The Malaysian Flautist

The walk around the Hamilton Lake was very pleasant. The day was overcast but mild with little if any wind.

There were many yachts on the water but most seemed becalmed. An inflatable with outboard motor containing yachting officials was cruising the mirror-like water leaving 'v' shaped ripples as it progressed, and as the ripples became small waves they could be heard as they washed against the water's edge.

As we progressed on our way, Jill and I, we admired the view. Then Jill found a pine cone and kicked it playfully in my direction. As we continued walking on the higher path, through the trees on the embankment, we had a short game by kicking this and other cones to each other until we had passed the spot where they lay.

Nearing the end of our stroll as we approached our car there was an almost Oriental or Arabic musical sound. I looked around to try to find where it came from, and as we drew nearer to where our car was I saw a man sitting on a seat near the water's edge playing a flute-type instrument. It sounded enchanting, and ducks and geese on the water also seemed to be an audience.

The man was oblivious to my approach, so I stopped a small distance away and listened for a short while.

He partly turned his head as he sensed me there, so I moved closer and sat a short distance from him.

He finished the piece he was playing and turned to me and greeted me in English. We began to speak to each other. I introduced myself and asked about his instrument. He handed it to me, explaining that it was a bamboo flute. As I turned it over looking at it I asked if he blew across the first hole to make the tune. He indicated that there was a small reed inside which was difficult to reach if it needed replacing.

We discussed the flute for a short time, with me asking if he had made it, to which he replied no, that he had bought it. The instrument was about forty centimeters long and brown-red in colour. Was he playing religious music, to which he replied no, it was a love song about fifty years old. I never recognized the tune.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Malaysia,” he replied. He was Asian in appearance, with Chinese features.

“How long have you been in New Zealand?”

“Nine years,” he replied.

I asked if he was retired. “Yes,” he said. “I am sixty.” As he spoke he lifted his hat revealing a bald head.

“I am older than you. I am sixty four,” to which he commented that I looked younger.

“What was your job when you worked?” I asked.

“I worked on oil rigs in Malaysia. When I came here I couldn't get work on oil rigs so I worked in a factory, but the money was not very good. About $9 an hour to start and only rose to about $11 after a few years.”

I began to tell him that I had a Japanese friend I spoke to on the internet who composed music and I sometimes wrote English words to his songs, but he wasn't interested in things I was trying to tell him, though he was willing to speak to me about himself.

Jill was patiently waiting for me in our car, as we were going from here to the supermarket to get our weekly groceries, so I excused myself and returned to the car.

He continued to serenade the ducks.

The brief encounter with this man was enjoyable for me, and added a focal point for my day.