Happiness is a Valley in Hong Kong

My arrival in Hong Kong was through Macau on Sunday the 20th January 08. One of the first surprises this trip dealt me was the difficulty of communication for the Englishman in the Hong Kong belt. I’d formed the impression, after a couple of short business trips here a few years ago, that there existed some basic spoken English ability amongst the Chinese population. That appears to have become less the case.

Over the recent months I had become rather b l a z e h about moving from country to country in South East Asia and preparation for this short visit to friends in Hong Kong had received little attention; Hence the thoughts in my mind as I collected my bag from the conveyor at the Macau airport were attaching themselves to the quest of transit from Macau to Hong Kong. A user friendly ATM in the Macau airport arrivals concourse armed me with some local currency. The successful withdrawal of Macau dollars triggered the realization that I was not yet in Hong Kong territory and had still to negotiate two border crossings. Yet that realization sat at mere irritation level compared to the horror that swept across me like a rash as I noticed that only two of the three bank cards that I carry in my wallet were visible. Several mindless but panic flushed tours of the airport concourse followed. My head was more busy than the firework display of New Years eve. It was an MBNA mastercard that was missing. Jeeeeez. I'd better phone the bank. No wait, I'd better check my clothes and bags in case it dropped out. It shouldn't matter anyway because most if not all outlets now require a pin. How could it have left my wallet? When did I last see it? That doesn't matter; is it really missing? Stop, Stop, Stop, Stop!!! Sit down! Think clearly, logically and rationally. Is it really missing? The open bags, unzipped pouch and inverted pants pockets adorning the concourse seats hit me with the answer like a drunk and angry girlfriend (They are evil, ugh?). Yes, it is really missing you careless dope. So MBNA need to be informed P D Q. I therefore have a choice..call now from a phone booth (MBNA accept reverse charge calls), call now from my mobile, or call from skype after I have met my friends who I know have an internet connection in their apartment.
That was when I could have done without the language difficulty. The lady at the information desk had a good command of the English required to send me to the bus stop or the taxi rank and she could write the number of the only bus that came by the airport in English characters for me but that was where it ended. Encouraging some conversation around the subject of a public telephone, the number of the operator and the procedure for making a reverse charge call to my bank left me standing in a forlorn state of hope and her with nothing but a ‘you’re from the moon’ smile across her Red Revlon lips.
Decision made. The task of getting to Hong Kong looked as though it was going to be challenge enough. I would have to make the call after I had met my friends, hopefully with their help. The AP1 bus would take me to the ferry terminal and so on it I hopped, several times. Each with an additional piece of my increasingly lenghty luggage train. This appeared to irritate the older passengers and amuse the younger ones. The driver was older. He blasted what appeared to be a few Cantonese proverbs across my bows. I paid some money and sat down. The raucous quieted. The frumpy bespectacled man at my side seemed occupied with events outside of the bus. He apparently did not want to be disturbed as I discovered when I meekly enquired of the distance to the ferry terminal. NO ENGLISH he growled amongst rolling jowels a bulldog would have been proud of. I looked around and saw most of the heads throughout the bus turn away from me in unison.
Within minutes the bus was circling what was clearly the ferry terminal on an elevated piece of road. I looked around and a character sat behind me raised his eyebrows and pointed down at the boats in the water. I smiled and mouthed a thankyou. My God, a human!
Inside the terminal I was faced with an unexpected choice – ferries were leaving to either Hong Kong Centre or Kowloon. I didn’t know where my hosts were meeting me. Attempted conversations with various officials around the building produced little warmth but further alarming uncertainty. Finally, after several sms’ and haphazard reselections of service providers to receive replies I ascertained it to be Hong Kong Centre.
The steps into the arrival hall at the Hong Kong side were blessed ones.Yati sprang on me with the yelp and glee of a young puppy. Bjorn’s robust hand shake and composed welcome assured me that I was in good company here. We taxied to their apartment as I relayed the horror over the lost credit card. In their compact but comfortable abode I was directed to the lap top and pointed at skype whilst tea was made. They were great hosts throughout the short trip.

