I asked my driver but he wasn’t aware
what the names of the broad majestic trees are that line the highway from Chang
I into the city. “Baobab?” I offered. “Gum” perchance? Then
he said “I think they’re called rain trees.” ‘Rain trees’ made me think
that perhaps it was a Chinese name he was translating in his mind. I’ll
have to look up if there isn’t something called a “yu shu”. (Investigated. Don’t appear to be no such thing: "rain tree".)
This older gentleman jumped out of
his cab and came right over to hold the door for me and ask where it is we were
off to. “It’s a very nice day today.” I agreed and considered his
use of the word “very.” He has a boyish haircut and a boyish amount of
black hair atop a long thin head. I’d say he’s ten years older than me,
but I could be off. He speaks English well. He asked me where I was
coming from. I said “Beijing.” “Cold. Must be cold?”
“No. This is the best time there. A month from now, it will be
cold.” I peppered my speech with a few Mandarin phrases but he didn’t
pick up the thread. I suppose I would still be speaking with him instead
of listening to some live Woody Shaw, but while we were having the conversation
I was narrating above, he had the radio playing the theme from the original “Ghostbusters”
very loudly. I couldn’t take it. I imagined briefly, that that song
might hold some meaning for him. Those were the days.
The concrete supports of the highway
overhang are covered in jungle vines, which is a nice thing you can do if you
well-manicure the jungle to highlight your civic pride, like some latter day
Angkor Wat. I hopped in the cab where I normally would, in the right
rear seat and noted that I was awkwardly positioned behind the driver. I
have managed wrong-side-of-the-street driving before. I could do this. But dense urban traffic on the wrong side of
the road is most disconcerting. I keep second-guessing every turn, as you
do in Hong Kong. What a comforting thing that must be when one travels
the Commonwealth, if this sort of opposite driving were what you grew up with, were what you considered normal.
I’ve seen a number of faux peacocks
recently. Why? They were laid out in one and then another faux
diorama at the airport. Now there is another
giant one here in the meridian of the highway . . . (I made the effort to
pause and read the sign when next at the airport. Hindu Diwali is on and the peacock is the regal
symbol associated with it.) I’ll be in
and out this time. They’ll be no time
for the remarkable Singapore aviary. I recall all these small, open back
pickup trucks that suggest Singapore and even more so Malaysia, that often have
twenty guys stuffed in the back.
There goes another crew.
I just had that “I’m not from around
here,” pang of doubt in my cab driver as we made our way a further from
downtown. I checked my GPS and confirmed that we were heading to the
right location. Suddenly, magically the surroundings suddenly seem to
suggest a neighborhood such as I’d imagine my hotel being located in. I’m at a
crossroads that I don’t think I could have managed to cross were I to have been doing the driving. I see the Sheraton sign.
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