Flower Lounge (8) -- Death Orientation

Lantau is about twice the size of Hong Kong Island. Its 147 square kilometres of landmass was home to farmers and fishermen in sporadic villages, largely forgotten and left alone, until developers unearthed its profit potentials in the late 1970s. The airport authority and Disney came later.

Tong Fuk village at the south side of the island, removed from the airport and Mickey Mouse, remains relatively tranquil in today’s term. Above the Tong Fuk Temple Beach, tucked away at the end of Ma Po Ping Road, beyond a stream which once irrigated fertile fields, is the Tong Fuk Correctional Institution — my jail.

Strategically located along the hillside, the prison compound comprises two main clusters. Black hands and non-Chinese ONs are incarcerated at Upper Circle, near the Admin aka Fingerprint Room and the main entrance. Downhill from Upper Circle, towards the beach, is Lower Circle where mostly white hands and felons nearing the end of a long sentence are kept.

After dinner, Malay and I shower at Upper Circle. The shower hall is much nicer than the one at LCK — less chaotic, and not flooded. After shower, we are told to go to a transition dorm for new arrivals at Lower Circle, unaccompanied.

Connecting the two Circles is a long flight of stairs hemmed in by multiple layers of tall chickenwire fences. They don’t look impossible to scale, but it would take great courage and immense stupidity to do so. On the other side of Fence One is Fence Two — the numbering is mine — both similarly deterring. Anyone pigheaded enough to overcome the two fences, probably bleeding profusely from barbwire cuts by then, will land in another section of the prison compound, still very much in jail, not knowing which way to turn for freedom.

Malay notices me pausing to examine the arrangement briefly, and volunteers his expert estimate that at least one idiot per year would make the attempt, diplomatically discouraging me from being that Idiot of the Year. No, that isn’t my intention at all, merely taking note of the security architecture out of engineering curiosity.

Looking towards the bottom end, the world is pitch dark but for the illuminated staircase plunging deep into the bowels of Felicity Pond, and faint flickers of will-o’-the-wisps.

The night is cold for Hong Kong, fifteen Celsius or so, crisp and balmy. The government might have issued some kind of ‘cold weather warnings’ by now to warn its fragile citizenry that environmental threats have exceeded tolerance level. These days, 18 is considered too cold, and 25 too hot, to highlight some kind of privileged status.

A couple of guards stationed midway are enjoying the evening air. They hardly look at us.

After incubating for God knows how long in my dark and slimy interior, the bugs are ready to raid, looting energy and resources, raping my cells for their own proliferation. Go ahead. I’m down, falling, sinking, defenceless, defeated. Their moment has arrived.

Plodding down the stairs, a thin plastic bag with all my personal belongings slung over shoulder, weighed down by heavy slippers, the interminable descent feels ominously one-way. Malay mumbles something which I can’t make out, but don’t care. He’s probably asking the Latin name of some tree. I answer huh? and walk on.

Is this a flu? depression? complication of both? a portent of things to come? I’ve been trying to stay positive. How much unimaginably bad luck would it take to convince me that life has gone into a tailspin, free-falling, whistling through foul air?

I breathe through open mouth to bypass the clogged nose. The air tastes like rotten fish. Or is it the taste of my tongue?

The last few steps extend laterally, turning the bottom concourse into an amphitheatre stage. A duty guard mutely points to one of the baby blue and white bungalows a few more steps down, at the far end of the stage. That would be as low as things go for now.

Thank you, Sir.

There are two dormitories on the ground floor. The gate to one is open. The choice is obvious.

It’s a big room with dozens of bunkbeds, mostly empty. Two See Hings are preparing their beds. We exchange silent, impassive, glances. On a table are a few piles of beddings, and a white jerrycan. Malay grabs some blankets and settles in one of the beds without saying goodnight. I unscrew the cap of the container and sniff with stuffed nose. Nothing, not even the familiar industrial smell of cheap plastic. It has to be water. Don’t feel like asking more stupid questions. So what if it isn’t? I drink two big mugs, grab a stack of blankets, and lie down.

