Mad About Malls

Bill Bryson once wrote “Where once we created civilizations, now we create shopping malls.”

Nowhere is this more apparent than in Metro Manila, where new shopping malls seem to pop up daily, and like the Once-ler they ‘are figuring on biggering and biggering’ (Dr. Zeus, The Lorax). Creating malls seems to have become a national passtime in the Philippines, and a global mania over the last century. Yes, I am exaggerating, but only a little.The old-fashioned high street with its individual butcher, baker and candlestick maker has been replaced with increasingly enormous enclosed malls full of franchised diners, cinemas, coffee shops, bookshops, skating rinks, department stores, designer shops and bowling alleys. Indeed the mall has become as much a social and entertainment venue as a shopping centre, shut off from the bother of weather, be it either too wet, too hot or too snowy for outdoor activities. In Manila, you might even find a chapel amongst the stores, at Greenbelt, for example, where the open-air dome sits quietly in the centre of the park, encircled by no less than five malls, both indoor and outdoor.

The first shopping mall in Metro Manila was Crystal Arcade, an art deco building designed by Andres Luna de San Pedro y Pardo de Tavera and opened in 1932 on Escolta Street in mall.crystalBinondo. The first modern shopping mall arrived in Quezon City in 1976, and since then Manila seems to have gone mad for malls.
I loathe shopping, so, despite sympathizing with Mr. Brown’s sense of irony and his underlying aversion to malls, I am not totally averse to having everything I need in a one-stop mall. Get it done and get out has always been my motto. And why walk yourself into a melting puddle of perspiration dashing between street front shops, with the added bonus of choking on black jeepney fumes when you can lose yourself for days down the walkways of the ever-expanding Glorietta in Makati, the SM Megamall in Ortigas or the vast acres of SM Mall of Asia at Manila Bay instead.

One of the latest additions to the local landscape is SM Aura sm aurain Bonifacio Global City, an upmarket mall overshadowing the older, more down-to-earth Market! Market! (so good we named it twice?), with its air-conditioned market and its outdoor, covered fruit and flower market. Described on its website as being ‘at the forefront of sustainable design and energy efficiency; actively taking bold steps towards a cleaner and better environment for the future’ SM Aura truly stands out with its futuristic design. Supermalls have become an addiction for SM – or Shoe Mart – who now has almost fifty shopping malls in the Philippines, and branches in China as well. Starting out in 1958 as a simple shoe store owned by businessman Henry See, it became a chain in the 60s. By the 1970s, Shoemart had changed its name to SM with a full-line department store. The first SM supermall opened in 1985 in Quezon City. SM Malls have since become an empire.

Our own Power Plant Mall at Rockwell is one of the cozier malls in Manila, which suits me down to the ground. While the endless, winding queues and the snail-like pace of the cashiers ppmalldrives me mad, I have learned to duck down early and get everything done before business really gets started. Well, early in Filipino terms, where malls don’t open till 11am and stay open till 10pm! I guess the shoppers amongst you think I am missing the point, but it works for me. That way, I maintain my equilibrium, and some poor defenseless shop assistant doesn’t have to tolerate me grumping because I can’t handle the crush. An added bonus if you live at Rockwell: the staff provide a door-to-door delivery service, by pushing your trolley all the way home.

Dashing over to Rustan’s supermarket on a frantic Sunday, I found the mall choc-a-block with families who meet for church in the fourth floor chapel, followed by a family lunch in one of the plethora of restaurants, and maybe a trip for the ladies to Dashing Divas for a manicure.  I had left it too late again! I finally arrived with my trolley in front of a sweetly smiling cashier. Swallowing my Scrooge-like ill-humour, I reminded myself that she was only doing her job, and it was hardly her fault I don’t like crowds. We had quite a chatty, friendly exchange as she slowly sorted through my shopping. Thank you so much, I said, for once sincerely, and leaned forward to read her name tag. “Dimple.” I couldn’t have said it out loud without giggling, but I smiled all the way home.

*With thanks to Google images

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Manila Interational Schools: part I

As the expatriate community in Metro Manila continues to expand, many of the better known International Schools are bursting at the seams, waiting lists are growing longer and parents are struggling to find places for their children. So I have been exploring beyond the obvious choices and have compiled a list of international schools available to expatriate  – and local – families, talking with staff and parents as to what makes their particular school a good choice.

MGIS.5My first stop was the Mahatma Gandhi International School (MGIS) in Pasig, just round the corner from Nomads Sports Club, where I was greeted in the entrance hall by this message from Gandhi’s own lips painted on the wall: ‘In a gentle way you can shake the world.’

Despite it’s name, MGIS is not specifically an Indian school, it has quite simply been named for a wise man, recognized by the world for his high ideals and his vision of peace and universal brotherhood.

The new Headmistress. Rebecca Warren is a vibrant, intelligent, committed young English woman, boundlessly enthusiastic about developing Mahatma Gandhi in every area: curriculum, structure, staffing and facilities, not to mention expanding the student population by thirty percent.

Soon after arriving at the school, Ms Warren made a detailed analysis of the schools strengths and areas for improvement. Having gained the support of the Board for further development, she is jumping into a hefty planning schedule with glee.

MGIS currently has 138 students with a maximum capacity of about 220, from kindergarten to year 12. Even with such small numbers, the school has a full range of specialist staff with which to provide a quality and a very personal education. The children learn Mandarin from kindergarten and there are the seeds of a Stephanie Alexander style kitchen garden in the grounds.

