365 Ways With Words

Taking Stock

A little over two and a half years ago I handed in my notice. It was not too difficult a decision. I had been working as a teacher in one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools for 12 years and decided that rather than end my days at the chalkface, I would quit by the summer and try pastures new. Although I wanted to write, and blogged often, quite what would happen next was as mysterious to me as I'm sure it was to everybody who asked.

Teaching was a stressful job. I liked it  – the students were pleasant, but their constant drive for high exam grades made them a demanding lot. In addition, the ever-encroaching culture of box-ticking, meetings, target-setting and hoop-jumping changed the ethos of the school I had joined in 1999 from that of colour and human interest to that of an artificial target factory. The changes did not have the desired effect of endless improvements in grades – quite the reverse. The students' 'careers' were as hard (sometimes harder) as their parents in paid employment. It became obvious to me that I did not share the values of a school culture that perceived excellence in children only in terms of a comparative international scale of International Baccalaureate grades. For the few that attained these targets all would be well; the majority rest would forever remain failures.

And so the end of term arrived. There were farewells and goodbye speeches in which I presented a positive outlook on an unknown future. Was it the full-stop of my career, or the beginning of something new? Could I cut it as a writer? How would I know success if I saw it?

At that time my wife was completing her PhD. I was happy to sit pretty for the hot and humid summer months, but by September we'd got itchy feet. A one-way flight to Bangkok started a month of travel in Asia. I constantly blogged (Daily in Asia) as we went. From Bangkok we took the train to Trang, a minibus to Satun and a boat journey on flat calm waters to Ko Lipe. Summer is a tricky time in the Andaman Sea, and the weather was unpredictable. Thus far it felt like a holiday. The onward trip to Langkawi was potentially catastrophic – an over-packed boat driven blind across lightning-struck green waters made prayers rise faster than stocks in Apple before a product release. Langkawi, the 'Jewel of Kedah' was wet –it being the rainy season– but staying in the old colonial era houses at the Temple Tree At Bon made up for it. It was only on the ferry from there to Georgetown, complete with hundreds of holidaying Saudis, that the journeying finally felt like 'travel' and not 'trip'. Indeed, of all places in the mystic and incense-laden orient, Penang and Georgetown felt the most enjoyable: beautiful Chinese merchant houses, excellent Tamil curries, more than a smattering of colonial monuments and history and views to die for from atop the funicular-railway ascended Penang Hill, this place felt like it could be 'home', that elusive something we all search for. The train trip up to Ipoh and from there to the wonderful Cameron Highlands also had its moments, chiefly being the approving ghostly presence of long-past relatives when staying in the mock-tudor, mock-British delightful nonsense that is The Old Smokehouse. From there to Kuala Lumpur and on to Singapore felt like a progressive return to normality, and indeed we cut our travel onwards to Indonesia short for a return to HK and an unsuccessful interview. The daily blogging sewed a seed that came to fruition in this very vehicle, of which this is the penultimate entry.

There remained the vexing question of where to go? It was decided that jobs must come first. So, we waited for something to turn up, and by December two had appeared – Limerick and Olomouc. We had to see both places. The wintry-wet drive through England, Wales and Ireland was enjoyable enough, but within days we had flown to the dry and cold Czech Republic. Had we found what we were looking for? Olomouc was a wintry and wonderful city with picturesque buildings and friendly locals. Limerick turned out to be unsuccessful, and on advice from a friend ("a quarter the rainfall of Ireland") we settled on Moravia. I would remain in a supportive role, and keep on with the writing until something worked out.

By the end of January we were prepared to move countries, but were we ready to move minds? It quickly transpired that doing anything in the Czech Republic is a challenge, not least the finding of an apartment where three dogs and a cat would be welcomed. Such a thing, it transpired, was impossible. So we bought. It meant an investment of nearly all our cash and additional money to finish the transformation of kitchen and bathroom, but six months on it was done. I was already on to a new local blog Anglicky in Olomouc, but knew it was high time to focus a little more on the writing – I had already started on a few books whilst in Hong Kong and found short stories engaging. I worked steadily on them, but knew my literary ability lacked something... experience and depth. I reasoned I could get this by writing –forcing myself to work– each and every day. I began 365 Ways With Words in the belief that a little more of what I fancied would do me good. It would be a daily struggle; at times harder than any other task I'd set myself.

