The ceiling of subordinate court room no. 5 looks like a giant rock, a big granite-coloured block ready to crush anyone underneath with all its might. A circle of neon light tubes shines its cold light from the center. It is reflected on the immaculately polished bald head of the public prosecutor. He occasionally eyes the defendants with a wry smile.
The defendants, 18 local activists including SDP leader Dr. Chee, are accused of participating in an assembly outside Parliament House on 15 Mar 08. In course of the World Consumer Rights Day (WCRD) they protested against rising costs of living in Singapore. Under Singaporean law this is an offense disturbing public order. They will most likely been imprisoned, since they did not obtain the police permit necessary to make the protest legal.
Despite the grim outlook--they will most likely be imprisoned--the defendants appear cheerful and defiant. Today's witness is the local police chief who was apparently responsible for the permit necessary to protest lawfully. Dr. Chee presents Evidence C, the police instructions about the application for the crucial permit. "Would you read point two please" he asks the police chief. "Normal processing time is seven working days" he reads. "It took 28 days to process my permit until rejection, could you explain to me in which way my permit was not normal?" asks Mr. Chee. "This information is confidential" follows the high policeman's final answer. "Are you the chief of police or the boss of a Mafia!?" Dr. Chee blurts out, but quickly calms down again.
The speakers are forced to talk at the speed of someone on Valium. There is no stenographer, instead the judge painstakingly types every word in his computer. "Hold on, hold on..."he frequently interrupts speakers urging them to testify even slower as the trial drags along. Most of the time thus only the clicking of the judge's keyboard fills the room. A whiff of futility is in the air. One of the defendants lawyer's is picking his nose with a distant stare, rolling the prey solemnly between his fingers . The security guard at the door critically examines his developing pot belly, pulling it in as far as possible and quickly tightening the belt on his blue uniform. A pleased expression fills his face for the split of a second, then he recovers his expressionless stare.
The judge has finished writing. "Could you explain how this is in any way relevant to your defense please" he asks Dr. Chee. The SDP leader responds "The delay was obviously incrimatory, the processing time was four times as long as normal, if this isn't relevant to our defence, what is!?". There is a request of cross-examination of the police chief by the defendants, but it is rejected. The Public Prosecutor takes the word, "as it is already clear, the processing time of the permit is rather irrelevant to the case" he begins "and I'd like to respond to accusations I am protective of the witness in not supporting the request for cross-examination. If I am protective of something, then that is this trial, since I think it would be a waste of time."
Mr Mahmood, one of the defendants, calmly asks in response "If the Public Prosecutor considers our defense a waste of time, where really is a fair trial and justice here?"
About Me
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Saturday, 18 October 2008
Investor Protest Speakers Corner 11-10-2008
Hundreds of distressed Investors gathered in Hong Lim Park at Sunday, 11th of October 2008 to attend a Speech by prominent blogger Tan Kim Lian.
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| Financial Crisis Speakers Corner |
Friday, 10 October 2008
Nur 48 Stunden
In 48 Hours the train took me from Singapore to Bangkok or from a sterile desert into an abundant forest of life (sorry to anybody who might not understand German):
Nur 48 Stunden
Wie ein Fuehler des Lebens reicht die alte Eisenbahnstrecke der Malaysischen Eisenbahn bis zur Keppel Road Station im Herzen der grauen Effizienz Singapurs. Seit 1932 ist sie Malaysisches Territorium und so gefeit vor dem Sauberkeitswahn Singapurs. Die Regierung wuerde die alte Station bevorzugt wegplanieren. Die Grenzstation ist vor einigen Jahren schon verlegt worden—nur die Singapurer Seite allerdings.
Einige fleckige Plastibaenke stehen in der Wartehalle. Eine Rucksacktouristin mit Dreadlocks und riesigen Wanderschuhen sitzt verloren zwischen den anderen Wartenden, offensichtlich alle aus der Umgebung kommend. Aus den Kopfhoerern eines dicken Maedchens neben mir bruellt lauter Techno. Ein westliches Paerchen in den dreissigern erscheint, der Mann schwer atmend in einem schweisnassen Space Invaders T-Shirt. Der Malaysische Zollbeamte begruesst mich stolz mit „Guten Morgen“ als er meinen Reisepass sieht. Er stempelt meinen Pass nicht, denn ich bin ja eigentlich noch in Singapur, . „Auf Wiedersehen“ sagt er zum Abschied.
Die Klimaanlage im Zug kuehlt das Innere der Waggons etwa auf das Niveau des deutschen Herbstes, waehrend man draussen Leute in der gleissenden Sonne schwitzen sieht. Ich schlafe sofort nac hder Grenze ein. Ploetzlich schrecke ich auf. Ueber mich gebeugt steht eine kleine alte Dame in einem meerblauem Schleier und fragt etwas in einer fremden Sprache. Ihr Ticket ist fuer den Sitz neben meinem. Das Abteil ist praktisch leer und ich mache Platz.
Der Zug rumpelt ueber die alten Gleise, manchmal unvermittelt bockend wie ein Pferd oder gemaechlich schaukelnd wie ein Schiff in der Duenung. Auf Englisch erzaehlt die alte Dame sie besuche Ihre Schwester in Kajang. Als ich erzaehle ich sei auf dem Weg nach Bangkok, erwidert sie mit einem wissenden Laecheln „You must be from a very rich family“.
Endlose Plantagen von Oelpalmen und dazwischen Siedlungen von verrosteten Wellblechhuetten ziehen an den beschlagenen Fenstern vorbei. Ich habe brennenden Hunger, doch das Zugrestaurant ist geschlossen. Es ist Ramadan. Ein Schaffner schaltet den brandneuen und in dem verblichenen Abteil umso mehr deplaziert wirkenden Plasmabildschirm ein. Es laeuft King Kong—die 1976er Fassung, somit passt es wieder.
Um 15:00 stoppen wir in Kuala Lumpur. Der alte Mann im bunten Hemd, der die letzten Stunden damit verbracht hat ruhelos den Gang im Abteil auf und abzugehen, spricht mich an und fragt woher ich komme. „Germany!? Hamburg! Sankt Pauli!! Reeperbahn!!!“ schreit er begeistert gegen das Rumpeln der Raeder an, waehrend wir durch den ausrangierten historischen Bahnhof fahren. Auf dem Bahnsteig posiert ein Hochzeitspaar fuer Fotos vor dem vorbeifahrenden Zug. Warme Nachmittagssone strahlt durch die kleinen Fenster im Dach. Der alte Mann hat 50 Jahre als Maat auf Containerschiffen gearbeitet, stellt sich heraus, und kennt die Welt wie seine Westentasche. Englisch kann er allerdings leider kaum. Schon bald hat sich sein Wortschatz erschoepft und er schaut stumm aus dem Fenster.
Es wird dunkel, an jeder Station steigen Passagier aus, aber keine zu. Der Zug ist nun praktisch leer. Unbeirrt kaempft sich das hohle Ungetuem ueber die holperigen Gleise durch die Nacht. Ich falle in tiefen Schlaf. Zitternd wache ich auf. Genug des Frierens denke ich, und ziehe auf einen Notsitz direkt neben der Toilette um. Lauwarmes Faekalaroma verwoehnt meine Nase, doch dafuer ist es warm. Auf der Toilette belehrt ein Hinweisschild ueber die korrekte Benutzung der „Sitz- nicht Hocktoilette“. Nach 14 Stunden fahrt erreichen wir Butterworth in Malaysien. Ich sage dem alten Seeman lebewohl und steige fuer die Nacht in einem Chinesischen Motel ab. Morgen geht es weiter nach Bangkok.
Butterworth sieht auch im Sonnenschein des naechsten Tages nicht einladender aus. Direkt neben meinem Hotel beginn ein Slumviertel. Die Haeuser sind verrotende Huetten aus Wellblech, Katzen und Hunde streunen durch die nach Verwesung riechenden Strassen. Durch die brennende Sonne schleiche ich zurueck zum Bahnhof, schweissgebadet und schwer atmend komme ich dort an. Ich hoffe ich werde nicht gerade Teil der Geschichte eines anderen Journalisten...
Am Ticketschalter treffe ich Robert von den Phillipinen, der einzige andere Auslaender im Zug nach Bangkok. Der Stationsvorsteher erzaehlt, er habe den Job seit 14 Jahren, vorher war er Englischlehrer. Der Zug nach Bangkok ist kurz, nur zwei Waggons haengen hinter der alten Diesellok. Ein gestikulierender Malaysier in pinker Polyesterhose massiert im vorbeigehen einen chinesischen Wartenden. Falls er auf ein Trinkgeld hofft, tut er dies jedoch leider umsonst. Gegenueber vom Bahnsteig haengt ein Transparent „Malaysia, best Tourist destination of the world“. Dahinter stapeln sich Container vom nahen Hafen, ein riesiger gelber Kran ragt dahinter hervor.
