The Yellow Menace

The Lost Green Balloon

2010-08-02T21:53:00.005+01:00

Off topic. Nothing China. Just a few words about a little girl.

My daughter just turned three. She got her first helium balloon on Saturday. She brought it home from a party, proud as punch. For the whole of that afternoon, wherever she went, the balloon did follow. She took it outside. "Don't let go, Lulu", I said. Lulu let go. The balloon, so sluggish and obliging inside the house, slipped through her fingers as if it has been waiting an eternity for the chance of flight. We watched it make its great escape into the firmament together. I assumed it would be a gentle lesson in basic physics. It turned out to be a hard lesson in loss.

It's been incredible to see that first tragedy of my daughter's life play out. After the event, she didn't stop crying for a full hour. Real crying. Wailing. Inconsolable wailing. Thereafter, it's been forever on her mind. I said the balloon was off on adventure. It might make it to China. Chinese grandma and Chinese granddad might even find it and bring it back. The consolation was momentary. "But how will it come down?", "How will they find it?", "Think balloon will pop."

Tonight, at bedtime, we went through our daily ritual of bidding the world goodnight. Each night, we come up with a long list. Things and people. To start with: Goodnight Things.

"Goodnight Cup," she starts. As always.

"Goodnight bed, goodnight curtains, goodnight ceiling, goodnight wall."

"Goodnight balloons," I say, gesturing towards the bunch in the corner of the room, provided by English granny by way of ameliorating the sadness.

"Yes, goodnight balloons. Goodnight green balloon. But not this green balloon. Goodnight one green balloon. In the sky." A face stained with trouble and angst.

More than two days after the event, my daughter is laying in her bed, troubled. Deeply troubled. Deeply, sadly, shatteringly troubled by the plight of her balloon, her friend, flying by itself, lost and lonely, into the night.

A threshold has been crossed. My little girl has just realised the world is unkind, and that things disappear, things are lost, things die, and those thing don't always come back. And seeing her learn the lesson is one of the saddest, most beautiful things I have ever experienced.

That's all.

China's Weakness - Reflections on a Two-Month Stay in the Hinterland

2010-04-04T15:46:00.017+01:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about something James Fallows, former China correspondent for The Atlantic Monthly, said. "China has many more problems than most [people] can imagine, and its power is much less impressive up close," he wrote earlier this year. Having just returned from a two-month stay in Zhaoqing, Guangdong province, a city seemingly condemned to permanent 'third-tier' status, Fallow's observation resonates. Bombarded, as one is in western Europe, with news of China's inexorable rise, its single-handed salvation of the world economy, its world besting infrastructure projects, its can-do spirit, its new billionaires, its gobbling up of African and Latin American resources, its super-smart hackers, its warehouses stuffed with US treasuries, its easy to get a serious inferiority complex: China is the future, the west is spent. We might as well start kowtowing now in the hope of mercy down the line. And then one spends time in China, away from the glitz and glam of the showcase cities, and it takes only a very short period of time to realise the idea of 'China as superpower' is quite preposterous.

None of this should surprise me. I've lived in China long enough to know better. However, the power and penetration of the news media's favoured narrative on China is overwhelming, particularly if you take your lead - as I increasingly do these days - from the business press (it feels almost galling to write those words, but I canne deny the truth. I'm a paid-up Economist subscriber). The reasons for the existence of this favoured narrative are, I suppose, complex, and range from the political (a need for a more easily defined model of an 'enemy' than any that Al-Qaeda could provide), the historic (the near-destruction of our entire socio-economic system in 2008 opening up the possibility that there may be an alternative), to the pyschological (the confusing attraction-repulsion one feels towards hulking brutes [think of China as a nation-state Stanley Kowalski]). However, an important part of the explanation must lie in the fact that those charged with reporting China to domestic audiences back in the west are, to a man, based in the showcase cities, immersed in a sub-strata of Chinese society which I know, from experience, to be tremendously exciting, impressive and utterly unrepresentative. Obviously decent reporters will routinely get out and see life outside the FCC bubble but its my suspicion that, regardless of a journalist's professionalism and work ethic, the bubble in which they exist will come to be seen as the norm, with the impoverished, brutish and backward hinterland being seen somehow as exceptional and exotic. Wen Jiabao, the Chinese premier, made a similar point during the recent NPC when he urged overseas journalists to get out and report more of China's problems (presumably as a means of easing political pressure by dampening expectations of what China can and can't do).

China is an increasingly polarised society. Yes, there does exist a supremely impressive, educated, forward-thinking elite asking really interesting questions in science, engineering, and IT etc. which exists almost exclusively in China's major metropolitan centres (Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, Chongqing), cities that are, in parts, genuinely developed and genuinely impressive. But, for my money, rather than leading China into its destined golden age, it seems this elite (and perhaps even this group of 'first-tier' cities at large) is growing more and more distant from majority China, which languishes, frankly, in mind-boggling inefficiency and ineptitude. If superpower status is conferred by statistics, China is doing just fine. If it is conferred by genuine economic and political strength, China is a long way from where it needs to be. Much is made of China's double digit growth. Yu Yongding, a researcher with the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences and a former member of the central bank's monetary policy committee, said in 2008 that for China, "a growth rate of less than 9 percent could be called stagnation, while other countries would regard it as high growth." Seeing life up close in small town/city China, I suspect more and more that the reason for this is that the nine per cent is cooked by government investment, much of which is squandered in inefficiencies, and bank loans which are unlikely ever to get repaid, with only a few percentage points of genuine, real growth. Heck, I'm no economist, and its probably unbecoming for me to try to write like one. I am fairly sure that anyone who relies on official statistics in China is playing a dangerous game. I guess all I know for sure is what I have seen, and what I see is astonishing inefficiency in a system - a public system at least - that operates according to knee-jerk dictate, and that remains entirely blind to genuine need. Anyone who retains faith that the Communist Party of China can reform itself, along with the nation it governs, is ignoring both the reality of life in majority China and the very powerful lessons of history.

My chief piece of evidence to back this up is the 'redevelopment' of Xinghu Dadao, the road that runs in front of the place I've stayed for the last two months. The major change has been to widen the road to four lanes each way, which is itself an inefficiency as two lanes would be more than sufficient were drivers educated to actually understand and follow basic rules on the road (as opposed to adopting the current Darwinian system whereby haulage trucks do as they please and scooter drivers give way obligingly, regardless of logic, decency or right of way). In the eight years that I've been in or around China, nothing has changed in this regard. My wife cannot drive for toffee but has a driving licence earned by holding the steering wheel of a large truck as it made a straight path along a highway for a few miles. But that's a whole other story: back to the matter in hand.

Xinghu Dadao has been earmarked for redevelopment for some time and, during my last visit, back in June 2009, work was underway. Familiar as I am with the whole 'China sprouts skyscrapers quicker than vegetables' cliche (mainly because I've used that exact cliche myself in some of my more frothy travel writings on China), I fully expected the project to have been finished by the time I got back to Zhaoqing in January this year. It wasn't. The chief change was that the pleasant greenery in the central reservation and the large roundabout just below the apartment window had been replaced with freshly churned earth in anticipation of a totally unnecessary new layering of greenery. Nevertheless, almost as soon as we got back, there was a flurry of activity. The roads around the roundabout were macadamized with indecent haste (aside: I have spent years wondering why roads in Zhaoqing were not tarmacked in the same way as they were in, say, Hong Kong. My wife's answer, very typical in China, was that, somehow, conditions locally were sufficiently 'different' to render this technique to be 'unsuitable'). Work began at 6.30am and, one night at least, went on till past 3am. It didn't take a huge leap of logic to figure out that somebody in local government had their eye on Spring Festival, two weeks away, and had a promise to keep. And then, suddenly, everything stopped. Spring Festival came and went, and still tools stayed down. Some time soon after a lone workman came and drilled the area around one of the drains in the newly finished road, leaving a gaping hole virtually in the middle of the road. A flimsy cordon was erected and remained there until I left last week.

The pavements were equally as haphazardly done. Large swathes of the hugely oversized new walkway had been complete, but no one section was properly finished, so that - if you were, as I was - walking with a pushchair, you were better off on the road. As with so many things, pavements in China are there to create the impression of modernity and convenience, but try and use the damn thing as a pedestrian and you'll soon realise where priorities really lie. The chief problem was that the work was patently being carried out by people who had no clue what they were doing. I walked past the workers on a daily basis. They spoke Mandarin and looked every part the 'migrant labourer'. They appeared good, decent, honest people. But the fact remains that clearly nobody had ever trained them to do the job they were currently doing, and for all their sweat, they were doing it badly. I was only in town for around two months and some of the sections that were freshly paved back in February were actually falling apart by March.

The same was true of every aspect of the work. Trees were torn out and replaced by near-identical trees etc.etc. I talked to many people about this. My wife's argument was fairly typical: the incompetence was quite deliberate. Leaders wanted to do the job badly so that it could be done again in a couple of years time. Or, conversely, they had no interest in ensuring it was done properly as they would be moved onto different projects, different places by the time things began falling apart. To my wife, such a project was merely a means for local leaders to earn money from contractual kickbacks etc.etc. I tried to argue that at the macro level, you can't really 'make money' by wasting money. Somebody, somewhere, has to pay and the needless haemorrhaging of money and resources is damaging to both the economy and to the environment. But the more I thought about it, the more I began seeing, and understanding the short-term logic of this Soviet-style central planning system. Employment is bolstered, local industry is boosted and leaders are happy. As long as someone else is paying, things are fine. But the question remains: who exactly is paying?

Some time later I rode out past the newly paved section of Xinghu Dadao. About a kilometre east, the road disintegrated into dust and ruts. A friend suggested that it would be years before this section was worked on as it was not part of the central showcase zone. In China, a road to nowhere is a very useful thing political. Those trying to use the road for a more traditional A-to-B purpose are not the priority, clearly.

Xinghu Dadao is just one example is how things work when one gets out of the major metropolises and runs into the brutal backwardness of small-time China. There are many, many more. Sometimes it felt as it everything in Zhaoqing was built in order to disintegrate. Nothing lasts, nothing is preserved. Everything is run into the ground, trampled by the sheer weight of numbers and scuffed up and manhandled by a society in which there is no notion of the common good, and no sense of needing to work together to maintain and preserve. Out in Zhaoqing, community has ceased to exist, it seems to me, and selfishness is almost pathological. The universal hopelessness in the face of the power of local government has absolutely created the justification for almost everyone - ordinary, normally honest people - to act with total selfish abandon on the basis that everyone else is at it. There is no sense of participation, only a stoic acceptance that things are the way they are and that one needs to find a means of getting by in spite of the adversity.

All of which has given me the very distinct impression that, for all the headlines, and all the achievements, and all the bluster, China - try as it might - will never be able to defy the lessons of history. The stitches will come unpicked; the train will judder off the rails; the steamroller has to run out of fuel - use whatever metaphor you like. To reiterate, I'm no economist, I'm no politician, I'm not even an 'expert commentator'. But I do feel emboldened by knowing that my perspective on China is from that of 'majority China' - the small, slightly backward, 'developing' city - and, boy oh boy, it's not a pretty sight.

Colin Thubron and Me

2009-03-04T11:07:00.005Z

I was up at the Royal Geographic Society in London this past week for the Travellers' Tales Festival. Luckily (given the cost) it was everything I had hoped it would be, adding up to a huge shot of inspiration straight into the central nervous system of my slightly flagging writing career. There were one or two lessons in humility on offer too. No matter how high up the ladder I may (or more likely, may not) get, I hope that, were I ever to be invited to speak at an event for which the paying public was forking out more than £100 to attend, I would put in a modicum of effort by way of preparation. A textbook example of how to do this was Colin Thubron's, fascinating lecture on Sunday afternoon (which I hope to transpose and post selections of, as I get the chance this week). It was a joy from first to last, peppered with ancient quotes and fascinating insights. Thubron really is that most desirable of hybrid entertainers, a scholarly raconteur, a guy who can charm, and educate and inspire all at once. There were disappointments: Steve McCurry, most famous for his National Geographic shot the famous Afghan Girl, proceeded with his lecture along the lines off, 'Here's one of my pictures, and here's another one, and this was taken in Panama, and this guy was really funny...etc.etc.', though I think this was more to do with the nature of the man, rather than any malevolent intent to jip the audience out of a few bob. Then there was the odd debacle. The Telegraph's Travel Editor, Graham Boynton, conducted an 'interview' with his fellow Rhodesian, Alexander McCall Smith, and it was painful, and fairly boring to boot (through no fault of Smith's, I should make clear). There did seem to me to be a certain arrogance and contempt on display when, after about 10 minutes, Boynton said, 'Mindful of the time, I thought I'd open up questions to the audience', which could well have been translated as 'I haven't got a clue what to ask next, so, go on, do your own work you snivelling wretches'. Few hands went up, and the questions were mainly about the TV version of Smith's books. Literary it was not.

No matter, I still left the RGS buzzing. I swapped business cards with the editor of Conde Nast Traveller, the online travel editor of the Guardian and Time Out's group chairman. I had the great pleasure of running into the man who kick-started my own travel writing career, Shanghai legend Mark Kitto (whose first book, China Cuckoo, was published last week) . However, as lovely as it was to see Mark after many years, the biggest thrill was reserved for last when I got none-ovva-than Colin Thubron himself to sign his latest book for Lewis and Louisa, even managing managed to offload a business card on him in the process. I asked if he had ever been to [my Chinese hometown] Zhaoqing.

No, he said.

I live out there, I said.

Oh, are you a teacher? he asked.

No, I'm a travel writer, I replied, my adoring tone conveying not one iota of the indignation I was now feeling.

Oh, what have you written? he asked, as if in challenge.

Oh, just some guidebooks for Frommer's, the AA and a small American publisher.

Oh, I haven't heard of those, he sniped. Miserly old bugger. No, no - I jest (see, I am still adoring). He was a gentleman and there was little derision in his tone, as you would expect from a man commonly dubbed England's great living travel writer. Competing with a start-out guidebook writer is slightly beneath him and any competiveness implied in the above was merely in my head. Though, as I recall, it was about at this point that I said, 'Well, if I may be so bold, let me give you a business card'.

I actually used those words. If-I-may-be-so-bold.

Poor bloke probably didn't know what hit him - some Basingstoke Barrow Boy talking like Uriah Heap and claiming to live in a part of China that even he, the quintessential windswept English adventurer, had not been to. Apologies Mr Thurbon. And thank you very much for signing my book for the kids. If nothing else, you have two guaranteed future fans. I'll make sure of that, don't you worry:)

Talkee True?

2009-03-03T11:11:00.003Z

Check out this hilarious and fascinating excerpt from a 1932 copy of Shanghai's Cathay Hotel Magazine which lists some essential pidgin English phrases that all colonials could use to communicate with their native underlings. Language really is an amazingly flexible thing. Stuff like this makes me want to retrain as a linguist - well, that and burn my passport.

Elaine Chow at Shanghaiist makes the point that several pidgin English phrases have entered common usage in the Western World, among them "Long time no see (好久不见)" and "no can do (不能做)". To Elaine's list the expression "chop chop" should probably be added. It didn't occur to me at all that this (rather odd) turn of phrase has its etymological roots in colonial-era China.

Happy New Year

2008-12-31T21:32:00.004Z

It feels a bit presumptuous to write a retrospective on a year which, from the fag end of December, feels so utterly mired in domestic tedium. List the events and it appears like a perfectly worthy 365-days worth of work: conception and successful birth of second child, decoration and habitation of first home, a living wage acquired purely from freelance means, acquisition of an MA degree, research and completion of two guidebooks, a dash of independent travel, a 30^th birthday thrown in for good measure and, finally, several carefree months spent in our rented home in England. So why do I feel just a touch despondent at this moment, two hours or so from the start of 2009? I guess it’s because I feel a little lost right now.

To be specific, several things trouble me. One is the breadth, or lack of breadth, of my social circle. No, that isn’t right. It isn’t that I lack amazing people in my life. It’s just that through laziness and fear, I have let everyone, and everything, other than (arguably) my wife and kids, retreat right back to the periphery. Even family and friends feel more distant than they should. As much as I love my wife and kids, I feel almost entirely absorbed into the domestic sphere. It’s no great mystery: I have no office to go to. I have no clubs that I belong to. I play no sport. I don't call my friends nearly enough. My wife, too, doesn't have much in the way of her own social circle here in England. The times I have spent among friends I’ve felt troubled by the fact that I have so little in common with so many people. There isn’t anyone else I know living this kind of life. I’m not boasting there. I feel mostly ashamed of my part-time, mortgage-free, commitment-free life. But confidence has recently ebbed away in those very major life choices that I made in the last six years because I now realise that there are consequences to striving to be different. I have so few funny anecdotes, because I’ve ventured further than the front door so little, met so few new people, pushed so few boundaries. Honestly, the prospect of a trip to Lidl, or Basingstoke Library, are among the greatest thrills I get.

But now I remember that I have got away on several occasions this year: all of January was spent in snowy Shanghai, a week in May was taken touring Shenzhen and Guangzhou, June saw 12 days in Hong Kong and Singapore, and there was another 10 days in Shanghai in June/July. Yet my travel inclinations towards isolation now feel false. I used to love being by myself on the road, because I loved feeling like the pioneer, doing something special. I’m now old enough to see through that. Those trips didn’t thrill like they use to. They just ended up being lonely.

Ironically, in witnessing the (natural) birth of my second child, the year provided the unequivocal highlight of my whole life. And yet, right now, my feelings of tiredness and frustrations with the endlessly screaming little guy seem to have sullied even that.

So many cherished habits were lost. Yoga became a more and more distant memory. Music retreated from my life, as did movies. Last year I ventured an opinion of what I regarded as being the top albums of the year. This year I couldn’t possibly comment. My Chinese language studies have lapsed. Creativity has left entirely. There were no funny emails home, or journalistic endeavours. I became obsessed by Radio 4’s Today daily podcast. I absorbed huge amounts of knowledge. My own sense of feeling ‘smart’ possibly even increased but only went to increase the frustration that my talents are, by now, at age 30 so latent as to be totally invisible to any prying eye. I feel as if I have let the best years slip by. I turned 30 this year and celebrated it with 11 hours of work, and a couple of pints of Guinness in the local boozer. I promised to delay the party until September. Then September slipped by and there was no party. Neither was there one at Christmas, or tonight, New Year's Eve. There's the sense of life slipping by unregarded and unmarked. I go into 2009 feeling that I absolutely have to do something else in order to sustain my pride. And yet the greatest pride of them all – playing the role of breadwinner to a family of four – is at risk if I do not choose something immediately lucrative. The years of experimentation are almost over. I guess I feel a bit scared. I thought we were settled in Zhaoqing. But then we came back to England, and I found that I loved the BBC, and English clouds, and occasional trips to the theatre, and I apprehended the lunacy of our situation there, and the possible damage it may do our kids, living in a polluted and, culturally backward part of the world. But that's where we have our home. I thought Zhaoqing made me free, but from here, it feels a litle like a self-built cage. Or perhaps these are just conservative middle age instincts making a first appearance in what has, up to now, been a fairly fearless youth (well, the 21-30 bit was fearless….prior to that I was petrified permanently). Perhaps time and age are grinding me down. I wanted to be the resolute iconoclast until I died. I thought I would be. I doubt that now. But I hope there is room in 2009 for bold decisions. I hope I can make the fact that I’ve never been part of the herd finally pay in some way. Because I am getting tired of feeling as cut adrift from my community, and my country and my family and friends – much like a celebrity perhaps feels – without having any of the benefits of a privelged, 'unusual' situation. I'm an 'expat' without the 'package'. You hear of driven CEOs, or movie stars sacrificing all of the above to their craft, but they get remunerated for it, and hopefully achieve the sense of fulfilment into the bargain I just feel the life choices I’ve made have been either, one, because I am exceedingly lazy and have been looking for a way of leading the easy life, or two, indicate that, deep, deep down, I am running away from something. Hopefully my soul is healthy, but I just don’t know. All I know is that now, at the end of a massive year for me, I should be feeling happy, but I just feel a little tired, and troubled. I must count blessings. I appear to be blessed my good health. I have possibly the most amazing wife in the whole world – fact. My children are healthy, and both appear to be blossoming beautifully. In China, we have a place to live with minimal debt. We have time to spend with each other which is, it seems to be, the most important ingredient in maintaining healthy relationships. But I just feel that I need a touch more in order to make things complete. Maybe 2009 will usher that in.

Resolutions run as follows:

Yoga. I want to bring yoga back into my life. Once a week, at least. Preferably twice.

Music. I must pick up the guitar on a daily basis. I want to have written a song – no matter how bad – by this time next year.

Chinese. I must spent at least two hours each day immersed in a Chinese language environment. In England, this must mean speaking in the language to Ling. In China, I may substitute that with watching a movie in Chinese, or watching the TV.

Phone Calls. As nice as a carefully worded email (hopefully) is to receive, I know more and more clearly that relationships are only really solidified by picking up the phone and showing a friend that he/she is worth at least that. I pledge to call someone close to me once a month. That make sound like a pathetic pledge, but in the context of the last ten years, it’s really not. I’ve been bad. And now I’m going to be better.

Note-taking. I want to return to 2003/4 habits of obsessively collecting notes with a view to writing a single monthly piece (of something). I’m going to keep a notebook by the bed and record dreams. More importantly, using my PDA, I’m going to note down interesting ideas that pass by. It may be a funny situation, or scene, or a metaphysical thought, or a character that I’ve come across. Every month, I would like to spend at least one afternoon trying to develop one of those ideas into something – a song or a short story, perhaps.

Not much to ask, is it.

