In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

  After spreading the hay out in the pen, Elizabeth put her hands to her mouth and cried rhythmically, “Hiya! Hiya! Hiya!”

  It sounded strange, but when she had repeated this several times, there came a sudden sound of galloping hoofs from the originally quiet forest. Then, mooing sounds came from all over as a herd of fat cattle burst into the clearing. One cow after another came out from the forest, head bent in search of the tasty food.

  Elizabeth carefully counted the cows and, after calculating, turned a wide-eyed, smiling face to me and said, “Today a new calf should be born.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, amazed.

  “I keep careful track of each cow’s breeding schedule. Their gestation period is the same as a human’s, nine months. When the cows are ready to calf, they like to find a place deep in the hills to hide, not even coming down when I call them for a meal like this. Two or three days after giving birth, it will proudly bring the calf down the mountain. That being the case, each time I count the cows and find that one is missing, I know that she’s gone into the hills to take care of her business.”

  With an air of extreme happiness, she handed over the work to Julie and hurried me back to the vegetable garden to water and fertilise the crops there.

  From a distance, I saw Jenny riding a handsome pony back and forth in the vast empty space in front of the house. Her beautiful blonde hair whipped about in the cold wind.

  “Can you stay until tomorrow?” Elizabeth suddenly asked.

  “No, we have already booked tonight’s flight to Perth,” I replied.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said regretfully. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and we’ll hold our annual horse race here.”

  She went on to tell me that, for the past five years, she had been giving free riding lessons for boys and girls who were keen but did not have the opportunity to learn, and the response had been very good. Two years earlier, she had even started teaching a class for the handicapped.

  “Most handicapped people are lonely because the usual non-handicapped people don’t take the time to listen to how they feel.” Her marble-like eyes sparkling, she added, “A spirited animal is often able to alleviate their loneliness, but the sad part is that their handicap often prevents them from being close to animals. My main motive in starting this class was to help them overcome this obstacle. On top of this, in order to enable them to enjoy the fun experienced by able-bodied people, I hold a horse race for them each year. Last year’s champion was a fifteen-year-old boy who was born without arms. He used his toes to control the reins, and was able to win first prize.”

  I felt both touched and impressed. Touched because, even though she was so busy, she still made time to organise an activity to benefit others, and impressed because she seemed to have endless resources of energy.

  When we came back to the house again, it was already afternoon. After drinking some of her homemade ginger beer, we bade them farewell.

  Just as when we had arrived, she grabbed my hands warmly and said affectionately, “I really miss Singapore. Maybe one day when John and I are too old to keep up this sort of hard work and we’ve saved a little money, we can go for a visit again.” She looked at John and winked as she added, “When I taught there, I had lots of Chinese boyfriends. When we go back, I’ll definitely look them up and see if we can rekindle the old flames!”

  We bustled out and loaded the suitcases into the car. The whole family stood on the porch of their lovely little house, waving goodbye. Although we had only stayed there for a day and a night, it was the most memorable part of my trip.

  South America

  Waiting for His Flag

  THE SKY WAS low and foreboding as it pressed down on us. The sparsely scattered clouds floated across it. The land was wide and flat, so vast we could not see where it ended. The green grass spread freely across the ground.

  In Punta Arenas, the southernmost city in Chile, we saw before us a natural landscape like a watercolour painting. When I thought about the time Magellan first set foot on this land, it aroused in me a mystical feeling of being one with the ancient history.

  This small town of a population of just 110,000 attracts tourists through its countless penguins. Risheng and I drove a rented car on a long, dirt road, bouncing along for several hours before we arrived at the coast where the penguins often came ashore. A barbed-wire enclosure stopped cars from entering. We had to walk. The wind was fierce, and sharp as a knife. We walked for a long distance, at least two kilometres, before we saw penguins drifting in the sea. Sleek, black bodies and white chests bobbed on the waves, appearing and disappearing from our view over and over. It was a beautiful sight.

