some writing (fiction-ish)

Singapore, 1979

Baking heat and short grass, a tall fence and a paddling pool surroundings of the front yard where the little white boys with golden blond hair played. Momma, in a deck chair under an umbrella, immersed herself in love chaos novels, and in the distance, the three heard the chorus marching up the hill, singing.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” they heard the choir of one hundred tenor voices produce.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang back.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” responded the men as they drew nearer, climbing the hill towards the boys behind the fence.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang again from behind the fence.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang as they reached the crest of the hill under baking hot sun, all laden in full army camouflage, dripping in sweat as the drill instructor pressed them on.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang as the sound of men quick-stepped past the fence. The boys never saw the men, nor did the men ever see the boys.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the tenor choir sang as they rounded a bend, disappearing into the distance.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

Momma loaded her boys into the car.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Philip, the older boy sang.

“You’ll need shorter hair than that mop you’ve got,” Momma said as she buckled him into his seat.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Jason sang.

“You too,” she said, reaching for his own harness buckles. “It’s hair cut day today.”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang in unison as the car left the driveway, turning down the hill towards the exit gates.

As the car descended the steep hill, another choir of young men, some looking no more than a decade older than the two babies in the back seat, ran up the hill, singing the song again, and the boys sang back. Their faces dripping wet as their heads bowed, clothes soaked as feet began to drag, the only remaining power they had was their singing. Despite screaming lungs, despite exhaustion and dehydration under the incredible power of the suns rays, their voices continued to reign supreme over the hill.

Momma guided the two boys into the barber shop, waving hello to the Chinese man with the scissors. The Asian men sitting in the waiting area reading newspapers all reached over to run their hands through each boys golden locks. The black floor was quickly swept white, the black Asian hair piled into the corner and the men all waved the boys to the head of the queue. First Philip, then Jason sat and had their blonde hair excavated, sent to the floor, and their heads, instead of mops, now looked like bristled brushes.

As Momma picked up Jason from the chair, the barber swept the floor again, the gold going into a different pile. As though the boys heads were this man’s own little Klondike or Central Otago or Kalgoorlie, people would pay a hefty price in the market for golden hair.

As Momma paid, the boys burst into song again.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

The room went quiet. The men all looked at each other, then at the boys who squirmed and began to inch their way behind their mother’s legs for protection.

Then, the first man giggled, then the second, then the whole room began laughing.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” sang the barber.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” sang the other men in the room.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” sang the boys.

Momma arrived at the entry gate and showed her identification papers to the young man standing guard.

“Thank you, Miss,” he said. “You know, your boys singing is what gets us all up that hill every day. When we hear them singing, we keep going. It’s the one thing that keeps the men here sane.”

That night, Daddy came home and picked up Jason.

“Can you say Daddy?”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

“How about Momma? Can you say Momma?”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

“Can you say Jason?”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

Daddy smiled, and as Momma entered the room and kissed him, he looked up to her with serious eyes.

“For the next few days, don’t use any roads other than the main road out of camp.”

“Why not?”

“A few Saffies hung themselves off power poles today and the Singaporean Army is going to leave them up.”

“Those poor, poor boys,” Momma said, shaking her head.

The next day, Momma was under the sun umbrella, escaping to another tropical paradise between paperback. The boys sat in the little pool, only a few inches deep, filling water pistols and shooting at one another. And they heard it again, as usual.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys replied as Momma stood up.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang as Momma lifted Philip to sit on the fence.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier.”

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang again as Momma carried Jason to the fence. She held he and his brother as they watched the young men climb the hill.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang as they got near the boys.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang back.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang, smiles growing on their exhausted drawn faces as they saw the boys for the first time.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the boys sang, waving as the men arrived.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang, waving and smiling, trying to hide their pain.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Jason sang, still waving as the men got to the corner.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” the men sang as they disappeared from sight and sound.

“I wanna be a SAF soldier,” Jason sang again, to himself this time.

Momma lifted Jason back into the pool and he went back to filling his water pistol in readiness for his never-ending war with Philip.

“Why aren’t you singing, Philip?” Momma asked as she returned to pick him up, carrying him back to the pool.

“They’re sore, Momma,” he said.

“The men who are singing?”

“Yeah,” Philip said. “They’re sore.”