Whilst the new job allowed for enjoyable travel to conferences across Europe and beyond, and all seemed well and good, there was trouble ahead. Here comes the tough part: we had a falling out. Separated by a 3-month stint in Sweden, we found our courses going in separate directions. It fell to me to be an idiot and think things worse than they actually were. And instead of patching things up, we argued – fiercely. I was to blame.

And so we separated. In my quest for new beginnings I had not actively sought an end to everything from before. But life has a funny habit of turning things around and of forcing pressing items that require attention onto the top of the desktop pile. By August, I came to the realisation that the little money that I could earn from teaching English conversation was spread all-too thin on the ground to support myself, three dogs and a cat. I was nowhere near completion of a book on travel writing and the other project, 10 Beers With Czechs – a collection of interviews with Czechs 25 years on from the Velvet Revolution, needed more time. So I had to get a job, and got one working in Olomouc's one and only English international school. Ostensibly, it allows for time in the afternoon and evening to devote to writing: in reality, there is barely enough for more than a few glib changes in overlooking a marginal point in a paragraph.

The future, therefore, is a little less glamorous and exciting than had been imagined. I will continue to write, albeit with a steadier focus on quality rather than on mere output, and my attentions will be on completion of the works already begun. But unlike the stretched life lived in Hong Kong, life here in Olomouc feels more like the real world, where sincere people strive to earn enough cash to pay the bills and have a little left over for a beer or two with friends. Czechs read a lot (it's cheap and enjoyable) and enjoy rock and drinking in parks. On a side note, and whilst I am a long way from speaking the lingo, it's interesting to see how people here put meaning and emphasis together in a form unconnected with western latin or germanic languages.

So here I am; back to teaching (and writing). It's not quite full-circle, because the experience of writing over the past two years has taught me much – about the literary craft, about moving and changing and about the priorities of life, albeit how not to do things. And as this project draws to a close, a little later than exactly a year, and tomorrow's is the last entry of 365, so another task is already set: to complete those books and short stories for publication. This has been a rather personal entry in what is in reality a very personal blog. Writers cannot fail to open up now and again, letting the world see the quivering wreck of humanity that is, in effect, within each of us. As Art is a jealous mistress, I will leave the last paraphrased word to Winston Churchill, who writted a few books from time to time:

“Writing a [daily blog for a year] is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."

Hong Kong's Democracy

So Beijing has rattled the sabre. Or has it? Is this a genuine attempt to fail the hearts of pro-democrats in the Pearl of the Orient or is it merely on a level of normalcy for a Chinese government that expects to do what it wants wherever it wants?

Surely this pressure was always to be expected. Only the most space-headed fantasist would have thought Beijing would tolerate a 'democracy', unless it was under its management. In recent times, rule from the North has not really been about allowing or forbidding free opinion, but more about consolidating control – it's control. Is it any wonder, then, that Hong Kong's slow path to democracy has just been bulldozed? For how can an unfettered democracy be controlled if not by force?

A country of the size of China has always had problems with control. It has exercised this control brutally in the past, but comparatively less-so in recent decades. In fact, it is a small wonder that it hasn't bared its teeth more often. The minor rebellions in Xinjiang, Tibet and elsewhere have upset the thinking in Beijing that all things in 'communist China' are for the greater good. For how could any dissent be tolerated if it is against the harmony that an ideologically-sound centralised control is seeking to create? At least, that's how it may be seen. Such troublemakers are thus seen as true criminals, the sort that should be eradicated like so much vermin. Within this mental framework, how could Beijing permit the election of anything but a 'yes man' as a Chief Executive of Hong Kong?

