Mr Zhang

Just south of where the terracotta warriors stand in the ground at silent attention to, and in silent, stern protection of their onerous, mean spirited master (Emperor Qin was a $&^%# by all accounts) lives another man, also in the ground. Mr Zhang. Not so silent and still however. And of a much more gentle disposition than his 2000 year old neighbour. Mr Zhang is a pomegranate farmer. Who has dug a hole in the bank, under his three acres of trees, in which to live. He proudly showed us the hand adze with which he dug out this hole. And with which he dug his well, into which I peered and saw my face darkly in the liquid metal grey shimmer of water ten feet down. Here he lives with his wife, Mrs Zhang no less! And with his two daughters. One a recent graduate of engineering from a Xian university. And the other crippled with… well, we were not too sure with what but one suspected rheumatoid arthritis. She walked with a stiff rigidity, inflexible neck and a tentative step but bore a smile that would bring one of those terracotta warriors to life and which melted us. The engineer was back home after graduation to help Mum and Dad on the farm. What a split world she must live in.

Mr Zhang invited us to lunch and we sat around a table in his little cave, which is modelled on those live you might have seen in Yanan. About ten feet wide. And thirty feet deep. In the shape of a modest arch, maybe almost ten feet high. I discovered the doorway is less than six foot two inches high by cracking my head on it rather soundly. Immediately to the left of the doorway – a bricked up wall covering the mouth of the cave – is their bed. A “kang”, which is a bed constructed of brick with a fire under it with a flue that takes the heat out under the bed and vents outside. There is always someone doing it tougher than you – I thought I had it hard cutting firewood to get hot water into the house on a frosty morning when I was a kid. But a fire in the bed!! It must get cold in here in winter.

Mrs Zhang has a neat trick. She quickly glances at you, then pulls out a small pair of nail scissors, and with head cocked to one side in concentration, snips out a profile about 6cm high in black card, all in a matter of seconds. It is kind of cute. And endearing. A little gift from the heart.

After a steaming pile of noodles, which I could not finish, we were treated to a display of handicrafts made by Mrs Zhang, a discourse by Mr Zhang on the ins and outs of his little farm (in the middle of which a jangling phone jolted us out of a timeless cave back into the twenty-first century – and through which a delighted Mr Zhang received an order for some of his pomegranates) and then a meeting with Mr Zhang’s mother. A classic leathery old Chinese girl who looked rather bemused at this crowd of people her son had dragged into the farm. Past a quick display of a loom, a single point plough, various farming implements, three sties of pigs being fattened (Mr Zhang made me laugh – no more breeding, sows, they are too cantankerous – took me back to childhood memories of cranky sows) and back out onto the road and a cheery wave from them all standing on the side of the road.

Amazing hospitality really. Would you take a group of strangers into your home who could not speak your language, cook them a meal, feed them at a table in your main bedroom (OK, it is the lounge as well) and let them ferret around your garden shed among the tools and play with the pets?. No, I didn’t think so.

Drugs on the Beaches

Sydney press of late has drawn our attention to the rising problem of drug use in our city (an example here), in particular calling attention to methamphetamines, or ice, which are becoming increasingly pervasive. Rightly so – the press attention that is. On the Northern Beaches of Sydney there is a volunteer based group which is part of the national Drug Arm initiative. A Street Outreach Service (SOS) is staffed by volunteers who provide a free referral service for those who want to, or need to seek assistance for drug related problems. That service travels the beaches on Friday and Saturday nights, stopping at regular “hot spots” where young people may, or may not congregate. It is bit of a hit and miss affair – some nights there seem to be young people everywhere. Other nights you could carpet bomb the region and not hit a single kid.

I am no expert on drugs. But I get out as a team leader of the Northern Beaches SOS every few weeks. This is not a commentary on the drug scene up here. Rather I want to share with you something much more positive and encouraging.

I thought I would share something of last Saturday evening which is pretty typical of a “busy” night out (sometimes new volunteers wonder what they have gotten into when they start and the streets are deserted!). What I really want to do is give you a snapshot of the kids we meet. They never fail to surprise and impress me. We want to make negative assumptions about packs of kids roaming the streets. But they are unfailingly polite, considerate, appreciative, humorous, wise and invariably sensible. And as a pack they are always looking out for each other, a characteristic to which I am especially attuned for some reason.