Clank, the gate is locked.

I’m shivering. Someone’s snoring gently nearby.

I pull the blankets up over the chin. They don’t do much.

Am I asleep? Or trapped by insomniac delirium? My bones feel as if I’ve been lying down motionless for days.

It’s the seventh of March. I’ve been a prisoner for seven days. This is also Leslie’s First Seven-Day Period, a major afterlife milestone, her last day to hang around the human world as a shadowy entity. Departure rites distract us from the pain of loss; readymade stories connect gnawing memories with the great unknown, projecting continuity. The seventh-day rite resurrects loved ones for a final farewell, and a feast of their favourite earthly food, so they can Guo Gai with a full phantom stomach. But the living must hide, like children must from Santa. If the homecoming spirit catches sight of a loved one, it might get all sentimental, upsetting a peaceful departure, turning itself into a ghost, becoming a lingering neighbourhood problem.

Leslie is expected to make her final home visit tonight, maybe right this moment. Will my brother Chris set out her favourite dishes before midnight, then hide and listen for poltergeist consumption? He hasn’t cooked for years, though. It may not be edible even with paranormal tolerance.

Has it been minutes? hours? since when?

Is it the middle of the night, or near dawn?

My throat burns. Let it burn. Don’t feel like getting up for water. The dying don’t get up for water. It’s a matter of principle.

I’m parched, probably dead already, buried in a desert, dehydrated, desiccated.

Can’t say the feeling of imminent death is good or bad. So far so calm. No anxiety. Years of practice have not been in vain.

The living have never experienced death, hence the deep, irrational, futile fear. Death is a taboo in many cultures. Mentioning it is for some unreasonable reason depressing, grey, pessimistic, as if mortality can be defeated by optimism. Mature and polite participants of humanity’s collective denial don’t discuss toilet matters or death. Turd and death don’t exist in civilised circles. Paradoxically, describing constipation — the tormenting absence of excrement — at the dining table is also regarded unsocial.

I’m not a very mature and polite member of the human community. Treating faecal matters is a professional duty. It earns my living.

And when it comes to death, I think denial will only make it unnecessarily scary with age. A fear of death also distracts us from life. If life were a scenic train ride, loathing the destination will ruin the trip in the meantime.

The Buddha told us death contemplation is a shortcut to enlightenment. Soon after him, Plato pointed out that the proper practice of philosophy is ‘about nothing else but dying and being dead.’ Roman generals were supposedly accompanied by a slave mumbling memento mori — remember that you will die — in victory processions. If true, many a slave must have had his tongue cut off by irritated soldiers. Perhaps Lao Zhi’s suggestion is more feasible: triumphant troops should parade in funeral costumes as a reminder that military victory is the result of many tragic deaths — not something to be celebrated.

Long before I learned of the sobering morbidity of ancient sages, I had started to rehearse death in order to de-stress. When life gets stressful — and it often does without warning — I lie in my simulated deathbed to savour the last minutes, reflecting on my ephemeral existence.

I’ve done a lot to justify a lifetime, haven’t I? Can’t name a single thing which was an unquestionable must do though. In the end, all much ado about nothing, holographic fillers of a delusive incarnation.

Just an empty dream.

No big deal. So, relax.

I highly recommend this deathbed de-stressing technique. Some benighted friends regard it an early symptom of mental derangement. My family gives me the impression that they understand, and is supportive as always.

Embracing death with an open mind and open heart is not only therapeutic, but also enlightening, seriously beneficial.

The one and only certainty ahead is death. Does it not make sense to start the spade work early, and give it some attention? Denying eventuality doesn’t prevent it from coming. Weekly medical check-ups would probably bring death forward, or make life not worth living. Denial only builds anxiety as time accelerates with age, hurling us closer to the big unknown, making the remaining days progressively more terrifying. Furthermore, humans are possibly the only animal which can actively and deliberately contemplate death. It’s a unique privilege in the Animal Kingdom.