The whining can only end with the assistance of wine, methinks, so I’m off to drink some. Oh, hell, I’m a lucky sod, and I have so much to be grateful for. I know that. I’m just greedy. I don’t want a ‘better’ 2009. I just want a more decisive year. More decisions, and more action. That’s all.

Happy New Year.

The Wanker Within

2008-11-23T13:45:00.005Z

There are things that must be experienced to be believed, and this audio recording is one of them. In the recording, a North American expat relentlessly harangues, abuses, intimidates and bullies a Chinese operator at the popular Shanghai food delivery company Sherpas. Despite the threadbare, utterly inconsequential nature of the subject, and the stoic refusal of the operator to rise to the (very considerable) bait, this total twat stretches the conversation out more than five minutes. Needless to say, despite taking place in China, the conversation is entirely in English.

Ostensibly the caller is calm and rational – he only outwardly loses control once (calling the girl a ‘fucking bitch’, for the record) – which only goes to make his pursual of her seem even more sadistic. The man seems to regard himself as superior in every conceivable sense and ends up convincing himself that he has selflessly given up his time to teach this cretinous Chinese some valuable lessons about the world. Self-delusion and arrogance are the overriding characteristics of this wanker’s rant, but a huge amount of racism is stirred into the brew. Ah, I need not commentate too much. Just listen.

I did want to say two things about this episode. The first, as I commented on the Danwei thread, is that this dialogue seems to be a perfect encapsulation of why, geo-politically speaking, an angry, confused, frustrated USA is on the decline, and will very likely pass a level-headed, perfectly-poised China heading in the opposite direction, smiling beatifically as it goes. Optimists might say that the events of the last few months have ended the era when this kind of macho-capitalist bravado was acceptable. I certainly hope so.

Secondly, I must reluctantly concede that the foreign community in China should cast this guy as a pantomime villain at its peril. Shanghai has ‘matured’ into a classic ‘expat’ city of late, and at least half the foreigners that I have met harbour many of the attitudes articulated by this particularly disgusting human being, though they are rarely as explicitly or as clumsily expressed. Shanghai, like so many other great expat centres of Asia, is full of people who have no interest in the specifics of the city, or country, in which they dwell, but are present purely to make money while developing their own ego at the expense of a race they see as innately inferior. The ‘lifestyle’ that so many celebrate in Shanghai is absolutely predicated on the availability of an underclass of poorly educated workers which the visiting ‘experts’ can, on the one hand, exploit for cleaning/massaging/sexual services, and on the other patronize by making a pretence at ‘helping’ or ‘teaching’, consolidating the sense of their own magnanimity and graciousness while reinforcing the idea that they are, indeed, a better breed of human being.

As much as I would like to, I don’t necessarily exclude myself from this unpleasant camp of people in China. I’ve done more than my fair-share of China-bashing over the years, much of it totally justified (heehee) and, while I am in China out of choice, rather than at the whim of corporate overlords, I too enjoy the fact that I can live a couple of social classes above my station, eating out, getting massages. I think that my respect for China, and the Chinese character (by which I mean people) does outweigh the contempt that does, undoubtedly, lurk within, but I can’t be too sure. I do believe that I would never, ever be as hostile, unkind and hurtful as the chap on the tape was, but in terms of those deep-seated prejudices, I think few foreign folk in China (Shanghai in particular) would be able to claim complete innocence. Is that fair?

You're not from round these here parts, are ya luv?

2008-11-09T16:36:00.012Z

There is every reason to believe that by spending the next 15 minutes writing about last night’s X-Factor result, I am cheapening Brand Bond and possibly causing mortal damage to my self-esteem and sense of intellectual worthiness. I hate reality shows. I mean, Really, Really Hate. I hate anything that places cruelty at the heart of its enterprise. Or I thought I did. Turns out shadenfreude is a basic human (possibly male) reaction that cannot be resisted. After successfully ignoring all the audition shows and the ‘boot camp’, I have now watched all of the ‘live’ shows, desperate to see talent find its outlet and justice done. I’m totally hooked. Only justice never gets done. And perhaps that’s the real hook (or the blatantly contrived and manipulated hook, depending on your level of cynicism).

Anyway, what happened last night was ridiculous. Rachel, feisty former crack addict and hapless single mother of 15 million, turns in an abdominal performance after the judges last week conspired to save her, (quite unjustly in my opinion). Yesterday morning, on the day of the live show, the Mirror runs a front page story in which the OAP who was once robbed and assaulted in her own home by Rachel (during the crack days) is interviewed. Rachel looks dispirited and pissed off. Sings appalling. She has to go.

Only she is the first person to pass through to the next round. Instead, the two singers facing the sudden-death sing off are Laura, likeable chubby northern lass with a scintillating voice and obviously one of the top two singers in the competition (though her weight potentially prevents her being the TV executive choice for the show’s ultimate winner – though one of the executives was reported to think her good enough to shag, apparently). Poor Laura hasn’t put a foot wrong so far but, ill-advisedly as it turns out, decides to sing her Mariah Carey song by actually playing the piano accompaniment herself. And she does it very well indeed. It wasn’t her best performance, no doubt, but wasn’t at all bad either. Ruth, Spanish lass who is very good, but you know hasn’t quite got what it takes to win (mainly on account of being too old) sings fairly poorly, arguably deserves to be in the bottom two. They sing the face off and both turn in absolute belters, Neither puts a note wrong. Both look equally determined to make it through. Passionate stuff, compelling viewing (am I really writing these words?!?).

Anyway, long story short, Laura goes home. Gutted. Her ‘expert’ mentor Cheryl Cole is so devastated she can’t talk. It's clearly been taken as a personal affront to a repulsive woman unused to not getting her own way, 100 per cent of the time. Anyway, I didn’t write this to narrate proceedings as, for once, anyone reading this is likely to be intimate with what I’m droning on about. I merely wanted to offer three possible reasons for why such an obvious injustice took place.

1) Most obviously: the show is crooked. While some level of audience participation seems likely, ITV executives retain basic control over the number of votes allocated to each participant in order to ensure they get the ‘characters’ necessary for creating good ‘drama’ (ie. future injustices and heartache). The judging panel supports this effort by ignoring the realities of the singing face-off, and instead tactically voting to create controversy.

2) The show is genuine, but the kind of folk voting are those who are likely to have taken exception to the Mirror’s story, and see Rachel as some kind of folk hero, unfairly targeted by the snobby London press. Despite putting in an obviously inept performance, Rachel gets sympathy votes because of that nasty bully, the Mirror. Let's call it a chav rebellion.

3) British folk don’t like show-offs. They see Laura’s playing of the piano as an attempt to unfairly distinguish herself and they punish her for her presumptuousness. How dare a chubby northern lass who sings like an angel presume to posses the necessary talent and skill to play piano. The temerity. Bitch. Deserves to lose.

Option three is almost certainly the most likely explanation (although I wouldn’t be surprised if elements of one or two creep in there too). Funnily enough, I did actually wonder if any of the contestant would play their own instrument at some point in the show, and concluded that it would be deemed unsporting and unfair on those who couldn’t. Turns out I was wrong, and yet it produces a counter-intuitive result. Clever Little Miss So-and-So is sent home for daring to be to be good. I think this says much about the British character. And don’t take this as a criticism. I like this element of Britishness – a distrust of life's show-offs. Remember all that bullshit after Beijing 2008 over how we should learn how to celebrate our Britishness and not to drag down our stars to the lowest common denominator. Rubbish. This capacity for understatement is at the heart of the national character.

So it ends for Laura, who gave a stunning rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow in her final performance. Poor lass. If only she knew her country, her culture (and possible herself) better, she'd know that us Brits are incapable of forgetting that over that rainbow there's a world of hurt, disease and misery. Only our American cousins are allowed to dream - and then go about singing songs about it. So come on Laura: stiff upper lip lass. You'll get over it.

This Feels Good

2008-11-07T19:14:00.006Z

The election Tuesday of Barack Obama as President of the USA was as uplifting a political moment that I've ever experienced. My response, much like the euphoric global reaction, must in some way be similar to the mass public outpouring of emotion at the death of Diana Princess of Wales. In one night Obama became some quasi-religious figure in whose being everyone was able to find some reflection of themselves, and in whose story, everyone was able to find some fundamental inspiration. Sober me will say that it must be mostly irrational, and largely imagined. And yet though Obama’s fund-raising strategy, whereby millions or ordinary low-to-middle earners pledged small sums of money, millions of people do have some real, tangible investment in this amazing person.

Nevertheless, the question remains how could I have yesterday despised America, in its brazen arrogance and its, almost, cherished ignorance, and now find myself joining the masses in believing that this nation, and this man, can somehow deliver justice and hope and order to a world tearing itself apart. It is true: I went from finding a trickle of affection towards the US, quiescent at the base of deep, dark emotional well on Wednesday morning, to getting goose bumps and feeling of actual love as I listened to his speech on Wednesday afternoon. Some commentators have regarded the address as ‘sombre’ and lacking in fire, or emotion. Granted, Obama struck a cool pose. But, hell, this man is Hawaiian of African stock. It is his birthright to be cool. And, my oh my oh my - what a speech. It was soaring. It reminded me that, for all America’s flaws, and injustices and problems, it is precisely because the US set its stall on such high moral ground, that the world feels bitter and aggrieved when promises are broken. But when American idealism is concentrated in a man of obvious character, and expressed with eloquence, in a register that blends modesty and self-effacement with confidence and belief, well, it’s an irresistible siren call – it sends shivers down the spine. I’m thinking particularly of two of my great American heroes – Kurt Vonnegut Jr and Mark Twain – as I write these words. The speech also had echoes of Martin Luther King, I guess. The I Have A Dream speech never fails to get me, no matter how many times I hear it. I’ve spent my life hating America, criticising America, railing against America, and yet my most cherished books, films, writers and thinkers come from America. My current country of residence, China, has produced words and ideas of staggering brilliance, but they can only ever move you in quiet, internal, academic ways and are rarely personally delivered with any great passion or theatre. It’s just not the same.

Of course, the euphoria is exaggerated. The enormous pathos of the culmination of a civil rights struggle that has lasted centuries, and involved some of the most despicable episodes in human history is great, very great, no doubt. But it’s also the sheer horror of the last eight years that has led to this irrational outpouring of emotion, and hope. There is something fairly fateful – and Chinese, if I may put it that way – of America’s least able, intelligent, articulate and competent leader being followed, immediately but a man who has the potential to be the perfect antonym – and the essential remedy. You can only sense that cosmic forces are at work and that a natural realignment was necessary, at some fundamental level, because of the nature of the last eight years, and the nature of George W. Bush. In this sense, Obama’s election does genuinely feel as if it has a religious, transcendental overtone. Seeing the images in the press of the crowds and the stories of celebration almost moved me to tears on Thursday. I castigated myself for not realising what was going on; for not ‘getting’ just how important this moment was, and for not trying to involve myself in some more direct way with this movement of people and ideas. I read Jonathan Freeland’s excellent summary of Obama’s life story in the Guardian yesterday and felt more inspired than I’ve felt in, literally, years. A man of mixed blood, mixed ethnicity and – let’s face it – of a ‘mixed up’ family, who spent his childhood between a small island in the Pacific and Suharto’s Indonesia, whose first job was doing community work in Chicago’s impoverished South Side, who shunned the opportunity to earn big money in law for the chance to effect change through politics, eventually emerging as the post powerful man on earth. If nothing else it has me thinking of Obama has a harbinger of fortune for my own daughter, a girl who will share a similar melange of language and cultures (and a feeling of insecurity in exactly who she is, I daresay). But more than these personal, selfish reflections, reading Obama’s story created a deep, deep hope that we do have a man in White House who, one, knows, two, cares, and three has the brilliance, the tenacity, the confidence, the determination and the political will to push through real change. I read Alice Walker’s wonderfully lyrical open letter to Obama in the same Guardian supplement and felt tingles……“it is the soul that must be preserved, if one is to remain a credible leader. All else might be lost; but when the soul dies, the connection to earth, to peoples, to animals, to rivers, to mountain ranges, purple and majestic, also dies. And your smile, with which we watch you do gracious battle with unjust characterizations, distortions and lies, is that expression of healthy self-worth, spirit and soul, that, kept happy and free and relaxed, can find an answering smile in all of us, lighting our way, and brightening the world.”

But a day on and there is a creeping sense that we must not get caught up. Change is coming, an improvement is coming, no doubt, but Barack Obama is not Jesus Christ incarnate and America has created deep, deep problems that no one man can possible undo. Nevertheless, like so many around the world, I wish him all the luck in the world trying and, for the time being, he has done the seemingly impossible. He has made me love America again. Instantly. Like so much about America, it’s probably too good to be true, but let us enjoy these Hollywood moments.

First Post In A While...

2008-10-21T18:52:00.005+01:00

Hello world. Well, here it is. First post in a year. Acutely aware I’m talking to myself, but have to slip in a self-referential line at this juncture, just in case someone out there has me on their XML feed.

I’m reviving this blog with no great manifesto or mission – other than a vague sense that after a year and a half of fatherhood and guidebook tedium, I’m rather out of real writing practice. So call this a 'kick-start' to an old, dearly missed habit. And don’t expect much quality or fireworks. I’ll build back up slowly, if that’s OK?

I believe I can point to the odd indication of progress. My photography has come on leaps and bounds, I believe, in this past year; my career is advanced, though I have neither the money, status or future prospects to show for it; I am the slightly ashamed owned of a MA; and I did do some vacuuming recently, proving that I take my fatherly role seriously. However, in general, my life station is not greatly altered from one year prior: still shopping at Lidl and counting every penny.

Lots has come and gone since I lasted wrote seriously. It’s with a tinge of regret that I have to confess to a couple of major trips in this past year that I’ve failed to blog. I recently looked back upon my blogged tales from Inner Mongolia and realised just how much I have let slip through the net by not taking the time to write up my trips to Tibet (last summer), Shanghai (this winter) and Singapore and Hong Kong (this past summer). So many adventures consigned to the dustbin of my memory (and believe me, that billowed black bag runs deep). I guess I hope this blog will allow me to crystallize some of the events that currently tend to pass me by. Like language learning, it takes telling a story in order to remember it, so here I go attempting to capture the passing of time (even if I never bother to look back at it ever again, as it often the case).

What else? Tibetan riots, Beijing Games, Credit Crunch, New Apartment, Another Guidebook Written. Ah, so many forthright opinions, kept mostly to myself.

My daughter is growing as well as any parent could hope. There are images at: http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/grahambond and a sound slideshow at: http://www.grahambond.com/multimedia.htm. Just for the historic record, she is currently down with Hand, Foot and Mouth disease which rather conjures unpleasant images of frothing mouths and farmers with shotguns, but I am assured that ‘all’ British children get it these days – dirty bastards that they are. All I can say is that if I discovered a minor viral infection in humans, I wouldn’t name it after an illness that has been widely reported as causing cows to behave like 80s acid house ravers. Why not cloak it behind an sterile, academic reassuring name, like most infections, Banard-Jackson Disease, or some such like. Or perhaps that sounds even more sinister?

Two thoughts on life. My life in particular….

I’ve come to the conclusion that I may have taken a couple of phoney life turns. In virtually every aspect of life, I’ve had this weird sense that I’m destined to be different. In seeking to stray away from the well-beaten path, I’ve enjoyed some spectacular moments, but my innate need to be different, to be away from the herd, has – I believe – tricked me. My manner of expression, my schooling, my loner behaviour, my travelling habits, my current choice of home, my career path, my aversion to popular culture (though I did watch the X-Factor last weekend) – all are indicative of a need to feel special. And just suddenly it’s occurred to me that in behaving this way, I’ve gained very little and potentially sacrificed a huge amount in terms of a relationship (or at least an easy relationship) with my peers, and my family. I’m proud to have taken the path I’ve taken, I’m proud that I’m not some cosseted, fat, sleazy expat in China, I’m proud to never have purchased a new car, or owned a credit card, or taken a mortgage. But I am increasingly aware that I have very few people in my life who I can share my ideas with, united in a common understanding.

In a similar vein, I believe it’s possible that my life over the past 15 or so years may have so prioritized a non-materialist perspective (I mean in terms of my lack of aspiration towards recognition, or status, or wealth) that I have possible sacrificed ambition into the bargain. I stand by the idea that my seeking a salary rise, or a new car, or a bigger house, you are worshipping false Gods. However, I also believe that ambition is a necessary thing in life. One must be sustained by a belief there is more to come in life, and though my family, and my love of learning mean I am never bored, I do believe I have plenty to gain by being slightly more competitive, and ambitious in my outlook from here on it. So let it begin.

I’m sure there’ll be more ramblings of this nature in the days and weeks ahead. Let me apologize here and now to anyone attracted to this blog by the title. The picture attached gives a clue as to my current whereabouts, and this necessarily means China won’t feature as much as usual in the upcoming five months. Yes, I’m in deepest, darkest Northeast Hampshire (England) and won’t be back in Jolly Zhongguo until next March (I’m salivating at the prospect of my next bowl of la mian already). In the meantime, I have to content myself with wonderful autumnal vistas like this one, shot from my daughter’s bedroom window a couple of mornings ago. Ah, if only little Lulu could appreciate it. As it was, she was listening to the ‘Tiger Who Came to Tea’ for the six thousandth time when I snapped this.

Oh, and since I’ve been away I’ve noticed that the blogs that I tend to read are stating some kind of opinion on global events, rather than masquerading as illustrated diary entries, so I shall try and be a little more focused in my musings in the days ahead – though there’ll be plenty of personal stuff too, no doubt.

That’s all for now. Thank you.

Olympic Ticketing 'Chaos'

2007-10-31T10:13:00.000Z

The sale of Olympic tickets has been suspended less than 24 hours of Round Two of the booking process getting underway. The reasons, summarised by the China Daily, run as follows: "...the booking system crashed, phone lines jammed and serpentine queues formed at banks." In short, demand was high.

No doubt this is true. The problem is the utterly mendacious comments we heard yesterday as the booking system began to groan and creak: "We had tested the booking system several times, but the number of buyers are still out of our expectations," said Xu Chen, head of the Olympic affairs office at the Bank of China.

So to recap: the organisors didn't expect that, in a nation of 1.3 billion, where entreprenurialism is vritually a religion, that a very large number of people would try to snag as many tickets as they could at the earliest possible opportunity.

The stats are, apprently, these: 1.85 million tickets went 'on sale' at 9am, Beijing Time, on October 30, available over the phone, at banks at through the website. All systems were apparently linked to a central database. Apprently, during the peak early period, 200,000 orders were received every second; the web server was hit 8,000,000 times in the first hour alone (not sure those two stats quite add up as it would surely only take 40 seconds of ordering to generate the 8 million hits?). And the total number of tickets ACTUALLY sold: 9,000. Woohoo! Naturally the first China Daily report led with the '9,000 tickets sold' line, not the '7,991,000 people fail to order so much as a ground pass for preliminary fly-weight pidgeon shooting' angle.

My own experience of trying to order tickets was shambolic. I waited up til 1am, GMT, and began to hit the site using two separate computers. Mostly I got the 'page unavailable' line but occasionally I would make it through to a screen where I could pick the number of tickets I wanted and the price tier. The problem was, there was three more levels to the system before the database would even be consulted about whether these tickets were actually available. From there, for example, I had to make it to the page which showed my 'shopping basket' and from there I had to select at which bank I wished to pay. Finally, the database was searched for tickets that - of course - no longer existed.

I should say that in one hour of frenetic efforts to book ANY kind of ticket, I never once got past the shopping basket screen. Every time I made it to that (er...which was twice), any further button press would result in the 'page unavailable' line which meant I had to start all over again. It was only on the following day that I got to actually find out that the items I had somehow managed to place in my basket were sold out.

Am I the only one who suspects something a little fishy in all this? My own view is that it's highly likely the whole ticketing system is a sham, designed to create the impression of openess and transparency - thereby appeasing Olympic scrutineers - while simutaneously providing a means for tickets to remain in private hands where they can be sold for personal profit. What are the chances that when ticketing resumes after the five promised days, there will be ANY tickets left to any of the major events, certainly any in the cheaper tiers of the stadiums? Slim, I would say. The members of the Olympic Organising Committee will be able to claim that it played a fair game and offered the People a chance to secure seats. All the while, they would have hoarded all the best seats for themselves, plus their many friends, relations, mistresses and business partners.

I've talked to at least two friends in China who have said they have been offered tickets for any event they choose. Tickets are out there. They're just not for the likes of you and I, who may only be able to afford face-value (if that).

I should also say that I did attempt to make similar comments to the above on the China Daily's own 'Comments' section in response to the initial news story of 'unexpected' demand on October 30. Needless to say it never quite made it past the moderator.

Sombre Thoughts

2007-10-25T11:40:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking, in these first wonderful few months of fatherhood, about how sad it is that there is but one period in one's life when everyone surrounding you - literally, everyone - gives you nothing but affection and love of the purest kind. And it is the one period that you will never recall.

I'm a Daddy!

2007-07-18T16:54:00.000+01:00

I have news. It is simple news and will take readers far less time than it did me to digest.
I am a father. A daddy. A patriach. Ha...I'm a patriach. Like it.

Louisa Jasmine Bond was born yesterday, Wednesday, July 18th, at 12.54pm, GMT, in the hallowed confines of the Basingstoke District Hospital Caesarean Delivery Room. She weighed 8 lbs and 14 oz (4.02kg in real money) and came out screaming, but soon quietened down.

The full pics can be seen at: http://picasaweb.google.com/grahambond/LouisaSBirth

This post will be short because I was up until 3am last night, editing pictures and writing emails, delirious on alcohol and adrenaline, and I am now knackered.

Knackered already. Bad sign.

