Richard Peters -in the Sai Kung Country Park

Vegetable Rights and Peace!

There aren't many days I am genuinely inspired to visit a restaurant. Let's face it, we all want to be wowed by plates of the finest fayre, exotic combinations, dazzling culinary creations that prove the worth of the visionary creator, but the compelling feeling to get up and go to visit a restaurant is usually not one of inspiration. It is usually one of mere need for satiety, both of the stomach and posing variety, or of inquisitiveness –testing out the water, assessing for future visits, bragging rights, etc. But although I was inspired for different reasons to have dinner up the Eiffel Tower,  I was inspired by wholesome and healthy vegetarian zeal to visit the Grassroots Pantry. I was not disappointed.

The Grassroots Pantry is tucked away in Sai Ying Pun -the old residential part of western Hong Kong that used to be called Victoria. It has a history going back to the original 1840s British settlement of the territory although nothing from that era remains apart from the street names. Located at the end of the teensy-tiny Fuk Sau Lane, blink and you'd miss it: remember it's on the corner of Third Street and the winding Pok Fu Lam Road and you'll be all right.

Until recently I didn't get into much of a quiver about a load of old vegetables on a plate, however it would be delivered, but over the past few months the Memsahib and meself have become a tad more vetable-ish. That's not to say that meat hath not crossed our lips, but to use an iTunes analogy, instead of it being in the Most Favoured Playlist, it's now relegated to the Country Music section -rarely if at all visited and more often than not deleted. Actually, just as a warblin' suth'n blue grass tune may appeal most when accompanied by copious amounts of Suth'n Comfort, so also does the cooked flesh of dead animals. This, of course, may also occur at the time of the day when one's culinary judgement may not necessarily be at its best and probably accounts for the prevelance of devilish, late-night, aromatic Kebabery throughout the city centres of the world.

Hence, we have taken a little more consideration regarding our food. To be precise, we have taken a little more consideration with regard to where our food has come from. As a teacher, I thought it my duty to encourage children to make informed decisions about the food they eat, particularly the meat many claimed not to able to live without -perhaps the most obvious philosophical decision they will make on a daily basis –thrice-daily, even. So I would start with the housing and slaughtering of chickens and ducks and the treatment of sows and their unfortunate 'suckling' piglets. Those being the most commonly eaten meats of the general Chinese population here, there was not time to mention lambs and cows, although a short description of the contents of most of the sausages they regularly consume was usually enough to end on a high (or low) point of popular revulsion. Chicken Nuggets? In most cases they simply had not given it any thought. They had almost no idea how the animals were raised, transported or slaughtered and knew even less about how their meat was processed. Check it out here.

In fairness, the Chinese have until recently had a pretty good idea about fresh ingredients, particularly meat. Resembling medieval faires, 'wet markets' display their wares for all to see, animal and vegetable, and it quickly becomes obvious what is safe and what is to be avoided. The first exposure to live chickens and squiggly fishies ready to be dispatched may arrest the casual camera-wielding observer, but in a city of high heat and humidity freshness and food safety has always been ensured. Well, nearly always. Unfortunately, the plague of Bird Flu put a stop to the Mrs Wongs of this fair city blowing on chicken's bums to gauge the health of the bird from the... response, and the plague of Swine Flu threatened to put an end to pork and humankind altogether! Not many now shop exclusively in wet markets: as enjoyable as it is, most people simply haven't got the time.

So, with inspirational, high-minded quasi-Buddhisty thoughts of animal welfare, we visited the lovely Grassroots Pantry for our daughter's birthday lunch. It is exactly how a restaurant of this kind should be with the focus on good food and on about as much of a bohemian experience of thoughtful veggy life money can buy. And I must say, it ain't that bad. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was one of the best vegetabalist lunches I've had. It even smelt right!

Vegetarian food is often of a folksy, home-made quality, where the chef has obviously undertaken a course in macrobiotics and left the paying customer with chunky soups, unadventurous salads and not much more. Unfortunately, it sometimes looks like a pile of vegetably vomit. At the very least, the chefs at Grassroots Pantry have thought not only about the ethics of eating, but also of the taste, texture and even the presentation of their dishes. It's not cheap, but neither should it be.

The hand-made menu is hand-written with cute hand-drawn illustrations of each hand-made dish. The starters were tasty, if a little small, and the mains were rich, if similarly portioned. The smoothies were delicious and filling and the deserts a little heavy and in need of the excellent Ethiopian coffee to make its way stomach-side. I had good reports from Alys and Victor of the Blueberry Cheesecake.

Utilizing their philosophy of local, sustainable and mostly organic foodstuffs, they aim to serve 'nutritious, homemade, plant-based world dishes'. And Peggy Chan (far right in photo), their chief chef, clearly knows her stuff having served in many excellent locations in Canada, Switzerland, Tokyo and Hong Kong. Her love of vegetarian food and of how good it can be is evident in each dish. They also host culinary schools of various hues –I might just take advantage of their next wine dinner. As well as a lovely shop-front patio area, they also have a larger room for hosting parties around a long table upstairs.

I knew it would be an excellent restaurant lunch –even without any sort of alcoholic nuances. We left full but not bloated, thoroughly sated but not soporific. If this is healthy eating, then I'll be coming back for more. And it's not only me that's inspired -check out this lovely girly review. Inspirational!

