We walk on one side of the pavement, with the tour guide leading the way and holding up a small red flag. From this side of the road I have a fantastic view of the harbour. Private boats and junks silently bob up and down the scintillating turquoise water. The horizon is unobstructed, a calm stretch of blue ocean expanding for miles on either side. I inhale the salty scent of the sea from the blowing wind. In that refreshing instant, I forget I am wearing jeans, so I sprint to catch up with the tour guide.
“Excuse me,” I ask politely. “May I know where you’re taking us?”
The tour guide continues to walk on, her heels grating the surface of the pavement. Without meeting my gaze, she says in a barely audible tone, “The Main Square”. I attempt to ask her a few questions about the island, but each query is answered with curt responses, so I eventually give up. We zigzag across streets, turning left and right. Each turn leads us to a road not unlike previous ones, all lined with uniform, dull buildings. I am slightly crestfallen, as I had expected many more decorative buildings and attractions.
After a five-minute trek up a shallow slope lined with orange trees and ornate rose bushes, we reach the Main Square. The Main Square is a cluster of small shops and cafés, with a clock tower in the north side to serve as a local landmark. The tour guide stops smack in the middle of the Square and starts waving her red flag feebly, yawning unabashedly. The aroma of freshly-baked bread wafts through the bakery window. I sniff in the scent greedily. I glance around and notice that all of the other shops and cafés are empty. ‘How strange,’ I contemplate. ‘Where is everyone?’
As if on queue, the clock strikes two. Ding, ding, ding. One by one, office workers in suits and ties pour into the Main Square. We are standing in the middle of the Square, closely observing the locals as they carry on with their own businesses. The locals, on the other hand, seem to be completely oblivious of us. It seems as if they are floating around aimlessly, as if their souls are detached from their bodies. Some speed across the Square, cell phone in hand, glancing at their wrists every other second. Some wander around, stopping here and there with no definite destination. Suddenly, I pity them, as they are in too much of a trance to appreciate the beautiful weather.
As a result of my insatiable curiosity, I stop a middle-aged man who seems to be taking his time compared to the other people. “Excuse me, sir,” I begin, with the hope of receiving a satisfying answer. The man stops in his tracks and adjusts his glasses. He gazes at me blankly, barely registering my presence. “Is there a special event going on?” I gesture to the masses of suited men and women swarming past us. The man cocks his head to one side, then shakes his head continuously, as if trying to erase some distasteful memory from his mind. He walks off with his eyebrows knit together.
“Twenty-first century people,” he mutters with bitter contempt, still shaking his head. “So ignorant and full of pride.”