Showtime

2007-07-17T14:45:00.000+01:00

My first blog in Godonlyknowshowlong comes at quite a life juncture. Today is the final day of my youth. Tomorrow, I officially enter an entirely new era. Normally such splits in the space-time continuum happen only gradually. They begin only as hairline cracks and spread so slowly as to become undetectable. The move from childhood to puberty was long and painfully drawn-out. I'm guessing going from middle-age to old-age is much the same. Not this one. Tomorrow, everything will change in a matter of seconds. Tomorrow, I am to become a father, courtesy of a quick surgical snip.

I am told that my life will change irrevocably. I am also told that nothing will prepare for either the shock, or the joy. Selfishness, it seems, will become a thing of the past. Tomorrow I am responsible for the life of another human being and I am told I will bear this burden until the day I die. Not that I want to sound too much like a condemned man. It's a job I hope I will relish.

Married life is different, but marriage wasn't a new stage. It was great, and it has been great to me. Had a bloody good time, if truth be told. But, thanks to my wife's utter selflessness and my selfishness, I've remained at liberty to potter on as I've pleased, not caring much for developing a career, buying cars or houses etc. Tomorrow, everything I do will be influenced by a different consideration. And that's what makes tomorrow the first day of a new life. I can still have a pint, play golf once in a while, mong out in front of the television occasionally. But I'm going to permanently on call. I'm fairly sure I'm in for a shock. But at least I know it. Or at least I think I do.

In this last blog of the era, I did want to say a few words about my wonderful, amazing wife. I know blokes who start showering flowers, gifts and praise on their 'amazing, wonderful' wives are usually accused of having an affair, etc.etc., but motivation is sincere. Honest. Ling has been a pillar during this pregnancy. She has complained not once. As I write she is bouncing around, preparing the rice for tonight’s congee. Her belly is as big as a beachball and she is still as nimble as she always was. There was no morning sickness. There were no cravings. No tantrums. No moans. She let me sidle off to China for six weeks back in May and June without a grumble and busied herself preparing for the imminent arrival while I was away. She swatted up with books (all of which were written in English) and went shopping (hat-tip to my mother for helping ferry her around) while I stomped around the wilds of Tibet and Gansu.

It feels like Ling has been pregnant forever. Last October feels like a lifetime ago. Life has already changed so much. I've written a book, for a start. Thanks to my MA degree, begun in January, I've become a better photographer, as some of these images hopefully testify. We've moved continents in order to have the baby in England, and here we shall remain for at least three more months - maybe more - while we try to figure out what to do next. Ling, far away now from family and friends, has smiled through it all, quietly taking care of things. She's ridden out my own tantrums and dark moments, not least during the hellish days of book writing back in February and March. She lets nothing trouble her and I can only think that she'll remain in that frame of mind as we enter the sleepless nights of crying and peeing that begin tomorrow. Ling is a legend and I am so very, very luck to have her.

I saw a fascinating interview with the travel writer Paul Theroux this week. Back in February, the Telegraph Magazine published a 'Flashback' story in which Theroux reminisced about various travelling experiences. It's a mishmash of quotes, but one of them really struck me. It ran as follows:

"When the children were very young I found it hard to leave them to go on trips. I missed them terribly. Once, when I was in China, I put on my gloves and there was grit inside them. As I shook them out, I got very weepy, thinking, 'The gravel in these gloves comes from Surry, where either Louis or Marcel was using them to slide down Box Hill.'"

My friend, photographer Dan Groshong, has said similar things about his decision to quit war photography after the birth of his two children. It makes me fear for my future plans to build a life out of travel writing. I guess all I can do, for now, is just go with the flow and see how things pan out.

The photographs interspersed with this blog we're all shot within the last couple of weeks as Ling readys herself for the big day tomorrow. She's got the glow, I'm sure you'll agree. It's a magical thing to behold.

Interesting Bloke

2007-03-15T13:32:00.000Z

Now here's an interesting bloke. This is the first Chinese man ever to have worn an Afro. Fact. He works at a salon here in Zhaoqing, Guangdong, China. Zhaoqing isn't a trendy place. Au contraire. Zhaoqing is currently experiencing 80s madness. The cool kids are sporting Bonnie Tyler perms and Chris Waddle mullets. It's an extraordinary phenomenon and it's convinced me that all this talk of China's so-called "third way" is pish posh. Every nation is destined to follow the same cycles. Some may say we are on an ever upward trajectory, others might argue we merely go round in circles, but whatever way you want to define progress, Zhaoqing's current hair fashion is proof that every nation must experience - nay, endure - the same basic phases of development.

And yet, in spite of the madness, here's this chap, not only bucking the trend but kicking it square in the bollocks and saying, "f*ck it", I'm off to Africa for my hair inspiration.

I salute this man

Help!

2007-02-22T12:56:00.000Z

I’m in trouble. In the week I should be reveling in all that is wonderful about Chinese culture, I am finding myself loathing the land in which I live. I hate China sometimes. I really, really – really – hate it.

Tonight I went for my usual walk along the riverside promenade (pictured left). The air in Zhaoqing this week has been (theoretically) wonderful. For the first time ever, the pollution map has shown lovely, cool greens and blues across the entire province [see pic below]. Thanks to the mass closure of Pearl River Factories for the holidays, there’s not been a single trace of yellow for four or five days in a row now. But in the week that I should be breathing easy, I found myself clutching my sweater to my mouth, striding angrily through thick clouds of smoke and wondering what it is about clean air that the people of China have such an aversion to.

The problem has been that the riverside where I like to walk is also the same place that Zhaoqing folk traditionally let off their fireworks. For many years, letting off fireworks was banned in China's cities. As far as I am aware, this is only the second year that the laobaixing (citizens) have been permitted to release at will. And the thrill has clearly not yet worn off. Families stream down to the riverside in their huge 4x4s, or stacked up on tiny scooters (it seems in Zhaoqing, either you have a massive gas-guzzling people carrier or you have a scooter. There's nothing in between, such is the speed at which Guangdong is getting rich). These families buy up whole bundles of fireworks and line them up on the pavement, tossing the plastic bags that conveyed the goods into the river.

The whole promenande is crowded with people. Kids throw firecrackers at the feet of their friends (or passersby). The elderly encourage the youngsters to light up bigger rockets and plant them on the balustrade seconds before they soar skyward (or occasionally misfire and fizz across the road). The explosions are generally pitiful. The levels of smoke created are not. Nevertheless the crowds that come to watch the fun are huge. They just sit in the middle of this lingering cloud of acrid, poisonous smoke and stare gormlessly. I, meanwhile, dash through with jumper pulled up over nose and mouth in a futile attempt to protect my lungs from the stink.

It’s not only the kids who risk melting their faces for the pleasure of watching a small puff of smoke and a few coloured sparks. I swear the Chinese are firework junkies. This week I have seen countless grown couples throwing fireworks at one another in some kind of perverse mating ritual. After the deed is done they look kind of lost, and forlorn, like they are not quite sure where they are, what they are doing or why they are doing it. They remind me of the kind of drunks you find in British pubs who just down pint after pint without it seeming to bring any kind of pleasure. Or suited businessmen who are drawn to twenty-quid-a-time tarts in seedy red light districts. They just do it out of some kind of physical or cultural compulsion.
I got up at 3.45am this morning to watch Liverpool beat Barcelona in the Champions League. The feckers were still at it. Things were only bought to a close when an almighty downpour begun. I pray to God that it rains for the rest of the week.

And then there are the leftovers. A couple of occasions this week I’ve been out walking late and strode back home at midnight or so to find the pavements looking like veritable rubbish heaps – plastic bags, huge cardboard launch tubes, black smears, unused sparklers, the works. It’s a total mess. Out of all these people – adults, kids, OAPs – it seems not one has the notion that they should take their litter home with them. It’s just left to be blown into the river and out into the giant cesspit that is the South China Sea.

I read some comments on Flickr today that intimated the Chinese are great at recycling (www.flickr.com/photos/afishcalledishiguro/94986090/). That is absolute nonsense. Poverty-stricken Chinese workers are great at picking up litter to sell. That isn’t the same thing as a society being good at recycling. It's strictly a financial consideration for the less well off and not based around environmental concerns or education. It's bodes badly for the day when China hauls all of its people out of poverty (as it claims it soon will). What it all basically means is that, in big cities at least, the nouveau riche can get away with dumping virtually whatever they want on the ground and by morning the improverished peasantry will have hovered it all up. Go into the second or third tier cities which don’t attract the same number of migrant workers, however - or the villages where all litter is just dumped into ponds and lakes - and the picture is very different.

I hate the fact that Zhaoqing is full of peasant who drive big cars and behave like big shots. I hate living in a land that is so nouveau riche and yet so very, very, very backward in its education, and its understanding of the environment. If you have enough money to buy a 4x4 and a big house in the hills, I reckon it should be an obligation to learn how to take home litter and protect your kids from fire hazards.

Digressing slightly (but only slightly), I spent the afternoon in Pizza Hut yesterday, working on my laptop. Honestly, you don’t know how sad I am to confess that I need to spend my days in fecking Pizza Hut so that I can feel like I’m not living in the 19th century. However, it’s the only place in town that has any semblance of sophistication in terms of its décor, service, music and design etc.etc. I was really depressed when it first arrived in Zhaoqing about 18 months ago. Now I’ve learned to love it.

That isn't to say that the vast majority of the customers are not still complete injits - classic Zhaoqing peasants who have obviously struck gold sometime in the last few years. Three times yesterday I was harassed by kids sitting on adjacent tables. After being made aware of my presence by their buck-toothed parents, they leant towards me, staring and pointing as one might do when confronted by a caged panda or somesuch. They stopped just short of physically poking me, insteading prefer an outlandish “hulloooooo” in an attempt to determine just what kind of creature I was. They weren’t friendly hulllooooos. They were goading me in the same way that kids in China cruelly goad wild animals. It was the same way you'd talk to a chiwawa.
These bloody people....these stupid, bloody people can spend what amounts to a months’ wages for one of their factory workers treating their family to a pizza (a meal for, say, five would cost about 400 RMB, including drinks and deserts) and yet they haven’t learned that the world is round, or that people with brown hair and big eyes exist. I hate this place. And all of its stupid, bloody, pissing peasants.

Someone help me. Someone write to me and tell me its not so bad. Please. I need some encouragement. I am losing my humanity. Alternatively, someone write to me and tell that if I love to bitch about China so much, why don't I f*ck off home. That might just be the encouargement that I need right now.

New Year's Day in Zhaoqing

2007-02-18T12:48:00.000Z

This is the news. The Year of the Pig is upon us. Given the massive pre-publicity (and the earful of fireworks), this may not come as a huge shock to everyone. What IS more surprising is the news that - contrary to most of that pre-publicity - this particularly little piggy is NOT of the auspicious "golden" variety. The onset of the Year of the Golden Pig was reported by the Guardian, on the BBC, in the China Daily, even my beloved http://www.chinesepod.com/. Apparently there was going to be a huge shagathon as women tried desperately to get themselves up the duff on the strict understanding that any baby born this year would destined to become obscenely rich. It was a once in-a-60-year-occurance. I felt slightly smug when I found out. Ling is, after all, due for our first child in July and, frankly, we need the cash. All looked rosy. Until I read this blog.

I phoned a feng shui master friend to confirm the news that this had been one major scam perpetuated by a handful of Hong Kong restaurants and jewellery shops. He said it was true. Apparently, there's been something of a schism in the world of Chinese astrology - a bit like the fight those broke out between the Catholic Church and Martin Luther. In it, the "real" astrologers were defeated by the forces of commercialism. In the real calendar, the last Golden Pig year was 1971 and the next will occue in 2031. This year is actually a rather bog standard (and "ugly sounding" according to my wife) "Fire Pig". So there. The whole world has got it wrong.

Nevertheless, Ling and I wandered out tonight to sample the mood. There was a huge firework display over the main square in Zhaoqing, Paifeng (with the debris falling into the giant dustbin that is Star Lake). It was impressive, as ever. The crowds were something else (see photo above).

What really got my goat, however, concerns the surrounding pictures. This year, I had been quite impressed at the Zhaoqing's government to "give a bit back" as they say. With business booming and huge sums of cash swelling the city coffers (and lining a fair few individual pockets) they thought they do something a bit special by putting a series of these huge, wacky lamp sculpture things beside the main drag, Tianning Lu. Friends SMSed me remarking how beautiful it all way. I had to begrudingly agree.

Until I got a close up look at them tonight (see pic below). It turns out that each of these lovely displays in nothing other than sellable advertising space. Most had been bought up by banks or construction companies advertising soon to be sold luxury apartments. I was outraged.

I swear to God this country is on the verge of destruction by capitalist forces of greed. I'm also extremely worried about the property market. There are SOOOOO many new developments going up and yet most of them end up completely empty. Banks are lending to any old body. And now they are so desperate for customers that they are putting up floor plans on road side New Year displays (the equivalent of Christmas Trees, you might say). Things are out of control.

January Travelling Pics

2007-02-17T12:19:00.000Z

Not that there was a major clamour for them (er....Sharron, I did for you), but here are some of the better pics I shot during my whistlestop tour of the country back in January. I was on the road between January 2 and January 20. I made it to Hong Kong, Macau, Guilin, Zhangjiajie, Shanghai, Dalian and Beijing. I did want to get to Lhasa but I bottled it just as I was about to get on a train. I decided that the time for spurious "research" had to come to an end and the time for action (i.e. writing my first book) had to begin. In the month since I've been back, I've written about half of the soon-to-be published AA Spiral guide to China. Only problem is, I have to write the other half in the next 10 days. Bugger.

I still would love to blog the many funny little tales that emerged from the trip but this will take a good three or four days of writing and I have got to do other stuff first. Look out for them sometime in March.

Here's the link to the pics....enjoy....

http://graham.asiaandaway.com/photo_galleries/january-2007-trip_25

Happy New Chinese Year. The Year of the Golden Pig is just a few hours away.

Dirty Cantonese Air

2007-02-17T12:14:00.000Z

Here's an interesting image. This the state of Guangdong's air on February 16th, 2007. Blue indicates very clean, green indicates clean, yellow is a bit mucky, orange is bad, red is severe. I copied it from a website that I monitor daily: the Pearl River Delta Air Quality Monitoring Network website (http://61.144.36.8/raqi/QEng.aspx). It's a joint project between Hong Kong's Environmental Protection Department and its Guangdong equivalent (though I have a hard time believing such a thing exists), and basically lets me know whether it's safe to open the window or not.

Normally, the mesage is clear. Stay at home, shut the window and seal all bodily orafices. The people of Zhaoqing have this idea that their city's air is spring fresh when compared to the likes of Guangzhou or Hong Kong. It's not. What this map has revealed to me over the course of the last four months is that filthy Foshan is the chief polluter in the area and a perennial stain hangs over the city. This stain expands and contracts and tends - contrary to popular myth - to blow in an westerly direction, thus making the Zhaoqing air utterly choking, most of the time.

But, lo, in the last few days things have suddenly picked up. The picture above (which shows Guangzhou under something of a cloud) is actually less complimentary that the one from the 15th in which - for the first time ever - the WHOLE of the province was green. What's going on?
The answer, of course, is very very simple. I'm rather brain-frazzled with work at the moment and didn't put two-and-two together. My wife, fortunately, did. 'It's the holidays, stupid,' she said, poking out her lower lip with her tongue, opening her mouth and making a 'Durh (you really are a stupid f*ck)' sound. 'You know, New Year? Factories - closed, workers - gone home....get it?'. I did. And I became frightened. Part of me hoped that Guangdong's air pollution was somehow innate - just the way it is in this part of the world. This map puts that myth to bed.

If one doesn't own a factory, and one doesn't work in a factory, and one has a passport allowing him to travel freely, one should really get the hell out of here. One feels.

Chinese Mating Habits

2007-01-26T11:51:00.000Z

Hello world. Since my last blog entry, some two months ago, I have done quite a lot (by my admittedly lazy standards). I’ve completed my first decently-remunerated project in, er...well, ever (equivalent of a year's Zhaoqing wages for verifying a 400-page guidebook for the AA). I’ve seen Christmas in and out with minimum fuss (and a particularly delicious packet of Highland Shortbread, sent by my good mother). I’ve begun studying for a Master’s Degree in photography at Dalian Medical University. I've been on a three week tour of the country (pictures to be posted, and shamelessly backdated, soon). Oh, and I’ve begun writing my first book. Okay, it may be a by-the-numbers guidebook as opposed to a 21st Century reworking of the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but - if you please - this is my moment of glory and I am damn well taking it.

All of which is what the point is not, of course. I was moved to blog tonight by my nightly stroll along the banks of the mighty Xi Jiang river. It’s become a habit since starting work on the book. Given that my office is now less than five metres from my pillow, getting daily exercise has become less easy than it used to be. I used to take it for granted that, come what may, I’d end up climbing the eight flights of stairs to my front door. These days, even this is no gimme. And so taking this nightly walk has become my little habit.

Zhaoqing has a lovely wide boulevard next to the water. It’s the same size as the walkway that runs beside the Bund in Shanghai, the one where the crowds fight for the right to take pictures of their relatives in front of the funny-shaped Oriental Pearl TV Tower just across the Huangpu River. It should be noted that the boulevard in Zhaoqing has less people. A lot less people. In fact, come 10pm on a chilly winter’s evening like tonight, there are only two kinds of people out and about: 1) old people who exercise by walking backwards (like those who practice tai chi in middle of crowded parks, these folk walk backwards as if it’s the most normal thing in the world), and 2) lovers. It’s the lovers that I wanted to write about tonight.

The Chinese have a mating ritual that is all their own. The gallant gent in the equation takes his girl out on his scooter and they head down to the river. There, they dismount, head over to the concrete balustrade, and stand. The girl stands lifeless, like a rag doll, hands to her side and the man hugs her very, very tight. They don’t talk. They just stand. All along the 3km length of the walkway they line up like this, evenly spaced out. I pass them on my way down, and on my way back. They never glance up to look at me. Their postures have rarely changed in the 10-30 minutes between my sightings of them. They just stand, as if they aren’t quite sure why they are there, or what it is exactly, they want. I know what it is they want. They want to have sex. You can almost smell the tension (frustration) in the air as you pass. It always makes me smile, not least because my that’s exactly what I was like when I was young. Only, the thing is, half of these guys aren’t very young. Come to think of it, many of the girls aren’t that young either. In fact, there are various configurations of ages: middle aged guys with middle aged women (secretaries by profession); young guys with even younger girls (middle school students by profession); young girls with middle aged guys (factory owners by profession); young guys with middle aged women (prostitutes by profession).

The scene reminds me of a passage in the Paul Theroux classic, Riding the Iron Rooster, in which he describes the sight of a couple canoodling on a Dalian beach.

The Chinese do it [canoodle] standing up, out of the wind, usually behind a rock or building, and they hug each other very tight. It is all smooching. The two ran away when they saw me.
No-one ran away from me tonight. They just stood silently as I passed, as if they hoped I wouldn’t notice. I’m sure the minute I moved on the groping and promises of everlasting commitment continued. Anyway, as I was walking along tonight, a very apt song happened to emerge from my Pocket PC MP3 player (iPods are for losers). It was Bruce Springsteen’s heart-wrenching ballad, The River – the saddest song ever recorded in which nobody fights, separates or dies. The song is a story about a working-class couple from New Jersey who marry when they are young, romantic and free, and grow old, tired and jaded. Bruce reminisces about the nights they spent down by the river. The song almost breaks my heart every time I hear it. And yet, tonight, looking at those rag-doll girls, and guys in cheap suits, I sensed none of this wildness, romance or yearning for freedom that Bruce sung of. I just saw a series of extremely frustrated men trying to get their end away. At least the American drive-in has movies, and burger bars. At least dodgy UK suburban nightclubs have music and fights. This had nothing. Just a dirty old river, smoggy skies, a wide pavement and passersby who walk backwards.

The picture, by the way, is not my own. It was taken by my good friend Markel Redondo (http://www.markelredondo.com/) , a wonderful photographer, a great cook, and the only supporter of Athletico Bilbao that I know. It was shot on a platform at Dalian Railway Station, but says everything I have said, only ten times better.

Off To See The Doctor

2006-11-27T04:06:00.000Z

Ling and I went to Zhaoqing's 'No.1' Baby Hospital today. We did so in the hope of, one, getting absolute confirmation that Ling was preggers, two, discovering 'how' pregnant she was and, three, obtaining some information about what the hell to do next. It was, needless to say, a shower of bureaucratic incompetence and general offensiveness.

So first to the reception desk, where we are told to go to the third floor. The woman on the third floor greets us with all the distaste of a fussy suburban housewife who has just discovered the cat has deposited a dead bird on the kitchen floor. Who were we and what in God's name were we doing asking her questions when her lunch break was only 30 minutes away?

I think I'm pregnant, says Ling.

So do you want to have an abortion?

It was the very first question: there was no hesitation in asking it.

Having reluctantly accepted our wish not to murder our firstborn, the lady sends us from department to department in order for various VIP doctors to sign our reams of paperwork. It was the same last time I visited a Chinese hospital. Then back downstairs where, just like last time, there are queues of patients waiting in line to pay their fees, hoping all the while that they don't keel over before the hand over their cash. In China - a country where trust is a commodity is severely short supply - it's money first, care later.

Next, we head back upstairs where Ling has to work out for herself that she is required to take an empty plastic container from an unguarded basket and deposite a urine sample therein (she has to climb ANOTHER flight of stairs to find the toilet, of course). She brings it back downstairs and wanders into a room where a woman who looks like it may (or may not) be her job to test urine is sitting, looking bored. Despite the door being wide open, she shoos Ling out and tells her to go to a tiny glass window just to her left instead. She takes the urine and tests it with a piece of equipment that looks to be indistinguishable from the 1RMB home pregnancy tests you can take yourself (indeed, the same ones that we have already used twice). Two minutes later, having stamped something indecipherable onto a bit of flimsy paper, she sends us back upstairs again, telling us the doctor there will explain everything.

