The First and Last Freedom

A chicken and chocolate burger.

It was perhaps one of my least successful culinary adventures. I don’t remember much of the taste because what came after had me making peace with what I thought was the end of my life. Once my stomach was done folding itself into an origami boat, it sailed up through strained tears and hunched me over a toilet bowl in a Bangkok hostel where I’d been staying for the past three weeks. Just the thought of having my face near a shared toilet bowl made me feel the urge to let out more than I had in me. In my moments of self-pitying reflection, I realised that melted chocolate masked undercooked chicken. Somehow, the half-digested abomination had turned whatever was inside me into green slime. I washed my mouth and face before lumbering back to my bedroom. No position lying down could keep me comfortable for long enough. I got up to return to the bathroom.

Later, half curled and sweating in bed, I messaged Minho to cancel our plans of going in to the city together. Assuming I made it to the next day, I knew I wouldn’t be able to move my body around much further than the distance it took to get to the bathroom. It was a great end to the beginning of my pre-career sabbatical.

Minho stared at me when we first met almost a month earlier. Our youth hostel was hosting a weekly mixer to get travellers to meet each other so I forced myself to go since I’d just arrived in Thailand and I didn’t know anyone. The only Thai locals in the vicinity were the 30-something year old woman and two men busy running the hostel’s mixer, so I was locked in a game of “where are you from”s and “nice to meet you”s with the other guests. When Minho told me he was from Korea, I introduced myself in his native language, telling him it was nice to meet him with the little Korean that I knew. That was when Minho smiled and stared. It wasn’t a creepy or uncomfortable stare though. It felt welcoming.

“You speak Korean well.” He said.

“Thank you.” I said, underestimating his kindness. I’d only spoken a few words in the language to him but it was enough to spark a bond between us.

Up until that night of regret, Minho and I spent most of our days together, riding around on a motorbike he’d rented, exploring the city’s palaces, markets and temples. Together, we planned to travel to the southern part of the country for its islands and beaches. My message cancelling our plans for the day, landed in Minho’s inbox only to be seen later in the morning when he woke up. He was never awake before the sun. I stayed in bed for the rest of the day, making a few more trips to the bathroom. Come early afternoon, I was only in pain and didn’t need to leave my room. There was a knock at my door.

“Jay, it’s me.” Minho called.

I opened the door to see my hostel buddy with a litre bottle of water in one hand and plastic bag in the other. I let him into my room and got back into bed.

“How are you doing?” Minho asked as he sat at my desk and began unpacking the bag. Sliced bread, powdered soup sachets, and two bananas.

“I’m okay thanks.” I said, wondering why he would want to eat in my room when I was sick and there was a suitable shared kitchen available. “Is that for me?”

“Of course it is. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like eating and I really don’t like bananas.”

“Jordan, come on. There are starving children in Africa that would want to have this.”

“Man, give it to them then–actually, wait,” my head recoiled. Memories of television adverts flashed in my mind. I’d watched enough charity adverts to make me feel privileged back at home in London but only now realised the pervasiveness of the impression they gave of Africa. Although I didn’t deny the truth of it for some remote parts of the continent, I never saw that side of Africa in my visits. “there are starving children everywhere.” I continued. “Even England has children in poverty.”

Hearing that ‘Starving children’ phrase made sense coming from my mum since she lived in Nigeria for a bit growing up, but hearing it from Minho led to my understanding that it might have been a popular phrase about Africa used to reprimand picky children all around the world. It didn’t sit right with me. I finished with a sentence I thought would bring better perspective Minho.

“I’m sure there’ll be starving children in Korea too.”

“Oh… actually… you’re right.” My friend chuckled lightly. “Still… just eat the bananas. You’re sick.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue.

“Thank you.” I sighed.

“I’ll be right back.” Minho took the bread and bottle of water with him as he left.

That was the first time a friend took care of me. Being the first time I was sick outside of my home country, it felt comforting to know that I wouldn’t have to bear the entire burden of looking after myself.

Minho returned with a cream ceramic bowl from the kitchen. Light steam rose from the boiled water inside and my friend took wide steps to the desk in my room in an attempt to avoid any spills landing on his feet, only partially protected by open-toed slippers.