Es geht weiter. Reisfelder ziehen am Fenster vorueber, dazwischen steile Felsinseln mit gruenbewachsenen Haengen. Der massierte Chinese geniesst bei maximaler Lautstaerke Kung Fu Filme auf seinem portablen DVD-Player. Gegenueber sitzt ein junger Burmesischer Mann. In gebrochenem Englisch erzaehlt er, er arbeite seit fuenf Jahren in Malaysia. Um seine Visumsgebuehr zu bezahlen, hat er ein Jahr gespart und nun ist er auf dem Weg zu seinem Bruder in Bangkok.
Wenig spaeter erreichen wir die Thailaendische Grenze. Die Zollschalter sind unbesetzt und die wenigen Passagiere stehen eine Weile ratlos herum. Nach einigen Minuten erscheint ein Malaysischer Zollbeamte „Entschuldigung, entschuldigung! Es tut mir schrecklich leid, der Schaffner hatte mir eine andere Zeit angegeben.“ Auf dem Weg zum Thailaendischen Schalter sehe ich ein altes Schild an der Wand. „Richtlinen zur Erkennung von Aliens der Kategorie ‚Hippie‘ “. Es ist datiert auf 1979 und benennt „Personen mit langen, ungekaemmten und unrein wirkenden Frisuren“ als Hauptverdaechtige.
Dies muessen die Hochzeiten des alten Grenzpostens gewesen sein. Keine Spur von „unhoeflichen und unziemlich gekleideten“ Westlern; nur ein alter Mann sitzt einsam auf dem Bahnsteig und starrt in die Ferne. Der Burmese bekommt zunaechst kein Visum. Er kann nicht lesen oder schreiben, wie sich herausstellt. Waehrend der Zug beinahe ohne uns weiterfaehrt fuelle ich unter misstrauischen Blicken der Zoellner seinen Visumsantrag aus und es kann weitergehen.
Hinter der Grenze gibt es Abendbrot, ich entscheide mich, wenig Abenteuerlustig, fuer Huehnchen mit Reis. Das Essen selbst ist jedoch eine abenteuerliche Angelegenheit. Man braucht beinahe Hellseherische Faehigkeiten um im richtigen Moment einen Bissen zu nehmen, sonst schnappt man im bockenden Zug bei jeder zweiten Gelegenheit daneben. Ob es eigentlich manchmal Unfaelle gibt, frage ich meinen Phillipinischen Gefaehrten. „Oh, ja als ich das letzte Mal mit dem Zug gefahren bin hat er einen LKW gerammt.“, antwortet er in seine typisch pragmatischen Art. Draussen erstrecken sich endlose Reisfelder. Der Himmel glueht golden im Sonnenuntergang, das flache Wasser zwischen den Reispflanzen wirkt wie ein gigantischer Spiegel.
Ein hochrangiger Militaer schreitet wuerdevoll den Gang hinunter, ploetzlich beginnt er die Sitze in Betten umzubauen. Der Admiral entpuppt sich als Zugbegleiter. An der Grenze hat eine Thailaendische Crew uebernommen, gekleidet in makellose Uniformen. Die Betten sind sauber aber zu kurz fuer lange Europaeer, so kaempfe ich mit meinem Kopfkissen um jeden Zentimeter waehrend der Zug durch die Nacht in Richtung Bangkok rast.
P.S.:
Just rediscovered this little interview with the train conductor in Malaysia, I know I should edit it but there is no time:
Train Conductor
Nur 48 Stunden
Wie ein Fuehler des Lebens reicht die alte Eisenbahnstrecke der Malaysischen Eisenbahn bis zur Keppel Road Station im Herzen der grauen Effizienz Singapurs. Seit 1932 ist sie Malaysisches Territorium und so gefeit vor dem Sauberkeitswahn Singapurs. Die Regierung wuerde die alte Station bevorzugt wegplanieren. Die Grenzstation ist vor einigen Jahren schon verlegt worden—nur die Singapurer Seite allerdings.
Einige fleckige Plastibaenke stehen in der Wartehalle. Eine Rucksacktouristin mit Dreadlocks und riesigen Wanderschuhen sitzt verloren zwischen den anderen Wartenden, offensichtlich alle aus der Umgebung kommend. Aus den Kopfhoerern eines dicken Maedchens neben mir bruellt lauter Techno. Ein westliches Paerchen in den dreissigern erscheint, der Mann schwer atmend in einem schweisnassen Space Invaders T-Shirt. Der Malaysische Zollbeamte begruesst mich stolz mit „Guten Morgen“ als er meinen Reisepass sieht. Er stempelt meinen Pass nicht, denn ich bin ja eigentlich noch in Singapur, . „Auf Wiedersehen“ sagt er zum Abschied.
Die Klimaanlage im Zug kuehlt das Innere der Waggons etwa auf das Niveau des deutschen Herbstes, waehrend man draussen Leute in der gleissenden Sonne schwitzen sieht. Ich schlafe sofort nac hder Grenze ein. Ploetzlich schrecke ich auf. Ueber mich gebeugt steht eine kleine alte Dame in einem meerblauem Schleier und fragt etwas in einer fremden Sprache. Ihr Ticket ist fuer den Sitz neben meinem. Das Abteil ist praktisch leer und ich mache Platz.
Der Zug rumpelt ueber die alten Gleise, manchmal unvermittelt bockend wie ein Pferd oder gemaechlich schaukelnd wie ein Schiff in der Duenung. Auf Englisch erzaehlt die alte Dame sie besuche Ihre Schwester in Kajang. Als ich erzaehle ich sei auf dem Weg nach Bangkok, erwidert sie mit einem wissenden Laecheln „You must be from a very rich family“.
Endlose Plantagen von Oelpalmen und dazwischen Siedlungen von verrosteten Wellblechhuetten ziehen an den beschlagenen Fenstern vorbei. Ich habe brennenden Hunger, doch das Zugrestaurant ist geschlossen. Es ist Ramadan. Ein Schaffner schaltet den brandneuen und in dem verblichenen Abteil umso mehr deplaziert wirkenden Plasmabildschirm ein. Es laeuft King Kong—die 1976er Fassung, somit passt es wieder.
Um 15:00 stoppen wir in Kuala Lumpur. Der alte Mann im bunten Hemd, der die letzten Stunden damit verbracht hat ruhelos den Gang im Abteil auf und abzugehen, spricht mich an und fragt woher ich komme. „Germany!? Hamburg! Sankt Pauli!! Reeperbahn!!!“ schreit er begeistert gegen das Rumpeln der Raeder an, waehrend wir durch den ausrangierten historischen Bahnhof fahren. Auf dem Bahnsteig posiert ein Hochzeitspaar fuer Fotos vor dem vorbeifahrenden Zug. Warme Nachmittagssone strahlt durch die kleinen Fenster im Dach. Der alte Mann hat 50 Jahre als Maat auf Containerschiffen gearbeitet, stellt sich heraus, und kennt die Welt wie seine Westentasche. Englisch kann er allerdings leider kaum. Schon bald hat sich sein Wortschatz erschoepft und er schaut stumm aus dem Fenster.
Es wird dunkel, an jeder Station steigen Passagier aus, aber keine zu. Der Zug ist nun praktisch leer. Unbeirrt kaempft sich das hohle Ungetuem ueber die holperigen Gleise durch die Nacht. Ich falle in tiefen Schlaf. Zitternd wache ich auf. Genug des Frierens denke ich, und ziehe auf einen Notsitz direkt neben der Toilette um. Lauwarmes Faekalaroma verwoehnt meine Nase, doch dafuer ist es warm. Auf der Toilette belehrt ein Hinweisschild ueber die korrekte Benutzung der „Sitz- nicht Hocktoilette“. Nach 14 Stunden fahrt erreichen wir Butterworth in Malaysien. Ich sage dem alten Seeman lebewohl und steige fuer die Nacht in einem Chinesischen Motel ab. Morgen geht es weiter nach Bangkok.
Butterworth sieht auch im Sonnenschein des naechsten Tages nicht einladender aus. Direkt neben meinem Hotel beginn ein Slumviertel. Die Haeuser sind verrotende Huetten aus Wellblech, Katzen und Hunde streunen durch die nach Verwesung riechenden Strassen. Durch die brennende Sonne schleiche ich zurueck zum Bahnhof, schweissgebadet und schwer atmend komme ich dort an. Ich hoffe ich werde nicht gerade Teil der Geschichte eines anderen Journalisten...
