by You Jin
I had always wanted to teach at a junior college, and I thought this would be the best opportunity for me to leave Hua Yi. So I shared my intentions with Ms Ooi, who had opted for early retirement at the end of the year.
Two days later, she called me into her office and said, “In 2000, there will be a new junior college opening in Jurong. Would you be willing to go there?”
I asked casually, “Who will the principal be?”
“Mr Kwek Hiok Chuang.”
A strong, hardworking face appeared in my mind’s eye. I had read numerous articles about him in both the Chinese and English newspapers. Just thirty-three years old, he had become known as the youngest school principal in the country and had been named “top educator” for his work as principal at Anderson Secondary School. There were many stories about him, the most common being that he was a perfectionist, and that he had extremely high expectations of those under him. He was nicknamed “Desperado”.
While he was the principal at Anderson Secondary School, I had been invited to the school to give a lecture. I had also talked to him on the phone before, but we had never actually met.
I thought, Wouldn’t teaching at a school run by him be a challenge?
Through Ms Ooi, I was put in contact with Mr Kwek Hiok Chuang. In 2000, I was officially appointed to the staff of Pioneer Junior College.
Mr Kwek’s reputation was not unwarranted. He certainly did have the highest expectations of his teachers, but he did not adopt a high-handed policy. Rather, he created a genial work environment, by honouring the teachers, and setting a good example by doing many things himself. In this way, he inspired in his staff a wholehearted commitment to their work. In fact, to many teachers, the always vigilant, quick to act, humorous and sagacious Mr Kwek was both a superior and a friend.
Mr Kwek had a special gift that I found quite surprising. He was well-versed in both Chinese and English, expressing himself eloquently in Chinese idioms. Even more impressive, though, was his ability to misuse idioms appropriately, giving traditional idioms new meaning. When he retires, if he edits a volume titled Idioms Expressed in New Ways, it is sure to be a hit. Besides this, he had a good deal of learning and was familiar with famous characters from both literature and history, which he often brought back to life in his speech. When he wanted to praise or criticise someone, he did not have to say much, but gave that person a name from literature or history, and the listener would immediately understand his meaning. I often felt that Mr Kwek, through his unique personality and ability, lived a dazzling life.
The hours at Pioneer Junior College were longer than teaching at secondary school, and the workload heavier. But the JC students generally had a solid learning ability and good attitude, and there were not many discipline problems. I was as happy as a fish in water.
It is noteworthy that, not long after the school was built, Mr Kwek came up with a new idea. He paired Pioneer Junior College with China’s Chongqing Normal University to publish a combined students’ writing collection. Students of the two countries used their pens as ploughs to till the fertile soil of text. Their completely different ways of thinking, coupled with different writing skills, resulted in mutual agitation, which produced rich fruit on the same piece of land. In 2001, the first collection of Pen was published, with me as editor. It received waves of good reviews, and was featured in all the major newspapers. Television stations came to report on this, and some secondary schools in Singapore even made this collection extracurricular supplementary reading for all levels.
CHAPTER 11
The World is My Home
Developing the Mind
WHEN I WAS small, we had a beautiful globe at home. Once, when I was spinning it, observing it with great delight, my mother pointed at a tiny spot with her pencil and said, “We live here.”
I looked earnestly. That place was tiny, smaller than a grain of rice, and there were an alarming number of places outside that little grain. What were these other countries actually like? My little mind whirled, but it was beyond me.
Later, I read Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne, and my eyes were opened. There were actually so many different people on this earth, with different customs, habits and ways of life. It was at this time that the idea of travel came to me—and the desire.
When I was still a student, if anyone put a map in front of me, I was dazzled by the myriad colours. There were so many countries— flourishing ones, backward ones, rich ones, poor ones, developed ones, primitive ones—all woven into a huge, complex web. But I was just like a little spider, minutely squatting in a grain-sized country on the equator. I wondered and sighed. The world beyond seemed so limitless, and yet life so limited.
As I grew up, I gradually came to understand that with our birth, we are granted a one-way trip through the world. Once this idea hit me, I was determined to travel everywhere I could. If I just spent all my time squatting in my own little corner, I might mistake its limited scope for the whole world. That would limit my writing to the tiny patch of the world within my line of sight.
In 1973, I started travelling overseas, to destinations in Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia and the US, visiting every place and every nation I could. I went as far north as the Arctic Circle, where I saw reindeer run across the white snowy plains. The farthest south I travelled was the Argentinian city Ushuaia, where I tasted the ultimate peace described in the saying “where no birds fly or humans walk”.
I remember that, in the early 1980s, when I decided to travel to the still unexplored Amazon rain forest, someone asked, “Even refugees wouldn’t go to places like that. Why do you want to spend your money to go there?”
When my friend asked me this question, it was with great concern. It was like he took me for an absolute fool. But every time I went travelling, it was an educational opportunity. Even if it was the most horrible place imaginable in most people’s eyes, it was a chance to learn and grow.