Rebecca knows all her students, introducing them confidently as we walk the corridors. The children I chat with all agree that the smaller class sizes are great and the school has a warm, family feel to it. No pack mentality here: staff and students all interact, and parents too: a flagging PTA was revived last year with Rebecca’s full support and encouragement.

“The kids here feel happy and safe,” Ms. Warren tells me. Many senior students run lunchtime clubs for the younger students and sports teams cross year groups to build numbers for full teams. There are also many individual sports, such as  fencing, tae kwon do and archery – the archery coach is a former Olympic silver medalist.

Four percent of students with special educational needs are in the full time Learning Support Program at MGIS, and there are several more in mainstream classes, who receive extra time for dyslexia or other learning challenges.

Gayle, Australian mother of three,  enrolled all her children at MGIS in 2010. Her older son Remy is fifteen and has Downs Syndrome, and although he is high functioning and used to mainstream schools in Australia, Gayle found other international schools in Manila did not have the teachers to support special education programs for him. Advice from home was that this move would be too hard and she shouldn’t come. Gayle ignored the advice, determined to keep her family together, and went to work to find an acceptable international school that would be happy to take Remy. Purely special needs schools were not an option as Gayle wanted her children to be at the same school. Mahatma Gandhi International School ticked the boxes.

MGIS.6It hasn’t always been easy, she admitted. Her daughter found the move difficult and Gayle and her husband have had to work hard with MGIS to create a program for Remy that she feels gets the best out of him. “It has been a learning process,” she explained, “for the staff to understand our expectations.” But she feels now that they were lucky to have found MGIS. Remy loves the school, and their younger son, Cassidy, aged 10, is blissful at MGIS, and has a starring role in the school’s sports program, which Gayle feels has been wonderful for his confidence. “It doesn’t have all the bells and whistles [of larger schools],” she told me, “but it does have the benefits of a small school with international level education.” And Gayle is obviously delighted with the new Headmistress, her leadership qualities and her vision for the school.

International School Manila (ISM) is one of the best known options for expatriates in Manila, but I wanted to take a look beyond the website.

bearcat-logo-300x2863High School Principle, Bill Brown, is a friendly, assured New Zealander. Prior to his appointment at ISM, Bill spent eleven years at Jakarta International School, where he watched ISM ‘rise from the ashes’ as the school relocated from downtown Makati to a purpose built campus in the Fort in 2001. David Toze was employed as the new Superintendent about the same time as the new school opened its gates, and Bill says he has been leading huge improvements in structure and discipline ever since.

Mr. Brown describes how ISM was once perceived as a private Filipino school, and there is still a strong core of local students. This has the benefit of providing a sense of continuity that many international schools lack, where the student turnover is more fluid. This also means the local culture has a strong presence, recognized by an annual Filipiniana Day. Bill is also very aware of the positive student culture at the school, which has a good reputation for diversity and tolerance.

ISM really broadens horizons, he says. Expatriate children acquire a wider vision of the world by default, but he feels ISM takes this global vision to new heights. With more than 70 nationalities amongst the students and faculty (with names I can’t even pronounce, like Kyrgyz Republic) he believes there is true international-mindedness amongst both staff and students.

His wife Rena O’Regan, parent and teacher at ISM for seven years, agrees.  “Our kids grow up as real international kids,” she says.  Also, as so many are used to moving home regularly, she has noticed that the students here recognize how hard it can be to resettle, and seem much more accepting of differences in each other.

But the thing she loves best about ISM is that it’s cool to be sporty and smart, which is a completely different cultural ethos to many schools in Australia and New Zealand. “One of the Varsity rugby players even plays the cello” she says.

‘At ISM there are opportunities and encouragement for the kids to excel in whatever interests them,’ Bill adds. And the list of extra-curricular activities are impressive: a full sports program, robotics, film, United Nations, dance and drama. There is even talk of developing an on-line chess tournament.

Mr. Brown says that initially he planned to stay at ISM for three to four years, but ‘we saw no reason to move.’ As a parent and Headmaster, Bill is very proud of the high quality of education at ISM, which he describes as outstanding, and ‘a world class facility.’

Suzi moved to the Philippines from Sydney at the beginning of the 2013-14 school year, and enrolled all her four daughters at ISM. She says she ‘couldn’t be happier’ with the school, and the girls have generally settled in well. ‘The school community has been so welcoming and informative,’ she enthuses, although she admits that the resulting numbers of emails with four children at the school can get a bit overwhelming. That aside, she is happy with all aspects of the school, especially the extensive extra curriculum options – although as the mother of four girls she has noticed that they need more dance classes. But they are also enjoying the opportunity to explore new things, she adds.

Suzi also likes the school’s community service program. A first visit to a local orphanage proved a little confronting, but she is pleased that the girls get exposed to poverty far more than would have been the case in Australia. There, schools raised money for various charities, but the kids never saw where that money ended up. here it is a real hands-on approach.

resizepic.phpThe King’s School, Manila is part of the British Schools Foundation, a network of international schools that promotes high quality British-style education from Brazil to Burma. It is the new kid on the block in Manila, but it already has a reputation for high quality, exclusive education, and they are so far filling the classrooms just by word-of-mouth.

Peter Lindsay has been Headmaster here for twelve months. A quietly spoken New Zealander, he has spent time teaching in the UK and is therefore familiar with the British system of education. I asked him what attracts families to Kings. “We are relaxed, and we have high expectations of the children’s behaviour,” he told me. When I query this apparent oxymoron, he explained that children need to know the boundaries, and then they are able to relax within the security of those boundaries.

