My protracted silence.

Posted on May 23, 2013 by Estella

Just in case you were about to file a missing person’s report (do know the gesture is appreciated, although as yet unnecessary), let me share with you what’s been keeping me most occupied this past month. First there was my 9-day trip to NZ; I managed to squeeze in a post about NAPLAN and another about life in Perth’s affluent Western Suburbs on my return. Then there was much illness, which, I cannot tell you anything about at this point, only to say that it persists and even cleaning my 2-bedroom townhouse requires the methodical deliberation of an army general because I am so short of energy; now involuntarily vegetarian, I am as animated and energetic as an amoeba after sundown, subsisting mostly on liquids.

If you were thinking of inviting me over for dinner, thank you, but I don’t think I’ll make very good company due to the aforementioned reason. Then there’s the vomiting and overall lethargy. It’s amazing if I can even tell you the day of the week past 7 pm.

Anyway, last week, my Aussie mates F and B came to visit me from the other side of Australia. That was a triumph in planning and execution to rival some of the most complicated operations military too because F and B have 2 ankle biters and anyone with kids that age will know how hard it is to go anywhere with them, what more across a space as huge as Australia.

Cleaning the townhouse took me the better part of 2 mornings, as I was out of breath after each and every single self-assigned task and needed a bit of a break. Nevertheless it was worth it when F and B turned up; we were home most of the time because it was just easier with the kids and when we eventually ventured out, after B rented a car, we had “yum cha” in Northbridge and a short midday stroll along Cottesloe Beach one day, and a brief visit to Claremont Quarter the next.

Another day, F, Amanda and I took a drive out to Peppermint Grove to visit our mate G Rinehart who we suspect lives in the vicinity. I’m only joking. We don’t know G Rinehart or she, us. We just wanted a sticky beak around her part of town, as you do when you are on holiday, or convalescing like me.

As F said, “You know you are great mates with someone when they start cutting their toe nails in front of you.”

F had bought me a nail clipper to replace my misplaced one so I could get rid of my vampiric talons. Hence, after an impromptu house inspection (neighbour was selling), I hoisted one foot, then another, on to another neighbour’s outdoor table (I watch their house for them) to clip off the offending growth.

For most of F and B’s stay I also sported overgrown eyebrows (yes, I do have eyebrows), bed-hair, the clothes I’d gone to bed in the night before… Sometimes I napped in my outside clothes and when I woke up, had to have the heater on, even though I had on thermals, jumper, woolly socks and scarf. Seeing as my tiredness has reached absurd levels, I will have to look into Star Formulations, a vegan iron supplement for women produced by my mate Julie Moss, which had been previously unnecessary as I was consuming meat. But since I’ve been unceremoniously tossed from the meat-eating train…

Well, now that you know what I’ve been up to, you can go away reassured that I will be back. Speaking of which, what you been up to lately? Have you attended any public rallies or been a part of something I should know about?

The magic of “Guanxi”: defining networks beyond race.

Posted on April 19, 2013 by Estella

I am very excited about 2 things: one, after a 10 year belly crawl through surgical training, HRH will be convocating this May in Auckland, having passed exams for Fellowship to the Royal Australasian College of Surgeons almost a year ago. Two, one of my closest friends, F, will be coming with her family to stay with me for a week, upon my return from Auckland.

F, is a very private person, so I can’t disclose more identifying information, but suffice to say we have a close friendship that has defied geographical and cultural boundaries. F is a first-generation, born and bred Aussie, but unlike many, she possesses a deep knowledge of her “white” roots. I appreciate this about her; I particularly like people cognisant of their ethnic backgrounds because it seems the more that they do, the less threatened they feel about apparent and perceived differences between us.

Overwhelmingly, it is true what a cousin of mine said in response to a post I wrote much earlier about being the only Asian among whites: if you have interests in common with the other person, it doesn’t really matter what colour they are. It’s when you don’t that relationships become problematic.

F and I both love books and I have always had the greatest admiration for her grey matter. She can say to me things I’d consider rather insensitive coming from another “white” Australian simply because we know each other well and I know she means no offence. In most instances, she just wants me to give some thought to her comments and respond, as she knows I will, in an honest and forthright fashion. Being exceedingly RATIONAL, her ego isn’t tied to my agreement or disagreement. Take for instance this conversation we had at the end of 2010.

Kevin Rudd’s confidential talks with Hillary Clinton regarding China had just became public knowledge and I was so incensed by what I read in the papers, I wrote to Brisbane’s Courier Mail, after which, of course, I told F.

“What did you do that for, Estella?” asked F, seemingly angry with me. “Politics is very dirty and politicians are very dirty people. You don’t go near them with a 10 foot pole.”

Coming from Malaysia, I am in complete agreement with that.

“Yes, but in his capacity as Foreign Minister, he should never have said that,” I went. “I hate how white people think they have the right to determine the rules and yet preach the benefits of democracy.”

I can’t quite remember what else we said but F replied, “Then I can say that the only people to gain from the rise of China are the sons (and daughters) of China.”

“That’s not true. Chinese are very dog eat dog. Others might think we’ll benefit our kind, but that’s not the way Chinese operate.”

Any real Chinese person will know what I’m talking about. It’s the “guanxi” or personal networks that determine who’s in and who’s out; it’s not race-reliant, it’s relationship reliant. Like I consider F to be in my “guanxi”, even though there isn’t the remotest possibility we ever came from the same family tree. For anyone who’s interested in knowing, my “guanxi” is made up of family, former schoolmates, former university mates, mums and dads from my daughter’s school, some of HRH’s university mates, and some of HRH’s former colleagues.

Having said that, unlike most Chinese who will walk pass you without the slightest hint of a smile if unacquainted, I am friendly to strangers. I smile and chat with them when queueing up for coffee, waiting for the bus or abroad a long flight to somewhere. But that’s how I am. F and I are very different persons but our relationship works because we have mutual respect. We also have a language which, in my entire “guanxi”, only she and I speak: astrology.

As example of this is when F expounded her findings on the solar eclipse which coincided with Julia Gillard usurping Kevin Rudd. Neither of us were all that interested in the event, but we both marvelled at astrology’s ability to predict such happenings. Similarly, when Kevin Rudd challenged Julia Gillard for the top job, and I cast a chart to ask the outcome to that (my chart said he’d not have the support of those under him), F and I were more interested in the accuracy of astrology (or my ability to read charts at any rate) than we were about any actual outcome. You could say that we’re nerds and like nerds everywhere, “guanxi” is based on mental affinity with one another instead of superficialities like outer appearances.