Upstairs the doctor explains that whoever told us it was possible to reveal the exact date of conception is a fool. She looks at the paper for about half a second and then flings it back at us.
'Yes, you're pregnant. Do you want an abortion?' she asks.

When we tell her we don't, she loses interest. I daresay there's a commission on killing and we just aint the customers she wants to see. Of course, her mood is worsened by the fact the lunch break is now only five minutes away and any question that requires more than a one word answer is treated as a major burden on her existence. However, Ling, persistent as ever, wants to know roughly how old the baby is.

OK. When was your last period?
Oct 11.

So, today is November 27, er....46 days. It's 46 days old.

This is what we paid 12.6 RMB for.

Accepting the fact that we are going to get no advice from the so-called medical experts in this building (other than the 'Get an abortion' line), we go to leave. In desperation, we ask the kindly looking old lady on the makeshift reception desk next to the entrance what we should perhaps do next. Do we need a scan? Do we need to take pills? Eat greens? Come for regular check-ups?
And the reply: Have you thought about getting an abortion?

Zhaoqing Adverts

2006-11-25T14:53:00.000Z

I am angry, and somebody needs to pay. This man is the obvious target. He's the imbecile who heads up a 'Wok' advert that has - for the last six-to-eight weeks - appeared during every single bloody commercial break on the Hong Kong English-language channel, Pearl. Of course, this advert is not a Hong Kong advert. It's a Zhaoqing creation, inserted between gaps in the Hong Kong programming with all the subtlety of a subway rapist. The minute a slick, sexy Hong Kong ad appears, a button is pressed and we are jerked across to a homemade studio somewhere in Zhaoqing. A trumpet fanfare begins and we are introduced to the slaphead above who explains that our lives will shortly be transformed by this revolutionary new wok. As a thumping techno beat strikes up, he demonstrates just how good the wok is by frying two fish. The first he fries properly, with a heap of grease and constant attention. The other he deliberately burns by dumping it in a dribble of oil and then letting the heat sear it to the bottom of the pan. We are supposed to think these are laboratory conditions, of course.

The advert itself is rubbish, but it wouldn't be half as bad if, one, it wasn't bloody four minutes long, two, didn't appear during every single bloody break on BOTH Pearl and ATV World (the only two English station in HK), and three, didn't overrun so badly that I inevitably miss the first minute of proper programming on resumption after the commercial break. It's obvious that Zhaoqing TV have absolutely no authority to be doing what they are doing - hijacking a Hong Kong broadcast - (actually, it's not altogether clear that Zhaoqing TV has a right to be broadcasting HK TV in the first place!) but it's also obvious that nobody is going to stop them. It's also easy to assume that the reason this is allowed to be the case is that the person in charge of marketing down at Zhaoqing TV has a mate who has just started a new wok company. Corrupt to the core. In no other country in the world would this be tolerated.

Actually, things have - over the last fortnight or so - got even worse. There is a new ad on the block. It's a cleavage ad. Using Benny Hill-style 'boings' it demonstrates how Chinese woman with chests as flat as a Dutch tulip farm can magic cleavage out of the air by wearing this 'revolutionary' new corset-styled rib strap. It doesn't only create bouncing bossoms, it also fixes muscular problems in the back. I think wearing one also helps ease global warming and saves pandas.

I used to like tits before I began being subjected to this ad. If I have to listen to squeaky voiced nubiles leaning over and rubbing their chests provocatively one more time, I'm going....I'm going to.....to...er...do something. Something bad.

If you see any of the woman involved in the tit advert, or the slaphead in charge of burning fish, please take it that - by appearing in public - they are asking to be bludgeoned with a blunt object. If you see them in private, assume they are asking for the same. These people don't deserve to live in peace. They must be hunted down and killed. Like Sarah Connor in the Terminator.

A Good Day

2006-11-21T13:54:00.000Z

Ling and I are smiling cos today was a rather good day. In the wee hours of the morning, as I was struggling through another episode of that interminable television series, 24, an email dropped into my inbox. It was a woman by the name of Karen Kemp asking me to write her a book. Karen was asking on behalf of AA Publishing, a major guidebook publisher back home in the UK. Next year they are to add China to their Spiral series and I, apparently, am the man to do the job. This was a rather major development.

The excitement meant I had a restless night. Accordingly, I was easily roused next morning when Ling climbed out of bed and headed off to the bathroom. I knew what she was up to. I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. I couldn't face the tension. Ling returned five minutes later having taken two separate pregnancy tests. Both were showing the answer we had been waiting for so long. Not five hours had elapsed and already the most important news of my life had been usurped in the pecking order of priorities.

In an understated English manner, I celebrated by playing a wind-and-rain lashed round of golf. I won on the last hole. Today, like I said, was a good day.

God does really have a gift for making you wait an eternity for the slenderest sign of hope, and then inundating you with good fortune to such an extent that you end up feeling guilty.
What a bastard.

Cheung Chau

2006-11-13T01:51:00.000Z

Quick posting on the occasion of my leaving of Cheung Chau. I've been here for five days. It was my mother's idea really. She flew out from the UK to visit Ling and I five days ago. She doesn't really like long-haul travelling. She would have much rather I lived in Greece. Accordingly, she asked us to find her a quiet little hotel close to the beach. It sounded like a tough job. In the world's most densely populated city, the words 'quiet' and 'beach' are not used that often? But we found a solution in the (dumbbell) shape of Cheung Chau.

This charming little island is located south-west-west of Hong Kong Island, just to the south of Lantau. It's a half-hour ride on the fast 'First Ferry' (HKD 22) or 50 minutes on the lovely slow 'First Ferry' (HKD 11 something). There are boats every 20-30 minutes or so so guests staying over here need not wait long if they are desperate to see the bright lights and tall buildings across the water. The lovely thing about Cheung Chau is that there are no bright lights or tall buildings. I did spot one pub in which fat Englishmen were guzzling beer and watching Premiership football, but it was about the size of a garden shed and there was only one of them. In short, Cheung Chau is 'proper' Chinese.

And it's tiny. It can be walked in a day. There are great hiking routes, that pass beside charming seaside cemeteries (if I am allowed to describe a place where the dead are buried as 'charming'?), secluded sand beaches and rocky coastline. In parts, it reminded me of Cornwall, especially when the sun stopped shining and it began to rain. Hitherto, it had been positively Meditterrnanean. November in Hong Kong is, without question, the best month of the year.

The 'front' at Cheung Chau is a bustling place, stuffed with great seafood restaurants. It really comes alive on evenings and weekends when the city boys from over the sea retreat here for some R&R. Fortunately, because the island has a no-car policy, they are forced to leave their Lexuses and Mercedes at home. I say 'no cars', there are a profusion of noisy little construction trucks which buzz around the island's hilly pathways. Cheung Chau is no different from anywhere else in Hong Kong in the fact that the building/renovation/maintenance work never - ever - ends.

On the other side of the island is Tung Wan Beach, a lovely stretch of sand, not quite on a par with the Thai tropics, but nice enough nonetheless. Looking out to sea at night, it's possible to glimpse the stacked orange streetlights of the buildings on the south side of Hong Kong island.

The best digs on Cheung Chau can be found at the Warwick Hotel, at the end of Tung Wan Beach. They have a great deal on at the mo which means paying only 480 HKD per night, including breakfast which can be taken on the balcony overlooking the beach. Prices increase steepily on Saturday nights on account of the City boys.

The Warwick isn't without it's faults. The carpets are filthy, the ceilings are cracked and flakey, and the size of the rooms are very, very small (like everywhere else in Hong Kong that doesn't charge the equivalent of a month's salary per night). My mother (who, unlike me, actually stayed here) also reported an annoying industrial whirring which kept her awake at night. Then there's the helicopter pad just around the corner. However, for the deep sleepers, unwanted noises should be drowned out by the soporific sound of the waves lapping the shore just outside the room. The hotel really is about the location. It's fabulous. Oh, and they also have free wireless internet in the lobby.

Chaung Chau is a charmer. The whole pace of life over here is slowed right down and, walking around the front, beside the rocky coastline, or through the claustrophic old three-storey neighbourhoods, it's difficult to believe you are still in the fabled high-octane city of Hong Kong. The people over here are friendly. We ran into folk who were just happy to chat on more than one occasion. If you are looking to treat your non-travelling mother to some R&R before heading into the scary Chinese interior, I can think of no better place to take her than Cheung Chau.

2006-11-11T05:48:00.001Z

Just finished reading this book. The 223 pages took me just three days (which is fast for me, though I know there will be some who scoff). Truly gripping stuff. If I knew that economics could be this interesting, I might have actually bothered to read the business pages all these years.

On one level, the book provides an account of China's mammoth influence on the global economy and the threat it poses to cherished European and American notion's of free-market capitalism (predicting the end of globalisation while it's at it). But of more interest to me were the beautifully written little snapshots of situations, cities and people that really capture what it is like to live in China today.

Probably my favourite passage in the book runs as follows...

[In modern China] trust is a commodity constantly under siege. Poverty and the competition for scarce resources impinge upon it. The ideological vacuum that replaced Communism undermines it. The daily diet of propaganda disorientates it. The venality of officials devalues it. The ascendancy of a value system dominated by money hollows it out. What is left is a society in which describing someone as ‘honest’ can just as easily be a gentle criticism as a compliment.” [China Shakes The World, Ch.7, pp153-154]

...I like it because it's so bloody true.

China Shakes The World was written by one James Kygne, former Beijing Bureau Chief for the Financial Times newspaper. The book is his first, apparently. It's a stunning work. Buy it. Now.

Ngong Ping Skyrail

2006-11-10T09:47:00.000Z

Today I visited the much-heralded (and long-delayed) Ngong Ping Skyrail cable car ride. I had hoped to feature it in Asia and Away three times last year, only to be told each time that the opening was being put back. The magazine went bust a full five months before the bloody thing finally saw the light of day. Actually, it did open in July, but broke down within a day, leaving passengers stranded in mid-air and prompting another extended wait for those itching to enjoy this long-hyped 'journey of enlightenment.'

At 5.7 kilometres in length, Ngong Ping is apparently the longest cable car ride in the world. It takes between 20 and 25 minutes to complete the journey, made at steep angles over Lantau's mountainous landscape. Towards the end of the journey, the route dips down over the inlet which runs between Lantau proper and the reclaimed land upon which Hong Kong Airport has been built. It's a thrilling moment. Looking down through the inevitable smog, it's just about possible to see the planes taking off. You can also look down at the mammoth 50-storey hives of apartment blocks at Tung Chung.

The journey is made in a huge glass bubble of a carriage. Scarily, there was a labrynithine queueing maze at the entrance, though today we had to only wait a few minutes to board the car. If the crowd is big, they will squeeze 18 people into each car. This would almost certainly detract from the experience. As it was, we were a group of just five and had the bubble to ourselves. There was actually enough space to move around, even if doing so was likely to inspire vertigo.

The cable car joins Tung Chung (located at the end of the eponymous Tung Chung MTR subway line) and the Ngong Ping Village, a veritable Disneyland of a 'traditional Chinese village' (complete with every American chain store you can care to name). The only good thing about the Village is that it is right next to Lantau's famous Big Buddha. The Buddha, and the cable car, have become two of Hong Kong's 'essential' tourist experiences (rivalled only by the obligatory cable car ride up to Victoria Peak). Now it's possible to kill two birds with one stone.

The cost of a single ride on the Skyrail is HKD 58. It's a steal. Ngong Ping Skyrail is a fabulous experience.

Ridiculous Things

2006-11-05T05:39:00.000Z

Nice building eh? You probably think it's some kind of super sleek, 21st century art gallery, or exhibition hall, perhaps a museum or a culutral centre fashoined by Zhaoqing's architect de jour. This is precisely what I assumed when I first laid eyes on it. I couldn't wait to discover what treasures lay within. Today, I did find out and, well, I could barely believe it.

After crossing a little wooden bridge over a running stream, passing the rosewood reception desk caarved in the shape of a Hong Kong-style junk, and resisting the inviting look of a series of soft, Ikea sofas, I gazed upon the focal point of this grandoise structure - a plastic model of...yet more buildings.

Yes, the whole place was an overblown showroom for apartments. Not just any old apartments, but apartments that have yet to be built. Not only that, but apartments that have yet to be given planning permission to be built or sold.

This is what things have come to? In 30 years, China has gone from grim, grey Communist bastion where everyone, and everything, looks the same as everything else, to being the most marketing-obsessed society imaginable where value derives not from what something is worth but how expensive it looks.

It also says much about the property boom that China is in the midst of. Despite low occupancy rates on new apartments across the city, this development company is obviously so confident that it will shift these apartments that it is prepared to invest so heavily in a mere showroom - even though they haven't even secured the right to sell. Zhaoqing has seen a massive construction boom and most of the people buying are rich folk from Guangzhou, Hong Kong, Shenzhen, or foreign lands (like me). That this place will do brisk business isn't really in doubt. Faraway landlords will assume that if these guys can build a bloody showroom as nice as this, they'll probably do OK on the apartments. They'll buy and wait for property prices to soar yet higher.

Someone get my bank manager on the phone.

Fong's Wedding

2006-10-21T13:46:00.000+01:00

For the first time in two and a half weeks, I wake up under the dreary concrete-coloured skies of south China. It’s as if someone has gone up in a fleet of helicopters and unloaded several tones of concrete powder into the atmosphere. It’s humid, it’s sweaty and, worst of all, today I must work. It’s good work, though. Today is my friend Fong’s wedding day. And by virtue of the fact that I own a camera and a flashgun, I am designated photographer.

Chinese weddings are a bit different to what one goes through back in the West. The most obvious discrepancy is in the fact that Fong, and his bride, Fei, officially tied the knot several months ago. The legal part of wedlock is completely separated from the ceremonial stuff. At that time, Fong and Fei would have gone down to the local registrar and signed a form or two, had a couple of bits and bobs checked and with purity ensured, walked away ‘married’. I understand getting divorced is similarly straightforward.

The ceremonial, and celebratory bit, normally comes later, often, a long, long time later. In China, it’s not that uncommon for a married couple of wait a couple of years before they invite family and friends to share their joy, happiness and cash. The tacit understanding is that one normally has the big day before the belly gets too big. Indeed, with Fei five months along now, Fong is arguably cutting it fine.

When the Chinese celebrate, they do it with food. The day begins with ‘Yum Cha’ – the classic Cantonese steam-basket breakfast with Fong’s nuclear family and friends. Actually, I had no idea this was part of the day until I turned up in shorts and t-shirt to find Fong welcoming us wearing a shirt and tie. ‘Have you bought the camera?’ he asks, quite reasonably in the circumstances. I had not. I turn to Ling. You didn’t tell me the wedding starts now, I point out in a mildly accusing manner. She didn’t know either. For all this country’s energy, endeavour and spirit, clear communication can still sometimes be a problem in China, even among friends. This is one wedding that I sense is not going to run with Swiss precision.

We all pile into a fleet of cars and go on a roam of the city, remembering to pick Fei up from the hairdressers on the way. There’s zero ceremony when the young lovers set eyes on each other for the first time. Fong gets out of the car, at least, but I sense it’s more to marshall the cars behind than it is to complement his wife on her hair-do. Having driven around for fifteen minutes or so, we head to Fei’s hometown, way over in Gao Yao, on the far side of the Xijiang River. The place is surprisingly beautiful. It’s like a citadel, with a wall on the outside and clusters of densely packed houses, separated by narrow alleys, within. Fong and Fei go hand in hand, walking around these alleys now. They head off in front, with friends and family trailing, carrying great big baskets stuffed with live chickens and rice wine. For the moment, the chickens are alive though that won’t last long. If they had any sense, they’d peck the top off the rice wine and really enjoy their last half hour of life.

Fei’s home is a hive of activity. The family has gathered. Some are in the kitchen, hacking the hell out of the chickens; others are sitting around drinking tea. The happy couple loiters, chatting. Before long, Fong is summoned to the village temple. It may be the family temple. According to Ling, the village is essentially just one big family anyway, so either description will do. The place is stunner. It’s been cleaned for the occasion and there’s a real historic ambiance within the four walls. Natural light floods in from a gap in the roof. The architecture is fabulous. I didn’t know this kind of thing still existed. It’s invisible from the main roads that I normally use. I must remember to get away from the main road more often.

The ceremony is an oddity. Fong essentially has to make sacrifices to Fei’s ancestors. ‘They already know Fei, but they don’t know me,’ Fong explains. ‘I must introduce myself.’ He does this with the aid of a bound, stuffed and – presumably – recently killed – chicken. As Fong moves around the temple, so does the chicken. There’s also a pre-packaged pig and a basket of fresh bread. Fong lights some incense, burns some paper, throws three cups of rice wine over the ground and bows solemnly. He repeats the process outside the temple.

The fun and games then really begin. The huge belt of firecrackers that had been slung over a wooden beam within the temple is, suddenly, ignited. The designation fire-starter comes pegging it out of the temple doors with ears firmly clamped in his two hands. Inside it looks like all hell is breaking loose. A thick black pall of smoke is growing in volume by the second and tens of explosions rock the building’s foundations. The process is repeated a short while later. The shot below shows our resident pyro, once again, running away from the scene.

Then it’s back to the village hall for a big feast. The dishes just don’t stop coming. Fong tells me he’s paid 5,000 RMB for all of the morning’s activities. That’s a major sum of cash. Given that we’ve only eaten breakfast two hours prior, it’s an utterly impossible amount of food to digest. It’s the same story on every one of the twenty or so tables. Maybe a third of the food that was bought out is eaten. I am assured that, out here in ‘the village’, wastage isn’t permitted. The food will be recycled. When I see the chef coming round and dumping all the leftovers into one massive dog bowl, I pity the poor sucker who has to eat it tomorrow.

While we are eating, Fei’s uncle lets off a massive firecracker immediately outside the front door of the dining hall. During the cacophony, one lady has the courage to get up and close the door, frantically wafting smoke away from her nose and eyes as she does so. Nevertheless, the blast still fills the dining hall with putrid smoke and possibly renders a few people deaf. I am in hysterics. It is such a seemingly improper thing to do. Just as people are tucking into their food, this elderly and respectable member of the community goes nuts with the gunpowder. And yet there’s not a trace of admonishment for him. Not one person enjoyed what we just went through. Not one person is enjoying the smoke in their mouths and eyes now. Nobody is smiling, or obviously celebrating, and yet nobody looks angry or upset or disapproving. My friend Eric asks me what on earth I am laughing about. Nobody else finds it in the least bit funny. ‘No!’ Eric says. ‘This is part of the programme. It’s normal. Just nobody knows when it’s going to happen.’ I can’t help think that waiting until we had finished eating would have been a better idea, but nobody seems to agree. After laughing for a few minutes, I need to leave the building. The smoke has got into my lungs and I am in fits.

Across the way, this elderly lady looks on. She’s smoking a pipe the size of a small submarine and is weaving baskets between her withered fingers. I try to speak a little Mandarin to her. Unsurprisingly, she hasn’t a clue what I am on about.

We step back out through the red debris and get back into the cars for the return journey to Zhaoqing. We are allowed a few hours off before the evening festivities begin. My break time is cut short when Fong telephones at 5.30pm to say that we are needed immediately at the entrance to the hotel when the banquet will take place. We rush down. The guests have been told to arrive at 6pm but protocol dictates that the bride and groom – mother and father standing at their side – should wait around for an hour so as to greet each and everyone personally, whether they are late or not. Nearly everyone is late. Each group that arrives hands either Fong, or Fong’s father a red packet stuffed with cash, which is then passed over to Fong’s sister who tucks it away in a big bag.

Finally, at 7pm, we head inside. With everyone seated, Fong and Fei enter the room to applause and a chorus of a Canto-version of Here Comes the Bride from a bunch of Fong’s mates. The cutting of the cake takes place immediately and I am barely finished checking the pictures before I am summed to the front to give me speech.

Ling, bless her, has helped me prepare. In between taking pictures of Fong’s guest arriving, I paced back and forth memorizing my lines. Despite the fact that I didn’t expect to have to speak this early, the work pays off. Thing go well. It is, however, a bit unsettling to get the loudest round of applause merely for introducing myself. My flowing prose and heart felt words of pride and affection couldn’t match the sheer novelty value thrill of seeing a ‘foreigner’ speak Chinese. It was all downhill from there.

Fong then gives a speech. Ling later tells me it was a very formal promise to care for Fei as long as he lives. She said that it was a bit stilted and stuffy, but I guess that’s what a wedding should be about – a formal, sincere promise to your bride, made in front of heaps of family and friends who will – hopefully – apply the necessary pressure to keep you to your word.

Then the feast, then the rounds of toasts and party games (the groom’s friends have an absolute obligation to tease the bride and groom with little tricks like the one pictured...in the West, I guess this kind of principle applies during the stag/hen dos, in China, it’s during the banquet). Unlimited alcohol is part and parcel of every hotel’s wedding banquet deal. With the relief of having completed my speech, I try to single-handedly ensure that whoever is paying gets full value in this respect. I even leave with a barely started bottle of red wine under my arm.

And so, an hour or so later, it suddenly ends and everyone gets up and leaves. The Chinese have a great knack and finishing things clinically, and with little sentimentality. Weddings are no exception.

