We always go with Dad’s two friends, Uncle Phuoc (yes, quite an unfortunate name) and Uncle Son, for out-of-Sydney trips a couple of times a year. It has been such a tradition for almost since we moved interstate. Quaint CB radios provided endless hours of entertainment throughout otherwise insipid car rides:

Typically the men go fishing in the evening while the women stay back in the cottages to prepare dinner and care for the children. The men return tired and heaving, with fish still flailing about in their buckets. The women take care of the rest, and before you know it, everyone gets nice and hot canh chua (Vietnamese tom yum soup) to eat!

The men never acquiesce this, but the women do most of the work on such trips. Sometimes they return downcast — which even the little boys know means “no fish” — but the women always have a back up plan. On numerous occasions this has included a congeries of items such as rice congee, pork floss, Indomie Mi Goreng and even dried fish.

Whatever we eat, each family always brings along a rice cooker. Even when we’re miles alway from home, we’d always have our lovely Thai jasmine rice!

This time around, we didn’t catch any fish…mainly because it was raining for most of the Labour Day long weekend.

What happened, however, was that through our “connections” we managed to find juicy bream at dirt cheap prices. And let me tell you wryly: I have never tasted fish this fresh in my life. Fish you buy at the markets is nothing compared to this. (My mouth still waters at the thought!)

So we had a tour around Moruya, Tuross Heads and the surrounding area. Along the way, we dropped by Tuross Chinese & Vietnamese Restaurant (owned by Uncle Phuoc’s friend’s extended family).

We stayed at a friend’s friend’s house — which, although as lackadaisical as it seems, wasn’t that bad. Mainly because we ate deliciously cooked fish for two days straight!!!

To me, a trip out of the city is an opportunity to escape from one’s hectic life. Sitting on a foldable camping chair at dusk with a fishing rod or a bowl of canh chua in one’s hands is simply priceless.

Back when I attended language school at Canley Vale, I was actively involved in the festival. I recall taking part in a Luong Son Ba performance; it was on one singeing day in the VHVN (Vietnamese Cultural Schools Association Inc.) tent in front of eager parents.

I find it humourous how the mayor of Bankstown claims her municipality has over a certain number of “nationalities“. (Dreams of becoming Secretary-General of the United Nations, much?)
Although I prefer the Cabramatta Moon Festival more (for it is more family-orientated), I went to the Bankstown Children’s Festival as the Moon Festival of two weeks earlier had rained out.

As such, he had extreme hemoptysis just after my two-week holiday break. Knowing that his condition was starting to worsen, Mum and her siblings haphazardly visited him in Soc Trang.

I didn’t go to church during this time because I was mostly home alone on weekends. I kept in contact with Mum via email (it was very difficult to read without diacritics). Reveilles at 7:20 every morning, I awoke early to make breakfast and lunch, then straighten my hair (usually Mum does it for me). To make matters worse, I got robbed of $15 from the girls’ changerooms (yes, we are talking about selective girls here).

On the fifth day, Mum went with Ah Gong to Can Tho because “Soc Trang hospital was horrendous”. Ah Gong said he felt better after the blood transfusion.

She returned on the 11th, with the following items worth mentioning:

Cousin Mina gave me this: These will surely come in handy for Vietnamese Continuers: You can’t find whitening products (which actually work) in Australia!Hair straightening chemicals, including an instructional DVD:
Mum also took some photos:

My uncle is the big boss of Minh Chau Construction and Trade Co., Ltd. He owns a guarded village, living in a three-storey mansion within it. It’s like a suburb — replete with a bank, restaurant, swimming pool and a few tennis courts. (Please tell your relatives to buy a few investment properties from him.)

He even has an office:

Mum says Soc Trang — or Vietnam in general — has changed a lot. There are no more cyclos due to cacophonous congestion, bikers are now forced to wear safety helmets and raffle ticket sellers have largely replaced vexing beggars.

(I’m also very glad to hear that my cousins are fatter than me.)

We headed to the Sydney Central Plaza food court then meandered through Myer after lunch. It’s undergoing a mini makeover, so on one of the levels was a girl wearing fluro yellow road worker garb, holding an “ASK ME” sign. Surely enough, many people did walk up to her. And in a bona fide fashion, too.

Deciding it was time to find a spot along the papal motorcade route, we made our way down George Street. I asked a Filipina in purple and blue about whether the Pope would pass the section we were standing at, but without answering my question she told us to walk down Martin Place for “better views” instead.

So to Martin Place we did go. We somehow managed to walk all the way to St Mary’s Cathedral.

Mum and I spent in excess of an hour waiting along the chalky high gates of College Street. The Holy Father was running late, you could tell. The chants of the Spanish pilgrims opposite us were wearying, with all the eager spectators inured by the police motorcycles whizzing by.

Then came the moment. The Popemobile zoomed by without warning. Blink and you would’ve missed it. After the enigmatic millisecond, came the peevish, ubiquitous complaints: “What the hell? He went by so quickly!”

For some reason, not all the pilgrims attended mass. On my way to eat dinner at Chinatown, I was surrounded by the omnipresence of their orange backpacks. After finishing my bowl of ramen, we shopped around Market City for a little while before heading home.

I love the city’s nightlife. Stopping for traffic on our way to Town Hall station, we were bemused to find a man playing guitar while balancing a second guitar on his forehead.

We were in the happy company of ardently singing Germans on the train. When they ran out of aggressively cute German songs to sing, Christmas carols like Jingle Bells sufficed alongside the cohort’s loud clapping. When they alighted, the train was peculiarly soundless.

More than ever, I saw what religion can do to people. Forget your stereotypes of wantonness, contraband and rebellion. I saw young males and females alike peacefully parading the streets, proudly waving their respective flags (I saw the flag of the Republic of Vietnam a lot!) and fervidly singing along to their fellow guitar-playing compatriots.

I wish I were a registered pilgrim. Especially because my church has been begging us register for months on end, with me eagerly staying back for one of the few opportunities to. But I found out that because I was under 18, I required adult supervision.

“Youth” — in the Church’s eyes — is 18 to 35 years of age!