Other than initiating me into the world of astrology, F has taught me to say “I love you” in a host of European languages (I still know it in French and German), shared with me a variety of dishes her mother brought with her from the old country, lectured me at length on the differences between Europeans, which I’ve found rather eye-opening. Before F, I used to think that all Europeans are the same, as in everyone is “white”, but thanks to her, I can even make educated guesses about where a person is from by looking at him or her.

What I’m straining to say is that F and I have never shied away from the topic of race for fear of alienating each other or allowed it define our relationship any more than 2 people of the same ethnicity would. We are different in obvious ways, and similar unobvious ways, but such is the nature of relationships with people in our “guanxi” that over time, we notice more of the latter than former. Over time, what was once the opening line between two people, becomes a footnote in a long, comfortable and mutually satisfying relationship.

Bridging the divide: a visit from in-laws.

Posted on March 13, 2013 by Estella

My in-laws left yesterday after a week’s stay with yours truly. They were here for sister-in-law’s (SIL) first entry into Australia as a permanent resident. For those of you who’ve migrated to these parts, you’ll know what this first entry and do-not-enter-after-this-date business is all about. For those of you who haven’t, it just means she has to enter the country. If you’ve read some of my past posts on my relationship with the in-laws, you’ll know that we haven’t always gotten along like the cliched house on fire. In fact, at some point in my close to 12 years of marriage to HRH, our relationship was so explosive, our house may have caught on fire. But that’s all water under the bridge now.

HRH once said to me, some 9 years or so ago, during very testy times in my relationship with the in-laws, “I know they have done wrong but YOU can be a BIGGER person.”

At the time, my stubborn retort was, “I can’t be a bigger person. I’m a small person! Can’t you see I am a (physically) small person?”

Being a lion (he is a Leo) HRH wanted me to be magnanimous; proud but forgiving. Picture Simba from Lion King, standing on the edge of the cliff before his animal subjects and you’ll know the pose I was asked to adopt. Ridiculous, isn’t it?

As a lioness (I am a Cancer with 4 planets in Leo, hence my rapport with HRH), my main priority is to protect my turf and everything that lies within it. Forget that and you’ll feel my claws in your back. But time has a way of making even the most ferocious of us mellow. It’s as if, through the looking glass, what was once so important, is not as important any more. All of us are 8 years older and as the events, or rather non-events, of the week have proven, 8 years wiser.

I no longer need to demarcate the boundaries to my territory with the blood of fresh kill because everyone can see the caked blood. Like anyone new to a group or situation – be it workplace, family or social organisation – I was eager to establish myself, eager to show that “you’re NOT the boss of me.” But as I said, time, and little children (Amanda) have a way of softening the hardest of hearts. When you see how the in-laws fuss over your child, indeed any person who fusses over your child, you tend to look at them with more empathic eyes.

Watching the in-laws talk to and play with Amanda, I had so much empathy coming out of me that I was my most magnanimous self. I cooked them 4 dinners in a row to a theme of “Welcome to Australia”, burning my forearm when I stupidly yanked out a rack from a heated oven, I took them to my favourite French Patisserie in the neighbourhood for buttery croissant and freshly-made coffee, I even drove out of Nedlands, my village, which I’d never driven out from since moving in (I only drive around the area) to take them to Fremantle, so that they wouldn’t have to catch the bus.

More amazingly, father-in-law (FIL) and I had many conversations, NONE of which ended in one of us saying we are no longer related after this visit, which has happened before. FIL seemed to still want us to move back to Malaysia but was respectful of our decision to continue living here.

At the end of the day, time, a child and many hours of talking have given us the secret ingredient for a decent relationship: mutual respect. FIL gave HRH his medical degree and I gave HRH everything that came after that.

I said to FIL, “You do know that Victoria once passed a law requiring all foreign-born medical students to leave the state upon graduation, don’t you? That’s why your son had to move to Adelaide. There, a director of emergency had it out for him because he took his annual leave to go back to Malaysia for a month. She tried to stop him from getting into surgical training by bad-mouthing him to the selection committee but he got in anyway, in Victoria, thus moved back. After his first year in training, the college made it a rule that all trainees MUST be permanent residents or citizens to get into ADVANCE TRAINING. At the time (and no one seems to remember this), Australia DID NOT WELCOME DOCTORS. Our bid to become permanent residents failed, so we moved to New Zealand to try our luck there, since the college also covers New Zealand. At the time, the college introduced a move called TIME-EXPIRING to kick out anyone who failed to get into advance training by a certain time. So your son could have already passed his Part 1, which he did, BUT COULD STILL GET KICKED OUT.”

“Thinking he only had DAYS to having his career truncated, I wrote to the Minister for Immigration to ask for special intervention; if we waited for the regular migration process to take place, it might be too late. The Minister’s office declined. I pestered them, appealing to their better natures to help me. It took me hours to craft each letter I sent to them. In the end they agreed to investigate the matter; they asked the college to put your son’s application aside pending the outcome of their investigation.”

“The Minister’s office rang his former employer in Victoria. The former employer rang your son and asked whether he still wanted to live in Australia. They had changed the migration regulations (again) and they could now sponsor him. Hooray! Except that I was pregnant with Amanda and for permanent residence to be granted, Australian Immigration (DIMIA) wanted me to be undergo a chest X-ray. It ordered Health Services Australia (HSA) to perform the X-ray on me. HSA declined because they didn’t want me to sue them if my unborn child develops cancer further down the track as a result of exposure to the X-ray. Your son very much wanted the PR to be finalised so that he could be eligible for Advance Training before the next cut-off (once a year) so I HAD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN HIS CAREER AND MY UNBORN CHILD. Tell me how many people have to make such a choice?”

“There were only 80 positions in Advance Training. When he failed to get in after the first two rounds of offers, he was depressed. I asked him to go for a review of his application to see WHY he did not meet the cut off and HOW he could next time. He reluctantly took my advice and the next week, the college called to say they had miscalculated his position and offered him Darwin.”

“When he was bullied by 2 bitches in Cairns, he asked me if he should just be a GP. I said NO, you’ve come this far, you will go all the way. NO surrender. No matter how tough, how many people called me (everyone ALWAYS calls me) to ask him to do this or that, regardless the number of doubting Thomases, I have always told him to march on.”