Mr Lindsay doesn’t believe kids wake up intending to be badly behaved, they just get bored. He claims that between Kings discipline, interesting study programs and high expectations of the children, they have very few issues with bad behaviour as there is neither the time nor the inclination to be bored and misbehave.

Parents and children love the intimate class sizes and the ratio of teachers to students. Classes average fifteen children to two adults, and if the year groups grow much larger than this, the class is split in two. At the moment there are just over 90 kids from Kindergarten to year 7, and each year they will add a grade until the current year 7s make it through to A levels. And there is plenty of room for this expansion.

“We don’t try to compete with the larger international schools,” the Headmaster explained, “just with ourselves.”

I arrived on the last day of term to find Sports Day in full swing. Parents had gathered beneath a marquee on the side of the playing field, and the kids were having a 4-team tug of war. Excitement was high – and loud.

“Parents are always welcome here,” Peter tells me. The school even has an online portal where teachers can communicate with parents on a daily basis – a kind of class Facebook page. “There is lots of communication,” he says.

School events for the whole family are frequent, and always include food. Like our Filipino hosts, Mr Lindsay  firmly believes that eating together builds community. Watching the interaction between staff, parents and kids on Sports Day, it would seem Kings already has a strong sense of community.

British mum, Jo, is really pleased with the decision to send Rory and Esme to Kings. She feels that the kids settled much more easily into smaller classes – a serious consideration for one small four year old who was initially very distressed about moving from the UK.

Kings ‘has a lovely family feel’ she tells me ‘and it’s not overwhelming for the parents or the kids.’ She also believes that Kings provide a great quality education: ‘better than they would get at home.’ Any problems they anticipated were never realized, and they have found it a surprisingly easy transition. Even the journey from Makati has not proved too problematic, as they can travel to and from school in just 20-30 minutes. And ‘the school bus system seems really good too.’

Jo loves the benefits that come with smaller classes, and the interaction that occurs between the different ages in sport, in the classroom and in the canteen. ‘The whole school was involved in the school play,’ she says, ‘they loved it!’

*Adapted from an article written for ANZA News, March/April 2014. With thanks to Google for the images.

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Indonesian Dining

Jakarta 181So there we were in Jakarta, hot, hoarse and exhausted after hours of cheering for the Athletics teams at the International School, in desperate need of sustenance and somewhere to celebrate our host’s birthday. Where else would we go but to the restaurant touted as ‘one of the best Indonesian restaurants in Jakarta?’

The Lara Djonggrang restaurant is named for a legendary Javanese Princess, who was immortalized by the gods after her father’s murderer turned her to stone, furious when the beautiful princess rejected his advances.

It was dark when we pulled up in front of a large house that was set back from the road in the shade of a huge and ancient banyan tree that had been strung with welcoming blue and green lanterns. The courtyard entrance was full of Hindu statuary reflecting a time in centuries past when Java was ruled by Hindu kings.

Weaving together history, legend and culinary splendour, this upmarket and gracious restaurant dwells in an historic Indonesian house decorated with genuine antiques, artwork Jakarta 193and statuary from all over Asia. As soon as we stepped out of the taxi it was like stepping into another world, or taking a journey back in time, far from the hue and cry of central Jakarta. There was an almost palpable sense of mystery and mysticism, as we wandered through the maze of lamplit rooms, atriums and gardens, each creating a different atmosphere. Through the air swam the hypnotic scent of musky incense. The artwork on the walls and the looming statues were eye-catching, often leering alarmingly and unexpectedly through the shadows. There was no loud music, and dinner table conversations were muted to match the peaceful serenity. It felt as if we were rambling through someone’s private home, with its vast art collection reminiscent of Jim Thompson’s house in Bangkok.

We were led to one of only two tables in a private room, and assigned a waitress who was happy to answer our questions and proffer advice. A large green leaf lay on the table cloth and welcomed us with the message “selamat datang” painted across it in white. Drinks arrive promptly. The menu was extensive – and heavy! I soon gave up trying to lift it and cheerfully left the ordering  to my companions, apart from a request for that popular favourite beef rendang served on a banana leaf, moist, rich and mouth-wateringly delicious.

At the Lara Djonggrang the chefs serve Imperial Indonesian cuisine. Each dish is carefully researched to reflect both the long history of Indonesian cuisine and the ninth century culinary expertise of the imperial kitchen staff of the Majapahit ruler Hayam Wuruk, who would accompany him on long processions across his kingdom.  The legend of Lara Djonggrang is reflected in the story of Hayam Wuruk and his betrothed, Sundanese princess Citra Rashmi, who committed suicide after Majapahit troops decimated the Sundanese royal wedding party as it arrived in Jakarta.

The menu contained a whole page of soups, intimately described: a bouquet of tempting flavours and spices. But we Jakarta 151wanted to share the feast, and soup can get a bit messy to share, especially when I am involved, so we moved on swiftly to the appetizers. If you are used to placid Filipino flavours, be prepared for a shock. Indonesian food can be fiercely hot. The sambal (chilli sauce) we chose – on the recommendation of our helpful waitress – was accompanied by a basket of woven prawn crackers, spicy-hot enough to ignite your taste buds and send them to the moon and back. Gratifyingly moreish, if somewhat death-defying.

I did select one other dish – otak-otak ikan assam pedas – just because I liked the name. Sadly, despite the poetic turn of phrase, this turned out to be a rather lacklustre bowl of bite-sized fish cakes steamed in banana leaves, then fried in egg batter and served with a hot and sour sauce that tasted much the same as the deep-fried shrimp balls.