“Thanks, Minho.”

“It’s ok- it’s ok.”

Once I was fully recovered early the next week, we caught a cheap flight to Phuket and found a hostel near the seaside. Meeting a female Thai local there who had already adopted a couple of Latina travellers, the five of us planned a brief trip to Phi Phi Islands. On our late morning arrival, my sights were greeted with small but long wooden boats scarved with colourful fabric and docked on beaches of clear blue waters. Bowing trees lined our path through the island, past restaurants and bars, weaving through to the hotel rooms we booked there. Minho and I shared one room while the three girls, Mai, Cielo, and Julieta, shared another next door.

After we’d set our stuff down in the rooms, we reconvened in the sun, ready to explore the island. Our group walked past a few independent stalls and found a vendor selling pizza. Viscous margherita coated the slices in a stodgy glaze, somehow still connecting to the dough through the crimson tomato sauce. The sight and smell led to the group’s quick decision. Not wanting to spend too much of my money so early on in my sabbatical, I opted to go without buying a slice for myself. With everyone else getting a slice each, Minho seemed to not want me to miss out. In response to my soft rejection of his offer to buy me a slice, he held up his freshly bought lunch, the tip of the pizza all but flopping down and dripping its topping. He wasn’t going to lower it unless I ate. I opened my mouth to take a small bite but Minho thrust his hands forward. I tore off a bigger bite than I’d intended. Glad that the food wasn’t phallic, I felt cared for more than embarrassed. We continued our tour of the island.

“We’ll hire one of those water taxis to take us to Monkey Beach tomorrow.” Mai said as we passed some of the wooden boats. Darker-skinned Thai men sat above the bows, chatting and laughing with each other. “We can ask them for advice of the other islands too.”

One of the boat owners took us on a tour over the next two days. I was worried I’d step on, get bitten by, or get stung by something that would lead me to experience one of the horror stories I’d seen online in the past, but the soft whoosh of the waves against the fine sands cleansed my mind of all worry. Deeper than forgetting the fear of catching a rogue malady, I’d forgotten about the future. A hideaway beach, guarded by smooth blueish-grey rock, was its own world. The language spoken could only be understood by those fluent in happiness. It took me a couple of days to learn that unconscious tongue. Coming from the frigidness of England’s capital city, the kindness of Thai people was a soft flame that thawed me. I taught myself some basic phrases to get by, believing I would have only myself to rely on in the absence of a translator, but even with a language barrier we understood each other. I sailed a sea of smiles and in the two months that I spent in Thailand, I covered more than I expected. That was thanks, in no small part, to Minho. With him planning to return to Korea after one more month abroad, we agree to travel to another country together.

We sat on my bed that night, playing a card game to tire us out. In-between some friendly trash talk, we shared our thoughts on the day and the things we had seen, somehow talking our way out of this time and into dreams of the future.

“I really want a daughter.” Minho said as he placed a card down on my bed.

“Why a daughter?” I asked, picking up two cards from the deck.

“I was a very difficult child to my mother, so I think a girl would treat me better.”

“You don’t want what you deserve then?”

Minho readied his hand to hit me. I protected my head in a flinch, laughing with him. The cards we had set down jumbled with the sudden bed jolts.

“You’re too… mischievous.” He warned me. “You need a mischievous child.”

“Yes. They’ll learn from me.” I chuckled, packing up the cards.

Minho looked at me with mock disgust. “I should teach you to be better.”

“Okay, Min.”

“No. You don’t call me ‘Min’. You call me ‘Hyung’.”

Minho was older than me by a couple years. I knew that in Korean culture I’d call him my ‘older brother’, ‘Hyung’, since we were friends.

“Okay Min-Hyung.”

Minho winced and gave me the rest of the cards to pack.

“Another game?” I asked.

“Dwaeh-ssoh.” Minho shook his hand ‘no’ to emphasise his telling me he’d had enough for the night.