The pro-democrats may puff and fume as armoured personnel carriers are driven around the territory, but what is of greater surprise, at least to me, is that the central government is frequently applauded for its actions from within a de facto democratically free Hong Kong. The east truly is red for many in Hong Kong. It is true that people have short memories, but perhaps there is also a blurring of memory and fantasy, of fact with fiction, perception and ideology. Many have conveniently forgotten the plight of refugees – frantic swimmers straggling ashore in 1970s New Territories beaches, braving sharks and deadly currents to escape the Red Guards' bullets. But if taxi drivers in Hong Kong, Shanghai and Xiamen suspend both Mao and Kwan Yin from their rear-view mirrors, it is because these mythic figures have become part of the even greater China myth. China has at last become great – it sends folks into space, builds mega-skyscrapers and runs high-speed Maglev trains between its mega-metropolises. It can now do anything. And that, of course, justifies anything. Just as 'Middle Americans' can justify bombing targets in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq in the name of self-defence and as part and parcel of their incredible projection of power, so their Chinese equivalent, Mr & Mrs Chan, can justify the Chinese state's similar actions against its enemies. And it is up to the media in both instances to inform their public about just who those enemies are. Hong Kong democrats are therefore viewed as a lot of troublemakers that need sorting out!

So will Hong Kong achieve full democracy in 2017? Of course not. Some may argue that it will look like democracy, and that may be enough. Others will continue the debate, probably right up until 2047 when the one-country, two-systems policy will be set aside for full integration with the motherland, whatever that means. Quite whether China and Hong Kong will then be in existence as they are now, no one can know. If I'm still around, then I'll be an 80-year old observer, and a cynical but unabashed democrat at that.

How a Dog Dies

                                                Crinch-crunch on the gravelly sand

                                                Domestic houndpads meet stickle shell edge

                                                And skip through salt-sting pain

                                                Consumed by the runjoy

 

                                                            Commend my care in your next abode

 

                                                Tide withdrawn 

                                                Sea slowslopes a sag of sloughed pool

                                                Wormcast and crabbyleg playless scurry down

                                                Behind are the stars and tight clams

 

                                                            I did what I could from your rescue day

 

                                                Sniff to eat without taste of humancook

                                                Pick up to play is the order of the day

                                                Gallop to the chase a-vying one and all

                                                Fish head, fish eye, fish every bit

 

                                                            How could we know your every move?

 

                                                In the toxins of the fugu

                                                In the alarm brought by dizziness

                                                In the approach of stillness

                                                In the agony of suffocation

                                                        Remember, life is sweet and short, dear doggy — farewell!

The Track and The Challenge

There is a track that leads up to the top of Sze Tei hill, a rounded promontory that juts into the waters of Long Harbour. It is difficult to find: the casual coastal path walker’s attention is naturally focused on the seascape, the fishing boats and the forbidding massive of Sharp Peak. There are no signs—neither should there be. Unless a string of munching cows have cleared their way uphill, or a team of hikers have chosen this hacked their way up this ungainly route, then this is always a challenging track. Often hidden, and not a little testing, the route is obscured by the rapid summer vegetative growth. It is therefore best to tackle in winter.

At first it twists and turns—up and away from the low summit; there are dead-ends and low branches to avoid. A scrambly rock is to be surmounted before the large boulders that mark the peak are at hand. This is the place to stop, for the view is now truly magnificent. An inclined slab makes for an excellent picnic spot to while away the hours. The ferry comes and goes, there is a tranquillity to be removed from people, a rare enough event in such a hectic city. To the left one can clearly see some old dry-stone walls that must have demarked the edges of a small hilltop plateau of a field. Quite how water was brought to the crops can only be guessed. It is now covered in low growth of ferns, melastoma and camellia.

From the trig point top, there is only down; a scrabbly sandy track winds through the brush. Lone bulls frequent this place because of the persistent mud on the saddle between the top and the eroded incline that rises towards the trees of Chung Sha Teng and the Hoi Ha Road beyond. They will wallow to protect their nether regions from nipping mosquitoes.