Then the culinary artistry kicked in. Our rice arrived, as individual serves, moulded into the shape of an elephant’s head with the trunk up for luck, while crunchy lumpia tanu (tofu spring rolls) lay, sunbathing in a clam shell, served withJakarta 175 a zesty sweet ‘n’ sour chilli sauce. The red curry prawns (grilled individually, then inserted into a lemongrass stalk), were presented in a conch shell to look like a giant hermit crab. The tenderloin satays were marinated in caramel, tender and hot, presented on a mini grill and accompanied by the inviting aroma of the marinade dripping onto the hot coals. Less artistic, but appetizing  nonethless, was a bowl of soupy greens, spiced up by the stop-light red of whole chillis.

Our birthday banquet was perhaps more a feast for the eyes than the taste buds, as unfortunately the chefs seemed to have the same penchant for  cooking with aged palm oil as their Filipino counterparts, but then I would also thoroughly recommend taking your time to order and seeking advice from the staff for a higher success rate. We were hungry, and we rushed. We loved it, anyway, for the great service and the glorious setting, especially when visiting from a city of shopping mall franchises and standardized modern decor. And I must admit, none of us went home hungry!

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An Arctic Anniversary

We had an anniversary recently, and sadly it was a bit of a fizzle, as I wasn’t feeling well and pretty much slept through it. So I am going to reminisce about a past anniversary instead, somewhere cool, as the temperatures in Makati trudge up into the mid-30s and the humidity weighs down  on weary heads. Although the sunrises have been glorious, an almost unearthly orange through the gentle pall of pollution.

Far from the heat and the hue and cry of Manila, I once discovered the perfect place for an anniversary dinner. Imagine a secluded English country hotel; a cloistered avenue of tables for two, set far enough apart to allow a little privacy; arched windows overlooking rolling hills, woodland and fields; candlelight, deep pile carpets and heavy wooden furnishings that encouraged voices to stay hushed and Exteriorsensuous; an open fire you could roast a pig on; a menu so tempting I wanted to try everything on it, and of course a delectable selection of wines.

Nutfield Priory Hotel is a Victorian manor house in Redhill, Surrey – apparently inspired by the Neo-Gothic design of that Palace of Westminster that is no longer inhabited by princes, but by politicians. It is built on 12 acres high on a ridge overlooking the fields and woodlands of the Surrey and Sussex countryside.

Normally overdressed, overheated, and glowing like a good Shiraz before we reached the entrees, I had for once thought to bring a light evening dress and a thin wrap. We were staying for the weekend, and had arrived early so we could avail ourselves of the Spring gardens and still have time to make the most of the luxurious bathroom, away from the invasive interest of small children. My One & Only had ordered the champagne and brought me scented bubble bath as well.  The perfect setting for a romantic anniversary escape…

…but the curtain rose on quiet mayhem. The central heating had broken down earlier that day, and nobody had thought to warn us. Imagining the hot water would eventually kick in, I ended up washing my hair under an icy waterfall, before reception finally acknowledged there was a problem with the heating and the hot water they could do nothing about ‘at present’.

The Cloisters Restaurant offers delicious modern British Gibson Roomcuisine, but unfortunately the dining room was almost as icy as the water – especially in my summer frock and still shivering from the shower. By the time we reached dessert, my lips were blue and my teeth clenched to stop them chattering. “Could we perhaps do coffee in the lounge in front of the lovely big fire I had noticed when we came in?”  I asked desperately. “Certainly!” smiled our lovely attentive waitress. But oh dear, the fire had died down and was sulkily smouldering, and the draught from the corridor was arctic. My jaw was aching, my back cramped, I had had enough. I wrapped myself in a thick hotel bathrobe, feather duvet and blankets and hibernated till morning like a grumpy badger.

So there you have it: the beautiful promise of romance and luxury spoiled by a simple power cut. Just my luck! The hotel was sumptuous, the dining room main roombeautiful, the food quite superb, and the service excellent – except for the part where they failed to warn us about the cold.  It was a shame, because it is a real gem in the right temperature, and I really hope to visit again some day, with greater success.

My tip? Don’t get married in Northern Europe until at least May, and always remember to take warm pyjamas, just in case. And definitely give this glorious hotel a chance… on a warmer night!

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Easter: More Fun in the Philippines

[wallcoo.com]_Easter_wallpaper_1280x1024_1280Easter001As a Protestant child growing up in Australia, I remember Easter as a fairly dull affair. The shops were shut for days, friends went away, and my mother always insisted we went to Church on Easter Day, so she had time to prepare lunch without a gaggle of kids underfoot – and of course to give the Easter bunny time to drop by and hide our Easter eggs in the garden. Hunting for eggs was fun, but Church was never wildly exciting for a bunch of rowdy kids, although we enjoyed belting out the Easter hymns at the tops of our voices.

In the Philippines, on the other hand, Holy Week is a frenzy of colour and celebration. Like all Filipino fiestas, food and drink, dance, music and prayer play equal parts. Many communities hold processions, pilgrimages, and passion plays, and stage crucifixions. While some say these religious traditions are fading, you can still discover a variety of events around Metro Manila and beyond.

Holy Week is possibly the most significant religious holiday for Christians in the Philippines, as Christmas loses the race to commercialism. Metro Manila empties as if by magic, as hundreds of thousands of workers head home to the provinces and local Manilanos head to the beaches. Roads to the airport are blocked with traffic jams that have become infamous, and those on the runway are worse. But the holiday mood is catching, and Filipino patience is notorious.