Easter Hols and Lethal Booze

'Tis but one day away until the school holidays -yippee!!

We of the chalk-dusted teaching profession, like everyone else, cannot help but count down the days -the release of tension on the last day of term is clearly palpable! Bye-bye kids (at least for two weeks).

As a kid, the Easter holidays was always a bit of a strange fruit -obviously a welcome relief from teachers, times-tables and sums, but it always seemed a 'reasonless' holiday. Yes, we'd all feel sad when listening to the story of 'pore Geesis hoo died... nailded on the cros... four are sins...' but I could never quite work out the necessity of these two weeks off school.

I mean, the summer holidays were made for you to go away to Margate, Weston-super-Mare or Hastings, and Christmas holidays were so that you had enough time to play with your toys. Easter, however, remained a bit of a mystery. It was always too muddy in the garden to do an  easter egg hunt, so was it made for us to shed tears watching Robert Powell playing a poor, suffering Jesus of Nazareth? Was it for scoffing Easter eggs or roast legs of lamb? Was it for going to church -a whole holiday so we could go to church even more? Blimey -a grim prospect! I'd rather be back at school...

Whatever the real reason, we blissfully entertained two fun-filled weeks with the Six Million Dollar Man without early get-ups, much as we as adults do now. Given the chance, I'd like to have the option of remaining in bed a few more hours. In truth, even if I have the option to stay in bed I rarely do so beyond 6.30, unless a taxing evening's enjoyment preceded and therefore precludes it. I think you call that ageing.

Easter remains a sweet time of year, especially here in Hong Kong. By now many of the trees have flowered and even a short walk will fill the nose with a blend of really delicate perfumes. I simply adore it!

Back in the UK it was about this time each year I used to make Beech Leaf Noyau -an astonishingly strong alcoholic concoction from the pages of Richard Mabey's excellent Food for Free. This old French recipe is so easy:

• Pick very young beech leaves (so young that they are practically transparent)
• Place in sweety jar with a lot of good gin
• Steep for a few weekx (three is best, or untiil  it turns a luvley green)
• Strainnn off the gin
• Boill sugar in water to make a sryrup
• Add a glash (or two) of brnady
• Bottle -if theresss abny of the sthuff lefft

S'lufffffly!!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Christmas has always dominated the end of the year: it's all twinkly and sparkly, all jolly and presenty. As a kid, nothing could beat it -not even a birthday!

I know that we always tut-tut about Christmas in the shops arriving earlier and earlier, and some of us may hark back to a time when decorations were put up quite late in the season (for the Memsahib it was Christmas Eve!), but according to the liturgical calendar those Christian festivities have to begin at a much earlier date than most of us might be comfortable with. In our medieval hitherworld, when festivities were the true punctuation marks of the year, festivals meant something. For the poor, it was a chance to take part in a whole-community event where they could avail themselves of some decent grub and grog. For the wealthy, it was a time to shine and gain merit through benevolence.

Let's begin with All Saint's Day (November 1st -the wedding anniversary day of the Memsahib and meself) which is included in the winter festival category. It is a day to recall the bond between those in purgatory, in heaven and on earth. Over time it became, at least in the west, a solemn commemoration. In Mexico and the Philippines, however, it is a bit more of a party known as the Day of the Dead Día de Muertos and Todos Los Santos/Undas/Araw ng mga Patay respectively.

Advent, the four weeks that lead up to Christmas, for me will always be the time for opening the chocolatey advent calendar doors and trying yet again to build that tinsley Blue Peter coat hanger advent crown. More recently, child-orientated Christingle Services have been established in churches sometime in advent. These modern ceremonies are another pretty way to introduce to kids some nicey-nicey Christmassy Christianness -one lit candle lighting all the other candles in a darkened church is an obvious symbolic reference even the smallest child can understand. 

Saint Nicholas Day, or Sinterklaas, remembers the great bishop of Myra who cured pickled boys in Asia Minor and paid the dowry for poor girls to avoid their being driven into prostitution. From him, of course, we obtain our Santa. One the most popular saints of Christendom, his feast day is still celebrated with vigour, particularly by the Dutch who look forward to his coming up river on a special boat from somewhere exotic (like Spain) with cheeky attendants, the Black Peters (Zwarte Pieten) who enjoy handing out presents and placing them in the children's clogs. We have even celebrated this fun-packed event here in the little Anglo-Dutch enclave of Ko Tong Ha Yeung!

Of course, other religions also have winter festivities at this time. It begins on the day before All Saints Day (Hallowe'en) with Samhain, the first official day of winter for the Celts and neo-pagans. It is the ritual end of harvest time and an occasion to remember the dead. Diwali and Hanukkah, the Hindu and Jewish festivals of light, appear a little later. Bodhi Day, on which Buddhists celebrate the Buddha's great enlightenment, is also in early December. Chinese New Year then usually falls on the second new moon after the winter solstice. Of course, the 31^st of December, New Year's Eve, is non-religious but is steeped in rich tradition, particularly in the form of Hogmanay. New Year's Day, once the start of the medieval Feast of Fools, was also a day where Lords of Misrule elected from the populace parodied the high offices of official religion. What larks…

Christmas Eve precludes the eventful next day, but has itself been eventful enough. It was the day in 1914 on which the Christmas truce in the trenches began and, in 1969, the day on which the Apollo 8 astronauts viewing the earth from the orbit of the moon awkwardly read from the Book of Genesis "In the Beginning…" -the most watched televised event at the time.