“That’s right, Philip. They’re very sore."

maps and blood types

i gave some students a test to find out if they can tell me directions in English to get to some places in Shiwa, yet they didn't know at all. one girl said, to get to the subway station, first catch the bus, second, when you see the station sign, get off the bus. considering they're 15, i found their lack of knowledge of their hometown pretty odd. so, i had to get a map for them and figured i'd post it.

best representation of where i live:


the red circle is Shiwa, and the yellow arrow is pointing at the causeway i rode my bike along in summer (11km of top gear time trialing, rah).

and Shiwa:


dark grey: work
purple: two subway stations
yellow: E-mart (supermarket)
red: movie theatre
green: two driving ranges i know (there's others i can't find)
black: Hapkido class
orange square: restaurants, bars, noribangs (karaoke), and general shopping.
light blue: north west of that line is a big park that gets filled every weekend in summer with people cycling, playing sports, etc. there's a hill to climb too.

the buildings with blue rooves to the south are manufacturing plants. a lot of the people working there drink in the same places as us. the green line of trees literally seperates the industrial from the residential.

the same class of kids that didn't know how to get to the subway station asked what my blood type is, but i didn't know. they were shocked. the whole class knew theirs. different priorities? indeed, when i joined at Hapkido, Kwan Jang Nim's face told the story when I couldn't tell him my blood type. he wasn't impressed.


ignore this picture again, i'm still trying to turn it into a banner

Black Heart 4

Do the things you hate to become the person you want to be.

2 days of my Hapkido classes and, as you'd expect, Kwan Jang Nim (Master) is trying to kill me. my legs are in painful rigidity yet could give way at any time. my neck and back are feeling the effects of continuous tumbling. so yeah, regretting it already. Starting this has got me thinking of healthier food, which hopefully will eventuate withe me EATING healthier food.

And, I got a haircut, an experience in itself, as my hair was quite a mop. The woman cutting hair, however, seemed ill at ease about cutting it short. I pointed to a picture of a guy with hair like I wanted, but she just wouldn't cut it that short. No matter what I told her, she'd leave it too long. I gave up and smiled, paid the fee (cheap) and walked out. I may have to go into Seoul to get an english speaker, if I stay picky. The kids at school laughed and also got angry. Their nickname for me is Mabagi, as when I pinned my hair back, I looked like a famous Korean comedian guy. Now I'm "Mabagi Teacher" but they'll think of something else soon.

To be honest, I don't want to write about the work negatives. Despite wanting to address them, history suggests other efforts have proved futile. Maybe I should just accept them and get on with life. This week has, for want of a better term, been absolutely meh (reasons undisclosed).

The job I signed up for is, quite literally, NOT the job I am charged with. I could begin complaining, but that's a waste of breath. The biggest issue I have to deal with is being angry about the situation. Staying angry isn't working. I gotta try something else.

Black Heart 3

Read black heart 1 & 2 first for part 3 to make sense. kinda like a trilogy (it may have five parts though).

Solution #1
Bonnie made some phone calls and found me a Hapkido class last night! It's every weekday for an hour at 11am. She said it's for adults, so I won't be hiptossed by a 7 year old (hopefully). I haven't joined yet, but I'll be doing so on Tuesday, starting classes on Wednesday. I'm giddy as a school girl about it!

Problem #1 due to solution #1
I have to choose between cooking and doing Hapkido. For the time being, cooking comes second based on the idea that I can* cook in NZ, but maybe not do Hapkido so regularly.

Solution #2
Apples are notoriously expensive in Korea, but they're a luxury I can afford (it's not like I'm in the habit of buying diamond earings and gold-plated toilets). Banana's, however, are super cheap. I bought a big bunch, maybe 14, for US$2.10. I'm eating one as I type, and likely to be buying more as you read this. Better than chicken and chips.

Solution #3
Making plans for travel during and after my term. I'm not sure if it's healthy to make plans for spending money in a year's time, but thinking travel makes the less fun lessons easier than thinking money.

Black Heart part deux

If you haven't read the Black Heart post, this may make less sense. Read that first.

I will address the living issues first because, I get the feeling that if i sort these out, the work issues won't seem too important.

overall health and fitness
basically, i'm not very healthy and my fitness is gone down the gurgler (Satanic chicken worshipper here). i got a head cold a month ago and i've still got it. my basic rule for health while i'm sick is not going to the gym until i'm over it, but it's not going away. what do i do? stay sick and get unhealthier overall?!

what i will do:
i'm just gonna go back to the gym and see how i feel. it can only make a sick boy feel worse.

the problem diet
working late cuts down my eating options, as few places are open after 10pm; I don't like much Korean food; the break time I have between classes is too short to do anything other than eat at work (sometimes i enjoy the food) or eat from the restaurants nearby (if tofu soup is on the menu at work); result is I have the perfect excuse to eat a ton of junkfood or takeaways.

what I will do:
cook a big meal at home earlier in the day and eat less at work (for this, I would need to go to Seoul once a week to buy the food I want to cook); go to the market twice a week (this shouldn't be difficult) for fruit and veges; hunt for a decent orange juice.

the outdoors and activities
snow is likely this week and it's going to be cold until march apparently. i really enjoy going for walks, climbing hills/mountains, and cycling, but due to the weather, i won't go (i hate danger on mountains). so i'm going nuts already, and that nuts looks more like couch-potato syndrome (think Homer Simpson, but lazy).

what I will do:
join a sports team or club that does something physically challenging EVERY weekend. indoor football or something would be a good outlet while I wait for the mountains to be easily climb-able (spelling?) again.

boredom
when i'm not working, i'm bored. this is probably why i'm living vicariously through the internet. this, in effect, is creating more boredom (i can only read about rugby and the Iraq war so much). there are no events on my weekly plan that aren't work related, and few that are.

what i will do:
i'd say joining a sports club and cooking at home will make me less bored (i love cooking). also, i've got five books on my dresser that i'm avoiding reading in case i don't want to put them down. I've also started writing another book - will post some stuff after these diatribes into happier and healthier living.

comments
any suggestions, don't be shy.