My understanding of Korean language and Korean culture skyrocketed just from spending time with Minho. I’d developed a desire to visit his country, but that was just going home for Minho. Neither of us had a strict plan for our time away from home except to enjoy a life before life. My Korean role model had one month left of his holiday and he suggested we spend it in Hong Kong since it was English-speaking. He’d travelled to much of Asia already and China was the last country on the list before he returned home. Once we were back in the Thailand mainland I video-called my mother to tell her where I was going next, confirming that I’d be going with a friend, no longer a solo traveller. Minho was the first friend I trusted to speak to a family member of mine over the phone. He said all the right words to comfort the woman that birthed me, with her son being so far from home for the first time. After words of caution and prayer, my mother gave the blessing for our choice of next destination.

We ended our time in Thailand, saying our goodbyes to Mai, Cielo, and Julieta. The group connected with each other on Instagram and I downloaded Line on Mai’s suggestion. There were hugs and final selfies before Minho and I caught our car ride to the airport. I don’t remember much of the ride or the journey from there to Hong Kong but it felt longer than it probably was.

Hong Kong was a busy city. I felt its near-cyberpunk nature as soon as the train from the airport reached the metropolitan area. Office buildings were almost everywhere we went, with only thing exceeding their abundance being the towering housing blocks that soared out of the landscape, looming over me. The evening following our arrival, after exploring the area through the late morning and most of the afternoon, Minho and I decided to hike Mount Parker. We wanted to get to the top but neither of us had the shoes for it. Minho’s sandals and my converse trainers reminded our feet that we were here to relax. We got to a clearing that was high enough for us to see the part of the city that we were staying in. The air was crisp and the shrubbery looked like it could be the home to fae but the monolithic towers defined the view. I expected it to feel like an escape from the reality we would have to go back to, but it felt like we were just looking at a reminder of the world we briefly left behind. The world that would welcome us back with open arms, and chew us up for fuel. We descended the mountain and found somewhere cheap to buy ourselves dinner.

A couple of mountains overlooking the city and its wide river was all the nature we could find. We didn’t know what to do with our time. Over the course of our stay, and without intention to spend much money or search for anything specific to buy, we embarked on browsing trips to the shopping mall at the centre of the city only to quickly realise that we couldn’t afford to be the same type of tourists we’d been in Thailand. Nevertheless, for those days of exploration we kept ourselves without aim, without planning, without objective. There was no burden on us. Art galleries waited for us to visit and enjoy them, housing treasures I didn’t even appreciate until sharing the pictures with others back at home.

On one of the days, while we were walking around the city as commuters made their way home from work, a black man emerged from the sea of the Asian civilisation. He was pin-stripe suited, straight-faced and clearly a member of the country’s working society. To him, I would have been another black face, floating into his day. Perhaps the first that he’d seen that week. He was the first black person I saw in the country. We both acknowledged one another with a silent nod, not even a meter between our shoulders as our paths crossed, never to see each other again. I don’t know when or where I built that instinct, but experiencing it then so consciously, I knew what it meant and why we did it. A silent ‘I see you’. To feel so connected to another person, having never met them before, I wondered how similar our lives could have been. He could be me in ten years. I don’t think Minho noticed the interaction, but I wondered if he would have felt the same about seeing another Asian man in a sea of black or a sea of white faces.

A couple of days passed without us doing much. We didn’t need every day to be eventful. As we sat in our regular cheap-eats café for dinner, the owner struck up a conversation with us. He said we could call him ‘Uncle’. Uncle was old enough to be my grandfather. He had a quiet demeanour, and on days that the café didn’t have any other customers, he’d have Minho and I in the kitchen with him. I remember him teaching me to lay chopsticks underneath the lid of the pot while cooking rice so the water didn’t boil over. An art, he said, that was dying out with rice cookers. The café was larger on the inside than it looked from the outside. It was dimly lit, varied in seating style from couches to dining tables, and was sectioned into three small areas by bookshelves that held plants, a few books and an array of ornaments.

“Are you working here?” He asked us.

“No, Uncle, we just came to relax.” Minho said.

“Relax in Hong Kong?”

“It was Minho’s idea.” I said.

“And both of you…”

“We met last month in Thailand and became friends. I’m spending a few months away from home and we decided to travel somewhere together before Minho goes back home to Korea.”

“Aah.” Uncle nodded, “You should go to Diamond Hill. There’s a nice garden there I used to go to.”