Here in Hong Kong, Christmas is a time to reflect on the Battle of Hong Kong 1941. This year will be the 70th commemorative anniversary of those dark days. No doubt aware of the atrocities being meted out on the citizens of the colony, Governor Young walked into the Japanese Headquarters at the Peninsula Hotel on Christmas Day and surrendered the territory. The heroism of the doomed defenders and the medical staff of the hospitals is tragic and legendary. What is less known, perhaps, is that of Gander, the Newfoundland mascot for the Canadian Royal Rifles, who died defending the wounded by carrying out a thrown hand grenade towards the oncoming Japanese. He is now recognised and has been posthumously awarded the PDSA's Dickin Medal.  

Christmas contains the 12 Days of Christmas or Twelvetide: beginning with Christmas Day, with the Feast of St Stephen on Boxing Day, Childermas (the Feast of the Innocents) and ending in Twelfth Night or Epiphany, these were supposed to be days to lighten the hearts during the longest nights of winter. There was little farm work to be done, so the ordinary folk made merry together.

In recent years we have celebrated a few Twelfth Nights  –massive feasts which have required carefully planning: twelve sets of guests, twelve courses and twelve wines (which have to be paired). These all had to be co-ordinated so that each was unique and would flow in a good and palatable sequence. So enormous was the gargantuan event, that even though the portions were quite small, we had to request the guests did not eat at all that day. Each course was previously prepared and sent out on the half-hour, the providers of that dish also bringing the paired wine. Once served, the providers then finally wash up the dishes in preparation for the next course. We began at 6 and ended at 12, although by then most guests were beyond the unbuttoning waistcoats stage and had dozily retired to sofas or were viewing the stars from around hot braziers on the roof. Making sure the food was hot enough, or sufficiently chilled, or that the soufflés had risen or that the garnish was right took a little organisation (not to say pride on my part as far as the soufflées are concerned) and the result was a stupendous banquet hard to forget and which genuinely brought folks together.

Below is the first and possibly the simplest menu from 2007: 

Starter	6.00	Crudités & Canapés	Cocktails
Soup	6.30	Butternut Squash	Sauvignon Blanc
Fish	7.00	Salmon	Asti Spumanté
Salad	7.30	Yam Sommo	Gewürztraminer
Eggs	8.00	Soufflé	California Pink White
Veg	8.30	Paneer Makhana Curry	Pinot Gris
Sorbet	9.00	Lemon	Semillon
Red Meat	9.30	Pork Meatballs	Zinfandel
Fruit	10.00	Poached Pears	Sherry
Fondue	10.30	Fondue	Chianti
Pudding	11.00	Cake	Sauternes
Ice Cream	11.30	Meringue	Muscat

It was to this particular even that our friend Kay Pike brought the meat dish. Earlier this year we sadly heard of her sudden death in the Channel Islands.

Christmas may be all about family fun and an opportunity to celebrate life, but it is also a poignant time to remember those that are no longer with us. That, I suppose, is inherent in festivals: we celebrate, commemorate, remember and look forwards -experiencing all those emotions is draining, but it must be why we do it every year.

Peace on Earth, good will to all men?

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 overt sanctimonious 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.

Hmmm... I like Christmas.

Puppies!

Yes, yes, yes, they're very cute, but puppies are transient things: they don't stay puppy-like nearly long enough -in no time they'll be tearing around the place weeing and gnawing the chair legs.


The Memsahib's morning constitutional is a purfunctory activity and she likes to get it over and done with as quickly as possible so that everything else in the day can also get done. But, as the great Rabbie Burns once quipped, 'The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley' and, at the end of her swift pedestrain perambulation to Wong Shek pier this last week, she discovered a couple of fluffy teddy bears (below) hiding amongst the bins. Seeing their pitiable state she brought these terrified two home at once -and that was it for any attempt at work for the rest of the day!

They are a delightful pair. The female's nose and pads is cutely black, the male's pink -like a little pig! Their little creamy labrador coats are in good condition, their sharp needly teeth and their stuffed bellies mean that they were only recently abandoned -one cannot help wondering quite what the poor whelping mother makes of her recent loss.

One cannot also help wondering quite what kind of person thinks it a kindness to dump puppies. I like to think of myself as possessing an even temper, able to see both sides of an argument, tolerant of diversity and respectful of opinion. That, I'm afraid to say, goes straight out of the window when I consider the imbecilic, heartless, mental machinations of someone that abandons puppies in the Country Park. Unless people (other pet owners, I presume) find them, then they'll be torn apart by feral dogs or run over by senseless speeding drivers. If they manage to avoid these dangers (by avoiding human contact), then they will slowly starve to death within a week at most. Fuck tolerance!

Despite all that, we have enjoyed hosting two more attention-hungry puppies and they have enjoyed our company, our food and our security. They're about 6 weeks old and a joy, but we decided last year that we'd not take on more than our current 3 in the near future because our career plans are likely to change and that could mean leaving HK.