Black Heart 1

I was substitute in a class today and the kids were supposed to be learning "pink" and "heart". So, they were all colouring in hearts with pink crayons except one little boy who coloured his black. It was an apt summation of how I, in particular, felt at the time.

I was subbing as the teacher skipped town on the weekend. She got her pay packet on friday and did a runner. All she left was a note on her bed (which I haven't read) for her roommates.

Apart from the extra work I'll have to do (3 classes a week), I don't hold any animosity towards her. Truth be told, I could tell you a few things that made her time here difficult, and they're very common. The money is pretty good teaching in Korea, but it's not an easy life adjustment to make. The food, culture and the language difficulties are only the start.

Bonnie (my supervisor) was passing out the new teaching schedule in the wake of *'s departure, and I was pretty irritated about the situation. The irritation was directed more at myself than anyone though. * didn't like some things about working/living here, so she did something about it. I don't like a few things about working/living here, but I'm just pretending that I can handle it and hoping I won't go nuts before Christmas. That spells pansy to me.

I understand a few billion people would kill for my position, but that doesn't mean what I'm not happy about isn't valid. So what if life is pretty sweet. That doesn't automatically translate to health and enjoyment.

I will tackle the issues head on instead of avoiding them as I have been. In fact, here's where the buck stops: this blog, for the time being, will only cover me addressing those areas of my work and life in Korea that I will attend to. End of story. Tomorrow, I will post a list of things to address.

Land of the long green net

Up and down the country, they're everywhere. For every 10 churches there'll be a driving range, so that means there's a lot! This is our local (photo from my living room window).

Brian, Leyla and I, fitting in with the natives, are getting into a habitual pattern in time for winter. Photos by Leyla, a Kiwi who I work with. Impressive pictures, considering the shutter-speed of my camera is shocking and capturing a golf-swing is nigh-on impossible.


After a few weeks of hitting balls, they're finally going straight, regularly. On thursday I hit the target you can see in the distance (about 150 metres away). Brian owes me a jug for that but after Deidre's farewell, I'm off booze. Actually, after the day after Deidre's farewell, I'm off booze.ignore this photo. i'm trying to post a picture onto my banner. you'll know if it's working or not.

and these ones

Remember, remember . . .

. . . the fifth of November,
the gunpowder treason and plot.

I know of no reason
why the gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

I thought this photo from Guy Fawkes night in Shiwa was pretty orsum


This one, however, is quite lame.

autumn Beopjusa

At Ansan bus station (closer to home than Seoul station), I remembered I still can't pronounce Korean vowels properly. The "eo" sounds like the "o" in chop, while "o" sounds like the "oo" in book. Of course, the "u" in Cheongju sounds like the "oo" in food. Or, all of that's untrue.

I had to say it correctly, as there's a Chongju near Cheongju (confused yet?), but I bought a ticket and figured I could say Seoul properly if I ended up somewhere else. The 2 hour ride took us through a kaleidescope of low-lying Korean grey mist and smoke. We ventured through small towns and alongside rivers of slow-flowing water and additives. All I could see was the odd intermittent residential upright domino (apartment building) surrounded by low-lying manufacturing and industrial plants producing effluent being swallowed by the big grey beast trapped by the hills. After what seemed like being in a capsule shot through one of Rutherfords more cloudy experiments, the bus stopped in Cheongju, er, Chongju, er . . . , ****.

I got another bus to Sangrisan National Park and Beopjusa Temple (pronounced Popjusa) and was on the road for another 2 hours. We passed a lake betraying rocks copper-stained from the diminishing waterline. In smalltown Korea, the bus stopped for passengers then joined a traffic-jam in another small town.

Finally, Beopjusa Temple:
I don't know the protocol for photographs of outdoor giant Buddhas. I've been instructed to not photograph the indoors ones. If you KNOW this photo is against protocol, please let me know. Disclaimer: some of my friends "knowing" will be ignored.

I'm not one for "colourful tree photo" taking, but these trees were stunning from 50 metres away. Photo does no justice, as autumn at Beopjusa Temple could be awesome for nature photographers. Personally, I think the art of it would be keeping all the people out of shot (pedestrian traffic was streaming everywhere).

Back to Cheongju that night (not Chongju, not Chongju, not Chongju), luckily the Orange Place restaurants had an outlet near the bus station, and I was soon in bed watching bad bad movies. Next day, home.

Something Interesting:
Subtitles of American movies on Korean TV don't mention measurements in yards and miles at all. They translate and calculate them into metric, which saves Koreans from wondering what the hell a yard is. Wish NZ tv did the same.

Cartoons from NZ papers

Well, I thought they were funny.