Filed under: outside
A stopover of six hours from Bali to Seoul allowed us enough time to dip into the summer delights of Singapore, a tiny locality perched at the edge of Southeast Asia. Famously conservative, the city’s 2 million often well-heeled residents are forbidden to chew gum, litter and graffiti, all of which carry serious fines. In Singapore, order and cleanliness are paramount and the lean bulk of the office buildings tower over all, a constant reminder of the business and huge money that drives the tiny city-state.
Both of us were sick of the constant map-consulting and guidebook dipping that accompanies any trip. Neither of us wanted to plan our precious few hours; instead we settled to wander and see where the famously clean city streets took us.
They led us to Chinatown, which, with its bustling close-walled vibrancy and colour, is the perfect antidote to a long-haul flight or a recharge in preparation for another. Connected to Changi International Airport by the sublimely efficient Rapid Transit system, Chinatown is an easy stroll from one of the many subway stations circling the city.
For all its rules and rigour, the colonial city does not lack vibrancy, and has its own slightly dishevelled, dignified vigour. Its Chinese history is infused (some might say stained) with a genteel Britishness. Wide footpaths on our walk to Chinatown are spread with blankets, and fascinating trinkets are arrayed on each; old Chinese coins, elderly comic books, 1970s Singapore Airlines playing cards, mechanical toys and birth certificates of long-dead Chinese. All are curious and we spend a long time loitering and exclaiming, before succcumbing to the reality of the next few months’ travelling and move on to Chinatown proper.
We ask directions from a bronzed Australian in blue polo shirt and brown leather sandals. He’s in his mid-thirties, his coppery blonde hair and golden skin standing out against the wall of mostly Asian faces. “Yeah, straight down the road, you can’t miss it,” he says in a twang so comforting I want to envelop him in a hug. It’s been a year since I spoke to a stranger on the street and fully understood what he was saying. Needing to establish a connection, I ask him what he does here. “Banker with HCB,” he says, and pauses. I stare at him, hungry for him to speak again. “Most expats are in banking and advertising,” he adds hesitatingly. His eyes flick to my boyfriend, who thanks him firmly and pulls me away. I am fascinated by the golden Aussie and sorry to leave.
We flop under red-striped umbrellas and embrace a few sweaty Tiger beers. Tourists hum around us, porky and sun-pink. As the sun goes down we trip, slightly tipsy on beer and good humour, back to the subway that will speed us toward the airport. After the jumbled thrum of Korea and the tropical human mash of Bali, our six hours in Singapore have been as refreshing and interesting as a week-long holiday.
It’s a sublime experience to stand on a ridge 5000 feet above sea level and see the waves break in Martin’s Bay, miles away on New Zealand’s West Coast. Balanced on the sharp, warm stone of the peak, an enormous vista unfolds around you; the folding ridges, the endless, smoky Tasman Sea beyond the Coast, the sharp mountains tugging at wreaths of cloud. It’s an experience sharpened by the knowledge that you’re at least two days’ hard walking away from the remotest possibility of procuring more salami and cheese. Standing on the ridge, you are everywhere and nowhere all at once.
But it’s a hard slog getting nowhere. From Queenstown, the South Island’s adventure tourism capital, it’s a long, nose-to-the-window-gorgeous bus ride along the side of Lake Wakatipu, its drowned peaks patched with snow. As we descend deeper into the valley, the landscape becomes more majestic, the bus quieter, the place names breathlessly inspired: One Million Dollar View, Diamond Lake, Paradise. You imagine the first European explorers sitting gobsmacked astride their horses, pulling hyperbole out of the air in a vain attempt to describe the astonishing stillness and beauty of this valley.
And then we arrive at the functional Routeburn Shelter, the drop-off point for the Track. Its absence of romance lets us know the hard work is about to begin. After the flurry of unloading packs, sniffing the air, checking straps and tightening bootlaces, the bus leaves with a fart.
And suddenly there’s nothing left to do but walk.
Filed under: korea
At 6am every morning I wake to the musical gurgling of the man upstairs clearing the night’s phlegm from his chest. He nurses it from the depths of his lungs, cajoles it up his epiglottis with a series of little encouraging sniffs, then hoicks long and loud until he has a sizeable gob. There’s a brief pause as he rolls it around his mouth, testing its size, weight and balance.
Then he casts his loogie forth, over the balcony railing in a perfect arc, and watches it splat onto the road below.
Shining pats of lung butter quiver on the street.
To my loving friends and family,
My inbox is overflowing with emails from all of you. It seems you all had a great year. You achieved work goals, ran marathons, did some epic missions, finally went to India to spend six months on an ashram and discovered your spiritual centre. I applaud you, and would like to reassure you that you achieved a lot more than I did in 2006.
I didn’t meet that many great people and didn’t have that many great times. I didn’t achieve many goals or face any challenging challenges that I hadn’t faced before. I really didn’t have many epic journeys in South America, cultural enlightenments in Prague or formed memorable bonds with Thai hill tribes. In fact, the most memorable experiences I’ve had have been painful, embarrassing, or stupid.
And the awards go to…
Best Compliment: Attending a Christmas play only to get kicked out by the director who thought I was sent by my boss to spy. Apparently, the idea of a Christmas play for six year olds is an event requiring the most stringent security measures and teachers from competing schools must have their pockets searched for recording devices and be escorted from the building.
Best Warm Fuzzy Moment: Now that my boss’s baby is walking, she can run away from the strange Westerner and cling onto the TV, sobbing in terror. Makes you feel really great.
Best Foot in Mouth: Cooing over the baby and asking how old he was. My boss replied coolly that, actually, she was a girl, and had just reached six months.
Easiest Run-in With the Law: A couple glasses of wine and a drive home. Police checkpoint ahead… oh dear. No international license, no registration, no insurance, van surely poised to explode beneath me. Reluctantly I roll down my window and prepare to face the music. The stern Korean brandishing the breathalyser gets a huge fright, says “sorry, sorry” and waves me on. Foreigner. Best defence I can think of.
Best Public Relations Incident: Falling into a 3am screaming match in half Korean/half English with the owner of the karaoke bar under my apartment, whose five singing rooms made my apartment rattle and hum from 8pm to 4am every night, and made my life a zombie hell for three months. All I could do was scream at him: “Me very angry. I have no sleep. Every day sleep two hours. Hate.” It took five minutes for the disgusting heavy-lidded sod to eventually get through to me that because he’d been there since 2004 and I since Feb 2006 I didn’t have a leg to stand on and could just bugger off and die.
Best Use of Korean by a Foreigner: Having a kid in my class for six months thinking his name was Pyon-tae, because that’s what the other kids called him. No attendance card; this is a Korean hagwon! In November I was sitting around the dinner table eating my rice when my boss says to me:
“Min-tae has car accident and has left the school.”
“Who?”
“Min-tae. In your six o’clock class. With red glasses and teeth like the rabbit.”
“You mean Pyon-tae?”
Silence. Sally taps her spoon on her bowl reflectively. The other teachers start to smirk and nudge each other. Sally grimaces.
“His name is not Pyon-tae. Pyon-tae means pervert.”
Super!!
Best Use of English by a Korean: Asking Micky, my drop-dead gorgeous Korean workmate, why the baby was looking feverish and being told “Her cunt is sick.” Thrush.
Happy New Year!
Love,
Naomi
