SLO MO

As he speaks, it is not such good news,

I start to process

“it’s back...need to get it under control,

or we’re talking months...”

Not what I expected or prepared for

a silent thud as I fall back to earth,

so many questions windmill, struggling to form 

as this sinks to the shadows of my soul

there to leave an immovable mark

For a few moments time slows to eternity

no reference points, everything blurs and swirls

I am at the centre and yet removed

lost in a familiarity that I cannot touch

I am called back to consciousness by a sound,

small at first, then swelling

out of place, unforeseen 

yet familiar, frightening, it rattles my heart

the sobs of my wife

Pent up tears, now released, of realisation

of compassion, love, heartbreak, frustration

of anger, rage against impotence

an elemental fear

And I am the cause, the reason, the source

I pull her into my arms, away from the medics

I try to comfort, say things helpful

I rationalise but it doesn’t stop

and for the first time I feel helpless, lost,

aghast at the pain I have forced into a life undeserving

What have I done?  Why?

BIKING SHANGHAI 

Tour de Puxi Night Stage 

Adrenalin pistons my legs

as we surge into the dense sweaty night

a fifty strong throng

of unruly, liberated

don’t give a dam cyclists

intent on claiming the streets

for a brief heady moment

We blur past a monochrome

concrete landscape

neon bejewelled, its music

the dun sound of engines and wheels

chorussed by random horns

Around me riders pass, fall back

weave into slender spaces

chat, smile, touch fists

encourage each other

signal hazards

hold up traffic for the pack

in an unspoken camaraderie

spun by twin wheels

A water stop crowds the pavement

outside a store

smiles, sweat dripping

stories told, names exchanged

moments of silence

a couple passing ask what and why

Then on again into the sodium lit night

contracting, puffing, stretching like 

a cloud of starlings

approximating their wheeling freedom

on streets built for chaotic order

On to the Bund

in a forbidden flypast

a disrespectful nod 

to the city’s sombre monuments

of a distant age

We end in a tired gaggle at a bridge

and a long-bearded old man

squeals his bike to a juddering halt

to wave in a smile

and take cheering applause from us

Pushing wearily home alone

along silent, shadowy streets

my heart still beats with the 

pedal pumping, wheel whirring energy that fuels

my happy bed-seeking soul

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CANCER?

an attack

on your smallest

most vital element

your cells

the tiny source of everything you are

cancer reprogrammes cells

not to create and sustain

instead

to consume and destroy

to pull down

everything they were born to build

it’s a murderous suicide

a perverse unnatural act of nature 

rather than giving life 

by doing their job and dying

cells with cancer find a new purpose

live a bit more 

and in their new vitality 

they kill

there is no alien intruder

no external wound to blame

it is life’s order reversed

turned upside down

a civil war within

cell against brother cell

this is everything you are

and know 

inside out

on it’s head

arse over tit

the stuff you are made of 

trying to kill you

life against life

COME AGAIN?

Come again

-Come again?

Yes, come again

-You what?

I said come again

-Eh?

You heard, come again

-Pardon?

That’s right, come again,

it’s back, your cancer

-Shit

Shanghai, oh Shanghai

Shanghai’s Temple of Luxury, the Plaza 66 mall, where new standards of miserable service are set daily.  Shop assistants’ faces are fixed in expressions of empty, arrogant misery, varying in shade from mere disdain for most visitors, especially non-buyers, to fawning and obviously faux delight in the rare event of a purchase.  The general impression is of a large, mostly empty cathedral in which worshippers wander slowly through in awe at the branded marvels on offer, under the watchful eyes of sullen vergers.

Amongst the crowd of dawdling eye-shoppers, devotees move with the speed of purpose, adorned either with the products, usually a bag, belt, shoes, t-shirt, and for men a hat, or if neophytes with the large and visible carrier bags denoting their recent purchase of membership of this elite congregation.

Often older men stroll by with startlingly young, thin ladies on their arm, kitted out in very tight trousers or impossibly short skirts, totteringly high heels and smiles of acquisitory joy.  The man, usually stout, with dyed hair, trails an air of smug satisfaction at his wealth and prowess while satisfying her craving for expensive brands.

Most of the stores are empty for much of the day, save for their grim guardians, the exceptions being Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel & Hermes, where occasionally entry needs to be controlled to prevent the crowds from enlivening the prevailing misery too much.

Like the expensive fashion they house, each store has to be expensively and regularly renewed.  These are after all the flagship stores, the opulent chapels of their sainted brand and their magic and power must be constantly enhanced to feed the devotees’ faith in their ability to transform and enrich their lives.