Apart from tiny East Timor, the Philippines is the only Christian nation in Asia and the majority of Filipinos – approximately 80% – are Roman Catholic, converted by almost three and a half centuries of Spanish rule who, after forcefully purging the Iberian Peninsula of Jews and Muslims, saw itself as the bulwark of Catholic purity, and came to save these remote islanders with Christianity.

Apparently the Filipinos showed an initial reluctance to accept this strange new religion, but were gradually won over by the more festive side of Catholicism. Cheerfully blending their original traditions and beliefs with those colourful rituals of the Catholic church they have taken it to their hearts and made it their own. Five hundred years later – and even after a century of American secularism – most Filipinos still have a strong and visible faith in Christian doctrine and values, that is nowhere more apparent than in their enthusiasm for Holy Week.

Holy Week begins on Palm Sunday, when parishioners bring palm fronds to the church to be blessed by the priests, before hanging them from doors and windows at home to ward off evil spirits.

Holy Wednesday (Miyérkules Santo) is the night of the Passion of Christ, the first procession for Holy Week. This is followed by Maundy Thursday and the Chrism Mass, in which parishioners join their parish priest for morning Mass in the Cathedral, and the various holy oils are blessed.

The Mass of the Institution of the Lord’s Supper is the last Mass before Easter. It includes a re-enactment of the washing of the apostles feet, and is followed by the procession of the Blessed Sacrement which is then placed on the Altar of Repose

The highlight of Good Friday is the procession of the Santo Entierro, a supine image of Christ’s body on a calandra or bier that processes though the town, followed by a retinue of ‘saints.’   Beware the traffic jams as a result of these lengthy processions. It once took us six hours to get back from station14-600x450Tagaytay, as the traffic tried to squeeze past the multitude of saints processing up the hill. To avoid a similar occurence this year, we stayed put in Manila, only wandering as far as the Fort to find dinner on Friday night, only to find High Street choc-a-block with locals, and they weren’t just looking for food. This holy week, Church Simplified mounted its sixth installation of the Stations of the Cross, an interactive art exhibit in the centre of High Street that attracted thousands.

Holy Saturday or Black Saturday is also a day of solemnity, ending in the Easter Vigil, celebrated into the night.

In contrast, Easter morning, or Paskò, is a joyous celebration. In Parañaque, for example, parishioners re-enact the reunion of Christ and his mother Mary after the Resurrection, at the dawn ceremony of Salubong. The Virgin Mary is dressed in black to symbolize the loss of her son. A girl dressed as an angel stands on a scaffold or is suspended in mid-air to sing the Regina Coeli, before dramatically removing the black veil to signify the end of Mary’s grieving. Balloons or doves are then released into the dawn sky. The Virgin, now ‘Our Lady of Joy’ is showered in confetti and flower petals accompanied by pealing bells and fireworks, and followed by the Easter Mass. After mass, locals dance the bati-bati, an original  Parañaque welcome dance.

Highlights of Holy Week include:

The procession of the Black Nazarene occurs every Good Friday in Quaipo.  This large wooden statue of a black Jesus was sculptured in Mexico during the era of the Galleon Trade, and landed miraculously on the beach at Manila Bay after a storm. The statue is carried through the narrow streets of Quaipo on the shoulders of male devotees, as thousands will try to touch the Nazarene for luck. It can get extremely crowded, but it is worth watching.

easter.2Still the most renowned Easter events, reported in news articles all over the world, are the various voluntary crucifixions, extreme displays of religious devotion by penitents.  While the ritual is frowned on by church authorities, it still attracts thousands of tourists as devotees carry wooden crosses through town, before having nails driven though their hands and feet in remembrance of Christ’s final sacrifice. Meanwhile, others recreate the mediaeval practice of self-flagellation, to scourge away sins.  These penitents strip from the waist up and walk barefoot, whipping themselves with ropes and broken pieces of glass attached with strings to bamboo sticks until the blood flows. It sounds a little gory for me, but apparently it’s a memorable experience! I may just stick to the streets of
Parañaque and see if I can find the dancers – as I have had no luck finding Easter eggs!

*Adapted from a article written for the April issue of Inklings and with thanks to Google images.

 

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Just Another Manic Monday at TNK

a1 053Another Monday morning in Manila, and a group of regular volunteers is en route to Tulay Ng Kabataan, a home for street kids, armed with crafts and books and merienda.  We arrive to the usual excited welcomes and so many kids that the small courtyard is bursting at the seams. Our usual bundle of boys, which has grown as graduation approaches, has been expanded further by a lovely group of girls from the neighbouring girls home, and a few of the older, carpentry boys have also showed up for the morning. The neat and orderly lines that Teacher Neil had organized dissolve as we walk in and they all come rushing to greet us –  heart warming moments of hugs and “mano po” (your hand please, Sir/Ma’am), that purely Filipino gesture of pressing the back of  an adult’s right hand to the forehead as a sign of respect to an older person, or acceptance of a blessing from a priest.

Ma’am Hema calmly restores order with a long session of clapping rhythms and patterns, which always seems to work magic, settling the kids down and getting them to focus on the morning’s activities. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly even the smallest children pick up the routine and eagerly join in, standing in neat rows across the courtyard in order of size, the tiny kids turning to watch the older ones, or clambering up the steps and into our laps for extra cuddles.

This is followed by a singing session: a few old favourites from popular musicals and Play School (will they never grow tired of the frog song?) and I throw in a new one my own kids used to love, about a rainy morning and big umbrellas. They pick up the actions and echo the words and, after only two rounds, most of them have the hang of it. We also have a go at playing ‘Simple Simon’ at which they prove far too skilled, and we struggle to trip them up. When we occasionally manage to catch out the odd one or two, they all dissolve into giggles.