“He has never had to wake up in the middle of the night to care for Amanda, be there for parent-teacher interviews, first days at school, sports days, or take leave when she is sick. I cover his parental duties 100% of the time. I do our banking, manage our various investments, even sighted, signed for and negotiated with the bank for our last property.”

I just wanted FIL to know what it is I do in our relationship, that his child is in good hands.

At the end of his stay, walking a fraction of the Nedlands Esplanade for the last time, he even begrudgingly admitted that Australia is a much better place for us to stay. “You people can even go walking in a place like this during the day.”

All around us were perfectly manicured lawns; in the river, sparklingly clear waters with yatches bobbing on them.

Wendy Loh from Malaysia.

Posted on March 11, 2013 by Estella

Quite a number of concerned friends have written to me about this Wendy Loh from Johor Malaysia, who, until today, can be seen inexhaustibly harassing and belittling me over every little thing on By Estella Dot Com. What did I do for her to make it her lifelong mission to harangue me into silence, if not hiding?

Wendy is the GREAT BEAUTY in red.

Perhaps a little background info is in order.

Wendy Loh from Johor, Malaysia, is the ex-girlfriend of one of my university mates. I graduated from university some 14 years ago and Wendy has been been on my case – God only knows about what – for at least 9 of those years. We have met ONLY ONCE, introduced by her ex-boyfriend, who deeply regrets it, when he tagged her along for a reunion with our other university mates.

Being a new bride then, I couldn’t help but show off my wedding ring. This, as far as Wendy Loh is concerned, shows I’m “boastful.” If you’ve read her incendiary comments, which I’ve now deleted to spare my readers aggravation on my behalf, my other crimes include:

1) Marrying straight after university (no, actually I worked for 2 years first)

2) Marrying up (my husband was penniless until I married him so this is patently untrue)

3) Not being a career woman like her (she has no choice because no man wants her)

4) Not being a SUPER career person like Wendy Loh (she makes so much moolah as a editor she has to ask if I have any connections in the Australian journalism industry which she can take advantage of)

Crimes aside, she also has issue with the fact that my husband “is ugly” and “not brought up surrounded by beauty.”

As you can see, she is DROP DEAD GORGEOUS, might talented, extremely ethical…Watch out! She wants to save YOU from a life of UGLINESS too!

Wendy Loh’s crimes? Well, let me list them in chronological order:

1) Harassing me for close to 1 DECADE, after a mail I sent to university mates ACCIDENTALLY listed her as a recipient. She does not get “accidentally” and used that as a means by which to worm her way into my life. She ADDED MY FRIENDS from secondary school, university, several of my family members to her facebook account (ever wondered how she got 4000+ “friends”? Well hello, no one knows her!) While we were “friends” on facebook, she’d leave me SEVERAL MESSAGES every hour!

I had to unfriend Wendy Loh on facebook because it seems only my SUICIDE will please her. She doesn’t understand FUCK OFF!

And NO, I never dated, bedded or had any remotely romantic relationship with her ex. He has apologised to her for his wrongdoing in the hopes she will leave ME and all our friends ALONE but she hasn’t. Wendy Loh from Johor is madly, madly, madly in love with me. Well, this is me RETURNING THE LOVE! Sorry, it’s taken so long, Wendy Loh.

2) After I unfriended Wendy Loh from Johor, Malaysia, on facebook, she started writing to me, under the guise of trying to secure my support for one of her so-call “altruistic causes.” This includes lifting literacy levels WORLDWIDE, preventing the spread of AIDS, again WORLDWIDE…When after countless polite replies, refusing to join her in these mighty endeavours, I was FORCED to block ALL emails from her. What did she do then?

SHE PUBLISHED MY VERY FRUSTRATED RESPONSES ON A SITE and called it “journalism.”

Hey, professors at Murdoch University (where Wendy Loh from Johor, graduated), I will be seeing you shortly about your syllabus for journalism studies. Perhaps we can discuss the STRIPPING of degree for a certain former graduate whose professional conduct throws the School of Journalism into disrepute. After that, I’ll be in touch with Yonsei University in Korea. These poor people NEED to be told what’s happening to their precious reputation.

She also calls herself a “translator”, although from her broken English, I’m not sure what she’s translating or who would want tot hire her. She claims to be rich, unlike me who was born “poor” (and yes, this is a crime too), so a proper grasp of any language is NOT necessary – she can always hire a REAL EDITOR, to edit her work!

3) When she discovered By Estella Dot Com, she decided to take up where she left off and HARASS me some more! First her comments were polite, then they became increasing superfluous, personal and offensive. For this reason ALONE, I had to suspend her posting privileges. What did she do then?

SHE GOT HER MANY INTERNET BUDDIES TO BULLY ME BY SENDING ME THRASH comments about how perfect and mighty she is! Until I warned them about Malaysia being a signatory to a convention AGAINST cyber-bullying. Oh, plus I can track down ALL their ISP to hand over to the police for such CRIMES. Hey, Malaysian curry rice (all they will be eating in PRISON) is NOT SO TASTY after the hundredth bowl, ok?

What TOTAL HOTNESS! Men must be beating down your door, Wendy Loh from Johor!

In short, Wendy Loh from Johor, Malaysia has left me with ABSOLUTELY NO CHOICE but to write this awesome, awesome post about her. ALL HAIL Queen WENDY LOH from Johor! After all, she’s itching to be recognised for her awesomeness alone. Oh, Wendy, you are so, so awesomely good-looking, talented, RICH, fantastic…I’ve run out of superlatives to describe your greatness. I salute you Wendy Loh from Johor! Keep up the HARASSING, the BELITTLING, the MENACING, the PLAGIARISING, because you are SO MIGHTY TALENTED, SO AWESOMELY BEAUTIFUL, SO SOON TO BE A GREAT FAMOUS AUTHOR…

Love, kiss, a big smoocheroo,

Estella

(Author and owner of this humble little blog.)

P/s I have a copy of all the “wonderful” emails you and your little friends sent me, along with your ISP. God, I am so touched. You are an incredible woman!

3 Janes, a few others, no Jacks.

Posted on February 28, 2013 by Estella

“No one knows you here, do they?” states Amanda with all the alacrity of a well-adjusted recently-turned 8 year old.