BLOOD

Blood

vitally viscous

coursing crimson 

through the miraculous labyrinth 

of my body

Surging, 

racing, 

pumping, 

eddying, 

oozing through every artery, vein and vessel

Carrying oxygen, life, DNA, family, 

nourishment, energy, warmth, healing, 

and identity to every cell

Giving form to my soul

spark to my neurons

flight to my thoughts

Blood lines

blood ties

blood brothers

blood thicker than water

blood and guts 

blood of Christ

blood that sustains us from one cell to a billion

Carrying disease and poison, 

bacterial and viral invaders

smoothly and quietly

to ambush life’s processes

at any and every stage

Serving two masters,

knowing and unknowing,

willing and unwilling,

helping to kill me 

as it surges to keep me alive

Blood and anti-blood

Back in Busan

Traffic crawls through the sprawling concrete, dragging us towards our hotel.  Busan looks better by night, in a veil of multi-coloured lights thrown across its hills and valleys, giving little clue to the urban mess beneath.

A new morning brings bright blue skies again and the sea sparkling like a jewelled blanket.  We head to Jagalchi Fish Market to wander through an astonishing selection of fish that has Sooka gasping with delight and hunger.  Everything is carefully and prettily laid out to attract buyers.  Long silver belt fish dazzle in rows in the sunlight; dried skate, emptied and skewered open like kites;  squid and octopus of every size, tentacles hanging down like bizarre wigs, some still alive in basins of water, squid aiming darts of water at the curious who get too close.  All as fresh as can be, clean smelling and surrounded by countless stalls ready to cook up your purchases in an instant.

The stall holders are all women, middle-aged or older, with the typical bonnet of tight curls denoting ‘ajumadom’ and tanned faces with ruddy cheeks that tell of a tough outdoor life.  They’re mostly cheerful, tolerating gawping unproductive tourists and clearly take pride in presenting their catch as neatly as they can.  Now and then an argument erupts as a grouchy grandma takes offence at an unheard slight and spits insults and imprecations at the offender in a voice sure to fright the days’ catch back to life.

20 Years

Two decades, 1040 weeks, 7300 days is a long time and yet...  Just over 12 months ago I thought I might not make it.  But here I am, thank God.  So we fulfilled our promise to take the pictures in Korean traditional dress that we didn’t when we married.  The wedding house, echoingly empty in midweek rest, is a little nonplussed at our unexpected request but recovers quickly and the photographer is summoned.  Make up complete, colourful costumes chosen, donned and adjusted, we take our places behind a low table laden with plastic offerings of chestnuts, pine nuts, tetchu and a serious looking chicken.  My knees object but must do as they’re told, we strike the requisite poses, and raise empty cups to toast each other.  The photos are taken so quickly that I have barely caught breath and my mouth is frozen in a half smile.  

20 years captured in short 3 flashes - it was so good to be there.

Jirisan - Jiri Mountain

We reach the pass, park and set off for Goribong Peak, which we can see rising above us, swathed in thick green, with three rocky outcrops jutting out in relief.  A gentle walk, mostly under cover through a green tunnel of Korean pines, magnolias, oaks and short bamboo, with unseen birds singing us along.  Every now and then, small piles of stones tell of previous walkers and we make our own on a boulder facing Jirisan to hold our wishes.

This is bear country but we clearly aren’t worth a look and the biggest threat we face is a very busy striped squirrel searching for pine nuts and totori (acorns).

We emerge on top of Goribong in the warm autumn sun to glorious views of the valley down to Namwon on one side and to the brother peaks of Jirisan on the other.  Under a glowing blue sky, the silence and  fresh air are exhilarating and we have it all to ourselves and a wheeling hawk.  It doesn’t get much better - what an antidote to Shanghai.

That evening we have delightful vegetarian food, a create-your-own bibimpap with an endless combination of local plants, crowned with the seductive taste of sesame oil.  The restaurant is a traditional one storey house, with wooden pillars and roof beams, whitewashed walls and paper doors.  Owned by an ancient, friendly halmoni, we are served by a young Filipina, a rare foreigner this deep in the country, whose sister teaches English in the town.  You leave your shoes outside, and sit on the heated floor at low tables. I shift and squirm to find an elusive comfortable position, jealous of the local people's cross-legged poise.

The rice comes cooking in a stone pot so hot the bottom layer is roasted literally to a crisp and tastes deliciously crunchy and nutty.  This is all washed down with a tasty, home made, slightly fizzy rice wine called tongdongju.  One of the best meals in a very long time, we head to our room satisfied with a magnificent day.

