Richard Peters -in the Sai Kung Country Park

Maltesers Besieged by Turkish Delight

Sometimes one may hear a book review and instantly hurry out to get a copy only for it to dustily languish on the shelves. At other times an unlikely title may unexpectedly fall into the lap and be voraciously consumed. Such was The Great Siege:Malta 1565 by Ernie Bradford, a fiery tale of the 1565 Ottoman attempt to conquer Malta and defeat the chivalrous Knights of St John. Voltaire may have quipped that "nothing is more well known than the siege of Malta", but I was as ignorant as an ignoramus too stupid to know it was St Ignoramus's Day.


A splendid romp, this little penguin edition was owned by me poor old Ma –Gawd only knows why: perhaps it was her intention, but as far as I know she never visited Malta. The writer, Ernie Bradford (who looked a bit like me Dad), had a bit of an adventurous life himself, seeing action in the Med during the war, then sailing it and completing the odd book now and then. He truly nailed his colours to the mast, on several occasions declaring Muslims 'the enemy' and the Templar Kinghts to be the good stout legendary fellows that saw 'em off! My other gripe is that his sources are all English, French, and Italian. Thus, apart from a few menacing quips from the Sultan (""Janisarries forward!" Mustapha Ordered." is about the limit), we are left deaf to 50% of the story other than by western-orientated proxy.


Leaving all these pragmatics aside, the 1961-written saga follows the extraordinary and quite miraculous defence of the main harbour of the island against a huge seaborne invasionary force of possibly as many as 40,000 Turks, Algerians and Janissaries. The 8,000 defenders that held out for more than three months during the summer of 1565 is as much a testament to religious zealotry as it is to superhuman endurance, for their fanatical adherence to fundamentalist Catholicism combined with spectacular leadership of the ultra-heroic Jean Parisot de Valetta made this encounter truly cosmic in scope –what was a stake was nothing other than the existence of Christendom and the future of the West!


Malta as part of the Kingdom of Sicily had at the time been in the care of the Kings of Aragon and thus the majority of concerns were more about protecting growing Imperial Spanish interests than protection from piratical corsairs. As a piece of the European chessboard it may, of itself, have not been a source of power, but it came to be a symbol that enabled much in terms of Iberian expansion and pride. All eyes were raised towards this terrible siege; if Malta fell then the Christians would have no base to raid the rich Ottoman shipping lines across northern Africa, Malta would become the springboard for the inevitable Ottoman re-conquest of Sicily, the Mediterranean would become an Ottoman lake and Western civilization would be doooomed... Even protestant Queen Elizabeth I declared Malta a "bulwark of the faith" (whatever that is).


One has to remember that patriotism, the nation state and all that jingoistic nonsense did not quite exist in the same manner as understood at the end of the 19th century or even today. In retrospect these religious wars, fought for potentate or sultan, appear to us barbaric and pointless –few of us share their world views (thank God! -that's a little jokel, btw). But perhaps under the surface, as evinced by the author, age-old allegiances appear to span the centuries. Should the time come, would we answer the call to man the barricades or storm the castle walls?


de Valette fought with distinction against the Turks when their island paradise of Rhodes was captured. In 1557 he was elected the leader of the Order of St John on their new island fortress of Malta. A dashing polyglot (and there aren't many of them!), he had previously been captured and learned Turkish as a galley slave. In his 70s by the time of the siege, he held the island by careful planning as much as by excellent strategy and his men did not suffer the withering bouts of disease or plague that the encamped Turkish forces fared. Never caught off-guard, he was a cunning leader who clearly knew how to guide men's hearts when the walls were breached and the odds became near-overwhelming. He commanded such respect that he could order men to their deaths and they would willingly go. Thus the isolated fortress of St Elmo held out for many weeks longer than expected and cost thousands of Turkish casualties in its storming, but despite its’ eventual loss significantly turned the tide of the war. Eventually the Turks beheaded the last defenders, tied their bodies to crucifixes and floated them across the bay. In response la Valetta had the Turkish prisoners decapitated and shot their heads back into the captured fortress by cannon. It was that kind of conflict.


The Knights of Malta, who had the distinction of defending the island, came from all over Christendom. Their religious vocation combined with militaristic zeal meant that their origin in defending the pilgrims to Jerusalem was a thing of the medieval past. Answerable only to the pope, by the mid-16th century, many courts of Europe admired their prowess, but also saw them as rich adventurers slightly beyond their grasp and therefore a potential worry. The Order only admitted those of noble birth, although others could join without holding position. From our vantage point it seems ridiculous that such an organisation with such an admission system could ever exist.


The ferocious and fearless Janissaries, the term meant new soldiers ('Yeniçeri' in Turkish), were, as Bradford writes, 'one of the most extraordinary inventions of the Ottoman Empire. It is fair to call them an 'Invention', for they were unlike any type of soldier known to history... none of them were Turkish by birth. All were children of Christian parents who lived within the confines of the Ottoman Empire.' Family prestige, good pay and handsome rewards for loyalty were in the offing. Once converted, these formidable warriors were usually the deciding force of a battle, rushing in to breaches of siege walls, storming battlements and generally doing derring-dos.


I knew very little of this seminal age before picking up this nice little outing. The conflict that it describes is of the Baron Münchhausen-moustaches-and-funny-headgear sort and may have looked more glamorous than anything since.  Certainly before the deafening booms of the first bronze cannons tirade over the richly-coloured pennants and flapping standards, a panoply of eastern musical instruments accompanied the steady and intimidating march of the bejewelled and plumed Turkish troops towards the front. It was a time of clouds of sulphurous black powder, of gleaming billowing robes, of suits of highly-polished armour glinting in the sun, of massive slave-rowed galleys carving their ways through transparent azure waters.


The people of Malta were so thankful to la Valetta for saving their island that in his honour they named the new city built overlooking the harbour. The Knights set themselves up as the protectors of the Christian sea highways in the Med and tried to limit the corsair activity (by becoming piratical themselves). To this day the order of St John is the oldest surviving order of chivalry –the Sovereign Military Order of Malta being recognised by 104 countries and the United Nations. It still has an active role as helpers of the sick, of war and famine and we know it foremost through the St John Ambulance.


Above all, this little book opened the eyes to feats of astonishing bravery on both sides. It left its mark, served as a reminder of the ongoing clash of civilizations and isa jolly good read, to boot!

How much for your kidney?

Having just watched the long-awaited and fairly well acted X-Men: First Class, the Memsahib and meself visited the Festival Walk Broadway (one of the few big chain of Elec/Tech stores here not in the all-pervasive octopus-like grip of Li Ka Shing) and spied many-a gleaming Appley product. All these things are much cheaper now than even two or three years ago and, although Apple maintain that they are clean and green, it's no secret that this is down to Foxxconn's questionable labour practices: employee coercion, suicides, explosions and other horrors have been frequently reported. How much is too cheap?

Anyway, I 'needed' to buy an expensive cover for my new iPhone 4. This product is, of course, precious-ish and I want to keep it from acquiring scratches whilst in my pocket (I'd still like to know how that bloody happens). But I'm not sure I'd go as far in my desire to have such things as a youthinasia (not euthanasia -ha, that's my hilarious little GCSE jokel) wot sold his kidney for an i-Pad and iPhone. I cannot think of a reason to sell my kidney for anything, but then I've never been that desperate. A few years ago I was deeply moved when a friend donated one of his to an old military buddy. I probably speak for many when I say that I would most likely do the same for a loved one. Gratis.