“Most certainly not,” I reply, walking her uphill to her new school.

“It’s not like in Brisbane where everyone knows you, is it?” she says, rubbing it in further.

“Whaddaya think, wise ass?” I say, akin a bear with its paw stuck in an unseen trap. “Does it look like I know anyone here?”

Around South Brisbane and West End, I can’t go two paces without running into someone I am acquainted with. Here, not counting my former secondary school classmates, one of whom I am told lives in a neighbouring suburb, I know just a handful of people. God, deciding I need a break from remembering a host of bothersome details – address, phone number, several alien dos and don’ts – has chosen to give me 3 new mates with the same name: Jane.

Jane number 1 owns the health food store across from where I live. Unfortunately, I’ve not seen her since I moved in because she went back to Singapore for the Chinese New Year. I’ve seen plenty of her husband though, running her shop in her absence, who’s evidently a fan of Colin Barnett, Western Australia’s premier.

Jane number 2 I met while having sushi on a Friday night with the family. Her partner, Keith, was keen to rope Amanda in as his newest germ busting Ambassador for Children’s Global Hygiene Foundation, a not-for-profit initiative which aims to stop the spread of disease in third world countries through the provision of hygiene systems, soap and education programmes, in partnership with various organisations. Jane number 2 teaches deaf children, unfortunately for me too, full time.

Jane number 3 is the mum of one of Amanda’s new classmates, who invited us both over for tea last week. Her kid and mine get along so well, there’s talk that we might have tea again, perhaps even at my house, which at this point only has 3 mugs!

I’ve also made friends with Noelene, now part of my “five minutes more club” (a big shout out to Noelene!) a club for parents who mysteriously find themselves the only ones left in the playground when everyone else has gone home for the day because their kids don’t respond to shouts of ”5 minutes more. I’m only giving you 5 minutes more!”

Since I was already there, I got to know Kelly, Jian, another Chinese lady whose name I didn’t quite catch and “The Arab” as well. Jian had Amanda and myself over for tea last Friday and by the time we reached home, HRH had long returned from work by braving an uncharacteristic Perth downpour. Kelly has to send her husband to work after school drop offs, so we can only catch up during the afternoon pickups.

I met Lilian frequenting her cybercafe to write posts this past month. We’ve become such great buddies she gave me a $0.30 discount on my internet session after a rustle through my handbag failed to turn up enough for another half hour. What can I tell ya? It’s the end of the month, folks!

During my pick up and drops off, I also struck up a hello-goodbye friendship with Lucy, who I’ve manage to convince I’m not an unemployed psycho hobo, using HRH as a referee for my inability to wield a large knife, except in instances where I have to debone and deskin chicken. Last but not least, I count Mrs B (a big shout out to Mrs B!), Amanda’s class teacher from Mondays to Wednesdays as a friend, since we’ve had a number of interesting conversations on the evolution of Chinese women. Perhaps at a later date, and with your valuable input of course, I’ll be able to share with her and interested non-Chinese why regular Chinese women of my generation or older, expect a French Prince or similar for a son-in-law. Until my next post, here’s wishing you similar success in making new friends wherever you are…

Friends forever or for now?

Posted on February 26, 2013 by Estella

I met up with 2 of my former secondary school class mates on the weekend. One brought along her sister, 5 years our junior, who attended our school after we left. Despite the long years of not meeting – I was told it was 18 and not 20, proof that my maths is still as bad as before – we had much to say to each other; even though the other 3 are footloose and fancy free, high-powered career-women, they were happy allow me a protracted monologue on the joys and pains of motherhood.

Which brings me to the subject of friendships: do all friendships last forever or is there a time-limit on them? Am I one of the lucky few who can count people I met as a 12 year old as friends or is this an occurence experienced by many?

What I like best about friendships made during my schooling years, and equally those formed at university, is that they have endured tremendous neglect, vast distances and a myriad of circumstances that contrive to keep people apart. By contrast, some of my newer friendships have not survived probing emails (I hate being the recipient of such emails, especially from mere acquaintances), the odd tiff about things as trivial as not calling them (even gregarious people need time out from socialising) or just plain ignoring them (trust me, there’s a story to that).

I like that my friends from school and university know my other friends from school and university so no matter how awkward it gets between us, neither of us ever “unfriends” the other. We might contemplate it after a misunderstanding or two, but belonging to a herd supercedes the need to be right; more so as we age and realise, selfishly or narcissistically, that these are the very same people who will remember us even after we forget ourselves as our story is so intertwined with their glory days that they can’t possibly retell theirs without telling ours.

As we get older, there will be more and more of those, “Do you remember when…?” type conversations. We’ll reminisce about youthful bodies and all the silly things we could have done when we were young. And we’ll swap remedies for the occasional post-adolescent acne, unfortunately permanent wrinkles, and stubborn pot bellies from too many snacks taken while checking facebook to see what everyone is doing.

Of course, that’s not to say that all will remain friends. But I’ve found a friend in school, secondary or tertiary, is generally a friend for life. Aside from the number of people whose affections we share, we’ve just too much shared history to walk away from the relationship.

P/s I do make many NEW friends whose acquaintance I hope will grow into genuine friendship, but the number that make the leap from stranger to bosom buddy is rather small. Having said that, I hope that with time and the writing of this blog, my odds of making NEW enduring friendships will improve.

Farewell my fish.

Posted on February 18, 2013 by Estella

7 plus years ago, on our inaugural visit to Perth, HRH and I had the best grilled barramundi ever; the fish tasted of the ocean and was crisp on the outside but still moist on the inside. Since then, HRH and I have been eating the length and breadth of Australia and New Zealand, trying to find a whole cooked barramundi that equals – just equals, I’m not asking for too much – the flavour and freshness of this Perth barramundi.

So yesterday, after scoping out the area beyond Nedland’s Esplanade, we decided to go for a drive to Fremantle, in the hope we’d stumble across the same hotel or motel we stayed at all those years ago that served us the divine barramundi. It was such a long time between then and now that neither of us remembered the name of the place or where it was; only that the hotel or motel was out of the city, about 5 or 6 storeys high, white and rectangular on the outside.

“I remember it being somewhere along Caning Highway, on this side of the road,” said HRH, pointing to the left. By now, darkness had fallen.

“I remember there being no other buildings around. I had to push Amanda (then 4 months old) in her stroller two blocks downhill, past houses to get to a coffee shop for a bite.”