Below, to the left, a much-used track seems to fall away towards the stream. For a while the going is good beneath the shaded canopy, and then it hits the thorny pandanas patches surrounded by mud that slips and slides towards the tumbled boulders. The easiest going appears to be hopping over these large stones—this way, that way, around a small waterfall, on either bank. Scratched, sweated and irritated by double-backs, a temptation creeps into the consciousness to turn and ascend back to the known paths above. To the optimist, it seems that just around the bend the final stretch towards the sea will appear, but another fall and another traverse takes the feet further and further down this lonely jungle stream, noisy insects and carefree birds being the only companions. Committed, the way is now maintained by ferocious red ants that mercilessly spit their painful acids on exposed flesh.

Finally, the last bend is reached and the flat and overgrown agricultural land testifies to the proximity to the coastal path. Sure enough, the link is joined, a surreal moment of ordinary familiarity tenuously linked to the abandoned wilderness riverscape. Now on level path luxury, it is only minutes to the village of Tai Tan and the buses back to Sai Kung.

Why do this? There are few moments in our controlled lives where we are able to test our wits, where we demand a little ingenuity and determination in facing a situation and where we are not the boss of all we survey. Humans like control. Handing it over to nature is risky. Trekking through wilderness, even that close to home, brings out characteristics that we may have not previously recognised, and allows a respect for the ways of nature not hitherto comprehended nor understood. Such challenges should not be alien to us. We are not separate from our environment; we are part and parcel of our biosphere, red ants and all.

The Drive Home

It is late and the traffic is beginning to calm. The knuckles whiten and mirrors are checked for approaching cars who might dare to overtake. The perceived insult of being cut-up by a green minibus is intolerable and the ears strain for the siren song of the traffic cops who have noticed something abominable about your driving. There is desperation in reaching a destination, regardless of the urgency of the occasion, and a gleeful victory over lane hoppers is achieved by sailing past them boxed into their continuous white-line lane choice. It’s the same craziness today as it was yesterday. And it will be the same tomorrow.

The madness of driving in Hong Kong is no worse than other intense motoring experiences around the world. The same competitive psychosis disturbs those behind the wheel. The only difference will be the average value of the vehicles on the road. What makes Hong Kong driving such an attention-demanding activity is the necessity to be in the right lane for upcoming forks and intersections. Quite simply, there is very little room for error. Getting into the wrong lane exiting the Cross-Harbour Tunnel could mean the daydreaming motorist must complete a non-stop full circuit of Hong Kong Island!

Some, of course, sidestep all of the problems associated with car transportation (ever-increasing licensing, astronomical insurance prices, mortgage-sized parking fees, the inevitable speeding fines, unavoidable accidental damage and wear and tear) by taking taxis. This is all fine and dandy until changeover time (just before teatime) or it rains, which is a lot in Hong Kong, and the aquaphobic taxis disappear leaving the poor stranded shopper/worker/party-goer stranded on a rainy pavement under a useless umbrella and waving a soaking arm at occupied taxis-who-hopefully-might-just-stop-anyway.

So, the road from Choi Hung opens up and the slow climb to the top of Razor Hill means Kowloon and Hong Kong fills the rearview mirror. Before the descent into Sai Kung down Hiram’s Highway there is the magnificent view of forested slopes from Pik Uk, the snaky village road that winds away from the darkness of Kowloon Peak. The single-track road through Sai Kung slows the speed to that of the double-decker buses. Marina Cove’s yacht masts sail past at Hebe Haven. Then Sai Kung is reached.

This is the last opportunity for late shopping, to snatch a meal or even take a drink. But onwards: home beckons. So the driver continues along the winding Tai Mong Tsai Road as it skirts the sandy coast, past temples and new condominiums. The moonrise sits between the hills of the peninsula and a blessed feeling of calm rises with each kilometer. And then the gateway to the Sai Kung Country Park is reached – a non-permeable security zone for all but the most serious of gangsters on their way to midnight rendezvous with smugglers. None shall pass, especially if the date on the driving permit has expired!