The full BBC report says that you too can give your kidney to a worthy cause for a mere $3,392, even though the practice has been made illegal in China since 2007. Always ready to exploit an opportunity, kidney purchasers (apart from the Hannibal Lecter liver-loving kind) have been doing the world a great service in freeing the people of Nepal, India and other impoverished places of their unwanted kidneys and exchanging them with these vast sums of cash (as far as the recipients are concerned) -sometimes even as much as the lucky Chinese chap currently in the news. This link to a peculiar 'blog' (part-Russian/part-Indian) puts you in contact with unlucky Indians who have opted for cash over kidney.

Of course, trading human kidneys in China has been a long-profitable trade often sanctioned through the complicity of corrupt officials. This trade, however, is not limited to wealth-challenged countries, but also includes the far-flung reaches of Lancashire. 

So there you have it, some people think electronic products are better than their own urinary system. I suppose it's all a matter of values -it's legal in Iran! It's unlikely this trade will ever disappear altogether and some say the process should be legalised and monitored. Should we be allowed to do what we wish with our own bodies? What price could we put on our various parts? How much for one of your eyes, your lungs, your other choicest inner parts? Would cannibals be allowed to bid? Perhaps we should harvest them as a matter of course, hand out iPads and put the objectors in a Chinese jail...

The Madness that is Noah's Ark

Sometimes I'm really quite proud of my tolerance threshold. There have been occasions when I am certain lesser mortals would be ranting and raving, raising excessive and damnatory expletives, thrashing their arms about and gnashing the teeth of their frothing mouths, but I try to be calm and see through situations that even St Francis would be spluttering over.

Not so very long ago a student on the tennis courts (on the roof of school) decided that it would be a great idea to play cricket/hockey/football with his friends. What he had not foreseen, when he whacked the football against the nets with the hockey stick, is that the said stick would leave his sweaty paws and sail through the air only to teeter precariously on the edge of the net to stunned silence before toppling over and crashing through the rear window of my car. (They then attempted to make their quick getaway only to see Liz Muscroft in the doorway at the top of the stairs awaiting them with terrifying and withering raised eyebrow!)  When told of the incident, I simply gave a shrug. The astonished Lin Burt who told me the bad news said I took it well, but no anger on my part would mend a broken window!

My patience over les questions religieuses was severely tested today. I honestly had to resist the urge to leave and run...

Noah's Ark Hong Kong is an attraction that has only recently appeared on the Hong Kong scene. I had assumed that it was run by evangelical Christians and it is indeed so, but perhaps not in quite the way I had imagined. Brainchild of the Kwok brothers, the theme park is situated on an island (which itself is situated under the expressway to the airport) and houses one of their swankiest developments, Ma Wan Park. This new Sun Hung Kai housing development  has been accompanied now by many attractions that are supposed to be self-funded. I wonder just how the Hong Kong IRS viewed the theme park in relation to the highly profitable SHK development...

Dear, dear Lucie had arranged a Professional Development day at KGV School. After all the fun and frolics of the morning, we hot-footed it to Noah's Ark: an 'alternative' attraction.

Our first problem was taxis. Ours wouldn't take us, no sirree -apparently they can't go there and the only way is by a bus service from Central or Mong Kok or by ferry from Tsuen Wan. An empty bus in Mong Kok did not bode well, but upon arrival at Ma Wan we were amazed to see the theme park packed with pensioners and lil' tiny kiddy-winks.

Once you get over the $100-a pop entry fee, you realise that the Ark itself is truly massive. 'Life' size, it dominates this peculiar parcel of land over a very sandy beach and beneath the wonderful Tsing Ma bridge.

The attractions, however, were unbelievably infantile, the English translations laughable, the sentiment trite and philosophy unbearably shallow if not plain wrong. In fact, it was this last detail that had my temple veins haemorraging. It wasn't the wrongness of what was said so much as the astonishing combination of unashamedly un-thought through ideas, one upon another. Do bible stories edify through the establishment of 'proof' or through contemplation and reflection? Does a story about an angry deity wiping out the entire world bar one family and a bunch of precious animals create nice warm fuzzies or engender fear? Does the message of planetary destruction make us keep caged animals or create good future environmentalists? 

A computer-enhanced film entitled Countdown from 30 envisaged the end of the world by meteorite and served only to depress and scare. At the end we were to write down our thoughts to those who have left us behind. What on earth are you to do that for? Does it help value our loved ones? I wrote, So long and thanks for all the fish (perhaps this version is better)!

Other attractions included pouring water over people sat in a box wearing raincoats, making cakes out of towels and a journey in your own coffin -I mean, who thought of these?!

It was at the time my patience was beginning to fragment that we met one of the assistants from the St James' Settlement who explained that there mission was to entertain and enlighten 'without a Jesus'. The organisations involved in the spreading of all this confusion each paid for the privelege. The spaces in which their particular evangelical messages could be divulged were their own affairs and run on fixed-and-finite terms. We did not press our questions too far, but one wondered exactly who, if anyone, checked on the validity and efficacy of their messages or the means by which they were made.

Moving on to the 180º Great Flood Theatre experience, we were then treated to a cinematic extraveganza that incorporated visuals, flashing lights, dry ice, quaking seats and wooden actors including a delightfully sombre Chinese Noah. The only thing worse I have seen in Hong Kong is Monkey's Tale Theatre up at the Big Buddha -stick that in your Buddhist pipe and smoke it!

To cap it off, an exhibition that presented a truly disparate collection of bits and bobs to do with Noah's Ark; tools middle-eastern folks used at-the-time-of-Noah, information and exhibits from expeditions to Mount Ararat, the presentation of Noah-like legends to support the idea of a flood, a collection of Noah's Ark memorabilia and tat, LIVE and CAGED animals, the most bizarre amorphous chimera of animal parts that expressed the organizer's disapproval of Genetic Engineering and a platitudinous examination of all God's creation... My head nearly exploded!

The others in our small group were willing to soldier on. Perhaps they luxuriated in the Tree of Life in the Ark Garden, swung around on the high rope course of Noah's Adventureland or simply went to the Harvest Restaurant to eat some of God's wondrous animals that obviously made it into the ark as consumables. I hopped on the nearest bus and high-tailed it back to work and from thence to the sanctity and sanity of Bacco's in Sai Kung. There's more than a little wisdom in San Miguel...

I don't know whether I'm more annoyed with the lazy thinking, inadequate philosophy or the shoddy presentation. Maybe I shouldn't expect too much from such an attraction, but not once did it take itself in any other way than seriously.

 

Or maybe I'm looking at it in entirely the wrong way. When you remember that this is an investment it all suddenly makes sense. As Francis Leung, a one-time investor in the markets, commented, "When you go to Disneyland, there's really no message there, but at Noah's Ark, there is such a strong message that life goes on." 

Perhaps that message should interpreted, 'buy shares in Sun Hung Kai Properties'!

The Bombing of the Arjana Restaurant in Marrakech

Another outrage, another easy target. The Argana restaurant was a popular eatery with wonderful views over the Jemaa-el-Fnaa square. Brenda and I walked in and ate there last year. It was a fun place with excellent multi-lingual waiters. We ate whilst watching the late afternoon light cast long shadows over the busy stallholders and mysterious fortune tellers as they set up on their pitches for another night of noise and entertainment. 

Morocco is no stranger to terrorism. But the formula for much Islamic terrorism, wherever it appears, seems to follow a fairly tried-and-tested route that begins with desperation which, with a little admixture of poverty and a dash of politicised religious principles, leads some down the path that ends with the sort of scene at the Arjana restaurant in Djemaa el Fnaa square. So, we can blame religion. Or can we?

Each suicide bomber, however, has his reasons for their actions and it is very hard to profile what is 'typical'. In all cases it appears that zealotry by itself does not a terrorist make. That the bombers adhere to a puritanical religious motivation cannot be denied, but throughout the ages strictness in terms of faith and practice has not resulted in similar acts. Contrary to the simplistic finger-wagging of anti-religionist such as Dawkins, it is not the depth of experience that turns a faithful follower into a frothing fanatic. I would argue that religion, in many cases, may not be the poison, but is more likely to be the cure. 

