Pacific Rim 3D is definitely not the sort of film to get your intellect racing, but if giant robots beating the living crap out of enormous alien monsters straight out of the Oligocene tickles your fancy then this is definitely something for you!
The Plot: great big monsters called Kaiju emerge from the deep to destroy 'everything in their path', especially coastal cities on the pacific rim. They emerge from an 'interdimensional portal' somewhere in the ocean and are detected making their way in double time to San Francisco, Manila, Lima, Sydney, etc. Only one thing can stop them – man's only hope, the human-controlled metal fighting machines called Jaegers.
Of course, this is an old theme that pays homage (actually in the credits) to the splendid ideas of Ray Harryhausen and to Ishirō Honda with his magnificent Godzillas. Their films wowed audiences through spectacle that came perilously close to camp farce, be that stop-frame animation, men in rubber suits or even CGI. Their eminently watchable films are predictable precisely because they are format-based and entertaining –hurrah!
The production values of Pacific Rim are high, especially the all-encompassing CGI, but I won't go into the acting skills necessary for such an outing. Suffice it to say, Charlie Hunnam is the shattered reluctant hero brought back to lead the ultimate fight, Rinko Kikuchi (magnificent in Babel) puts some actual meaningful effort into her supporting part and the wonderful Idris Elba (of the brilliant TV series Luther) is the superior wise older man figurehead.
The theme of epic monster battles, of course, goes back much further to Greek and other heroic tales. We need our heroes, whether they be Hercules, David, Gilgamesh, Rama, Beowulf and James Bond. All the stories are pretty much the same, beginning with a startling opening – Argh! M...M...M...Monsters!! – that moves on to the call for the hero – M to Bond: "You're booked on the 8:30 plane in the morning" – the hero's near-defeat – Beowulf's near defeat at the hands of Grendel – and final vanquishing of the foe – Rama returns home with his beloved Sita to a magnificent reception.
The second half of Pacific Rim takes place in Hong Kong, the sort of fantasy dystopian Hong Kong of little boys' imagination. It borrows, at least, from Blade Runner in the rainy over-crowded street scenes and from the Matrix Reloaded's restaurant scene in Hannibal Chau's suave hidden store of enormous Kaiju body parts – I'm sure you could find a whole host of other similarities with sci-fi and grand movie traditions. Apart from the linking 'busy street' scenes, Hong Kong is portrayed in moody panoramic harbour scenes or as glittering backdrops for the action out at sea. Certainly the canyons and highways of the Gloucester Road corridor are the perfect smashing locations for spectacular messy monster vs metal men fights. Street signs may be realistic enough, but don't look for any sort of continuity if you are a native Hong Konger; e.g. the north-facing harbourside faces out to southerly seaborne monster invasion.
One cannot help but wonder why Hong Kong was chosen as the location for such a mega-fight. Seeing the city get smashed up is splendid enough, but maybe the location has more to do with the film's wooing of mainland Chinese audiences (and future investors in the franchise).
I also couldn't help wonder about the film's HK people and their demolished homes. If you have ever been to HK then you may not be surprised to hear that it has some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. As this excellent BBC piece explains, many people are forced to squeeze themselves into smaller and smaller 'apartments' to the point where prison cells compare like spacious condos. Where will this end? As written previously in a post, and suggested in this WSJ article from two years ago, in one way or another this housing pressure simply has to give. The HK government has sought to build more public housing, but this is little more than a finger in the dyke. The city has to address rampant price rises (18% per year since 1989) in some way. Morality plays no place in this open market as folks get squeezed into smaller and smaller spaces to maximise the almighty dollar.
So the city is trashed by angry monsters (no doubt to be built again by happy investors) and its people are killed whilst the rest of the world looks on. I couldn't help but wonder, however, whether this may already have happened – the old Hong Kong, the Pearl of the Orient that was a place of refuge, civilisation and freedom in the East being swept away by its own home-grown, voracious and victorious bellowing monsters. The problem is, in real life there doesn't seem to be anyone powerful enough to stop them.
This final of the trilogy is an attempt to review the current zeitgeist of Hong Kong, to suggest directions it should now pursue and to make summary of our time living in Hong Kong. Blogs are essentially rants, often angry and best forgotten, but this post is written with a sense of the gravity of impending times. So please allow repetition of what was said in the first of the trilogy, that I make appeal to that
which moves a person and that it should strike a resonant chord in order to provoke discourse and, hopefully,
action. It is also noted, with some serendipity, that this is my 100th post!
In the previous post a brief sketch of the political background was given along with brief outlines of education and the undelrying theme of the centrality of wealth acquisition. Although within this excellent city there are innumerable fascinating examples from which to choose, those in this post are language and ethnicity, domestic helpers, and housing and accommodation. This post has caused some difficulty, not least because the intention was to steer away from sounding like another useless complaint against the inescable negative foibles thrown up by life in the Pearl of the Orient. In fact, the beloved city of Hong Kong and its beloved people have a charmed place in the world – one that requires wisdom and intelligent direction.
Language and Ethnicity
In our time here Hong Kong's population has increased by at least 1 ½ million to a little over 7. This statistic appears to contradict the fact that the fun-loving boys and girls of the city are simply not having enough babies to effortlessly sustain this growing economy – 0.9 per child-bearing woman, way below the required replacement rate of 2.1. In fact, the increase has been achieved largely through immigration. The city has always been a transient place and because of the nature of work here will probably always be thus, nevertheless each year more settle than leave (or die). The constant and consistent population growth has been one of the largest engines of this perpetually expanding economy fuelling the demand for housing, services and infrastructure and constantly prompting the expected sale of government land to this end. More on this later, but future economic dependency must surely encompass other dimensions and not merely rest on the bedrock of lucrative land sales to already-profitable individuals and companies. Hong Kong and the world deserve something better.
94% of Hong Kong's population is ethnic Chinese, either home grown or specially imported (everything, even the people, are imported from China). That ethnicity, however, is somewhat difficult to ascertain because the perception of one's origins –Guangzhou, Shanghai, Beijing, Bognor Regis– can get a little blurred after a few years domicile in Kowloon City. Obviously this is a very personal thing, but has to do with an established and local mind-set: Hong Kongers are tearful, flag-waving Chinese only up to a point! Even ethnic Chinese returning here from western countries can find it hard to fit in and may forever feel like outsiders: their co-patriots sneeringly call them bananas – yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Apart from the more obvious minority skin differentiations amongst South Asians, real ethnic identity appears, therefore, to be focused on mother tongue usage, particularly at home. Some families may speak three or more languages each day, but prefer one when seated around the dinner table. Indeed, it is possible to walk down Nathan Road and hear 20 or more languages and dialects being casually spoken, and yet most are able to get by using Cantonese.
Getting by in Cantonese, however, can be a minefield of uncertainties. It may begin with a puppy-like glimmer of semi-encouragements, grow in to a confusing mix of happy discoveries and semi-encouragements only ultimately to miserably sit a constant and dismal puddly reminder of overall linguistic failure. How is it 20 million people learn this language as babies but I can't ask the time properly? There are no tenses, for God's sake! God knows I've tried – indeed I cannot recall how many times I have given taxi drivers simple directions in the clearest, best-remembered Cantonese only to be met by furrowed brows that deepen with each more sinicised repetition until finally something clicks, there is a long "Ahhh!" and those very same words with identical nuance and tone is parroted. I swear, and sometimes audibly, that they bloody do it out of grudging and deliberate obduracy... Sorry, I promised not to rant!
By the way, there's no Knowledge required of taxi drivers as there is with the London cabby – Hong Kong's taxi drivers simply queue up to buy their license, get in, start her up and wander about, puzzled passenger within, until they find the required address – or not! If they don't know where they're going they may a) 'fess up with a "You show me?", or b) bluster merrily until the see by your red-faced interjections that they're going the wrong way. And don't get me started on the evaporation of taxis in the rain or at 'changeover' time, whatever that is, or of charging double for the tunnels, or the shameless shouting down the phone to their mates, or of belching, farting and drinking beer whilst driving or of leaving bottles of taxi driver's lemonade at the traffic lights... Upon our emigration in '98 drivers we learned a lot about Hong Kong from good and amicable taxi drivers, but they have ceased bothering to chatt, amicably or otherwise,
in English at all. They are a belligerent lot, as are taxi drivers in any city of the world, but surely it's time the public required them do a better job, one worthy of Asia's World City? Sorry – this has become an extended taxi rant!
Sadly racism, like many other negative and primitive hindrances in our social make-up, appears to be near-universal on this planet. Although Hong Kong was no stranger to racism in the past, largely by the colonial Brits, public and physical demonstrations of a racist nature are pretty much unheard of or kept carefully hidden behind the closed doors of slang Cantonese in schoolrooms or unleashed from the carefree tongues of market traders. Funny foreign names, especially south asian ones, may merely provoke titters or unequivocally act as surreptitious hindrances to flat viewing and job opportunities. Having said that, as outsiders in a new culture the Mem and meself felt no outward hostility upon our arrival and, apart from the odd quizzical checks askance on the minibus or at the local Wellcome supermarket, we have felt entirely comfortable and fully at home here: I guess compared with some we're lucky. In truth, it has been hard to leave this comfort zone. For the local population racism may not be fully recognised or even viewed for what it is, but it is a cancer that requires excising – from all walks of life and if legislation is required then so be it: only good can come from such a focus.
Domestic Helpers
If in this city, as elsewhere, wealth is the indicator of status then those at the bottom of the Hong Kong heap are the most despised – the homeless, those with menial jobs, asylum seekers, anyone with dark skins. Included in that are the ubiquitous domestic helpers, the invaluable labour force of around 274,000 – that's 4% of the population. Many of these poor girls from the Philippines, Indonesia and Sri Lanka may be expected to work more hours than their employer is awake, daily scour floors and walls, provide gourmet meals on every occasion, keep the car spotless inside and out, endlessly child mind, care for elderly parents, provide security when the family are elsewhere AND sleep without air-conditioning, sometimes in a shed on the roof or on the kitchen floor with the dog (this is still expected by some employers). This they do for the minimum wage provided: HK$3,920 (US$505) per month. The employer may also be expected to provide a food allowance of HK$875 (US$112) per month. Whilst this sum amounts to more than a lawyer or doctor would acquire outside Manila, Jakarta or Colombo, in practice these human beings are often expected to work under near-slave-like conditions and may suffer from endless berating, beatings and sexual abuse. Other than their holiday time, their only glimpse of their own children growing up at home may be the occasional photo or phone call. In addition, the employer may take away their passport and not pay wages for months only to ultimately plant jewellery in their suitcase and call the police. Then there's the case of a helper 'falling' from an apartment window when that troublesome payment time ultimately came round. In reality, accused domestic helpers don't have a legal leg to stand on (it's their word against the employer's), they will almost certainly be jailed only to be deported, never again able to obtain employment in HK or elsewhere unless desperation drives them to choose somewhere like Saudi Arabia.
Why do some put up with all this? Permanent employment in Hong Kong means that their families back home have the chance to escape poverty; it's probably very few of us reading this blog share a similar background. Millions of people rely on regular incomes sent home to alleviate suffering, build houses and pay for their family's education (remittances account for a yearly US$24 billion injection into the Philippine economy). So it's ok to have a seat with the family at a restaurant (glass of water if you're lucky) in order to chase the fidgety children around the tables all evening whilst the parents get on with the business of eating and having a good time, it's ok to be daily shouted at, to be cursed, to keep all your possessions locked in a suit case: the monthly remittances are Western Unioned home and the families offer thankful prayers on Sundays and late-night phone calls in return.