At this point the windows should be opened. Through the aperture comes the sounds of the night – chirpy crickets and cicadas, wooping asian koels and hooty scops owls, squeaky bats and singing frogs and the belchy cows that meander from village to village to take their fill of the vegetation. The musky smells of resins, night flowers, pollen and foliage fills the nostrils. My God! It’s good to live here.

And, as quickly as it arrived, the mantel of driving madness has dissipated. There is no rush, no urgency and no deadline. Who knows what might cross the road at this time of night. As the car is parked up, the night offers a warm embrace. Perhaps I will walk with the dogs down to Wong Shek pier to feel the breeze from the waters or see the lights of the speedboats coming and going out to Tap Mun Island. Perhaps I will sit outside and have a beer and consider the day. Perhaps I will spend some time with good neighbours. And perhaps we will discuss the traffic that happens all the time elsewhere – away from home.

Running Tigers

They accompany the runner and the casual walker, the slow cows, the excited dogs and their quarry the hurrying monkeys. Like attentive lackeys preparing the way, these marvels skip ahead of each step on the path, ready to accept the accidental prey kicked up by the dust.

Their life is measured in weeks. They live without worry, eager only in determined hunt – itself a precondition of species success. And they must meet and mate. The mysteries of day and night, of victory and failure, of anguish over longevity and pride of progeny, of appropriate reactions to culture and fashion and a pressing need for social integration are not theirs. For they are free.

They have their markings; their carapace is an identity wherein they are able to elude predation and find each other. They make good the time that is theirs. Or not: the margin between thriving and death may be slim and ever close.

Tiger beetles shimmer in the light. Their magnificent spots and iridescence capture the eye and the mind. So unlike humans, the life they have they must have. The life we have, we must choose.

Get The Boat Back

                                                It is still hot above; we tire one and all

                                                The fat noodles slosh in icy beer

                                                Weary knees welcome clinging sea wetness

                                                For the return through surge waves a-chop

                                                Over the rising waah of wavecrash

                                                The engine’s rolling reverses stop

                                                Let rope boy hold ashore in his shorts and sunnies

 

                                                Lift the swimming dogs, legs paddle air – leads on

                                                A last billow cools the pants (and whatever’s within)

                                                Hold bags and shoes and phones aloft!

                                                One last look back upon the playing beach’s ebb

                                                Soft sand clings spangly to ankle skin

 

                                                The cost, of course, is too much

                                                But smiles erupt as lazy miles are consumed

                                                By deafening outboard, by bum-bouncing spray

                                                Too fast by the sombre fishing men engaged

                                                Marooned on crops of shadeless rocks

                                                Around the splayed deep green barren headland

 

                                                Beside the frozen tumbling boulders

                                                Fish jump in sea clear below

                                                Under this towering massive, this commanding silence

                                                Into the open harbour neck

 

                                                Features reverse from footsore eyesight

                                                Sight of home spirit spurs on the slided surface

                                                Bullet past the hour-walk mark

                                                Bus and taxi wait happy by this yellow rock

                                                Voices natter in on wafts of sweet barbecue smoke

                                                An honest sleep beckons up the wet moored steps:

                                                When journey drops the bags and keys

                                                When last footfalls stop behind the closed front door

                                                When toes and heels are sand-free showered

                                                When the lightless night is cicada sung

Cats and Snakes

You cannot keep a cat inside. At least, not for long. Natural Houdinis, they take themselves off by any means necessary – stealth, cunning and daring are in their very nature. As is, of course, their propensity to seek out dark and enclosed spaces to do… cattish things! And cattish things are generally focused on hunting. Naturally inquisitive creatures, they seek out the flying, the scurrying and the elusive. Preternaturally without conscience, and minimal empathy for that matter, these feline hunters play with suffering animals with the joy of a sadistic torturer. The only problem for us softy humans that become attached to them is that they can also be predated upon.

The cats that resided at the addresses in Ko Tong Ha Yeung that we called home were inclined to see open doors as natural gateways, windows as mere egression points, and guttering and air conditioning shelves as stepping-stones to freedom. At times of great famine (i.e. when they had gone off their normal kitty dinner) they would bring back a specimen for consumption. This unfortunate bat, bird, rat, mouse, frog, cockroach, etc, would then be delightfully toyed with, chased, caught again, partially-eaten, left, regurgitated and then loathsomely abandoned in a sticky mess on the carpet.