Travelling around Morocco last year we were aware of the great impact made by international tourism. Along the roadside every few miles are little rickety tables selling something local whether that be prickly pears or lumps of impossibly coloured quartz or fossils. Setting down next to one of these is to invite instant attention -so desperate are the locals for some cash. Yet without these few pennies life would be even tougher and the kids' old shoes might just have to be fixed rather than replaced. In the cities the scene is slightly different and opportunities for the hard-working, the quick and the savvy are at hand. Tourists (such as muggins here) are easy prey and, often more than not, will have only fuzzy ideas about the value of something unless it has a neat price tag around it.  Add confusion over differences between currencies and they'll usually hand over more than they should. A life of crime may often begin with such simple exchanges with greed motivating the spiv to move onto more slippery scams.

Those without opportunity or connections may therefore resent the wealth and lifestyle of the rich. It is as well to dwell on the thoughts of our Marrakech taxi driver who whilst trundling his battered cinquecento through the impossibly narrow streets of the medina clearly expressed his usease at single European ladies that take advantage of handsome young Moroccan boys for sex (except he was too polite to use the term). This is nothing new of course, but that the morality of the exchange was still up for discussion illustrates that  Moroccan society still has a problem with the cultural values the tourists import.

For many Moroccans those opportunities for a quick buck might never arise. But even that will not inevitably lead people to blow themselves up in a touristy restaurant. Indeed people may live in relative poverty all their lives with a modicom of happiness and even self-respect. Perhaps this is the time for King Mohammad VI to show his true colours -he's already done a lot for Morocco and is widely respected.

In the recent past suicide bombing has been largely linked to perceived injustices, particularly in strife-torn regions such as Palestinian territories, Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Bombers may do what they do in response to invasions, corruption in power or politics. If one includes the perceived purity of religious sanctions for their actions and understand sizeable rewards for the families is forthcoming, then  it begins to look like a noble thing.

Some suicide bombers, however, are coerced into their activities. Vulnerable groups, the suicidal, and even children are sometimes given little option other than to do as their operational directors command. Their families lives may be as stake.

The difficulties with suicide bombing is knowing the motive of the backers. Some, such as the groups associated with al-Qaeda or Hamas, want to destabilize the region, polarize opinion and step in to fill the power. The murky world of these financial backers is linked to a simple but radicalized view of Islam (Salafism or Wahhabism), a retrospective glorification of the ideal early golden years of the religion when the religious warriors conquered large parts of the ancient near-east. In this regard blowing up mosques, particularly of those Muslims they regard as 'errant' such as Shi'as or Sufis, is an extension of the purification of the religion -God knows his own!

The attacks on non-Islamic or soft western targets (aka tourists) accomplishes many things such as raising fear or highlighting attention to issues that might otherwise not be covered in the western press. It's all about power.

So, if suicide bombing is so effective, why hasn't it been used extensively in the past? Suicide is banned in Islam. Interpreting the few passages of the Qur'an that mention it is an activity fraught with many difficulties (tenses and plurals, etc), but it is clear that this is not a route down which Muslims are supposed to go. So why do some do it? Effective jurisprudence: some scholars (with anti-western axes to grind) have interpreted the Qur'an in a way in which prejudices and half-truths are accepted and aggressive action justified (I'm afraid it was ever thus in all religions). Radical and reactionary these instructions may be, but they have led to a bit of a backlash amongst many in the ordinary Muslim majority. It's just not... respectable and people don't want it any more. There are even arabic TV ads that seek to change people's opinion of it.

Barring the hornets nest of 9/11 and the issues surrounding the Tamil Tigers, by far the most effective suicide bombs were used during World War II. A total of 2,800 Kamikaze attacks were waged against the allies in the War of the Pacific largely as a response to the decline of Japan's military capacity and the decision not to surrender. 'Death before dishonour' may have been the rallying cry that motivated the young pilots, but their efforts were ultimately futile.

Sitting in the Argana restaurant was a pleasant experience. I hope to do it again. I think, however, that a lot of Moroccan soul-searching will have to elapase before we are back in the square enjoying the madness of Marrakech. After all, the last thing Moroccans need is for their tourists to keep themselves (and their dollars) at home. 

Excellent Big Lychee/Hemlock's Rant on English, the ESF and Pierce Lam (who he...?)

A frequent diversion (in proper grown-up's language) on matters Hong Kong can be found at Big Lychee, a long-established territory-centred blog. I have yet to find a poorly-worded or ill-thought comment (by the author, at least).  Each entry is bang up-to-date and well-researched. The opinions can be quite scathing, but are generally fair -after all, this city of ours is a bit of a mad, mixed-up and contradictory circus and if you hang on for five minutes someone is bound to say something crazy or do something worse!

The blog has been around for quite a while, was hitherto known as Hemlock, and has connections with the wonderful, but sadly buried, Not The South China Morning Post.

I therefore have no hesitation in endorsing this blog -particularly the review, about two-thirds of the way down, of the recent outing by a letter written to the South China Morning Post by a certain Pierce Lam (Central) on April 11th. This finely-worded rant, it appears, hails from a Chinese with big fat chips on his shoulder regarding the use of English in Hong Kong, deep-seated reserve towards anything non-Sino focused and the pointlessness of the English Schools Foundation. The Big Lychee correctly points out that these efforts may have their origins in a troubled past. More worrying, at least for me, would be the effect such an opinion might have on a government policy-maker or, if such a position properly exists, government economic planner.

Heightened attention on China, and centrally-'controlled' Chinese economics in particular, is likely in the coming weeks. I think the news will all be negative, if not downright dire. It's tempting to become a doom-monger and hail the end-of-the-world (as we know it), but from desperate times often come desperate measures. I only hope that the English-bashing rhetoric of those such as Pierce Lam will be drowned in a sea of good-old Chinese common-sense.

Talking of which, aerial pigs are expected over Hong Kong skies anytime soon.

Christmas in the UK

I confess all my remembrances of the United Kingdom in the depths of winter have somewhat mellowed in the 12 sunny Hong Kong years since the last visit; mellowed from the glum reality of welly-boots that tramped down untidy muddy paths to muddier fields, of sweating in jumpers and coats, of seeing the poor fearful hares hiding miserably in the longer grass, of dirty dogs’ feet that never dried, of icy driving rains and biting Siberian winds, of the darkest and emptiest skies at 4.30 in the afternoon and of an unhealthy, pathological dependency on television. So this return visit was a bit of an unknown. It was quite a change to descend like Santa onto a black and white world –a frozen picturesque landscape and veritable winter wonderland!

I actually quite like cold weather, wrapping up and long walks. On Saturday morning (still exshtreehmly drhunk fhrom the hend of tehrm luhnch and dhancing the night away –hic!), I left a chilled Hong Kong at 6 degrees, but the cold weather there just isn’t pleasant. This is primarily because none of the buildings have insulation (from the heat or the cold) nor any fixed heating units (like central heating). It’s just not even considered. And visiting public buildings or shopping malls will not help: air conditioning, even in the very coldest of snaps, is unconscionably ubiquitous.

The first indicator that all was not going to plan was the flight plan that showed Manchester and not Heathrow as our destination. Barely a minute later whilst peering down over the wintry east Yorkshire coast and the whitened-out town of Hull, the Captain informed all that Heathrow was in danger of immanent closure and that because fuel was on the low side we couldn’t hang about and should make for Manchester. We seemed to instantly touch down at a very busy airport, so busy that we awaited nearly five hours on the tarmac. Without Ray next to me, I think my mood may have turned. Thanks, Ray, you and about 10 Bloody Marys saved my sanity!