Unlike the United Kingdom, many Hong Kong families, including our own, have
employed domestic helpers, enabling both parents to work, the dog to get
walked, the house to be cleaned and the children be safe at home. To obtain a good reliable helper is an achievement
in itself and for some she becomes an extension of the family. Any helper will tell you that being employed by a gwailo family is often a better and less demanding deal for them
too. So, it's not all that bad for some in ole Hong Kong: each Sunday after church they gather in their thousands at any available open space and do what Filipinas love the most – sitting around chatting, eat chicken wings and letting off a bit of steam. Sometimes they'll get a group together and sing and jig about to the sound of guitar and tambourine, praising God for his miracles in their lives. If they're lucky they may find love interest, maybe a serious boyfren' or even husban' – the answer to the whole family's daily prayers...
Perhaps one way to view the way domestic helpers are treated is as an indicator of the health of Hong Kong society, a barometer of social
trends regarding the way Hong Kongers think about their city and those within it. And yet – to broach discussion on such things with many-a local Chinese is to court a certain amount of ire. Long-gone are the days of the poor pig-tailed Chinese amah who sweatily argued for cheap bean sprouts at the local market stall, baby on hip. Some of my students saw domestic helpers only as lazy, opportunistic, money-grabbing spongers that the local population only endured because they needed squeaky clean clothes each morning and a squeaky clean car to drive the kids to school. I've seen so many children (and parents) get a little too used to proxy parenting; picking up after them, tidying their rooms, walking five paces behind them carrying their bags to school, their only care when sick. These permanent babies never learn how to pick up after themselves or use the Hoover or know how to iron or even cook and wash-up and it is almost certainly expected that they will have their own domestic helpers in adulthood. So ingrained are they kids to this life that in classroom discussions it was sometimes hard for them to see that the difference between indentured slavery and the lot of some Hong Kong domestic helpers can oft be slim indeed. Yes, it may be worse in other countries, but that doesn't make it right in Hong Kong.
Accommodation
On paper Hong Kong has it all – a welfare state by which all needs are met from cradle to grave. In truth, this society deals a mixed hand to those that require benefits. When all eyes are turned upwards it may be hard to look down. School and kindergartens are packed sometimes with 40, 50 or even 60 to a class. Hospital wards are infamously crowded because of the economic benefits of meeting their needs en masse. Some patients decide not to return home to their even-more crowded apartments and stay for years, even if each ward has 24-hours of TV blaring cartoons and Cantosoaps. 'Retirement' homes are truly dreadful, dingily-lit waiting rooms of death where waist-height partitions separate the unfortunate and uncomplaining old folks.
Even in this land of superstition and ancestor-reverence the bodies of the dead are sometimes forgotten and left for the government to deal with: after the customary burial time the relatives are supposed to disinter the fleshless remains for transference to ossuaries or commit the remains for final cremation. This rather unpleasant duty, however, is increasingly not done by the more fussy of families – a constant headache for the government's Cemeteries and Crematoria Department. Land prices are so high that 'coffin spaces' in government graveyards are not held in perpetuity! After six year's interment, and regardless of family consent, the space is re-used, the remains disinterred and cremated and then re-interred at the Sandy Ridge cemetery near the border with Shenzhen.
Hong Kong land prices hold such a vaunted premium and command a value way above their actuality in raw materials. As mentioned earlier, land sales are one of the most-revved engines of the economy and forms a permanent grip on the average Hong Konger's psyche that one of the litmus tests for any des res area is the number of realty or estate agents shops. This is how the engine works:
the government mandarins are ever-seeking politically-expedient ways to generate income and regularly does so through the tried-and tested selling/auctioning off of gazetted sites dotted all over the territory,
the boys who 'have' (corporations/powerful and rich families) put in their tender for development as close as dammit to their margin of profitability,
the sale usually goes to the highest bidder,
most of the planning gets whizzed through and processed pronto (unless some bearded lefty cries the frightful words 'environment' or 'heritage'),
building starts using imported (and illegal) cheap Chinese labour who get killed in accidents,
by this time the realty agents with connections to the developers begin pitching – this results in multiple besuited property agents on the streets eager to escort potential customers around showhome apartments or office space in cut-throat competition,
all flats/offices are bought immediately and then sold again for profit – square feet of sky can exchange hands several times before the builders even get there,
by this time the average Wong or Chan family have scraped together enough dough to put up the deposit for an apartment, office or retail space is a slightly different kettle of fish,
the flat is rented out to cover cost of mortgage or the retail/office rent is set for maximum income within the allotted lease (usually 2 years) with the management taking note of the success of the business.
The whole economy benefits from development – the government coffers are filled, the developer's stock value increases, the workers get paid, the café owners sell lunches and taxi and bus drivers transport to and fro, the Wongs and Chans get a foot on the property ladder (and a little social caché), the new occupants get a home and service providers get income. Above all, the financial institutions of Hong Kong benefit from every transaction at every level.
So what's wrong with this system? It is that people are considered less than the dollar at each point in the process: yes, there isn't a Hong Konger who doesn't like it when the government is in the black, or that work is plentiful, or that they are able to buy and rent new properties, but people come second to the mighty dollar. This inevitably leads to social problems for some – overwork and stress, bad borrowing and the inevitable complications for family life and overall social stability. It has also led to staggering inflation in the housing market to impossible and unsustainable levels – since 2009 property prices have risen by a staggering 110%! Great for developers, very very bad for first-time purchasers or low-income families that may wayit for years from the Housing Authority Department.
The bubble that is the Hong Kong housing market has long-been expected to burst. Thus far price have consistently risen largely on the backs of cheap borrowing and a plethora of mainland Chinese investors hoping to put their cash into something more solid than that available in China – something beyond their shores yet not too far away. The Hong Kong housing market has hitherto seemed the most secure of investments. But all good things must come to an end and just as in 1997 property prices inevitably took a dive, and sank all those chained with them, it looks like that time may be immanent.
For many the government policy regarding housing appears to have been mostly the latter of
an all-or-nothing approach, a timid floundering around the edges aware only of the political value of everyone's greed
and unbridled success and unable to take on the necessary and steely boldness of governance faced with tough decisions. No-one wants to be told they can't make as much money next year as they did this, or that their property's value may not actually equal the price paid, but if the government had not been so hands-off in the past few years then the expected property crash would not be so severe and uncontrolled. In truth, it's what has been experienced the world-over since 2008, but by its very nature Hong Kong has been immune to this.
The expected property devaluation, however, will not be the real issue for many Hong Kongers. Human cogs in the various machines of wealth, many are happy merely to put rice on the table and hope not get ill and take dips in wages or have to pay medical costs. At the very bottom of the ladder are those who can afford little more than a box to inhabit, such is the chronic state of public housing. Over the years, and with limited success, the government has tried many grand housing schemes, such as clearing slums and erecting massive public housing estates and even building new towns in the boondocks, but people vote with their feet and overcrowded and often dangerous private housing is rife.
Apart from cardboard boxes under flyovers, the infamous cages have always been the very cheapest accommodation in the city. These squalid, Dickensian conditions just should not exist in one of the world's richest cities – they are another testament to what is wrong in eden: their inhabitants the detritus of society, the poorest, most powerless and least heard of all Hong Kong's people.
To Conclude
Many Hong Kongers do not realise they have such an amazing role to fulfill as those who really have it all – money, opportunity, political awareness and individual conscience. Perhaps growing up in the territory has engendered amongst many a sense of entitlement without responsibility (whereas it could be argued the converse may hold more sway over the border). It could be argued that Asians relish the comfort the certainty that comes with the collective mind. Craftily formed, this collective mind of Hong Kong could be that best suited to bridge east and west and become a model for the rest. As exemplars of enlightened pan-Asians, others would look to the 'Hong Kong Way' as the most successful in financial, social, political and even religious considerations. I believe the wonderful tolerance and acceptance exhibited by many Kong Kong Chinese could be the watchword for success.
Instead, and unfortunately, there sometimes appears to be the worst of both where individual greed is seen as unquestioningly good, unhindered material self-interest the ultimate goal of life and rather dull middle class social mores are bludgeoned into the lives of the rest. At the moment it looks as if Chinese investors will be able to take advantage of overseas stocks: Hong Kong is once again ready to capitalise on a massive rush of investment from domestic mainland Chinese. But I hope that's not the sum total of Hong Kong's projected achievement potential. It also looks like Hong Kong will remain closed to outsiders, especially the domestic workers who now cannot apply for residency no matter how long they have lived there. The poor, the real poor of Hong Kong do not benefit from such investments either directly or indirectly.
So, what should be done to improve things?
Change government policy and, as in Singapore, make English the official language – this will encourage trade across continents and make Hong Kong less dependent on cronyism and Beijing-focused sinophiles.
Change government policy over discrimination and racism – ensure equality of opportunity for all regardless of the colour of their passport. This also will make Hong Kong a better place to do business and comfortably live without hindrance.
Change government philosophy regarding intervention in the marketplace – ensure the sale of land occurs using different priorities in order to take heat out of housing-based economy, encourage diversification and make housing fairer for all. In particular, it is vital to take matters in hand regarding the Small House Policy.
In fairness, the Hong Kong government does promote socially-aware policies through its social health and welfare departments, but they seem a little like diversions from the real business of making lots of money. Please don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating a Socialist revolution, but the current system favours none but the powerful and well connected. And a lifetime of acquisition means that they're not likely to share their wealth anytime soon and will use the government to defend their money, their lifestyle and their means of income. In the end it all comes down to power and who has it.
I am not proposing that the Hong Kong government leads the way. There's enough good people out there who work for and with charities, indeed it's big business now, and God-only knows how much tax avoidance is done through charitable donations from businesses great and small, but we live in the 21st century and the role of individuals is now greater than ever before. Just as the government surely encompasses more than merely lawmaking, citizens should be more than mere consumers and now be giving more thought to what happens in their city and beyond. The alternative is simply to ignore any and all problems and merely hope the government is competent and diligent enough to pick up the pieces and that's where we are now.
Unrestricted laissez-faire capitalism has given us the Hong Kong we see today, warts n' all. Perhaps it's time for something else, something better and something good. It won't be easy and it may be painful, but in the end the struggles for a better society make it worthwhile.
This is the first of three open epistles
intended with the heart in mind. In these I make appeal to that
which moves a person, the inner stirrings of awareness, conscience and pity. The
intention is that my thoughts should strike a resonating chord and provoke discourse and
action.
The subject is Hong Kong, our experience here, our expectations and departure. Having thought on these things for a time and, knowing
my days in the city are numbered, I have decided to give them form and to cast
them, for good or ill, into the electronic ether. It begins with our entry to this far-eastern metropolis.
Our lives in Hong Kong began by fluke. Just
before Christmas 1996, on business I cannot recall, we visited the Royal Bank
of Scotland in Sandbach, Cheshire. Waiting for the Memsahib, I completed a
simple promotional flyer that required a few ticks and a sentence – the prize
being £3000 of Thomas Cook Travel Vouchers. The Mem saw this as a waste of
time: I shrugged. A few days into the New Year someone claiming to be with the
RBS phoned and congratulated me on winning the first prize in the bank’s
national competition. Assuming this to be an elaborate wind-up, I came close to
slamming the phone down after a few choice words, but hesitated. Days later, smiling
for the cameras, we received an enormous cheque and pondered what to do with all
that cash.
We concluded we should go to a place we were unlikely to visit again in
our lifetime, the place our dear friend Gethyn had recently emigrated and whose
concluding words to us was to be sure to come and see him. Our vouchers
became two Cathay flights to Hong Kong with cash to spend...
That Chinese New Year week of 1997 was an incredible
novelty.
Spectacularly flying in over the streets of Kowloon we arrived at the old Kai
Tak airport and filled the week doing the touristy things that all wide-eyed
visitors do, the Big Buddha on Lantau, the sweaty market in Stanley, the bouncy
Star Ferry to Tsim Sha Tsui. Our gracious host took us to view the night city from
Stubbs Road and to view a misty China from the Robin’s Nest helipad. The first
trip to be taken without our little girls, we enjoyed the differences of
culture and the ease with which we could get around. It was all so very
exciting – a noisy and bright world away from the silent and dark streets of
Northwich.