Sydney weather was unusual – it was raining a drizzle which was steady and consistent. But not cold. We pulled our van into a carpark at a surf club. We could see shadows moving through the trees, a group of five or six teenagers had crossed the road in front of us as we drove into the area, while another group had waved at us and called out to “the Milo (hot chocolate) van” to stop. Clearly there were a few kids out and about and this seemed like a good place to stop. Armed with Milo and sweets and biscuits, as well as hot water, we open up the van and make a few drinks for ourselves. It is a convenient tactic which helps make it look like we are busying ourselves and are not especially looking for them Soon a couple of young boys step out of the shadows and ask if they can have a drink. They are like the first wildebeest that tentatively nose into a waterhole to see what danger lurks. If not devoured by a crocodile they disappear into the dark with their drinks and soon there is a steady trickle of less adventurous visitors who gather around the back of our van chatting, drinking, eating and otherwise being very engaging.

Fresh faced, clear eyed, bleached hair, surfers. Not so clear eyed and more grungily dressed – the counter surfer culture (another story in its own right). Some clear headed and alert to the dangers of drugs. Others on that bold animated alcohol cheeky high that gives them a forwardness which can be both humorous and disturbing. That a fifteen year old should be so drunk is not world shattering news. But when you eye ball them and when they are being open with you about what a mess they are in at such an early age, it is a little more confronting.

But not tonight. Sure we had our inebriated comedians but they kept a good humour. The overwhelming impression of these teenagers is that they are far wiser than their years. And they shock you, pleasantly, with their manners and genuine appreciation for the hot drink and the fact that you are there. EVERY visit is marked by this politeness, regardless of where we turn up. Their honest affection and praise for us makes me a bit uncomfortable. And once one question is asked we usually get a barrage of questions followed by typical teenage praise. Like tonight…

“Why do you do it?”

“Who pays for it?”

“Do you get paid?”

“Are you really a volunteer?”

“How often do you do this?”

“Legend”

“Awesome”

“Thanks heaps”

“You guys are cool”

“Wow, not paid?! Cooool…”

“Hey, you are old enough to be my Dad!”

(Thanks a lot).

So the patter goes and I listen to a young girl talk about her concern for a friend who is keen on taking drugs. There is a real fraternity among these kids growing up together here. The boys display a respect and honour for the girls in their group, while the girls always seem discrete and full of self confidence. They never fail to impress me with their composure, wisdom and wit.

One of them comments on how, in this conversation about drugs (that had arisen from the concern expressed about the girlfriend), we were not being judgemental in any way. Perceptive young chap – that is a key objective of ours as we hand out literature on ICE (and other drugs) and give advice on what resources they can access. Education, referral, a listening ear – and no judgement.

Part of me admires the freshness and honesty and beauty of this youthful demographic and the carelessness and irresponsibility with which they live. It is honest and open and frank. Standing in the rain caring less about how wet they are and enjoying a hot drink and chewing the fat. Another part of me is a little more grey, knowing that it won’t be long before that freshness is tarnished by all the less savoury bits that life has to offer.

From the direction of the beach and with a backdrop of dark and booming surf a young fellow appears. Drunk. Very drunk. Can of flavoured spirits in his hand. A very humorous drunk as it turns out but also very conscious of his parlous state – which he tries to justify by projecting onto us. “Don’t tell me you weren’t drunk and doing drugs when you were fifteen?!!” Com’n, com’n ya kin tell me”. A tall girl with model good looks tells him to shut it – in the nicest way of course.

“You are all legends”

“How can I volunteer?”

“Can I have some biscuits please?”

“Please!” And “Thankyou.” Or, rather “Thanks heaps” or “thanks so much”. That always surprises me. Terrific manners. Always appreciative. We don’t do this for the thanks but we never have to ask for it either, or rue not getting it. It is always there and its ready proffering is partly what makes this so enjoyable.

More shadows step out of the trees. “I hear you have hot chocolate. Cool”

“Is it free?”

“That is so extra cool”

“Who is paying for this?”

“Are you really not paid?”

“Cool”

The clear eyed, sandy haired surfing types start to congregate and mix less freely as the more resentful and grungy types gather in greater numbers. The dynamic shifts slightly – but not in a hostile way. The non surfers detest the surf population and insist they are made to feel inferior by those who surf. They mock the surf set and the 6am rise for “an early”.

But everyone still mills around in good humour, some drunk, one or two others possibly on the down side of a drug dose. Suddenly a shambling behemoth appears under a nearby street light then turns into shadow again as it approaches. I have to look closely to see what it is. As it trundles in from the darkness someone yells out “Shrek”. A good natured giant kid (he is enormous!!) who makes them all laugh but is probably torn inside, materialises beside the van. Our model good looks warns us to lock away the food – not an idle warning as it turns out, since Shrek proceeds to load up the pockets of his jacket. Clearly under the influence of something, he has to prop himself up on the van as he cleans out our stock. Giant. But placid. And once again the subject of fraternity concern as I hear a couple of mates check up on him and his wellbeing. Quietly done so as not to embarrass him, but direct and honest. And he is direct in his reply. These kids always amaze me. They are not mine but in a strange sort of way I am proud of them.