When we went to Mexico, some people pointed out that the characteristics of modern Mexican culture were gradually formed from the development of the old indigenous cultures. The Mayan culture was one of the three main indigenous cultures within Mexico, and was a highly developed civilisation before the Spanish invaded the Americas. Agriculture was the primary economic activity of Mayan civilisation, supplemented by hunting and fishing. They were also very advanced in astronomy, maths and architecture. They invented pictographs, which to this day cannot be deciphered, leaving behind an illustrious history within Mexico. Palenque, on the southern tip of the Yucatán Peninsula, was the essence of Mayan historical remains.
There were elegant palaces filled with sculptures, and elaborate temples full of tablet inscriptions. Even though they have been exposed to the elements for thousands of years, they still stand firm and solid today. What really amazed me was not the overwhelming loftiness of these buildings that still exist today, but the extraordinary determination and hard work of the Mayans, who built the glorious palaces and grand temples in ancient times, on high grounds, and with their bare hands.
Today, there are still tens of thousands of Mayan people living in the southern portion of the Yucatán Peninsula. I was very interested in this race that had left behind such a magnificent culture in the Yucatán so, after touring the Mayan ruins in Palenque, I picked up my backpack and went to the city inhabited by Mayan people, Mérida.
Mérida is situated in the northern part of the Yucatán Peninsula, and is a flourishing city. But when I arrived there and did more research on the lifestyle of the Mayan people, I was astonished by their decline.
I travelled to the Mayan village of Kanasín. Most of the houses there were single-storey, and each was built in a different style. There were houses of stone, brick, wood and thatch. Some of the Mayan houses were shockingly dilapidated, just a few boards cobbled together, with large palm leaves thrown across the top to form a little hut. Inside, there was just a wet dirt floor, unkempt and uneven. There was no furniture or, at most, a f
ew hammocks where mothers lay lazily with their children. When it rained, the raindrops fell on them, soaking the young and old in their sleep. The husband of the woman I visited was a painter, working from early morning until late night. The dilapidated house was rented for four hundred pesos a month, roughly twenty Singapore dollars. The woman was very young, and already she had four children. This was a typical Mayan home, where the man worked and the illiterate woman bore children, and stayed home to care for them, adhering to the traditional belief that more children meant more blessings. It was as if time had stopped here, trapping the Mayans in this traditional, carefree way of life. Many Mayans were superstitious and conservative. For instance, some believed that their souls would be captured by a camera, so they feared cameras.
The Mayans, who had once been a shining light of civilisation in Mexico, were now cast away in one corner. From the ancient remains, I had witnessed the past glory of the Mayans, and from the Mayans’ present living situation, I saw their decline. I fully understood the meaning of “no progress means regression”.
Every time I travelled, it was like going through a time tunnel. For instance, when I encountered the Tunisian people and their rustic lifestyle, it was like we had retreated back to primitive times. On other occasions, it was as if we were walking toward the future, like the time I was able to visit NASA.
Stone from one mountain can polish jade from another. When I see others’ happiness or achievements, it pushes me to improve too. When I see their hardships and decline, that likewise is a mirror that reminds me to be vigilant. For me, travelling is a way to remind myself that there is always a mountain beyond the one I am standing on, and that there are always people besides those in my little circle.
Surprises on “Treacherous” Journeys
Once, a middle-aged woman who had seen little of the world went on tour, travelling overseas for two weeks. When she returned, everyone asked her what she thought of the trip. She wrinkled her nose and said she had not seen much besides one flag. The tour guide had been afraid he would lose his group members, so he carried a flag everywhere he went. When the woman walked, she glued her eyes to the flag, so it became the only scenery she saw.
Of course, joining a tour group does have its advantages. The traveller can just go along carefree, not worrying about a thing. Everything is planned and executed by someone else. The other side of the equation is that everything you see, everywhere you go, everything you buy, what time you sleep or wake up, and when to leave the hotel are under someone else’s control. You don’t even have any say in how long you visit a particular site or stay in a particular city. It’s all arranged for you; all you are expected to do is enjoy it.
Travelling on your own is different. Before you set out, you have to read a lot of material and make a lot of plans. Once you start your journey, every item on the itinerary, including all the troubles you encounter on the way, is in your own hands. It is the latter sort of travel that will produce great surprises for the traveller along the way.
When I travel on my own, I examine a map and treat every country as a living body, very sincerely becoming acquainted with them. I listen, look, understand, regurgitate, absorb, then digest. When I start my journey, the countries that have lain like nameless strangers on the map are transformed into dear friends. When I sit down to write about them, each new piece brings to life certain aspects of my new friend.
When I am travelling, the known and the unknown collide to create rich emotional experiences inside me. For instance, in Suzhou’s Mountain Viewing Temple, I have listened with my own ears as someone exclaimed, “Eh, the Mountain Viewing Temple is just a broken-down temple. What’s so special about this place?”