There were no exceptions to this treatment: despite the introduction of toys, scratch posts, treats and catnip, it appears cats cannot shed their nature. Unfortunately, sometimes these furry domestic beasts would go too far. Thus it was that Stubby was the first to make his way off into the world without any guiding hands.

Stubby arrived home in a box one evening after Brenda had been out at the pub. Taking her leave, she stumbled upon a bunch of kids cruelly abusing the baby kitty in the street. Scattering them with a holler, she took the frightened and emaciated stray home. The Ginger Tom had to learn to walk again, even with a twisted stumpy tail (hence Stubby). A homemade sugary milk mixture seemed to do the trick, but although he grew he retained a rather homeless nature. He bit toes at night, attacked without provocation and sought out the ceiling space in the kitchen to look for anything living (unsuccessfully). On moving to the Sai Kung Country Park, he hung around for about a year before taking himself off proper hunting. That no sight was made of him ever again means that he may have taken on something snakey in one of the covered culverts and did not –or could not– move fast enough.

Dooley came to us because his rather well to do owner was moving to South Africa and requested a re-home. I obliged, partly because I foolishly thought Stubby could do with a companion. Unfortunately, Stubby thought otherwise and for two weeks terrorised the poor Dooley into a cupboard drawer. When the fur settled and an uneasy peace reigned, they still remained distant, one leaving the room as the other entered. Dooley’s subdued nature meant that he sought (female) human comforts over and above any catlike companionship.

Minsey, or Mini-Kitty, was a lost cause, at least as far as the veterinary assistants thought in Sai Kung. They kept the wild-eyed stripey Siberian tiger cub locked firmly in a cage, and used gauntlets each time they approached. I put my fingers through the bar and received a kitten’s lick and purr. Thus, she was brought home and became the golden eye’d exotic that got into mischief as she charmingly gambolled on her lanky hind legs. A sociable kitty, particularly with the dogs, she twisted her body into unfeasible shapes and loved watching the birds through the windows. Fierce beyond her size, she thought nothing of facing up to a cobra. She also went the way of Stubby, although I thought I saw a glimpse of her rushing into undergrowth at Tai Tan one day about a year after her disappearance.

Jack, the last adoption, came through a rather cautious adoption agency that suggested he spend two months in a cage before being released. Thinking this unfair treatment for a beautiful black cat, he was released and made his friends with the residents of the house. Unfortunately, the canine residents of the house were not always so accepting and one day he was chased up the perimeter fence and must have slipped his leg through a cat leg-sized aperture that caught him: he limped back with a broken femur. Our vet at the time, Tom, magnificently corrected the break with what looked like a headless six-inch nail inserted down the bone’s length. He recovered and enjoyed a few years of luxury before also taking himself off; perhaps to look for the other two lost causes. It is likely he did not look for what took him.

 

So, today only one of the four cats remains—the stay-at-home Dooley. A very vocal boy, he would sometimes take himself outside, only to lose one-sided battles with local swaggering hooligans. Becoming suddenly transfixed with agoraphobic terror, he would frequently have to be rescued from a nearby tree with a fearful accompaniment of meowing and scratching. It is with some relief it can be said he never acquired snake-hunting skills. He now sits most hours on my desk in his 15 years dotage waiting to be fed lovely foods (none of which fly, hiss or scurry). He is smelly, has lost a canine and has an annoying habit of sitting before the screen between my arms so that I can see neither keyboard nor screen properly. Ah well—you can’t choose who you fall in love with.

Names and Misdemenours

We've met them. We try hard to be mature, but sometimes it's impossible. And although we wonder the route by which they named themselves, whether through self-christening or by random word generator, we are none-the-less amused by them. For just as the best stories are true, so also the reasons for some Chinese aliases must also be amazingly true. Why not ask? Besides, said in the right way, 'Winky Wu' is a very nice name.