We took time out to visit the special needs
Jockey Club Sarah Roe School where the Mem’s ex-colleague and friend, the late Jenny Doke,
had recently began working. Limbering out of the taxi I peered down the long drive next door to what
clearly appeared to be a long-established educational institution, the King George Vth
School, its grand Art Deco frontage with clock tower overseeing a green sports
field. As a trainee teacher, I thought at the time, if I could teach anywhere then it would ideally be here.
The night of our departure we spent in a
Mexican Restaurant in Times Square with a gaggle of English Schools Foundation
teachers – a birthday party. With one eye on the clock, we drank salty margaritas
and ate nothing but nachos all evening. The party continued and we politely made
excuses for our 11 pm plane. No, don’t
go! voices clamored. But we have our
kids… we replied. Bring ‘em over –
we’ll get you a job! This flippant remark was not without weight in the
days leading up to the handover of 1997.
At 10:45, and with a “Fi-dee! Fi-dee!”, our host bundled us into the back of a red taxi.
Sliding across the back seat, we sped at the highest of speeds through the Central
Harbour Tunnel to Kai Tak to the awaiting return flight, but it was all too
much and before immigration hot, orange, sticky nachoey sick splashed over my black
jeans. Such was my state, the Mem threatened to fly without me if I was refused
on board. I promise I'll never drink another!
Such a world had never existed for us:
teachers with money, regularly polishing off bottles of wine in a school staffroom after work,
regular international travel to hot, sunny destinations – it would surely
remain a sparkly dream, a nice idea, but something we would forever want.
Before the end of the year the Mem had applied for a post at the very same Sarah Roe School.
Deciding to move to Hong Kong was easy,
although saying our goodbyes to friends and family was painful, but the
opportunities that quickly arose in the Pearl of the Orient made our first few
months a joyful adaptation. Our apartment began to look like an IKEA showroom
and we watched DVDs during typhoon days. We began to go native – the English expat native –taking on a domestic helper and enjoying sausage, mash and a pint of Tetleys
at the Railway Tavern in Tai Wai (in those days you could get gravy and mushy peas with your pie and chips). We loved giving Chinese New Year red lai
see envelopes containing money to employees and children, but perhaps I over-reacted
to the slang term for westerners, gwailo–
was I really a foreign devil? On my way to work I could see down the entire
length of the MTR train: I was the tallest soul anywhere without westerners,
something that just ain’t so anymore.
Our landlady, undoubtedly mindful of her losses in the property price crash
that accompanied the Asian financial crisis, tried to keep us happy in our 600
square feet Tai Wai apartment (including lift lobby). With her we experienced our
first dim sum and hotpot, but the flat’s size and price was our rude awakening
to what may be the most over-heated property market in the world. Hong Kong
being such a perfectly placed travel hub, we took ourselves off for holidays in
Thailand and Bali, but a few weekends in choky Chinese cities made us think
twice about the mainland.
The many islands of the New Territories beckoned with gazetted beaches,
clean sand, lifeguards, butterflies and cold beers in the cafés. It proved such
a great attraction that we couldn’t help but call our poor friends Rachel and Bob to
tell them how wonderful it all was. Unfortunately, they failed to share our
enthusiasm on a dreary, dark British five o’clock in the bloody morning...
We frequently took to two or even three
nights out each week, clubbing, barhopping and dancing our way through the
crowds of Lan Kwai Fong. Competing bars would often give
away drinks to attract punters. We even took up Salsa! Regularly quaffing champagne on Wednesday
ladies’ nights at Carnegies in Wanchai often meant dancing on the bar until well
into the wee small hours... only to get up and go to work at 6 the next day. But we
thought nothing of it. We had the cash (and the energy), we lived a mere HK$100
taxi ride from Central and we loved it!
It became quickly obvious that Hong Kong
was all about money. Any Hong Konger becomes conspicuous only by his or her spending. There’s little else this town takes
seriously. Having disposable income can bring a level of transient happiness
only dreamed of by the rest: the power to walk into a shop and buy anything –
ANYTHING! (well, almost)
The vast majority of people are still
relatively poor by comparison, particularly older people and women and trends
indicate that the numbers of poor have increased. Only the very richest (and
very poorest) have had their lot improved.
But as for us, we spent it all. There couldn't be a better place to live than Hong Kong. Outside
work, our lives were almost entirely devoted to pleasures: electronic gadgetry,
cinema, clothes, holidays, restaurants and nights out. We must have helped
many-an entrepreneur on their way to their current fortunes, and lost ours in the process, but at the time we just didn't care.
And this is where I pause. The next epistle
is concerned with day-to-day life in Hong Kong and of Hong Kong people in
particular.
For years the Mem and meself, poor as we have been, have given generously to needy causes. We supported street children in Columbia, whales in the deep blue sea and a host of other pitiable vulnerables.
In donating to the street children in Bogota we felt we were making a real difference. The little boy we helped would scribble wibbly-wobbly Spanish sentences on thin brown paper letters and included happy pictures of suns and flowers and anything else his mind created in order to pleasantly decorate his thanks to us. These translated letters moved us as, no doubt, similar ones have done so to other cheerful benefactors. But after a while the letters became less frequent and eventually dried up altogether. The last sorry communication we had was with a sister at the children's home that he had recently left in order to join a street gang and take his machismo young man's chances in the untested and dangerous underworld. We instantly felt guilty. Should we have done more? Should we have written back with more earnest and caring sentences?
Whales cannot, as far as I can tell, write letters of any kind: a shameful trait they share with most animals. This voicelessness, I suppose, one of the reasons that encourages our support. But even though we have oft given to worthy environmental concerns, much to our disappointment, we have never recieved a cetacian, simian or ursidaean word of thanks back! Perhaps if Greenpeace, the World Wildlife Fund or Animals Asia taught these beasts basic grammar then our funds would not have been in vain. Alas, no – we give to those creatures as benificent angelic beings the generous habits of which they, as we, know very little indeed.
For the past two years or the milk of human kindness has flowed towards a certain local and international children's charity: I felt it was an absolute good and that no amount of squirming meanness or embarrasment on my part could overcome. Each month a newsletter appeared with pictures of smiling, dirty-faced kiddlies who have become much better off with my money than me (or so I have liked to believe). But then I received a phone call out of the blue from that particular charity by a lovely-sounding girl who charmingly asked if I could give generously to children in Angola who are suffering because of this useless war.
"Actually," I replied, somewhat uncomfortably, "I will shortly be leaving Hong Kong and would most likely close down my bank account here. Could I therefore stop the payments?
"Of course." she replied. "All you have to do is ring this number..."
I duly took down and immediately called. Ring-ring...
"Hello!" The very same charming voice answered.
"Ah! I'd like to cancel my donation to your charity."
"Oh! Mr Peters." She giggled, recognising my voice. "Thank you."
I thought to ask why she hadn't taken details of my cancellation in the previous telephone call, but felt this to be a somewhat unkind point to make, her sounding so nice and... charming. I'm going to miss Hong Kong.
It's December and it's cold (for Hong Kong) – as low as 15° in the mornings! But whilst everyone in Hong Kong is dressed in hats, gloves, scarves, is going, "Brrrr!!!" and complaining like hell, there's another more sinister threat on the horizon: Typhoon Bopha.
This typhoon is unusual for many reasons. It's late in the season (they usually stop by end of September), it's southerly (the last one to cross Mindanao, Tropical Cyclone Washi on 15th December last year, caused similar devastation) and it's a biggy (already a typhoon and set to increase to a severe typhoon as it crosses the South China sea!
Late season typhoons arriving in Hong Kong are not completely unknown: everyone knows it is more likely for typhoons to occur between May to October. Since 1963, however, there have been a total of 29 December typhoons. In 1993 there were 3 alone! Neither in this year have we had a glut of typhoons – a measly 11 in our area (see above pic) compared with the 24 of 1961!
The devastation that occurred in the Philippines is not just a testament to the ferocity of winds of over 100 mph and the accompanying rains that cause mudslides and floods (more than 200 deaths have so far been recorded), but is also a testament to improvements in typhoon management in that part of the world. On a much more dramatic scale last year's Typhoon Washi caused death of 1,300.
Is it the result of global warming? Of course, but on its own is probably not a significant indicator of it –phew! All typhoons are the result of solar radiation that warms the lovely tropical seas and causes massive evaporation and air movement.
Those picture postcard tropical blue skies and warm sandy beaches are the engines of so much of the world's wind, rain and weather cells. We get enough rain and humidity dumped here in southern China because we are at the edge of one of those naughty wettish cells.
So will Typhoon Bopha hit Hong Kong? It's a bit of a lottery, of course. You either love 'em or hate 'em (depending upon whether you are a teacher or student or an normal person). As can be seen in the picture above, we have had quite a few direct hits over the years and one category 10 this year –Typhoon Vicente which I described earlier on. Pretty certain I'm not looking forward to any major weather disruptions in the next few days because the Mem and meself is flying off to colder European climes on Sunday –much colder, in fact, than it will ever get in Hong Kong: "Brrrrr!!! -Bloody weather!"
It may be that you've visited a beautiful place or two on your holidays. It may be that you've had to struggle a little to get there, by road or by foot. It may be that you've spent a little time wandering and wondering -who lived here, when was it built, what was life like for them back then? It may be that these questions remain and re-emerge when your photos of this beautiful place are seen again. If this is so, then you've experienced what can only be termed a romantic association with a place and, as with all romances, it's something about which you fondly care –even if you're no longer together.
Such is the case with the hidden village Pak Sha O (白沙澳). Peacefully nestled in the bountiful and verdant hills of the Sai Kung Country Park under the watchful gaze of Mount Hallowes (柦柴山), the sleepy village is hidden from most eyes. Many visitors to the park head on down for a mooch upon the soft sandy beaches of Hoi Ha (海下), grab a quick ice cream and whiz back to fishy fleshpots of Sai Kung without even knowing they have passed an architectural jewel modestly nestling within an exquisite natural setting. They will not have heard the cacophony of frogs and crickets in the marshy fields, nor seen the abundance of butterflies in the flower gardens, the old tiled roofs, the watchtower and the reinforced wooden-barred courtyard door –for keeping bandits and pirates at bay!
It's not that Pak Sha O is a grand palace of the last Emperors or a cascading monumental Machu-Picchu citadel – there isn't a convenient shop to buy "I ♥ PSO" t-shirts or cups of speciality tea and the nearest public toilet is half-a mile away from the village beside the Hoi Ha Road. Instead, this village is a small, vulnerable and fragile remnant of a past era of simple, somewhat-unassuming Hakka folk that literally forged their lives from the environment. Its unambitious beauty really does mean for some, 'once bitten, forever smitten'!
For centuries the villagers of Pak Sha O deftly farmed their rice from a myriad of tiny fields -some the size of a large room- and ensured that their stream water irrigation was in good working order from year to year. They fished where they could and at low tide would gather at the rocky bays of the peninsula to collect shellfish and the fruits of the sea, returning to the village to feast on their catches.
Each festival was properly celebrated and civic duties undertaken with propriety, if not pride. Certainly the rich decorative motifs that adorn the buildings are symptomatic of residents that held themselves in check by form and convention. They were good Hakka people.
Round about them the rest of the world moved on so that by the latter quarter of the 20th century the tensions brought about by the conflicting aspirations and opportunities for many Hong Kong villagers were simply too much for their communities. The beginning of Timothy Mo's 1982 novel, Sour Sweet, encapsulates the dilemma of those times: the happy rural village life had become unsustainable and most of the younger people simply had to move away either elsewhere in Hong Kong or to cities in Europe and North America. Year-by-year, the older people also moved out to inhabit urban rest homes or died in-situ to be ceremonially buried up in the hills, sometimes in magnificent horseshoe-shaped graves. Those empty properties that they looked down upon eventually fell apart, collapsed and were buried under the ever-encroaching forest: lifeless and rotting midden mounds are all too often the sum total of the work of generations.