The person who said this had clearly never read the old Tang poem by Zhang Ju, “Anchored at the Maple Bridge at Night”. The thousand-year-old lines read:
moonlight and birdcalls fall through the frosty air
riverside maples and fishermen’s fires announce autumn’s arrival
standing in the Mountain Viewing Temple outside Suzhou’s ancient wall
the night bell’s toll calls to the touring vessels
Any visitor to the temple grounds who has read this poem before will feel that this temple is full of an indescribable emotional appeal and lingering charm. One of my more literary friends even counts the Mountain Viewing Temple as Suzhou’s most interesting sightseeing spot. He once said, “Visiting Suzhou, I can skip seeing the little bridges over the canals that typify the place, but I cannot miss visiting the Mountain Viewing Temple.”
Sometimes, even though I have made good preparations before setting out, I have not been thorough enough, and the tour will be a disappointment. Before I travelled to Jordan and Syria, I hunted down a load of reading material. According to the Bible, Moses, Jesus and the twelve apostles had visited those two countries, meaning that these places had much historical and cultural value. In Jordan, I went to visit an ancient city, but frankly, I was completely unmoved by the place. After I returned home, I consulted several books and learned that it was in fact a sacred site. The Bible records that Jesus performed a miracle there, turning water to wine. When I realised that I had wasted my trip in my ignorance, I was deeply disappointed.
There is an old proverb that says, To read a million books is to travel a million miles. This originally implied that the scholar did not need to go outside, yet was able to know everything under the sun. It was meant to describe the joy of spiritual travel, but I chose to understand the proverb to mean that only by reading widely enough would I be equipped to go on a million-mile journey.
When I visit a country, if I only know what places of interest, food, or local products the place has, it is not enough. It is important to have some understanding of the history of the place; only then can its present economic state, government and way of life begin to make any sense. Usually before I set out for a tour, I will read about the history and geography of the place I am visiting. Then, I will go to that country’s embassy or its top representative body and pick up the newest maps and materials, and I will also purchase the newest travel guide from the bookstore. Today, it’s even more convenient with the Internet.
In recent years, the travel guide I most often consult is the Lonely Planet series. This series of guidebooks has several focal points, including history, geography, government, economy and other information. In addition, all kinds of itineraries are listed for all the cities, big and small. And finally, there is a section for the issues that most concern all travellers, where to stay and what to eat. Best of all, new editions are issued each year. When I have gotten my hands on all that material and made my travel plans, I can happily set out on my way.
If I were to use an illustration to highlight what is so special about travelling, I would say that joining a package tour is like eating chicken breast meat. It is convenient and fleshy, and the diner need not worry about having bones stuck in the throat. On the other hand, independent travel is like eating chicken wings. The soft, delicate meat is hidden between the bones, and the diner has to pick the meat from the bones carefully. Through this troublesome process, she discovers unlimited surprises. One is more convenient, the other more flavourful.
A Story of Note-taking
Some people who have read my long travel narratives2 ask in surprise, “Hey, how can you remember your conversations with people so clearly?”
This is something that comes from painstaking effort. Every time I go on tour, I carry a notebook with me wherever I go. At any point in time and at any place, I will stop and write down what I see and how it makes me feel. When I am in a hurry, these notes are sketchy but, if I have more time, I record in more detail.
Every time I talk with someone, I do not just listen with my ears, but I also give the conversation my wholehearted attention. As soon as I get back to my hotel, I immediately make detailed notes on the key points, recording everything I can remember. To tell the truth, this sort of work is quite labour-intensive,
because I will usually be both physically and mentally exhausted after a day of touring. Still, I always force myself to stay awake while I carefully think back over everything that was said during the day.
With these notes, when I return home, I can revisit the reading material I have collected and add in my own insights. Then I can transfer the people I met along the way from the real world onto the page, kneading them into the text.
My most unforgettable experience of note-taking was in the Amazon Jungle, where there was no water or electricity. During the few days we spent in the jungle, each night I conversed at length with our guide, an indigenous man named Quillis-Sacha, who had undergone training in languages and tour guiding. His life experiences and his current circumstances were completely different from ours, so it was immensely interesting to hear him talk, since everything he said was refreshing. If I did not organise and record the rich conversations when my memory was still fresh and strong, I was sure that, by the time I returned to Singapore, they would have been like scattered pearls, very difficult to string together. And so, I was determined that I absolutely must make good notes.
The jungle was thick and sprawling. Even in the daytime, the thick canopy made it quite dark. Once night fell, I could not even see my hand in front of my face. At night, I lit a candle in our thatched hut and carefully made notes by its light, word by word. Next to the hut, the Amazon River flowed, haunted by crocodiles. From the depths of the jungle, there were all sorts of ape cries, which sounded especially sad in the dark shroud of night. Even worse, there were huge mosquitoes swarming around me as they waited for a chance to suck my blood. After I had made my notes, I looked at my arms, and they were full of red welts, bite marks from the feasting mosquitoes. So, I like to playfully refer to my work as the product of tears and blood. The blood was my offering to the mosquitoes, the tears were the wax dripping from the candle.