It can only be guessed when the Chinese of Hong Kong began to chose an English or English-sounding alias, but it may safe to assume it began not long after the British colony was first established. That Chinese names are all-but absent from the 19th century records of internments at the Happy Valley cemetery on Hong Kong island testifies to racist exclusion even in death of those without western names, but may also reflect the fact that Chinese burial rites elsewhere were naturally just as exclusive. There are long and complicated traditions associated with Chinese names, but the lack of evidence my reflect the fact that aliases may have been seen as incidental and dropped from official Chinese or English documentation.

Whatever the reasons, Hong Kong Chinese are inheritors of a tradition that has somehow stuck. Some are given names by their parents, others voluntarily choose, whereas others will be asked to adopt a non-Chinese name fairly early in their school career and stick with it. Thus, some names, such as Cherry and Bonnie, obviously suit sweet babies, but Winnie, Annie and Ryan may also sound similar to Chinese names. And perhaps we'd better not dwell long on a Kinky or a Fanny.

Then there are the self-selectors. It begins with school, no doubt, but ends in all sorts of bizarre adoptions that must have come from desperation, creative deviousness or mere indolence. Thus, Puzzle Yiu will work at 7/11, Bunny Ho might serve you KFC, whilst next door at the bank will be Fonda Chiu. Titan Bang may be your best bet for fixing your air conditioning and at the pub your Tsingtao may be poured by Satan Tang. This is all very well, but some even more bizarre aliases crop up from time to time. 'Precious' may not be too bad, and even 'Barbie' might fail to raise a smile, but how about 'Suddenly', 'Fruit', 'Anvil' 'Potato', and 'Vodka'? Then there are the Old Testament prophets, such as Amos and Moses, brand loyalty such as Zara, Bentley and Rolex, places like Yukon, France and York, and more abstract concepts such as 'Lucky', 'Healthy' and 'Hearty'. Other names are modified from existing names, such as Gorden (Gordon) and Lona (Lorna), and then there's all the Hymens, Willys and Tootsies...

However amusing these names seem, they are used to substitute for the more formal Chinese names that, according to Joyce Man, are only given at formal introductions. So they are not mere distractions, but serve a very useful purpose. And, should some awkward pale-faced Gwailo point out that these are not 'proper names' (whatever that may be), the reply is always that it is their name – an individual nomenclature that gives a unique identity. And surely that's the whole point. You're not going to forget a Winky Wu, Dicky Chiu or Rambo Man in a hurry.

Please feel free to add any weird name delights you've come across in the comments section.

Breath of Easterly Wind

 

                                                    Starlight dimly leads upon a perilous path

                                                    Long before, the silent cows hear noisy footfalls approach

                                                    So softly around I ginger, their calm presence is felt

                                                    A warm sweetness rings their rest

                                                    Homely, but a pressing hour approaches

 

                                                    Skystretch thin and mute

                                                    In gradients grow particulates on the earthturn schedule

                                                    Too late, these sleepless clumsy feet scrabble up scree

                                                    The full light has come

                                                    It glareburns upon the shimmering waves

                                                    Along the eastern coast far from eyes but mine

                                                    No fishing boat or trawler's wake

                                                    Empty of bulk and tankers beyond

                                                    This July hour is partnerless

                                                    Solely me, the dogs, the swifts and dragonflies, the sun

                                                    All clouds are coy this morning

                                                    Not a breath of easterly wind

                                                    This is the moment

 

                                                    Last drops in hand, all water drained

                                                    The canine pair know where to go

                                                    Down, along a perilous ridge to trees

                                                    Too quick they are, and rightly so

                                                    I find them basted in the stream

                                                    Beside a bull under spider canyon

 

                                                    Long are the music waves on a pristine beach deserted

                                                    Dryads and Oceanids cavort and win me

                                                    Into cleansing tumbles my nakedness is won

                                                    And for a time there is a single entity

                                                    The crystalline peace

                                                    A totality in union

                                                    Before breakfast at the café