All Right Here?

Having recently moved from the UK to South East Asia, a lot of people have asked me: "So, what's it like, then?" This is my attempt to answer that question.

Friday, January 21, 2005

All You've Gotta Do Is Dream

Being inspected on Monday. No outward signs of anxiety. After all, it’s only a mini-inspection (whatever that means).

However, this morning I awoke at the conclusion of a dream in which I’d been inspected whilst teaching my first ever Year 9 class, who certainly knew how to give me the run around. I was reading an extract from 1984. At least, I was trying to. Throughout the hour long dream lesson they messed about and wouldn't listen, so I still hadn't finished reading the extract (all of two pages) by the end. However, I had shouted myself hoarse, thinking that might impress the inspector. The inspector, in the corner of the room, looked most alarmed.

When I woke up I wasn't sure whether it had actually happened, so had to speak in order to ensure that I wasn't actually hoarse. I was delighted to discover that I wasn't.

I’m sure this isn’t a sign of how it will go, rather it’s an internalisation of anxiety (or something).

My head of department had a dream that he told us about the other day. He was being buried alive.

We discussed our dreams today. He was put out that he’d had such a predictable dream – being buried alive was too obvious a metaphor for him.

At least his dream was metaphorical.

I had a more pleasant dream the other night, in which I was making loud noises in public places and finding it hilarious that no one noticed. I woke myself up laughing and couldn't stop for a number of minutes.

I actually do this in real life fairly frequently. Please try it out. It's great fun. Any old incomprehensible gutteral roar will do. On the bus, going up an escalator, queuing for a bus, sitting in the cinema, during a lesson... no one bats an eyelid, from the UK to South East Asia.

Make sure you let me know how you get on.

Sunday, January 16, 2005

A Bargain

It’s two weeks since I returned from the Christmas holidays and this is only my third entry. I’ve not felt much like writing about the everyday experience of life here. This has coincided with quite a few interesting things that have happened to me since being back. This is typical. At a time when I don’t feel like writing about mundane everyday nonsense, loads of mundane everyday nonsense happens.

I thought I’d start off by writing about possibly the most mundane everyday experience: yesterday I got my hair cut. This was no ordinary haircut, though. This was my first experience of a barber in this part of the world.

When my hair grows I have curly corkscrews. I shaved my own head in October rather than getting a “style” done at the barbers because, two summers ago, one barber shaved my head around the sides and back about two inches too high. I looked like Forrest Gump or Private Pile. Every time I’ve been back since, the barber has used the same mark in my hair and shaved it too high again. By shaving it all off I thought I would wipe the slate clean.

Because of the heat my hair had reached afro proportions within two months.

I’m always at a disadvantage at the barbers because I have to remove my spectacles. I am extremely short sighted and have astigmatism. One helpful optician last year explained to me that this meant my eye was shaped “oval, you know, like a rugby ball, rather than round, like a football.” As you can imagine, I was delighted that she had helped me to imagine those unfamiliar shapes by comparing them to balls… I would've been lost without her assistance.

This myopia has caused some embarrassing problems in the past. When I was about thirteen and suffering from a mild cold, I was getting my hair cut and of course couldn’t see a thing. About half way through I noticed that the usual banter between the barbers had ceased. I got the nasty feeling that everyone was looking at me. Eventually, my barber asked me if I wanted a tissue. I narrowed my eyes in order to try to see better and was alarmed to see a luminous green, thick, sticky gloop of mucus hanging from my nose, suspended, swaying ever so slightly. It had already stretched from nose to upper lip and showed no sign of snapping.

It was at that point that I decided growing my hair might be a good idea.

It wasn’t, but that’s another story.

The moment I remove my spectacles in that barber’s chair, I’m at Sweeny Todd’s mercy. I can see the outline of my head, but can’t see any of my features. They wave their hands in a blur around my head and I gradually detect a slight reduction in the size of it, but that’s about it. When I put my glasses back on at the end, they always give me a tissue. They must be able to see just how close to tears I am.

So what was my first Singapore haircut like?

I sat down in the only free seat – the other three barbers were chopping away. As I sat down, they all stopped and looked at me. A conversation in Mandarin between my barber and the other three began. All four of them were still regarding me, the other three taking the occasional swipe with their scissors at their clients’ heads. I laughed, nervously, and they laughed too.

“You want it shaved?” I was asked.
“Er… number four round the sides and back and…”
“Trim on top?”
“Please.”

I removed my spectacles.

He set about my head with his clippers. Was he shaving just a little too high? Was that a number four anyway?

The clippers were put away. He attacked the top of my head with blunt scissors. There was none of the usual: “Going anywhere nice this summer, sir?” or “Are you a student?” - a question that barbers have consistently asked me since I was… well… a student.