  As we were about to sit down to admire the view, two friendly Americans on their way back down the path pointed the way ahead, telling us the real show was still to come. Continuing in the direction they had pointed us, we walked for another ten minutes, then saw a one-in-a-million, unforgettable sight. Hundreds of little, delicate penguins were standing stock still in rows, backs straight as they stood along the sea shore. The penguins and the guests who had travelled thousands of miles to see them stared tirelessly at one another. With erratic ferocity, the waves surged in the sea, making the ears ring as they crashed. But the penguins stood unfazed by the sounds of the sea, completely at ease, letting the waves knock into them. What was interesting was that, though they did not fear the angry waves, they were afraid of humans. They didn’t mind the tourists staring at them from a distance, but the minute anyone took a step closer to them, they would start to squawk loudly and run away in groups. When they tried to escape, even though they moved quickly, they always stayed in step, perfectly synchronised. It was a truly amazing sight.

  When we went back to town, it was already dark. We drove around for a while and then, to our surprise, saw four Chinese characters lit up in the dim night: Golden Dragon Restaurant.

  Chileans have been greatly influenced by the Spanish. They like nightlife and often have their dinner after ten o’clock at night. It was only eight now and, aside from the waitresses standing around, the whole restaurant was empty.

  We took out our dictionary and ordered in Spanish. The waitress did not understand us, despite our repeated attempts. Just at that moment, an ethnic Chinese man appeared, smiling. He took the initiative to act as our interpreter, helping us to order in fluent Spanish. Then he smiled and asked, in English, “Where are you from?”

  “Singapore.”

  “What? Singapore?” he cried, wide-eyed. His voice rose in pitch, showing his excitement. It startled us.

  Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a pink IC and put it on the table. Laughing, he said, “We are compatriots!”

  Over the past few weeks travelling all over Chile, we had met many immigrant ethnic Chinese, mostly from Mainland China, Taiwan and Hong Kong. But this was the first Singaporean we had met. His pink identity card was like a bridge, quickly building up a sense of kinship between us.

  “When did you move to Chile to work?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t for work. I came to help my mother.” This Singaporean—our new friend, called Xie Dali—continued his story. “Twelve years ago, my mother moved to Chile with my Danish stepfather. I didn’t go with them, but stayed in Singapore. After several years, my stepfather retired early and bought a large ranch in Punta Arenas where he raised three thousand head of cattle. My mother opened this restaurant and asked me to come over and help with it.”

  “Is business good?”

  “It’s all right. The place is pretty remote, and there aren’t a lot of tourists. Most of our customers are locals.”

  “How long did you have to study Spanish to become so fluent?”

  “Oh, three years ago, when I decided to apply for an extended leave of absence to come to Chile, I took up Spanish lessons in Singapore. But we only studied things useful in daily life. Then, when I came to Chile, I found that there weren’t many people who could speak English, so within a few months,
I was forced to learn more Spanish.” He paused, then came to a conclusion. “When learning a language, I feel that being immersed in real-life situations is better than learning in the classroom. It’s much more effective.”

  I completely agreed with him.

  This fellow who had grown up in the concrete jungle and then moved to a country whose environment was completely different certainly had to stretch his adaptability to the limit. Or, to be more accurate, he had already learnt to love this wild, rural land.

  “When I first came to this vast place, I felt that it was a paradise on Earth—it’s huge, and there are so few people. It is so lonesome, and yet so beautiful. I still remember the first time I went to my stepfather’s ranch and saw cattle roaming on the prairie, it gave me an electric feeling, as if a spirit that had long been asleep inside me was just waking up.” With an intoxicated expression, he continued, “The cows are all dark brown, and the grass is so green. When the wind blows over it, the grass moves like waves. And when the cattle start to run, another wave of brown sweeps across it. The grass waves, the cows run, and the brown and green waves undulate. It is too beautiful for words!”

  I listened, entranced. Dali couldn’t stop rattling on.