Am Ticketschalter treffe ich Robert von den Phillipinen, der einzige andere Auslaender im Zug nach Bangkok. Der Stationsvorsteher erzaehlt, er habe den Job seit 14 Jahren, vorher war er Englischlehrer. Der Zug nach Bangkok ist kurz, nur zwei Waggons haengen hinter der alten Diesellok. Ein gestikulierender Malaysier in pinker Polyesterhose massiert im vorbeigehen einen chinesischen Wartenden. Falls er auf ein Trinkgeld hofft, tut er dies jedoch leider umsonst. Gegenueber vom Bahnsteig haengt ein Transparent „Malaysia, best Tourist destination of the world“. Dahinter stapeln sich Container vom nahen Hafen, ein riesiger gelber Kran ragt dahinter hervor.
Es geht weiter. Reisfelder ziehen am Fenster vorueber, dazwischen steile Felsinseln mit gruenbewachsenen Haengen. Der massierte Chinese geniesst bei maximaler Lautstaerke Kung Fu Filme auf seinem portablen DVD-Player. Gegenueber sitzt ein junger Burmesischer Mann. In gebrochenem Englisch erzaehlt er, er arbeite seit fuenf Jahren in Malaysia. Um seine Visumsgebuehr zu bezahlen, hat er ein Jahr gespart und nun ist er auf dem Weg zu seinem Bruder in Bangkok.
Wenig spaeter erreichen wir die Thailaendische Grenze. Die Zollschalter sind unbesetzt und die wenigen Passagiere stehen eine Weile ratlos herum. Nach einigen Minuten erscheint ein Malaysischer Zollbeamte „Entschuldigung, entschuldigung! Es tut mir schrecklich leid, der Schaffner hatte mir eine andere Zeit angegeben.“ Auf dem Weg zum Thailaendischen Schalter sehe ich ein altes Schild an der Wand. „Richtlinen zur Erkennung von Aliens der Kategorie ‚Hippie‘ “. Es ist datiert auf 1979 und benennt „Personen mit langen, ungekaemmten und unrein wirkenden Frisuren“ als Hauptverdaechtige.
Dies muessen die Hochzeiten des alten Grenzpostens gewesen sein. Keine Spur von „unhoeflichen und unziemlich gekleideten“ Westlern; nur ein alter Mann sitzt einsam auf dem Bahnsteig und starrt in die Ferne. Der Burmese bekommt zunaechst kein Visum. Er kann nicht lesen oder schreiben, wie sich herausstellt. Waehrend der Zug beinahe ohne uns weiterfaehrt fuelle ich unter misstrauischen Blicken der Zoellner seinen Visumsantrag aus und es kann weitergehen.
Hinter der Grenze gibt es Abendbrot, ich entscheide mich, wenig Abenteuerlustig, fuer Huehnchen mit Reis. Das Essen selbst ist jedoch eine abenteuerliche Angelegenheit. Man braucht beinahe Hellseherische Faehigkeiten um im richtigen Moment einen Bissen zu nehmen, sonst schnappt man im bockenden Zug bei jeder zweiten Gelegenheit daneben. Ob es eigentlich manchmal Unfaelle gibt, frage ich meinen Phillipinischen Gefaehrten. „Oh, ja als ich das letzte Mal mit dem Zug gefahren bin hat er einen LKW gerammt.“, antwortet er in seine typisch pragmatischen Art. Draussen erstrecken sich endlose Reisfelder. Der Himmel glueht golden im Sonnenuntergang, das flache Wasser zwischen den Reispflanzen wirkt wie ein gigantischer Spiegel.
Ein hochrangiger Militaer schreitet wuerdevoll den Gang hinunter, ploetzlich beginnt er die Sitze in Betten umzubauen. Der Admiral entpuppt sich als Zugbegleiter. An der Grenze hat eine Thailaendische Crew uebernommen, gekleidet in makellose Uniformen. Die Betten sind sauber aber zu kurz fuer lange Europaeer, so kaempfe ich mit meinem Kopfkissen um jeden Zentimeter waehrend der Zug durch die Nacht in Richtung Bangkok rast.
P.S.:
Just rediscovered this little interview with the train conductor in Malaysia, I know I should edit it but there is no time:
Train Conductor
 |
| 48 Stunden |
Sunday, 28 September 2008
FreedomFilmFestival 2008
We left the safe bubble of Singapore for a day of political films at the Freedom Film Festival 2008 in Johor Bahru, Malaysia.
Leaving the bubble for the first time after 6 weeks I was amazed by the change. There was dirt in the streets. Traffic. Honking. Graffiti. Smells. Pleasant and unpleasant ones. Plants growing naturally. Seeing life again. And in the freezing conference room, movies about Human Rights. Some of them banned. Like Seelan Palay's 'One Nation Under Lee'.
Among the few guests some old Singaporean Rebels like playwright Robert Yeo. Despite the small audience discussion after the movies were inspiring and intense, sometimes personal. A great day.
Here are the pictures:
Leaving the bubble for the first time after 6 weeks I was amazed by the change. There was dirt in the streets. Traffic. Honking. Graffiti. Smells. Pleasant and unpleasant ones. Plants growing naturally. Seeing life again. And in the freezing conference room, movies about Human Rights. Some of them banned. Like Seelan Palay's 'One Nation Under Lee'.
Among the few guests some old Singaporean Rebels like playwright Robert Yeo. Despite the small audience discussion after the movies were inspiring and intense, sometimes personal. A great day.
Here are the pictures:
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| FreedomFilmFestival 2008 |
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Stranded in Singapore
Prominent Blogger Gopalan Nair (singaporedissident.blogspot.com) has been stranded in Singapore for over 70 days after criticizing a local judge of being unfair. Under Singapore's harsh laws he could be imprisoned for up to one year for his expression of free speech.
This video produced by local activist Seelan Palay tells his story:
nz.youtube.com/watch
This video produced by local activist Seelan Palay tells his story:
nz.youtube.com/watch
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
Fall in Love - $50
Discover the Singapore Spirit. Paradise Plaza. Lifestyle Mall. Underground Shopping. Fountain of Wealth - Straight ahead. Have you had your Chicken essence today? Green Carnival 2008. Recommended by MediaCorp Artists. Come and join the fun with Smile Inc.
Do not step over the yellow line. Move to the back of the bus. Do not talk to the driver. Do not eat. Do not drink. Do not think. $1000 fine or corrective work order. The station is busy, if you are waiting, please leave the station. Smoking prohibited by law. Do not litter. Do not run to catch the train. Value life, act responsibly. Do you have a permit? Do not question. Do smile into the CCTV camera. Be vigilant! Do not let it happen to us.
Click here to Fall in Love
Do not step over the yellow line. Move to the back of the bus. Do not talk to the driver. Do not eat. Do not drink. Do not think. $1000 fine or corrective work order. The station is busy, if you are waiting, please leave the station. Smoking prohibited by law. Do not litter. Do not run to catch the train. Value life, act responsibly. Do you have a permit? Do not question. Do smile into the CCTV camera. Be vigilant! Do not let it happen to us.
Click here to Fall in Love
Sunday, 10 August 2008
The Orwellian Dream
Singapore is called the garden city, lush tropical plants and trees line the streets and sidewalks. Still the soothing feeling of being surrounded by nature is missing. Instead there is an eerie atmosphere enveloping the city. At a closer look one realizes why: all vegetation is perfectly trimmed, no leafs are sticking out inappropriately and no tree branches scratching the bus roofs. This immaculate orderliness resembles much of what Singapore stands for.
In Singapore, everything seems to be simply perfect. It is one of the most affluent countries on earth and probably the shiniest, cleanest city as well. And of course people are proud of it, manifested in monuments like the great "Fountain of Wealth"--the biggest Fountain on the planet.
Because of its success, Singapore is seen as an Utopian Vision by many leaders of developing countries. Especially China holds the 'Tiger City's' achievements in the highest regard. A Chinese official asked by the New York Times what he values most about Singapore summed it up as follows: "It's run by Chinese, it's efficient, it's rich, and no one jabbers about human rights." For the many people who expect China to 'open up' and liberalize in course of its economic rise, a closer look at Singapore might instead provide a future vision of China.
The achievements of former prime minister's People's Action Party (PAP) are indeed impressive, it transformed Singapore from a swampy island to one of the world's most developed countries (25th in the 2007 Human Development Index). How was that achieved? The answer is Social Engineering. Like the botany on famous Orchard Road, Singaporean society was meticulously tailored towards the Party's vision. Every thinkable aspect of social life is controlled and regulated. The most evident signs are the ubiquitous prohibition signs threatening exorbitant fines for minor offenses, i.e. consumption of food items in the subway without holding valid permit. More subtly, immigration quotas maintain ethnic balance in society according to what the government deems appropriate. Individualism has, of course, little place in a country whose leader once referred to his subjects as "digits" (according to this article in The Times).