We drove on, following Canning Highway until we had no choice but to turn Tom Tom on and loop back via Como to the city, where we might grab some dinner.

“It can’t be here,” said HRH, taking a swift look at Tom Tom. “We’re only 4.5 km from the city. I remember it being 7 km away from the city.”

Of course, in our combined memory banks, that barramundi is still the best ever whole grilled fish we have ever eaten, and we have eaten an innumerable quantity since. Sure enough, a building very similar to the one we were looking for loomed ahead, on the left side of the road.

Eureka! We’d struck gold! We drove the car up the driveway and parking it went, “Yes, yes, yes, this IS the right place!!!”

As a bewildered Amanda shot us questions about this barramundi eaten well before her days of solid food began, we congratulated ourselves on the find. Led by our bellies, we went inside, swept past the counter, straight to the restaurant. We were going to eat this fish again, regardless of the cost.

Back in the day, the restaurant was this dimly lit, non-air-conditioned affair. We were pleasantly surprised to find it had undergone a metamorphosis since; there was now more than adequate lighting, air-conditioning, even wall-mounted flat screen TVs to entertain diners. All that remained of the restaurant we remembered was the hole in the wall by which food is taken out by wait staff. All that’s fine; we were only there for the barramundi. We couldn’t cared less if they had left the restaurant alone or painted the whole room bright pink. All we wanted was that delectably succulent barramundi.

But for a heart-stopping moment, we found it was no longer on the menu.

“We can still grill you barramundi,” assured the waitress when we told her the story.

I suppose a returning customer is still a returning customer, even if the return took 7 odd years. Restaurateurs like to know that their food is worth coming back for. So we ordered 2 grilled barramundi with chips and salad on the side for $34.90 each, noting that inflation has well and truly set in since our last visit.

We waited with bated breath for our barramundi, anticipating a glorious gastronomic reunion. What came out looked nothing like what we’d remembered it to be. How could this be? Where was the whole fish? Take all these stupid chips and salad away. We wanted a whole grilled barramundi! It was doubtless palatable, but not the sort of fish I’d spend 7 years thinking about, between thoughts of Nasi Kandar at the stall down the road from KLCC.

But in true Aussie fashion, when asked by the waitress how everything was, I smiled and said, “Lovely. Just lovely.”

Well, it wasn’t like she cooked the fish. Telling her the truth would just have hurt her feelings. Driving away from the place after dinner, HRH said, “And how did we find the motel again?”

“I think you found it.”

“How did I find it?”

“Good question. I was wondering how you’d settled on such a dingy motel.”

“I don’t remember what it looked like inside.”

“It was early 80s, worn carpet, poor lighting, 2 queen beds in a room. Very stuffy.”

“You remember because you enjoy the rooms while I have to go to work. I remember now. I booked that place because it was the cheapest then. Nowadays you don’t even look twice at such places. Now I only ever search for 5 star accomodation.”

“Like I always say, human beings must progress.”

While not everyone’s ides of progress is resort-style lodgings and Michelin-starred chef-prepared meals, most people can appreciate the need to improve in life. After all, if one is not going forward, then one is at the very least stagnating. Which probably explains why the chef who prepared the best ever barramundi is no longer working at the restaurant. If you can turn out a dish, or a song or any random piece of work that someone remembers and uses as a benchmark for all future reference, then you have surpassed yourself. That being the case, the time is ripe for you to progress on to something else. Sadly, this too means HRH and I will never eat another Barramundi like the one we had 7 years ago, ever again. If you or anyone you know knows where we can find finger-licking whole grilled barramundi in Perth, do drop me a line in the comments section on By Estella Dot Com’s facebook page or append a comment to this post.

P/s It has to be very, very, very good Barra.

Our 9-day road-trip from Brisbane to Perth (Part 4)

Posted on February 11, 2013 by Estella

Day 8

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived. Today we have to put in 8 solid hours of driving before we can stop for the night. Including lunch and toilet breaks, our trip from Eucla to Norseman will take us 10 hours. Yes, 10 hours. If I take over the wheel at any point, which is likely, to give HRH a break, it’ll take us longer.

” I sail lonely as a cloud…” A picture of the landscape leading away from Eucla towards Norseman, Western Australia.

As we move further into Western Australia, you can see how arid the land is. You know how people love to joke about eating grass? As in, “I’ll live off grass and sunshine?” Well, you’d better ditch your plans to dine on the green stuff because there is close to none of it around. The only plants that thrive in this part of the world are those that are heat and drought-resistant.

See how short the shrubs are? “That’s what happens when plants have no water,” I say to Amanda.

HRH overtakes road-trains and campervans the way he overtakes cars playing that classic car-racing arcade game. Playing against him, I’ve only ever won once, by a very slight margin. He calls out to Amanda who’s awake for once, “You see that juicy deer in front? Our tiger is going to eat that deer.”

No food for at least another 100 km. A picture of the road from Eucla to Norseman, Western Australia

“Go tiger, go!” cheers Amanda from the back, well aware that our car is the tiger and every other car in front of us is a deer.

“They should have a Chinese village here,” says HRH to me. “Then we can stop for some Chinese food.”

Can you eat any of this? Sure, if you’re a donkey!

“Sure,” I reply, somewhat amused. Yesterday, his road-driving-inspired idea was for all suicidal people to be shipped to Mars because if they are intent on ending their lives, they might as well contribute to humanity before doing so. Perhaps, suddenly having a purpose to live might make them change their minds.

“And who do you see as moving to this middle-of-nowhere Chinese village of yours?”

“People from China of course,” he says with a wry smile.

Don't the trees look interesting? As you can see, the top most foliage of every tree in the area has dried up and fallen off.

Don’t the trees look interesting? As you can see, the top most foliage of every tree over a certain height in the area has dried up and fallen off.

“And why would they want to live in the middle of nowhere, in a country where they can’t speak the local lingo, when they can always just move to China’s vast countryside? You’re forgetting that the average Chinese is a gregarious creature.”

We might moan about the traffic jams and the smog, and the noise and the price of housing and the cost of living, but given a choice between a big city and the countryside, most Chinese will choose the former. In fact, no one in my family can understand why we are undertaking this road-trip when there is absolutely no one to see for hundreds of kilometres on end!

