The Men Who Hold Up The Mountain

Yesterday I watched a documentary on the porters of Huashan, one of China’s five sacred Taoist mountains, which is about 2200 metres high.

These porters carry loads of provisions like cold drinks, tea leaves, beer, etc up the mountain for the tea-shops and hotels there. The loads, which can weigh from 50 kg to 150 kg, are carried tied in bundles and hung from both ends of a long bamboo pole which the men carry on their shoulders. The documentary features a few porters, each with his distinctive style of climbing the mountain.

The first man, in his late forties, sings at the top of his voice as he slowly climbs up the steps of the stone stairs. He has lost a few front teeth and has scars on his body as a result of accidents while climbing the mountain. Due to poverty, his wife had left him so he has brought up his two children on his own. To make more money, he carries loads of 140-150 kg and has earned enough to build his own house and send both his sons to university. They are working now so he is saving the money he earns for his old age when he can no longer work.

The second, an amiable man in his sixties, appears to be talking to himself as he climbs. Actually, he is a movie buff and he is re-enacting the movies that he has watched. He can sing, too and when he meets his friend, the “singer”, they would perform a duet or sit down to have a chat. His grown-up children want him to stop but he loves the mountain too much. They have given in but insist that he carries a load of no more than 60 kg.

The third man, also in his sixties, is a self-taught flutist. He plays the flute with both hands with the pole balanced on his shoulder while he walks. He plays well and claims that tourists climbing the mountain have told him that his music helps them too. When he reaches a steep slope, he would keep his flute and start singing. He has managed to send his children to college too, and they are now working in the city. Talking about his far-away children brought tears to his eyes (and I thought tough mountain men don’t cry!).

The fourth man is a wiry 75 year old with long white hair and a weather-beaten face. He is rather taciturn and does not reveal much. He carries a 50 kg load and shouts loudly as he climbs; with his wild long hair, you could have mistaken him for a mad man!

These men do not have an education or other skills to get another job. They took up mountain-porterage because the only qualifications needed are stamina and a strong pair of legs. Yet they know how to divert their attention from pain and suffering by singing, enacting, playing music, shouting, etc. They also exhibit extraordinary camaraderie. A shout by one of them would elicit a chorus of responses; it is as if they are shouting encouragement to one another. They would also happily share a song or have a chat when they meet. If one of them were to be unable to carry on because of a fall or some other reason, the others would willingly help carry his load without asking for money even though their earnings are meager.
These men, with furrows on their shoulders, scars on their bodies and sinews in their legs as a result of all that climbing somehow know the meaning of friendship and compassion. We have a lot to learn from them.

A Year in Japan.....collection of our first year journey

Life Is Not A Prison

This is an updated version of a reply I made last year in response to a poem done by a depressed youth on her feelings of total hopelessness.

Life is not a prison
So tell me why you shout
And ask God to listen
When others are about

Climb high to view your dreams
Ride on the wave of hope
If you fall, get up again
No matter how steep the slope

We all need a window
To see the road ahead
The future may be scary
But it’s not what we dread

It is painful to watch
Those who lock themselves away
Joy, love and happiness
Grow slowly day by day

Strong is good, weak is bad
Be it false, be it true
The strong also have weaknesses
The weak have strengths too

Norms are set by society
With guidelines to follow
These are for everyone
Us and every other fellow

For most, life’s a routine
And at times can be boring
Resolutely, we carry on
No, we are not pretending

Sometimes there’s pain, sometimes joy
As we go on life’s ride
Sometimes happy, sometimes sad
There is no need to hide

Can you see what life’s about?
It’s not just about ourselves
It’s about love, hope, compassion
For us and everybody else

There’s light at the end of the tunnel
To help you find your way
Hope at the end of the path
To pull you through each day

Have You Ever ........

Have you ever sung with a sparrow
By imitating it’s “tweet”
Though the bird looks a little baffled
Boy, it is a great duet

Have you ever climbed up a tall, thin
And gangly papaya tree
To have it slowly bend down to earth
Because of the weight of thee

Have you ever pulled the pony-tail
Of the pretty girl next door
While deep inside you can’t decide if
You like or dislike her more

Have you ever tried to catch the wind
As it passes in a rush
Try as you may, chasing it about
It is always air you grasp

Have you ever sat on a tube and
Go sliding fast down a hill
Even if you fall and tumble down
Gosh, it is still such a thrill

Have you ever tried to speak to one
On whom you have a huge crush
And end up tongue-tied and stammering
Your face coloured red with blush

Have you ever played in the puddles
That’s left by the recent rain
And then return home, wet and dirty
To mama’s dismay again

Have you ever listened to a song
While playing your air guitar
Darn it, at times I do more than that
I conduct an orchestra

Have you ever felt like Peter Pan
Flying high up in the sky
It’s all because the girl of your dreams
Smiles sweetly when passing by

If we have never done the things we do
Would I still be I, and you still be you

Three English Words

Back in the 1950’s, my father was a tailor in a British Army camp. The camp was located just beside the church in Klian Pauh, Taiping. I was about six then and my brother, a year older. He had already started to attend an English school, the Saint George’s Institution.