Life as a digit can be very comfortable, riding to business meetings in a comfortable car, enjoying the rich cuisine and shopping in one of the ubiquitous malls to relax. Singaporeans interviewed by Oliver James for his book "Affluenza" placed shopping on the highest ranks of their favourite leisure activities. Indeed, the soothing effect of affluence seems to be the answer to most problems arising in this society. The government officials in Singapore receive some of the highest salary's in the world, with the current prime minister's annual earnings roughly equal S$2m (according to information by the opposition). "Satisfactory remuneration is a prerequisite to combat corruption. If you can't make ends meet then the temptation to receive bribes is high," comments Joseph Cheng, political analyst at Hong Kong University, in an 2002 article on singapore-window.com. George W. Bush, in comparison, is in the same article said to earn around US$400.000. This is certainly one way to fight corruption.
The benefits of the Singaporean model are clear--but what are the costs?
To find out, on National Day 2008 I went to meet members of the Singapore Democratic Party, to see it click here...
Make sure your sound is switched on!
Their lack of freedom has been paid for with a shower of wealth. What will happen if, however, one day this runs dry remains to be seen...
In Singapore, everything seems to be simply perfect. It is one of the most affluent countries on earth and probably the shiniest, cleanest city as well. And of course people are proud of it, manifested in monuments like the great "Fountain of Wealth"--the biggest Fountain on the planet.
Because of its success, Singapore is seen as an Utopian Vision by many leaders of developing countries. Especially China holds the 'Tiger City's' achievements in the highest regard. A Chinese official asked by the New York Times what he values most about Singapore summed it up as follows: "It's run by Chinese, it's efficient, it's rich, and no one jabbers about human rights." For the many people who expect China to 'open up' and liberalize in course of its economic rise, a closer look at Singapore might instead provide a future vision of China.
The achievements of former prime minister's People's Action Party (PAP) are indeed impressive, it transformed Singapore from a swampy island to one of the world's most developed countries (25th in the 2007 Human Development Index). How was that achieved? The answer is Social Engineering. Like the botany on famous Orchard Road, Singaporean society was meticulously tailored towards the Party's vision. Every thinkable aspect of social life is controlled and regulated. The most evident signs are the ubiquitous prohibition signs threatening exorbitant fines for minor offenses, i.e. consumption of food items in the subway without holding valid permit. More subtly, immigration quotas maintain ethnic balance in society according to what the government deems appropriate. Individualism has, of course, little place in a country whose leader once referred to his subjects as "digits" (according to this article in The Times).
Life as a digit can be very comfortable, riding to business meetings in a comfortable car, enjoying the rich cuisine and shopping in one of the ubiquitous malls to relax. Singaporeans interviewed by Oliver James for his book "Affluenza" placed shopping on the highest ranks of their favourite leisure activities. Indeed, the soothing effect of affluence seems to be the answer to most problems arising in this society. The government officials in Singapore receive some of the highest salary's in the world, with the current prime minister's annual earnings roughly equal S$2m (according to information by the opposition). "Satisfactory remuneration is a prerequisite to combat corruption. If you can't make ends meet then the temptation to receive bribes is high," comments Joseph Cheng, political analyst at Hong Kong University, in an 2002 article on singapore-window.com. George W. Bush, in comparison, is in the same article said to earn around US$400.000. This is certainly one way to fight corruption.
The benefits of the Singaporean model are clear--but what are the costs?
To find out, on National Day 2008 I went to meet members of the Singapore Democratic Party, to see it click here...
Make sure your sound is switched on!
Their lack of freedom has been paid for with a shower of wealth. What will happen if, however, one day this runs dry remains to be seen...
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Thursday, 31 July 2008
A Nomad in the Land of Noise
Silence. Most people loath it, since it will make them feel uncomfortable they will try to avoid it at any cost. Some people need it to keep sane. I am one of them and at times China is turning me into a raving mad neurotic. There is simply no silence.
You enter the city, there is constant honking. Most drivers use the horn in a more Confucian sense. It serves not as a humiliation device like in Germany or most other Western countries, but more like an echolot, preventing the others from loosing face through ill-advised maneuvers by constantly sending out an array of honks announcing “here I come” wherever they are going. Who knows, natural evolution might equip Chinese drivers with a bat-like sense to locate other cars just by their sounds in the future. The horn volume is proportional to the importance of the concerned car; a major intercity express bus will easily honk out a starting jetplane.
So you might try and flee the city and enter the countryside sleeping in a small village. That works pleasantly until at 6am a tower of gigantic loudspeaker on top of the hill screams the morning news into the valley. Good morning.
You might try to enter a hotel for some sleep. Good luck. The windows are usually so thin you will probably find yourself checking at least once if there is really glass inside the frames—but don’t worry, the street sounds will falter at around 1am. Having just fallen into sleep, you might be mildly infuriated when you wake up at 3am from people shouting at the top of their voice right in front of your door. At around 6am the honking will return with all might.
You might be tired now. How about going to the park the for some rest? Cicadas the size of mice and with proportional acoustic might most probably greet you from every tree with a sound so loud you instinctively shield your ears. Only the karaoke craze in the middle of the park will be able to overtone their concert. Most pleasant.
Long distance buses are usually a good place to catch up on some sleep. Not in China. There will be either music or sound of an ancient kung fu movie transmitted over the vehicle’s speaker system, preferably at such a volume it’s all distorted.
After a month you will most probably feel like a rabid dog, loaded with irate fury but impossible to release it. Only Earplugs can save you.
You enter the city, there is constant honking. Most drivers use the horn in a more Confucian sense. It serves not as a humiliation device like in Germany or most other Western countries, but more like an echolot, preventing the others from loosing face through ill-advised maneuvers by constantly sending out an array of honks announcing “here I come” wherever they are going. Who knows, natural evolution might equip Chinese drivers with a bat-like sense to locate other cars just by their sounds in the future. The horn volume is proportional to the importance of the concerned car; a major intercity express bus will easily honk out a starting jetplane.
So you might try and flee the city and enter the countryside sleeping in a small village. That works pleasantly until at 6am a tower of gigantic loudspeaker on top of the hill screams the morning news into the valley. Good morning.
You might try to enter a hotel for some sleep. Good luck. The windows are usually so thin you will probably find yourself checking at least once if there is really glass inside the frames—but don’t worry, the street sounds will falter at around 1am. Having just fallen into sleep, you might be mildly infuriated when you wake up at 3am from people shouting at the top of their voice right in front of your door. At around 6am the honking will return with all might.
You might be tired now. How about going to the park the for some rest? Cicadas the size of mice and with proportional acoustic might most probably greet you from every tree with a sound so loud you instinctively shield your ears. Only the karaoke craze in the middle of the park will be able to overtone their concert. Most pleasant.
Long distance buses are usually a good place to catch up on some sleep. Not in China. There will be either music or sound of an ancient kung fu movie transmitted over the vehicle’s speaker system, preferably at such a volume it’s all distorted.
After a month you will most probably feel like a rabid dog, loaded with irate fury but impossible to release it. Only Earplugs can save you.
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Birthday in Chengdu
I almost forgot its my birthday today, only realized when I saw the date on the New York Times website this morning. A Gin Tonic in the garden of my hostel was the climax of my celebration.
Work on my Ningxia report takes longer than expected, potentially due to a certain degree of not wanting to do it. Took a walk to the local McDonalds to cure my broken stomach with some of the tasteless matter they sell as food. Could not resist taking some pictures on the way.
Work on my Ningxia report takes longer than expected, potentially due to a certain degree of not wanting to do it. Took a walk to the local McDonalds to cure my broken stomach with some of the tasteless matter they sell as food. Could not resist taking some pictures on the way.
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| Chengdu |
Saturday, 26 July 2008
A Night in Xi'An
Having finished my report and hosting a happy stomach bug I was looking forward to my bed in Chengdu where I planned to sleep for the next twenty-four hours. I doze off constantly in the bus to Yinchuan arriving at the airport in a state of complete daze. Stomach is returning to normal, but fever seems to be kicking in. My flight is delayed 2 hours. My translator leaves me saying "Oh, and something I just remembered, a friend told me once never to fly with China Eastern airways, so good luck!". At around eleven the plane finally takes off and I sink into deep sleep. Just a moment later the stewardess shouts at me, I have to put my seat in the upright position for the landing.
Stopover at Xi'An.