  “There is a clear river on the ranch, running thirty-three kilometres. It’s full of plump fish. I often fish there, then grill the catch on the spot. It is so fresh! Sometimes when there is strong wind and the current is swift, I’ll sneak away from work for half a day and go rafting. It’s lots of fun!”

  During the course of his long vacation in Punta Arenas, Dali also learnt how to snow ski and hunt. When he talked about hunting, Dali could not help but tell us an interesting story.

  “Once, a newlywed Singaporean couple came here for their honeymoon, and I took them out to hunt wild duck. The man was not bad at all, hitting his target the first time he took a shot. But we never anticipated the bride’s reaction when she saw the duck lying in its puddle of blood. She screamed and fainted. After she came to, she was in a bad mood the rest of the time, thinking her husband very cruel. But she didn’t realise that, in fact, hunting is an activity that can really enhance one’s interest in life, it has nothing at all to do with a person’s character.”

  As he finished his story, the waitress brought out the dishes we had ordered. Dali stood up courteously and asked, “How long do you plan to stay in Punta Arenas?”

  “Two days.”

  When he heard that, he smiled broadly and said, “Getting to meet people from my own country in such a remote place makes me very happy. Tomorrow is Sunday, so the restaurant will be closed. Since I am free, I can take you around. How does that sound?”

  The next day, Risheng and I got up early and went for a walk in the local vegetable market. When we got back, before we even stepped inside, we heard loud laughter. Going in, we found that Dali, bold and uninhibited, was already sitting on the sofa, speaking Spanish with our landlord and getting on with him like he was a local.

  We went in Dali’s van to the peak of a mountain to view the scenery. Although it was summer, the change in climate made the cold feel like thousands of tiny arrows all flying right at me. I put a windbreaker on over my sweater, but I was still so cold that I started shivering. Dali noticed me shrinking back, looking awkward. Unable to keep himself from laughing, he said, “The climate in Punta Arenas is very unpredictable. Sometimes, you can experience the changes of the four seasons all in one day. In the morning the sun will shine warm and bright, but by afternoon, it will rain excessively, sometimes accompanied by a wickedly cold wind.”

  “Oh, if summer can get this cold, winter must be unendurable.”

  “Well, Punta Arenas’s winter is very interesting.” Dali continued excitedly. “Every year, June through August, there are three phases of winter. In the first stage, it’s romantic and beautiful. The snowflakes fall like powder, fine and delicate, slowly drifting to the ground and making a poetic picture of the land. The second stage is wet and soggy. At this time, the snow doesn’t fall in flakes, but in clumps, with huge patches settling on the ground, where it turns to slush. When you walk on the road, you can easily slip and fall, and it is hard to control the car when you drive. It is very awkward. The third stage is quite frightening. The ice comes down in hail, small, round and hard. Each piece is like a ball, beating mindlessly against the body or on the car. When it hits you, it hurts a little. When it hits the car, it is very noisy. In this stage of winter, the hardest thing to put up with is the ice that covers the ground. The tyres of the cars are caked with ice, completely unable to move, and you have to use hot water to free it. It’s very inconvenient.”

  Dali was an expert storyteller. The winter in Punta Arenas really came alive in his description. This remote little town, tucked into a corner of the earth, could even turn a mundane winter into something interesting and unique.

  Coming down from the mountain, Dali brought us to the jetty where Chileans first landed, then we went and walked in the town for a while, taking lots of photos. Feeling there wasn’t anywhere else to go, he suggested enthusiastically: “Would you like to go back to my house for a bit?”

  He lived in a large house, three storeys tall and with seven big rooms.

  What caught my attention was a considerable pile of newspapers in one corner of the house. I went over to look, and found that all were overseas editions of The Straits Times.

  “I am a long-time subscriber, mostly because I want to stay in touch with Singapore. In the future, no matter how things develop for me in Chile, I will not give up my Singapore citizenship.” When he said this, Dali’s youthful face took on a very mature, determined look.