Leaving Dili With Doors Ajar

2006-10-19T11:41:00.000+01:00

On my way out of Hotel Timor, I chat to a chap called Bernardo. He's working on the front desk. He tells me he loves English football and, like many Timorese, plans on going to England in seven or eight months to find work and earn a better life for himself. I want to tell him that life ain't a bed of roses over there for young migrants, but, hell, let him dream a while. This country could use a few decent dreams.

Dili Airport is a sight. The man supposedly working the immigration desk is loitering in the entrance having a fag, and only dashes over to his booth when I inadvertently waltz straight through. He sends me off to pay the 10 USD departure tax (a very irritating habit that seems to have been learned from those 'departure tax' scoundrels, Indonesia) before I am finally allowed through. I can't help but notice he is wearing an England football cap. This is the first customs worker I have ever seen wearing the football paraphenalia of another nation while on active(ish) duty. Bernardo was right. The Timorese really do love English football.

The bag scanner is switched on at the plug when a passenger passes through, before being switched off again to save power. There's only one flight departing today and the customers are arriving in trickles. I got here more than an hour early for the flight. Needn't have bothered. The journey from check-in to departure gate is about 12 metres.

There's another first on the plane back to Bali. This is the only flight I've been on where the cockpit door has accidentally swung open as the pilot makes a turn on descent. It made me laugh - and worry. If the pilot can't be bothred to lock his door properly, I have to suspect that he may not have run through the manifold other safety checks with that much diligence either.

After a depressing five hour wait in Denpasar's rubbish domestic departure lounge (no air-conditioning, metallic seating, and no cafes to speak of), I make my final flight of the trip back to Jakarta. On the plane I read Chapter 15 (St Patrick's Purgatory) of Peter McCarthy's excellent Ireland travelogue, 'McCarthy's Bar.' In it, he's reflecting on a fairly intense three day pilgrimage he has just made to Station Island, just off mainland Donegal, where he endured fasting, sleep deprivation and knackered knees, the result of praying on a cold stone floor. This is what he says...

"When you throw yourself into something like this, your life is so filled with the sheer physical business of it that there's no room left for the worries of everyday life. Other concerns get pushed into the background. You don't even have the stress of going shopping or spending time deciding what to eat, if you're not allowed to eat."

It seems somehow apt in describing what I've just witnessed in parts of rural East Timor. Those people are also somehow living in the now, without care or concern for future or past. It's why, perhaps, they seem so easily able to forgive Indonesia it's many (and very recent) crimes, and why they manage to retain those smiles and that spirit.

I put in my headphones and, miraculously, another incredibly apt thought-for-the-day is delivered, this time by the shuffle button on my MP3 player. Strangely, it's another East Timor related line that comes via Ireland. It's a song called Colony by singer-songwriter Damien Dempsey who I saw perform at WOMAD three years ago. I'm going to quote a fair chunk of the lyrics, just because I love them so much. Here we go...

"I look to the east, I look to the west To the north and the south, and I'm not too impressed; Time after time After crime after crime They raped, robbed, pillaged, enslaved and murdered;

"Well, Jesus Christ was their god and they done it in his name, so he could take the blame if it's not all a game; With bible in one hand and a sword in the other, they came to purify my land of my Gaelic Irish mothers, and fathers and sisters and brothers;

"With our own ancient customs, laws, music, art, way of life and culture, tribal in structure; We had a civilisation when they were still neanderthal nations and we suffer with the Native American, the Indian in Asia, Aboriginal Australia, the African people with their history so deep, and our children still weep, and our lives are still cheap;

"You came from Germany, from France, from England and from Spain, from Belgium, Holland, Portugal, you all done much the same; You took what was not yours, went against your own bible; You broke your own laws just to out do the rival; But did you ever apologize, for the hundreds and millions of lives you destroyed and terrorised, or have you never realized?; Did you never feel shame, for what was done in your country's name, and find out who's to blame, and why they were so inhumane?;

"And still they teach you in your school about those glorious days of rule, how it's your destiny to be, superior to me; But if you've any kind of mind, you'll see that all humankind, are the children of this earth and your hate for them will chew you up and spit you out;

"You'll never kill our will to be free. [repeat to fade]"

And that, it seems, is a fitting way to end my overly lengthy reflections on what has been a magical visit to East Timor. So many firsts - not all of them good - but so many memories, so much learning and, ultimately, a life-affirming shock to my jaded system. Please visit this land. It's very, very special. Avoid the flying rocks in Dili, and the rest really is a breeze.

FYI, the two pictures in this blog have a tenuous link to the content. The first is a picture of sunset taken at Jakarta's Soekarno-Hatta Airport, taken last year. The second is a picture of the view from one of Soekarno-Hatta's very pleasant depature lounges. The airport - like most of the city itself - is fairly ugly and uninspiring. However, inexplicably, its departure lounges are some of the most light, airy and generally refreshing places I've ever had to sit to wait for a plane.

World Bank Blaggers

2006-10-18T13:55:00.000+01:00

I wake at one thirty in a darkness that is total and quite frightening. My fear is enhanced by the fact that I have no idea where I am and compounding the weirdness is the menacing sounds of a mosquito buzz somewhere above me. There’s no wall switch to help cast some light on the situation. After realizing that I am in rural East Timor, and there’s no electricity, I fumble my way to the loo. I may or may not have hit the bowl.

Breakfast doesn’t happen. Well, it nearly doesn’t happen. With complete nonchalance, Dominguez announces that the restaurant doesn’t have any food. Maybe we can pick some bananas from the road side during the day, he says. He also says that sometimes they pack food and water in the car to cope with such situations. ‘That would have been a great idea,’ I reply. He doesn’t seem to get my sarcasm at all, which is a bit annoying. In the end he somehow gets the owner to rustle us up some doughnuts. Strange that in a place so remote, with no electricity and intermittent running water, they can serve warm doughnuts to die for. A cup of local coffee completes what, in the circumstances, feels like a very decent start to the day.

We set out before seven. The soaring mountains behind Same are capped with a solitary pink cloud. There’s a jogger running around the basketball court. Nothing much else is stirring. Actually, there is one thing stirring. My stomach. Dominguez has spilled more of his palm wine over the interior of the car and there’s no way to shift the smell. Not sure whether it was stirring, or churning, but either way, by stomach wasn’t enjoying the ambiance.

Once again, local school kids are sloping off to school with a lack or urgency that befits their chances of finding a job on the basis of what they will learn today. The morning sun creates gorgeous pools of light around the wooden huts. One lady, wrapped in a gorgeous ceremonial cloak, waves at me through a golden haze. It’s a memory that I hope will stay with me forever.

We follow another overloaded public bus (pictured above) before passing a procession of elderly ladies and school children. The ladies are dressed in amazingly lurid outfits and bang traditional drums while the kids walk in pairs up front. When they spot me, all hell breaks loose. ‘Hey mister, mister,’ they yell while reaching for my hand. They are thrilled just to touch me. Every village we pass here is lined with beautiful bouquets, made from a folded palm leaf and four red flowers. Apparently a government guest is expected.

There are weird black stone terraces just north of Mape. The villages here are truly poor. Whole families are out in the fields together. One is hoeing in unison. When they hear us coming they pause, mid-hack, and turn around to smile and wave.

The road soon disintegrates. Every hour or so we pass a great gaggle of local construction workers trying to mend it. The new Prime Minister, Jose Ramos Horta, recently launched this ‘two-dollar-a-day’ initiative, providing work on the battered roads in return for a bit of cash and a bit of hope for these terrifyingly isolated communities. It’s going to be a long time till the full length of the road is fixed. It’s a long, windy one and, thanks to years of Indonesian neglect, it really is in a terrible state.

By early afternoon I have gained an appreciation of what the Queen must go through. No wonder she looks so bored. I always thought that sitting in a horse-drawn carriage and rolling a wrist was a bit of a doddle as day jobs go. Turns out that it’s massively tiring. I, like the Queen perhaps, feel that it is my duty to wave at every single person I pass in the hope that it might provide some modicum of comfort, happiness, interest, laughter, curiosity, whatever. Just something to break up another tedious day in the impoverished mountains of East Timor. But the sheer number of gorgeous kids and toothy grannies, combined with the fact that I have developing a neck ache, means that I am losing my enthusiasm.

Why is it that these folk, stuck out here, are so warm, so full of smiles? I guess if you have nothing, sharing is natural. It’s only when you acquire that you begin to learn lessons about protecting what you got and keeping others away. The folk out here, in their dusty villages comprised of wooden huts and barren fields, have little hope of a different life. Every day is likely to be pretty much like every other day. They live in the now, with the physical burden of staying alive motivating most action. I guess there’s very little time to get bored when you have an ache in your belly and a parched throat. That said, I don’t get any sense of fear. These kids have very little, but they are alive, and they are not scared by anything, and for that they are doing OK, I guess. Poor buggers.

Out here, in the mountains of East Timor, the kids walk. They walk up and down slopes. Perhaps its play, perhaps they are collecting wood, perhaps they are getting exercise. Maybe they are on horseback or barefoot. Some have no trousers, others again are completely naked as they wave at me from a darkened doorway. They should be in school but instead they are involved in the business of staying alive. It’s a tough life.

The local Mikrolet buses (pictured) rattle past, often with a roof fully loaded with people and cargo. Interestingly, each Mikrolet has an utterly unique name which is plastered onto the inside of the wind shield in funky, glittery, 70s-style lettering. ‘I need you’ says one. ‘Remember’, implores another. ‘Be Nice to You’, ‘Only One’. The rather cutsie, romantic theme seems consistent, until I remember one bus that I saw the other day which had the words ‘Bitch Bitch’ printed across it.

We finally pause for a lunch of peanuts and chocolate biscuits that, fortunately, one of us has remembered to bring along (hint: it wasn't the so-called 'tour guide'). We stop at a bridge across the first flowing river that I am seen in a long time. You can look up the valley towards the majestic peak of Ramelau. Way up on high a waterfall is gushing. In the foreground, the world is verdant. Villagers sometimes stop by to pluck crops. A group of men wander past, each one clutching a massive machete. Given their frightening blades, the fact they smile and wave comes as a great relief.

At Letefobo, I clamber up to one of Timor’s many mountain-top Jesus Statues, ever paranoid that I am about to be bitten by a grass snake. We ran a photograph of this place in Asia and Away at the end of last year. I can remember the amazing blue hue of that image. It may have been a polarizer on the camera, or perhaps a bit of post-editing on Adobe Photoshop, but I still want to see the scene with my own eyes.

The view is stunning. The statue looks out over the central mountains of East Timor and the entire vista is painted in a milky blue. I can’t capture Jesus and the view on camera as I am way too close and this lense doesn’t do wide angles. The statue itself, however, looks better in silhouette. Jesus himself looks like a giant gingerbread man.

Just short of Gleno, the landscape turns lush and the forests crowd the road. After eight and half hours of craters, the road finally gets good and we find ourselves swinging around mountain bends, occasionally bursting through a pale of smoke from one of the many fires that are being used to clear land in preparation for the rainy season. Occasionally, the smoke is illuminated by the light filtering through the forest canopy. It’s truly beautiful.

At Railaku, there area angry stares instead of smiles. After everything that has come before, it is quite a shock. The profusion of burnt out buildings here is testament to the troubles of the Spring (and, perhaps, generations before). I want to move along quickly but, sods law, Dominguez has a sister-in-law living in this town who he insists on chatting to at length.

Near sunset, we hit the ocean and wind along the coastal path back to Dili. I’ve only been away in 'the districts' for a night but I feel like I need some creatures comforts. I am looking forward to Hotel Timor in particular. It takes passing through another Australian military to get there.

The guy on reception asks me how I will be paying. I say, oh, it’s OK, the Ministry of Tourism is paying for this one. He has no idea what I am talking about. ‘Have you got anything to prove this?’ he asks. I haven’t. ‘You see, Sir, sometimes people come from the World Bank and tell us the World Bank will pay. When we go to ask them for the money, the World Bank has no idea what we are talking about.' No wonder this country has problems.

Screaming Dinosaurs

2006-10-17T15:43:00.000+01:00

My final breakfast on the balcony is a veritable feast of noodles and fried eggs. A fine way to say goodbye to this little dusty corner of Dili. The sun is rising in a clear blue sky, as it has done every day so far. Dominguez, my Mega Tours driver, is there to pick me up just gone 7am. Our car, like most in Dili, has a smashed windscreen. Dominguez, as he will do for most of the coming day, pleads ignorance.

We make the sharp climb out of the city, passing scores of schoolchildren heading down the hill to school. It’s difficult to tell what time lessons begin. Some kids are loitering outside the school gate, others – looking no less languid – are still miles up the hill.

Great threads of mist hang between the hills around which Dili has taken shape. Towards the crest, I stop for a picture. An old guy with a white beard and great trenches around his eyes stops me and implores me, in Tetum, to take a portrait picture and send it to him. He kneels down in front of stack of wood and puts his hand together in prayer. The pose should be ironic, I think, but this guy is deadly serious. Dominguez says that he is very, very drunk.

High up on the hill there’s a point where you can look all the way to the southern coast, 80kms or so away. North and south coasts in the same field of vision. It’s beautiful. Before we know it we are winding through shady coffee plantations, seemingly growing naturally in the undulating forest. The whole forest is rendered in a lovely deep green and there’s a wonderful fragrance in the air.

A short while out of Dili we come across a military checkpoint. Every car is coming under scrutiny. A young bloke with a wispy moustache interviews us. I should say that his moustache is the only facial feature that I can see beneath the khaki, the sunglasses and the helmet. He asks me what I am doing in Timor. He too fails to conceal a smirk when I say I am here to write about Timor travel. ‘OK, mate, keep smoking the draw,’ he says. Actually, he only said the first two words of that sentence. The rest I extrapolated from his tone of voice.

A short while later, in the town of Alieu, we come across another Australian unit sitting around in a couple of the destroyed buildings, looking very bored indeed. Nothing is doing. The village is out in the coffee fields and rice farms. The Aussies eye every passing car without a feigned attempt at interest. I don’t think they want to be here.

Up on another ridge, I stop to photograph a guy selling water and lollies out of his tiny hut. There may be metal bars across the counter, but the rest of the walls are made from nothing but mud. He too loves to idea of me taking his picture. He poses inside the shop, and – when I retreat to get a wider angle – he comes out and loiters in shot. The people of Timor are certainly not shy about being photographed. On the contrary, they bloody love it.

Dominguez and I chat about the problems that plagued Timor in the Spring. The reasons for military and geurilla frustrations, he says, are understandable. So many men gave the best part of their lives fighting the Indonesians. Now they have a country, but they have no job or money. And they see cars coming out of Dili, people with money and power, and they want a piece of that. Democracy is not easy. People shouldn’t expect immediate change. But, sadly, in this country, they do.

Before long we are on the crest of a hill overlooking the scenic town of Maubisse. It’s a stunning scene. Equally stunning is the view from the Pousada. ‘Pousada’ is Portuguese for ‘hotel’ but the word is often used to refer to the converted residences of old Portuguese governors. There’s a network around the country, though finding out which town has an operating pousada can be tricky. They tend to open and close, especially in this time of near zero tourism.

Maubisse’s pousada is located on top of a hill that lies in the middle of the mountain basin. Steep hills completely surround the building and there’s a constant interplay of light and shadow on the land. It feels like a bigger, deeper, more spectacular version of Northumberland. It’s more like Austria, Dominguez says, despite having never been to Austria. Apparently a Singaporean visitor once told him this.

Compared to Dili, Maubisse is wonderfully cool and there’s a constant sound of wind soughing in distant trees. I’ve used the word soughing a lot in recent months. I now realize that it’s never been used properly before. THIS is real ‘soughing’. It’s an eerie sound. Over a coffee, Dominguez tells me that it can be truly frightening if you are out along camping in the mountains. He sounds like people talking, he says. Timor is a land of myths and legends, and superstitions – the kind of place where Rai Na’in (Earth Owner, or Spirit) might well object if you camp up in the wrong place. I make a mental note never to go out there alone.

On the way down the hill into town, we stopped at the local catholic church. Many locals paused to watched me prowl around outside with the camera. They become very curious when I fell to the floor to get the adjacent picture of the cross which stands outside the church. Dominguez explains that this is a good example of how a devout catholic faith still co-exists with more ancient ancestory worship. At animist shrines, this kind of three-pronged piece of wood is integral to the ancestor-worship ceremonies. It’s now used to represent the cross outside Timor’s churches. Nevertheless, it still looks distinctly indigenous. More obviously native, is a pillar of rams’ horns just across the square.

Despite the abundance of coffee in these valleys, it’s only drunk seasonally by local villagers. In June, July and August – harvest time - they can all fill their boots. The rest of the time, they go without. The poverty is so chronic that growers must sell everything they have if they hope to see the rest of the year out. I wonder if they know there’s no seasonal shutdown at Starbucks. Two quid for a cup back home in the UK. These guys get next to nothing I bet. I guess I am not to first to lament injustice in the global coffee industry.

On the road outside Maubisse we come across a couple of young lads on horseback. The oldest is probably about six. There are no adults in sight. It’s a remarkable sight, similar to a snatched glance I get a bit late of a couple of young girls washing each other in a little ditch at the end of a wooden run-off pipe. Shortly afterwards there’s a woman grooming her daughter, peering around in her wild, vertical haircut for nasties. It’s real back to basics stuff, and rather beautiful to witness.

The road between Maubisse and Same is tough going, but it’s the most rewarding part of the trip, view-wise. This area has two of the highest peaks in Timor. Locals say the biggest, Rameilau (2,930m) is male and the other, Cablaque, is female.
The peaks rear up and can only be glimpsed sometimes by pressing the nose to the windscreen. These are real mountains. Dominguez stops and points across one valley. That’s where Xanana hid out, he says. The Indonesians were here, and he was over there. It’s a lonely, desolate looking place. Rocky, and barren. You can sense the admiration in his voice. Xanana is East Timor’s Che Guvara. Only Xanana is now President. Che died before he could be exposed as human, I guess. Judging by the state of this country, there’s little danger of anyone getting too holy about Xanana.
Kids scream and shout as we pass, smiling and waving. They have nothing. They loiter at their doors and grin a grin that is so instinctive, so pure, that it makes you want to cry. They wake up each day to this poverty. There’s nothing to do in a day, no school, no TV, no books, no Playstation. They just kick around and stay alive. That’s it. Staying alive. There are an amazing number of kids. Apparently East Timor has the world’s highest birth rate and you can believe it. The number of old folk is few. The kids are everywhere. The elderly ladies, however, are particularly noticeable, with their rictus red smiles, teeth and lips thoroughly stained from years of berry chewing. They look like they might fall apart as they smile and wave. Truly remarkable characters.

We breeze past Same, the place we will lodge for the night, and head straight for the south coast. The road suddenly becomes flat and smooth as we race through a weirdly barren forest, totally devoid of leaves. The villages close to the coast have some of the most spectacular Bougainvillea blossoms I’ve seen yet, and I’ve seen so far.

At the sea, I put on some trunks and head into the surf with my snorkel. The waves are tall here and I bob around, peering over the top occasionally to glimpse an old burnt out Portuguese building back on the sands. A group of local kids are bobbing up and down on a rubber ring which has a dangerously protruding valve. They smile and wave and offer me a ride. I accept, and offer them a go on my snorkel. They clearly have never seen a snorkel before. It takes about fifteen minutes, and several dives beneath the surface, before the begin to get the hang of it. I have to laugh as I watch them dive down before surfacing spluttering and coughing.

We drive back up towards Same, with the gorgeous mountains looking large. They hang on the horizon majestically. We stop at one village to get pictures in the lovely evening sunlight. It takes only a moment for the mob of kids to gather. They can’t get enough of it, virtually fighting each other for the opportunity to take centre stage in my viewfinder. I make the grave mistake of trying to give them a couple of mangos that I have in my bag. Chaos ensues. I spot one girl, with especially wild hair who giggled gorgeously in one of my pictures, and try to give her a mango. She’s at the back and is staring into the car curiously, but she hasn’t asked once. Something puritanical is stirring in me, obviously. Those who ask, don’t get.

Dominguez takes the opportunity to buy a eight-dollar, five-litre plastic container of the stinky homemade palm wine. ‘The wife won’t like this,’ he says. Neither do I as, immediately, the entire car smells of the stuff. It’s horrible. It’s a double whammy for him, for as he goes to buy the alcohol, a local lady accosts him and accuses him of running over her chicken about half an hour ago. Indeed, Dominguez did run over a chicken half an hour ago, but he feigns complete ignorance and, somehow, gets away with it.

Back at Same, we head up the hill to a lovely colonial square which, with views like this, just needs to be developed. When it is, it’ll be gorgeous. Europeans pay thousands for a lot less. As it is, a solitary Timor Aid project is in residence, making tais to sell to nobody. Nothing else is stirring up here. Apparently tentative plans have been made, but what’s lacking is the money, and the investment. I guess first must come stability, then improvement to the infrastructure (notably power and roads), and then the businessman can come.

At sunset, I am invited to play basketball with a group of local teenagers. The mountains that rise above us are lit in a gorgeous golden glow. The girls call me ‘Mister Graham’ and giggle like good’uns. I feel so very, very lucky to be here

I wash myself down from the water in the cistern and dry myself on nothing. I’ve forgotten my towel and the hotel (15 USD a night) certainly isn’t providing one. I eat with Dominguez in the hotel’s very own restaurant. Given that the power only comes on at 6.30pm, I wonder how they manage to keep things refrigerated. Clearly, they don’t, cos the only thing on tonight’s menu is chicken. Chicken with rice. The bugger was almost certainly killed within the last hour. Or maybe not. It’s dry and chewy. I only get two tough wings. It’s disgusting. Timorese cooking is certainly not one of the attractions on this country. Oh well, I guess, out here, I should feel lucky to get anything at all. I wouldn’t like to be scavenging for food myself. With no water, no electricity (for most of the day) and no menu, I feel fairly luck to have anything at all. Oh, did I mention that this is the best restaurant in town?