Once through immigration there arose a chilly choice of continuing directly to Heathrow by bus through the night (courtesy of the fantastic Air NZ) or making one’s own way. Ray continued by rail to Daventry and I, along with an excitable tour group of Deutsche teenagers, took the former option that got us all down England’s slushy A-roads as far as the snowy Hilton at Watford. The Air NZ staff there did us right with 20 quid per room for personal use (needing nothing but contentment in a steaming hot bath). Not once did I hear complaints. As ‘arrivees’ our needs were few and easily satisfied: the news for the next few days highlighted the suffering  of those ‘departees’ eager to reach foreign climes or just get home in the other direction and the world pitied the Heathrow refugees.

Our second Christmas Day in Hong Kong was spent on South Bay where, apart from Gethyn Clothier, we were the only souls on the beach. The winter water was warmer than even the sandiest, most sun-kissed any British August sea could contrive. AND the beaches had cafes, lifeguards and astonishing views. As far as we were concerned, you could keep your jingle bells! In those early HK years everything was new, better, sunnier and more exciting. I recall ecstatically phoning our good friends Rachel and Bob in the UK from an empty beach on Lamma gushingly describing warm waters, cold beers, butterflies and the bliss it was to be alive in this demi-paradise. Their terse response was a reminder that it was bloody five a.m., still dark and they had to go to work in a couple of hours! Ho-hum…

Christmas trees, carols and fake snow also seemed anachronous to Asia’s World City where for a time I became a strict Confucian and viewed anything extra-Sino as a contaminant. I loftily and earnestly sought the very soul of The Chinese. I’m still looking, but now realise it might take a while...

Getting to Heathrow the next morning was eventless, but some considerable care was exercised manoeuvring the snow-covered hire car out of the skating rink that was the Thrifty car park. My exciting Top Gear report on Saabs is that they may be finely-engineered Swedish friends of fearless ice-bound motorists, but only when fitted with snow tyres.

I concede that the UK in snow, as everywhere I’m sure, gives every landscape a novelty and beauty. Back in the Winter of Discontent of '78 I was astonished to see someone ski down Oxford Street and wondered if I’d ever see the like again. This winter is certainly more severe than usual, but the snowy landscape has a bucolic, Brueghel-esque charm (that is until the salting snow ploughs turn the roads into dirty brown slush). Indeed, emerging from the candlelit carol service at Wells Cathedral into the snow covered cathedral green and passing under the Penniless Porch gave the feeling of being attuned to our medieval ancestry –had shivering folks not done the same for hundreds of years?

Christmas Day looks like it will be cold, possibly the coldest day thus far, and more snow is predicted for next week. My only earnest hope is that we are not marooned in the Mendips at the little centrally-heated cottage we have rented, that we will not be forced to frequent the Redan Inn public house next door and that I will be able to get back to work on the 3^rd January.

A very merry Christmas, everybody, and a peaceful and prosperous 2011!

 

Eins, zwei, drei -leere Ihr Krug! (One, two, three -empty your pitcher!)

Well, there it is -another first (surely can't be too many of those in life left?) in a German Bierfest.

The Hong Kong Marco Polo Hotel German Bierfest is in its' 19th year. It has the air of something not quite right for Hong Kong -a tent full of beer swilling foreign devils singing gwailo oompah...

Except, of course, the tent appeared to be full of locals (and a few of their paying bosses). Maybe it's a sign of how far (or low) things in the Territory have come that it is considered acceptable or even normal for ordinary Chinese folk to be swilling beer-jau with the foreign devils and singing along to the gwailo's dreadful oompah. Whatever next -will the Chinese begin emulating western-style elections with one-man-one-vote? Surely not.

 

Sitting with a contingent of decent Hong Kong Welsh Choristers, Bren was suitably attired in dirndl and skirt. Next year I must get me some proper Bavarian lederhosen complete with Bollenhüte unt edelweiss.

You can imagine the evening -beer, lots of questionable meats, beer, pretzels, red-faced chaps showing their knees, beer, alpenhorns, beer and... beer.

Brenda won the alpenhorn-blowing competition. I swelled (and continue to swell) with pride at her excellent blowing skills. This is a side to Bren that has not had enough airing. Prepare to hear the sound of the alpenhorn wafting across the Sai Kung hills.

Empire of China 1 – Empire of Japan 0

Pay tribute, kow-tow and be in awe of the great and glorious PRC!

So the China-Japan crisis has finally blown over with the release of the Chinese trawler skipper, Zhan Qixiong. His actions may have been part-panic part-belligerence, but he certainly caused one of the biggest international brouhahas in recent times. The Japanese have pleaded their case that the incident was not worth pursuing against the deterioration in international relations. It is clear from the customary near-hysterical rhetoric that the Chinese would not back down –never, as a matter of principle over pragmatism, as if national pride was a stake.

This sort of boating incident regularly happens all over the world. Coast Guards are supposed to intervene when faced with illegal fishing out there in the big blue yonder. Why, then, did this event threaten the stability of the region and lead to such unhappiness on the part of both governments? Why did the Chinese take such an unyielding, intransigent stance over a fisherman?

It has, of course, to do with history and how each nation sees itself.

The little Senkaku Islands (or the Diaoyu Islands if you’re Chinese) are a string of uninhabited islets between Taiwan and Okinawa about 340 miles from the Chinese Coast. They hold much potential not so much as opportunities for flag-waving by each of the three nations (Japan, China and Taiwan) so much as the staging posts for the mineral extraction on the East continental seabed. Just as the Russians staked a claim on future mineral wealth extraction from under the Arctic Ocean by planting their flag on the seabed, so are the unstated aims (of the acquisition of huge potential undersea gas fields) that underpin all diplomatic exchanges. But that won’t stop nationalists having a field day. 

That the fishing boat collided with the Japanese Coast Guard vessel is not in question. Whether the skipper was acting with malicious intent, negligence or sought to endanger other marine traffic is not so clear and will not now be judiciously assessed in a Japanese court. In fact, that’s not really the point. The incident highlights several religious, historical and social factors; most prominent for me is the Chinese Confucian perception of China and its relationships with quarrelsome neighbours.

China always sought tribute as part of its’ Mandate of Heaven which is something like the divine right to rule. The gods of heaven approved of the incumbent of the throne and rewarded his perfunctory religious and imperial activities with a wealthy China and happy subjects. Of course, only one premier enjoyed this privilege and only one nation (the biggest) would expect it without question. A Chinese emperor, therefore, could hold power only as long as the gods approved and the oligarchies kept him in power. Moreover, to fund the great imperial mechanism within which they thrived taxes had to be raked in and the bordering nations needed to know their place. That is why there was such emphasis on harmony –of both the celestial and earthly kind. It also meant China not only enjoyed this ‘right to rule’, but took pains to actively seek it. If earthquakes, disasters and famine stalked the land, it was surely a sign of godly disapproval. If rebellion caused the end of one emperor the gods, it was presumed, were happy with the new one! To the victor truly went the spoils. Under the de facto legitimacy of the Chinese Communist Party, the Beijing boys enjoy their rather strict harmony –perhaps even more so now they have added monetary, military and political clout as a means to secure it.