Exercises and stretching follow and then we split the group into juniors and seniors. Hema is having fun creating origami with the older kids in the upstairs classroom, and when I pop up to see how they are getting on, all of them are totally engaged and determined to get it right. They have even written down some instructions and background information in their notebooks, and proudly show me what they have achieved.

Downstairs, a larger bunch of rowdy smalls squeeze into the narrow desks, and we begin with story time. They  quieten down quickly as Elise reads to them in Tagalog.

While she keeps them rapt in the story, I chat with Teacher Neil about how such a big group is working. He says the addition of the girls has been a great success. The boys really miss them when they aren’t there, and get very somber and solemn. The older group has been having all sorts of challenging conversations about life experiences on the streets, sexuality and emotions, which he says is fantastic, and all part of their greater education. He agrees it is good to know they feel safe enough to discuss these things together, as there is little other opportunity in their lives for such in-depth talks.

Story time at an end, we hand around the colouring-in sheets, watching and helping as necessary  as the kids, large and small, manage the dot-to-dot with alacrity and then set about colouring the pictures with quiet enthusiasm, after some initial squabbling over the crayons. This week we have brought a couple of pictures, one slightly less complicated for the Littlies. Angelica, one of the smaller girls prefers to create her own scribbles on the back, and even tiny Matthew gives it a try for a while, mostly in heavy black crayon. By the end of the session we have cellotaped a lovely display of bright artwork to the blackboard, and a lot of them have moved on to round two, eager to try out both pictures, reassigning colours and clutching their favourites to their chests.

Merienda, biscuits, milk and bananas, is ready and waiting when they are done and we urge them to line up and file in neatly, the older kids leading them in a prayer, before we wave goodbye till next week.

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“I’ve Been to Bali Too!”

Bali.4In the Redgum song of my youth, Bali was a land of monkeys and mercurochrome, Bali belly and mozzie coils. Kuta Beach was full of surfers and Ubud was a hippy haven in the hills.

My first trip to Bali, however, was spent in the lap of luxury, swanning around in a five star villa near Canggu, with no call for mercurochrome, only a brief sighting of those overfed monkeys (and let’s not mention Bali Belly), but with thanks to the generosity of a dear friend who was celebrating her fiftieth birthday in real style.

I knew very little about Bali before I arrived, other than the song, but I can tell you that this popular and predominantly green island off Java is a ninety minute flight from Jakarta. It is approximately 95 miles long by 70 miles wide. Predominantly Hindu, Bali has a population of more than 4 million, and I guess that doesn’t count the deluge of tourists that have been pouring through the Denpasar airport for decades.

My destination was not a hostel full of backpackers, nor a beach-side resort, but Villa the Sanctuary,  a small slice of heaven tucked away down winding lanes, between village temples and camoflagued amongst the trees. It is, undoubtedly, the most luxurious place I have ever laid my hat, and I enjoyed every glorious moment.

Situated on a steep two hectare property, a river gushes effusively at the bottom of the hill, winding its way round lush lawns and between leafy trees. Stone steps lead down to the dining pavilion with its high peaked ceiling and its vast, polished, teak dining table, down and down again to the narrow eternity pool and the games room with billiard table and bar, across manicured lawns to a thatched bale for a peaceful, post-prandial massage as the river burbles away below.

Several opulent villas are scattered across a property that can accommodate up to thirty five people, including a bunkhouse for twenty kids. With only seven of us in residence, there was enough space for everyone, without any sense of overcrowding.

My villa sat high above the river, the stately four poster bedBali.5 (2) wrapped in a sheer mosquito net, so that I could lie, safe from insects, and listen to the river rushing past the window and watch the leaves quivering outside the eight foot windows. It was like camping in a luxury tree house.

There was water everywhere: river; moats; ponds; pool; waterfalls trickling gently in the background; a sudden downpour from heavy clouds that battered the surface of the pool, as the landlubbers scuttled for cover and the bathers revelled.

Wine and cocktails flowed like the rain, and hilarity was constant, apart from the quiet times, when the heat drove us home, heavy and sleepy, for a nap amongst a mountain of pillows, gentle aircon breathing a cooling breeze across hot shoulders.

Then there would be show-and-tell in the pavilion, amidst shrieks of childlike enthusiasm over successful shopping trips to Ubud for lamps and shoes and quilts and dresses, and prayers that suitcases would miraculously expand like Mary Poppins carpet bag. Friendly staff brought snacks of nasi goreng or hot chips and pecel sauce (spicy satay sauce) to top us up until dinner time, and we all looked forward to trying the local speciality: babi guling, or roast suckling pig. 

When the evening closed in on party night, candles and lamps were lit, while bowls of hot coals threw fiery reflections across the surface of the pool.  A huge feast – enough to Bali.2feed half the island – kept us all quiet for a while, as satays and steak, prawns and salads were piled high on groaning plates. Later, as the music was cranked up – a playlists of Australian anthems and hits of the 70s and 80s – frogs, crickets and geckos set up an alternative orchestra, and well-oiled guests added to the chorus. I won’t say we danced till dawn – well, let’s face it, none of us is seventeen – but it was a party night and the cocktails seemed bottomless.