A healthy acceptance of the End also gives life a timeline, putting it into perspective, making it at once precious and insignificant.

We grade life all the time with utmost insincerity, asking each other how’s life, replying great, okay, terrible without meaning it. If an entire lifetime were to be properly graded, what would the criteria be? What kind of life would be great, okay, or terrible? It differs from person to person, naturally, but not many have given any thought on how they may grade their own life, even if they believe it’s the only one they’ll ever have. That seems strangely negligent.

If life were an exam, our scores would reflect how ‘successfully’ we’ve lived.

To score well in any exam, we must first of all understand what the questions are. In the case of a lifetime, the questions are what we want out of it. Then we must be aware of how much time is given on average, and how much of it has elapsed, in order to pace ourselves sensibly. Spending all our time and energy on one or two questions, ignoring the rest of the exam paper, losing sight of the big picture, forgetting to note how much time’s left, would result in a lousy grade, if not miserable failure — a terrible life.

Death drills remind me where I am on the timeline. They give me a sense of proportion, help me visualise life in its entirety, putting my existence into perspective.

The deathbed also makes me honest. Only a few minutes left, how am I going to deal with the long list of regrets, unfulfilled dreams, and outstanding rivalries with annoying people I passionately want to prove wrong? I can’t. All the ambitions and competitions are not worth mentioning any more, not when there’s only a few minutes left.

Remorses are more nagging…Why did I say that nasty thing the other day… Well, all too late, alas.

Wait! It’s not too late! This is only a rehearsal!

The chance of me still being alive tomorrow is rather high. Why not rectify? Forget about the dreams and vengeances, they won’t matter when the end comes. But nagging regrets can be reconciled while I can.

See? That’s how I became a great guy — through death rehearsals.

Another of my favourite delirium is visualising my imminent return to the big picture.

With due self-respect, in the big picture, I’m infinitely less substantial than a grain of sand among all the deserts and beaches on Earth, Moon, Mars and Venus. Utterly negligible, really, but very precious to myself. Seeing my cosmic insignificance gives me a relaxed focus on this infinitesimal life the best I can, with positive nonchalance.

Before retirement, I often rehearsed death on uneventful Sunday evenings, knowing that dreadful Monday awaits if I survive tonight. Depending on my mood, a death drill could be sobering, calming, philosophical, spiritual, or outright silly. Right now, lying at the lower bunk of a prison bed, wrapped in prickly blankets, sick like a dog, it’s dead serious. The slammer is a powerful setting.

Without any timepiece, the minutes tick away with oppressive urgency.

I’m shivering, sweating. Skeleton frozen, teeth clattering. This is the big transition for real, not just another practice run. Let bygones be bygones.

Where will I Guo Gai to this time, when my bodily molecules cease to cooperate with each other in a biochemically coordinated manner? Nothing in the universe is ever totally, thoroughly, ultimately, extinguished. Annihilation stinks of human exceptionalism, more incredible than even Heaven and Hell.

I’ll find out soon, once the last breath leaves me.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The average life comprises seven hundred million breaths. How many left?

Faces hover above. Satu, the girls, a few friends. Farewell.

I’m more impatient than sad. Let’s get this over with.

Being ready isn’t the same as ‘not wishing to live’. I want to live on, to survive this fateful tribulation. I even feel a peculiar sense of purpose. This must be happening for a reason. Perhaps I’ll make something out of it one day? What could that be? No idea. Can’t imagine. Real reasons are often beyond imagination.

Drop everything right here, right now.

Fine…fine. Let’s go.

Then I die.

I wake in the morning with a lungful of phlegm. Death hasn’t happened. I slept well after the lonely drama. My cellmates are still sleeping.