  When we were leaving Punta Arenas to fly to Santiago, Dali drove us to the airport in his van. Although we had kept declining his kind offer of a lift, he said frankly, “Don’t worry about it. I make a trip to the airport every day. Several friends and I own a shipping business. We also help researchers stationed at the South Pole and other exploration parties get their essential provisions.”

  Before we took off, I asked Dali whether there was anything we could help him do in Singapore. He hesitated, then said, “If you have friends coming to Chile in future, could you ask them to bring me a Singapore flag?”

  A warm feeling flooded my heart.

  For several years, this had been at the centre of public debate in Singapore: those Singaporeans who lived overseas were seen as unpatriotic, whilst those who remained at home unadventurous. But even so far away in Chile, I found a different sort of Singaporean—confident, dignified, full of self-respect, and self-reliant.

  Most importantly, this born and bred Singaporean always maintained a tender pact with the home that had raised him. No matter how far he travelled, nor how high he flew, he did not plan to forget his beloved nest. He wished, most honestly and sincerely, to return. And he would.

  Some day, when someone I know goes to Chile for a holiday, I hope they will let me know. I will ask him to travel to Punta Arenas, and to deliver a package to the man who is waiting for his flag.

  Only a Lifetime

  THE DAY WE arrived in Palenque, it was hot as an oven. Sticky streams of sweat dribbled down my back like earthworms. In the midsummer heat, Risheng and I sat in a little pick-up, jostling along a good stretch of mountain road. Then we walked through a deep jungle and arrived at the site of Mexico’s world famous Mayan ruins, Palenque.

  The moment I saw it, it took my breath away.

  The elegantly designed palace was covered with carvings, and the beautiful temple with inscriptions. Though Palenque had been through a baptism of the ages, it still stood solid and indomitable. What really impressed me was not its awe-inspiring manner, but how the Mayans actually built this spectacular palace and imposing temple on the highlands over a thousand years ago, unarmed with modern tools, just through resolute determination and unceasing hard work.

  The ruins of Palenque are evidence of the superb wisdom of the Mayans. Many people have pointed out that t
he uniqueness of the contemporary Mexicans was influenced by American Indian culture. So, those who arrive in Mexico knowing nothing about American Indian culture will perhaps have trouble understanding the present circumstances in Mexico.

  Mayan culture is one of the three great indigenous cultures in Mexico, and theirs was the most advanced civilisation before the Spanish invaded the Americas. Agriculture was of primary importance to the Mayans along with hunting and fishing. They had a refined culture, with impressive achievements in many fields of study, including astronomy, maths and architecture. In addition, they invented a form of hieroglyphics which until today, has not been deciphered. They left behind a glorious history in Mexico.

  Located in the southern part of the Yucatán Peninsula, Palenque is the finest of the Mayan historical ruins.

  According to rough estimates, there are now still tens of thousands of Mayans scattered over south-eastern Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. After we had visited the ruins at Palenque, we picked up our luggage and went excitedly to Mérida, a big city inhabited by many Mayan people. Located in the northern part of the Yucatán Peninsula, Mérida was a fairly busy metropolis.

  In Mérida, I ran into Ferdy and Rodrigo, two Mayan people who spoke English. Through them, I gained some insights into the lifestyle of the Mayan people in Mexico today.

  Ferdy and the Mayan Fair

  My acquaintance with Ferdy started with Mexican food. We had taken a bus from Palenque to Mérida, a journey of ten hours. Whilst reading through some tourist brochures on the bus, I came across an interesting passage. It introduced a Mexican dish that had a history of a thousand years, called cochinta pibil. It consists of seven or eight kilos of pork seasoned with vinegar, mint, garlic, onions, and other traditional Mexican spices, all wrapped in banana leaves. A large rock is placed in a fire pit of coals, and allowed to heat until it turns red hot. Then the pork and heated rock are buried in earth, letting the rock bake the pork underground. After a couple of hours, the soil is dug apart, and the meat that is drawn out is tender and extremely tasty. How could anyone resist trying something that tastes so good?