Behind Dominquez’s shoulder a fire is raging out there in the darkness. Nobody has any idea why. After spending the ‘eating’ part of the meal in utter silence, we spend the ‘beer drinking’ part chatting. ‘We’ve got 32 political parties, and 16 different dialects in this country,’ he says. ‘We only have 900,000 people. We’ve spent so much time fighting others, the Indonesians, the Portuguese, the Japanese, that we’ve forgotten about what’s inside. There’s too much arguing inside our own people and political parties. We need stability, and unity. After 2002, the government should have gone out and talked to everyone, including the people in the districts. They should’ve bought the country together, but they failed.

‘At the moment, we’ve got most of the country sitting around waiting – people with nothing to do, no jobs and no ideas. We should be so rich, but we need the technical knowledge to make the most of what we have got. The election’s next year. If things can settle down, then in 20 years we have a future. If it’s still like this, I can’t see any future.’

His words are serious, and sobering. In Timor right now, it’s inevitable that you will get into a conversation like this. Politics is everything, and everywhere. That’s the problem, I guess. Too much politics.

‘All our people came together to fight the Indonesians. We had unity then. Now people say, “Back then we fought side by side but why, now, have you now got a big car and a house in Dili, and why have I got nothing – no job, no house, no future?’ The government needs to be active to give people hope – to give them jobs. But in the future, people need to have options. I hope they can decide to take a factory job with maybe a private company. They need to think about themselves – for example, “If I take this job, I can buy myself a motorbike next year,” stuff like that. Only that way will things improve.’

The conversation with Dominguez, in the silent Same night, gives me a better understanding of the meaning of ‘development’. I realize how far along China already is, and just why it wants to ‘develop’. To have a country with so much potential in such a poor state is a real tragedy. And yet, the people out her seem so very, very happy. It’s hard to make sense of it.

As I drift off to sleep in the darkness, I can hear a perradactyl scream. Either that or the owners of this hotel keep monkeys. Of course, it could just be the squeaking doors? I prefer the flying dinosaur line.

Madmen

2006-10-16T12:19:00.000+01:00

An easy day in Dili. The highlight of the morning was meeting a French Canadian bloke in the City Café. He reminded me a bit of Michael Palin in his Monty Python prime. Totally mad. Wore a floppy sun hat and a gaudy bright blue shirt. He talked and talked and talked. The kind of guy who reassures you that, actually, no matter how depressed you feel, you actually doing OK. He talked of spending seven years teaching French in Vanuatu. These days, after an aborted attempt to enter Australia, he was forced into the T-shirt business. He runs his shop out of the departure lounge at Dili Airport. Apparently, yesterday, he met a guy who had flown into Dili, and was planning on departing on the next available flight. This guy said he was attempting to visit every country in the world in 80 days. Apparently, he couldn’t give a clear reason why.

I met my second weirdo of the day at Dili’s second dive shop, Freeflow. He had just popped in to buy a helmet, with attached video camera so as to better record his motorbike tour of the globe. Given he was Birmingham, it seemed a little late in the day to be having this idea. I guess he’s still got half the world to go. Not sure how he plans to get from New Zealand to South America, mind.

I am summoned to a meeting at the tourism ministry. It’s located in a big white building where the breeze blows through capacious lobby areas every sound echoes. It’s all seems very Third World, a feeling confirmed when Dan and I step into the tourism department’s actual office. The lights are off and what few staff there are are packing up boxes of personal belongings. There is at least one guy who appears to be doing some work, though he has just arrived and perhaps doesn’t know any better. He’s a Canadian guy living in Malaysia and now working on a WTO contract looking at environmental issues and sustainable tourism development, despite the fact that – right now – there doesn’t seem to be any tourism development. I guess that’s how these guys get their jobs, eh? They plan ahead.

Miguel, who I first met in Hong Kong last month, eventually appears and announces that the government is willing to sponsor me on a two day tour of the country and pay for a night in Hotel Timor. This is a result. We head over to the wall map and discuss possibilities. During the chat, Miguel explains that every building (bar one) that tourists see in Dili was built in the 1960s or 1970s. Everything this country had was razed by either the Japanese or the Indonesians.

Dan and I head down to the beach once more to watch a lovely sunset. The kids, as ever, are kicking around in the dirt. Dan snaps a gaggle of excited youngsters and I dish out a few slices of bread (hence the picture above).

Last night on the balcony is a melancholy affair. I’ve rather grown to love this place, especially since heading out east. Just having power and a cool cistern of water a few metres away feels like the height of luxury these days. It’s amazing how quickly one’s standards and expectations can shift.

Back to Scaresville

2006-10-15T15:11:00.000+01:00

I don’t sleep well. The gaping mosquito net is a worry but the worst thing is the stickiness. I wasn’t able to have a shower last night on account on the moon not coming out in time to light the iron wash shack out back. It was dangerous back there. I decide to get up at about 5am. It’s dark outside. I sit on the beach and watch pastel shades spread themselves across the horizon. Pigs from the local homes root around in the sand. The ocean laps the shore and I am alone to watch the sunrise.

The kids soon emerge, up to empty to litter baskets or take a wash. A brother and sister play on a makeshift swing that has been built on the beach. One of the girls selling shell necklaces is back but seems more interested in soaking up the golden glow than harassing me, which is good. I sit there watching it all, trying to work out what to do. In the bar last night, Manny’s tales of Tutuala Beach made the place sound almost mythical. However, getting there is going to be a nightmare, and I won’t make it back to Dili before Tuesday evening at the earliest. It will be an adventure – hell it may even be a story in itself – but it’s going to be difficult.

I still haven’t decided by the time I take a swim in the ocean. The sun has just risen over the headline at the end of Com Bay and the interplay of light and waves on the scaly surface of the aquatic life is amazing to behold. It’s a wonderful scene down there. There are scores of fish milling around, buffeted by the waves, some big, some small, some scared and some really rather curious. The world is aquamarine and turquoise. The bed of the ocean is rock, with occasional patches of sand and coral. I pull myself through the water feeling thoroughly aquatic myself. Other times I just hang above a particularly interesting rock or coral and just stare at what’s below. There are fish everywhere. It’s absolutely gorgeous. A group of three kids watch me from the shoreline. Occasionally I surface and give them a wave.

Somewhere in there I decide that I have already had such a good time that heading back to town today wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I guess I just lose my bottle. I want to avoid the discomfort of a bus ride back. I want to avoid the waiting, and the heat, and the prospect of getting stranded this side of that pretty knackered looking road at Baucau. I haul myself out of the ocean and run to where Manny and his customers said they would be having breakfast. I offer fifty bucks to sit in the front of the car. The deal is accepted and I head back for a quick bite – bread rolls with pineapple jam, and fresh coffee – before packing up and heading off, leaving behind my little guesthouse (pictured).

It’s a real wrench to leave Com. It’s such a lovely place. The people all wave as we move off. Manny explains that they have nothing to live off other than the stuff they grow, and the few dollars they make on selling tourists their tais and homemade sea-shells. Perhaps for this reason, the place is a blueprint of primitive paradise. Sure, there’s some kind of entrepreneurial energy from those making their tais (pictured) to sell to what few tourists there are, but there’s also great peace and happiness. I don’t think I’ve been to a happier, more relaxed and carefree place.

A few kilometers out of town we pass a little freshwater spring which is just a picture in this morning light. It’s Sunday – the kids only day off from school – and they are out in force, washing in the water or playing. The water is genuinely crystal clear. We wave, the villagers wave back.

Shortly after leaving Com, we spot movement out at sea and slow to take a look. Soon it becomes clear we are watching an entire school of dolphins at play. One or two suddenly leap out of the water and do a twirl. It’s all happening in the distance, but it’s truly a mesmerizing moment. Next, a couple of Banteng cattle appear from the side of the road and gallop in front of us. Their face and gait is that a deer but Taffy, the rugged Western Autralian hotelier that I’m sharing the car with assures me they are cattle with the confidence of a man who knows his bovines. Taffy and his partner/friend Kim talk of walking out of Com yesterday. They headed east on buffalo tracks to find beautiful white sand beaches untouched by human foot. I wish I had had the bottle to stay at do it myself.

We head past those same huts, made from wood with either corrugated iron or thatched roofs that rise from dusty, barren patches of rocky earth. East Timor is truly the Third World. I only twigged that after coming here and seeing it for myself. These homes have no running water, no electricity. Maybe, if they are lucky, they might have a battery powered transistor radio to pick up word from Dili. Maybe.

Close to Lautem we pass a stream of villagers heading back from the Sunday morning church service, dressed in their best garb. They walk beneath flowering bougainvillea trees. It’s a colour explosion in a dry, dusty landscape. They wave, we wave back.

We pass a couple of lorries (and one 4x4) seemingly stuck in one of the few flowing rivers. One chap is attempted to jack up a truck while keeping his head above water. It’s quite a sight.

Manu spots a white flag on a wooden pole outside one village. It indicates a child under five has recently died. It’s a somber moment in an otherwise joyous day.

We stop to buy peanuts and I am drawn to some siren-like singing drifting from one of the nearby shacks in the middle of the forest (pictured). It’s a Sunday service, though it takes me a while to work it out. I would never have guessed this place was a church. One guy is on guitar. There are songs, a bit of chat, and more songs, and a bit more chat, and more songs. Manny, a short while later, complains this is reason he stopped going to church. ‘There’s too much singing,’ he says. ‘It just takes too bloody long.’ He spends his Sundays out on his fishing boat these days. Nevertheless, for me, being beckoned into that church shack and watching that group of ladies sing in Tetum in heavenly harmony was truly a holy moment.

Shortly before Dili, Manny looks out to the blue ocean and spots a giant, two-metre long fish skipping through the ocean. ‘Holy shit,’ he says, repeatedly. ‘Look at that,’ he implores us. It’s another magical moment. It’s a beast. It’s yet another example of how alive this place is. This is Third World, but Christ this place is not hungry, or thirsty or strangled. It’s teeming with life.

Coming back over the mountains close to Dili, Manny explains that the road – the A1 – was built in the late nineteenth century. It was hewn by hand by local people, working under colonial Portuguese direction. Many perished. Apparently the cowardly Indonesians used to drive around bends on the wrong side of the road for fear of toppling over the edge. On our way back down to sea-level we pass a spear fisherman, wearing his homemade coconut shell goggles, using his forearms to haul himself up onto the road. I stop to take a photo. He poses for the camera, large beads of sea water rolling down his torso. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more striking, dignified-looking bloke than that guy.

Just coming back into Dili, we pass the Prime Minister's house, a humble thatched complex with washing hanging out back. Next we head over to the Jesus Statue at the end of the Crocodile snout peninsula. There’s a real Sunday holiday vibe – loads of expats lounging under parasols, or rubbing on sun-tan cream. A few locals sit in large groups and chat. A few are standing on the edge of the fringe reef way out in the lagoon. Apparently, scores of alcove chapels have been built in the cliff face that leads to the Jesus Statue. This is a holy place. Today, it’s also feels like a party place.

Back in Dili, I head back to my guesthouse to find that there is a massive crowd of locals and south Asian blokes gathered at the cock fighting stadium. Even up in my room I can hear the huge roar of the crowd. It is a genuinely sporting spectacle. I wander through the melee to discover that Dan’s friend Tony is the referee. He shakes me hand after stepping out of the ring. Already, I feel a part of the event.

Over a coffee a little later, Dan tells me that this, in essence, is his theory about Timor. You can see cock fighting elsewhere, he says, but you can’t feel as much part of it as you can here. As a foreigner, you can wander down to the ring and shout and bet and mingle, and you will be embraced as part of the group. It was the same for me at Com. He’s right. As a tourist in Timor, you don’t have to operate on the outside, looking in.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t take too long for the nerves to set it once more. Manuel, Tony’s brother, says that he is frightened ahead of the big UN report tomorrow. He says the whole village feels nervous. He expects the city to erupt. Dan tells him not to worry, that it’s all rumours, but the tension is infectious. After 48 hours of nothing but smiles and waves and warmth, we are back in Scaresville. God bless Dili.

The End of the Road

2006-10-14T15:51:00.000+01:00

And so, finally, I leave Dili on a drive out east with Eco Discovery. The release in tension in palpable within minutes of leaving city limits. Manny, my driver, is a lovely Timorese chap who speaks with an Aussie twang. He spent 30 years living in Melbourne and says he was involved in the resistance against the Indonesians remotely. He returned to East Timor after independence, seeking a ‘challenge,' he tells me, leaving a son in Australia. He was raised a Catholic, and still believes in God, but loves to play bad 80s Heavy Metal to ‘get him going’.

Within half an hour we are breezing past blue lagoons with green mangroves and perfect white sand beaches. To our right, the hillsides are steep. There’s evidence of marble mining in areas and lots of white rock naturally studded into the hillside. Apparently there are seven different colours of marble in East Timor. The mountains suddenly become very steep in front of us, rising from sea-level to 1,500m in a matter of only a few lateral metres. Apparently the oceans bed does a similar thing in the opposite direction. There’s some of the world’s best, most diverse diving around the reefs close to land, and then there are steep walls that just drop thousands of metres to the ocean floor.

The diversity of flora and fauna is amazing. Close the mountains around Dili are white gum trees that stand out against the deep blue of the ocean. Before long we are out among the dry plains. And, boy, are they dry. Nevertheless, every so often we will pass an amazingly vibrant burst of colour on a naturally growing Bougainvillea. The villages we cruise past look desperately poor, the land around them parched, yet they have such stunning bougainvillea bushes, the blue ocean in their back yard and peace in their hearts. They wave as we pass. ‘Bon Dia, Bon Dia’. The brown arid hillsides, fuchsia blossoms and azure seas – those three colours will perhaps remain by abiding memories of Timor.

We pass kapok trees where beautifully soft cotton grows within a hard outer shell, tamarin trees, lakes where rock salt can be found bobbing on the surface, peanut plantations, silk worm farms and candlenut trees. There are rice paddies that are dry now but will, in a few weeks, be flooded with rain water and, soon after that, green and wispy. Entire villages will come out to work together. Communes in Communist China could have done no better in their heyday, surely? The earth looks so very barren but Manny assures me parts of it are amazingly fertile. There’s such a natural bounty to be enjoyed but the people here look so very, very poor. They make enough for themselves and no more. There’s no mass production.

We slow to watch a group of men butchering a Water Buffalo but the roadside. Manny calls out to them. They’ll be preparing for a funeral feast, Manny says. Water Buffalo is the most valued meat in East Timor and funeral feasts are BIG. Judging by the look of this poor creature, every bit of it is bound for the table platter. A short time after we pass a couple of rogue deer hunters who are selling chunks from a fresh kill (below). Manny purrs with excitement. ‘Ah, mate, I wish I could buy a leg. That’s great meat. They don’t have fridges where we’re going, though. If it wasn’t for that, I’d buy one straight away.’

Despite the very evident poverty, people are so friendly. Virtually everyone we pass waves. It really is infectious. Suddenly I find that it’s natural to bid passerby good morning, afternoon or evening in Portuguese.

We pass burned out shells of former Indonesian military outposts and checkpoints. Manny wonders how they managed to secure water for these guys. Often the buildings are in the middle of nowhere. They were trashed by Indonesian troops on the way and left in a dilapidated state to this day. The government controls them and intends to use them, but for now, the priorities are fire-fighting in Dili. Development is stalled. Ruins of older Portuguese forts are built up into the hillside and, occasionally, there are Japanese WWII bunkers next to the beaches. They are a visual reminder of just how troubled this countries recent (and not-so recent) history is. The town of Manatuto is a case in point. In the local square, a flag rises from a plastic model of the island. The island itself rests on a series of skulls. I ask Manny the significance. 'It's to show the price we have paid for our freedom.' Just up the road, I catch these young lads (pictured) playing football in front of the local church. Football is not Timor's only sporting passion. Basketball and volleyball are also big.

Every so often Manny looks out to sea. ‘Ah mate, I’ll be out there soon,’ he says. ‘In my little boat, fishing. Some of the best fishing in the world.’ The seas are empty. He could have them to himself. I suspect he often does.

The land soon turns to red clay. There are cacti. This could be Texas, or Nevada. Villagers sell peanuts or white palm beer next to the road. This is their only means of earning cash. In amongst thickets of trees, there are corrugated iron churches. Beautiful, harmonious singing drifts from within.

We pass over wide empty river beds. They’ll be gushing this time next month. Occasionally there’s a trickle of water in the centre, spilling out from natural springs way up in the mountains to our right (south). Kids splash about and wave at us as we pass over the Indonesian-built iron bridges. Apparently it’s one of the few decent things they did for Timor. The Portuguese were quite a failure when it came to bridges, apparently.

We drive past the old colonial airport – now the barracks of the Timorese Army’s first battalion – and up into the picturesque city of Baucau. It’s a beautiful place, surrounded by tall palm trees, and with the sound of flowing water never far away. The water pipes have burst and women are washing down in the trenches, taking full advantage. There are some lovely Portugese ruins, particularly the old market house which, currently, remains in a dilapidated state but, again, will (one day) be converted into something useable Baucau also has a lovely public swimming pool, built by the Portuguese and beautiful big Banyan Trees surrounded by wonderful Frangipanni trees and Bourganvillia bushes. The town feels so lovely and green. And yet, soon after leaving it, we descend the 300 metres back down through the parched rice-paddies to sea-level and we are in the middle of the desert once more. On the way down, part of the road is falling away. Manny says that unless they do something soon, the constantly flowing water, coupled with the imminent rains with wash the entire thing away.

We pass an old guy who is walking down a long, straight road wearing just a big pair of dark sunglasses. ‘He looks like that American Negro, what’s his name….ah, that’s it! Ray Charles,’ says Manny. He looks in danger of bloody keeling over. Despite the proximity of the sea, this feels like a genuinely fierce place to be out walking in the midday sun. And yet, we pass kids walking miles to school in the heat of the day.

The day turns episodic. We pass a bunch of guys building a thatched roof house from dry green palm leaves. We stumbles across a cock-fight where we watch the razor blades being attached, money being exchanged and the crowd cheering as the bout takes place. I sample the local white palm tree. It’s tangy, and pretty foul. Next we pass a guy who has rescued a baby monkey. Kids swarm around as he poses for the camera with the little simian in his hand. It’s barely bigger than his palm. Manny is amazed. He tells me he has a monkey at home. It rides on his dog’s back sometimes. They work in tandem to ensure house security.

Next we drop in on the local ‘Tarzan’, and old guy who climbs the palms to make the local beer. He drinks most of it himself, but keeps enough in hand to sell some onto locals, with whom he has become famous. He cracks open one fruit for us to see. It’s orange and stringy inside. I taste it. It’s wonderfully fruity. Manny tells me not to swallow just after I have already done so. ‘Ah, it’ll do you no harm,’ he says reassuringly. ‘But you’re just supposed to just take the flavour and spit out the rest.’

We pass a beach where several horses are taking a bathe in the great blue ocean - one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Shortly after this, we drive through several kilometres of thick palm thickets before, finally, arriving at Com. It’s half hour before sunset. It’s only a 240 kms drive but it’s taken nearly eight hours thanks to the stops to take pictures. Com is the end of the road – a dead end. I agree to lodge the night in a local’s home just shy of the pier that marks the end of the road. I am convinced this must be the chevy suko ([sic] – the local police chief) that Dan mentioned. The reason I think this is because the guy has a very distinguished handlebar moustache. USD 10, including meals, he says in Portuguese. Sounds like a bargain until I realize that digs will be simple. There’s no electricity, and the only running water comes from a pipe (connected to the spring) in a corrugated iron shack out back. Roosters squawk about in the dusty yard outside my window and I soon realize that the combination of factors means that it’s going to be a loud, sticky, uncomfortable night. Oh, did I mention the mosquito net didn’t close either? Let me say here and now that one should never rent accommodation on the basis of the owner’s moustache.

Nevertheless, Com is a revelation. I walk back down the beach at sunset. Rarely have I been on a beautiful white sand beach where the only footprints there are to follow are those of pigs and chickens. They wander down onto the sand from the simple shacks built on the front. I walk back out to a place called ‘Monkey Lagoon’. Normally you can see monkeys swimming in the green water but it’s all quiet now. However, the scores of swallows that swoop provide some measure of consolation. I am completely alone in this wonderful place. The sun is setting, and I feel like I have arrived.

Just walking back down the street is a spiritual experience. Girls sell lovely sea-shell necklaces for 50c a piece. Women weave tais and bid me good evening (before trying to sell me a bag or two). Everyone I pass says Good Evening with a wave and a smile.

I run along the beach as it gets dark and splash around in the ocean. After hosing myself down in the shack, I am treated to a delicious meal of rice and tuna out of the balcony. I chat with Anthony, the son of the distinguished father (who is continuing to speak to me in Portuguese, even though I can’t understand a word). Apparently there are 11 people living in this little place – 12 tonight. There are posters of football stars on the walls and the wooden front door.

I walk back down to the Com Beach Resort after dark. It’s the only place which has electricity and I can see a light shining in the distance. In the darkness of the village, I look up to see a quite breathtaking night sky. After a few beers at the bar, I head back home and sit for ten minutes on the beach before bed. I want to sing for joy. This is it. The end of the road; my own personal paradise. This really is it.

Trouble Coming

2006-10-13T13:14:00.000+01:00

Another morning on the balcony, writing on the laptop as the sun rises, sipping fresh coffee from a thermos flask that is brought up to my room, alongside a couple of fresh bread rolls and a slice of processed cheese.