HRH stops at a small roadside town called Baladonia to refuel the car. The price of petrol is $1.97 a litre. He pumps only enough to get us to Norseman – very many litres.

A picture of a summary of the route we are taking from Eucla to Norseman on the side of a building at Baladonia.

Why I’ll be damned! After so many hours of travelling, we still have another 191 km to go! Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, we swop seats and I drive for about an hour. It’s only my second time behind the wheel since this arduous road-trip, disguised as a “family holiday”, began but already my driving has improved. For a start, I don’t need any reminding to lift up the hand brake before taking off. HRH’s barking at me when I attempted to do that the last time has seen to that.

Oh Norseman, oh Norseman, where art thou? The endless straight road in front of me makes me think of Char Koay Teow and a nice big bowl of Chendol. Will I ever see either again or will this drive be the death of me?

Soon enough I see the outline of a vehicle, roughly 10 km ahead of mine. I am doing a steady 110 km/ph but I slow to 100 km/ph.

“What do you think you are doing?” asks HRH.

“Avoiding whatever it is in front.”

“If you can’t overtake here, where can you overtake?”

“Probably nowhere. Well, you did want me to drive. I’m not going to overtake,” I say, losing speed further. Now I’m doing 90 km/ph.

HRH shakes his head. We pass through a small town where there is a police vehicle hiding in the bushes.

“Good thing your mama is driving, Amanda,” says HRH. “If it was me, we’d have a speeding ticket.”

Afraid of overtaking, law-abiding citizen that I am, our tiger is only doing 60 km/ph at this point. I heave a sigh of relief when the vehicle ahead of me turns off into a caravan park. However it isn’t long before I come across other motorists. Wanting us to reach Norseman before nightfall, HRH gladly resumes driving once my hour is up.

Hallelujah! It' Norseman! A picture of a summary of the route we are taking from Eucla to Norseman on the side of a building at Baladonia.

Hallelujah! It’ Norseman! A picture of Norseman’s famous metal Camel sculptures.

Day 9

“Oh no. Not another 9 to 10 hours on the road,” I wail as soon as we pile into the car.

By now, even HRH is over seeing Australia’s big backyard. Since we set off at 9 am, we hope to get into Perth before sun down.

Just like the last couple of days, the road stretches on into the horizon. On either side of us is scrubland, alternating in heights and density every hundred kilometres or so. There is a huge metal pipe running parallel to the road, carrying what we were told by the innkeeper at Norseman Railway Motel, is Norseman’s supply of water, coming directly from Perth. From Norseman, the water is transported by road to towns like Baladonia.

Can you see the end? I can’t either. A picture of the road after Norseman towards Perth.

“You can tell that no vegetables will grow here,” I say, noting the hard, reddish soil.

“So now you are an expert on soil, are you?” asks HRH, teasing me.

“It’s only common sense. What farms have we seen since entering WA? You need rain to grow grass and grass to raise cattle; so no rain means, no cattle. No cattle means, no manure to fertilise crops. Even if there was manure, the ground looks just too hard to grow anything in it. Rich soil is always black in colour.”

A picture of the shrubs growing along the road to Perth, just past Norseman.

“Yes, but I’m sure you can put a Chinese village on it.”

What’s with HRH and this Chinese village? “I’m not moving there,” I say. “You can move there if you like.”

As we near Perth, the road widens to two-lanes on either side and snakes downhill. Unbeknown to us, we are travelling through the Perth Hills.

“Oh look,” HRH says excitedly to me. “Petrol is only $1.32 a litre.” And five seconds later, “Oh look. This place is even cheaper. It’s only $1.26 a litre at our good friend Gull.”

After dragging our sorry arses through the Nullabor, any servo selling petrol for less than $1.50 is our good friend.

“Oh, this one is even cheaper,” says HRH. “I’ll come here to pump. Where are we on the map?”

We are somewhere on the Eastern Freeway rolling towards the Central Business District.

“And see what big shopping centres they have!” exclaims HRH, like one of those people from his proposed Chinese village. I imagine this is what mainland Chinese say when they see Hong Kong for the first time.

“It feels like Adelaide crossed with something else,” I say.

“You and your Adelaide,” he says then accuses me of having an unjustified fixation with the capital of a state that has foul tasting water.

Thanks to Tom Tom, we find our home for the next seven days, Perth’s Fraser Suites, without any difficulty. After our many days on the road, all I plan to do is veg out.

Home sweet home. A picture of our apartment at the Fraser Suites in Perth.

Our 9-day road-trip from Brisbane to Perth (Part 3)

Posted on February 8, 2013 by Estella

Day 5

Thankfully yesterday’s mother-of-all-heatwaves has subsided and Port Augusta is a cool 19 degrees C this morning. After reloading the car (it was HRH’s bright idea to “reorganise”), we set off down the road for the famed “Nullabor Plains.”

Now, why is a 1400km stretch of arid, definitely inhospitable, land famous? I suppose if you can survive the boredom of seeing absolutely no one and nothing for hours on end, then you can lay claim to having very good mental concentration and perhaps sign up to be a pilot or a long-distance truck driver. For everyone else there’s the rugged beauty that is outback Australia.

“It’s my birthday today,” says Amanda from the back, for the umpteenth time.

“Yes, I know,” says HRH. “I’m taking you to see the desert, like I promised you.”

“Lily (Amanda’s best friend) had a disco-party. How is this better than a disco-party?”

Trust a newly turned 8 years old to ask all the right questions. There’s no hoodwinking them with promises we adults lap up every time a general election comes around.

“I’m taking you from one end of Australia to another, Amanda,” says HRH, in a tone that implies the magnitude of such an undertaking.

“How is that better?”

HRH shakes his head in disbelief. From Amanda’s viewpoint, it can hardly be better since she was made to give away many of her prized possessions – clothes, ribbons, knick knacks that little girls like collecting – leave her school and say goodbye to all her friends.

“She’s too young to appreciate this never-ending road-trip,” I say to HRH. To Amanda I say, “We’ve gone from Brisbane, the capital of Queensland, to Moree, a small country town in Queensland, to Dubbo, a small country town in the state of New South Wales, to Broken Hill, another small country town in New South Wales, to Port Augusta, where we stopped the day before yesterday, a small country town in the state of South Australia. Today, we’re off to Ceduna, a border town, still in South Australia. How many classmates of yours can say they’ve seen so many places?”

“And how many states does Australia have?”