The following few days were a mixture of accompanied and unaccompanied Hong Kong exploration. The highlight of which was my first ever visit to a horse race meeting at the ‘Happy Valley’ racetrack. It was an evening event swamped in an electric atmosphere . The floodlit 2000km turf track gazed at by apartment blocks from one side and avid form fanatics from the purpose built grandstand down the other. The array of betting options was bewildering to the uninitiated. Whether I looked at the daily press, the printed news-sheet handed me at the entry or the multicolored bus sized 'odds' boards facing the grandstand from the central reservation my betting preparation level fluttered around at incompetent level. Being ‘risk adverse’ as my endlessly disappointed financial advisor always described me, I picked out horses in races 2, 4, 6, and 8 based on whether name of horse, jockey or trainer had any meaning for me in my hitherto non horseracing life. I remember one jockey with the name of Coetzee, a favorite author of mine, that was picked out for my money in one race and another horse with the name of Joy Up, bringing to mind a distant girlfriend, that was picked for my money in another race. My intention was to place a 10$ bet on each to make a place at the finish. I lost money in race 2 and chickened out on races 4, 6 and 8. Ironically the horse I chose in race 8 won at odds that would have left me 10$ up on the night.

The other fascination that this brief trip to Hong Kong inspired in me was for tram watching. The tall thin shape, that bold single headlight and the brave new world advertisements they carried produced a somewhat surreal image that I was persistently intrigued by.
Example in the header photo.

Lilted in Laos

My final few days in Vientianne were ones of pleasant relaxation. The mornings kicked off with a 15 minute walk to a little noodle shop that I had discovered. There was absolutely nothing touristy about it. The Mama finally began to greet my arrival with a smile which I am convinced was a front for astonishment and disbelief that this pharang should return more than once for her pork noodle soup. Her man was brow beaten though, I could see it. He had been assigned duties mainly associated with mopping and sweeping and performed them with his head hung low. He was half the size of Mama. In the back of the shop there was a tv that was frequently tuned to a sports channel. In between his tidying he'd be witnessing world sports events with a fervour that belied his normal dutiful self. In one connecting moment we both ooh'd and aah'd together as black boxers whelted one another on their way to a knockout result. It's such a warmth I feel when those connecting moments spring into life.

I'd follow the pork noodle soup event with a leisurely walk through the town. Bookshops, coffee, reading, more walking, chatting to tourists. The sunny days were warm, dusty and relaxed. The French influence meant that daytime food was often baguette and pate oriented. More than once late afternoon found me at the riverside stretched out on a mat in the warm late afternoon sun with a fruitshake and a book that after only minutes of inspection would fall crumpled onto my chest as my eyes signed off and I succumbed to a new characteristic of my remodelled existance.. napping.

I was intrigued to note that amongst the many 125cc commuter style motorcycles for rent at extensive outlets across the town there would occaisionally be a trail bike on offer. Frequently that trail bike would be a Honda XR 250. If I had been in Laos a little longer I would have coughed the 25USD a day to have had the reputable machine between my legs as the tool for exploring some of the outlying terrain. I was just pondering this thought whilst admiring a tidy black and silver version of the model when the temporay owner strode up to the machine. The friendly Oz accent inquired of my interest and I shared my thoughts. His response was - DO IT! He'd hired his bike in Luang Prabang and ridden the same route I'd done on the 9hr bus ride with an overnight stop at a small village in the mountains. Now I know why some of these bikes are fitted with outrageously large dual headlamps! Adventurous bugger. I was full of admiration.

On reflection my time in Laos was lullabilic. There was no rush. No stress or tension. The people were mild, friendly and kind. On the day that I rode my bicycle to the Northern Bus Station I happened across a district populated with stylish detached houses in tended gardens and drives that were homes for BMW's and Mercedes.

The so called communist authorities appeared to have hit on a recipe that most people appeared at the very least comfortable with.

