Happy New Year

Unusual year for Melbournians, what more an Asian boy like myself.

This year has been full of surprises. I had never expected myself to be attached to someone, much less a white guy, and to finally end up moving in with him and sharing the household duties like true partners. I had never expected to be working in a bar, making people drunk and burning off bits skin on my fingers with all the alcohol I come into contact with. I had never expected to have a garden, nor have a room of my own, or spare cash in my bank account.

When I boarded that flight to Melbourne I had none of this in mind. I told myself I was going to become a one-bag traveler; to treat Australia as a holiday destination that was never going to be something permanent, a place I could leave by stuffing all my belongings into one suitcase. I would stay single so that I would not be too attached to Australia.

That was the plan anyway.

When I finally managed to settle down in a place where six people shared four rooms, I found myself constantly seeking forms of affection and support from the gay community here. It was as if I had no way of getting around by myself without the constant bickering and lies of the sex-hungry. I made my way into stranger’s homes and infiltrated the lives of two married men with my sexual needs (or advances, whichever way you choose to view it). I had never felt this free in my life, being able to do the things I liked and needed without restriction from the government or from the police force. It was me unleashing the gay side within, and exploring my sexuality in the same way I used to back home, minus the guilt or fear of being caught as everything I did was legal in this country.

I have now moved to a new house in a quiet little suburb and have begun to construct my very own garden, a first for me in 10 years. I’ve slowly purchased native flora to fill the sun-drenched courtyard behind the house with lovely foliage and scents from not-so-native flora such as jasmine and geraniums. The boyfriend has contributed to this collection of weird and peculiar plants with a frangipani for my Christmas present. For a boy who does not know where he will end up in 3 years time (with the odds greatly swinging towards the reality of returning home to serve a bond with my scholarship provider), building a garden has proven to be a very hard investment. As much as I try to build the garden, there is a constant thought of me having to return to my home country that holds me back every time I purchase something new for the garden. The uncertainty in my position kills the drive and determination to make the garden work to unleash its full potential, though I must admit that it is slowly being pieced together nonetheless.

I have gathered a vast amount of personal belongings since I came to Melbourne. From a decent sized bed to a table and a chair, I have bought many pieces of furniture for myself using my hard earned wages. My wardrobe, however, has remained the same as I have not been able to source out pieces of clothing that I would be willing to pay and wear.

With a new job and a new boyfriend, I have had little time for myself and for exploring Australia. I have since neglected photography and have become lazy as ever. Without much drive or determination to succeed, I feel almost lethargic and static with nothing really going on in my life other than the scheduled activities that line my calendar pinned up on my corkboard. I have become dull and boring, and all sense of adventure has vanished. The uniqueness of Australia does not seem thrilling enough to be discovered or savoured, and I fear with great deal that this feeling may persist for a long time to come, causing me to nonchalantly ignore the events that are happening all around me.

The whole idea of coming here for education and education alone seems distant, and I cannot think of anything I would rather do than to enjoy myself big time.

This year has been spectacular and the memories have been great.

Happy New Year to you guys, and best wishes ahead.

Sandringham

I have never had a swim in Australian waters. I have had many beach outings, visiting different stretches of sand that line Port Phillip Bay and even to Wilson's Promontory, but I have never physically stripped off my clothing for a swim in the sea.

The air was a balmy 34 degrees as the boyfriend and I set out on our little adventure. Slopping on generous amounts of sunscreen to keep the boyfriend quiet about the 'dangers of skin cancer', I climb into an extremely tight fitting singlet from the days when I used to be much bulkier and had more to show. Today all I had on display were sections of well-positioned flab and a flat chest, but I was too lazy to be bothered about dressing 'modestly' while I reexamined my intentions to skip more gym sessions and shovel fatty foods down my throat with every opportunity.