This stubborn need for legitimacy is as much a part of Chinese thinking as moneymaking, ostentatious displays of wealth and gambling. They give the Papacy a run for it’s money in terms of infallibility. Even the characters for China 中國 (which mean ‘Centre Country’) refer to a self-perception of China as being at the centre of the world. This is not hubris nor a projection of power, but a recognition of what a properly-ordered and divinely-sanctioned society must surely be. To the Chinese imperial mind-set no other nation was as civilized and none so blessed by the gods. The Emperor and the Forbidden City in Beijing were at the venerable centre of known universe and the further one traveled, the more barbarous the people. It was, indeed, the duty of the Chinese to influence their neighbours with all the munificence they could muster. Thus, even the invasion of Tibet in 1950 was and still is seen as ‘liberation’ and henceforth the Tibetans should show gratitude for the saving intervention of Mother China.

In the past, the neighbours therefore knew their place and paid tribute, either with words or gifts. It showed the order of things. From the words of Mencius,

"If one should try to prevail over others with force, their minds do not submit even though the people outwardly succumb to force. But if one prevails over others with virtue, then their minds are inwardly joyful and they submit sincerely, just as the seventy disciples submitted to Confucius. As The Odes says, “From west and east, from south and north, everyone submitted.”

Historically, the imperial policy was that no other nations could possibly be of equal status as China. It took a short drugs war with Great Britain and the Treaty of Nanjing in 1842 to force an amendment of this view. The unequal treaty, of course, meant a modification of the Chinese self-image, particularly with regard to the ceding of Hong Kong. Such loss of face in the intervening years was only really rectified after the 1997 handover.

Chinese loss of face also followed Japanese meddling in mainland China from the latter part of the 19^th century onwards. After the Meiji Restoration this once-vassal state took 20 years to modernise whilst the imperial Chinese languished in outdated opinions of its own greatness. The Japanese took their technology to war with the Chinese on-and-off for 50 years. Hence, the Chinese may now buy Japanese products, drive Japanese cars and eat sushi, but everyone knows who the real bad guys on the block are. Chinese school history books say it, the government says it and the recent actions of those wicked criminals across the Yellow Sea prove it.

So, to sum up, the Chinese government objected to the way one of its citizens was treated by a historical enemy and summoned more than enough invective to paint the Japanese once again as the bad guys. Their justification not only focused on the perceived unlawful detention of its skipper but also the question of ownership of the off-shore islands and historical perception of neighbouring states. There was no question of backing down to a lesser power in the sinosphere. The Chinese had nothing to lose but face and that just wasn't going to happen. Not now, not ever. With a Mandate of Heaven, China continues to teach the barbarians who's in charge. 

Contemporary Topical Latin Poetry and the Pope

I don't normally post other people's stuff, but I had to include this heard on the World Service driving home this afternoon. It's by a bloke called Adam Taylor who is, I believe, resident poet for the BBC, or perhaps only with the WS or maybe just for The World Today programme. The poems are read proper-like by a BBC announcer on the WS -there's a link on his website.  

Encyclica Britannica

Saluto populi.
Orbi et urbi.
Disturbi et perturbi.

Et tu Britannia.
Tua culpa.
Et sui generis.
Et orbis tertiis.

In nomine patris
et filii
et embryonicus sancti,
quo vadis?
Ad hoc?
Ad liberalismus?
Ad secularismus?
Ad egalitismus aggressivemus?

Toto est causa
per rex delinquante
in flagrante,
Rex Henry Octus.
Imperium in imperio.
Homo hereticus
et diabolicus.

Pax Britannia
est contra et versus 
pax Vaticana.

Habemus Papam,
Pontifex Maximus
et Germanicus.
Rottweiler Dei.
Capo di Tutti 
Cardinales.

Pontifico,
dogmatico,
pugnatico

contra relativismus
et homosexualismus
et matrimonia samesexismus,

contra contraceptum
et condominium
in Africanium.

Nil desperandum,
ego est pro.
Pro status quo.
Contra quid pro quo.

Pro memorabilius
et collectibilius
cum Benedictus.
Contra consumerismus
et materialismus.
Non est Christmas.

Pro dickensium
et chastitum
et celibatum.

Et paedophilio?
Mortificato
et discombobulato.
Convocato et censura
in camera obscura.

Et ultimato, declarato:
Anglicanis Prodigalis,
reverto ad Papa,
ad paterfamilias.
Ego Benedict.
Ego veritas.
Nil disputandum,
non est erratum.
Papa Benny
est infallibus.

 

Burn the Qur’an, burn the Bible and Dr Who

The (Reverend) Terry Jones [surely no relation to the Python below who is clearly a nicer bloke] relented and the Holy Qur’an remains un-cindered. A victory for public opinion? A direct result of national and international anger and political and military pressure? Happy with his 10-minutes of airtime? Thanks to Mr Jones we peered over a very steep cliff down which protrude many jagged rocks upon which we could crash (and probably no bottom either). There are but a few activities that whip up the passions more than book burning. Extremists know this and have used it in the past to rouse the great and generally unmoveable populace.

Book burning for religious and political reasons (and for sheer vandalism) is nothing new. In 2008 in Or Yehuda, Israel (and in 1984 in Jerusalem) Orthodox Jews burned any copy of the New Testament that came into their hands. Only 77 years ago, the Nazis proudly built bonfires containing all works connected in any way to Jews, such was their racial hatred. In 1204, the Crusaders barbarically destroyed the amazing library in Constantinople. In 48 BCE, troops under orders from none other that Julius Caesar burned the great and historic library at Alexandria, a loss that amounts to the most severe broken link between the ancient works of the classical and our modern worlds. Sadly, there are hundreds more examples of such literary abuses.

In the long and bloody history of book burning, or libricide, no religion or nation seems to been spared. It is, of course, a form of censorship, the banning not so much of the books, but of the ideas within. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence will know that the world changes when minds change and for that many books have been responsible. Books are, therefore, dangerous things. History, it is said, is written by the winners, but the losers often lose not just their place in the world but also their thoughts. The Inquisition of the middle ages waged a crusade against the Cathars in the Southern Europe and burned not only their heretic bodies, but also nearly all of their heretical Gnostic literature. They were successful. There are no more Cathars.

So, what would have changed had the Qur’an been burned on 9/11? Well, everything and nothing.

The everything is simple –the sight of the holiest aspect of Islam going up in flames would further arouse anti-American sentiment across the Muslim world. By further, I mean that where that is already demonstrable it would be seen even more. Even the moderate masses with TV images of a burned Qur’an fresh in their minds would take to the streets of the capital cities. Some with violent intentions would target anything overtly Christian or Jewish and the police would directly receive their anger. Undoubtedly people would be killed, further exacerbating the situation for many governments who would then be seen as siding with the offence. Crackdowns would ensue and thousands jailed. There’s nothing like a dose of prison to set minds rock-hard and for such to readily accept the black and white fundamentalist religio-political thoughts of those such as Sayyid Qutb or Abul Ala Maududi: our way or the highway! The world would be even-more rent by religious extremists. Actions of the Defenders of the Faith against soft targets, such as tourists, would be justified, celebrated and imitated… and so-on.

The nothing is also quite clear. For some, a clearly defined external hate-figure is more important than internal reflection or, God-forbid, intellectual development. Thus, those that despise the Great Satan and all of his works are already out there hating, conspiring, demonstrating and propagating their polemics and invectives. Yet one more example of rampant anti-Islamism in the West further confirms their self-righteous zeal. Yes, there would be demonstrations and killings, but there already are. Do the extremists need another excuse? Nope. Do the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan need more hostility? Nope. Are they expecting it? Of course.