Some villages, however, have had a new life breathed into them by quite a different set heading in the opposite direction, purposefully removing themselves from the stress of the city to live a quieter life closer to nature. These settlers are predominantly westerners who have sought, along with creature comforts and air-conditioning, to incorporate their values into their revitalized abodes. For them the old has an intrinsic beauty, its value matched with age. For them simplicity has clarity and unecessary re-development remains unwelcome: what has simply been left by others is the first and best reason to live 'miles from anywhere' and has stirred in them a need for sympathetic (read expensive) maintenance and preservation of those unique remnants of the past.
It would be naive to suggest that the new tenants' motives are entirely
selfless, but they would be in keeping with similar such projects undertaken in
remote French or Italian villages -it's just what some westerners do! The fate, however, of other vulnerable and beautiful old Hong Kong buildings springs to mind, such a the King Yin Lei building on Stubbs Road (above) where demolition was reprieved in the nick of time by government intervention only after the press expressed outrage.
Pak Sha O today is under immanent threat – the village is set to be purchased piece-meal, evacuated, razed to the ground so that in its place will be new luxury developments. This overall aim, of course, has not been explicitly admitted by the purchaser, Lau Ming-shum of Xinhua Bookstore Xiang Jian Group, the company that has been buying up these recently un-zoned plots. It has put in an application to build two new houses in the village. If they get final approval it means the future of this astonishing village as it stands is uncertain.
The local and international press have investigated further (we attended the recent press briefing by Friends of Sai Kung that explained the plight of village and its environment), but so far the Hong Kong government remains unmoved or unable to move –the village enclave is technically not part of the Sai Kung Country Park and the new landowner is within his rights to do whatever he likes to his land, even if that means irrevocably destroying it! It therefore seems likely more damage will probably be done and bewailed before the security of the village, the residents and the surrounding wildlife can be guaranteed through government action.
To emphasize what has already been reported above, a third of all Hong Kong species are found in the valley; "75 species of butterflies, 11 types of freshwater fish, 38 types of birds, eight species of amphibians and 23 types of insects". One can imagine the devastating impact if the woodland was 'improved' into terraces of tarmac car spaces and concrete box dwellings. It's a story familiar to many in Hong Kong's environmentally-empoverished New Territories villages.
So, what's to do? Plenty – please feel free to share comments on this blog or copy this blog's link or links within. Drop a quick email to the reporters (through the highlighted links above) and let them know you read their stories. Better still, write to the Town Planning Board to remind them of their responsibilities to preserve one of Hong Kong's best-kept Hakka villages. Write an email to the Hong Kong Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department's Sai Kung Country Park office to inform them of your interest in this matter. Ask the Antiquities and Monuments Office Heritage Conservation office what they are going to do about Pak Sha O.
Please don't let this beautiful and remote village disappear because it's too much bother to defend. It could be your next romantic association!
The collision and sinking of the Lamma IV in Hong Kong's harbour is tragic, if that is the right word, because many of the people killed must have assumed they were safe and that this journey, like thousands of others taken daily, would be a fun, event-free way to see the fireworks on National Day. It seems Hong Kong can only make news if there's death, mayhem, disease, corruption, protest, scandals and dirty political intrigue.
If you know anything about Hong Kong, you at least know it is an island. The Kowloon peninsula and the New Territories add the majority of the landmass. The total territory of 1,100 square kilometers has 200 hundred islands, some very large like Lantau and some mere rocks above the water line. With all that territory surrounded by water it is no wonder that people who want to get about use, indeed have to use, ferries and water taxis.
The ferries in Hong Kong are a great way to get about. The most obvious is the Star Ferry, the historical land-/watermark of Victoria Harbour. Since the 1870s ordinary folks have crossed the narrow stretch of water in order to get to work or homes. Until 1972 it was the only means of getting across. Its importance could not be understated -when in 1966 the Star Ferry chose to increase their charges by 50-100% the infamous Star Ferry riots erupted causing one death injury and and thousands of arrests.
Other ferries from Central regularly connect islands and promontories. At present there are at least four major operators of passenger ferries in Hong Kong waters. Around the Pearl River others operate the lucrative Hong Kong-to-Macau or Hong Kong-to-China routes. Speedboats, many of them licensed, can be privately chartered to get you from point a to point b. Sadly silent, masted and batten-sailed junks in the harbour are no more, the one exception being a floating bar owned by the restaurant chain, Aqua. For most here, the word "junk" means motorised launches that act as glorified luxury cruisers when you want your party to have a constantly changing view or visit a bay for a swim). But along with hundreds of yachts and private launches, there are also thousands of little sampans or kaidos – tiny vessels privately operated by the Mrs Wongs and Mrs Chans who live and work close to the water or even on-board. Previously used for in-shore fishing, these keel-less boats can be found almost anywhere where land meets sea and, depending on your bartering skills and/or mastery of Cantonese numbers and times, can be incredibly cheap to hire.
Although there's many a scary taxi or minibus ride to be had in HK, the most interesting journeys happen when boating. Being a little slower than land transport, it's possible to see more of the world at a relaxed pace. There's also something to be said for being rocked by the motion of the waves. I've never suffered from motion sickness, even in the roughest swells, and so I welcome the rough and the smooth that put fun into nautical journeys.
Everyone must have their own scare stories with regards traveling at sea. I have two to hand:
The first involves the chartering of a junk for the Hong Kong Welsh Male Voice Choir end of season party. Leaving Victoria Harbour and setting out towards Sai Kung, the junk sailed into a bank a fog –an unusual occurence in these waters. This coincided with the tricky bit of navigation in Joss House Bay between the rocky island of Tung Lung Chau and the equally rocky end of the Clearwater Bay peninsula. When the captain was asked about his radar, his charts, his forward lights, he admitted he had none. The best he could do was pull out an A5-sized tourist map of Hong Kong. Shaking his head, Vince, our ex-marine policeman, stood at the front directing the ferry captain's course and speed. Most folks would probably have insisted we turn around, but such is the indomitable spirit of free Hong Kongers (read stupidity) that we'd had sufficient alcohol to feel inured to the danger of crag and wave and insisted we go on –into the dark, foggy night past the jagged, pitiless rocks to continue eating and drinking and partying. With the image of Géricault's Raft of the Medusa in mind, the Memsahib and Meself did not make the return journey and got off at Sai Kung.
The other spectacular journey involved getting to a party on Lamma Island. Arriving at Queens Pier, we found we had missed the boat! We quickly taxied to Aberdeen, the famous southern Hong Kong harbour where the floating Jumbo Restaurant is situated, and commissioned a tiny, wooden kaido, complete with pipe-smoking, coolie-hatted little old lady, to take us across the Lamma Channel to the restaurant where all our friends were now seated and on their second beers. Setting out into one of the busiest shipping channels in the world during the day is interesting enough, but at dusk it is terrifying! The biggest supercargo container ships constantly steam up and down this stretch of coastal water to drop off points near the port: they don't even see a vessel as small as ours. The fearless lady piloted the boat through their courses, bobbing like a cork over the massive washes caused by these intercontinental monsters, zipping here, stopping there, the massive bulk of these dark ships hulls towering above us like insensitive giants. I thought we'd all die. The wrinkled, sea-harden lady captain nonchalantly puffed away...
So, although I'm terribly saddened, I'm not surprised to hear that a Lamma ferry collided with a chartered boat approaching the harbour. Such accidents are narrowly avoided on a regular basis. Each year people die using ferries and boats in Hong Kong, either through accident or negligence (see Youtube clip of Star Ferry vs cruise ship near-thing). Feng Shui enthusiasts may point to another example of poor leadership at the top affecting the forces that govern the lives of ordinary mortals, others may question the professionalism of those that make their living ferrying people or piloting tugs. For the relatives of the 38 people killed and the other passengers that narrowly escaped this event will pose painful questions – I would imagine that over the coming weeks and months many of the answers will not satisfy their anger and sorrow. But until the harbour is totally reclaimed and is over 100 stories high, such events will, sadly, always occur.
I know, it's topical because for those of you in Asia's World City, it's belting it down out there right now.The wind is knocking the trees about as if it bore a grudge. God knows how the wildlife fares, but there's nothing like a good old typhoon to remind you who's in control!
Having said that, I recall blustery days like this in the UK, damage notwithstanding. When we first moved to Hong Kong I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. A bit of wind and people were running for cover. But then I put my hands on the window of the 16th floor apartment we lived in at the time -it was bowing under the pressure. Suddenly, all those warnings about taping up windows and staying away from the glass became a reality. Stories about air-conditioning units being sucked out of their niches and of yachts being dumped up the Nathan Road were no longer the exaggerated myth of dinner conversation. Staring out of the window it was possible to see branches, rubbish and debris racing about in the mad air currents. Staying in became a necessity.
In the past typhoons have been positively deadly. In the 1870s a typhoon killed more than 2000 people in the territory. Much later in 1937 the Great Hong Kong Typhoon killed 11,000. Wind speeds for that particular beauty topped 150 mph! The innocuous-sounding Typhoon Wanda in 1962 dumped 10 inches of rainfall during a tidal surge of 5 metres. You can only imagine what damage that would do to the mostly wooden shacks on the coastline.
'Typhoon Days' are a wonderful thing for the chattering classes. Like everything in Hong Kong, typhoons are regulated (according to windspeed), so a Typhoon 8 signal generally means a day off work. It meant for us that we could indulge in a late get-up, some cake making and bloating out in front of the TV. The next day involved picking our way through the wreckage on the way to work -such fun!
Rain Storms have, for me, been a little more alarming. I think it's fair to say I've never seen so much of the wet stuff as here in the Far East. The heavens doth open and pour out such quantities of water it is difficult to conceive how it got up there in the first place.
What is also apparent is the enormous damage this gentle rain can do: whole hillsides washed away, mudslides dumped onto roads and suffocating the occupants of ground floor apartments. There are even 3 categories of rainstorm -Amber, Red and Black. Having driven in the latter, it is not something to be recommended. In fact, it's one of those occasions where fear engages the automatic propensity for uncontrollable profanity!
During rainstorms and typhoons most restaurants pack up for the night, but many bars stay open. After all, it's not like there's a problem competing for business with those all too desperate for a lil' drinky. Some alcoholics go out especially to 'take in' the typhoon atmosphere in Lan Kwai Fong and Wanchai: that's a disaster visiting a calamity!
So as Typhoon Vicente dumps all the water it has sucked up out of the South China Sea onto our roof, we settle down to a wet and blowy evening: turn on the TV and pass round the cake, please!
It's that time of year again –when the body instincitively searches for the cool and the shade.
Here in sunny old Hong Kong, the temperature rarely tops 36° C/96° F –the high humidity rapidly creates thunderstorms and the rain drains the heat from the air. Nevertheless, there are patches of the city, the concrete canyons and street-level sun-traps, that fair cook any poor soul trapped within. In this regard Hong Kong is no different to Bangkok, Manila, Ho Chi Minh and a whole host of other conurbations. Combined with the air-con exhaust blown from passing traffic, there appears to be no limit to the maximum temperature in these heat wells.
There are, of course, oases of cool, if not downright cold places to be found. Hong Kong Cinemas are positively arctic and a sweater should always be brought – one time I even wrapped meself up in newspaper to stop the poor teeth & knackers a-knockin'!
Shoppers in the region are well-aware of these magnificent palaces of pleasure and domains of the dollar and it may be the most likely reason why shopping is Hong Kong's most popular waking past-time.
The heat may, of course, also account for its overall most popular past-time, that of sleeping. If you wish to understand this ever-pervasive inactivity, it is owed partly to the time of day many Hong Kongers are chiefly active and also owed partly to the crowded home life of many Hong Kongers. Commentators have long-argued that late-night eating/mahjong activities are the main reasons the morning buses and MTR trains are full of sleeping souls. Coupled with the cramped conditions of shared apartments whereby sleeping is sometimes a shared experience, and you've got conditions where many choose to kip less at home and make it up elsewhere –on the way to work, lunchtimes under the newspaper, in just about any convenient location.