~

Images of the Australian landscape flash outside the windows as the train gently glides on the tracks. Occasionally the elevated track allows one to peep into the private lifestyles of houses with low fences. A few gardens here and there were showing signs of heavy watering even during Stage 2 water restrictions (with fucking hydrangeas in the front lawn), whilst other more law-abiding citizens have left their garden to its demise as the grass browns under the intense dry heat. Occasionally a child or two came into view, but never long enough to make out what they were doing in their back yard as the train whizzed past the house before you could take a second look.

Bushland lining both sides of the train tracks have not been spared by the drought either. The only few remaining plants that looked healthy were the low lying eucalypts, salt bushes and prickly pears. Most of the grass had died off to reveal the parched soil underneath, with pockets of greenery poking out where the soil was more forgiving.

At one of the stations we came within full view of a eucalyptus tree that had been partially burnt, revealing burned pendulous fruiting bodies that mimicked the shape of a pair of very shriveled black testicles. Even nature has a sense of humour during the toughest of times.

~

Positioned strategically at the exit, a man clad in Connex uniform beckons our arrival to the Sandringham station. Everyone including myself and the boyfriend is taken aback for a few split seconds upon the sight of this officer as we alight from the train and head towards the exit, fearing he might be one of many train inspectors who haunt the train lines in search of fare evaders. The whole train of passengers seems to have evaded this time.

With a gentle gesture he asks us to pass through the gates, and with no pen and ticket book in sight we are all shaken but mildly relieved as we make our way to freedom and the beach that lay in the horizon.

~

Fucking hot sand, fucking cold waters. Your feet boil as you sink them into the soft sand of the beach as you make your way towards the icy cold water that is part of Port Phillip Bay. Everywhere couples and families have set up their towels and bags on the sand and the crowd seems to be divided between those who are shivering in the water and those who are baking under the sun. This beach is full of extremes.

The succulents that grow on the sand dunes look pale and uninteresting. Most of the bushes look weather worn and sun scorched, with few species able to survive the high salt content and piercing sun's rays on the beach. Possibly the only plant that seems to be doing well here are those ugly banksias that twists into deformed shapes under the influence of the harsh sea breezes. Just looking at the foliage makes you feel thirsty and dry.

Nobody is wearing speedos although it is an Aussie invention. A few girls have squeezed their fat bodies into skimpy bikinis but the men being more conservative than the women have boardies or really short boxer pants. The lack of defined male bodies gives me slight relief from the insecurity that clouds my mind with regards to my built. Nobody is beautiful, and for once I don't mind fitting in with the crowd.

Carefully treading into the water I notice how white the boyfriend is, and the stark contrast with my brown skin which has become burnt under constant exposure to the hot summer sun. Cold water passes through my pants and sends shivers up my spine as I try to acclimatise to the sub zero temperatures. This is too hard.

The boyfriend beckons me towards him as we climb across a sand bar. The sudden feeling of loneliness creeps into my head as I dive into the icy cold water, but that feeling is soon extinguished by the relentless shivering I experience as I emerge from the cold salt water.

Bliss.

Christmas

Racing to the market before it closed for the Christmas break, we were unsure if we would still be able to purchase a large free range chicken for Christmas lunch. The whole idea of competition with mad angry housewives who clawed, screamed and tugged over the last remaining chicken from the poultry shop during a last minute chicken-shopping frenzy sort of fed the assumption that we will arrive at the market and there will be no chicken in sight.

When we got there the shops were starting to close. Even the veggie stores had stored their greens away and the florist was trying to haggle with a few ladies over the price of Christmas lily that looked like it was about to die in two days. Around the stalls were buckets and buckets of Christmas lilies that were in full bloom and had started to decay, left there by the florist as they were no longer fit for sale, probably adding to the whole 'rotten spirit' of Christmas.

Only one poultry stall was still opened, and it belonged to a round-faced Asian man with a kid playing with the bits of dead chicken in a tray in front of him. Thankfully there were no queues or desperate housewives. There was just chicken. Heaps and heaps of chicken.