Download "Daisy is a cutie" video

We have, of course, done all this before with each of our dogs; Squiddly (and her late sister) were found just outside our house under the bridge, Buster the poor emaciated English Mastiff nearly perished in the woodland around the village until the village pooled contacts and eventually found us, we saw little Ronnie wandering pitifully outside the Sai Kung McDonalds, Barka we adopted (thanks to my helpful daughter picking one up from the kind ladies at Sai Kung Stray Friends), and so on. The only dog we bought was a female Mastiff we saw being kept in a Sai Kung pet shop cage too small for it's growing body. Although she was beautiful, we eventually had to have her put down when she bit someone. One of the most unhappy things I ever had to do.

I know many are starving out there and orphanages full of abandoned children. Their needs must be met, but our environment is now also our responsibility. Those without a voice must be our concern. The rhetorical question of Cain, "Am I my brother's keeper?" (the first question in the Bible asked by a human) can, of course, only be answered in the positive. I believe this affirmation must be extended to the animals and plants of our environment. Their rights, regardless of whether they understand them or not, must be upheld -that is our job. It is our responsibility to heed the voices of the dispossessed, whether two-legged or four, which are sometimes difficult to hear.

So we have two adorable pups who will probably be rehoused quickly. They have good natures and are (relatively) clean. We're doing our bit, but someone else must adopt them, take them home and enjoy some lifelong canine company.

J.R.R. Tolkien and the effects of being a Catholic

Humphrey Carpenter's 1977 authorized biography, Tolkien, has been a fascinating read. His emphasis on the reflection of the man's life within his written work is probably spot-on: it is, after all, family approved. What comes distinctly through in his evaluation of the great man's life is his devotion to Roman Catholicism.  But to say that he was a bit of a catholic is to say the sun is simply a bit of a source of heat; Tolkien's identity was fiercely catholic, his life was moulded in reaction to popular English sentiments against it, he saw his writings as an embodiment of true catholic identity and integrity.

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's early years in South Africa were abruptly curtailed by his father's sudden death. His mother sought solace with her family back in Birmingham. Later, together with her sister, she found a spiritual satisfaction in Roman Catholicism switching allegiance from the family's traditional Baptist, Methodist, and Unitarian traditions. The family's reaction was unfortunately bigoted and they set about disinheriting her. This fact alone must have created such bitterness in the loyal and loving Tolkien boys and they faithfully remained forever within the adopted tradition. When John met and fell in love with his future wife Edith, their future plans had to begin with her catholic conversion and a full catholic wedding.

Tolkien, however, adopted more than just a method of worship, an understanding of creed and a taking of catechism. He adopted a world view that recognised the universality of Catholicism (with a big 'C') that had its' unalterable and unquestionable foundations in truth. This view did not accept any variation of catholic identity, such as those found within Anglican or Lutheran assumptions (which he considered plainly erroneous and irritating) and his personal relationship with C.S. Lewis was often tempered by the latter's rejection of Tolkien's reasoning and denomination (he was a Protestant Ulsterman, for God's sake!). In short, Tolkien intellectualised his catholic faith, it coloured his mind, tempered his relationships and filled his written works. 

But before you whip out a pencil to begin underlining passages of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings that you reconsider reveal Popish propaganda, you'll have to understand that Tolkien never really wrote about his catholic faith, directly or by allegory. Indeed, he didn't like allegory.  When his publisher Stanley Unwin suggested an allegory between the Lord of the Rings with the German Nibelungenlied, he wrote, 'Both rings were round, and there the resemblance ceased... Do not let Raynor [Unwin] suspect "Allegory". There is a "moral", I suppose, in any tale worth telling. But that is not the same thing. Even the struggle between darkness and light... is for me just a particular phase of history, one example of its pattern, perhaps, but not The Pattern; and the actors are individuals -they each, of course, contain universals, or they would not live at all, but they never represent them as such.' This, of course, emerged from a deeply romantic view steeped in a love of pre-Shakespearean literature and in so much Anglo-Saxon and High German subject matter -his professional wordsmithing life. 

Let's face it, Tolkien was a bit of an old fuddy-duddy. He lived a very conservative (one could argue 'reactionary') lifestyle in suburban houses with no TV, marking schoolboys essays for cash during the family holidays at seaside resorts, mowing the lawn, cycling to mass in the morning and sinking into a mass of disorganised paperwork in his office at home. Literary success didn't change him -he continued to undertake many of these mundane activities and on regular shopping trips and at lunch would count the pennies. His inner thoughts were, however, as high and developed as any could be -his philological mind was, quite simply, astounding.

As a writer, John Tolkien took his time. A perfectionist, he had to draft, review, reorganise and re-write nearly every word he wrote, to the point where his colleagues and publishers were clearly infuriated. He was fastidious about detail, seeing the life of characters not only in their nuanced and natural dialogues or through accurate narrations and descriptions, but in the undeniable truth of the existence in their world, even down to the accuracy of the maps and history of place names. In this he was a universalist -a catholic. He appreciated detailed enquiries from fans and saw in them a justification for his care. It can also be inferred that although there is never a direct referrence to religion per se, his writings are permeated with it; the old world and the new, the champions and villains, those with integrity and those in perfidy, the powers and counter-powers  -even in the elves, dragons and wizards. One could argue that The Lord of the Rings is one of the most moral of all moral tales. 