Minho and I took Uncle’s suggestion as our plan for the next day. True to his word, Nan Lian garden was a pocket of peace within the busy city. We entered what I thought would be just a bonsai garden, but were greeted with pristine rocks that could have been large grey pebbles.

An artificial waterfall cascaded into a pond below, rippling the calmest part of the garden. We walked over scarlet bridges, bowing our heads to the water to see large koi, black, orange, white, gliding around their habitat, ethereal and quaint. Strolling aimlessly at first, we were drawn to a golden pagoda shimmering in the sun. It called my sight away from the signs of metropolitan life beyond the garden and coated my eyes with a near-blinding gleam. All of this tranquillity with the backdrop of the towering residential apartments. I took a picture with my phone.

Soon after, we entered the garden’s Architecture Gallery of Chinese Timber. The entrance welcomed us with a short line of miniature trees. A plaque on each one told us the names of the plants and I spent a few minutes admiring the strength they showed in their assumedly millennial ages. These trees had been cared for by generations before us just so that we could see them now.

Inside the gallery, a display of viewing stones rested in combed sand beds. Glossy slabs of stone amber, arranged like a miniature canyon pass. I stood there, another visitor with a blank mind to fill. The sound of the waterfall from outside had faded into a dullish splashing. Feelings of serenity reverberated through me. Calligraphy was written on a scroll that was draped along the wall behind the display and a plaque was available with a translation for those who could only read English “The essence of heaven and earth merged to form rocks.”

“You’re still here.” Minho said, having explored the gallery.

“I like that rock.” I said. Minho didn’t see the smile on my face but I know he could understand the deeper sentiment.

There was much more to see inside the gallery and I made my way around, noting the different miniature models of wooden monasteries and pagodas before going back out into the daylight. Minho and I agreed to end our time at the garden after an hour. I didn’t think we’d seen everything it had to offer, but my stomach was reminding me of its existence and I think Minho felt the same.

Hong Kong passed us by, a busy city visited by leisurely travellers. We explored by taking a trip to the end of our closest tram line. We found Hollywood Road Park after taking a walk from the Kenedy Town tram stop. By the time we got there, the orange light of a few lamps had undertaken the burden of fighting off the dark that encroached to wrap us and the park in its cold. We started our night spotting turtles and slender carp in the pond that underscored the traditional architecture of the small park. Red pillars, illuminated by the orange lamplights and contrasted against the black of the night, framed a picture of old men playing a game of what must have been ‘Chinese Chess’ on a board built into the stone table. The cold night wind found its way under our clothes and we returned to our flat, arriving after midnight.

The next day, collectively deciding to stay indoors, Minho let himself into my room and shut the door behind him. He’d been doing that for a while, but I’d grown used to it. I just made sure that I was always wearing my shorts in the day’s heat.

“Can Terry come and stay with us for a couple of days?”

“Who’s Terry?”

“He was in the hostel in Bangkok- you didn’t meet him?”

“No…”

“Oh, maybe he left before you arrived. He helped me buy that motorbike.”

“He’s in Hong Kong?”

“He’s coming here for just two days before he travels to Macao and then back to Australia. He’s a very good guy.”

Considering that we travelled around by motorbike so much when we were in Bangkok, repaying Terry’s kindness to Minho for a couple of nights wasn’t going to be an issue I thought. There was one double-bed and one single bed in the flat. Minho was the mature adult when we moved in and allowed me to take the larger bed while he slept on the single. With three of us in the flat for a couple of days, I didn’t want to share with a stranger.

“He can stay as long as I don’t have to share my bed with him… because I don’t know him.”

“That’s okay, he can sleep on my bed if I can sleep here?”

“That’s fine.” I nodded. “Two days.”

Terry arrived a couple of nights later and his height was the first thing I noticed about him. He had a slender frame topped with a neat mop of blonde hair that I would have expected to do a better job of shading his sun-reddened cheeks. Piercing blue eyes complimented his wide smile and I could’ve sworn that I heard his Australian accent in his laugh.

During one conversation the next day, as we compared our experiences in Thailand, talks drifted to swimming. The beaches were beautiful and the waters were warm. Minho and Terry joked about how they could lay back and sunbathe while floating in the sea.