30 minutes later the pilot lifts the airplane into the night sky again. The airport is deserted and the shadows of the airplanes look grotesquely deformed in the artificial light. Screaming rips me out of my dreams again, but this time its a collective disdainful groan coming from all other passengers. It is a response to some announcement in Chinese, the following English version is barely audible, but I when I make out the words "bad weather","captain" and "return to Xi'An" I understand the mood of dissatisfaction.
Back at Xi'an.
The plane has been back at its gate for at least 20 minutes now. Finally there is an announcement "we have arrived at Xi'An, please wait for further information". Several passengers are shouting at the flight attendants. The girl in front of me tells me in English she has seen me today at the Yin Jiao hotel in Xi'An. There is another announcement, calling the passengers to leave the airplane and wait in the airport for further developments. Some people comply but most refuse to leave their seats, maybe feeling a bit closer to Chengdu already this way. In the airport emotions are running high, a Chinese man shouts at the top of his voice towards the service staff who answer with a pitiful grin. Three security officers encircle him and he becomes quieter. For two hours there is no information, an Nepalese family borrows my laptop to change their flights to Kathmandu for the next morning. At around 3am I find an English-speaking airline staff member who tells me "bus is coming, waiting". Just 60 minutes later the bus to some hotel in Xi'An arrives. It takes another 30 minutes until it leaves and at 5am we arrive at the hotel. I fall into a manic sleep with intermingling dreams. The phone rings at 7am, we have to get into the bus to get back to the airport. But there is breakfast.
Leaving Xi'An
Things run smoothly at the airport this time. Without comment I am given 400 yuan by airline staff in exchange for my signature on a list. At 10:15, perfectly on time, the plane takes of for Chengdu and I arrive an hour later. Still I have a feeling that most probably I will never fly with China Eastern again.
Stopover at Xi'An.
30 minutes later the pilot lifts the airplane into the night sky again. The airport is deserted and the shadows of the airplanes look grotesquely deformed in the artificial light. Screaming rips me out of my dreams again, but this time its a collective disdainful groan coming from all other passengers. It is a response to some announcement in Chinese, the following English version is barely audible, but I when I make out the words "bad weather","captain" and "return to Xi'An" I understand the mood of dissatisfaction.
Back at Xi'an.
The plane has been back at its gate for at least 20 minutes now. Finally there is an announcement "we have arrived at Xi'An, please wait for further information". Several passengers are shouting at the flight attendants. The girl in front of me tells me in English she has seen me today at the Yin Jiao hotel in Xi'An. There is another announcement, calling the passengers to leave the airplane and wait in the airport for further developments. Some people comply but most refuse to leave their seats, maybe feeling a bit closer to Chengdu already this way. In the airport emotions are running high, a Chinese man shouts at the top of his voice towards the service staff who answer with a pitiful grin. Three security officers encircle him and he becomes quieter. For two hours there is no information, an Nepalese family borrows my laptop to change their flights to Kathmandu for the next morning. At around 3am I find an English-speaking airline staff member who tells me "bus is coming, waiting". Just 60 minutes later the bus to some hotel in Xi'An arrives. It takes another 30 minutes until it leaves and at 5am we arrive at the hotel. I fall into a manic sleep with intermingling dreams. The phone rings at 7am, we have to get into the bus to get back to the airport. But there is breakfast.
Leaving Xi'An
Things run smoothly at the airport this time. Without comment I am given 400 yuan by airline staff in exchange for my signature on a list. At 10:15, perfectly on time, the plane takes of for Chengdu and I arrive an hour later. Still I have a feeling that most probably I will never fly with China Eastern again.
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| A Night in Xi'An |
Friday, 18 July 2008
Ningxia
Still in Guyuan. Still in the Dust. Still in the Bus. Its the second week in Ningxia province in China and it is consuming me. Up to six hours we spend every day in crowded buses riding over the pothole minefields euphemistically called streets here. Sometimes we reach Jiao Cha, 'our village', in less than 3 hours. The villagers have never seen anybody from the outside world. It is extraordinary. We have chosen a family which we have been visiting for the last weeks. Their life is a struggle incomparable to anything I have ever seen, but still they have not lost their will to life.
There are no problems with the government or police, in fact the local government organized a driver for us.
This place is like a desert. The dust gets in everywhere, even the food in the village restaurant is dusty. There are no pictures yet, because they might be for the German magazine. I will post them as soon as possible.
There are no problems with the government or police, in fact the local government organized a driver for us.
This place is like a desert. The dust gets in everywhere, even the food in the village restaurant is dusty. There are no pictures yet, because they might be for the German magazine. I will post them as soon as possible.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
beijing part two
Today I had some time to have a look around. No time to write anything unfortunately, tomorrow morning will start at 4:30 for me.
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| Beijing 2 |
First Impressions of Beijing
I am an illegal alien sleeping on a bamboo mat. My new home is a room in Beijing university student hall and yesterday I was supposed to register with the local police. Since I am staying here secretly I decided not to do so until I leave tomorrow morning.
Beijing is very secure. Uniformed security guards are everywhere. In fact it is so secure that the subway station at the railway station was closed when I arrived. Thus me and my guide spent 2 hours in overcrowded buses to get to the university. As we arrived he looked at the Beijing Metro internet page where it read the closure was due to a security issue. That's it.
'Kung Fu Fighting' is the music of choice in the buses, it seems to be put on infinity repeat. Its a nice soundtrack to the driver's efforts of infiltrating Beijing traffic. The major weapon is pre-emptive honking, which is effective but not invincible. It did not help against another bus taking our rear view mirror with us while overtaking.
In the subway there are video screens mounted in the tunnels showing advertisement movies traveling at the exact same speed as the trains, so one can watch them from the inside.
After five hours of trying different banks and ATM's to get money with my credit card I can finally buy the high end portable recorder the German magazine wants me to take to Ningxia. The agent stays in a apartment high riser on the outskirts of Beijing, the well furnished room is full of sophisticated audio equipment. Directly next to the house, visible from the window in the agent's room, is a slum-like quarter for migrant workers. It smells of rotten garbage and human waste as we walk through, the houses have dirt floors and look like they might collapse at any time. I did not expect to find such a vivid example of the sharp divide between rich and poor one always reads about in articles. Especially not in the capital city and on my first day.
Beijing is very secure. Uniformed security guards are everywhere. In fact it is so secure that the subway station at the railway station was closed when I arrived. Thus me and my guide spent 2 hours in overcrowded buses to get to the university. As we arrived he looked at the Beijing Metro internet page where it read the closure was due to a security issue. That's it.
'Kung Fu Fighting' is the music of choice in the buses, it seems to be put on infinity repeat. Its a nice soundtrack to the driver's efforts of infiltrating Beijing traffic. The major weapon is pre-emptive honking, which is effective but not invincible. It did not help against another bus taking our rear view mirror with us while overtaking.
In the subway there are video screens mounted in the tunnels showing advertisement movies traveling at the exact same speed as the trains, so one can watch them from the inside.
After five hours of trying different banks and ATM's to get money with my credit card I can finally buy the high end portable recorder the German magazine wants me to take to Ningxia. The agent stays in a apartment high riser on the outskirts of Beijing, the well furnished room is full of sophisticated audio equipment. Directly next to the house, visible from the window in the agent's room, is a slum-like quarter for migrant workers. It smells of rotten garbage and human waste as we walk through, the houses have dirt floors and look like they might collapse at any time. I did not expect to find such a vivid example of the sharp divide between rich and poor one always reads about in articles. Especially not in the capital city and on my first day.
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| Beijing |
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Yangdong Market
Korea is deeply infected by Modernity. The cities are concrete wonderlands full of neon signs where no non-temple buildings are older than fifty years. Humans scurry to and fro to a soundtrack of advertisement songs and traffic noise. Cellphones are advanced enough not only to play music, but also to act as portable TV's, so people are able to constantly sprinkle themselves with entertainment wherever they are. And they do it with ardour. Life feels like an LP played at 45rpm.
Yangdong Market has resisted. The most prominent sound is that of rain dropping on the canvas roof. Sometimes it is disrupted by the laughter of market-women when one of them has shared a joke. They sell all imaginable staples of food: mountains of Chinese cabbage, edible grass, pig heads, peppers, live duck or duck roasted by a flamethrower. Their customers stroll along the stands in graceful pace, the median age is well above 40. Most of them grew up when Korea was still a Third World country. Yangdong Market seems like an anachronistic island in the middle of this ultramodern city, a sort of reservation for the last pre-modern generation.
Yangdong Market has resisted. The most prominent sound is that of rain dropping on the canvas roof. Sometimes it is disrupted by the laughter of market-women when one of them has shared a joke. They sell all imaginable staples of food: mountains of Chinese cabbage, edible grass, pig heads, peppers, live duck or duck roasted by a flamethrower. Their customers stroll along the stands in graceful pace, the median age is well above 40. Most of them grew up when Korea was still a Third World country. Yangdong Market seems like an anachronistic island in the middle of this ultramodern city, a sort of reservation for the last pre-modern generation.