Religious and political books are not the only things burned. The infamous Bonfire of the Vanities in 1497 saw wonderful medieval works of art perish in the flames because of the priest Savanarola’s firebrand preaching. The straight-laced New York Society for the Suppression of Vice sought an end to pornographic publications and saw itself as a guardian of public morality. It took to smashing plates and presses that produced ‘objectionable’ books long before anyone thought of using the First Amendment. Quite clearly it failed. In the United Kingdom Mary Whitehouse of the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association similarly disapproved of increasing public lewdness on TV not only of such comedic luminaries as Benny Hill and Dave Allen, but also Dr Who! Dr Who? Not quite on the order of burning a Qur’an, I know, but perhaps the thin end of the wedge…

Whatever you think, the threat to burn a book says more about the burner than the book. If your world is spiralling out of control and the enemy is at the gates, perhaps a symbolic pyre of pages is a cathartic act or a sanctimonious offering. Do folks really feel better after the immolation of ideas? If so, perhaps we should all do it. First choose your opponent (preferably a dead author or one who belongs to a minority), gather all their works and torch away. You could even sing a little song to celebrate your virtuous position in trampling their nefarious outrages. But be careful: as Ray Bradbury described in Fahrenheit 451, books can also be remembered. Now that’s downright dangerous!

 

Belfast Ale (and past Belfast Ails)

August 7^th Day something

Belfast Ale

Beatrice Kennedy restaurant, Botanic Avenue, Belfast

Having eaten lots… and I mean lots… over the past few days, the thought of going out to eat more would have seemed greedy, if we did not have some flimsy excuse to justify our piggishness: so to Beatrice Kennedy’s, a mere amble down the road from the Ibis Hotel, for an “exciting range of dishes”.

This standard Victorian house has been traditionally decorated in period dark greens and reds, landscape pictures hung and the odd ornament here and there, all of which conveys that established semi-antiquarian feel. The publicity write-ups were good and the menu, although short (six starters and six mains listed), covered all bases: certainly the steak and salmon were well prepared and, although not spectacular, certainly hit a mark (burp!).

We considered a wine to accompany, but were, as said earlier, just not hungry enough. The Belfast Ale was therefore a welcome diversion. A short head on a weak cola-coloured clear ale, the presence was initially understated, but in tasting filled a full and pleasant palate. The lasting effect was of a strong hoppity-hop accent and extremely maltyness –almost to the point of malt extract. It went down quite well and, if I had chosen a lighter course I think I would felt contented, but like a fool I ordered another and, on top of the steak and truffle mash, suffered for it: So much for my pursuit of Epicureanism through wanton noshing at the trough –perhaps a simple salad would have sufficed (and then a jog home and yoga and meditation and…)

Staying in Belfast has been interesting (and a wee bit chilly). Ostensibly we have been here so that Brenda could attend the Inclusive and Supportive Education Congress conference held at Queens University. But what has been of nearly as much interest has been exposure to Northern Irish culture, and perhaps working class NI culture at that, with the attendant outwards displays of ire and identity, tribal tattoos and inflexible invective. “Fair do’s to ‘em!”

I think it’s fair to say that most English-types (and many expats in HK for that matter) have created distance from our religious and tribal origins. There are few of us willing to lay down our lives to defend our identity as Wessex men and women, or East Anglians, Mercians or Northumbrians. Perhaps only those whose national identities have been threatened, such as the Irish, Welsh or Scots, have defended them as ferociously (although there are undoubtedly similar thoughts held by some Cornish, Cumbrians and the inveterate Yorkshiremen). Let’s not kid ourselves; English history is one of conquest. But despite the embarrassing World Cup St George’s bunting fluttering from Astras and Escorts throughout the land (as a kid the flag was always the Union Jack), few English would take to the streets to protest anything and none but those on the maddest radical racialist fringe would get fired up against their Irish Catholic or Scottish Protestant neighbours. Few would raise anything more than an eyebrow (at most a frosty few lines to The Times) in order to defend the Church of England, the established religious institution of the land with the Queen as head. Some might find time in the pub to voice disapproval of the prevalence of Mosques, but they wouldn’t dream of burning them down or knee-capping their Muslim neighbour’s teenagers. We have our freedom of speech and our tolerance for others, our love for eccentricities and delight in exotica. We had an Empire and direct threats of obliteration, barring the menace of Hitler, did not occur since the times of Napoleon. Perhaps, if the few extremists amongst the Muslim minority would get fired up, take direct action and cause a bit of mayhem, at most we’d call for greater police protection, but for now English sectarianism is wholly unpalatable.

This hasn't, however, always been the case. Popular English violent protests against anything Papish took place during the 16-18^th centuries, but perhaps took on more racist overtones following the large immigration of Irish Catholics at the onset of the industrial revolution. They came to work in the new factories, they helped build canals, roads and then railways. Their wave of immigration, of course, was one of many: such a regular occurrence since these Islands were first detached from mainland Europe, there is about as much chance of finding an 'indigenous Brit' as there is the Loch Ness Monster. For many it is a matter of interest alone, and perhaps not a little pride, that some may have Catholic Irish or Scottish Presbyterianism or even Jewish blood coursing through their veins. The last great wave of Irish immigrants, however, that arrived during the catastrophic peaceful decades that following the Napoleonic wars heralded a great change in British demographics, but to no more effect than shuffling cards. The Irish, Scots, Welsh and the English are a common people with different histories, accents, literature and power. And it is, as far as I’m concerned, the last point which holds most true.

That power is held in London is accidental. Had the Romans been defeated, or the Saxons or Normans for that matter, then perhaps the British capital might be Oxford, Winchester or even Slough: imagine that and be grateful!

I have great sympathy with those who have been denied power or the access to it: the world is full of such as these. And perhaps that is why the tenuous Belfast Agreement has held since 1998: it finally addressed the genuine grievances of a sizeable section of the community that had little satisfaction through the instruments of established British government.

It may have taken a thousand years to bring about union of English, Scots, Welsh and Irish, and this has undoubtedly come partly through economic pressure and partly through the sword. As much as an Independent Scotland and a United Ireland may bring out the William Wallace or the Michael Collins in many, the truth is that cash walks when bullets fly. Belfast is clearly prospering and long may it continue to do so. The defensive working class agendas proudly on display may hark back to a strong siege mentality, but growth can only occur with freedom. Perhaps the freedom from the demons of the past can be summed up in two lines I saw on the side of the Garrick Bar in the city centre:

 

“A nation that keeps one eye on the past is wise.

A nation that keeps two eyes on the past is blind.”

 

 

Red City, Red Wine

July 5^th Day 7

Café Arabe, Marrakech

Chateau Roslane, Meknes Les Coteaux de l'Atlas rouge

The great red city of Marrakech is a busy, if not mad place. I don’t think it’s possible to have a nice quiet walk down the street. Not that there’s much to see unless you enjoy street after street and row after row of scarves, leather slippers, leather pouffes, djellebas in all sorts of garish colours, tin lampshades, really, really bad paintings and silvery lady ornamentation.

Thus it is that behind the little shops (and some of them really are not big enough to turn around in) and through some unlit and uneven alleyways can be found the riads. These are literally oases of calm, the perfect antidote to the desperate pestering and exuberant adolescent haggling on the street. The riads are still.

Morocco really is a youthful society, with 30% under 14 years of age. They all want mobile phones and mopeds and they all seem to have them and often ably use both at the same time. Some of the older citizens have clearly had worse luck and it shows in their beggar’s rags and lowly occupations. Such is the vitality of the new populace that they all seem keen to establish a better future for themselves. None seem too discouraged by the meagre profits to be made selling the same old tat to the same old tourists: there’s a quick buck to be made and they’ll gladly do it.

So when a place like the Café Arabe opens its’ doors to the western crowd, those with sufficient disposable income and un-Islamic propensities to enjoy such things as alcoholic beverages and pork, the trail blazed must surely be enviably copied. Is this not where all societies lead? Maybe, but this is so very obviously a Muslim society where the mosques are crowded 5-times daily and social mores are still kept. It is difficult to imagine a British society where 98% profess Christianity and the churches are packed on a daily basis.