This biography is the worthy description of a quiet life, but also of a extraordinary mind. Even though it is plain that Tolkien must have been a difficult man, one cannot help extending much respect, if not a little love, towards him.

Breaking Bad

I suppose we all have our standards about just what constitutes a bad person -a drug dealer, a gun runner, a thief, a murderer. We like to feel that we're doing pretty well in terms of morality and, in truth, there are probably few amongst you that would fall into the 'really, really bad' category. After all, there's been little need for you to break the law, the rules and the conventions of society.

Piaget observed that children under 5 understand that they have done something bad because of punishment. Breaking crockery, regardless of motive, must be wrong because getting caught breaking plates will result in undesirable punishment. In truth, children under 5 simply do not have the mental equipment or control to follow a coherent and established morality. They simply have to be told what is right or wrong. For many adults, however, the recognition of punishment still underlines their morality in the 'if no-one gets hurt then it's not wrong' line of thought.

Children gradually develop a less egocentric perspective of morality. They eventually establish morality as a system of moral codes in the same way they understand rules in a game like football; charity is good, selfishness is bad. In turn, children develop empathy as they become part of a social order and eventually have a vested interest in knowing the system that sets up rules about themselves and others.

There is another more advanced stage in which the individual sees that the rules of the system, no matter how compelling and coherent, may not always be universal. In this case the individual might chose not to obey some of the rules, not because he/she is naughty, but because the rules and the order may not be right. This, of course, is where great things are done, where the individual's role in society, in law and in conventional morality may create new thinking and codes of behaviour.

Breaking Bad, now in it's 4th Season, is a American series that deals with this issue. What is excellent about it is that the acting, script, production and characterization are excellent conveyors of the issues that surround the moral question of what would you do for your family: Dallas this is not. From the first moment we are drawn to Walter White, chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with lung cancer. The sometimes hilarious road to hell he starts down begins when his desire to secure financial care of his wife and family through the proceeds of making crystal meth and selling the product via one of his old students, Jesse Pinkerman. Being familiar with the method, but unfamiliar with the means of disposal, the hapless Walter and Jesse immediately get on the wrong side of the law. Murder and misery ensue and we are left in no uncertainty about the effects of this product on those less able to resist heightened levels of endorphins. The net result, indeed, is that the very thing he seeks to protect and care for is destroyed and Walter loses his family.

At the outset this might sound like a miserable thing to watch and there have been moments where I have felt troubled by the direction of this series. But, along with the immensely enjoyable acting and magic detailed moments, important questions are raised; can we really do anything to protect our family -can we kill, break the law, threaten others, lie, cheat and steal? The answers are neither immediately forthcoming nor easy. Leaving to one side the issues surrounding supplying drugs to a highly-structured and highly-individualistic society, as well as the moral minefield that rings legalization, the implication appears to be that public and private morality are not such very distinct and divorced things. Break either and you attain nothing more than unhappiness.

Many, of course, have broken conventions in order to reach higher goals. Religious founders, philosophers and freedom fighters have each been celebrated because they have done things the rest of us could not or would not have done because of our fears of punishment, rejection or death; Socrates chose to drink hemlock rather than submit himself to inferior moral subjugation by the law-makers of Athens in the belief that his act help establish true Justice, Jesus accepted death rather than compromise his moral teachings with his society's moral teachers -I'm certain you all have your favourite freedom fighter who chose not to run away and endured much in their quest for liberty. What is different in the case of Breaking Bad is that the higher cause (of caring for the family) is so quickly subsumed in the unbearable moral compromising that comes from making and selling Class A, Schedule II (Schedule I in HK) drugs.

We're half-way through Season 3. Season 5 is set to conclude this emotional roller-coaster ride -I'm looking forward to see more of what happens to poor old Walter White.

Les Saintes et Les Solistes

The Memsahib and meself are sujourning for a week in the City of Light. Having never been here together we are doing the touristy thing, visiting the museums, eating at restaurants and attending concerts. Last night's shorty took place at the Sainte-Chapelle, the astonishing royal chapel and sumptuous reliquary on the Île de la Cité that once glorified God and the Kings of France -and not necessarily in that order.

The general disposition of the musicians of Les Solistes Français, under the direction of Paul Rouger, made theirs a pleasant and energetic outfit. They clearly enjoyed playing together and this came over specifically in the performance of Vivaldi's Four Seasons.

   

That there were only 7 of them and that they sounded more than their number also testifies to the quality of their musicianship as it did to the incredible acoustic qualities of the medieval jewel of a church. They may at times have been a little rough around the edges, but made up for it through their enthusiasm and sheer joie de vivre.They get about a bit all over France performing over 120 concerts each year which, if they all last but an hour, is lovely work if you can get it. They also personally flogged their CDs on a table outside the venue: vive les entrepreneurs! 

The extent of stained glass alone (600m²) make this gothic wedding cake a jeweled marvel. Each panel in each window is unique. It would prove a vain attempt not to use superlatives in reference to La Sainte-Chapelle because it does appear to be the very finest medieval building I have seen.