“I could never figure out how to do that.” I said. “For some reason, I just can’t float on my back in water.”

“Well African bones are denser. I think that’s what probably fuelled the myth that black people can’t swim.”

“Oh! I used to go for swimming lessons in my primary school and it always felt like I was the only one that had issues floating. Could it just have been because of my denser bones?”

“Yeah, probably. Was everyone else white?”

“Yeah.”

Terry nodded in understanding to my realisations while Minho smiled, pleased to see me getting along with the friend that he had introduced.

The first inkling that Terry might get on my nerves was when our hotel room suddenly began to stink of something so pungently foul that I felt a need to burn away the lining of my throat to cleanse my body of whatever I’d inhaled. The answer was an unflushed toilet and, after some light detective work of asking my two roommates what the hell it was, Terry revealed himself as the culprit.

“If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.”

I hated myself for letting out a chuckle, but I pulled it back in and told Terry not to let it happen again. Despite the small laugh, I was clearly annoyed enough for him to take it seriously. Whatever was in the bowl was not yellow and it was disgusting. He flushed it away.

I thought that would be the end of the issues with our two-day visitor but Terry’s affinity for getting drunk in the day, smoking in the bathroom of two non-smokers and whistling at night grew on me like mould on freshly bought bread. I didn’t appreciate the presence. Finding refuge in the knowledge that he would be gone after the second day, I tolerated the day-drunkenness without much more than a few unimpressed looks towards Minho.

“At least he’s smoking in the bathroom rather than any of the other shared spaces.” I reasoned to myself. “That’s considerate.”

The second day ended and the third night began. I assumed Terry would be leaving in the morning but by the end of that third day, he was still with us, whistling loudly, getting drunk and sleeping in Minho’s room while Minho shared my double bed. A week passed and I felt like Minho and Terry were getting along without me, going out to drink some nights and sharing inside jokes. Not wanting to be associated with Terry’s intoxicated character, I avoided going to Uncle’s café when I thought Minho and his overstaying tenant might want to tag along, so with hunger growing one evening, I announced that I’d be taking a short trip to try out a xiao long bao restaurant that my new Latina friend, Ceilo, recommended to me. Minho wanted to come and, by extension, so did Terry.

“Before we go, let’s make it a party.” Terry said.

He produced from his pocket a small white lump wrapped in what could have been cling film. I knew instantly what it was: The devil’s baby powder. I turned to Minho in disbelief, who also looked uncomfortable with the situation. I couldn’t bring myself to look at what Terry was doing, hoping that if I couldn’t see it, it might fade out of reality. The sound of Terry’s heavy snort reminded me that these things didn’t just happen in movies. I turned back to see Terry’s body tense before he shook his arms as if on a roller coaster, groaning out “Pure energy!”

That was the first and the last time I’d witnessed anyone taking hard drugs. My mind still calls back to it whenever I hear anyone sniff too hard in cold weather.

“Righto, Let’s go!” Terry bundled out of the room, having Minho and I follow him down to the restaurant.

I didn’t want to be around the horror that was Minho’s friend, but I also knew we couldn’t leave him to his own devices lest he bring any trouble back to us.

Terry sat at the restaurant table with us. His eyes, dilated and devoid of the person I thought he was, stared into blank space while he smiled until the food came. I kept my eye on the waitress, preparing myself to draw focus away from our high burden if any suspicions were raised. The night passed and stress erased my memory of it. When I went to relieve myself in the morning, I found Terry passed out and basically kissing the toilet bowl.

“Terry… get up-”

In the bowl was a brown sludge of liquid hell and I made an attempt to close every part of my body that could sense the waste that must have come from the young man I was burdened with looking after. I know Terry didn’t eat any chicken-chocolate burgers the night before

“Sorry boys, that was some bad coka.” Terry chuckled later.

We made it through a couple more days and I woke up to take a morning shower. I found the bathroom occupied. It had been occupied since I went to bed last night. Terry was passed out again. I called Minho who instructed me to help him carry the young man into bed. Minho then left the flat to get Terry food and water from the convenience store around the corner from the building. After Minho was done treating Terry, I called him into our room.

