For events, I don't usually bother developing the shots afterwards and handing them to whoever I've taken. I'd pass a DVD to the organisers, and they'd be responsible for passing them down. But what can I do when a lanky old man with a permanent lopsided grin passes me his postal address on the back of a receipt, and earnestly asks me to send him the photos I've taken of him and his old folk pals? In Mandarin he forces me to confirm, "You will send us the photos, ya?"
The responses are varied. Some, as if a photo of them at this age would be the most offensive thing in the world, would grimace and cover their faces and wave me away. Others, embracing the company of their friends dressed in bright festive Chinese tops and swaying along to the music, would call out to me in their hoarse voices and ask me to snap a shot. I'd go round the table and squat by them afterwards while they tell me stories and try to make talk, a splattering of saliva finding their way onto my face, which I'd subtlely and politely wipe away with an arm. If it was Mandi or Canto, it'll be a conversation. If it was Hakka or some other dialect, it'll be a monologue until I cease my smiling and let it develop into a confused frown. Then I'd be released and allowed to go on my way.
I admit I don’t have much experience with senior citizens. I don’t know if I should feel pity or happy for them. I guess a mixture of both. Many needed support on canes and other devices, some required wheelchairs, and some had to be accompanied by personal helpers. There were many, though, who amazed us with their spirit and playful demeanor. Some would munch on buns, pick bones out of fish, perform feats of delicate handling with their chopsticks, or sing and get up from their chairs to dance to the music against all appearances of fragility. There was an elderly woman who told us she was turning 94 this year, but she looked decades younger. She’d blush and look away when praised of her youthful complexion and bright, alert eyes…