Diving this morning looks to be off. Steve is sick again and Mark tells me that if he doesn’t get back to test run the company’s new boat this afternoon, the weekend’s trips will be cancelled. I tell him I’m really keen to finish the course today and there’s a bit of tension in the air. We head off in the mosquito filled army jeep and I’m still not sure of the plan.

At the roundabout opposite the airport road and refugee camp, a police patrol has stopped cars and is checking documentation. We breeze past. Mark waves at people left right and centre. I’m not sure if they know him but he’s sticking to his line that he’s invincible from trouble on account of his good relations with the locals and the waves seem designed to prove this. He spots a NGO car behind us, beeping. It’s World Vision. ‘No bloody vision, more like. Those guys are the worst,’ he jokes. ‘Most of the UN drivers from Africa come here and get given big cars to drive before they have even learnt how to bloody drive,’ he explains.

The dive site (pictured) is dry, desolate and parched – just like yesterday. A couple of guys are loitering under the shade and we bid them good morning, presumably in the hope they don’t raid out car when we are underwater.

The first dive is a struggle. My eyes hurt and I can’t seem to clear water from my mask. Mark lends me his and things swiftly improve. As we head down to the reef, a metre-long fish snakes its way towards us in the manner of a shark. Mark looks at it and points, shrugging his shoulders to indicate that he had no clue what it is. He stares at us, we stare back. He moves behind us. We turn around, it backs off slightly, but before you know it it’s back. Again and again it returns to check us out. One time Mark even moved towards it aggressively and it quickly retreated but, once again, returned for more a few moments later. Later on the surface, Mark admits that he has never seen anything like it before and he reckoned it was almost certainly a shark of some variety.

We plummet to 19.9 metres, a full 1.9 metres lower than I should go. Mark is a great instructor, in that he doesn’t let piffling details like this bother him. Likewise, I am constantly staring at the pressure guage, worrying as it heads down to 50 bar and below (indicating how much air I have left). You are supposed to surface with no less than 50 but Mark isn’t bothered. The higher you rise the less air you use and as we were already on the way up, he knew I’d be fine. I believe him. Despite his tattoos, and his fascination with engines, and automatic weapons – all stuff I would normally take to indicate a bit of a meat-head – Mark exudes a reassuringly authoritative air when he’s underwater and I fully trust him. In fact, I couldn’t hope for a better instructor. Steven would have worried me. Mark, by contrast, is fantastic.

We take a break in the van. I sit clutching my forearms, which were badly burnt yesterday. The sun is fierce. I feel like I am in the middle of a desert. Mark doesn’t seem so worried. He’s soaking it all up, telling me about his girlfriend and the fact that he will have to buy her family 10 cows when he marries her. He’s heading to see the folk for the first time next week. Apparently, if they like him he might have to offer slightly less than 10 cows. They’ll be taking the boat to Oecussi (an enclave province in West Timor, completely isolated from the rest of the country) next week, assuming his missus gets out of hospital before then. She’s crook at the mo. Hell tells me one time he went with a couple of Aussie soldiers to the hospital when one of them got sick. They had to take automatic weapons, he said. The hospital isn’t in a nice area, apparently.

Before I know it, I am a PADI certified diver. The fourth and final dive is kneecapped slightly by the fact that I have lost one of my fin straps. Mark, ever the gent, agrees to lend me his super expensive pair and heads into the water with one foot jammed into one of the fins. He soons realizes the folly of this and, five metres underwater, loosens his BCD jacket, takes off one fin and jams it beneath the strap and his body. He dives one footed.

Mark hands me my temporary certification with some fatherly words of caution about not jumping in at the deep end and not getting caught up in the macho-ism of some divers. Stay safe, he says. He hands me a pink envelope which I must send to PADI in Australia. He advises me to wait until I get to Bali to put it in the post box. Timor’s post service isn’t all that, he explains.

Dan is there to congratulate me with a firm handshake. I am, officially, East Timor’s newest qualified diver. We head off to a late lunch at a place called Sagres Garden. It’s a little converted villa out in the countryside. For the first time this trip, I walk in and there’s a wonderful burst of air-conditioning. The house has a sleepy Mediterranean feel, appropriate perhaps given the Portuguese connections. Indeed, the place is stuffed with Portugese wines. Our host is a lady called Lurdes. She is big in every sense and reminds me of a quintessential Mediterranean matriarch. She ensures we are well fed and that I am bought straight to the bosom of the family. She talks about things, and people, as if I was already familiar, and already a friend - a common occurance in East Timor. She worked formerly as an interpreter in government circles and seems familiar with all manner of senior people, President included. She tells me that the President is a lousy photographer, but a wonderful poet.

The food is, sadly, only so-so. The fish, for all the talk of freshness, is tough and tastes old. There is nobody else in the restaurant, or indeed in the apartment complex out the back (where there’s a little deck where some of the local kids come and eat soup and a swimming pool for the expats who rent here). Nevertheless, the place is nice – really nice. It’s great to experience a bit of the Dili high life, if only to realize that there is a high life and it isn’t all corrugated shacks, overpriced beer and fear. That said, most of the conversation is about Timor ethnic problems. Lurdes believes that Western Timorese are lazy Johnny-Come-Latelys. Only the easterners have that real Timorese zest, passion and revolutionary spirit. ‘I’m probably biased’ she says. ‘You’re definitely biased,’ replies Dan.

Alfonso and I ride out west on the Commara Road to Merpati Office (where I book my return flight) and Maria’s office at Eco-Discovery Tours. I have managed to blag a ride into the east tomorrow with one of their drivers. Unfortunately, Maria tells me the return journey could be tricky. The customers, apparently aren’t too happy with a freeloader coming along for the ride and have asked for some cash.

We head back via the Australian Embassy where I plan to register my details before I venture into ‘the districts’. I’m half hour late. The place is closed. As I am scribbling a fairly frantic-sounding note, a couple of the senior embassy staff come out and I duly accost them. One chap tells me that Baucau is lovely and that the guesthouse in Tutuala, in the far, far east has recently opened. Suddenly, as we are chatting and elderly bloke emerges behind the metal barriers. He’s Barry Brown, the First Secretary and Consul. He has the look of a real old-time diplomatic type - and slightly sinister for it. He talks about potential social unrest in Dili with the nonchalence – nay the jollity – of someone who has 1) seen it all before, and 2) is far too important to fear such events. I reckon he has friends in High Places, clearly, and given that, it’s worrying what he says next. ‘Keep your eyes open. Things could get volatile next week,’ he says. ‘You mean with this delayed UN report?’ I ask. ‘Yes. They only delayed it so they could bring in reinforcements to Dili,’ he says with a bronchial chuckle. ‘You’re probably better off over there in the east.’ He very kindly gives me his business card which has his mobile number on. I thank him and make my way into the murky evening with Alfonso. For the first time, the skies have clouded over and it’s grey and a bit depressing.

After a celebratory beer back at Castaway Bar with Bryan, Dan and Alfonso, I turn in for the night. I was supposed to head up into the hills for a barbecue with Dan’s friend Shane but I am wilting after the diving and a little bit scared by the prospect of the return journey. I have an early start tomorrow, and a perfect excuse. The night, therefore, is instead spent in solitude on my balcony. Power’s off again. Just the occasional sound of conversation from across the yard, a barking dog or a cockerel confused by the occasional headlight. There’s trouble coming, I can feel it in the air. I’m OK though. I’m outta here tomorrow. I can’t wait.

Earth Spirits

2006-10-12T14:03:00.000+01:00

I’m realizing it’s futile to get pissed off about these roosters. When they wake is when I will wake too. Today it’s about six. I get up to find the sun just creeping over the hills behind Dili. I take my laptop and sit out on the balcony, looking over the side at the kids and the dogs as they emerge from their slumber and start kicking about the yard. Breakfast arrives at about seven and I sip on tea and fresh bread. It’s lovely.

Today I walked down to the dive shop. The sea is like a mirror (above). Men are asleep on their fishing boats. Some have hung the catch of the day up from a tree (left) and pour water over them from an old plastic bottle. I pass a wall next to the port with graffiti daubed on it. Touts sell phone cards and newspapers. The refugee camp is all quiet.

Steven is sick and can’t take me out today. My heart sinks, until I meet his replacement – a wonderfully reassuring Aussie called Mark. He’s got a lovely, languid way of explaining everything to me before it actually happens – ‘OK now Graham, what we’re going to do is get you kitted out.’ He talks in a thick Aussie twang – he lived for years on a small island between Victoria and Tasmania – and speaks as if nothing in the world could bother him. With nerves the way they are, this is the kind of guy I need to spend time around.

We drive out to Dili in a green military style jeep. We head past the airport where most of the troubles have occurred, past the bridge. Mark tells me that he once got caught in a fire fight here while with a customer. He just told his passenger to put his head down and carried on driving. We pass a traditional building specially built for Pope John Paul II to sit in when he visited Timor in the 80s under Indonesian rule (pictured). Apparently the whole area swarmed with people that day. These days in dilapidated and deserted. We breeze on past an Australian military camp and several dusty little villages before arriving at a dusty little clearing next to Dili Rock, and the big wide ocean. Nobody is about. It’s parched and hot. Mark tells me that lots of stuff gets nicked from cars but not from him cos he’s mates with the locals. He shouts out a few greetings to a group of young punks loitering beneath a thatched pavilion to prove the point.

The first dive is wonderful. Visibility is great – about 12 metres – and almost I know it I am fully immersed in the underwater world. Great shoals of fish glimmer in the morning light, We spot a lion fish and descend to 18 metres to take a look. I should be petrified but I feel bloody good – aside from an aching jaw. I realize that my teeth are gripping into the mouth guard for dear life. My mouth aches terribly, compounded perhaps by my realization that smiling underwater is a bad idea. However, not smiling when you are experiencing something so amazing, and so new, as this is a really, really difficult thing to do. Diving is a sadly silent sport. Understandable though.

We wade from the ocean into the searing heat. Getting back into the van, we head to a small village to buy water. I learn later that this was one of the problem areas during the troubles in April/May. No wonder people are looking at us strangely, two guys dressed in dripping rubber attempting to make small talk with angry young men.

After a slightly murky second dive, we head home. Half way back, a guy by the side of the road bends down to pick up a rock and feigns a move to hurl it at the car. It takes a while to work out what’s going on but when it does, my stomach sinks. I realize I am about to have to duck. I realize I should have ducked about five seconds ago. Just as the panic begins to set in I spot the guy laughing his head off. I look to Mark. ‘Fucker’, he says. It turns out the guy works at the bloody dive shop. He thought it would be a good idea to amuse himself by pretending to lob a rock. Comedy in context. I could have done without it, frankly.

‘I promise you two things,’ Mark says. You’re gonna have a bloody good feed now, and then you’re going to sleep’. He’s right on both counts. I have a bloody awful reheated lasagna at Castaway which, if nothing else, is at least big. I then take a taxi and head home to sleep. I don’t rise until gone five.

I head downstairs to find my neighbour Nina, sitting on her verandah drinking beer and reading some trashy celebrity magazine. Was this the lady who last night was berating the Timorese for their laziness? ‘Oh, someone called Dan just came by,’ she says. Pause. ‘Actually, he came by earlier too. I told him you weren’t here. I didn’t know you were in.’ It might have been nice if she had bothered to check.

Miraculously, Dan catches up with me as I am in the internet bar sending some pictures home. They’ve been roaming the streets looking for me, apparently. Maria, the manager of Eco Discovery (one of two Dili-based tour companies), is driving. Alfonso is in the back. We head to a restaurant called Sanan Rai. There are lots of earthenware pots hanging up, apparently used by Timorese in traditional cooking. The words Sanan Rai mean ‘Earth Pot’ in the Tetum language.

Over dinner, we talk about East Timor’s myths and legends. There are tales of giant birds emerging coming out of trees and seas swimming with millions of eels. Superstition is strong in this land, it seems. Dan tells me about an amazing sounding festival which occurs once a year in the east. It’s Metchi (Coral Sea Worm) catching night. The exact timing is decided by village elders based on both the lunar calendar and an historic intuition. When the hour arrives, the entire communitv wanders out into the sea, calling out ‘Metchi, Metchi, Metchi’. Sure enough, the sea is swarming with them. They are scooped out by the bucketload and fermented for a few days before being eaten straight from the jar, perhaps with a touch of lemon and chili. Dan, apparently, shot this festival once but the film was lost by his assistant. It’s the only time in his career that an entire shoot was wiped out in such a manner. He says that it’s obviously a festival which wasn’t destined to be recorded to film. The Rai Na’in, or Earth Spirit, obviously took exception.

There are also sobering elements to the evening conversation. Dan talks about finding bodies in abandoned buildings on this very street. People still avoid it, apparently. Dan tells us about leaving Mogadishu in 1992, fleeing on the last aircraft out which had to do a sharp right the second the wheels left the ground because it was being fired on my militants at the perimeter fence. He’s been in some scary places has Dan. This is like a walk in the park for him, I suspect.
It’s pouring with rain when we go to leave the restaurant. It’s the first rain in Dili for months, apparently. As we drive home, Maria points out a black flag next to the road. It suggests means a recent death. The family in question will apparently begin a year of mourning. A white flag, meanwhile, means a child has died. As if the trip wasn’t already somber enough as it was, the mood has just managed to descend another notch.

Back at home, I am invited for a beer my my neighbours below. The power is off and we are on candles again. After twenty minutes of Abo-bashing and Darwin-praising, I retire to my room for another early night.

Dili in the Dark

2006-10-11T14:49:00.000+01:00

I realize the drawbacks to my quaint little farmstead accommodations (view pictured). The dogs howled last night until gone midnight. And the roosters started up at about five thirty or so. Both like to sing in chorus too, so once one started, the whole bleeding neighbourhood joined in, playing call-back games or just building to a nice little crescendo. The noise insulation in the room is zero. I wake up shattered and resolve to leave as quickly as possible.

A enjoy sunrise from the balcony, enjoying a breakfast of fresh bread and coffee while my neighbours intermittently slope off to school or work. I then head back to the dive shop to finish off my last two units of study. I take another quick quiz and then a final test. Twenty four hours after I first opened the PADI book, I have passed the 50-question theory exam.

I head over to the internet bar during my break and take lunch in City Café – it’s a very nice buffet (very nice in the East Timorese sense….I am spoiled in China, and frankly, the quality of food here reminds me of England) for ‘only’ five dollars. The place is simple, little decoration adorns the walls and the hubbub echoes around the room like it does in a school canteen. Nevertheless, it’s about as good as it’s got so far.

From there I pop into the ANZ Bank. Frankly, the whole thing makes me a little creepy. Blokes loiter outside on the dusty street selling 10 USD phone cards, while inside the exapts and military guys come in to collect their wage packets. I thought China had a pretty bad two-tiered economy but it’s nothing compared to Timor. Locals live on virtually nothing and expats pay prices virtually indistinguishable from those back home in Australia, America or (more rarely) Europe.

The afternoon is spent in a very, very murky swimming pool. On the video, the diving students moved elegantly through a gorgeous turquoise pool that was about four metres deep at one end and shallow at the other. This pool is the colour of jade, and has just been shocked with chlorine. Moreover, it’s no longer than eight metres long and barely 1.2 metres deep. I can barely see Steven, my instructor, as he moved underwater. I do all of the tasks asked but half of them I have very little clue what I did or did not do. The first time we swam for any distance I got lost and completely disorientated. I had no idea which way was forward and back, up or down. In a bloody eight metre long pool.

Steven also has become quite belligerent. Back in the classroom, maybe he sensed my academic nature meant he wouldn’t be able to boss me around with the theory stuff. But here, he knows he’s the man and he has this very annoying way of letting me know. He has three beer rule whereby if I commit one of three cardinal sins, I owe him a beer. I fall foul three times, largely on the rule where you must not walk away from a tank standing up. I only do this because he virtually beckons me over and I’m desperately trying to concentrate on all the things I need to concentrate on. He just sticks up a finger to indicate a beer is owing. Not a word. Perhaps this teaching style works elsewhere, but it’s winds me up. I am not a child and I’m starting to really dislike him. Nevertheless, we get everything done, albeit at breakneck speed. I can sense Steven has an evening appointment and wants to get away as quickly as possible.

Dan, as ever, is waiting for me at the end of the day. We take a taxi to a little place on the main back street called Café Brazil. As we walk along, we spot a woman driving a car. She waves at Dan and he waves back. Only after she has passed does he realize that she was driving his car – the one he’s being trying to track down ever since he arrived.

Dan has this habit of taking me to a place and dumping me into a conversation like a cruel stepmother might dump a child into the deep end of a pool to see if it sinks or swims. I’m not sure if he is testing me journalistic credentials with this. Perhaps? Conversation quickly develops onto specialist East Timorese subjects and I have no idea where I am, who I am with or what is being discussed. The people Dan and I meet obviously assume I know the background, but half the time, hell, I don’t even know their names.

That said, the people we meet tonight do seem very nice indeed. First off, we run into a chap called Steven Scambary. He’s a quiet Australian chap who, despite his years he reminds me of a teenager in terms of shyness. His work, by contrast, seems really rather important. He had just released a report on Gang Activity in Dili, listing and describing the various groups and youth movements than operate in the capital and are responsible for many of the troubles. Had proffered many theories about the cause of current stone throwing and violent outbreaks, including one that suggested the disputes were largely over property – people who had fled their homes in 1999 or 2002 returning years later and finding other people living in their places.

As we chat, another girl turns up. She quickly establishes herself as a very smart cookie indeed. Originally from American (but operating on British and American passports), Janet Gunter was the former girlfriend of a superstar UN academic who was the 'eyes and ears of Kofi Annan' in East Timor during the troubles. After two years living here in 2002-3-4, she has now returned to work on research for a Master’s degree she is taking at Lisbon Uni. She is researching personal anecdotes from the troubles here in 1959 - mostly anthropology, with a bit of pyschology thrown in – she says. She quotes Timorese poets and gives me the impression of knowing an awful lot about this country.

Janet very kindly lends me her bike so I can peg it to the supermarket to buy some water and wine before the witching hour is upon us. I am delighted discover that the shop is Chinese owned, and I speak a little Mandarin with the check-out girl who giggles almost hysterically when she realizes a white man in East Timor can speak her language. She’s from Fujian. The shop owner is Singaporean. How the hell did she get here? I resolve to ask next time I stop by.

Dan walks me back home, passing some very pleasant, and well fortified villas as we go.
I get back to my place to discover that the power is off and that there are a couple of people moving their things into the apartment below mine. They are as shocked to see me as I am to see them. They are George, an Aussie who works in logistics for the UN, and Nina who was born in England, raised in Aldershot but who lived for a long time in New Zealand and considers herself a Kiwi. They have just come back from a break in Darwin (the casino is apparently very good) and are not too pleased to be back. She is particularly vocal, slating everything and everyone Timorese. These people are beyond help, she says, just dependent on handouts etc.etc. They are too lazy, she says. There’s no attempt to analyse the history or the current troubles. Fucked country, fucked people. I am slightly depressed by their cynicism, and – frankly – stupidity. How do not very clever people get to work for the UN?

I spend the evening sitting on the balcony, swilling an entire bottle of Nottage Hill out of a plastic water bottle. The power is off (the picture left was taken on a 30 second exposure) and the village is beautifully quiet. I spend the night looking at the stars twinking above, thinking things over. It’s so peaceful here. The contrast with the tension on the streets during the day is amazing. I feel very happy all of a sudden – on my own, with a bottle of wine and the stars above, here in the darkness.

At about nine PM the power comes on again. Apparently it’s like this every night. Nobody in this whole city has paid their electricity bill since the troubles in April. I guess we should be grateful we get anything at all. I retreat to my little room, pictured right, and sleep early.

Missing the War - By Metres

2006-10-10T13:47:00.000+01:00

Today is a day of study. You see, the plan is to earn my PADI diving certification by Friday (today is Tuesday) and I have never come near a compressed oxygen tank in my life. It’s gonna be intense.

I spend the morning in the rather poky interior of Dive Timor Lorosae, Dili’s biggest and (supposedly) best operator. I watch videos, answer questions in the chunky PADI book that I had fork out 30 USD for and try to digest it all. At lunchtime I head upstairs to Castaway for lunch. There is a table full of very ugly Chinese prostitutes to my left. I can’t imagine them operating anywhere other than under the cover of darkness, frankly. Sure enough, they are getting stares from every other customers as they rabbit away in Mandarin. At the head of the table sits the boss, the pimp – a dapper looking Chinese chap. I can only imagine what it must be like for these girls here.. Why are they here for chrissakes? A strife-torn little island in the middle of nowhere. China is busy, and bustling and alive. This place is quiet, sleepy (aside from the rock throwing and occasional murder) and fairly desperate. It must be hell for them. Still, they look happy enough gabbing away and chatting together.

After another afternoon of sitting in a darkened room, answering quiz questions that will prepare me for my final theory exam tomorrow, I head out to the beach and get yet more pictures of kids frolicking in the surf (pictured at random on this blog). I eventually hook up with Dan, who picks me up in a borrowed jeep. Apparently he has a car of his own which he has been trying to track down. He gave it to someone when he left two years ago. He doesn’t know where he now is to ask for it back.

We drive back to the little village where I am to lodge for the night. Dan has secured me a room for USD 10 a night in the little guesthouse next door to where he used to live. There’s no air-con and the room is tiny, but it all seems quite pleasant. Things get considerably less pleasant moments later when he head back to Alfonso’s place. Tony, Alfonso’s giant, Ronaldo-esque brother-in-law, today watched his workmate get killed by a mob. They came into his office asking after a certain chap. That chap got wind of what was up and fled out back. Unfortunately, out back was a group of 30 people who first stabbed him, and then smashed his head in with a rock. Tony is clearly struggling to take it all in. He’s such a big, strong guy, but he was powerless against the gang. He keeps telling us just how close he was when it all happened. ‘Just there, in front of me.’ A matter of metres.