One enterprising entrepreneur has even seen the profitability of this necessary niche at Shanghai airport by making a sleeping box for flyers to have a kip in between check-in and their flight.
It is no accident that there are no seats at bus stops and train stations and few in parks and public spaces. There's even a loverly little book on the subject that may contain enough photographic evidence to convince you.
But it could also be the case that Hong Kong's effective smothering in heat between July-September means that those without the chance to cool off may naturally experience soporific inclinations. It feels bloody hot and it's best not to go out with your head uncovered, so why not stay in and take advantage of the shady protection.
Well, that's my explanation, being a northern-european whose instinctual inclinations are to 'get on with it' during daylight hours. And that, perhaps, is my problem in all this unending heat: after all, 'when in Rome', and all that...
I know, I know –there are lots of websites out there that get ten-, even a hundred-times that traffic per hour, but that's not the point. Just knowing that so many of you lovely people have wandered my way makes me... feel... sort-of... warm and fuzzy, that's all. Gee –I love you all!
And the most YouTube hits goes to...
According to this website, the Bieb (not The Beeb which is much more wholesome as far as I'm concerned) scores the tops for YouTube vids –half a billion, if you will believe it. More to my disappointment, Charlie Bit My Finger comes out 6th with a mere 430 million. By this thorough statistical analysis it can be concluded that the world's masturbational teenagers can't get enough of tousled-haired heart-throbs, whereas cute bald biting babies, as always, are a bit of an after-thought. I suppose it were ever thus. It probably accounts for a significant amount of the bald biting babies currently pushed around by masturbational teenagers...
Enough of silly videos, what of serious websites? well, discounting the mighty Google search engine, the most obvious is Facebook. This should come as no surprise considering the incredible hold it has on some. As a means on checking up on family, friends new and old and work colleagues it cannot be beaten, except that it relies entirely upon the Facebooker to regularly update his or her status. Enough column inches have been wasted on this somewhat insidious on-line means of 'finding out' exactly who you are, what you are doing, with whom and when. The confessional phrase, 'I have nothing to hide' may not be quite the platitudinous guilt-free statement in years to come, particularly if there is a little unsavoury skeleton in the cupboard.
It's true, Facebook scan your mind with invisible lasers
According to this source, Mark Zuckerberg owns the lions share 28.2%, Accel Partners own the next 10%, Zuckerberg's roommate Dustin Moskowitz with 7.6%, Russian-owned Digital Sky Technologies with a mere 5.4%, further down the list is Microsoft's paltry 1.6%, Goldman Sachs at 1%, our very own Li Ka Shing at 0.8%. At no visible presence is the CIA, despite the alarmist protestations in on-line articles a few years back that before long the Men in Black would know everything about you at your own admission. It still is an interesting concept, that there aren't enough torturers in the world to wheedle out the kind of information we happily blurt out on a daily basis.
And the most hits for blogs and social media and photos and that...
As blogs go, this one is certainly not one of the greats. It's too... nuanced, too anglophilic, idiosyncratic (not to say egocentric) and therefore couldn't possible compete for those with wider global appeal. The Huffington Post may be the most massivelee popliar blog everr, but I suspect there might be more than one person putting that baby together. There are, of course, a whole host more too numerous to mention.
What of the futuuuuuuuure?
Well, we all have our chance to speak now. We are able to tell whoever wishes to read it that we have had a lovely dinner, found an interesting video, met up with some interesting friends, behaved well or badly, been there and done that. But that's just so boring. I'm waiting for the next thing –website entries from the other side, blogs describing endless heaven or hell, flickr pictures of the afterlife, ebay ads from someone selling their old bodies, "one careful owner, a bit tatty around the edges but well loved". If that ever happens they might all have to amend their body part policies like Ebay's, but it would surely be worth it!
The news pictures here and here that began to flash before our eyes were truly astonishing, catastrophic scenes we found hard to comprehend. Somewhat inured to Hollywood-style doomsday special effects, our eyes searched for truth in what we saw; the dirty, black water tumbling on and on across the fields engulfing farms, glasshouses, roads and cars, ports and ships, people –especially the terrified, panicky people. It was hard to believe.
It is a schoolteacher's job to educate and inform students about the world and ensure they are prepared to face the challenges of life. There is little in the job description that could help make sense of the Japanese tsunami of March 2011. There is little anyone could do to help younger people understand the gravity of such a situation and what response they might make.
Thus, largely in silence did I show students the footage available on YouTube and let them try to comprehend what was happening, the horrifying deaths, the innumerable disasters that unfolded as the waters kept rushing in.
But it's difficult for children to understand, even with a video such as this, the true devastation of this event –that word is over-used, but it is the most appropriate.
The exploding Fukushima nuclear reactor added to the trauma and made us all uneasy, as is evident from this article by Simon Parry. It completed the transformation of our understanding of a tsunami from Katsushika Hokusai's iconic, beautiful image of the Kanegawa Tsumani to that of the ugly, truly terrifying and unstoppable force of nature
The memorial video by OnlineSchools.org, Japan One Year Later, uses poetic and poignant visualisation projected onto whitewashed walls to bring to the eyes:
15,846 people dead and 3,320 still missing
The restricted area around the Fukushima plant is larger than Los Angeles
25 million tons of trash now in the ocean
Food is contaminated and people will live shorter lives as a result
Only Hiroshima was a bigger disaster
It concludes with a last, perhaps more constructive image which transforms the devastation to something new and the words, 'The Sun is Rising'. In another time those words would be ominous –now they are perforated with hope. Japan suffered, but Japan is rebuilding –that is the message.
All the drawings are taken from images found on The Atlantic, that visibly demonstrate the transition one year can make.
Last Sunday was the commemorative anniversary. I forgot all about it –as if it had never happened. I suppose because I didn't see the waters wash away my family and my home I could be forgiven, but I did see the footage in all its horror.
The 40th Hong Kong Arts Festival is, as many such festivals must be, a many-headed beast. Some of the greatest current superstar performers in music, such as Nigel Kennedy and Karita Mattila, suddenly appear on a stage before you, do their bit, bow a lot and then bugger off to their snug hotel rooms in order to be up and ready to catch the next-day’s flight to another gig in Shanghai, Seattle or Sydney. Some wonderful surprises have popped up, such as the renaissanced renaissance L’Arpeggiata (previously mentioned) and the Malian performers Tinariwen (who the Memsahib saw and very much enjoyed whilst I was away in Bangkok with an august body of singing gentlemen). And then there’s all the ballet, theatre, quartets, soloists, opera, Chinese opera and choralyness... phew!
Anyway, enough preamble. Last night’s concert dubiously entitled The Piano Wizard Hamelin was itself a chimerical beast. What I had assumed to be a piano concert was instead made up of piano concerto, piano solo and orchestra all on its own. [Incidentally, I’m not sure the epithet ‘wizard’ is entirely accurate in that a wizard is a conjurer of primal forces not of his own (e.g. of nature), whereas the 51-year old French Canadian Marc-André Hamelin appears to be quite the product of his own hard work –whether through concerts, recordings or compositions.]
Whoever produced this one (which may not have been part of the actual Arts Fest) had as many hats on, but I was somewhat befuddled by the staging arrangements:
Fully blacked-tailed massed ranks of the Hong Kong Phil Orchestra, under mystical wavy direction of Shao-Chia Lü, plays Ravel’s La Valse (reasonably well, if a little reserved –see this YouTube of Bernstein getting carried away)
Warm applause
Stage hands emerge to move about the 1st violin stations and wheel in grand piano
Warm applause as Hamelin sits down to play with the Phil the uninspiring César Franck Symphonic Variations –see this YouTube of said work performed in China
Warm applause (my Mum's favourite composer, but I nearly fell asleep)
Hamelin exits and audience, shruggingly supposing it’s the end of the 1st half, exit to nonchalantly mingle holding weak G&Ts and potter about the impersonal, vacuous and intolerably boring atrium at the Cultural Centre (who did commission that awful, massive scupture in the atrium?)
Orwellian ‘bing-bong’ sounds to command audience to return to the auditorium
Warm applause
Hamelin re-enters through orchestra to play Richard Strauss’ amazing Burleske, full of invigorating and playful orchestral and piano constructions –wow! One of the best things I’ve hear in this venue by the HK Phil, nobly and masterfully accompanied by Hamelin and worth the entrance fee alone. Someone pay their timpanist James Bonos a few more dollars or leave him an open tab at the bar –each stroke and note of this difficult piece brilliantly performed! Here's more YouTube to give you some idea
Very warm applause
Hamelin re-enters and announces that his encore is a short prelude by Leonid Sabaneyev which he completes with effortless finesse. Here's YouTube of Hamelin's performance (with notation)
Warm applause as Hamelin finally bows and exits (presumably back to foyer bar to finish)
Stage hands re-emerge to shuffle the piano about, add celeste and re-arrange the strings for the grand finale…
Shao-Chia Lü conducts the HK Phil through Lutosławski’s astonishing Concerto for Orchestra. Just the best and grandest thing they’ve ever performed –ever! (crossed-fingers, quibbs, no come-back) 5 -yes, that's 5 percussionists, 2 harpists, at least three rows of double basses... Here's a nice YouTube example of the spooky 3rd movement.
Four curtain calls –except there’s no curtain
Exit audience, some, it must be said, a bit sharpish –if not rudely so!
Could someone please help make sense of all that movement? Don’t get me wrong, this was an excellent concert, but, surely, Hamelin could have made better use of the 1st half by necking a few pints in the foyer and then rolling onto the stage for the 2nd –after all, the biggest superstars always appear last on the bill.
Could someone also explain why so many fidgety little children were in the concert hall? What on earth they made of it all, I'm not sure. Perhaps they were the fruit of the HK Philharmonic's mighty loins come to see whether they really do play in an orchestra? Or maybe it was too-good a discount for kindergarten and primary school parents to ignore? Or maybe the HK public thought the word wizard in the title meant that through a puff of smoke a man in a funny long black robe and a sorting hat would materialise and make a succession of furry creatures disappear whilst hammering out Yankee Doodle Dandy?
We arrived in good time before the concert and decided to wander tourist-like around the ole Star Ferry environs. Ee, by-‘eck! The eternal view; ships in the harbour silently slipping past the backdrop of the eternal day that is neon Hong Kong Island, hundreds of visitors taking thousands of photos –it is the Hong Kong experience, the joyful memories that confirm happiness and fulfilment for millions.
Set back from the harbour frontage, however, was a candlelit vigil for Tibet in remembrance of 53 years of resistance to totalitarianism. A quiet, moving and quite sobering collection of images of people that have immolated themselves to protest the Han occupation of Tibetan lands, it served to show me that young Hong Kong people are not all self-serving rich kids intent on stocking up on quick-return shares or buying their next polished growling Mercedes. That a small bunch of well-meaning people should consider the fate of 26 Tibetan martyrs is testament to the growing conscience in Asia’s World City. Perhaps chanting Buddhist prayers and scripture may seem a futile, even insignificant gesture to you, but it carries a fearless idea –that some here believe that other people matter and are willing to be counted doing so.
Indeed, as if to unwittingly prove the point, plainly visible on the fringes of this small event were plain-clothed security, three from People's Republic of China and on the other side one from the Special Administrative Region of Hong Kong (the bored Chinese were clearly not that bothered by the whole thing and were more keen on having a quick ciggy, the lone HK operative just looked a little confused and angry, probably because of them!). Presumably, no-one from the Tibetan Autonomous Region was able to be present.
Well, as weeks go this one is pretty good. Pop, renaissance music and a star-bejewelled film premiere. I'll try to be brief...