On our last night Marcel drove us down the road through acres of terraced rice fields to a resort on the edge of the sea, where we floated across the golf course, twirling like Julie Andrews at the opening to Sound Of Music, to watch the sun set softly into the waves, casting its final pink and gold beams on Tanah Lot Temple perched on a rocky outcrop beside the sea. A fitting finale to a wonderful weekend.

 

 

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Of Country Clubs and Cucumber Sandwiches

Hanbury.1Hanbury Manor, Hertfordshire, once the home of English landed gentry, then a boarding school, it has entered the 21st century as a Marriott hotel and country club. Only a few miles north of Hertford, Hanbury Manor is a magnificent chapter of English baronial history set amongst huge blue cedars, manicureded lawns and wooded slopes now iced with daffodils.

The first house here was built in the 16th century by Reginald Pole, the last Catholic Archbishop of Canterbury. By the end of the 18th century, the house had been bought by brewer Samson Hanbury, and was handed down through the family for several generations until 1890, when the rambling, almost uninhabitable manor house on 2000 acres, was replaced with a red brick Jacobean style country house, the first house in the area to boast both electricity and central heating, at the debilitating cost of £30,000.

A service wing and stables were added in 1913, by which time the estate had shrunk to 100 acres thanks to the crippling costs of rebuilding. It was sold privately a year later, and sold on again in 1923 to be converted into a girls convent school, with the addition, a decade later, of a gym, classrooms, dormitories, a tower, and a new chapel. The school closed in 1986 and has since been redeveloped as a 5-star hotel and country club.

So what better place to spend a blustery March afternoon thanTea.3 sitting at a table, burrowing into deep armchairs set in front of tall mullioned windows that overlooked a broad sweep of carpet-like lawn, sipping Darjeeling tea and nibbling at cucumber sandwiches and warm scones?

Oak Hall is just that: a long, oak lined drawing room, where the curtains hang thick and heavy, well-lined to keep out the cold. The chandeliers float like aerial croquembouche, casting shadowy light on the vast green tapestries that wallpaper the upper half of the long back wall, and two elegantly carved wooden griffins stand like sentries beside a large stone fireplace the colour of honeycomb. With inexplicable country house mystery, the carpet is a garish, clashing mash of colours and swirling patterns that would make any hangover increase a hundred-fold, but it’s effect is blunted by a large and eclectic collection of armchairs, leather sofas and solid coffee tables.

Having absorbed the setting, we settled in to enjoy the afternoon, beginning with an extravagant glass of Moët et Chandon, one pink, one brut, as we awaited the arrival of afternoon tea. For a few minutes at least we sat stiff and ladylike, but we soon found our tartan covered armchairs a little deep for poise and leaned back luxuriously into the cushions.

Tea.2Our tiered plate eventually arrived – no rush, we were taking our time – laden with an attractive assortment of goodies: a bottom layer of neatly aligned sandwiches, the middle layer holding four warm scones swaddled in a white linen napkin, the top layer boasting a small assortment of decadent little cakes.

All the traditional sandwiches were in evidence: salmon and cream cheese on wholemeal bread; cucumber on white bread; thickly spread egg and chives, and fresh ham and Dijon mustard on walnut bread, all neatly clipped of their crusts, and scattered with delicate green pea shoots.

The scones, two plain, two with sultanas, came with homemade jam and a small pot of clotted cream, and I jumped on them eagerly while they were still warm.

I was happy to hand over the lion’s share of amuse bouche to my friend of the sweeter tooth, but I nonetheless watched with interestTea.1 as she tasted a lemon cupcake topped with raspberry cream; a miniature lemon meringue pie; a dark chocolate teacup filled with white chocolate mousse and sprinkled in toasted almonds (I admit, I dipped a finger into that one), a fruit cup made of waffle cone lined with dark chocolate; a choux pastry filled with cream and luscious fresh raspberries and a two slices of light fruit cake filled with candied fruits and raisins. Not surprisingly, she was hard pushed to finish them all, so our maître d’ kindly boxes up the remainder for our teenagers.

Then, replete with good things, we took a walk through the grounds, dotted with blue cedars, including the grande dame of the tree world spreading her full skirts like a ballerina in the Daffodils.3middle of the manicured front lawn. We sauntered past the golf course and found our way through a damp copse to a large walled garden to the right of the house, a regular destination for brides, and looking positively bridal itself on this crisp spring afternoon with its rows of fruit trees sprinkling pink and white blossom on the ground like confetti. We admired a clutch of stone statues, roman ladies with arms filled with blossom, leaves or moss, depending on their position, and of course the flowerbeds were boasting the ubiquitous bouquets of daffodils, primulas and we gratefully made it back to the car before another hailstorm…

*With thanks to the gorgeous Helen for her equally gorgeous photos.

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Shanghai Nights

DSC_5105Tickets had sold out before Christmas – an unprecedented occurence even for an event as popular as the ANZA Ball, and it was obvious on the night that everyone had high expectations of a great evening’s entertainment.

As usual, everyone threw themselves wholeheartedly into the fun of dressing up to the theme. As we arrived at the top of the staircase, the ceiling was bedecked in Chinese lanterns, while the foyer buzzed with women in brightly colored cheongsam –  those stylish, tight-fitting satin dresses made fashionable by the upper class socialites of Shangai’s glory days in the 1920s – and the fellas looked equally smart, either in dinner jackets or changshan, the long Chinese silk embroidered jackets for men. But who was the Scot in a kilt..?

Welcome drinks set the tone for a happy night, and we were  summoned to the ballroom by the sound of a huge gong struck by our Australian Ambassador to announce the opening of the Ball. The walls of the Ballroom were decorated with large Chinese gobos and we were entertained by a talented troop of teenage dancers from the Philippine Ling Nam Athletic Association playing cymbals and drums or costumed as either  shaggy lions, laughing Buddhas or as part of a seventy foot Chinese dragon, .

