the foxtrot theory of singularity

i love this cartoon. sometimes i call it the story of my life. cupids are such a pain.

Filed under: daily grind, quirks

poverty tourist

Im back from a family holiday in China; Chongqing, Wuhan and Guizhou. As my parents marveled nature’s wonders: the Three Gorges/three little gorges/rock caves/waterfalls/ravines/rock bridges; my sibs and I (aged 17, 14) were a little less entertained.

Of course, sleeping in the cabin of a little ship that cruises down China’s longest river for three days is a rather contradictory experience, where one knows not whether to rejoice -awaking in mornings to find oneself breathing so closely to magnificent mountain ranges- or deadpan in agreement to suggestions -no, assertions!-of rocks resembling lions and goddesses, when they really begin to look the same after a while.

But no travel to a foreign land is without gain.

Four years ago, when I went to China, the capital of Chengdu was swathed with three things: cyclists, teahouses and construction. The kids up in the mountains, inner Szechuan, bordering Tibet, were ruddy-faced, a little drippy with nose fluids, and treasured little toys that can at most be contained within a single egg. The adults worked in the fields. And worked in the fields.

Guizhou is the poorest province of China, with close to 5 million struggling under the poverty line. A minority family might earn on average- 1000 RMB a year (S$200). Four years on, thankfully, the kids have bigger toys, and write with new pencils. But Guiyang, its city is similarly congested with construction sites – buildings, roads, luxury living. When the traffic lights turn red, the cars revv up and the men start to run- people push big wheelbarrows laden with assorted building materials, goods-to-peddle, on the roads! Four years on, China’s agricultural face is no doubt everpresent, but now disturbed by the influx of capitalist structures. Not ten minutes out of the city, vegetable patches start to line the roads, like our ixora and bougainvillea bushes along the ECP expressway. My huge forty-sitter tourist coach cruises the bumpy roads, emitting toxic gases as the folk weed their vegetables and the water buffalos plough the fields.

I’ve become a poverty tourist.

Chongqing and Wuhan are wealthier regions compared to Guizhou. But men (uneducated immigrants from inland flooded regions mostly) continue to trade their brawn for a living. Called the ‘Bang4 Bang4 Bing1′ (Pole Soldiers) their tools of trade: a single pole and some yards of rope. Like golf caddies, but found mainly in streets with higher human traffic, they will carry your goods/shopping/trash when you hire one. The price? A trip to the wet market and back to your home (time unlimited) for 1 RMB (20 cts). If they are lucky, they will probably earn a few dollars a day.

A visit to the Ghost City of Wuhan, where all spirits are said to pass through left the most indeliable print on this me. As we were leaving the place, a row of drink and fruit hawkers start to crowd our passage back to the ship. They don’t live there. They go there each day to catch the tourists. Their fruits are from their own gardens- mandarins, pomelos and grapes. After having bought mandarins from the very first hawker at the start of the line, we found ourselves politely refusing the calls of the other hawkers all the way down the line. An unlucky peddler at the very back of the queue saw my bag of mandarins and proffered his pomelos, ‘Many times sweeter’, he said.

We shook our heads. Walked on.

“How much did you pay for those? I’ll sell you 15 RMB for one”, he walked along with us. There is something passive-aggressive about this.

We refused politely. Undeterred, he continued. 10 RMB? 10 RMB for two? For all? ( He was balancing about a total of six in two baskets swinging on both sides)

We reached the ship’s planks. I told him thank you, but no, thank you.

“5 RMB for all!” he cried.

My heart sank. But iur steps were stubornly irretraceable. Human dignity at a low, never fails to shake me. This thing we call pride, this useless thing we hang on to, self depreciated to a plea. I should have walked back and hauled the fruit off him. But our pride acted against us. To hold our stand, that’s what it tells us to do.

Filed under: musings

Ta!

Oh bagels and ages since I last posted!

Word difference: Some 10,000.

Time difference registered: 3 hours.

Temperature difference observed: +5 degrees,

add huge cannisters of humidity too, please.

Things to do: Nothing. Perfect.

Here’s to the summer holidays,

and not-so-regular-at-whim posting.

Filed under: daily grind

Spring Racing Carnival

Melbourne Cup Day. Women grow feathers and flower gardens on their heads, ready to tea in their cocktails. Men suited up and wearing trilby hats. Every year, its a sight so fascinating, foreign to the point of disassociation. Took my assignment for a spin around the city circle tram again. It can do with some breeze and sartorial inspiration. 1000 words more to go on zine culture.

Feeling all mixed up about this city again. Strange tropical palm trees, chilly wind, stained statues guarding glorious parks. Strange blue eyes, veiled heads, greek accents. How can I leave? And yet how can I stay- other than as the visitor with a permanent address?

Filed under: daily grind

its no longer yours

Elma looked under the cushion of her armchair one day. This was she found:

Dead skin.

Five cents. (its always five cents. never a dollar)

Caps of all sorts -bottle caps, pen caps, thumb-drive caps. (oh how happy her thumb looks now)

Her pretty star squashed up pony. (gaudy pink hair, fat purple legs and an indignant stare)

Hair. Not pink.

And that is all. That is why Elma resolved never to look under the cushion of her armchair again. They will always be disappointing, no matter how much I recover, she thinks.

Next time, I’ll look in Ame’s armchair.

Filed under: written word