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| Yangong Market |
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
The Mist
There is something in the mist. There should better be, otherwise the plane will fall into the sea soon. Torrential rain has set in a while ago, its only sign of having descended below the clouds. Suddenly a thump, the wheels have touched the ground at Jeju island international airport. Outside the window is still just bright gray, but looking down one can recognize the tar of the landing strip.
This is the main holiday destination for Koreans, but during the monsoon its virtually empty. Jenny and I take a bus to the far east, which takes three times as long as the flight. K-Pop with thumping bass blares from the speakers, but at least the driver seems to like it. He scrolls his head to the rhythm like Michael Jackson.
Finally we reach Seongsan-ri, the small town at the bottom of the 'Fortress Hill' Ilchulbong, an extinct volcano rising from the sea. We are the only guests in the small guesthouse on top of the cliffs at the waterfront. Rain drums against the window and the sheets are so damp one is tempted to wring them--but it is quiet at last.
I am restless, waiting for an email of German magazine GEO, whether they will support me in China next month. So I decide to go to an internet cafe. There is none here, the clerk at Buy the Way (my favourite convenience store chain) declares. I am flabbergasted, usually there is one of the gaming grottos at every corner. Thus we go to the police station to ask for help. Jenny asks in Korean and a long discussions follows. Nothing happens, but we are shown a place to sit. Five minutes later, the head policeman grabs his car key and asks us to follow. He is a big fan of the German soccer team he declares and drives us to the PC shop in the next town in a police car. I am thankful they made it to the quarter-finals, otherwise I would most probably be walking now.
Just before dawn the monsoon takes a break, and for a short while even the fog is blown away by a sudden breeze. We take the opportunity to climb to the top of the spectacular Volcano. Halfway up the fog returns, swallowing the sound of the crushing waves below and reducing the sunlight to a faint gleam. Reality is reduced to a circle only about twenty metres wide. Fortunately there is a path and we reach the top soon later.
When we return, daylight has almost gone. The mist has returned and firmly engulfs the town like a giant macrophage. Fishing boats light up the night with powerful headlights. They look like fen fires lost on the horizon, unable to find the safety of the land. Moanful singing emerges through the mist, becoming clearer as we walk on. On a bench overlooking the rocky bay an old woman is singing Korean folk music. A nice change from the nightly Karaoke dose in Gwangju.
This is the main holiday destination for Koreans, but during the monsoon its virtually empty. Jenny and I take a bus to the far east, which takes three times as long as the flight. K-Pop with thumping bass blares from the speakers, but at least the driver seems to like it. He scrolls his head to the rhythm like Michael Jackson.
Finally we reach Seongsan-ri, the small town at the bottom of the 'Fortress Hill' Ilchulbong, an extinct volcano rising from the sea. We are the only guests in the small guesthouse on top of the cliffs at the waterfront. Rain drums against the window and the sheets are so damp one is tempted to wring them--but it is quiet at last.
I am restless, waiting for an email of German magazine GEO, whether they will support me in China next month. So I decide to go to an internet cafe. There is none here, the clerk at Buy the Way (my favourite convenience store chain) declares. I am flabbergasted, usually there is one of the gaming grottos at every corner. Thus we go to the police station to ask for help. Jenny asks in Korean and a long discussions follows. Nothing happens, but we are shown a place to sit. Five minutes later, the head policeman grabs his car key and asks us to follow. He is a big fan of the German soccer team he declares and drives us to the PC shop in the next town in a police car. I am thankful they made it to the quarter-finals, otherwise I would most probably be walking now.
Just before dawn the monsoon takes a break, and for a short while even the fog is blown away by a sudden breeze. We take the opportunity to climb to the top of the spectacular Volcano. Halfway up the fog returns, swallowing the sound of the crushing waves below and reducing the sunlight to a faint gleam. Reality is reduced to a circle only about twenty metres wide. Fortunately there is a path and we reach the top soon later.
When we return, daylight has almost gone. The mist has returned and firmly engulfs the town like a giant macrophage. Fishing boats light up the night with powerful headlights. They look like fen fires lost on the horizon, unable to find the safety of the land. Moanful singing emerges through the mist, becoming clearer as we walk on. On a bench overlooking the rocky bay an old woman is singing Korean folk music. A nice change from the nightly Karaoke dose in Gwangju.
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| Jeju Island |
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Urban Dweller
I am adjusting to my new environment. Every night the thumping bass from the karaoke bar opposite the motel spoils my eardrums with a gentle massage, sending me into sweet slumber. Initially, I reacted with burning rage, but with time this has changed to irate resignation. The block where I live is surrounded by 6 to 8 lanes of heavy traffic in every direction, which I need to overcome whenever I leave the rancid functionality of the Venice Motel. Decaying rubbish lines the street, in between abundant flyers depicting the more intimate parts of the female body. There are no trees and there is no silence.
Sometimes I feel the urge to escape. Yesterday morning was like that, so I took a bus to Mokpo, a port town about 80km Southwest of Gwangju. The first sign of leaving Metropolitan Korea was the absence of any Latin characters. Instead I had to resort to my fairly limited hangul skills to decipher the timetable for buses back to Gwangju. But I managed to get by and with the help of the LonelyPlanet I took local bus no. 1 in order to get to the waterfront.
Vast quantities of fish, in the process of drying or already crumpled to meager caricatures of marine life, attract my attention from the bus. As I get off, I am instantly enveloped by fragrant vapours that almost take my breath away. People, most of them well into the latter half of their lives, eye me rather sceptical. Out of defiance I start waving friendly at the most grumpy looking ones and grin aggresively. It works quite well.
As I turn a corner I witness a woman empty out a waterbucket full of octopus on the sidewalk, then picking up the animals by the handfuls slamming them back into the bowl. Maybe the shock makes for a better taste. Business seems to be rather slow, most people doze away in their tiny shops and I attract too much attention to take any pictures. I proceed into the fishing harbour.
The boats are--like every national treasure and apartment block--individually numbered, something people seem to hold in high regard here. I watch two fishermen loading their ship up with ice in preparation of today's trip out. I would like to go with them, but I have no clue how to formulate this question in sign language and leave again. Next to them old people are mending their way through endless threads of broken orange nets. From one of the boats, a fisherman shouts at me "Where are you from", I respond routinely with "Togil" for German, then waving off the stream of Korean words he shouts back. I begin to be frustrated by the fact that I cannot communicate with anyone, although I would have so many questions. Who does he work for? Is there one conglomerate controlling all numbered ships or are they all held by individual fishermen trying to make a living? How far does he go out to the sea? Where do all the octopus come from?...
Thinking about that I wander back towards the city. Then a man on a bicycle approaches me, shouting "Hello!". Not again, I think and respond rather splenetically. But as it turns out he can really speak English. Kim Gyeong-Su, as he introduces himself is a painter of traditional Korean art, but with a love of classical Western music. "I paint oriental pictures, but I love Western music, its ironic" he says. Beethoven and Brahms, Mozart and Mendelsson are his favourite composers. This man, blinking into the sky through strong beatnik-era glasses and speaking with a bit of a nervous tick, quickly manages to turn my mood around. I ask to have a look at his paintings. "I have been a painter for 30 years and used to have my own gallery, but not anymore. Today people dont buy oriental painting anymore, people only like the Western art now." he say. He shows no sign of regret.
Sometimes I feel the urge to escape. Yesterday morning was like that, so I took a bus to Mokpo, a port town about 80km Southwest of Gwangju. The first sign of leaving Metropolitan Korea was the absence of any Latin characters. Instead I had to resort to my fairly limited hangul skills to decipher the timetable for buses back to Gwangju. But I managed to get by and with the help of the LonelyPlanet I took local bus no. 1 in order to get to the waterfront.
Vast quantities of fish, in the process of drying or already crumpled to meager caricatures of marine life, attract my attention from the bus. As I get off, I am instantly enveloped by fragrant vapours that almost take my breath away. People, most of them well into the latter half of their lives, eye me rather sceptical. Out of defiance I start waving friendly at the most grumpy looking ones and grin aggresively. It works quite well.
As I turn a corner I witness a woman empty out a waterbucket full of octopus on the sidewalk, then picking up the animals by the handfuls slamming them back into the bowl. Maybe the shock makes for a better taste. Business seems to be rather slow, most people doze away in their tiny shops and I attract too much attention to take any pictures. I proceed into the fishing harbour.