The glass gives a biblical narrative from Genesis to Revelation, looking back to the confirmation of divine presence in the past and prophetically insinuating the affirmation of that presence in les Capétian's titular veracity -Dieu clairement approuvée de Louis!

The miracle of architectural vertical emphasis is accentuated by the employment of very slender columns that appear to defy gravity and is further emphasised by the high deep blue ceiling decorated with a myriad of golden stars which on closer examination are revealed to be fleur-de-lis.

There are very few square inches of the rich interior not covered in gilding or painted stucco. There are two dominant themes: the fleur-de-lis on azure background (representing the French monarchy) and of the Towers of Castile on royal red (representing the heritage of Blanche of Castile -Louis IX mother). Strictly speaking, these may have been an invention of the restorers, but the whole effect is of a stupendous symbol of French medieval monarchy and all that it stood for. 

There are 12 large pedimented statues represent the presence and blessings of the disciples. Many are replacements of those lost during the Revolution. Indeed, apart from two fires and a flood, the majority of the damage done to the this building was happily meted out during the iconoclastic excesses of the violent Révolution française -a third of the glass had to be replaced. It was obvious to the mob that this shrine represented the power and status of the kings: the irony of it is that the damaged church was restored in the mid-19th century using public money.

The initial investment in the construction of Sainte-Chapelle was astonishing. Consecrated on the 26th April 1248, the French crown invested 40,000 livres in the building's fabric and decoration alone. But that was a mere snip in comparison to the  further 135,000 livres on the purchase of the relics (the crown of thorns, a fragment of the true cross and many other precious relics including nappies of the infant Jesus) from emperor Baldwin II of Byzantium who had pawned them to Venetian intermediaries. Yet another 100,000 livres was spent on an elaborate silver chest into which these fabulous relics were housed and at Easter time the chapel was opened to the public who could queue up to pay homage to these relics. (1 livre = 1 pound of silver)

Such an investment was a sure-fire way to promote the king of France from a local bigwig to the champion of christendom, from an aspiring wannabee to the centre of the european religious world. The only French king entitled 'saint', he tried to fulfil the duties of the model christian king; forgiving whenever he could, protecting christendom wherever he could, burning Jewish libraries wherever he could, crusading against the heretical cathars in southern France whenever he could. He even attempted to go on a proper crusade twice -once in his 30s on the 7th Crusade when he attacked Egypt (and spectacularly lost, having to pay a ransom of 40,000 livres) and once in his 50s on the 8th Crusade when he attacked Tunis (and spectacularly lost, got a severe dose of the trots and died). We visited his tomb at the spectacularly empty Cathedral de Saint Louis overlooking the city of Tunis. Such was his reputation that quite a number of places around the world are named after him, such as the obious Missourian and Michigan cities and many other places across the world.

The Revolution changed everything in France. As we are told, the downtrodden won and asserted their liberté, the unequal demanded égalité and knew that there had to be a certain fraterneté in order to work it all out. I can't help but reflect how the rois de France in their magisterial assumptions must have engendered such antagonism resolved only in the cutting off of the wicked serpent's head.

We (and I mean us living now in the western world and not those poor buggers currently living under dictatorships) have inherited a social order comprising individual liberty without our having to revolt against powers that be, equality without our having to seize, loot and burn palaces and a certain fraternity of that oh-well-we're-all-in-the-shit-and-should-just-bloody-well-get-on-with-it feeling. So well-won are these privileges that I cannot begin to imagine even demanding a revolution, erecting barricades or storming bastilles. In comparison, the social revolution of the United Kingdom that enabled this tranquility to occur took place slowly without bloodshed in the inter-war years and, mercifully, without the need to be led by a bare-breasted Marianne brandishing both musket and flag. As a result, our monarchs still have their heads and we have acquired our freedoms: vive le manque d'une révolution!

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. 

Joan, is the Pope a Catholic?

Pope Joan didn't last very long in Hong Kong: December's preview at the Broadway Cinemathéque and a couple of days screening at the IFC Pacific Place then -'puff!!'

Despite unfortunate difficulties, the producers appeared to use their $22 million wisely on good actors (John Goodman as the pope, David Wenham as Count Gerold -Faramir from Lord of the Rings and the lead role of Johanna Wokalek), on lavish sets and on seamless CGI inserts of a post-Roman Rome. But each clichéd scene could have been pulled from a copy of Cinematography for Dummies -smoke on the water as the lonely boat drifts downstream, orangey fire streaming from burning windows as the Vikings rampage the wedding scene...

It must be said I expected just a little more. The acting, particularly of the children, was stilted and the dialogue painfully stiff and wooden -lots of unecessary expansions of ordinary verbal contractions (cannots and will nots) that only make sense if an un-English speaker had closely edited the script. This uneasy small talk falseness simply killed it for me and I found my attention increasingly bothered to the point where I cared little for the development of this girl's unhappy story. On more than one occasion I was itching to leave my seat: Sönke Wortmann's uninspired direction lacked originality and was a german as the Kaiser's cock.