“6 states and 2 territories. 1 Queensland can make 5 of Peninsula Malaysia. That’s how humongous a country Australia is.”

“People have died trying to find their way out of the desert,” says HRH.

A picture of the countryside outside Port Augusta, South Australia, heading towards Ceduna.

See how low the clouds hang? A picture of the road leading away from Port Augusta, South Australia.

A picture of the landscape leading away from Port Augusta, South Australia.

Did you say “melancholic”? I did too!

While we were in Port Augusta, we heard on the news of a South Australian man who’d gotten lost in the bush. Rescue police were still out looking for him when we left.

A picture of the landscape leading away from Port Augusta, South Australia.

“I once saw this programme about surviving in the wilderness and it says that a) you must build a shelter to keep yourself warm during the night b) search for a source of drinking water…You can get water from leaves by tying a plastic bag around a bunch of them in such a way as to collect the condensation, presuming you had the good sense of bringing along a clean plastic bag and a piece of string before getting lost…c) search for a way of signalling to rescuers. Apparently my lipstick is very handy. If our car should get lost out in the middle of nowhere, we stand a better chance of being spotted by rescue choppers if we use the lipstick to mark a huge X on the roof of the car.”

“I once went for this Aboriginal wilderness survival tour,” says HRH. “You can get water from these plants you see around us.”

“How?”

“I’ve forgotten. It was some 10 years ago.”

“That’s very helpful,” I say, changing the discs yet again. We can’t possibly be listening to Jay Chou another 20 times.

Soon enough we come across one of those towns that seem to exist only to extort petrol-thirsty travellers like ourselves. The price at the pump is a $1.90 a litre. Across the Nullabor, petrol prices go as high as $1.97 a litre. You can either fill up your tank or be prepared to walk until your legs fall off.

A picture of a giant bird between Port Augusta, South Australia, and Ceduna.

I know the name of this bird but have forgotten. Excuse me. I’ll let you know at a later time. A picture of a giant bird between Port Augusta, South Australia, and Ceduna.

The sign says everything: we’re half way across Australia! A picture of a shop between Port Augusta, South Australia, and Ceduna.

Amanda was in heaven seeing this. A picture of a locally mined gems in a shop between Port Augusta, South Australia, and Ceduna.

After another hour and a half on the road, we reach our accommodation for the night, the Ceduna Foreshore Hotel and Motel. Known as the “Oyster Capital of Australia”, Ceduna boasts some good fishing and correspondingly, seriously tasty seafood; HRH and Amanda have a couple of battered banana prawns and fresh scallops and I, on my new cholesterol-lowering diet have marinated octopus for tea. Allowing our stomachs an hour of rest before the onslaught of more food, we return to our hotel room to watch Spongebob Squarepants on Nicklodeon.

At dinnertime, I get a bone lodged in my throat from eating locally caught pink snapper and thus spend the next forty minutes trying to dislodge said bone by chowing down on 2 crusty bread rolls. That doesn’t work so at HRH’s advice, I have only my second coke for the last 2 years, while watching a gorgeous Ceduna sunset. Oh, and I’m still producing nose wontons.

A picture of Amanda giving me attitude in Ceduna, South Australia.

Now tell me that ain’t a beauty! A picture of a Ceduna, South Australia, sunset.

Day 6

It’s official: my nose has eloped with my make-up bag. We set off for yet another of HRH’s beloved “short drives”, this time to Eucla in Western Australia. It’s a teeny tiny dot on HRH’s travelling map, so I’m not expecting much other than a clean bed to sleep on at night.

It’s another day on the road. A picture of the road leading away from Ceduna, South Australia.

Where have all the animals gone? A picture of the landscape leading away from Ceduna, South Australia.

A picture of Amanda fast asleep at the back of the car.

I have to smell Amanda’s feet as she decides to put them up the entire way.

Almost every road-train we meet on the road West is considerate of other motorists, especially smaller vehicles like ours transporting an entire family. But along comes this guy, who you can’t see because I belatedly decided to take his picture from my side-view mirror, who tries to PUSH US OFF THE ROAD when we attempt to overtake him. Before that he’d been careering from left to right. Lucky him, I hadn’t taken down his vehicle registration number if not I’d be placing a call to the relevant road transport authority.

A picture of the road train that tried to push us off the road just outside Yatala in South Australia.

Most road-train drivers are considerate of other motorists but this one was a menace. A picture of the road train that tried to push us off the road just outside Yatala in South Australia.

Since we are still celebrating Amanda’s birthday (like the Queen, her birthday goes on for a whole week), HRH detours for us to see the Great Australian Bight. Just what is a Bight? Beats me, but you are supposed to be able to spot seals, whales, sharks and other marine life when they are in season. Whale-watching season folks, is in October and November. We are many months too early and instead, only have rugged coast to admire for the bargain price of $5 per adult. Children visit for free with one paying adult.

A picture of HRH lifting Amanda up to view marine life at the Great Australian Bight, Yatala, South Australia.

Sorry, no animals folks. They go elsewhere to spend the summer. A picture of The Great Australian Bight.

A picture of a poster about the Great Australian Bight.

This poster tells you about the marine life visible from the Great Australian Bight.

A picture of me and Amanda on a deck overlooking the Great Australia

Yes, there is no point dressing up when only absent marine life are going to see you and your runaway nose. A picture of me and Amanda on a deck overlooking the Great Australia

Yet more driving follows. We pass through the border of South Australia and Western Australia where we are stopped for a routine fruit-check. Just so you know: you are NOT allowed to bring fruit into South Australia or Western Australia, if travelling from other parts of Australia. This is to prevent fruit fly from damaging the citrus-growing industries of either state.

Once again, we arrive at our destination in time for tea. But instead of stuffing our faces with hot chips from the one and only café in Eucla, we check out the pool for houseguests and picturesque gardens, which the hotel’s restaurant looks out onto.

From our hotel room you can catch a glimpse of the sea.

It’s not the Ritz-Carlton or the Shangrila, but it is clean and comfortable. A picture of our room in Eucla, Western Australia.

You can catch a glimpse of the sea. A picture of the view from our room in Eucla, Western Australia.

A picture of father and daughter moseying down the rocky path in Eucla, Western Austra

Trying to walk to the beach; never got there as it was a lot further than what it seemed from our room window. A picture of father and daughter moseying down the rocky path in Eucla, Western Australia.