Thursday 2nd February
Pop!
It's been a long time since I went to see a pop star (whatever one of those is). I don't know if Kylie the Minogue or a Madonna are real pop stars or whether the title 'King of Pop' should have ever been applied to the late Michael 'I-just-wish-I-could-understand-my-father' Jackson. For me, 'pop' denotes etherial childhood memories of such musical luminaries as the Bay City Rollers and Gary Glitter, but any search through a catalogue of such artistes talentueux now sees them listed under the headings 'Glam' or 'Pervert' (quelle est la différence?). Maybe the identification of 'pop' back in thum days lay more with bizarre titles and lyrics –can someone tell me what Suzi Quattro meant by Can the Can or the point Noddy Holder was on about when he sang the following,
Gudbuy T'Jane, gudbuy T'Jane,
She's a dark horse see if she can.
Gudbuy T'Jane, gudbuy T'Jane,
Painted up like a fancy young man.
'Pop', therefore...surely, must refer to POP-ular –meaning that someone actually likes the stuff (note my powers of deduction). The title of 'Supreme Pop Group', however, must eventually be applied to those Norsk-Dansk types who formed Aqua and famously got rich on Barbie Girl proving along the way that there's no such thing as a bad multi-platinum record!
Blush are a relatively new all-girl 'pop' outfit from this part of Asia. With eye-catching token Filippina, Chinese, Korean, Indian and Japanese, they've been wowing the crowds hither and thither and are promoted well enough to be hitting the big time supporting more established acts such as B.o.B, Far*East Movement, Black Eyed Peas and Justin Bieber –whoever they are.
The girls and their entourage turned up in front of the un-cool educational edifice of KGV School to serenade da kids during lunchtime –no, that's wrong: to 'whoop' them into a pop-fuelled, teenage frenzy! And this they duly did judging from the numbers of rubbery day-glow wrist bangles and signed posters greedily grasped by the sweaty and impressionable 11- and 12-year olds after the show. I think the industry term for this sort of activity is, 'establishing a fan base'
No matter who you are, a KGV School audience is fickle –even Mozart himself would have to compete with Pokemon card tournaments, boys football on the field, Minecraft computer worlds and nonchalantly half-nibbled chicken legs. They got through... eventually... when the man on the mixing desk pumped up the volume.
Watching them strutting their funky stuff in the full light of day, I warmed to their act –actually, they were quite good, even if I am slightly positively-prejudiced: I taught the delightful Alisha Bushrani a few times over the years and it was really enjoyable to see her doing well (all teachers say that sort of drivel, but it's true). We had a brief chat later on that day: their recent push onto the bigger stages of the world means there's now a chance for them to do even greater things –which I am not at liberty to divulge. You heard it (that is, nothing at all) here first, folks...
Renaissance Classical!
You might image that all that teeny-bopping perspiration was enough for one day, but I was bored during a holiday afternoon last week and bought a load of concert tickets for the 40th Hong Kong Arts Festival. I wasn't too sure about this particular concert, but it was promoted well and, after all, it's hard to go wrong with music from the renaissance. So in the evening, off me and the Memsahib did trot to the City Hall.
Music from the Renaissance this may well have been, but not like wot I has hearded before. I have listened to Monteverdi's Toccata from Orfeo oh I don't know how many times, often performed with a prim, over-inflated pomposity that would have stretched the corn of cornyness even during the renaissance, but this concert held an improvised and exciting novelty which at times made me wonder whether I was listening to completely new music. L'Arpeggiata brought the renaissance alive –not as museum-pieces, but as the excited breath of a dancer holding your hands as you both speedily twirl around the dancefloor: I could scarcely stay in my seat! The marked difference between the rather polite unflappable concertyness of most classical music performances and these Neopolitan and Italian emotion-filled expressions of life could not be more marked.
The wonderful Lucilla Galeazzi had us all eating out of her hands, such was her capacity to engage –just listen to this Youtube clip. It wasn't all jiggery-pokery and some of the more reflective pieces were mournful and truly Italianate, such as can be demonstrated here.
But you can't win 'em all, as the sleepy soul in the seat in front of us ably demonstrated, awakening only at the conclusion of each piece to join the chorus of clapping. I guess when you're tired then you're tired, but unnerving thoughts about the state of my sanity would enter my mind if I'd paid good money to sit in a room with hundreds of other people to leave two hours later with only the barest recollection about what I was doing there and why everyone around me was applauding...
Friday 3rd February
Film!
We all like being the first one to see a movie. I responded lightning-quick to an email from Amnesty International inviting me to see the Asian premiere of The Lady, Luc Besson's new film about the rise of Aung San Suu Kyi from Oxford Academic's wife to famous stateswoman promoting Burmese democracy upon the world stage. As such, we received Wonka-like Golden Tickets in the mail to the screening at the Grand Cinema in the vast, meandering Elements mall that overlooks Hong Kong harbour.
This is primarily a love story about a married couple, perhaps an unfashionable topic for some –no seedy sex, no devastating dénouements, no unfaithful connivances or earthquake-like betrayals, no Hugh Grant, just the tenderness of a marriage that is threatened and finally overwhelmed by power-hungry generals, the painful needs of a poor country and, eventually, terminal illness. I cried.
Quite simply, Michelle Yeohis Aung San Suu Kyi, long speeches in Burmese language notwithstanding. A tough role for anybody, particularly when the actress must portray vulnerability and strength, assailability and determination, she crafted a believable character who's endearing morality is miles above that of her opponents. That Suu, as she is tenderly called, survived at all is testament to the work of many others as well as to her resilience. But survive she does receiving a Nobel Peace Prize along the way largely because her husband, played by the great David Thewlis, tirelessly fought for her submission to the Norwegian Nobel Committee.
Michelle Yeoh is perhaps best known for her nature role in martial arts epic Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and as the feisty Chinese Bond Girl in Tomorrow Never Dies. She arrived with Luc Besson and his beautiful current (and third) wife Virginie Silla –a good producer in her own right: there then took place a photographic orgasm, the flash and video lights of every camera in the room erupting to capture the moment without knowing quite what it was they were trying to capture. The usual speeches over, all Golden Ticket holders (the unbearably stylish, the duffel coated worthies and the mundane) poured past the barriers and A.I. yellow t-shirted ushers into each of the cinema houses. As we sat waiting, the same celebrated trio arrived to deliver another pep-talk. Michelle looked the most nervous and inclined the audience to go with the emotions of the film –excellent advice! Go and see this film. I promise you won't be disappointed.
Film over, the stars once again popped in to each cinema to wave and receive warm applause. Miss Yeoh knew several audience members and stopped for kisses and kind words. On our way out a nicely dressed couple stood near the exit –Luc and Virginie. With a handshake I congratulated him on the film and asked whether it was shot in Thailand. He said that the first few minutes and the forested footage and landscape were shot in Myanmar within about a week –that was all the time they were given to get essential footage. (Some of that, such as the massive, iconic, golden Schwedagon Pagoda, must have also been digitized for backgrounds.) He went on to add that most of it was filmed in Thailand. I added that I was moved by the film which he was quite glad to hear: another fan was still crying next to them.
A good end to the week hob-nobbing with the stars (sorry I wasn't brief at all). I should, of course, now conclude with a quippy sign-off such as, I suppose even stars are real people, but I just can't. The point to be made now is that this Amnesty event highlighted the plight of an entire people under brutal dictatorship (what other kind is there?). Although things may seem to be improving, there's still a question mark about what will happen next –it could all go tits-up with recent positive gains all reversed. Please take a look at the Amnesty site. Why not drop them a bob or two: Myanmar Amnesty International.
This blog article is for me a shameful departure into criminal activity: the seedy world of publishing without permission, license, legal release or consent.
A little while ago our good Scots-Italian friend, Peter Gallo (not the famous New York artist, Italian photographer or Albuquerquean beekeeper) erstwhile of Hong Kong, arrived in NYC to lend an investigative hand to the United Nations. Since then he has sent missives to politely enquire, send regards and deny paternity suits/culpable responsibility, etc. This last entertaining epistle tickled me wotsits and I, knowing his inability to shrink as violets do when it comes to matters of head-turning self-aggrandisement, decided to put it to the electronic ether for benefit of popular consumption and entirely royalty-free! I hope he doesn't mind.
I should now add that a kinder, more gentle and generous soul than Peter Gallo is impossible to find and that I would dearly wish to have his babies.
Dear Richard & Brenda
First off, I should apologise for the fact that this has actually taken me so long, but I am using the excuse that I thought you would appreciate it more if I waited til Chinese New Year... Honest!
Anyway, I do hope life is treating you well, and indeed (perversely enough) that you don't actually GET this message for a while, having excused yourself from the (former colony) in search of more amenable climes for the Chinese New Year holiday.
Life in New York (although a tad chilly of late) is good and agrees with me very much. The temperature has dropped to minus 12 on a number of occasions. I saw a brass monkey this morning, desperately trying to find a welder.
The chill notwithstanding, the sun is shining, the air is cold but it has not really snowed. Still, the coffee is hot and the bagels are good. God is in his Heaven, I am here and I have come to the Earth-shattering conclusion that all is well with the world –at least the bits that impact on me!
More out of a sense of adventure than any fear of the weather, I bought a pair of (Army Surplus) snow shoes last week. These are not unlike an enormous pair of aluminium handball rackets – fully 48 inches in length – and I understand one simply straps them on to ones boots (or even perchance ones bedroom slippers) and goes off for a walk in (or even ON) the deep snow. This should be a giggle, though it may get me thrown off the local golf course.
I am also considering compounding the lunacy by buying a pair of cross-country skis. I might as well enjoy life, snow and all. With all of that, plus the wellies, the down jacket and the new scarf as well I shall be a bit disappointed if it DOESN'T snow!
Work is good. The investigation part is easy, learning to deal with the bureaucracy is more of a strain but I continue in the endeavour. We are running a pilot project on something called a Compressed Working Arrangement. Basically, this requires me to finish work at 6pm rather than 5 for nine days and then get the tenth day off. It doesn't take the brains of an archbishop to see that this is not a bad deal.
I also drive a Jeep. This is a typical piece of impractical Americana: it cost a fortune. It is noisy. It is slow. It is not comfortable. There is NO room in the back for anything at all and, to cap it all, the damn thing drinks like an alcoholic worried about closing time. Still, on the other hand, it's probably the best fun one can have on four wheels...
American women are slightly eccentric, I must tell you. For reasons I cannot comprehend, they are not impressed with any of the above. They have something in this country called "dating" which is some sort of wierd ritual surrounded by rules and conventions that are so patently obvious that nobody needs to enquire as to what they might be. Unfortunately, it would not occur to anyone that someone from a far and distant land might not have the faintest clue as to what all (or ANY) of these patently obvious rules and conventions might actually be either!
The trick, apparently, is that you have to claim to be interested in museums, art galleries and Broadway shows, when – as you and I both well know – absolutely f•••ing NOTHING could be further from the truth. 'Honesty' it seems, is very important in these things they call a "relationship" provided you lie through your back teeth about being interested in museums, art galleries and Broadway shows and conceal any mild affiliations you may feel towards malt whisky, Sophia Loren movies, the Jaguar SS100, licensed premises or such really good testosterone-fuelled stuff as alcohol, tobacco and firearms... or fly-fishing.
Do NOT waste your time trying to tell American women about fly-fishing. For reasons I cannot fathom, fly fishing – even on the most idyllic English chalk stream on the most glorious day of the summer – is not as good as standing about in some art gallery on the Upper East Side looking at some out-of-focus artists impression of... a chap fly-fishing on a mediocre river on a fairly average day.
