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British Mensa Travel Special Interest Group |
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Eastern
Scenes by Margaret Hughes 1) Won Tai Sin Temple, Kowloon (Hong Kong) We went in the back - a dark covered alleyway like a market - with stalls bright with red and gold, gleaming plaques and pictures, old cardboard boxes with bundles of incense sticks, signs in yellow with bold red Chinese lettering, wind chimes - in red and gold with long red tassels, bottles of rice wine and smiling Chinese sales girls entreating you to come and see, come and buy. There were more booths further on - a mature businesslike man sat in each, in a Western suit but with a Chinese face. Come in, come in, they welcomed as we wandered past, come in and have your fortune told. Round the corner, a sudden explosion of sight and sound. Torrential rain, a large courtyard - bright after the dark alley - open to the sky, bright and grey, rain bucketing down, glistening and reflecting on the tiled floor. On all four sides were covered walkways. Red pillars with gold Chinese lettering supported a bright green facade and a yellow roof, sloped and curved in the Chinese fashion, then on top another green facade and another yellow sloping roof, with carved figures of animals on the ridges and edges, like gargoyles - but exotic gargoyles. The side we had entered from had a tiny shrine, looking like a child's Wendy house. Bright red bricks were painted on each side, all no higher than a few feet, child-like. In front were a red metal table and a large golden urn. We stood transfixed in the shelter of the walkway. To the left was the main temple building. Another long red metal table was set out with urns, lamps, baskets. Four stone tiled steps up to a brightly painted balustrade and on through the red pillars to the dark mysterious interior. Over the entrance was a large red notice, a gold and green border and large gold Chinese letters. The roof facade was green with patterns picked out in red and gold, all looking very new and clean. The yellow-tiled, double-tiered roof curved exotically. There were people, noiseless under the sound of the rain, worshippers, standing like us in the shelter, all smaller in stature, height and breadth than us Westerners, making us feel a bit outside, different, which we surely were. But they were all intent on their business. We felt accepted, welcome to look on and see every aspect of their worship, a strange feeling for us who feel outsiders in our own churches when we go just as sightseers. The worshippers were scuttling quickly, in their flip flop shoes, over the wet slippery tiles from shelter to shelter holding umbrellas in one hand and a bundle of incense sticks in the other. The sticks were lit at the lamps on the table, taken into the temple to be offered - to whom? Was this ancestor worship, tokens to Fung Shui? Having knelt and prayed, moving the smouldering sticks up and down between touching palms, the worshippers returned to place them in the huge sand-filled urns, a few in this one and tripping on to the next, a few in there, were they placed on all sides to appease all the gods and natural forces? We wandered slowly - the walkway opposite the entrance to the temple was crowded. Chinese people of all ages, from teenagers to very elderly great-grandparents, and in all sorts of dress from the simple Chinese silk shirts to Western blue jeans and T-shirts, they stood, sat or knelt on the floor. In front of them were offerings - a mat or even a newspaper - spread with a plate with half an oven-ready chicken, some vegetables, cakes pen in a plastic bag - and little red plastic cups of wine. Praying and bowing would be performed, completely individually with no regard for us onlookers or the other worshippers. Then the wine would be tipped from the cups onto the wet tiles, the smell of alcohol and incense making a heady perfume, another bow and the food would be quickly rewrapped in the plastic bags, the owners would be up and off, busily bustling to their next business. The fourth and final side was less crowded. A group of young people in blue jeans and red shirts, had a wooden pot half full of sticks - ah, this we had read about. Completely oblivious to us, one young man was intent on shaking the pot, the sticks rattled and sorted themselves. Slowly, one rose above the others and was quickly picked out by one of his companions. Then suddenly they were off, running over the wetness, through the rain, down to the fortune tellers at the back of the temple, to have the message on the stick interpreted, to combine the indications of this age-old way of life with their modern lives in the Chinese way. Our senses were full. We slowly retreated back to our luxury Western-style hotel, a little bit of the world we know, to slot the new sounds and sights into our memories, have a cup of tea and regain our energy for the next experience. 2) Lombok, Indonesia We had travelled nearly halfway round the world to Indonesia and were snorkelling off Lombok, the small island next to Bali. The different scenes below the water were stunning, the coral we had travelled so far to see, so beautiful and so peaceful with the fish gliding in and out between the different colours of the reef. A little blue fish - so tiny, so vivid, a real bright blue, brighter than any colour paint or ink we had ever seen - dark, shining eyes and a translucent tail, perfectly formed, waving slowly in the current. We were privileged to see it, floating to just feet below us, the coral in purples, blues, greens, ivory, fish gliding between the coral fingers, darting in and out of the crevices, but none as stunningly beautiful as the tiny brilliant blue one. Perhaps it was because it was just a single specimen, alone, that attracted us. We both stopped, enthralled, and gazed at the scene. Suddenly - a quick spurt of sand, a movement beneath us and the blue wonder disappeared. We shook our heads, looked more closely. No, it wasn't gone - a snakelike fish, barely three inches long, fat with bulging eyes, green and grey camouflage with wide jaws clamped together and a bright blue fringe around the mouth - 'our' blue fish. Time stopped, the predator was motionless. Should we interfere? The urge
to prise open those jaws, release the blue marvel to astound other swimmers
another day was strong, but we couldn't move. It was just too sudden,
too awful to contemplate. Slowly, as we watched, the jaws moved and the
blue fringe disappeared inside. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was
off. With a flick of its tail, the captor had gone - leaving us saddened,
staring at a blank stretch of coral sand. First published in VISA issue 19 (winter 1995) |