The mixture of French and Asian architecure in the streets of Vientiane was complemented by a food choice that suggested a harmonious balance between the colonial history, the ruling party and the South East Asian location. The weather gave the mornings a bright biting start to the day and mooched it's way toward balmy book reading afternoons. The dry dusty but litterfree streets encouraged exploration and walking or cycling around the city was a smiling, satisfying experience that always produced an internal warmth more normally associated with early evening cocktails. Fabulous.

I will fly back to KL for a night before visiting friends in Hong Kong via Macau for which I depart on the 20th January 2008.

Mum and son hang out in my black and white shot at the top.

The Road to Luang Prabang

14th Jan 08

The ‘VIP’ coach trip from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, the ancient capital of Laos, was everything that had it threatened to be. An alleged distance of 400km. A scheduled journey time of 9 hours. That rattled out to an average speed of about 45km/hour. Some indication of the roads and terrain to be traversed! The first hour of the journey found the coach's occupants making friends, sharing concerns and shuffling seats to achieve best space usage in a quest for crumbs of comfort. A quest thwarted significantly by seat backs that only rested in the dentist drill position and leg space only adequate for small Asians. Visions of VIP comfort dissolved into a reality of discomfort endurance well before the ‘free’ lunch. I wondered if the free lunch was an attempted ploy to recover the customer smile. At the table with my lunch in front of me I realized such tactics were not in the design. To have been charged anything for the bowl on the table would have turned the absent smile into a scowl at best.
Some 4.5hrs after the lunch stop and a seemingly endless tour of winding mountainside roads we pulled into a dusty, late afternoon, Luang Prabang Bus Station.
Scant negotiations with guesthouse and tuk tuk operators at the bus station foresaw a short ride into ‘town’ in the cooling light of the day. I plumped for the third guest house I saw which was 13USD for a room with fan, own toilet and shower, clean bed and a stones throw from the Mekong River; which occupies it’s bed fully at this location. It didn’t take me long to unload the one bag I’d carried and head off into the town to explore.

It was all worth it!

The hair on my arms stood and the goose pimples bristled as the tingle of excitement rippled through me. A walk along the street just two blocks from my accommodation, which I later saw described as the most atmospheric street in Luang Prabang, made it all worthwhile. The far end of the street disappeared into the warm red orange arc of the days lost sun. Handicraft and art shops dotted amongst candlelit open fronted street side restaurants and a few bars produced a warmth of mood that the day had lost with the setting sun.
I succumbed to my food weakness and ate Indian at probably the least attractive looking restaurant along the road.
Post dinner explorations revealed more tingling experiences with the discovery of a night market that focused mostly on garments and household throws for anything from beds to bidets. Linen and Laos silk figured strongly. Laos linen patterns were bold but simple and kept me wishing I had a place of my own to decorate with this stuff. These people are subtle and artistic. How many night markets have you been to in Asia where there are no DVD’s, no music, and no copy goods? It was like visiting a tastefully decorated house and brought that similar feeling of well being.
I went to sleep with an inner and outer smile that night.

The following couple of days saw me move accommodation once, explore the town architecture which included some breathtakingly beautiful Wats and took in some Colonial French and modern French buildings, and chance meet and chat with various members of the touring party that shared that arduous bus ride from Vientianne. One of the more spooky visits was to the National Museum which until 1976 was the Royal Palace. Laos is a communist state which it became when it was ruled by Vietnam from around 1976. Prior to that time there was a monarchy and presumably a democracy. No one knows what happened to the Royal Family (isn’t that sad!!) but many of the artifacts of their existence are displayed in this building. One life size full length painting of one of the kings has everybody open mouthed. It is hung so that the kings feet, adorned with ordinary black shoes are at about chest height for the tourists. The left foot is at 90 degrees to the right foot when stood directly in front of the painting. When you walk to the right the angle of the foot the forward pointing foot increases and ‘goes with you’!! When you walk to the left the angle decreases and the foot still goes with you!!!