There is also some significant stage in American relationships which one enters by giving a woman your tie-pin, apparently. I was told this by a Scottish woman (a nurse, and apparently an amateur anthropologist) explained that she had, and I quote, "absolutely nae f•••ing clue whit it's all aboot" either! Everybody in HER office, however, somehow did know and the woman who got the tie-pin seemed to busy herself with redesigning the blokes apartment. In the furtherance of academic enquiry, I raised the possibility this might be some American equivalent of when a woman starts keeping a change of knickers in a guys flat but she seemed to think it may be more legally significant than that. We remain blithely ignorant of what this is all about and are reluctant to ask.
For this reason, and curious though I may be, I am scared to ask any woman to hold on to a pair of my cufflinks. While this could well be a coded invitation to come away for a dirty weekend in a cheap hotel under assumed names, it might just as easily be an admission of paternity. This is a very litigious society, one does not like to take unnecessary chances.
People are, however, all very polite. New York seems to have something of a reputation for rudeness but I have found the opposite to be almost universally true, particularly the people where I live. I went into one of the local supermarkets once, to be greeted by a smiling shop assistant who greeted me cheerily and and made me feel welcome.
“Lovely to see you again, Sir, how are you today?”
I assured her I was well, and exchanged pleasantries, as is only polite.
“And how was the paper, Sir?” she asked. Paper? She had me on that one. What paper? I had no clue, and clearly looked unsure.
“Last time you were in, Sir? About tho weeks ago.”
She was quite correct. I had in fact been in about two weeks earlier. I had been buying toilet paper, and this particular young lady had kindly pointed out that there was a special offer on an alternative brand of said product; equally soft, equally strong, padded, luxurious, etc, etc, but on special offer so it was half the price of the stuff I was about to buy. This young lady very kindly redirected me towards this particular bargain.
Now she was asking how I had got on with it! I did, I admit, have just the tiniest degree of answering the young lady's question, and having used the product for the purpose for which it was intended, I remain unsure of how I was supposed to answer or, indeed, why she was asking in the first place. Still, it was terribly nice of her to ask, and show such interest in my welfare...
People have asked if I miss Hong Kong, and of course there are some people there and some places that one does miss –like the old ladies on Ladder Street who, for HK$10, would sew in a button or a new zip or stitch up bits of your clothes that are parting company. They don't do that here: everyone is too busy separating their cardboard rubbish from their glass rubbish and talking about their carbon footprint, but to actually RE-CYCLE something yourself, and actually keep using last years model rather than buying a new one –well, that's just plain nuts!
New York city has more than its share of the same shallow consumption-driven people as are to be found in Hong Kong. I have come to realise that idiots play a very important role in society: if it were not for them, there is a real danger that the entire business world would come to a grinding halt, bringing everything else down with it. The whole economy depends on people who cannot think, spending money they haven't got, buying crap they don't need, to impress people that don't matter, in order to look like something they are not.
I was passing a shop the other day and in the window I saw they had a snowball maker. For only US$10, you can buy this big red plastic thing which looks like a pair of over-sized salad tongs with two hemi-spherical ends. Brilliant. This allows you to scoop up snow and mold it into a perfect ball –without getting your hands cold by actually touching the snow! Now all I need to figure out is how you are supposed to THROW the f•••ing snowball without using your hands; but I am very confident there will be an assortment of mechanical contrivances available for the purpose; some of them no doubt meeting the legal definition of a firearm!
Still, the great American public seems to be happy to pay money for plastic snowball throwers and I have little doubt there is a factory in China somewhere happy to supply them, and everyone in the middle makes a profit on the way through and why else did God create the credit card? I think I shall set myself the challenge of trying to find the most useless product for sale in America.
At least the Christmas lights have now come down, which must reduce electricity demand significantly. A lot of people put up so much illumination that their houses must be visible from space. What scares me is that we are now on that short hiatus period, the Christmas lights and decorations have been taken down and the Valentines Day tat has not been put up yet.
Why anyone would want to decorate the outside of their house in the manner of a cheap 'Hello Kitty' themed whorehouse is a bit of a mystery to me, but I am assured that there are people who do. In the name of decency I hope none of them live in my town!
Is it any wonder the women in this country have so much trouble with the dating concept?
So, stay tuned to this channel for more news, and and when it happens, but in the meantime, as it is Chinese New Year, I suppose this is probably the best time to wish you Kung Hei Fat Choi!
Here's wishing you a very peaceful and prosperous new year of 2012.
If the last 12 months has taught us anything, it is that we should never take our eye off the ball as far as national and international events are concerned: who could have predicted the seismic changes brought about by the so-called Arab Spring, the deaths of Osama bin Laden and Gaddafi the tyrant, the hope of the new country of South Sudan or the problems caused by the population of the earth reaching 7 billion?
Final curtain calls were given to Pete Postlethwaite, Susannah York, Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Gough and Peter Falk.
No more notes will ensue from Gerry Rafferty, Gary Moore or Amy Winehouse.
We'll never see one more splash of paint from Lucian Freud or Cy Twombly.
The astonishing moves by Joe Frazier, Gary Speed or Sócrates are now things of the past.
The world has lost the much-loved political intellectual Václav Havel and the much-hated mad and bad Kim Jong-il.
Not even an apple a day could keep Steve Jobs here.
Out here in ole Hong Kong, many Chinesey folk hold back and really only celebrate Chinese New Year which officially begins on 23rd January. Our last Year of the Dragon, in 2000, saw many interesting changes -Vladimir Putin and George Bush were elected presidents, Israel left Lebanon after 12 years occupation, the submarine Kursk sunk in the Barents Sea, the International Space Station received its first residents. We had a billion less people.
We'll be sailing into stormy economic waters, particularly with regard to the question of the Euro. If people stop popping to the shops to buy 'stuff' then millions of Chinese will be without work and that will affect the ability of Chinese government to effectively control its people. Eek!
Who is to say where our future lies. It's supposed to be the year that our b'ak'tun cycle ends (according to the Mayan long-count calendar), which could mean the earth ends or that we bump into the planet Nibiru. Hmmm... that might not be so nice. All I can say is that you should make sure you live each day to its fullness.
Oh and I might just pop by from time-to-time with a little comment or two. Cheers!
I suppose nearly all of us, and I'm making a great supposition about the blog readership here, are quite happy to yet again enter into that familiar season of Christmassyness which is all jingly bells and babes in mangers. It's a cosy time of year where most of us can be grateful for great and small mercies –health, wealth, family, friends, x-boxes and Harry Potter merchandise.
At the end of December, we are oft-times reminded of the needs of others and to be generous in considering those without. Back in 1984, I dug deep into my meagre pockets and gave all of £5 to Band Aid after having bought Do They Know It's Christmas. I felt I was doing an absolute good: them poor buggers surely needed it even more than I (even though at the time I was never so poor and five quid pretty much summed up my worldly wealth). Maybe my money helped save someone's life.
In this Chinese part of the world Christmas begins and ends mercifully late: in fact, the fuzzily-named 'Winterfest' lasts from about the beginning of December to a few days after Chinese New Year. Christmas songs are everywhere –in early January the supermarkets subtly change from carols to festive Chinese New Year firecracker noises and ubiquitous lion dance music. During this time every shopping mall and many of the tall buildings around the renowned Hong Kong harbour glitzily convey a decidedly un-religious and somewhat confused neon message of happiness without a meaning. Any symbolic significant or festive poignancy is shmaltzed and suffocated to death beneath a cotton wool and candy cane drapery.
Whatever your beliefs, the birth of a baby Jesus refers to a deeper, more meaningful idea about bringing hope into a dark, sinful, wintry world, the benign conveyance of good will to all men through the power of pure righteousness. But this is just too dangerous and revolutionary a message for our ruling elite and their supportive mercantile classes who prefer the current harmonious social order the way it is thank you very much. Thus, unto us is given instead a ridiculously childish Santa who spills his presents upon the worthy and unworthy alike –an avaricious indicator of society's belief in the equality of cash with personal fulfilment.
So, does the old Christian message heralded at Christmas actually mean anything any more? What do the seeemingly-heedless masses that do not profess any sort of faith get out of Christmas carols, sending cards and watching their kids perform in Nativity plays? It would certainly be difficult to prove that the myriad Christmas carol concerts held in every conceivable location is some sort of indicator that the attendees hold beliefs that Good King Wenceslas really did go out on the feast of Stephen or that Shepherds really did wash their socks and were visited by non-physical heavenly messengers. One could level the accusations that these outdated cultural relics remain only to pander to the overtsanctimonious self-satisfying middle-class attitudes of piety and that their original contents are now meaningless. But I would argue that the reasons people continue to sing and actually quite like carols, is they are so comfortingly familiar. At worst they are harmless –carrying with them that positive message of peace on earth and good will to all men. Uneasy indeed would be the mind that decided after hearing Away in a Manger the most appropriate religious response would be suicide bombing.
For most of us Christmas may mean family togetherness and fun, an opportunity to celebrate life the same way we did last year –especially the Turkey-fuelled snoozing through The Great Escape. It is also a poignant time to remember those that are no longer with us. It may be a garish, mad and often monotonous festival, but it is one in which we can recall with fondness other happy, simple childhood Christmasses. It brings the merriest cheer to those with whom we now live as we rather incongrously party hard whilst singing religious hymns. It also promises a future that might contain that elusive peace on earth and goodwill to all men.
Greece was always a spectacular location for an excursion; The Roman legions under Mummius, the Ottomans directed by the 15th century Sultans, Mussolini and his Julia Alpine Division (although they didn't get very far) and Hitler's Twelfth Army (who did). Of course, since those times more peaceful invasive forces have set their sights on things hellenic, have taken retsina in the tavernas and have left their towels on loungers all the way from the co-capital of Thessaloniki in the north to the teensy-tiny island of Petrota south of Crete. If anything, Greece has not had any difficulty selling itself -we have all at one time or another wanted to go there. The only problem is that now no-one wants their money to go there!
So why has this economic crisis affected Greece quite so badly? Well, unfortunately it's largely the Greeks themselves -they've spent too much and recovered too little and that's affected everyone else in the Eurozone. Let's blame it on 'Greek Culture'. There's something in the old Greek character which is content to cock a snoot at anyone in authority, particularly the government and the tax man. This may be a residue from left-wing political ebbs and flows during the middle years of the 20th century, but it remains a significant self-satisfying factor which the younger generation must overcome and change. God alone knows what the future will hold for young Greeks...
Perhaps I should tell you what's wrong by means of a little story:
Suppose you were Greece back in the 1990s and you were invited by your neighbours to join a mighty-neighbourly club -and bit of an expensive and exclusive European club at that! This club would bring benefits, such as the opportunity to further your own domestic causes by simply chatting to all your new-found friends in the club house(s). It would also bring financial stability by offering the chance to dip into the club's vast finances -all of a sudden the dreams of upping the kids' pocket money, building that much-needed extension and bbq patio and of buying the wife a fur coat would become a reality. Popularity at home (that irresistible political temptress) would be assured. In fact, the more that would be spent, the better things would get.
But then the unexpected occurred -an economic downturn. Everything suddenly became more expensive, your accounts at the shops became worthless and, when you asked around, everyone else moaned in chorus about feeling the pinch. Oh dear. The neighbours in the club were still able to gain access to yet another club (the Money Club), but you couldn't. And you couldn't because although your popularity came at a price, there was no way it could be maintained (something the Money Club didn't like). Support at home began to wane. Your friends said they could help you out, but only if you began improving your much-cherished domestic arrangements (particularly the ability to pay those pesky shop accounts) and completely gave up on popularity. In fact, if you hadn't begun doing this then you would also get your friends into trouble and your club membership review would be brought forward. Your piggy bank was long-since empty and, besides, now belonged to all the other club members (and even some non-members). Some whispered that even if all your friends came to your aid, paid your bills, helped structure your domestic arrangements and somehow encouraged the 'other club' to cough up enough cash to pay the rent then it would be amount to more money than you could ever pay back. In fact, it would be your fault that all the others lost their piggy banks too...