We pack up. Model and her friends have moved away and we pass them on the street. They shout and wave farewells and “good luck” – and “thanks!”

———————-

Drug Reference Resource – National Drug and Alcohol Research Centre

Golgotha Revisited

The Easter story is an annual event that marks our secular calendar but which has little impact outside the Christian church. But even within that demographic there are plenty it does not touch.

It is an historic event that remarkably stands out for the non Biblical record which captured the teachings, death and resurrection of the man called Jesus. But despite that, and the “cloud of witnesses” to these events – more than sufficient to convince a Royal Commission or any other court of our own – it fails to impact us as it should. The reason is simple I think – if we accept the evidence then we have to do something about that evidence. A somewhat confronting choice that might force us to change the way we live, so it is easier to leave the whole issue alone.

But even those that accept the evidence are not always challenged by this event either. It does not always inform who we are or how we should behave. With these thoughts I approached Easter 2005 and attempted to capture something of how I often approach this celebration.
Often the thought is that if I had been there I would have behaved differently. Not denied Christ. Not fallen asleep. Not followed the crowd. Then you catch yourself and discover in your own heart the truth of the matter – that you would have kept your head down. So I painted this (with pastel) image of a garden, more subtropical than Mediterranean. I might not be asleep but I am hiding nonetheless while Jesus is bundled out the garden gate to his death. I am keeping out of the way. Hiding. As timid and as careless as the next person. Which only underscores the point of course – that any life changing interest in Golgotha does not come from ourselves. It is a gift – which is what Easter is all about after all.

Elephant Woman (III)

Ho Chi Minh City Zoo (such as it is)

Beware the Elephant Handlers. The two grandmother pseudo handlers that is, clucking and whistling from the crowd at the elephants. It is clear the elephants know this language for they amble over to the edge of the pit and extend their trunks towards them in swaying, wavering, silent anticipation. Not unreasonably you conclude these are the rightful owners of the elephants since they seem to be intimate with each other. So when the old girls offer you plastic bags of sugar cane to feed the elephants you accept. Only in hindsight do you realise these women only appeared on the scene when the actual handlers took off for their afternoon siesta. And what a pair they are. Once the cane has been dispensed and the bags are empty the women demand money. The scam is revealed. Neat, seductive and complicit for you have readily taken the cane from them and handed it to the elephants. Only the locals were clever enough to decline, also something you only see in hindsight.

She wants 3000 dong. You react in dismay and offer 2000 which she accepts. Her colleague on the other hand is a mix between witch and evil pixie, with a hide of tanned leather and a voice to stir the dead. And a persistent streak that Tojo would envy. She insists on 50,000 dong. You are again indignant, point out her friend accepted 2000 and theft is being undertaken for even 10,000. She shrieks and flaps her empty plastic bags and insists the other woman is not her friend. She does this twice before the friend realises she is not helping by hanging around and reinforcing the precedent. She silently vanishes into the growing crowd which is drawn by the noise of our newly unearthed harpy, and clearly anticipating some entertainment.

The scenario is re-shrieked for anyone who can hear. So we insist on 10,000 dong or nothing. She shrieks 50,000 so we start a slow walk back to the front gates where there are a number of uniforms who will hopefully see her off. As we walk she alternates between flapping her bag, shrieking at us, then yelling at anyone who shows the slightest interest in what is going on. As we walk the crowd slowly drops away (it is hot and very humid so people are reluctant to move too far from shade) so she redoubles her efforts to get assistance. She nearly manages to enlist the help of a film crew, using the zoo gardens as a location for an advertising shoot. They half heartedly shout after us before giving up and falling behind.

Finally, at the door of a museum we find the guards we need, although we decline to initiate any conversation, going through the motions of checking the ticket prices and hoping against hope that she would be deterred by the presence of so many uniforms. No such luck as she got the ear of them pretty quickly. An older guard with good English heard us out, clearly sympathetic and wanting her out of his hair as quickly as possible. We eventually settle on 10,000 dong ($1) but as I pull the appropriate note from my pocket another 10,000 is caught up as well. She spots that very quickly so I am forced to surrender that also. The actual amount is of course meaningless but the fact that she was so persistent in her artful dodge was what became the sticking point. Her colleague had accepted being found out and was prepared to haggle. This harpy had another agenda altogether.

