Can Planting Concrete Be More Fun?

I've had just enough time to...   see more concrete being planted.

Taken in Cilegon, Indonesia 2 hours from Jakarta 4 months later of the same place as picture below.

On 3 January 2012, I put up a post with the title “Planting Rice Is Never Fun” where I explored the theme of poverty and progress. Is progress a necessary evil? It is not an easy question and the answer depends very much on which side you are from and in. For those who love the beauty of the idyllic farm scene as much as me, we often see the ugly side of progress even as we admit to its necessity at times. But why can’t progress be prettier, to encompass instead of just destroying nature?

This was the image of the field in November 2011.

This is how it looked liked in March 2012.

It is easy to, but I have no right to question whether this is right or wrong for one with no stake in it. I can only lament that the beautiful field of swaying gold is no more. Replace by these piles of concrete jutting out from the barren ground. When the wind blows, I will no longer hear its whispers through the heavy leaden grains but the deep sighs as it swims round stiff concrete.

The Newspaper Boy of Myanmar.

I've had just enough time to...   acknowledge the newspaper boy of Myanmar.

Taken on the way to the wholesale market outside Yangon, Myanmar

My Boy

He dreams

Of striking it rich and

Buying me a house to live in.

My Boy

He worries

About my health and

Saving to buy me new crutches.

My Boy

He wishes

To give more than love and

Love all the more because it is all he can give.

Meanwhile,

He wakes up early

Sells newspaper at the traffic stops

And dream of better days to be.

A Tale of Two Baguettes – Part III: Down On Her Luck, True To Her Self.

I've had just enough time to...  lament the passing of lost arts.

Taken in a in-store bakery in a hypermarket in Hanoi.

I was to learn why Paris’s sister chose to live in poverty in the outskirts rather than in the city. In her own way, she chose to be true to herself. She was down on her luck but tolerated no pity. “Judge me if you will but I’m no prostitute” she challenged me with her incisive eyes. I squirmed under her strong gaze. It was not what I meant but I did sound condescending.

We made up and parted on good terms. As I was leaving, she gave me a peck on the cheek and said “be careful of the city girls”. Before I could turn around, she has disappeared into the building. She is not one for long goodbyes.

In Hanoi, I was shocked by what I saw. The baguettes I have come to love so much reduced to mass produced buyers’ trap. The hypermarket called them “lost leader” using them as a hook to draw in the shopper. Paris’s sister may have lost much of the fine qualities of Paris but at least she retained her soul. Now, I understand what she meant by the word she spat out the word with such vehemence.

I took one bite and choked on it. This is just white bread disguised as a baguette. They are tasteless and soulless but people are queuing up to buy literally by the dozens attracted by the price. Would you believe a long baguette going for only USD 20 cents? After the shock, sadness set in as I looked at the happy shoppers. Have the world been degraded to such an extent that the only Art people recognized these days are the sign on the buck? The only music the jingles of the cash register?

Then I recall the journey of Paris to Saigon and Hanoi and know there is hope yet. That among us, there are still those who can see the romance in life and who can discern the taste of passion. I left Vietnam remembering Paris and her fine bread that taste like love.

A Tale of Two Baguettes – Part II: I Found Paris in Saigon.

I've had just enough time to...   meet her again in Saigon.

Taken in a bakery where I spent a lot of time

Years later, I found Paris in Saigon, the land of conical hats and floating “Ao Dai” (Vietnamese national costume). I could not believe how far she has fallen. She has put on weight and appeared shorter if that is possible. She plied her trade by the road side. My heart bled. What has Life done to my love to lay her so low?

She was almost weightless in my hand. But when I put her to my lips, a rush of nostalgic feelings overwhelmed me. The familiar taste I thought long lost brought me close to tears. It is the same yet different. The aroma is just as rich. No, more so; almost to the point of over-powering for there is the strong lingering scent of melancholy years mixed with regret. I embraced her tightly and caught this shout before it escaped my throat “this heart still beats!”

Taken in a bakery in Hanoi

In South Vietnam she now flourished. She still retained most of Paris in her but has adopted local Asian flare. The climate agreed with her and she bloomed. I left her in good health and a sad farewell. And I went to Hanoi where I met her sister.

At first I did not recognized her for she was in the company of several young men in leather jackets. They seemed to enjoy her company but I thought she was nothing like her sister or Paris. On first look there are some similarities but that is where it ends. She has none of her finesse or even smells the same. They even put sugar on her to sweeten her up like some cheap perfume.

What is sadder still is the poverty of the land she chose to stay. A runaway inflation has made her too expensive to be enjoyed. So she is found in the company of those few who can afford her and they treated her with disrespect. I would like to help but she does not want it out of pride or something else.  It was shaping to be a tragic tale but it is not the end…

Planting Rice Is Never Fun.

I've had just enough time...   to see rice been planted.

Taken in a kampung in Cilegon, Java, Indonesia.

This field of ripening padi that I took in my visit to Cilegon in Jakarta is no more. It has been bulldozed over and converted to another factory. All in the name of progress.

It is easy for me to say this is bad. That the old way of Life should be preserved. But I know how difficult it is to walk in deep mud. And how back-breaking it is planting padi under the scorching tropical sun. And I remembered that nursery rhyme that I sang as a boy –

“Planting rice is never fun,

Bend from morn to set of sun.

Cannot stand and cannot sit,

Cannot rest a little bit.”

And I hesitated and reserved any hasty judgement. And I find the only thing I can condemn outright is – “poverty is bad”. Progress? It has two faces. But I sure miss the undulating field of ripening padi dancing to the wind.

The Rest (From Both Sides Now) - Part II.

I've had just enough time to...   look at things from both sides now.

Taken in the same small street in Jakarta.

"Look at the man. How lazy. Papa told me many men are like that. Never do well because no put in effort. Sleeping all the time. Not working. Lazy. Always poor."

"Oh, car horn. Calling. Must go. When I grow up. Papa said don’t be like that."

(please read part I)

_______ 

Tears and fears and feeling proud to say "i love you" right out loud,
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds, i've looked at life that way.
But now old friends are acting strange,
they shake their heads, they say I've changed.
Something's lost but something's gained in living every day.


I've looked at life from both sides now,

From win and lose, and still somehow

It's life's illusions i recall.

I really don't know life at all.

Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now