Still, Brenda and I arrive at the riad-cum-restaurant quite hungry for Moroccan fayre done well. We are the first to occupy the cosy downstairs dining area, the top floor terrace being full with those that like their beers cooled by the evening’s breeze. After ordering tajines, I enquire about the best wines. The waiter/sommelier obviously does not want to be modest nor boastful about something he may not have sampled. He mentions the Coteau de l’Atlas and he readily agrees: at 450 dirhams (£33/HK$398) per bottle he’s not going to pass this one up.

The Chateau Roslane Coteau de l’Atlas is full-bodied, being an obvious blend of Cab Sauv, Merlot and Syrah. It’s made to French standards (and this was premiere cru) and aged for 5 months –one or two too long for my palate.

The wine was well served and immediately soothed the palate. No rough edges. Overwhelming blackcurrant and blackberry notes really ticked the wotnots. It went very well with the warm aubergine salad starter and even better with the lamb and vegetarian tajines mains. At this point, however, the wine began to oxidise rapidly and mid-way through those mains the oaky tannins were very marked. By the time we’d finished eating I was struggling and Brenda was on the water. I wouldn’t say it was a bad wine by any means, but it had to be drunk rapidly to enjoy the full mid-range flavours. Best in youth? Possibly, but I drank some excellent Tunisian wine in restaurants in Tunis and Sidi bou Said and was excited by the feeling of the North African stuff most of which, I’m sad to say, stays home.

And so a lazy stagger back through some dark, empty medina alleys brought us to the intense quietude of our very own sleepy riad –us being the only, but quite grateful guests.

Looks like another Tory Dawn

I must say that, despite the hype and the hyperbole of the election campaigns and the tension and drama of election night, we're still left with the same old same old...

     

  

I'm certainly not a Tory, nor do my sympathies lie much with Labour. In many ways, I thought this election would throw up some change, some great seismic activity that would genuinely alter the way in which British politics is done. I suppose I've always been an optimist...

I suppose it's a good thing that the Greens got someone in at Brighton and that the BNP didn't get anywhere at all.

Watching the election on the BBC News website on-and-off during the day, it has become obvious that voting has been traditional and safe.

Having said that, it appears the big issues of the day have been fairly well aired. The leaders' debates were a welcome change from cosy fireside chat Parliamentary Broadcasts (although I'm sure those unashamedly continued). MPs, however, are still tarnished with the expenses scandals and Britain is still in a bit of an economic depression. Perhaps it was being suddenly faced with a choice that the voters opted for the familiar and only ticked the party names they knew. 

From outside the UK it seems Gordon Brown is an embattled, unpopular PM. He seems awkward and cumbersome, stuttering at the despatch box and barely able to fence off Cameron's boyish goads. Cameron, for that matter, appears polite and polished -the sort of well-mannered man your mum would enjoy having round for tea. Nick Clegg is always the Third Man, an apparently sensible guy who is included because he is well-liked and enjoys the multi-cultural mix of the new 21st Century United Kingdom.

Many reasons have been thrown up for the Conservative result -a reaction to thirteen years of Labour rule. Perhaps enough time has elapsed since the last Conservative government for the voters to forget quite how that felt: Thatcher and then Major keeping the blue flag flying throughout the 80s and most of the 90s. The Labour party, I suppose, has kept their majorities in many areas because they still have substantial support at grass-roots level. They were wise to keep Tony Blair away from the limelight.

And so to the Liberal Democrats. Clegg, despite having a favourable time of it in the debates and being a relatively young-ish leader of a young-ish party with what appears to be a different perspective, has not been able to break through the barrier that transcends good will into votes. And that's why they have always demanded a change from First-Past-the-Post to Proportional Representation. The trouble is, if that system was in place then the Conservatives would have an outright win of about 36% and the Libs would still trail third with only 23.

But I have another theory: it's the wives. Who would you rather have opening the door of No 10, taking your birefcase and enquiring with a smile, "Did you have a nice time in Brazzaville"?

Samantha Cameron has been the focus of much Fleet Street column inches. Sarah Brown has tried hard, but remains a bit of a Plain Jane. And Miriam González Durántez? Who she? She Nick Clegg woman!

 

There are, I am sure, as many reasons to vote as there are voters. Maybe the hung parliament will mean a jiggling political dance that thrusts newer faces to the fore. Maybe it will re-focus our political thoughts and generate meaningful debate about the direction our parties (and country) is headed. Or maybe we'll be ham-strung as in days of yore with another Lib-Lab Pact, which never worked in the past and will as likely sound the death-knell for Labour as it did after 1974.

Perhaps we should leave it to Private Eye to cut to the quick. A great front page, I think it's summed up the silly side of this Election, Leader Wives-Yes it's the Core! Vote

Saucy Sarah              Sexy Sam            The Other One

This election promised much, yet delived the same. It was so much fun, I think we've set ourselves up for another later this year.

At the 7s

I must apologise if I you have not been able to contact me lately. You see I've had a communication problem -my phone fell into my beer.

I'm sure you understand that being at the Hong Kong Rugby 7s is a wonderful way to see some top class 7s rugby in Hong Kong. The tournament has been around since 1976 and is now the one massive international sporting event synonymous with the territory. Each year I say I'm not going (too expensive, too much alcohol) and yet somehow we manage to get there (spend far too much money, drink way too much beer).

I must admit to a little euphoria over the Samoan win in the glorious final. Each year the mighty New Zealanders play the game at such high standards it is difficult for any team to overcome them. I witnessed everywhere in our travels around the Antipodes their incredible mothering of those good at sports. As a result, theirs are always the teams to beat: they regularly possess roles, particularly in rugby and cricket, as champions or, at worst, as favourites and their demises are always the result of true hard-won competition. (But what makes this even more fun is to see the crestfallen faces of their supporters, tee-hee, and I've met many an Aussie or Kiwi that finds it genuinely difficult to believe that not everybody loves them or their team.) So, when this year the Australians were knocked out by a strong England team and New Zealand was pipped at the post by those plucky Samoans the stands erupted into a chorus of part joy-part derision.

On Friday, I sat for a while in the South Stands, not as much a place to watch as be watched. I have spent many a fun 7s soaking up the atmosphere, meeting some incredible people, watching some intensely good games. Each year on our way home on the Sunday night we inebriatedly murmur that we must get our act together with others and dress up at the next as pink Ninja Turtles or en-belled Morris Dancers, but each year becomes yet another dressing up disappointment. One day...

Thus, I began the weekend as a good boy reading the papers and sipping a Guinness. It's always a job to know what to drink at the 7s. Do you go with the hoi polloi and buy jugs of Carlsberg or Heinyshmeiny? It doesn't taste like much but seems to go down well with most. There's always the Pims, which is great on a hot day, softies and even cocktails are now available. Cocktails! Who goes to a sporting event and drinks cocktails? Well, quite a few actually, including Brenda. They're not really cocktails, rather standard mixes such as Jack Daniels with Coke or Vodka with Red Bull, both of which we had and both suffered with. Even cheap Australian plonk is up for grabs now, and not just in the corporate boxes. And then there's pints of Guiness. Why Guinness? Well it's not a quaffing drink. It is measured and respectable, restrained and un-rushed. It has dark and weighty flavours to savour and a creature of visual elegance. It perfectly matches the beginning of a night and the end of a night. It also kills mobile phones.

I watched the Chinese beating Australia early in the first half -I believe the score was 10-5. I have seen such scores on the board before. A few years ago we happily sat with some lovely kimono-clad Japanese maidens (gentility personified) delicately chanting "Nipp-on! Nipp-on!" when their team took New Zealand into the first half with a considerable lead. I then took a quick shot of the scoreboard, but being too far away in the North Stands the pictured results were ineffective and blurry. The Japanese went on to lose, of course, but I had wanted to later share my scoreboard-induced happiness with a Kiwi or two, perhaps over a friendly beer. (I'm not sure Brenda equally shared my enthusiasm for lovely kimono-clad maidens: can't understand women.)