Picture yellow black patterned pyjamas, a tan headscarf covering most of her head, a stamping slap of a walk accentuated by loose sandals, a pinched leathery brown face with glittering black eyes, a nasal, high pitched voice unlike any bird you can imagine and all packaged in a slight diminutive frame about five feet high. Ouch!

November 2004

Yemen – Life in Perspective

The girl in the background was not crying, but stifling a giggle. Both were. Beautiful and fragile and unkept.

Here they are being very shy. The French woman is assuring them I am OK. She was the woman to whom they darted for a brief hug before pulling away and running around this upstairs veranda. Then darting back for another hug. Over and over in a game, albeit a serious one. Here, it seems, is their only wellspring of love.

After a while they let me take a couple of photos but until I knelt down and showed them the images on the back of the camera they remained highly mobile targets!

The image below was one of many that happened in the process of getting them settled down and used to the camera.

In the eighteen months since I have seen them I have haggled deals, worried about share prices, hired and fired, signed contracts and worked obscene hours. I wonder where they are now?! Somehow they make all the other stuff unimportant.

Land of the Morning Calm

August 2002
The rain falls softly in the Land of the Morning Calm. Or so it would seem from the hotel window. So much so that the initial impression is of lazy sleet of snow drifting to the ground. Even one of our local Korean colleagues thought the same. Never mind the fact that we know it is actually 25 degrees outside and mid summer. Perhaps the rain is simply dashing itself on the building above us and its arrested, tumbling flight is what we are witnessing.

In any event all that we have experienced in Korea on this trip has been viewed through a curtain of rain. Arriving late in the evening we were buffeted by the dregs of a storm and were disgorged out of the brand new Inchon airport into a muggy evening of hissing bitumen, drifting mist and sweating porters, passengers and bus attendants. And so it has stayed ever since.

Last night we were hosted at to a traditional Korean meal. The building was of traditional construction with paper floors, wall panels and enormous cypress pine post and beam construction. Taking a break from the plum liqueurs which came in five courses I gazed out a second story window into a gleaming wet lane between traditional tiled houses. The rain took the edges off what might of otherwise been a tough and gritty scene. But it was a refreshing reminder that not all of this country is glass and chrome and modernity and that elements of the original remain. Certainly the smells wafting up to this back window reassuringly reminded me that we were in Asia.

We are located downtown in a street which is marked by a few points which differentiate it from other cities in my ken. The architecture of the tall buildings has a restrained US flavour with the trimmings we have come to expect from that continent. Maples line the streets – these would hardly survive closer to the equator. However the point is that there seems to be a serious attempt to have a green city and it shows. According to one of the locals the Korean War saw most of the area defoliated and there is a serious effort to make amends for that.

For an industrious nation of hardworking folk those observed seem to function in a most languid way. There is not the bustle of other Asian capitals. Perhaps it is time now for them to relax and enjoy the fruits of the labour a little.

This morning the walk around the block – a two kilometre affair – was done under a cloudy sky but on a dry footpath. A shame that was not the case last night. I stepped out to get some air and to get away from the hotel. Armed with a draft copy of the prospectus I figured I would head for a bar somewhere and get some work done. The rain had eased to a light mist so I got off to a good, wandering start. But the mist soon turned into a downpour and I was forced into the nearest open door which happened to be a Dunkin Donut! Talk about cultural extremes – traditional Korean last night, American culture the next. Sipping a huge mug of Hazelnut coffee I managed to get in a couple of hours reading, in part because I needed to but also in part because I was hoping the rain would ease up. It did not so I braced myself for a good soaking and headed for the door.

At which point I was stopped by the girl behind the counter who was anxiously trying to signal to her buddy to get an umbrella, a broken affair lying in the corner but which they pressed into my hands and insisted I take. Folded around my head it did help ensure at least the top half of me stayed dry.

I have been startled by the unfailing politeness of the person in the street. In this they are a very different breed to the Singaporeans, though they look and dress in a very similar, smart-casual way. The hotel sits astride a massive underground shopping mall which is fed by a number of railway stations and which includes a large cinema complex , aquarium and their World Trade Centre. Walking through there last night I was spoken to by a number of folk who simply wanted to say hello. But one tentative tap on my arm led to a delightful conversation with a 13year old and her friend. I turned around and was confronted by two very shy faces bobbing up and down as they bowed. Then one of them said in clear but faltering English “please speak to me”. Turns out of course that she wanted to practise her English which she has been learning for 12 months. Very brave of her to ask a stranger. So we had a sort of chat before she bowed and excused herself and went off the movie ticket queue.

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