After what felt like less than five minutes, he put his scissors down and used his hands to make that “Ta da!” gesture that magicians make after performing a trick. Completely blind, I nodded and mumbled something about it looking fine. I thought he was about to pick up a mirror and ask me if I wanted to see the back – a question that foxed me as a toddler when I answered in the affirmative, got up from my seat and made my way to the back door because I thought that the nice hairdresser wanted to show the little boy her lovely back garden.

Spraying more water on my head, I realised that he hadn’t quite finished yet. To my horror he picked up a hairdryer and proceeded to blow dry my hair.

Anyone with frizzy hair will know that this is a gargantuan error.

He dusted me down, removed the cape and I put my glasses on and took a glance in the mirror.

“Thanks,” I lied. I stood up and paid. Two of the barbers gazed at my head as if suppressing laughter or as if seeing something the like of which they’d never seen before; I couldn’t tell which.

Not for the first time I left the barbers looking like Eraserhead.

The first thing I did was run to the nearest public toilet and splash my hair with water before meeting Ella in a café. She spent the next few minutes studying my head with a perplexed expression on her face. “Your sideburns are uneven,” she finally remarked, understatedly.

Not only that, he had also shaved the sides and back too high, and, I noticed, his clippers seemed to have missed quite a few grey hairs, which are still about two centimetres long.

Still, must look on the bright side. I usually spend twice the amount of money for a haircut like this.

Monday, January 10, 2005

Us And Them

It’s hard to decide what to write next. I started writing this “blog” to keep people who know me informed about life in Singapore and on my travels. Most of the stories I’ve written here have been based on the truth, with some embellishments and some creative licence. What I wrote about in my last post was unembellished and written as honestly as possible. But there were several omissions that I’d like to write about. And yet I feel, as I did when I published the last post, a little uncomfortable writing about the tsunami at all. I don’t want to write about it because it didn’t really happen to us; I do want to write about it because it nearly did. The “what if” permutations are endless – what if we’d missed breakfast and had therefore been on a boat when the first wave hit? What if we’d stayed on Phi-Phi for a couple more days? I guess I feel awkward about turning it into an ongoing “story”. Our involvement was minimal, so why write about our involvement? It feels disrespectful to carry on writing about it as if we experienced it, or as some kind of therapeutic activity, but it also feels inappropriate to move on yet.

So, hesitantly, here are a couple of other things that happened and a few thoughts about some of the reporting I've seen on the tv.

On the morning the tsunami hit, Ella had relatives on the next beach, Tonsai. It took Ella and me a couple of hours to make contact with them. During that couple of hours, we barely mentioned them to each other, but we’ve since discussed the fact that they were never away from our thoughts. We just feared the worst and didn’t want to utter it. Although we didn’t know that this had hit so many coastlines, we knew that Tonsai had no sea wall, and it was next door. They, too, emerged relatively unscathed. The father was on the beach when the wave hit - he managed to cling on to a tree and was injured - while mother and son ran for the hills. They were separated for hours, but eventually found each other. We were extremely pleased to see them again at Krabi airport the next day, as we all had tickets to Bangkok.

Krabi airport was grim and quiet, despite the fact that it was full of people, who sat quietly watching the news. A first aid desk had been set up for the injured. By the time our flight left, the queue was long. We saw an Australian couple we’d met on Christmas day who had been injured, but were ok. We watched the news while we were waiting and were amazed at the increase in the death toll.

Bangkok airport was frenzied. There was a desk for people to make free international phone calls. Ella saw one man wearing just a towel with no other possessions. By the time Ella’s family members arrived on the next flight, the baggage handlers were swamped, and were just dumping bags on the tarmac for passengers to sort through.

We reached our hotel, put the news on and the death toll had risen by about 15000 since we had left Krabi.

While I was watching tsunami news coverage in Bangkok, a number of news items were in very poor taste. On CNN I watched as a “terrorism expert” suggested that the young children who survived the tsunami in places like Sri Lanka would be prime recruits for terrorist organisations. Apparently, Al Qaeda will be scouring the area for orphans who they will then train up, telling them that the West didn’t help them in their hour of need, and that they should join the fight against America and the “coalition”.

CNN also reported that, because 8 Americans had died (at that point), this was truly a world disaster.

Fox News were keen to point out America’s consistent generosity in times of tragedy and spent a good fifteen minutes whining about the lack of recognition they get for it.

I got back to Singapore to find UK Foreign Secretary Jack Straw on the news, saying that he was optimistic about the UN’s role in the aftermath of the tsunami, even though “the UN have got things wrong in the past”.