My departure meant an early rise on the Monday. I was waiting faithfully, as instructed, outside of my accommodation at 7am in the morning for the tuk tuk to the bus station. It’s cold then. In fact one needs a duvet at night not aircon. The morning chill spikes the early morning light. One needs coffee early. In a surprise finale to my visit I am treated to the Monks procession. Something I had read about but doubted whether I would see. Young Buddhist monks march a route through the town streets in their orange robes to collect their gifts of food for the day. The mood is somber fitting together oddly but aptly with the light and cold of the early morning. Even this event has a subtlety to it that borders on the artistic. More tingling.

Vientianne Visitations

8th Jan 2008.

Today is my fourth day in Vientianne, the capital city of Laos. My first two nights were spent in a 'country residence' guest house just out of town. For 14 USD per night I had a room with fan, hard double bed and many mosquitoes. Oddly, they weren't biting me. The operation was run by a Kiwi. A young man who's every second word was f**king but no one seemed to mind. He was hard working and friendly despite the blunt edge to his vocabulary.
The house had an intriguing historic feel to it and was decorated in places by colorful embroidered material draped and hung in a variety of locations and directions to add an attractive kind of portable vibrance to the sturdy old dwelling.
The gardens made me smile. One could eat breakfast, and other meals come to that, at a variety of locations throughout the gardens. Tucked away in little detours off the main path were tables and chairs set out for garden dining in the privacy of Laos foliage. Neat!!

In Vientianne I have discovered that the only people that speak English are the English. Oddly there seem to be a fair number of those. My impression is that they are mostly long stay and probably somehow attempting to exploit the projected growth of a country that must be a good ten tourism years behind Thailand.
The Laos language has rings of Thai and I think the numbers for instance are the same in both languages. However my attempts at basic conversation using the little Thai I know fall mostly on stoney ground and turn up some shrugs and in general have little social impact.

Yesterday I moved house. I have found a 'Riverside' Hotel with rooms for 18 USD per night inclusive of breakfast. I will do that for two nights. The rooms are clean, with aircon, a fridge, own bathroom and wifi. On the downside my room is far enough away from the wifi transmitter for the signal to be weak and the connection intermittent. Which actually doesn't matter that much because even when you get connected the download speed is so slow it makes reading mail a more laborious task than watching paint dry. Even deeper on the downside is that my room has the cleaners store directly opposite it. Hence this morning I was woken abruptly at 7am by the clatter of mops, buckets and whatever other paraphernalia Laos cleaners are required to assemble in preparation for their daily cleansing challenge.

The river is famous but invisible. It is called the Mekong. One can see where it should be and one can see how it's bed is shaped. It would be massive if it were there. Nevertheless even in it's absence it still draws a considerable number of people to eat and drink at haunts alongside it's imaginery self. Late afternoon, early evening, the surreal riverside presents a unique ambience that is dominated by the setting sun and daubed by the haze of barbeque smoke. One can eat most things that once walked, swam or flew after being braziered. There is no serious contender for Beerlao as the drink choice. Roll them on in!

My header snapshot gives a hint of the riverside culinery experience on offer and provides a glimpse of the missing Mekong.

Today I have rented a bicycle. It will cost me 10,000kip for 24hrs. Kip is the national currency. 10,000kip is 50p. It is devoid of style (the bicycle not the kip). It is only functional and robust. For example it has a front basket and a stand you could watch football from. With the saddle post raised to it's extreme I still need to employ that factory worker pose (120 degrees knee to knee angle) to avoid knee elbow collision. I have spent an hour or two cycling the city roads. The traffic is gentle and I feel comfortable navigating my way around the city on the machine. There is something akin to the arc d'triomphe in the centre of the administration district. I have done a lap of it on the new steed earlier today and attracted a few waves from mischievous school children. The mood is light!

On friday I have a plan to go to Luang Prabang which apparently and for reasons I still have to understand is a must. Unfortunately it's a nine hour bus ride. So I am going to investigate a little further before committing myself to an 18hr return bus journey.