Goryeong Bokbo - Nine Dragon Falls

A few hundred vertiginous steps lead us down to the famous pools, one for each dragon that are said to have descended from a rainbow.  The colours have faded but the pools are still beautiful, lying amongst vast granite rock walls and boulders.  We dip our feet in the super cold water for a refreshing natural massage, and share in the laughter from a party of hiking ajumas enjoying lunch on a flat rock above us.  

Dragonflies are everywhere, gracefully flitting in and out of the shade, setting down on warm rock to soak up the sun’s energy and rest their wondrous wings which remind me of stained glass church windows.  At rest, approaching from behind out of sight of their large eyes, they are easily caught and held gently between two fingers.  With an apology for the inconvenience, we send them up into the air again carrying our wishes for a long good life for us and them.

Heading back up, we meet a party of good humoured elderly Koreans, including two men in traditional hanbok clothes and hats, all of whom give us a cheerful welcome and shame us with their health and vigour.

Jirisan National Park

We find a decent, spacious, clean room in Namwon which seems to have more hotels than Jinju, thanks no doubt to the Jirisan National Park, which in seasons throngs with eager walkers kitted out in full gear and equal numbers of tourists, usually in suits and ties and high heels, oblivious to the rough terrain, keen to take in the splendours of the mountain range that is said to be Korea’s most beautiful.

We stroll through Gwanghalluwon, a traditional formal garden made almost 600 years ago and dedicated to the heroic love story of Chunhyang.

Dinner is a superb steaming mushroom soup, full of woodland goodness, that helps me fight off a chill from the unexpectedly cool mountain evening.

Wake to a crisp sunny morning, giving the green pine-clad peaks sharp relief against the endless blue sky, fuelling our anticipation of a day exploring the mountains.  Driving through rural scenes of golden rice fields, persimmons still on the tree branches, and very traditional hamlets, we soon come to a lovely river bed carved through solid, massive granite, part of it one huge flattened boulder, giving on to a narrower channel with a gentle flow of clear, very cold water and a couple of pools deep enough to bathe in if one were brave enough.

Serendipity

Fate continues to intervene in our travels.  Leaving Tongyeong, packed to the gills with seafaring tourists, we make the sensible decision to head inland to Jinju, a small city of some historical interest some 30km north, and, we reasoned, unlikely to be plagued by holiday makers.  

We arrive in a flood torrent of traffic to find a town nearly bereft of hotels and the few we discover are all full thanks to a festival on the river.  The approaches to the water throng with people coming and going from the stalls along the river bank.  And as the traffic crawls along, we catch tantalising glimpses of fantastic illuminated floats on the river, too brief to make out the shapes, leaving us wishing we’d known and planned better.

So off we head another 30km north to Sancheong, a dusty country town with little to boast about that we could see by night, and some time after after midnight we find a grim room in another love motel, with a convenient karaoke club attached, but we are so tired that it does not matter and we quickly fall into a deep sleep.

We wake late but rested and flee our room which bears all the signs of 20 years of neglect and contractual encounters, to find relief in a cafe with a cappuccino, between the tractor dealers, hardware shops and a hair salon from several eras before.

A new day brought a sparkling blue sky, cool autumn air and views of green mountains we had missed in the dark of the night before.  The sight of the peaks and a rocky river running through Sancheong is a real lift and we change plan and head to Namwon and the Jirisan National Park.  Thank you Jinju!

Cars

Chairman, President, Dynasty, Prestige, Premium, Grandeur.  There’s nothing like a pompously named car to reaffirm one’s precious hard won pomposity and to indicate to the people on the street when they should defer to righteous self-importance.  Probably only available in black, occasionally in silver by special request, this growing strand of terribly serious, inflated care names seems unique to Korea.  A few classical exceptions, like Equus, Tosca, Genesis, add some exotic flavour to this large bubble of hot pride.  Not of course that I have much to crow about, coming from a country that gave rise to the Marina, Focus, Imp and Reliant.

Goseong

I am enjoying a huge bowl of tasty and healthy mushroom rice porridge in a small room, in the shadow of a young gingko tree with my wife, her brother and his young family. I may be the only foreigner in this unlovely little country town, though nobody bats an eyelid and I am treated with normal courtesies.  There was no room in any love motel for miles around last night - it’s a long holiday weekend and clearly lovers are busy, which is what brought us to this country outpost, famous for dinosaur traces and little else.