This is not the time to create fear about terrorism, or to score points about home nations, or to criticise organisations. I wish news networks and politicians could concentrate 100% on the job in hand rather than continuing to pursue their agendas. This is, of course, an unrealistic wish.

Ordinary people around the world seem to have responded as one to this disaster by sending money to various disaster funds. Ordinary people, touched by the tragedy, are contributing because they want to help in some way. Too many politicians and news agencies are scoring points. At a time when the world seems to be united behind a common cause, people in power are still emphasising oppositions and conflicts and are maintaining and promoting division.

Then again, as pointed out here, there are so many causes that we should be contributing to, so many reasons for governments and the media to work together and drop their petty squabbles as there have been throughout history, and yet the language of conflict and division seems to be the only language many powerful people are able to use.

They could learn a lot from ordinary people.

In a foolish moment I wondered whether this worldwide response could help to soothe some of the world’s problems. You know, in a spirit of unity, together realising that, actually, we are all one race, but we just have different opinions that aren’t worth killing for.

2527 lives were lost to global terrorism in the whole of the 1990s according to this. A total of 307 people were killed in terrorist attacks in 2003, far fewer than the 725 killed during 2002 according to this. Although of course each death is a tragedy, and many acts of terrorism are confined to the same ravaged areas, I’m surprised at how low the figures are. I trawled the internet for a while in order to ensure that I had the right figures. I couldn’t believe that the threat of terrorism was even mentioned by any news agency in the wake of a wave that slaughtered over 150,000 in a matter of seconds. Surely there should be some sense of perspective, some respect for the dead? And then I realized that I was forgetting that power corrupts, that spreading fear increases power and that the powerful respect very little except the idea of having more power.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Tsunami

This is an account of what I saw of the tsunami. It’s nothing to compare to the scenes I’ve since seen on the television. What I’ve seen on TV since has shaken me far more than the actual experience. We didn’t discover the scale of the disaster until the next day when we reached Bangkok.

We were trying to check out of our bungalow in Ao Nang, Krabi, Thailand at about 10am on the day the tsunami hit. The staff were all on the street, looking down the hill towards the sea. There was some commotion outside – policemen whistling – shopkeepers on the street – but nothing to suggest what we were about to see. After checking out, we made our way down towards the beach – we were on our way to spend Boxing Day on Ton Sai beach, next to Rei Leh. Ton Sai can only be reached by long tail boat.

The sea road was waterlogged. We initially thought a drain had burst as the water was a muddy brown colour. Crowds of people were looking out to sea. We were carrying all our gear, so I was impatient to get on a boat, and pointed this out to Ella. “There are no boats,” she said. Every day, 30 or 40 long tail boats crowded the bay, vying for custom. There were about two left.



Confused, we joined the ranks of people looking out to sea. Two larger boats, about eight feet high, were out there, some distance from the shore. One kayak was even further out.

We were looking at a calm sea when suddenly a largish wave headed towards the shore. This was followed by another. It was hard to tell how big the waves were from our perspective on the 10 feet high sea wall, but the two larger boats at sea seemed to be propelled to about twice their height with each wave. With the crowds of people congregated, we never really felt as if we were in any danger. Asking around, no one seemed to be able to explain what had happened. I asked a local if this had happened before – wondering whether the surf got up occasionally – he said “yes”, but I eventually realised he meant “yes, about five minutes ago”.



More large waves raced to the shore. The boats were in trouble. I noticed three men on the roof of one of them, clinging on. The kayak rode the waves, which were gradually increasing in size. I began to realise what had been responsible for the waterlogged road. I can’t believe now that it took me so long to realise this, but everything was happening so quickly, without explanation. I’ve seen bigger waves in England, so perhaps this was another reason why we continued to stand and watch.



Feeling more and more unnerved as the waves continued to roll in, I suggested to Ella that we cancel our plans to stay on Ton Sai and check in to another guest house where we were in Ao Nang. She wanted to stay and watch, so we did. Without us knowing it, Ton Sai, with no sea wall, and just bamboo beach bars, had already been smashed to pieces.

Ella was taking photos of the waves. We were right on the edge of the sea wall. A Thai guy was watching the sea in earnest. Whenever a big wave approached, he shouted and pointed, urging people to move away. Ella wasn’t keen. I was. We stayed put.

I was watching the Thai guy when the giant wave was emerging on the sky line. Panic was etched on his face. I looked out to sea and saw a much bigger wave approaching. It seemed to be travelling at an astonishing pace. The kayak, dwarfed by the wave, somehow rode it, looking like a rollercoaster. Another even bigger wave was behind it. Ella and I grabbed each other’s hands and ran to the other side of the road. Before we got there, the wave crashed into the sea wall, swept back into the sea, then seemed to merge with the next wave. Before we knew it, we were waste deep in water. The wave had crashed over the ten foot sea wall. With my pack on my back, another bag in my hand, the other hand holding Ella’s, I had one leg knocked from under me, and just about kept my balance. The drag, the sheer power of the water, even here on the road, was immense. One or two people had stayed by the sea wall and were gingerly picking themselves up. Another guy next to us was swept into a wall.





