Sunshine

1. In transit:   08:25 - 04/10/2005
(all times local, or as near to as possible)

“Whath that?  Nuclear physicth, ith it?” a young voice says a little too loudly from above my left shoulder.
        Four hours before arriving in Hong Kong, most of the plane is in darkness, its passengers restlessly trying to grab some economy class sleep.  I gave up long ago as I have a Korean Jabba The Hutt character sprawled and gurgling next to me.  My only blessing is an aisle seat.
       I’m reading an entertaining, untaxing novel requiring minimal attention.  At the beginning of each chapter there’s a small italicised question and answer blurb which forms the central theme of the novel.  All of these are heavily ironic, poking fun at an immature narrator.  The one on this page has something about physics.
       Bold opening gambit, nuclear physics, I think of the lisper above my shoulder.  And one dismissed as not possibly being serious.  How could someone begin a conversation in a quiet, darkened aircraft at an indistinct but deep night time, about nuclear physics?  I decide to banter.
       “Well, no, it’s quantum physics actually: my speciality,” I say in a low, quieter tone, hoping his pitch will follow mine, although the effect is also that I sound less jovial than I’d intended.  He’s a year or two younger than me in his earlier twenties.  It’s possible mild drunkenness exaggerates his lisp. 
       “Really?” he says, respectfully amazed, still uncomfortably loudly.  It’s like he can’t control the sound level as it blurts from the back of his throat.  Some people nearby shuffle in their seats.  He’s fascinated. 
       I’m forced to concede my jest when he points at the small section at the top of the page of my book.  After I explain, he stays to chat, somewhat awkwardly, still too loudly, nursing his thimble of spirit. 
       He’s going to Hong Kong for the first time to meet his Japanese girlfriend, who he sees every six months in various places.  It’s a half made notion of mine that any western man, particularly British or Americans - can easily land eastern girlfriends.  It’s not difficult.  To do with the difference / novelty factor which leads to many a holiday romance.  You often saw gawky looking guys at university with eastern girls, because they’re less aware of their gawkiness.  I tell him I’m just passing through Hong Kong on my way to Saigon.  He asks if that’s in China.  Vietnam, I correct him.  Still he prolongs the scene with his travel tales and profound observations that I’m largely unresponsive to, smiling politely until he’s finished, then he plods back up the aisle.
      Will I have to meet and be pleasant to many similar types of over confident, over loud, well-travelled, yet not terribly bright young people?  I could dream up a sneery name for them like my Dad would - an oh-so-clever acronym.  We’d parted with the regular rushed clasping tangle at terminal 3’s pick up/drop-off bay several hours ago.

Now Hong Kong is beneath me, looking impressive and strangely accidental.  As if somebody has mistakenly scattered numerous well developed skyscraper families across a beautiful landscape intended for cute wooden huts and not many people.  I’d like to go back and see more than the airport one day. The city’s formation over a series of jagged coastlines and islands, often too large to be connected by bridges, is spectacular.  When we landed into the airport, I couldn’t stop looking out of the panoramic windows at the lanscape.  I’d heard that landing in the old Hong Kong city airport was a spectacular experience and had been disappointed to learn it had relocated to a small island a short distance away, but this was impressive too. 

At the gate to this flight onto Saigon there was a lady reading a book I’d recently finished.  I wanted to say something, speak to her about it, having enjoyed it despite myself, despite thinking it all implausible and rather silly.  I wanted to speak to someone, and speak to someone about that book because I hadn’t spoken to anyone about the book.  And, apart from the chap on the plane, hadn’t spoken to anyone about anything for a while.  She got up and went to another gate for another plane.       

I’m flying out now, away from Hong Kong, its surroundings and this breathtaking expanse underneath me.  Hong Kong will frame my time away as I’m due to stop through it again on the way back, but I’ll know practically nothing apart from the almost arrogant charm it commands from arm’s length.  “What, just because you came all this way, you expected us to live in huts?  We live better than you, you mugs,” it boisterously yells from the ground.    

I remain disconcertingly ignorant of what awaits me in the southern Vietnamese capital of Saigon, or Ho Chi Minh City, its official title.  It won’t be as developed and westernised as Hong Kong, I’m sure, but how much less?  Will there be pavements?  Boarding this aircraft, I began to feel more conscious of being western.  A handful of other tourists boarded too, but we were in the minority.  The natives looked bored to be going to Ho Chi Minh.  It’s not something to get excited about, judging by them.