Rain Trees Made Me Think

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.