What I did next is hard to understand now that I know what really happened. I was annoyed that I’d got wet. I was upset. I’d wanted to book into a guest house a few minutes earlier. I was worried about all the gear in my bags. So, after a quick look round to make sure everyone was on their feet, I stormed off up the hill towards a cheap guest house. Ella trailed in my wake. It seems obvious now that many of the long tail boats had been smashed to pieces by the first wave that we’d missed. It seems obvious now that anyone who had been on the beach when that first wave hit had probably been swept away. At the time I didn’t even imagine that this might have been something that had happened without warning. Neither of us thought that it was anything other than a freak wave that happened here from time to time.

We sat in our guest house room. I was angry, and didn’t really know why. I told Ella that I’d just been nearly knocked off my feet. I told her that I’d been left standing precariously on the leg which has a torn knee ligament. I told her I’d nearly lost everything. She told me I was being dramatic. We’ve talked about this moment since, the moment when around the Andaman Sea and the Indian Ocean, thousands of people had lost their lives, yet I was being grouchy about a few cheap t-shirts in my rucksack, and Ella thought I was being over the top.

Even later, after we had made our way back to the beach, we still had no idea what had happened. We watched the kayak somehow get safely to shore. I started to text my mum to tell her that if she heard of a freak wave in Thailand, I was ok. I deleted the text before I sent it, thinking that this would never be world news.

Just before the army and the police arrived, I lost Ella for about five minutes. Another wave was expected in half an hour. That surging feeling of panic hit my guts. I found her about 10 metres from where I left her, chatting to a couple of Americans. No wave came, but I didn’t leave her side for the rest of the day.





Thinking back now, I can only surmise that we were in shock. Combine this with our ignorance – we still had no idea that we had seen a tsunami. As much as three hours later, we were still wandering the streets, looking out to sea, looking at the rubble, walking past long tail boats that had been flipped onto the sea wall, looking at signs that had been ripped out of their concrete foundations, seeing single flip flops strewn on the streets; our blank faces meeting other blank faces. No one – neither tourists nor Thais - seemed to be doing anything but sitting and looking, or wandering aimlessly, or staring out to sea without expression. We even walked along the beach – why else would we have done this unless we were in shock and ignorance? The water was still receding and advancing rapidly, as if the tide was going in and out within minutes. The boat on which the three men had been hanging had sunk no more than ten metres from the shore. Ella thinks the boat had hit the sea wall, bits missing from the front of the boat now added to the debris on the beach.






We started to get a few texts from home. Concerned family and friends were wondering if we were ok. We began to hear of deaths in Sri Lanka and India.

Two rescue dinghies were pumped up with a foot pump on a truck and sent out to sea. One came back a while later. About 20 people surrounded it and stood looking at it for a while before finally a stretcher finally arrived and carried out a body into an awaiting ambulance. We still have no idea whether the person was alive or dead.

Other larger boats started to arrive carrying hordes of people who had been stranded on nearby islands. They were dropped off about 20 metres from the shore, carrying their rucksacks above their heads through the shallows.



A missing persons desk was set up outside the tourist police station. At the time I still thought everyone would be ok.

This may seem like an emotionless account of the day, but that’s because we were numbed by what we had seen and didn’t understand what had happened. Our emotional response came later when the shock had begun to wear off and the full story unfolded. Like when we began to see pictures of the places we had been to only days before – Kamala Beach in Phuket and Phi-Phi island – destroyed. Like when I saw the images of Sri Lanka – Unawatuna Bay, the town of Galle, both of which I visited in October – the photos I took and the things I wrote about on this blog. The train that was derailed was the train I had travelled on from Columbo to Galle. When Ella’s photos were developed in Bangkok we were both shaking as we looked through them. We saw footage of Ao Nang, shot 10 metres from where we had been standing, on CNN World.

When I downloaded my Thailand holiday photos last night and we sat and looked at the beautiful places we had visited that have been destroyed it was another very emotional moment. When I think of the five minutes of panic that I felt when Ella and I were apart, she was in no danger, although I thought she was. I can’t even begin to imagine how many times multiplied that sense of panic must have been for the countless victims of this horrendous disaster. Although this entry has really been my attempt to report what I saw that day, through insensate eyes, I have to conclude by saying, however obvious, that the innocent loss of life now fills me with horror.

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