~

Lunch at mom's was a real pleasant surprise, with the mercury retreating to sub-artic conditions in summer. At a high of 12 degrees by midday, Melbourne was under the grip of the coldest Christmas since records began. Even more bizarre was the rain which poured like crazy and then left as though it was never there the next minute. In the midst of a drought, 8mm of rain was a welcome sight, but the sub-zero temperatures and snow were unusual for this time of the year.

In fact, the snow was so heavy in the Alps that they really truly did have a white Christmas.

Freaky for this time of the year in Australia.

With the gorgeously roasted chicken done by the boyfriend coupled with the fabulous salads made by his mother, my tummy was all pleased. This is the first Christmas that I've spent away from home. This time there are no images of fucking Santa or bullshit Christmas carols, no obligation to award the relatives with presents or 'well wishes' (though I secretly did wish that some of them died in their sleep for Christmas) and away from obligatory church services that told you everything you needed to know about the birth of Christ, a story that you've heard a million times before.

This time it was just me, the boyfriend and the mother, tucked away in a tiny home in the far Eastern Suburbs, feasting over a simple meal and having chats about nothing in particular.

This is the first time I've felt happy for Christmas, the first time I did not feel that I had to live up to some expectation of what a 'filial' son should be.

Sitting in the car on the way home after his mother offered a lift, I find myself dosing off as the car ascends and descends the hills along the long and winding road towards our house. In between blackouts and the realisation that we've just done a very sharp turn at 50kmph such that my head banged against the side window, I realise how much he's made me feel at home in this foreign land. I realised how much I've learnt and experienced, and how much the other friends who come from the same country as I do, are missing out by being the rich pretentious International Students they so rightfully are.

I catch a glimpse of her smile as we wave goodbye and she drives away, leaving us at our doorstep. Inside me, a sense of acceptance, that I am finally making my way towards being treated as a human being with feelings and opinions.

I am finally feeling that I am part of the family, and fuck that's a good feeling.

Post

I have not been writing in a long time. I have been caught up in the euphoria of setting up my room and constructing a garden in the backyard, coupled with long episodes of cooking with the boyfriend and never ending shopping escapades.

I have also quit my previous job and found a new one.

My gym routine has been disrupted now that I live so far away from the gym, which is a good 30 minutes by train and tram from my place. I keep coming up with excuses to stay away from it, from the price of Metcards to the race to reach the gym after having a massive sleep-in, before it gets full with all the bunnies who compete with you for floor space. I still, however, find time to gorge myself on the food that the boyfriend cooks for me and the food I force myself to buy, sending my tummy back to pre-gym circumference.

My budget has spun out of control as I indulge in a spending spree before I truly settle in. There are so many things to buy, from ironing boards to pots for plants, right up to rubbish bins, plates and bowls, a rug for the room and extension cords… etc etc.

Needless to say, it is neither procrastination, nor lack of time that has prevented me from coming up with a post in the past three weeks or so. It is the lack of inspiration.

I find it so hard to get my brain ticking into writing a post. I've had three uncompleted drafts that are still sitting in Word documents somewhere on C-drive, and looking back on them I don't even remember what it was that I was trying to get at. The lack of continuity in my flow of thought at the moment could probably be attributed to the constant need to stay focused at the things that are more important in my life at the moment

Things like making a home for myself, and for the boyfriend who lives with me.

The End

Who would have thought, after 18 weeks of work at a fast food outlet, I would actually feel soppy about leaving the place.

When I first got my hands dirty in all the tasks required for my job, from cleaning the grotty toaster and grill to scooping up mouldy bits and pieces of 'stuff' that had fallen into the drain, I absolutely hated my job. I hated the fact that I was constantly breaking my back carrying stuff that were too difficult to maneuver (such as trays that had to be lifted to chest level so that they would fit into the production bin, or oil drip-trays that had to be lowered to knee level so that it would fit into the grills). The 'correct method' of carrying stuff didn't apply in this place; nothing would get done if you did it the right way.