I know this is a slightly silly and flawed rhetorical device, but I hope it makes the point. Greek membership of the European Club may not have caused the crisis in the first place, but their 'culture' (one familiar to many other southern European countries) has been crucial in directing it's demise -borrow lots and don't pay it back. Instigating painful measures from without to remedy the situation on Terra Grecia within will in the end, I fear, become merely punitive to the young (tax paying) Greeks who never acceded to the decisions that got the country in the mess in the first place. These extreme domestic measures will certainly not stop the international monetary system's blessed freedoms from further wrecking an already crumbling edifice.
Our friends the Greeks have been put on the austerity naughty step before. Even before membership was accepted, difficulties in their economy were observed. According to the BBC on 1 Jan 2001, "To qualify for euro membership, the Greek Government had to adopt a tough austerity programme, making deep cuts in public spending." Sound familiar? It's obvious that they just weren't tough enough. Maybe the 'culture' was deeper than the 2001 cuts could reach.
Even worse, the recent statements notwithstanding, the rest of Europe now seems unable to know exactly what to do or how to do it. Charles Calomiris, the Economist who predicted the fall of Argentina back in 2001, recently described the whole sorry state in Greek Economy Watch thus:
Europe is living in denial. Even after the economic crisis exposed the eurozone's troubled future, its leaders are struggling to sustain the status quo. At this point, several European countries will likely be forced to abandon the euro within the next year or two....The only way out of this conundrum is for countries with insurmountable debt burdens to default on their euro-denominated debts and exit the eurozone so that they can finance their continuing fiscal deficits by printing their own currency. Here's a hint for Europe's politicians: If the math says one thing and the law says something different, it will be the law that ends up changing.
So what's to be done? Bugger all as far as I can see. Setting up an artificial pan-European currency seemed like a good idea at the time -one worthy of investment, cooperation and integration. The Old Europe of international and internecine rivalry and bloodshed evaporated in a blending of economic love and well-being. The trend to allow a ridiculous insouciant market lead all our lives for better or worse must be addressed, but I don't think many chancellors or government economists could ensure financial health and certainty on the ground where the real people live. Neither could (or would) many of them have admitted foreseeing that continual borrowing, spending and borrowing again would result in eventual ruin for us all, but it all seems so bloody obvious now -with hindsight.
We're in a right mess that is likely to worsen, that's for sure. Are there any solutions? Probably not. Things are dependant upon wiser minds than governments can usually tolerate. Political solutions untenable with current thinking may be required. In the end, we'll all lose money - lots of it. At least we have our friends and family (which brings a measure of happiness to us all). Of course, that does not mean we should give up and if ever a time was needed when pressure could be brought to bear upon our elected representatives it is certainly now. Without it they can only make things even worse.
I think it’s about time I did the meta-thing: a blog entry to discuss my blog. I know this might seem a little… introspective, but keeping a blog, albeit irregularly, is somewhat fascinating. Perhaps I ought to blog about this blog entry too: Oh, conundrums and mysteries and wheels within wheels!
To be more precise, I want to write about the route by which fresh eyes rest upon the site and the sometimes circuitous route by which this blog page is opened by the curious, not-so curious and (quite probably) the furious.
With a review of blog stats, I can also view the links that have lead General Public to the blog. I do have the regulars, of course –those that follow and those who directly check on posted links from Facebook. For those folks that haven’t yet, why not click on “follow” –y’all come back regular, ya hear?
I suppose the real reason I write on this theme today is the last astonishing Search that lead a needy soul here. It was, and I kid you not, “a juicy vagina being nicely fucked by a penis”. Quite apart from the mental image or the fairly artistic phraseology (I’m somewhat compelled by the implication of juicyness/niceness), perhaps the more astonishing aspect is that with the Everest-sized mountain of porn out there my humble blog achieved any kind of hit at all!
Another recent novelty was a traduction Français of the blog entry on the Siege of Malta –the tangled web of the web reaches even those shadowy Gauloises-smoking and mustachioed cheese eating regions. I also get a lot of hits for my review of 1000 Years of Annoying the French!
Hitherto the most salacious search that ended with ‘Richard Peters in the Country Park’ cheerily pop up onto a screen glowing in the dark was shortly after the bombing in Marrakech. My blog entry irresistibly piqued the interest of someone looking for ‘sexy Moroccan boys’. Hmmm… Perhaps I should be embracing the more corporeally-minded African enthusiasts amongst the general public. Just give ‘em what they want, that’s what I say. Bread and circuses? Free tissues and guilt-free jiggly tits, more like.
Like most ploddy blogs, most hits are from the embedded pics. I admit that many of them are actually mine and I do spend quite a bit of time resourcing the other images for the sake of accuracy. In the true Anarchist spirit that all property is theft, I probably get as many of my images nicked as I liberate. I’m not even going to enter into discussion about intellectual rights or crediting internet image sources –I often feel the need to sleep. Oh, brothers and sisters, oh for a utopia in which the need to freely lift is gone…
My biggest hit for an image is a picture of a human kidney removed mid-surgery. I wrote a quick throw-away entry about a kid in China who sold his kidney for an I-pad and I-phone and lifted the best image I could source. This one pic accounts for about 80-90% of all picture searches, a fact that has led me to a horrible deduction about thems that conducts the searches –people that want to buy a kidney (the desperate, pleading and praying for life) and people that want to sell their kidney (the desperate, pleading and praying for cash). Either way, these searches indicated a lively trade in even-livelier body parts I’m none-too keen on (the issues surrounding Transplant Surgery require a much more tactful blog entry for another time). I suppose I should be grateful that I’m comfortable enough that I can view such astonishing things with incredulity.
My biggest hit on one day has been 78, my least none. And that’s the instant problem with counting pageviews –watching those distracting numbers and… yes… come on… yes… nearly there… woo-hoo… 5000 hits!! Consider the ridiculous millions of hits notched up on something inane such as Cat Face cartoon or WTF Kitty (all hits by puerile bedroom door-locked pre-teens who, from the state of their poorly-spelt, offensive or inane congratulatory messages, can’t be very far along the road to Mental Acuity Town). I see this stuff and want my 30 seconds of life back and despair about humanity.
So has this bloggy stuff taught me anything? Not much, but it is fun; an excuse to rant a bit, to examine something I find of interest and then leave a quippy -30- (that’s American journalistic parlance for the end of a story, don’t ya know), to show whoever is prepared to see the wonders of the Sai Kung Country Park, to wear a bit of my heart upon my electronic sleeve. I hope you will find it's the sort of thing that can be merrily read over a weekend morning cuppa.
Now, all I can presume is that if fresh eyes have reached this page it’s likely their search has has been concocted from, “juicy vagina”+ “penis”+ “porn”+ “sexy Moroccan boys”+”jiggly tits”+ “images”,+“pre-teen” + “kidney”. Now producing THAT sort of heady webpage gets you a visit from the Feds!
By now we've all had time to review the pictures of London on fire and the sense of emergency this has engendered. The immediate shock value of these salacious images of civil disorder may well have been replaced by anger and even outrage -how dare these 'orrible kids be allowed to get away with it!
I'm old enough to remember a series of serious inner city disturbances that occurred in the UK back in 1981. These particular riots stick out in my mind because of the intense apocalyptic mood they created in Thatcher's Britain. In my early teens listening to the Ruts' Babylon's Burning, the rough and ready pop culture of frantic punk and stylish ska appeared to rule supreme -to walk the streets of London felt like skating on ice not knowing when something violent was about to burst out of control. And unless you were looking for trouble or were a teacher, you kept away from skinheads, punks, rockers, mods, rudeboys and the rest.
In truth, the riots of the early 80s took place only in seriously deprived areas of Bristol, London, Manchester and Liverpool. They were largely connected with serious racial issues of the time and served as a wake-up call for society at large. Measures for better social housing and integration were implemented, but it took until after the Broadwater Farm and Handsworth riots of the mid-80s for the hopelessness experienced by many in inner ghettos to be fully vocalised. Police became a little more cautious about using 'stop-and-search' powers that were rightly seen as discriminatory against black youths, the Scarman report indicated the causes of deprivation and the increasing prosperity of the later 1980s and 90s meant that folks were less keen on serious street protesting for political purposes. Riots still erupted every few years largely in response to social issues, such as the Brixton riots of 1985 caused not only by the death of an arrested black man in police custody but also at the perceived gentrification of Brixton -the Dogstar boozer was smashed up and burned having recently been refurbished as a yuppy pub: serious working class anger could not be assuaged.
What is significant about the recent unrest has been the way it has been portrayed. They have clearly not reflected struggles against an uncaring society as seen in recent French rioting in Clichy-sous-Bois and Villiers-le-Bel. Neither are they the release of years of pent-up hostility against aggressive policing or any other aspect of poor government. They appear to have simply been a blatant disregard for any form of law and order. In an on-line BBC article many-a pundits' fourpenceworths indicate 10 possible reasons for the disturbances including lack of fathering, gangsta rap and opportunism. These, of course, may be right and if you interviewed each 'rioter' I'm sure you would find any number of sad reasons behind their antisocial behaviour, but were it not were ever thus? The broken angry mentality of de yoof is a response to their debilitating dependence on aspects of a prosperous mainstream culture which they may aspire to be a part of, but because of a lack of personal ability, competency, race or opportunity will always be beyond their attainment. Even the politicians knick stuff and claim it on expenses, so why not go and grab it?
Two girls interviewed by the BBC's Leana Hosea on the street said that rioting was "good fun" and that it was the "government's fault". They were showing the police "we can do what we want". And the targeting local businesses was a targeting of 'rich people', clearly seen as another cause of why all this has happened. At no point did they question their means or motives -the enjoyment of being beyond the control of society's conventions, the prized looting of shops and the wreckage done to other people's property were merit alone.
So when society finally does take notice, through the smoke of burnt-out shops, does it expect anything from these disaffected yoofs? Not really. Take, for example, Daytime TV with a succession of prosperity-linked programming such as Homes under the Hammer, Cash in the Attic, Bargain Hunt and A Place in the Sun and the increasing number of teleshopping channels. These may, of course, be what people want to see on TV, but they also imply that anyone without the ability to do these things (the vast majority of the daytime TV audience) are failures and therefore not as good as the rest of us. Wayne and Waynettat Slob can stay in their council houses and 'smoke fags'. The angry underclass of have-nots therefore have nothing to lose taking from the smug haves -all they needed is the opportunity for a bit of class war in the shops.
Riots from ancient Rome and Byzantium to the Boston Tea Party are nothing new. What is new is the way each sensational image of burning buildings and violent assaults is added to a seething cauldron of media excitement -a news viagra to keep you up all night. I'm sure that the people who own looted shops and the poor coppers receiving well-aimed bricks are not enjoying the spectacle half as much as the rest of us.
As for the cause, much hand-wringing can be done about the effects of government cut-backs and community policing. Brendan Barber, TUC leader, indicated back in 2009 that the consequence of "prolonged mass unemployment will have terrible effects on social cohesion, family break-up and the nation's health." This was clearly a prediction of direct political reaction, but I didn't see many union leaders carrying Tolpuddle Martyrs banners in the vanguard of the carpet warehouse burners. David Hartshorn 'super' at the Met's Public Order Branch also predicted in the Guardian of Feb 2009 that middle class people would take to the streets. Indeed, they may have been so with the teachers on their strike of 30th June, but there clearly weren't many trendy lefties in Palestinian keffiyehs rifling through JD Sports for the right sized trainers or shell suits. Although a few well-heeled opportunists took part, they were much more likely to be amongst the riot wombles tut-tutting as they swept up the glass.
So the current riots are a means by the disenfranchised underclass of gettin rich(er) quick(er) simply by being nasty(er). And, if the last few nights are to be believed, it has clearly worked. Forget politics, religion, race, culture and any noble cause that may have started a riot at any time in the past because rioting for rioting's sake is now on the cards. I imagine many rioters are asking themselves why they didn't do this sooner!
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