A picture of a giant whale in the kids playground at Eucla, Western Australia.

So far from civilisation. A picture of HRH and Amanda at the “Traveller’s Cross” in Eucla, Western Australia.

A picture of the swimming pool at our hotel in Eucla, Western Australia.

Can you see the sliver of sea in this photo? It’s a different blue to the sky.

A picture of the gardens at our hotel in Eucla, Western Australia.

The restaurant looks out onto this gorgeous garden. You’d appreciate the effort it takes to establish and maintain such a garden if you saw the hard, clay-like soil. A picture of the gardens at our hotel in Eucla, Western Australia.

A picture of Amanda having another plate of spaghetti bolognese in Eucla, Western Australia.

Amanda wanted spaghetti even for her birthday.

Our 9 day road-trip from Brisbane to Perth (Part 1)

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Estella

Now what would possess someone to drive 4800 km from one side of a continent as vast as Australia to another? Well, for starters there is madness and for another, it’s to show young un’s the sheer size (and it is bigger than anyone’s backyard, believe me) of Australia.

We’d been warned to take fuel and water with us but our car was crammed to the hilt with all our treasured personal belongings so there was place for neither. It was either that or one of us would have ended up sitting on the roof. No prizes for guessing who, since HRH was planning to drive and it is still illegal for children to be in the front seat of the car, let alone strapped outside to a vehicle travelling at 110 km per hour. Perhaps, as HRH pointed out, we’d be travelling along a major highway for all of the time, so worse comes to worse, we’d hail down a passing road train for help.

Day 1

We plan to set off at 10 am but due to the nature of packing up an entire household full of stuff, end up leaving at 5 pm instead. Tania, who I’ve had dinner or lunch weekly for the last 5 years, helps us to reposition some of our bags in the car so that I won’t have to ride for 4800 km with my knees tucked under my chin.

She, who knows everything there is to know about road-trips, says, “You are very brave to be doing this.”

Blowing my hundredth nose-wonton (I have the flu, for crying out loud), I say, “There is a very fine line between bravery and madness. If you were to do this 9-day, 4800 km journey, I’d call it brave. With us, it’s more likely madness.”

With that I hug Tania and bid her farewell. We set off in the fading light of Brisbane for Moree 5 hours away. Due to the lack of light and my continuous production of nose wontons, I have no pictures to show you. Suffice to say, I am suffering, wondering aloud where among all our bags I put the Codral Cold, Flu and Cough tablets. Then I remember the bag that mum packed for me, with Aerius D, a similar cocktail of time-released nasal relief. Mum also packed me panadol, something for phlegm, sanitary pads and 2 boxes of tissues, just in case I should need any of these things. Thanks Mum.

Day 2

At the insistence of HRH, I take a few snap shots of our motel. It is a brick oasis in the middle of the desert; the place even has a swimming pool, which would be great in this infernal heat, but we have no time for that as we must travel another 5.5 hours to our next destination, Dubbo. HRH, slightly sleep-deprived from me coughing up a lung for most of the night, between blowing nose-wontons, tries to cheer me up by saying the trip is “only 5.5 hours long.” Oh yippee skipee.

Our Motel in Moree, New South Wales. It cost the same as the Intercontinental Hotel in Kuala Lumpur. No, I’m serious.

Outback New South Wales, past Moree.

We drive and drive and drive some more, past hay fields, along a mostly straight road. Occasionally we come across a dead joey, being picked at by crows and the odd eagle. After what seems like hours on the road, the hay fields give way to bushes.

The road from Moree to Dubbo, New South Wales.

HRH decides to stop in a town called Mendooran to refuel the car. The town is so small, it only has the one street featuring the requisite supermarket, gas station and post office. Locals around these parts are cattle farmers. The gas station attendant informs us that our next destination, after Dubbo, is “pure nothing through the desert.”

I blow my thousandth nose-wonton despite the Aerius D.

The Mendooran post office in country New South Wales.

We arrive in Dubbo mid-afternoon but I feel like I’ve been travelling the whole day. HRH has us booked into Cattleman’s Country Motor Inn, the best accommodation there is in Dubbo. We are given a new two-bedroom apartment with tasteful modern decor.

HRH crossing the road in front of our motel in Dubbo, New South Wales.

After checking in, we go in search of food. We wind up at one of the town’s two Vietnamese eateries. The food is authentic, if substantially more expensive than what it is in Brisbane. For dinner, we opt to dine at the Cattleman’s restaurant. You can see Amanda pigging out on the first of 4 bowls of spaghetti bolognese she has throughout the trip.

Amanda at the Cattleman’s restaurant in Dubbo, New South Wales.

Day 2

We exit Dubbo straight after our 10am checkout. We have to, even though Dubbo Zoo is purportedly worth a visit, because we have another 9 hours on the road until our next stop for the day: Broken Hill.

The landscape after Dubbo, towards Broken Hill in New South Wales.

The black thing is the railroad. The landscape after Dubbo, towards Broken Hill.

2 hours into our journey, HRH says, “I was told that some people count the road kill to keep themselves entertained.”

So there goes 1 dead joey, 2 dead joeys…the alternative is dead rabbits. They road signs keep saying to watch out for suicidal kangaroos, emus and wombats, but I can see none of them around.

The road after Dubbo, towards Broken Hill.

In case you didn’t know (and I didn’t either until HRH told me) mining giant BHP gets it’s name from the area, the oldest active mine in Australia. It stands for Broken Hill Proprietary. The town is the only one we’ve ever seen with an active mine forming part of it; most mining towns conduct their activities beyond the main streets.

Our room at the Red Earth Motel in Broken Hill, New South Wales.

A civic guide to Broken Hill, New South Wales.

Advertised eateries are KFC, Macdonalds and Hungry Jacks. We locate a cafe nearby to enjoy a simple western meal.

Broken Hill, New South Wales, at dusk.

Sprinkling on the cheese. Amanda having a bowl of spaghetti bolognese in Broken Hill, New South Wales.

Food and accommodation is priced well above what you’d pay in any of the major capital cities in Australia. The town’s only Chinese restaurant does a rousing business. Locals are friendly; surprisingly many can afford to eat out on a weeknight. I don’t suppose there is much else to do. We see many families at the cafe we’re at.

By Estella

Parenting, Relationship and Lifestyle Stories for Every Person, Everywhere.

Category Archives: Relationships