And so as I agonised through those tasks I started to develop dodgy methods of getting the job done to produce results that LOOKED good but were not necessarily so. I started doing things the fast way and coupled with the tricks that my fellow workmates taught me I became more efficient in my job and grotty in many aspects, but I always got the job done.

I absolutely hated the managers who did nothing to ease our suffering. Whilst some were more sympathetic than others, most of them were not very keen to lend a helping hand even though they were without any tasks. Some would sit back in the office while we slaved away at the kitchen, reading a magazine and not offering any help whatsoever even when we were getting hammered by the unending queue of fat obese kids demanding for their burgers. Some would not allow us to start cleaning until we closed, which meant polishing the whole bloody fucking restaurant in under an HOUR, dismantling bits and pieces of equipment for cleaning and then putting them back all together in what normally takes us 3 hours to do.

On the first week of work I was delighted that I had free burgers and soft drinks to gorge on thought my shift, occasionally stealing a chicken nugget or two from the UHT-bin when nobody was looking or keeping a box of cookies under the preparation table so that I could slowly munch away when there were no burgers to be stolen.

But not long after that did the feeling of disgust start to kick in. The more burgers I rolled out to customers, who bought them, the more I knew of the 'secret ingredients' and 'secret preparation methods' that gave the burgers their trademark flavour. The more I made and prepared the food, the more I felt that I did not want to put that into my mouth and chew at it.

The amount of things that I did as a staff member must have broken hundreds of rules set by the franchise as well as laws set by the government. We never followed anything they told us to do, often using the same gloves for chemicals as the gloves for preparing food, incorrect storage of food in the refrigerators, buns left out in the open after we finished our shifts, meat cooked with a crust of burnt material that helped increase the statistics for people diagnosed with cancer, burgers left in the production bin for more than 2hours (recommended time is 15minutes) yet still being served to customers... A gazillion other things concerning food handling and preparation were done in our own ways with little or no advice from our managers who seemed to do the same. As long as the money came rolling in and the work got done, everybody was happy.

We bred a happy fatty world.

But nobody cared to question what we did. We were the champions of the fast food outlet; the sole reason why people came to the store, because we were the army of men hidden away in the kitchen who turned raw stuff into product that could be sold for 20 times the cost price. We were the ones who carefully added the flavour to the product and made the unhealthy obese kids wanting more. Without us kitchen crew members, the restaurant was nothing.

Things began to take a toll on me as I worked in that fast-food outlet, alternating between the caustic chemicals they used to clean the equipment and the dollops of oil that sprayed onto my face as I churned out more than 300 burgers in 60 minutes on a daily basis. Coupled with the intense back aches from all the lifting, the sleepless nights due to long arduous shifts and unfinished university work, I told myself that I had enough of all this nonsense. I had enough of being bullied around.

Enrolling in a bar course was probably the best investment to date. Not only did we get a free flow of alcohol throughout our shift, but we also learnt a great deal about the different types of beer (and believe me, it is as complex as wine if not more complex) and beer pouring methods, occupational health and safety procedures, and moreover we had a lot of fun through chat and discussion sessions with the other people doing the same course as us.

And at the end of the bar course I enrolled myself for a coffee course to make coffee 'the Melbourne way' before signing up for a trial shift at a well known bar in the city and the rest is history.

I am now into my second week of working at the bar, pouring drinks for people and making them drunk (I somehow seem to engage myself in work that damages society). The bar is located at the other end of the street where the boyfriend lives, and he constantly jokes about me pouring alcohol for the men and making them drunk, men who then walk down the same street and destroy property in the neighbourhood under the state of intoxication.

I am enjoying every moment of my new job though the pay is much lesser than what I was expecting. Then again, job satisfaction over pay. Nobody should to do a shit job just because of the money involved.

God, I love my job.