The boats are--like every national treasure and apartment block--individually numbered, something people seem to hold in high regard here. I watch two fishermen loading their ship up with ice in preparation of today's trip out. I would like to go with them, but I have no clue how to formulate this question in sign language and leave again. Next to them old people are mending their way through endless threads of broken orange nets. From one of the boats, a fisherman shouts at me "Where are you from", I respond routinely with "Togil" for German, then waving off the stream of Korean words he shouts back. I begin to be frustrated by the fact that I cannot communicate with anyone, although I would have so many questions. Who does he work for? Is there one conglomerate controlling all numbered ships or are they all held by individual fishermen trying to make a living? How far does he go out to the sea? Where do all the octopus come from?...
Thinking about that I wander back towards the city. Then a man on a bicycle approaches me, shouting "Hello!". Not again, I think and respond rather splenetically. But as it turns out he can really speak English. Kim Gyeong-Su, as he introduces himself is a painter of traditional Korean art, but with a love of classical Western music. "I paint oriental pictures, but I love Western music, its ironic" he says. Beethoven and Brahms, Mozart and Mendelsson are his favourite composers. This man, blinking into the sky through strong beatnik-era glasses and speaking with a bit of a nervous tick, quickly manages to turn my mood around. I ask to have a look at his paintings. "I have been a painter for 30 years and used to have my own gallery, but not anymore. Today people dont buy oriental painting anymore, people only like the Western art now." he say. He shows no sign of regret.
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| Mokpo |
Monday Darkness
Yesterday one of the worlds greates jazz pianists and one of my absolute favourite musicians, Esbjoern Svensson, died in a diving accident. A dark day. Fortunately, his music will live on and make him immortal, continuing to give joy and inspiration to everyone listening to it.
Saturday, 14 June 2008
Liberty Park
I am tired. But the sauna/motelroom is driving me mad, so I decide go for a stroll around town looking for a park or someplace else to relax. May 18 Liberty Park sounds good, such a great turn in Koreas history is sure to have a huge park. It turns out pathetic. A couple of trees next to an 8-lane road. No shade. Fresh smog. Great place. It is surrounded by the picturesquely grey appartment blocks no. 102-108. For some reason all apartment blocks have numbers starting with 100 printed on them in huge letters here. Potentially because they are all absolutely identical.
So much about the park. Opposite to is the huge Kim Dae Jung convention center catches my attention. At least the hero of the democracy movement got an appropriately sized monument. Might be something interesting inside. I steer away from Liberty Park. Only to be engaged by a group of teenage boys shouting random english sentences, attempting to surround me. I swiftly evade them, having becoming more experienced a kojangi.
As I enter the convention center, a sign tells me the "2008 IT Forum Expo" is held here. Loud music comes from the inside. So much about relaxing I think, but enter annyway. As big stage takes about half the room, thats where the music is coming from as well. Its a professional counterstrike gaming contest, with a live audience, TV cameras and live commentary by two anchormen and a woman. The speakers are so obscenely large, everytime one fires his gun the feeling is similar to being punched in the guts. Nobody seems to notice this, however. I watch the happenings for a while, but lose interest soon. Its still just computer games.
I walk on. Young people in all sorts of costumes are gathered around tiny stalls with a mysterious purpose. Then I pass an exhibition stand where two models with huge plastic guns catch my eyes. "FOREEIIGNNEEEERRR" somebody shouts. I swiftly look around, there are only black capped heads, so the somebody must be meaning me. To my disdain I now notice a guy with microphone and camera stepping brusquely towards me. "INTERVIEW!?" follows the inevitable request.
It is quick and effective. Where I am from, he wants to know. "Togil", I say and he screams in delight as this is Korean for German. Do I know the game 'Gold Slam' he wants to know. I have to say no. Do I know the ... game, he then asks. I am not interested in games I say, a smart move as he loses interest at once. Still, I am not free to go yet. "Today you are not photographer" he says pointing towards my camera, "You are model!". "M-O-D-E-L" he spells as a small crowd has gathered around us and shoves me between the two models I had seen earlier. A polaroid picture is taken which I can keep. It turns out nice, the photographer perfectly catches my awkward feeling.
Any feeling of balance I might have had left before has gone now. I leave. Or at least I try to. The main crowd of weirdly dressed people has gathered around the exit. Demons and Androids are taking pictures of two kids dressed as smiling breads chasing each other. Somebody walks along dressed in a black rectanglular costume reading "Death Notice" in big white letters. What is this? An uneasy feeling comes creeping down my back, because I notice him following me as I walk on. I stop abruptly and turn around, but just then he walks away. Was he really following me? Maybe I am getting paranoid.
In the subway I take out my 'Gwangju Metropolitan City Tourist Guide Map' and find "Uncheonsa Temple" is just a short walk from the next station. 'This is it.', I think. Tranquility, finally. But no. I stray around for one hour, cursing the crude map. Perhaps they should have invested less energy in naming it, but in actually drawing the map. A 5-metre-high metal hoarding blocks the way to where the temple is supposed to be. At last I reach a gap, only to see everything behind the gigantic fence has been cleared out to make room for another construction project. There is no temple. I return to the motel room.
So much about the park. Opposite to is the huge Kim Dae Jung convention center catches my attention. At least the hero of the democracy movement got an appropriately sized monument. Might be something interesting inside. I steer away from Liberty Park. Only to be engaged by a group of teenage boys shouting random english sentences, attempting to surround me. I swiftly evade them, having becoming more experienced a kojangi.
As I enter the convention center, a sign tells me the "2008 IT Forum Expo" is held here. Loud music comes from the inside. So much about relaxing I think, but enter annyway. As big stage takes about half the room, thats where the music is coming from as well. Its a professional counterstrike gaming contest, with a live audience, TV cameras and live commentary by two anchormen and a woman. The speakers are so obscenely large, everytime one fires his gun the feeling is similar to being punched in the guts. Nobody seems to notice this, however. I watch the happenings for a while, but lose interest soon. Its still just computer games.
I walk on. Young people in all sorts of costumes are gathered around tiny stalls with a mysterious purpose. Then I pass an exhibition stand where two models with huge plastic guns catch my eyes. "FOREEIIGNNEEEERRR" somebody shouts. I swiftly look around, there are only black capped heads, so the somebody must be meaning me. To my disdain I now notice a guy with microphone and camera stepping brusquely towards me. "INTERVIEW!?" follows the inevitable request.
It is quick and effective. Where I am from, he wants to know. "Togil", I say and he screams in delight as this is Korean for German. Do I know the game 'Gold Slam' he wants to know. I have to say no. Do I know the ... game, he then asks. I am not interested in games I say, a smart move as he loses interest at once. Still, I am not free to go yet. "Today you are not photographer" he says pointing towards my camera, "You are model!". "M-O-D-E-L" he spells as a small crowd has gathered around us and shoves me between the two models I had seen earlier. A polaroid picture is taken which I can keep. It turns out nice, the photographer perfectly catches my awkward feeling.
Any feeling of balance I might have had left before has gone now. I leave. Or at least I try to. The main crowd of weirdly dressed people has gathered around the exit. Demons and Androids are taking pictures of two kids dressed as smiling breads chasing each other. Somebody walks along dressed in a black rectanglular costume reading "Death Notice" in big white letters. What is this? An uneasy feeling comes creeping down my back, because I notice him following me as I walk on. I stop abruptly and turn around, but just then he walks away. Was he really following me? Maybe I am getting paranoid.
In the subway I take out my 'Gwangju Metropolitan City Tourist Guide Map' and find "Uncheonsa Temple" is just a short walk from the next station. 'This is it.', I think. Tranquility, finally. But no. I stray around for one hour, cursing the crude map. Perhaps they should have invested less energy in naming it, but in actually drawing the map. A 5-metre-high metal hoarding blocks the way to where the temple is supposed to be. At last I reach a gap, only to see everything behind the gigantic fence has been cleared out to make room for another construction project. There is no temple. I return to the motel room.
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| IT Convention |
Friday, 13 June 2008
Huge Drums and Mad Cows
It is the 10th of June. 21 years ago the Korean military government finally stepped down after intense public protest and the first democratic elections were held in South Korea.
Thousands of people have gathered in front of the stage today to celebrate this anniversary, but also to protest against the free-trade-agreement with the US. They feel betrayed by their president, who has signed the controversial agreement, because it includes the release of the import ban on US beef--what will bring the Mad Cow disease to Korea, people fear. On a popular poster, a cute Korean child is standing crying and helpless in front of an approaching ship full of menacing cows with skulls and bones symbols on their heads. This might be a slight exaggeration of the possible danger, as only 3 people have died from the human form of the disease in the United States since its discovery.