“That man is overdosed in our hotel room. If he died, it’s on us, you know? He needs to go.”

“We can’t kick him out now. He’s sick.”

“You said he was just going to stay here for a couple of nights before he moved on to Macau. It’s been a week. He’s using us.”

“His plans changed unexpectedly.”

“His plans changed to doing coke in our flat. That’s illegal here and I’m pretty sure China has a death penalty if we get extradited mainland. If he gets caught with that in our room, they’ll say that we were involved and we’ll get in trouble too. And he smokes in our bathroom instead of going outside! I hate it! He needs to go.”

“I’m sorry. I will speak to him when he’s better.” Minho said.

“I’m supposed to go to Malaysia after this, man. I’m staying with a friend from there and I don’t want any criminal charges to follow me to his house.”

“We just have two weeks left.” Minho pleaded. “Let’s get along and then we can go our separate ways after this trip.”

Minho waited for an answer, his eyes pained but with understanding that the friendship he’d built with his travel companion had expired. I realised I’d lost myself in a haze of stifled anger. All of the frustrations I carried with me for years poured out. Micro-aggressions, issues of self-esteem, misunderstanding myself, not fitting in, all germinating into a bomb of shit dumped on a friend who was nothing but kind to me. Minho wasn’t the one causing me trouble, and I couldn’t blame him for allowing that trouble to persist in our lives. My frustrations were cooked up by Terry. Minho’s eyes mirrored the scared beast I’d grown into, juiced up with a history of a thousand bad life experiences. I saw what had become of the little boy that got in trouble too easily, who could never be sure what other people thought of him. I took quiet breaths to deflate. From my angers fired at him mixed with the yearning to stay connected, I realised how much of a brother Minho had become. Minho didn’t understand me but he’d put up with so much. I was impressed he didn’t already have experience dealing with a younger sibling.

“I don’t want that…” I said. “I don’t want to go our separate ways. I’ve just been so frustrated because of Terry- it’s not your fault.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

It wasn’t easy getting Terry to leave without making it obvious we wanted to be rid of his antics. In hindsight, he probably knew that we didn’t want him there since he was brazenly taking advantage of Minho’s kindness. In the end, we convinced Terry that he wouldn’t be able to stay because Minho and I would be leaving Hong Kong earlier than expected. The sacrifice was that Minho really did arrange for his flight home to be moved earlier by a week. Terry made a grand show of his exit, hugging Minho for as long as possible and ordering us to visit him in his home in Fremantle, Western Australia.

“I’m gonna miss you, mate.” He told Minho before turning to me. “You, not so much.”

I scoffed.

“Just kidding.” Terry playfully back-handed my chest and picked up his backpack to leave for Macao. “I’ll let you have Minho back.”

Terry never told us his address. After Terry left, Minho and I had less than two days before we said goodbye for what could be years. We hiked Mount Parker one last time and had our final dinner at Uncle’s café. Our conversation meandered leisurely and lasted until Uncle closed his café for the night. I thanked Minho for taking care of me when I was sick, and acknowledged how much he’d done for me over our few months together. Without him, I couldn’t have enjoyed my time abroad and I made sure to let him know. Uncle packed Minho an extra box of food for his journey, and passed us some leftover pastries for breakfast. Early the next morning, I walked with Minho, helping him carry his small suitcase down the stairs of our flat building, and rolling it across the road to the bus stop.

“Are you going to visit Terry in Fremantle?” I joked.

“Yes, and you will come with me.”

My side-eye was enough response. We both laughed.

“I’m sorry about him though.” Minho said. “I know he began to annoy you a lot.”

“It’s okay. I realised it was something I had to deal with myself.”

“You should visit me in Korea. Don’t let it be too long before you do.”

We talked about that future holiday until the bus for the airport came. Minho was going back to real life to start a job, and I would be doing the same after my trip to Malaysia. We didn’t know when next we’d see each other, if ever. We hugged for the first and probably the last time.

“Hyung, you’d make a great dad.”

Minho’s eyes welled up and I thought mine were going to soak up too. He laughed out a curse of endearment in his mother tongue.

“Saekkiya…”

I had learnt way too much.