The movie's 'philosophical' pitch:

Basically, a woman becomes pope! The idea for the movie as a feminist dailectic of womanly involvement in matters ecclesiatical was a rather thick stick to beat a tired old debate. There was little to endear even in the love interest. Although the portrayal of brutal male figures may have properly represented the chauvenistic hegemony in it's true 8th century light, this theme did not move the film into new ground, but merely served to irritate: Brutal (English) father, the priest of the village, returns home to find his pagan-converted wife telling harmless tales of Wodin to the young Johanna. He punishes and rapes his terrified wife whilst instilling good Christian virtues. The children flee and hide. I mean, could it get more dumb?

Of course, through accident and design Johanna becomes a scholarly cleric, meets and falls in love with a handsome young Count Gerold and when forced to flee takes on the monks' cowl. I don't think I'll be spoiling things too much for you if I tell you that she takes an interest in medicine, goes to Rome, cures the Pope of gout, wins his trust and upon his death succeeds to the papal throne. By this time she is firmly esconced in the arms of Count Gerold again (who has just become commander of the papal army) and she becomes pregnant. She is, of course, a sound and thoughtful pope. In her final moments Gerold is cruelly assassinated and she publicly miscarriages and dies on the steps of St Peter's.

This Pope Joan is an adaptation of the 1996 novel of the same name by Diana Woolfock Cross. I will not bore you with a cross-referencing of either. Neither will I discuss the details of the legends of Pope Joan. I think the story has, over the centuries, been so contaminated by those with axes to grind, whether catholic or anti-catholic, that the truth of the matter can no longer be properly determined. It's not a historical story, but many years ago I remember hearing that upon her eventual discovery she was ripped to pieces by an angry mob in Rome.  

Other films, theatre productions and even a musical have been made on this theme, The Devil's Imposter (1972) starring Liv Ullman being perhaps the most famous.

Another problem I have with these blasted historical outings in ancient Rome, Greece or Egypt is the likelihood of filming (with cheap extras) somewhere like Tunisia or Morocco. The actors are obviously American/North European doing their thing in front of a population of cued-up and obviously non-plussed Berbers. I mean, aaaargh!!

So, forgive the rant, but I didn't feel particularly moved by this outing, either in the characterization (Wokalek's fragile portrayal left her quite unbelievable) or even by the story. I think I was looking forward to this a bit too much.

But maybe I'm wrong -other reviews are favourable. At least I've added a few pics to brighten up the blog.

Hallowe’en vs Guy Fawkes

I recall as a kid being asked by a teacher to divide the page into 12 and pictorially represent each month. Some months were easy –February for snow, August for holidays (not any more –we have to be back at school mid-August these days), December for Christmas. I remember that the autumnal months were particularly exciting –October was for Hallowe’en with all the spooky stuff and November Guy Fakwes Night with the accompanying fireworks spectacular, AND both those days were within a week!

My dear old mum was not pleased with my artwork. “Hallowe’en is an American festival. We don’t do that one.”

I fumed and protested: the idea that a festival entirely set up for the kids, for sweets and practical joking was too good to excise on my mother’s mere patriotic say-so. But each year came and went and Hallowe’en remained unobserved: not as much as a “BOO!” as a boo-hoo! I swore that as an adult I would insist that trick-or-treating would be at least as important as Christmas gift-giving and singing stupid old carols.

As parents, Brenda and I welcomed Hallowe’en with the kids. Moving to Hong Kong made it easier to admit foreign customs (even American ones). They saw the fun side of things and made it their own –Hallowe’en’s trashy and crass and all the better for it! Embracing the darker side of life, the aspect of skulls, death and spooks reminds us all the there’s something else out there which we don’t understand and making a joke of it takes the sting out of the tail.

Actually, Hallowe’en has its origins in Ireland. As a custom, it’s perhaps no-more than two centuries old. It’s folklore is steeped in a deep Celtic past and the true origins are lost to common memory. It takes place at the beginning of winter and is associated with end of the all life of one year and heralds the beginning of another. It has been appropriated by neo-pagans as Samhain, the ancient harvest festival. The next day is All Saints Day, the day in which all saints have homage -both the living and dead. It's also our Wedding Anniversary.

Guy Fawkes was a revolutionary English Catholic who plotted to blow up the King, his family and Parliament in the old Palace of Westminster. Dramatically discovered at the last moment on 5^th November, he was gruesomely tortured and confessed to all. Had he succeeded, England would almost certainly have reverted to the old faith and the history of the British Isles and beyond would have been very different.

The celebration of the capture of the traitor Guy Fawkes has always been widely celebrated in England. His effigy has been made into ‘guys’ thereon. His gunpowder treason has never been forgotten and has been a reminder of Popish plots to undermine the Crown or The English Way. Indeed, an Act of Parliament made the celebration of November 5^th an official holiday and was held thus until 1859. The guy is ceremoniously placed on the very top of the bonfire, his burned form captivating children and adults alike.

It is unlikely many of us English burn our guys with an anti-catholic verve. And the stuffed shirts, trousers and balloon heads still dragged around town simply represent the necessity to raise sufficient money for exorbitant Standard fireworks.  This, of course, cannot be done here in Hong Kong where anything gunpowdery is strictly controlled. And that may be a good thing. After all, do we really want to be exporting a custom tied to the torture and execution of Guido Fawkes and his like?