Sitting beneath the scoreboard I whipped out my mobile in haste and raised it to forever record the glorious moment. Unfortunately, my fingers fumbled and the phone fell straight into my half-drunk Guinness: dead phone. Despite immediately removing the battery and attempting to damp down the en-Guinnessed interior, I knew it was a gonner.

An American bloke next to me visiting from Malaysia let me use his phone to contact Brenda. But after that I was on my own -cut off and adrift in the South Stands with no way for anyone to contact me or vice versa. Feeling not a little stupid I waited and waited for Brenda. Although I looked at the entranceway for Bren to appear she stayed away. What was she doing? Entertaining the Australian squad again..?  About a half-hour later, I heard some blokes shout, "Richard!" I looked over but didn't recognise them and assumed they were calling for someone they knew. They continued, "Richard!" and pointed behind them out of the Stands behind the wire that keeps those in the South Stands a separate rowdy entity. There was poor little Brenda, sans Australians, waving her arms about surrounded by imploring faces. A great cheer went up! I felt a little foolish. By that time, the queue to get in was easily a hundred- or more- long and I hadn't anticipated it would fill up quite so quickly. 

So there you have it: Lots of drink (how quickly can you down two litres of JD & Coke?), lots of excitement and lots of useless jingoistic nationalism. Not nearly enough streakers on the pitch and one unusable Nokia with my soggy dates and connections.

It's the middle of winter so you think, 'summer holidays'...

It may still seem a little while off, but old age and bitter experience has taught me that those seemingly-long six months will disappear in a flash. In previous years I would leave booking flights perilously late (especially foolish if there are four flights to buy) and would annually regret it.

 
 (captions please)

In the summer of 1999 we travelled back to the UK via Sri Lanka. This was a great trip which could so very nearly have turned into a disaster. 

Not knowing quite what to expect, I had thought we could freely travel around the country on our own -on slow, black, chuffing colonial trains to Kandy, excited ritualised bartering in markets, lengthy afternoon sojourns at tea plantations, etc. Upon our 1 a.m. arrival at Colombo airport, however, we were instantly hailed by a succession of well-seasoned touts. My cunning traveller's resolve instantly evaporated and one of them secured a meeting later that day in which I was to agree to a minibus/hotel touring itinerary. It seemed like a good deal, it was safe and, apart from the chance of meeting a rampaging elephant let loose (which happened in Kandy), we would see all the great sights. What could possibly go wrong?

Let me say that Sri Lanka is breathtakingly beautiful. The people were wonderful, the hotels we used first class, the tourist sights truly memorable and the food nothing but superb. But Brenda and I were at once aware that although Sri Lankans may plainly adore children, they are a little fixated by blonde female ones. Thus we formed, perhaps unnecessarily, a constant and worrysome watch over our 10- and 11-year old progenies as affectionate hands patted shoulders and played with curly fair hair. At each stop postcard sellers and hyperactive children clamoured for our attention and money, but would then be silently beguiled by the light skin and hair of Rachel and Alys-Jane.

Our good Colombo driver had a fairly well-set itinerary along a well-beaten tourist track to well-appointed destinations. He was a great guide; he safely got us to our temples and ancient cities (such as Sigirya above), although my nerves got the better of me during any overtaking manouvre and I often found myself hurriedly turning to another page in a guidebook. He waited patiently whilst we dallied in museums and smiled even if we left late from our hotels. But, seeing our travel books and maps, he then asked us if we had any particular destination in mind. I recalled the name of a wonderful far-off beach described in a throw-away paragraph of the Lonely Planet: at its' mention all Sri Lankans, it seems, pause, sigh and repeat the name as a wistful mantra, 'Nilaveli'. On hearing this name our driver paused, did not sigh, but nodded and agreed in a 'your-the-boss' way. I asked if it was safe to travel north of Trincomalee (close to Tamil Tiger-held territory) and he quietly said, "Yeah -it's OK."

We encountered military roadblocks everywhere on our holiday and, as good currency-exchange fodder, routinely waived through, sometimes with a smile. But approaching the north the soldiers at each checkpoint grew noticeably more tense, the local populace seemed noticeably thinner and the countryside much less managed. At some even our good-natured driver was asked to step out of the minibus and be searched. The going became slow.

Trincomalee was a shock: nearly every house was severely damaged and there were many without roofs. Everyone walked, bicycles being the mode of transport for those with jobs and the few motor bikes we saw had multiple passengers. One flew past us, the riders openly carrying rifles: My God! I'd taken our children to a war zone!

At an intersection a bike pulled alongside the van and the riders gestured. Our driver wound down the window and exchanged some pleasantries, but it didn't sound like the relaxed Sinhalese he had spoken everywhere else. We had truly left the (albeit-overwhelming) security of the south.

  

Nilaveli beach lived up to it's description; tall sturdy shady palms, a pristine azure sea lapping at pure silken sands, the mysterious off-shore Pigeon Islands, troops of cheeky grey 'hanuman' monkeys and a happy herd of cows which merrily munched up and down the beachfront. The beautiful, large hotel was near-empty and we found ourselves desperately welcomed as financial saviours. In Trincomalee the government kept hotels open to give the impression of 'business as usual'. The next morning at breakfast a low distant 'bwooom' confirmed in me just which one of the local businesses that was -the next hotel had been bombed and four people killed.

But,we reasoned, we're British! Didn't we go through the blitz and all that..? So we stayed another night! We sat on the beach in a war zone. We swam in the sea in a war zone. We drank the local coconut tipple 'arrack' in the evening in the empty bar in a war zone. We even arranged to go to the Pigeon Islands and snorkel on the truly unspoilt reef. A local man took us out. Laying his thick-set dhoti-wrapped body in the spartan shade on the blisteringly hot beach, he suspiciously glowered at us from cold, distant wall-eyes. I feared kidnap. As we splashed around black-tipped sharks swam in the near-distance of the pure clear waters. At that moment I tightly held the hands of our two innocent daughters afloat in the pristine sea and thought, "We're swimming with sharks, accompanied by a really dodgy character in a bombed-out war zone. What have I done?"

Back on the hotel beach shell seller after shell seller approached us, strings of precious-looking conches. Each time we refused, being very good environmentally-aware tourists. Their faces dropped and they walked off to... we didn't care. We felt virtuous saving the seas and all that. Seeing that our children were writing diaries and sketching, one asked if we had any spare pens or pencils. It was only then we realised the truth: No-one came here whilst the war continued to rage and the few that did brought with them the only means to a meagre income some of these people could possibly hope for. We could leave -they could not. Luxuries, like stationary for their children, were rarities if not absent altogether. Unlike their dumb parents, the girls instantly understood and silently zipped up and handed over their pencil cases. The shell seller's face lit up, as if given one of heaven's prized boons. I glanced at Brenda. We felt stupid and ashamed, but our children's actions aroused in us much pride in them. 

The closer we came back to Colombo the more our driver relaxed and eventually confided. The guys that spoke to him at the intersection in Trincomalee were Tamil Tigers. Because he had grown up and been to school with Tamils, he could freely converse, using swear words and the correct invectives. They assumed he was one of them and waved him on. If he had spoken a word of Sinhalese they would have shot him. 

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Last night Brenda and I ate at AJ's, the relatively new Sri Lankan restaurant in Sai Kung. Great food and good ambience -we will go back soon. Beautiful Sri Lankan scenes played on the flat screen TV at the back of the restaurant. It brought it all back.