperate. But the rest of us pretty much rocked the party! We even made the band play “Funky Town,” a song it vowed never to play.

We ate a lot in Vancouver—practically closed every restaurant we went to dinner. When we weren’t eating, we put our tourist dollars to good use. We visited Butchart Gardens, on Victoria Island. It was one long ferry ride to and fro, plus the 45-minute drive to the ferry terminal and back.

Besides the flora, we also enjoyed Vancouver’s fauna, in the form of Orcas or killer whales. Three orca pods live off the coast of Vancouver and Washington State. We saw a three-week old baby and a 90+-year-old matriarch. They were resting when we saw them. If I were them I’d rest by bedding down in a hammock by the beach but these whales continue to swim while resting. Half their brain sleeps while the other half tells them to avoid boats and other such floating things.

SK had signed up to do two days of RAGBRAI (the bike ride across Iowa) this year but we decided against going. Otherwise, I’d still be packing out of one suitcase into another, after doing that the weekend before.

We’ve just managed to find our apartment floor again, in time for my family’s weeklong visit beginning Aug. 14. My mom, sister and oldest nephew will be setting foot on American soil for the first time. I’m going to take them to see the cow made of butter at the Iowa State Fair and other such interesting Iowan artifacts. But, that’s a story for another time.

Til then…hope to hear from you. Write me or post a comment on the blog.
☺

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You whose eyes have made it this far will be rewarded. This is the juiciest bit of reporting I’ve never done. Our instructors said we should write and publish this but we’d paid our dues and had finished our last article by then.

So, the last weekend in Florida, we were evacuated out of Nu Residence in Eckerd College, where we’d been living for the past five weeks. The College was taking precautionary measures because there was a slight chance that Hurricane Dennis may come our way.

Our self-appointed Jewish mom, Jeanne, got a travel agent to set us up in a hotel. Little did the 27 of us (most fresh grads in their early or mid 20s) know what we were in for. Our hotel is on 34th St. in St. Petersburg, Florida, which apparently, is kind of a dodgy neighborhood. We found out just how dodgy it was.

We found out when my 22-year-old friends, Anna and Shauna, tried checking into their hotel room but found their key cards didn’t work. While Anna went to the front desk to find out what’s going on, Shauna waited by the room. And while waiting, she saw a dingy guy with three duffel bags come out of the room. Later, they found out from the hotel manager the room they were supposed to stay in had been broken into three times in the last week.

The room faces the back of the hotel and Kelly, who leads the Poynter Reporting and Writing program, suspects a member of the hotel staff had been sneaking out the master key so rooms could be used for prostitution. When questioned by the Poynter people though, the manager was evasive, even though only a master key could override a room key, which is why my friends couldn’t get into their room. When they checked into their new room, they found a Band-Aid stuck over the room’s peephole and stains of unknown origins on the walls.

The sheriff deputy who came to take my friends’ statements was shocked to find that there were about 30 of us young ‘uns here. He said we shouldn’t be there and that if we need him, he’d be on duty until midnight that day.

We moved into another hotel the next day.

That’s the hooker story.

Now, for the strip club owner.

During our second week at Poynter, we were given an exercise: drive up to Tampa, which is about half an hour away, use the public records and find out as much about a mystery person as you can. They told us only the name of the person and even then, they only did that at 8 a.m. the morning of the exercise. We were supposed to prepare a presentation on the person, based on what we found, on a specific aspect of his life, whether personal, legal, financial, etc. But we weren’t told the category until 3 p.m. that afternoon. Our presentation had to be ready by 5 p.m.

We were given the name Joe Redner.

From searching through public records, we found out this guy is famous for owning a series of adult entertainment outlets, the most famous of which is Mons Venus, which is patronized by famous people and which is featured in a rap song. Redner has also run for mayor and has sued the FBI and the President of the United States because he felt his freedom of expression was inhibited—he tried to protest at a rally where George W. Bush was present and was told to leave. The case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

We also found out he has several wives, some legal, some not, though not all at the same time. He has been arrested many times, including once for cocaine possession. He has a net worth of about US$2 million. He owns several successful businesses.

There was a lot we could say about this guy and we were ready to do so at 5 p.m. When the first group went up to the stage to present though, they, and the rest of us, found out we had a mystery guest. It was Joe Redner. Several people turned pale.

Redner took notes and we had a Q&A session with him after dinner. He was pretty nice about the whole affair and didn’t care that we were raking up all this stuff about him. His main objection was that someone said he was somewhat “scandalous” (I can’t remember the exact term) and he said that’s a value judgment. And he protested at someone calling his establishment a strip club. He said since the dancers were nude to begin with, that that wasn’t accurate. He didn’t mind Mons Venus being called a nude bar.

The lesson we learned that day was that we should take responsibility for everything we write. And that we should be able to look whoever we write about in the face.

Now, aren’t you glad you read this side bar?

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