However, the sentiments are running high amongst the protestors, mostly young people from high school or the early semesters of university. Nobody knows who is behind the campaign, but the fact that it is mainly very young people who flock to the demonstrations in masses might suggest that a powerful interest group is aggravating people's fears intentionally to weaken the president.
In Seoul, the government has entrenched itself behind walls of shipping containers in fear of the demonstrators. Still, almost nobody has been injured (one Korean newspaper reports of 11 people injured alltogether), with tens of thousands on the streets thats incredibly few. In contrast, the police here in Gwangju are sitting around the peaceful demonstration looking bored. The mood is cheerful, it is a giant festival.
Then the drumming starts. The stage simply erupts in a sudden thunderstorm of sound. It is like nothing I have ever experienced. Five drummers hit their impressive instruments in perfect synchrony. Amplified through the huge soundsystem, the beats shake the ground and fire up the crowd. To top it, the drummers then dunk their sticks into gas and ignite them before continuing to play. I catch a shower of gas, because I too close trying to take some pictures. The effect is majestic, for a short while it seems as if a firestorm is sweeping over the stage.
The crowd is ecstatic. Frenetic applause accompanies the musicians from the stage. Now two speakers take the stage and hold a fiery speech in Korean, of which I unfortunately understand nothing. I try to find somebody who speaks English, but I soon give up as it is futile. In between they animate the people to do a mexican wave with their protest candles, as it is getting dark. It is remarkable there appears to be no violence at all. At demonstrations of this kind and especially this huge size, in my hometown Hamburg there would be intense clashes between armored police and hooded protestors, the police probably using water cannons to disperse the crowd. There might be something true about the cliche of the Confucian mindset and its ideal of collective harmony...
Thousands of people have gathered in front of the stage today to celebrate this anniversary, but also to protest against the free-trade-agreement with the US. They feel betrayed by their president, who has signed the controversial agreement, because it includes the release of the import ban on US beef--what will bring the Mad Cow disease to Korea, people fear. On a popular poster, a cute Korean child is standing crying and helpless in front of an approaching ship full of menacing cows with skulls and bones symbols on their heads. This might be a slight exaggeration of the possible danger, as only 3 people have died from the human form of the disease in the United States since its discovery.
However, the sentiments are running high amongst the protestors, mostly young people from high school or the early semesters of university. Nobody knows who is behind the campaign, but the fact that it is mainly very young people who flock to the demonstrations in masses might suggest that a powerful interest group is aggravating people's fears intentionally to weaken the president.
In Seoul, the government has entrenched itself behind walls of shipping containers in fear of the demonstrators. Still, almost nobody has been injured (one Korean newspaper reports of 11 people injured alltogether), with tens of thousands on the streets thats incredibly few. In contrast, the police here in Gwangju are sitting around the peaceful demonstration looking bored. The mood is cheerful, it is a giant festival.
Then the drumming starts. The stage simply erupts in a sudden thunderstorm of sound. It is like nothing I have ever experienced. Five drummers hit their impressive instruments in perfect synchrony. Amplified through the huge soundsystem, the beats shake the ground and fire up the crowd. To top it, the drummers then dunk their sticks into gas and ignite them before continuing to play. I catch a shower of gas, because I too close trying to take some pictures. The effect is majestic, for a short while it seems as if a firestorm is sweeping over the stage.
The crowd is ecstatic. Frenetic applause accompanies the musicians from the stage. Now two speakers take the stage and hold a fiery speech in Korean, of which I unfortunately understand nothing. I try to find somebody who speaks English, but I soon give up as it is futile. In between they animate the people to do a mexican wave with their protest candles, as it is getting dark. It is remarkable there appears to be no violence at all. At demonstrations of this kind and especially this huge size, in my hometown Hamburg there would be intense clashes between armored police and hooded protestors, the police probably using water cannons to disperse the crowd. There might be something true about the cliche of the Confucian mindset and its ideal of collective harmony...
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| FTA |
Thursday, 12 June 2008
first
The reception has for an yet unknown reason decided to switch off my aircondition, so I have been sitting directly in front of the fan for the past 36 hours to escape the obscene heat creeping in through the window. Communication is a challenge, to find out how to switch on the machine took no less than a day. Still I hope for them to eventually change their mind about the heat treat
ment.
Two days ago I ventured into the unknown city for the first time. Gwangju is famous for its art and culture scene and Thus I decide to start my expedition at Gwangju's 'Art Street'. Antique shops, full of unknown scriptures and sculptures mingle with modern art galleries. Inside the shops there is often either nobody visible or somebody sunk into a deep slumber.
Hidden underneath the street I discover an old tea shop, quite an unique place. Melancholic, otherworldly singing transpiring from below draws me inside. With every step I take down, the temperature to sinks by about one degree, a relief to the heat on the street. The walls are covered with Calligraphy on yellowed paper. A woman dressed in black hums along to the beautiful music floating through the air, stopping only as briefly as possible to greet me with a friendly "annyeong haseo". There is nobody else inside. I do not dare to order something as I do not want to be the only customer and without any knowledge as of how to behave in a place like this. "Beautiful" I just say to her and left after staying as long as seemed appropriate. I dont know if she understood.
When I re-enter the harsh sunlight and unforgiving heat outside, this whole episode already seems like a dream. Art Street is short, and soon I am back in the normal city race. It appears everything has to be noisy here. every second shop has either brutally loud music blaring out of a PA system in front of it or somebody shouting at everyone passing through a portable amplifying unit. In this case it is a blessing to look obviously foreign, as most promoters ignore me. Walking past a shop entrance I glimpse a young woman kissing a minuscule dog with pink makeup on its cheeks. At the next corner stands a group of small schoolgirls, they circle me instantly as I try to pass, shouting "HEEELLLLOOOO" "WHERE YOU FROM?". I escape quickly through a small breach in their lines. From the distance I can hear thumping bass on the main street, where I spot a group of students in pink dress marching towards democracy square.
The demonstrations! Today is the 21st anniversary of the democracy movement in Gwangju and this must surely be part of it. I run into the underground shopping complex right underneath the square to catch a picture of the group from the other side. Unfortunately I am too late, the group has already dispersed around the gigantic 'democracy bell' made in rememberance of the movement. While I try to take some pictures, two guys with a camera approach me. "INTERVIEW!?" they shout over the music from the huge speakers of the truck heading the demonstration. The language barrier is almost impenetrable despite brave efforts. They are from University TV, finally one of them manages to explain. I agree to be interviewed, although I have no idea how to be part of an interview with only one person speaking English and the other one not speaking any Korean. "What do you think?" he simply asks me and points camera and microphone into my face. I want to help them, so I just start a monologue about whatever comes to my mind. Instantly a group of curious people gathers around us, I quickly finish and escape again.
Meanwhile, on the street an impressive soundsystem is set up from a crane while huge drums are lured onto a stage for the main celebrations. This is only just the beginning, I realize...
ment.Two days ago I ventured into the unknown city for the first time. Gwangju is famous for its art and culture scene and Thus I decide to start my expedition at Gwangju's 'Art Street'. Antique shops, full of unknown scriptures and sculptures mingle with modern art galleries. Inside the shops there is often either nobody visible or somebody sunk into a deep slumber.
Hidden underneath the street I discover an old tea shop, quite an unique place. Melancholic, otherworldly singing transpiring from below draws me inside. With every step I take down, the temperature to sinks by about one degree, a relief to the heat on the street. The walls are covered with Calligraphy on yellowed paper. A woman dressed in black hums along to the beautiful music floating through the air, stopping only as briefly as possible to greet me with a friendly "annyeong haseo". There is nobody else inside. I do not dare to order something as I do not want to be the only customer and without any knowledge as of how to behave in a place like this. "Beautiful" I just say to her and left after staying as long as seemed appropriate. I dont know if she understood.
The demonstrations! Today is the 21st anniversary of the democracy movement in Gwangju and this must surely be part of it. I run into the underground shopping complex right underneath the square to catch a picture of the group from the other side. Unfortunately I am too late, the group has already dispersed around the gigantic 'democracy bell' made in rememberance of the movement. While I try to take some pictures, two guys with a camera approach me. "INTERVIEW!?" they shout over the music from the huge speakers of the truck heading the demonstration. The language barrier is almost impenetrable despite brave efforts. They are from University TV, finally one of them manages to explain. I agree to be interviewed, although I have no idea how to be part of an interview with only one person speaking English and the other one not speaking any Korean. "What do you think?" he simply asks me and points camera and microphone into my face. I want to help them, so I just start a monologue about whatever comes to my mind. Instantly a group of curious people gathers around us, I quickly finish and escape again.
Meanwhile, on the street an impressive soundsystem is set up from a crane while huge drums are lured onto a stage for the main celebrations. This is only just the beginning, I realize...
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