On 31^st January 1606 two of his fellow plotters were hung, drawn and quartered. Guy himself, although weakened from torture, followed them to the scaffold to await his fate.  Having asked King James I and the State for forgiveness, he was helped by the hangman to climb the ladder. He managed to jump and break his neck, so avoiding the excruciating pain and suffering of castration, live disembowelment and dismemberment that would have been his awful lot. The sentence was carried out on his corpse and the parts summarily displayed in the four corners of the kingdom.

Brenda loves the toffee apples, hot potatoes and chestnuts of November 5^th, but I’m more content with bands of happy face-painted kiddies knocking at the door for sweeties and not too bothered about standing about in a muddy November field around a smoky bonfire with dangerous, expensive and disappointing fireworks filling the air. 

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!

 

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.

A Bad Hair Day for Olympus

Well, you know how it is –a rainy afternoon with not much to do (plenty to do, actually, but would rather not do it) and an hour at the pictures beckons…

Clash of the Titans is a another predictable (perhaps a little too predictable) Hollywood/British remake of that title. Not having witnessed the 1981 Larry Olivier wonder, and aware that Greek myths have rarely made the grade in any Tinseltown production, we nevertheless made our way somewhat open-mindedly to the Broadway Cinematheque. The BC is a great treasure in Hong Kong. As cinema complexes go it’s none-too fancy, but the two shops (bookshop and cafe, the other DVDs and mags) always adds spice and interest to the day, no matter what's on.

Sam Worthington, as the hero Perseus, has recently popped up here and there, mostly as a convincing but inveterate scowler (think of his howling angst-ridden half-Terminator and paraplegic blue Avatar outings). He recently performed in a domestic Australian setting of Macbeth in Melbourne which, by all accounts, was truly one to miss. Based on those performances alone I think I would rather welcome back Russell Crowe, the tender-happy-chappy he must truly be. Put it this way, I preferred him scowling rather than the cringe-worthy half-smile forced at the very end. I didn't really care for his performance and didn't care for Perseus -we knew all along, don't we, that there's never any real danger that the demi-god wouldn't scrape by somehow.

 Liam Neeson needs no introduction, but he clearly put his four pence-worth into the proceedings as a Zeus much troubled by naughty human insouciance: apparently they have stopped worshipping him and have begun tearing down his statues. 

He allows his brother Hades (Ralph Fiennes) to wreak wevengeful havoc by weleasing the kwakken on the next solar eclipse –that’s just eight days away, oh no! This wonderful theme could have been much developed, if the writers had had the courage to discuss even briefly Man vs God.

I must say that the most watchful character is Fiennes, who seems to relish any role in anything he does, his appearances a little over-theatrical, but hey, this ain’t no historical docu-drama!

A word or two about the myths. We often today use the word incorrectly, akin to ‘lying’. Myths in the ancient world, like the story of Perseus, were common and well-known. As the secret love child of a lustful Zeus, Perseus was famous for killing Medusa and defeating the Kraken. But his was really a moral story connected with hubris, accepting one’s fate and overcoming adversity. Rather than being held aloof from human affairs, the Greek gods epitomised human foibles. It is true they were set up as set examples of role models, but they also fought, had sordid love affairs, chased, raped and murdered (with both/either sexes). They demanded a certain respect and decorum and an almost over-religious piety in their devotees which they duly received and reciprocated the worshipful relationship with their boons and astonishing answers to prayer the like of which would amaze attendees at Lourdes. For example, the biggest shrine to the healing god Asclepius in Epidaurus, contained hundreds of little wooden legs, arms, eyes –thankful offerings of just about any part of the body given by those healed at the shrine. Myths may be just stories about the gods, but the Greeks took it all very seriously and were clearly as devoted as any Roman Catholic or Muslim today.

Of course, the real Titans were the sons of Gaia and Uranus who themselves were overthrown by the youngsters on Mount Olympus. These stories stagger out of the Bronze Age, imbued with an archaic mysticism hard for us today to comprehend. War in Heaven? Patricide and cannibalism? Now THESE are great stories which should be in motion pictures!

There is one little appearance of the mechanical owl, Bubo, which apparently appears in the 1981 film. A gift from Athena it leads Perseus towards the Stygian Witches. However, in this version Perseus  merely picks it up on his way to begin his quest and is simply told to 'leave it', perhaps the only nod to the aforementioned film.

Clash of the Titans is not a serious movie, but it tries to be in its’ own meta-world. I think I might have enjoyed the 3D aspect more if I was 10, but the most impressive aspect were the Chinese subtitles -which really stuck out!

*

After which, and as a complete contrast, I popped in a cab and made my way to the Cultural Centre for a rehearsal of Handel's Messiah (due for performance on Thursday Night). The Hong Kong Welsh Male Voice Choir are holding sway for the first half and then many are staying to help out with the Oratorio in the second. Tickets still available, etc, etc.

*

After which, and as another complete contrast, I thence proceeded to Ned Kelly's in Ashley Road, Tsim Sha Tsui whereupon to chew fat with said choristers whilst listening to the excellent live trad jazz on offer there. Poor Brenda, awaiting in a public bar in Sai Kung for me to finish, swing past, pick up and whisk her off home, when mein host Mike Brown (larger the life proprietor) insisted we have another: an offer impossible to refuse. We return for Round #2 on Thursday...

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. 

-

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.