A patrolling guard looks in through the gate.

‘Ah Sir!’ As loud as my throat can manage. ‘Can I get a temperature check?’

‘Wait for the medical officer during his morning round,’ he says, then leaves.

Sure. Nothing urgent. Just dying. He probably suspects that all illnesses are feigned. No point insisting. Dying right now would be a satisfying vindication.

Climbing back to the Upper Circle.

‘You okay?’ Malay asks.

Why? Do I look horrible?

‘Oh yeah, just a flu,’ I reply with a weak smile. Globally, only a few hundred thousand die from the flu every year. Just a flu.

The morning seems much longer than usual. When life is unpleasant, time passes slowly, effectively promoting longevity. Malay mercifully suppresses his prattles into mumbling monologues, leaving me out of it.

Finally, a yellowish lab coat appears.

I wish I have a spontaneous combustion to show, accompanied by high fever, vomiting, seizure, diarrhoea, all that.

‘Ah Sir, I think I have a fever.’

He puts his palm on my forehead for half a second, and gives his diagnosis: ‘You’re okay.’ My Mum used to do that, and was right every time. I hope he’s equally good.

I feel better after a few rounds of Panadol and a tiny yellow pill — a Tong Fuk panacea. I don’t think it’s antibiotic. Maybe some kind of anti-inflammatory pain killer? It works. It reputedly works for everything. If an inmate had liver cancer, the medics would probably give him the same pill, perhaps double dosage for such a serious malady. When options are limited, the body smartens up and reacts more sensibly to medication. The yellow gunk from LCK worked magic as well. The father of all boils calmed down the next morning and shrivelled away within a couple of days, leaving behind a flaky greyish scar, and me wondering which biochemical pathway had the pus taken to vanish.

In the next two days, I sit around Upper Circle Fan Tong, struggling with a heavy head and Malay’s enthusiasm. Imprisonment evidently doesn’t bother him. Whenever he takes a break from telling stories, I make notes or write about my own unfolding tragedy.

Our only chore is to help sweep the floor after each meal. For a disciplinary institution, the dining hall is wildly unrestrained, even more chaotic than LCK. Chicken bones (not that there’s a lot), orange peels, cigarette butts, tissues, delinquent mucous all get tossed over the shoulders or released straight from the mouth by gravity. Cleaning up looks daunting at first. But with a team of more than twenty, it takes only a few minutes. When the place is clean again, we sit and wait for the next meal.

In the dining hall is a notice board which nobody notices. I may be the only one who has ever read the bulletins carefully.

There’s an essay competition organised by the Rainbow Newsletter. Rainbow, that brilliant illusion across the sky after rain, ephemeral symbol of groundless hope. Why not? It’d teach the ego a lesson if I lost to a bunch of primary school dropouts in a literary contest. In all likelihood, mine will be the sole submission and win by default. I might then be invited by the Commissioner of Correctional Services to tour Hong Kong’s prisons and give talks to fellow inmates. Let me prepare one in English and one in Chinese to impress the hell out of a bunch of sleepy social workers and volunteers.

The theme is ‘Best Hope in Future’ in English. Not grammatically perfect, but the intention is clear. A title comes to mind: Now is the best hope for tomorrow. Be encouraging and positive, absolutely no sarcasm, respect cliche, I remind myself, then proceed to jot down a few discussion points. Malay yanks hair from his nose absentmindedly next to me, deep in thought.

My slow train of thought is derailed by Derek’s visit.

We’re in a small room with CCTV. A guard peeks through a spy window on the door once in a while, marking his dutiful presence with greasy nose prints.

‘Things are looking good according to counsels,’ he says as a matter of fact, radiating optimism. ‘We’ll launch the appeal as soon as possible.’

Wonderful.