Past President Bonnie Beach, heavily disguised as Dr. Sum Ting Wong, and our ANZA News editor Kathryn Foster as the elusive DSC_0026Madam X – and looking most elegant in an azure cheongsam, I might add later took centre stage as Masters of Ceremonies. (And rumour has it our dear editor was very pleased to be allowed to wear a pretty dress this year, rather than last year’s elf costume!)

Thanks must go to Kings School for their generous sponsorship, and to all those who so kindly donated to the raffle and silent auction prizes, with which ANZA was able to raise thousands of pesos for ECPAT Philippines, a non-government organization that supports victims of child trafficking. A short film about the organization had everyone gasping at the frightening figures on child prostitution in Asia. It was a sharp dose of reality to skew the focus of an otherwise glamorous evening, and remind us all of how incredibly lucky we are.

Local band Authority returned for a hat-trick, and had everyone up on the dance floor like greased lightning when they opened with a Midnight Oil cover song, “Beds are Burning.” Other Aussie hits were interspersed with international favourites and, given the opportunity, we would have danced all night…

DSC_0006The New World staff provided great service, and the meal lived up to last year’s delicious offering. The cream of mushroom soup was piping hot when it reached the table –  surely a first in event catering?  – and I loved my steak with ube mash. The pan-fried salmon looked equally tasty, but I was very sorry not to finish a rather scrumptious-looking dessert before the music called us to the dance floor, as it had vanished by the time I returned. I would only recommend, for the sake of our poor heads, that next year they keep full jugs of water on the table throughout the evening – and leave the local rhum locked in the cupboard.

So, I would like to raise a glass to the Ball Committee for their usual 200% effort to make the Ball quite perfect,  and I think I can safely say I am not the only one already looking forward to next year!

* ANZA = Australia New Zealand Association.         Adapted from an article first published in ANZA News, March 2014.

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Va Bene

panacotta cakeVa Bene has been a firm favourite with our family for some time, despite its rather quirky location above the Petron petrol station on EDSA outside the gates to Dasmarinas, so it was our first choice for a birthday dinner this week. Italian? Good guess! Since it first opened, the owners have spent some extra pesos on the décor, which used to whisper school canteen with its tiny tinny tables and plastic chairs, but it is now looking much cosier and attractive, with padded benches along the side wall and a selection of wooden tables and chairs. And strangely, the odd location works, as somewhere a bit different from the endless Makati malls and chain restaurants.

One wall is painted in my favourite burnt orange and the other va bene restois a wall of bookshelves, filled with recipe books, olive oils and bags of pasta. There is a glass wall into the kitchen, filled with bags of flour, but with a small space to watch the preparation of the handmade pasta.

Service here has always been a bit hit-and-miss, but we are learning to either go with the flow, or speak up and ask for meals to be served at the same time. Admittedly it doesn’t always work, but I guess it’s worth a try! There was certainly no problem with providing an extra serve of the complementary and very moreish tomato and basil bruschetta, extra bread or BYO wine, as we discussed – at length – the options for dinner.

fois grasA long list of desirable appetizers was eventually whittled down to a generous salami and cheese platter with pickled vegetables and the irresistible pan roasted foie gras with portobello raviolo and onion marmalade, both designated for two, and one dish from the specials menu: a creatively different deconstructed salad of asparagus, proscuitto and ricotta cheese. They came out in no particular order, but kept us nibbling happily through a glass or two of a heavenly Clare Valley rosé.

We didn’t make any decisions about the main course until the appetizers were cleared away, but then there was a general lean towards red meat: polpette (four fat pork meatballs in a bath of va bene 226tomato and ricotta cheese sauce); a single, larger-than-life  shredded chicken and egg yolk raviolo with braised veal cheek (no.1 son is still smiling), and papardelle (those amazing broad ribbons of pasta) with braised lamb shank in a sauce of black olives, sundried tomatoes and pecorino cheese, all three incredibly rich, luscious dishes, and we have no plans to eat for at least another week.

And yet we still found room for dessert. The boys shared Va Bene’s infamous profiteroles, filled with chocolate cream and served with icecream and chocolate sauce. (I am proud to say the chockie sauce wasn’t-as-good-as-Mum’s, but that didn’t stop them scraping the pattern off the plate.)  I allowed myself the birthday indulgence of a tea cup of panacotta blanketed in diced mango, a lovely balance of smooth, soft, sweet creaminess, and an edgy splash of tart mango.

Only towards the end of the evening did the staff cotton on that profiterolesit was my birthday. (I expect the mountain of torn wrapping paper gave it away. My One & Only had chosen to go with volume, and had wrapped every gift individually, including my favourite mint slices and boxes of exotic tea!) As a gift from the staff I was offered a nostalgic shot of kahlua and vodka to round off the evening, and departed, like the Queen, past a line of waiters waving us farewell.

Va Bene is a family owned business, the baby of Chef Massimo Veronesi and his wife Carolyn. Chef Massimo has apparently worked at the Manila Peninsula in Mi Piace, as well as in Naples, Dubai and Florida. Unfortunately, for all the times we have eaten there, I have never clapped eyes on either Chef Massimo or his wife. Well, there is always next time… next week..? Tomorrow..?

* With thanks to all my boys for a wonderful birthday, and for their photographic skills. And to Google images for the snap of my burnt orange wall.

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