My father’s tailor “shop” was a shed of zinc and canvas situated in the compound of the camp, away from the imposing main building of brick and mortar. It was a big compound; at the front of the building was a well-kept garden and at the back, a large field of coconut trees. Our shed was situated at the back, near to a durian tree and facing the main gate.

Our country was known as Malaya back then and we were still under British rule. As such, the soldiers in the camp were all British. I was in awe of these soldiers when I first saw them. Who are these giants with their fair skin, coloured hair and eyes and who speak in a strange language?

I don’t remember much about the camp now except for a few events that, for some strange reason, remain in my memory:-

Once I followed my brother to catch grasshoppers among the tall grass at the back of the camp. We kept the grasshoppers in a corked “orange squash” bottle that each of us carried. Our bottles were nearly full when a young giant, wearing a white apron, called out to us. We were scared as we could not understand him and did not know what he wanted. So, we just stood there. He came over, removed the bottles from our hands, released all the grasshoppers that we caught and then indicated with his hand that we should wait. He took the bottles with him back into the small room and we saw him wash the bottles. He then disappeared for awhile and when he returned, he was holding the two bottles filled to the brim with warm tea. He then gave the bottles back to us and shooed us off with a wave of his hand. We ran happily back to the shed to share our bounty.

On another occasion, he gave me a large paper bag full of, what I now realize are, coriander seeds. Not knowing what the seeds were then or what to do with it, I hid the paper bag beneath the cabinet at the side of the shed and soon forgot all about it. Then one day, there was a very strange aroma inside the shed. We started looking for the source of the smell and found that beneath the cabinet, the earth was covered with a carpet of green shoots! Apparently, the rain had wetted the paper bag causing it to tear and spill out the coriander seeds which then sprouted. The adults immediately recognized it as some kind of herb and harvested the plants to cook with chicken that day. They wondered how the seeds got there but I kept my silence. I did not want the hassle of explaining how I got the bag of seeds; they might not believe me.

One rainy day while I was half-asleep inside the shed, we heard the sound of something hitting the ground. On checking, we saw that it was a durian. I immediately wanted to go out to collect it but my father held me back. “It’s okay. You can collect it after the rain has stopped,” he said. “But what if the soldiers were to collect it first?” I cried. “No, they won’t,” he replied calmly. True enough, after the rain, the durian was still there. Back then, I did not know why the British soldiers left the durian alone or why my father insisted that we take the durian home to eat.

One day, my brother requested that I follow him and do what he does. So, after a little training, the two of us went around the camp looking for the soldiers and when we found one, we would stand at attention, salute and loudly cry out, “Hello John. Give me ten cents.” We were doing quite well until Father got wind of it and closed down our operation. Come to think of it, those were the first English words I learned!

Then one day, the soldiers all climbed into their trucks and rumbled out of town. Father said they were going home. “Why and where is their home?” I asked. Father then mentioned something about gaining our independence and the soldiers going back to their own country. Adults can sometimes be so confusing!

During the weekends, Father would carry me on his BSA motorcycle to visit his friends. Inevitably, they would ask him how he communicated with the British soldiers. (Father was Chinese-educated). “It’s easy,” he would always say, “You only need to know three English words: Yes, No, Alright.”
Incredulous as it may seem, I later reasoned out that what Father said is largely true. I can imagine the following exchanges between the soldiers and him:-

“I want to make a pair of trousers” - “Yes”
“Can you reduce the price?” - “No”
“I need it by Sunday” - “Alright”

With just three English words, my father was able to raise our family.

Much later, when I was raising a family of my own, I was confident that I would succeed whatever the hardships. After all, thanks to my brother, I know at least six English words – “Hello John. Give me ten cents.”

Sunset

As the blood-red sun sinks into the sea
Beyond the quiet tree-lined sandy beach
The parched Hibiscus and Bougainvillea
Flowers drooping, for water they beseech

Homing birds fly over the sea, green-blue
Above the silhouettes of tall palm trees
Against the sky, a blazing orange hue
As the land is swept by the evening breeze

As the last rays of twilight wave goodbye
And dusk descends in gloom before the night
Casting bashful shadows that hide, so shy
From the rising moon and the stars so bright

Burnt out and weary the sun needs to rest
To emerge at dawn at nature’s behest

Fickle Love

Your love just like a soft tender caress
Excites and titillates me to the core
Torrid passion, combined with fine prowess
Enthralls and leaves me yearning for much more

Entwined lovers, lost in a world, insane
Feasting wildly on a fervent affair
But then, slowly, your love begins to wane
I’m left broken and in utter despair

Raging anger and dreams, in tears, dissolve
Sounding our love with the dreaded death-knell
Without regrets and with stoical resolve
I bid my love a heart-rending farewell

Flaming passion slowly flickers and dies
Fickle lovers waver amidst their lies