Derek’s a mood buffer. When things look great, he’ll tell horror stories to suppress expectation. ‘Don’t judge this with common sense’ is his favourite advice. ‘Judges don’t think that way.’ Annoyingly, he’s been right most of the time. On the other hand, when we appear to have fallen into a cesspool of law points, he would be blasé. ‘Nah, only a show. All bullshit. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here in a few weeks,’ he says, unequivocally confident. ‘We have an extremely strong case. The judge has erred in numerous areas.’

‘Is the Court of Appeal, uh, more rational?’ I ask, knowing that I won’t rely on his answer, whatever it may be.

‘Well,’ he pauses. ‘They’re supposed to be.’

‘Are they?’ I press on.

‘Don’t forget there’s still the Court of Final Appeal,’ he says with forward-looking buoyancy.

Yes, he has included us in his five-year budget plan, I’m ninety-nine percent sure.

Shortly before dinner, Malay and I are summoned to a small room for orientation. The tutor is a casual and friendly old screw. He goes over the house rules: No drugs; no gambling; no fighting; thou shalt not steal, or kill.

‘Understood?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Good. Now, blanket folding,’ he solemnly announces. ‘This is very important.’

Can’t imagine anything more important.

He spends a disproportionate amount of time showing us how to fold blankets into a taut cube. ‘Absolutely no loose ends. Just like in the army. Every morning.’

I’ve never been in the army, but note his emphasis on the blanket culture. Every institution has its tics. Evidently, it’s blanket folding at Tong Fuk.

This is Day Three. I get a job.

‘Report to Workshop Five at Lower Circle,’ an officer tells me after lunch.

‘Yes, Ah Sir.’

I no longer ask stupid questions such as right now? Or where exactly is Workshop Five down-under? The answers will come. They always do. In a way, prison smooths the vicissitudes of life. The stress of decision making has been largely eliminated, courtesy of the Correction Services Department. It’s up to me to appreciate the liberation.

Chat with Malay briefly to say goodbye. Being a black hand, he’ll stay up here. I promise to ask my wife to bring him a prepaid phone card so he could call his wives back home. Without a long-distant phone card, foreign inmates have no means of informing their families that they won’t be home for dinner for many moons to come. Malay has three wives to call. That could be why he seems so happy here. Prison must feel to him a much needed break from domestic lives. Unfortunately, my wife will find out that articles from unrelated visitors are not permitted.

Resourceful as ever, he has ingratiated himself with God-brother who kicked us off stage when we arrived. He has even found himself a vocation as barber, claiming past experience as a salon owner in Kuala Lumpur, charging the standard rate of two fags per hairdo. The official hairdresser is a lucrative post which obviously requires God-brother’s blessing. The amazing thing is I have been with him nearly all the time, and not noticed any social manoeuvring.

I’ve become accustomed, even attached, to Malay’s garrulous presence. He can be tiring, but is my only acquaintance in this alien situation. Well, life is made up of changes — mostly inevitable, nonnegotiable changes. Things happen. Shit happens. People come. People go.

So, here I go.

At the top of the stairs, all alone this time, I pause to take in the dreadful spring day.

The sky is faraway, translucent with tainted moisture. Crisp winter air is starting to turn soggy and lukewarm. The feeble sun, filtered by haze, barely visible, has an unwholesome effect on the atmosphere, making it muggy one minute, chilly the next.

High security slammers are surrounded by walls. Tong Fuk, being low security, is surrounded by chickenwire fences, cutting the outside world into jigsaw puzzle squares. The distant sea laps mutely against a presumably deserted beach. Behind it is a barricade of rolling hills. What picturesque desolation.

Weighted down by my bag of chattels, retarded by reluctant footwear, my brisk urban pace has slowed to that of a prisoner’s. There’s no hurry. Spacetime has gummed up. I sink in suspended animation. A guard at the bottom concourse waves me in the direction of Workshop Five from a distance. See? I knew the answer would come in the fullness of time. I salute him and drag myself to my post-retirement new job.

* * *

Read Next Episode: Lower Circle

where white hands are locked up