Feeling very melancholy, Dan and I hook up with Bryan at a little beach front café. A little boat heads out across the bay against a pinkish dusk sky. ‘This could almost be an idyllic little scene,’ jokes Bryan. On the way back to the guesthouse Dan tells me about a chat he had with a bunch of visiting WTO worthies just before he left Timor. They were unimpressed by Timor’s underdevelopment. Dan got angry and felt he had to say something. ‘It’s not undeveloped, it’s unspoilt,’ he said. He implored them to see the positives. Apparently he’s comments were not warmly welcomed. I see a thread to Dan’s behaviour. He is a mission to market this country, and positive thinking is the basic foundation of everything he does. I can only admire his spirit.

I spend the evening on the balcony of my little guesthouse. The stars are shining above, there is a distant sound of someone strumming a guitar, and the occasional burst of conversation from down in the dusty street. The sound echoes. It reminds me of the hubbub around an apartment block courtyard. I can see silhouettes of bushes and palm trees, and the feint glow of a bulb from a couple of the shacks across the street. Roosters cluck away and dogs prowl. In the distance, there are the sounds of motorbikes and helicopters. It feels like the place might go up any moment.

Tonight I’ve been a little tense here by myself. At one point I heard glass smash and assumed the mob was here. I hurriedly flicked off my lights, put on my shorts and made ready to leap over the balcony and leg it. Another time a car pulled up in the driveway, and the dogs began barking. Again, I assumed it was a hit squad and retreated inside, set to run if needed. The helicopters are flying overhead almost constantly and a couple of streets back, the gangs are probably running riot.

It’s been a melancholy night. My feelings of sadness at the suffering of fellow human beings are probably intermingled with a feeling of confusion about what the hell I am doing here. This is all a great experience. I’ve had tasters of Vietnam, of sub-Saharan Africa, of gangland Sao Paolo, but that isn’t – ultimately – why I came. I came, at great expense, to launch my freelance travel writing career. How can I recommend this place? Going out after dark is impossible and, currently, the only fellow travellers you are likely to meet are UN bureaucrats and NGO workers? The diving is my only hope. I hope to see some seriously magical things under the sea, and hope to spin something tenuous from that. For the time being, East Timor doesn’t feel like the most logical place to be. There are moments of excitement, I suppose, but mostly I feel as if I am gaining an appreciation of what it is to live in a peaceful society.

First Day in Dili

2006-10-09T15:14:00.000+01:00

I am traveling to East Timor today with an Hong-Kong based US photographer by the name of Daniel Groshong http://tayophotogroup.com, pictured left). He has just published a wonderful book about the country (Timor Leste – Land of Discovery), made during his two years spent living in the world’s ‘newest nation’. I am hoping he’s going to prove an invaluable guide. And sure enough the contact-building begins early.

At the airport, Dan and I run into an American chap called Bryan (pictured right) and an English lady, Tracy, heading back home to Dili. There’s lots of cynical but light-hearted banter about life in East Timor. It reminds me of a lot of the stuff I hear about China. Apparently 32 of the countries most dangerous men recently escaped from jail in the west and are now on the loose in the mountains. These were the guys responsible for much of the worst of the brutality in recent years. And they just walked out of jail. This kind of thing happens often in Timor, I am assured.

The Merpati flight to Dili is, very surprisingly, one of the smoothest flights I’ve been on. Apparently most of the pilots are ex-military and love descending over the mountains with little room to spare, or landing at full throttle, etc.etc. but our chap is obviously feeling a little subdued today, ‘cos he does thing by the book. The plane is a small one, but there are still a good 100 seats, mostly filled by foreigners. The Pakistani chap next to me works with the World Food Programme, and I suspect most of the others have similar jobs. Perhaps I am being presumptuous but I suspect I am one of the few who is going to Timor Leste on holiday.

We walk from the plane to the visa counter. It’s a little shed where two chaps take 30 USD of each person in exchange for a flimsy bit of paper which is stapled onto the top of one of my passport pages.

Dan has had a local guy named Alfonso (pictured) come pick us up. Alfonso is lovely. He constantly smiles as we drive back to Dili in his Duke’s of Hazard modeled taxi cab (white go-faster stripes on the bonnet, red padded seats that recline almost to horizontal, windscreen fashionably cracked), reminiscing about days spent with Dan dodging bullets in that building, almost getting killed over there and watching his friends home getting burnt down just there. Dan explains that the district we are driving through, close to the airport, was one of the main problem areas during the troubles back in April/May and is still tense now. Big trucks full of Malaysian police officers cruise past. Many buildings have turned to rubble and there’s a general sense of dilapidation. We pass two refugee camps, bang in the middle of the city – scores of tents, with various UN insignia’s written thereon, surrounded by wire fencing. Dili is dusty. I was surprised back on the plane to see how brown and arid the mountains were. Apparently they turn green come the rainy season, which isn’t far off now. Right now, it feels like Western Australia – just with more poverty and more problems. I guess we aren’t that far away geographically, but WA still feels like a world away.

Despite the fact we’ve just had cold spag bol and a green, gelatine kryptonite-esque substance on the plane, we head to the Castaway Bar for lunch. The beach front road is littered with the villas of rather senior-sounding people – ministers, diplomats and the like. The embassies are largely concentrated down here, along with the rather plain, white government building which lies a little father along the front. There are big fences surrounding most of the buildings, but high society still has a very open, accessible feel. You can virtually see right in through the front window of the UK Embassy, for heaven’s sake. There’s no hiding away in up market districts in Dili. There are no upmarket districts, I suppose. This is as good as it gets.

Despite the salubrious sounding addresses, there are plenty of rubble strewn properties and places that just look like they haven’t been touched in decades. Castaway itself is something in between. I had pictured something quite sexy and glamorous, but it’s a simple affair and, given the extraordinary prices, rather disappointing, I have to say. It’s a place for the foreigners. A big pizza costs 12 USD, a simple sandwich 6 USD. There is a great sea view at least. We are joined once again by Bryan. He’s currently in charge of helping the Timorese government set up and anti-corruption department. He used to work for the UN and talks about the whole UN mission in East Timor as being a waste of space. His argument seems to be that the essential nature of beaurocrats is the same the world over – not really interested in changing much, more interested in looking to be busy while doing as little work as possible and maintaining the status quo.

We drive to the South Korean-built Memorial Hall where Dan introduces me to lots of old friends. They are essentially refugees to whom Dan has given a home – on the floor of his office of his photography project (out of which, his book emerged). He introduces me to Joao Vaz, a young-ish guy, whose mental scares are clearly visible through the lenses of his eyes. His face has a permanent wince and his forehead is wrinkled. Dan explains that Joao helped his fixing photo shoots for his book. Back in May his home was burned down by the mobs that roamed the country and he fled for the relative sanctuary of Dili. Now he picks up scraps of work with the various NGO’s but basically lives on subsistence on the floor of Dan’s office. I’m quite stunned. I really don’t know what to say. Call me naïve, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with this, at least not so early. I realize that there’s a lot I need to learn.

As far as Dan and Joao are concerned, Joao’s home and village were attacked by Western (Timorese) mobs, on the basis they were Easterners. A big UN report into the is due out any moment and senior politicians are expected to be implicated in orchestrating some of the violence. However, as we travel around, even more ideas and theories emerge. The problems are blamed on political trouble-making by some and economic jealousy by others. Vigilante property reclamation – essentially, houses that were occupied while their owners fled Indonesian brutality are now being stolen back – is another theory that surfaces. Indonesian bribery is even suggested – a means of ensuring that East Timor doesn’t ‘succeed’ in its nation building quest. The argument goes that if East Timor becomes a successful thriving country, it would risk many of Indonesia’s other wavering territories going the same way and seeking independence.

Dan and I stop at the recently-moved bus station. Apparently there were too many ambushes on buses coming out of the East (by the Westerners, more closely allied with Indonesia) so it was shifted several miles out of the city. ‘Mikrolets’ head off with guys literally hanging onto the side as their transport screams down the street. Pigs randomly wander as they please between the vehicles. It’s quite a scene.

Dan and I take a walk along the beach. Finally I begin to appreciate Dili a little. In front of us there is a headland shaped like the head of a crocodile poking up through the water. From it’s nose rises a giant statue of Jesus. The crocodile is apparently a sacred animal in these parts. One UN guy who spotted one and shot a few years back was apparently hounded out of the country within a day by angry locals. The sea is remarkably blue and the evening sunshine quite lovely. Boats bob up and down in the harbour on the gentle swell. The beach is disappointingly dirty, but after China, I’m not really surprised or appalled by this. It seems this is the way in any developing country and East Timor – there is no doubt – is very much a work-in-progress.

The most wonderful feature of the beach is the kids. One group splashes about in the waves and scream ‘Mister, Mister, hey Mister’ at me when I threaten to take out the camera. The scramble for a place in my viewfinder and pull funny postures. When I show them the image, they run straight back into the ocean, screaming with delight as if victory is complete. There is such joy in their play. They are all completely naked, their skin radiant and shiny. They look so healthy, and happy. It’s infectious. Apparently the beach used to be full of kids like this at sunset. Now parents are too worried and, clearly, only those who live here risk it. Still, there’s not a trace a fear in the eyes of these kids – just pure, unadulterated happiness, the kind of which it’s almost impossible to find back home.

I think it’s at this juncture that I realize Dan’s inviting me here to Timor was part of a plan. He wants me to help him sell the country. He’s no PR guy, but he wants me to love this place as much as he clearly does, and to do what I can to tell the world about it. He points at the ocean, the kids and says, ‘Look at that, it’s all here, everything you need to know, and enjoy, about Timor.’ I remark that people in Timor seem to smile a lot. ‘A smile seems to go a long way here’ I say. He seizes on it. Yes that’s a great line – there’s your introduction. When I twig that I am part of a plan, I feel a little uneasy. I guess I want to discover Timor for myself. And I want to see the good. But, right now, there is a lot of bad that I am having trouble reconciling. My head is swimming with it all.

Dan and I head to Hotel Timor – the most upmarket of Dili’s accommodation options. Dan again runs into countless people he knows. One is Mr Bello, who greets us lugging a camera on his shoulder. Mr Bello is apparently one of East Timor’s finest journalist. He’s skulking around looking for a story. Apparently, a chap was stabbed to death this morning near to the refugee camp that, jarringly, is just across the street from where we currently sit in the best hotel in town. Bello is looking for shots of the obvious reprisal killings that may imminently take place just outside the door. Everyone is waiting for things to kick off. The mood darkens as two bullet-proof vest wearing Aussie cops wander in. They ask what I am doing in Timor. I tell them I am on holiday. They laugh long and loud. I confess that, actually, I am hoping to write a story or two about Timor – but only light fluffy travel stuff. They laugh again. They leave telling me sarcastically that I am ‘sure to find plenty of stories’ though I suspect they may not mean material of the Conde Naste variety.

The lobby restaurant of Hotel Timor is like Starbucks. Young folk with laptops sup cappuchino’s from over sized mugs and generally laze around. The refugee camp is only a few metres from the front door. Apparently it was put there because it allows easy access to the port should the need to escape arise. I finally emerge into the sunshine to discover helicopters flying overhead. I suddenly feel a little like I am in Saigon, ’75. I feel like a war reporter. The Hotel Timor reminds me of those romantic sounding journalist havens you find in war zones. There’s something terribly Graham Greene about it all.

Dan and I head to the spot where he used to live, located down a dusty little track at the eastern end of the city (passing Alfonso's son, pictured right, on the way). We sit on the verandah with his old neighbours – all four generations. As the kids, scuttle around, I immediately recognize a shot from his book. This feels like the real Timor. Just across the street is a dusty little cock fighting ring where the locals gather on Sundays. The road is lined here with old corrugated iron onto which graffiti has been daubed. There are trees and lovely dappled sunlight. Pigs and roosters trot around on the dust road. It feels very third world, and simultaneously very quaint (if that doesn’t sound too much like a contradiction in terms). We sit and drink fresh local coffee and I suddenly relax.

We are careful to leave before it gets too dark. Alfonso, our driver needs to get back before the roads become too dangerous. Bryan lives in a compound with barbed wire across the top of the gates and about 15 white UN cars in his back yard. There are scores of local folk hanging around washing pots or firing up the wok. These are apparently yet more refugees that Bryan has allowed to stay. He’s also letting us stay the night too.

I end my first day in Timor having a rather sobering chat with Dan on Bryan’s balcony which overlooks the sea. The moon is out and the light shimmers on the bay. He tells me stories about the fun and games he had getting into Timor back in 1999 when Indonesian repression and brutality was at its worst. He had to fly in with a dodgy ex-CIA guy who just dumped them on the runaway before soaring off again. Completely illegal. He headed up into the hills and had a terrifying face-to-face encounter with an Indonesian Special Foreces death squad which had just killed a Dutch journalist and massacred a bunch of nuns. I just listen. I am struggling to take it all in. I was supposed to be coming here to write fluffy, fabulous travel stories about what a wonderful off-beat, cool destination this place is. As it is (or at least as it sounds), I wouldn’t recommend it to my worst enemy. Bali already feels like a long time ago.

Surfing at Sunset

2006-10-08T15:24:00.000+01:00

The Ubud Hanging Gardens stretch so deep into the valley that it requires two separate funicular train rides to reach the bottom. The could have just built one, of course, but it would have meant guests waiting an eternity for a ride down to the swimming pool or the restaurant, both of which sit at the half way point and have stunning views over the far hillside. That’s where Ling and I eat breakfast. Despite the stunning surrounds, the ambiance is one of a mid-market Mediterranean hotel. It’s the food, I think. It’s a bit naff. There’s one of those bloody awful timer toasters and little packets of imported French jam. It’s not bad, you understand. Made for the market, I guess. There are too many customers to make things too personal, and most are European who want predictable breakfasts. Saying that, there are a fair few Taiwanese this morning. One couple have ordered a bloody great pizza for their breakfast. They chatter away in Mandarin as they cram into their bellies.

A dip in the larger infinity pool just below the restaurant is in order. The sun is shining and, every time I come up from a stroke and emerge out of the water, I can’t help smiling a long, broad smile and I seemingly dive towards the sun-soaked jungle that appears just in front of me. This is living. Today is my first wedding anniversary and Ling and I shoot celebratory pictures by balancing the camera on a couple of stacked tables and then splashing around in the water. I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be right now.

We check out at 11am to yet another completely clean account. The girl who phones around to check the state of the room seems quite flustered when she realizes we haven’t touched a thing from the mini-bar, eaten at the restaurant or taken a spa etc.etc. The final bill – nadda. Not only that but we aren’t even going to be paying for a ride back into town. We’ve blagged the last two seats in the free shuttle bus.

The couple behind me in the bus are curious. With my big sunglasses and a laptop, appropriately, on my lap, I am chatting to the driver about taking tours of the east coast, chatting with the PR manager, and doing all manner of exciting, professional things. When I ask how much a helicopter ride costs, I can almost hear then splutter. I reckon they think I am Rupert Murdoch’s grandson, or somesuch. If only they knew that my father-in-law still catches rats in order to feed himself.

We spend a few hours in Ubud in a little book/coffee shop on the main street. It’s a lovely spot to sit and browse through the stacks of magazines. We’ve got a guy to take us back to the south for 130,000 Rupiah (about 14 USD). At 2pm he swings up in his little white van and off we go – having to first ask him to ditch a down-and-out ‘mate of his’ who seems to want to come along for the ride. There’s a time for charity, and this aint it. The guy looks wild, and we are carrying too much valuable stuff. Amazingly, the driver says it’s no problem at all, and out he gets.

The driver is a lovely chap who insists that he can’t speak English yet chats to us nearly the whole way back. He thanks us for choosing him (from the million other drivers back in Ubud we could have gone with) because, ‘you know, business is bad at the moment’. As we pass a driver being pulled over, he tells us about the corruption in the police force in Bali. Basically, you have to go to Police School to join the force. This obviously costs money. Then, if you are Balinese and want to stay in Bali, you must then pay some big shot in Jakarta several million Rupiah, naturally requiring a bank loan. With your posting secured, you then spend the next several years stopping drivers and making spurious fines in order to pay back your loan. Corruption, or just the way it works? Sounds well dodgy, whatever way you look at it.

Our driver stops at a recently built big tourist shop specializing in wood carvings. It filled with Japanese and the prices reflect this. The bad thing about living in China is that whenever you travel – even to a relatively poor country like Indonesia – everything seems so very, very expensive. 60 USD for a wood carving? Only costs 5 USD back home – I’ll pass. We leave empty and any hope our driver had for a commission evaporates.

We check back into the cheap and ever cheerful Surawathi Hotel. The chap on reception remembers my name but still tries to charge me more for my room than I paid the first time round, which is a bit annoying.

At sunset Ling and I walk along the beach and admire the huge waves that are crashing in, silhouetted against a big, red sun. Sunset surfers swirl about out on the breakers. The beach is like one vast mirror and reflects the colours and textures of the sky. It’s absolutely magic. I already suspect that Ling and I may never have another anniversary quite like this one.

We ate pizza tonight. Two pizzas, plus a lovely big spaghetti dish, to be precise. After being unable to afford a single thing for the last three days, we are happy to be back in our comfort zone. We sit on the first floor balcony of a funky little restaurant in what feels like quite a blue-collar section of Legian. Next door, for example, there is wild-west whooping as a Balinese band play epic rock classics (think Aerosmith, Nickleback etc.). We passed the front gate earlier and there were offering whole-hog spit roasts with buckets of free beer thrown in. The patrons were all, to the last man and woman, fat and exceedingly rough-looking Aussies. Nevertheless, our little place – just next door – and soft lighting, ambient beats and feel very salubrious. The contrast is fab.

The moon rises over the roof tops in front and Ling and I are entranced. Isn’t it amazing how you can stare at a full moon for hours without getting bored? Wispy clouds occasionally pass in front, above us the stars shine. It really is one of the finest feelings – being well fed, with the woman you love, staring at the moon. In front of us are two man – probably gay – who are sitting staring into their drinks. While we are having such fun, I can’t help but reflect on their plight. Is there a more depressing sight in the world than two lovers, together on holiday, in a romantic setting, who are so bored with each other than they have nothing to say. Their faces are long, and sad. They are searching for conversation, but nothing comes. They just stir their drinks, try to look interested in the architecture and occasionally muster the odd-half smile. This should be the highlight of their year, as it is ours, but they look desperate. Ach, who cares? Ling and I are having too much fun.

Mr Holy Religious

2006-10-07T16:40:00.000+01:00

I awake to pitch darkness and complete silence. Drawing back the heavy wooden sliding shutters is painful on the eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a complete blackness in my life. Morning in the jungle is magic. It’s recently stopped raining and everything has that dripping, lushness. The light is hitting the vegetation on the other side of the valley, while we are still in shade. Black birds swoop from the sky and the cicada’s are already purring away out there in the undergrowth.

I spend two hours tapping away on the the computer before check out at 10am. We bid goodbye to the reception staff. As luck would have it, just as I go to hand over my 30 USD tip, Liv emerges from her office and spots my act of benevolence. Having skimped and saved at every opportunity, it finally feels good to be given credit for not being a total tight arse. I have to admit that I am a bit paranoid that accusations of this nature could easily be leveled at me. But, hell, I ask you – 45,000 Rupiah (5 USD) for a 275ml bottle of coke. Can anyone blame us for taking what was free, and leaving the rest?

We are chauffered out east to Aman’s third resort on Bali. The road passes bits of the Bali that remains invisible to most tourists. I, for one, would never have guessed that there could still be such desperately poor looking shanty towns, built out into a swamp that was once, perhaps a river – here in Bali, a Bali that is so overloaded with uber-luxe tourist resorts.

We head first to a village called Tanganan which David Nakano back at Amanusa had recommended. First impressions aren’t that great. Ling and I use the public loos only to be emerge to find a bloke demanding money. He says we owe him 4,000 Rupiah. We say, why the hell wasn’t there any signs testifying to the fact there is a charge for the loo? He points at a cardboard box which has been recently placed at the entrance (almost certainly while we were in the loo). The charge written thereon is 1,000 Rupiah per person. He points as if to say, ‘See 2,000 Rupiah,’ as if that was the amount he had asked for all along. We are not impressed. Less so when we go to enter the village only to find a signing-in gate where guests are encouraged/forced to leave a ‘donation’ just to get in and see some shops.

Inside and the village is essentially one long main street where homes have been converted into showrooms for various masks, scrolls or woven items – the local speciality. There’s nobody else here today. It’s dead. Consequently, whenever we even threaten to look at something, somebody dashes out to greet us. I spot one thing which I do, genuinely, like. It’s an image of the traditional Balinese dragon (the Barong?) which has been crated through cross-hatching, not with pen, but by making marks onto the bamboo which are then washed with ink. It may be handsome but when the guy asks for 100 USD, I decide it’s not that handsome. Apparently it belonged to his recently departed father. He rather ruins this pretense by telling us that another tourist recently bought the same scroll for USD 100. We eventually leave without buying a thing,

And so back to Amankilla proper. Even the view from the access road is spectacular, rising from the main road to give a panoramic view back over the green paddies behind, and the blue ocean and frothing coastline in front. We are welcomed not by the General Manager but by the Rooms Manager, Putu. This instantly makes me paranoid that I’ve been assessed by the other two managers not to have met a sufficiently high VIP quotient for another top dog to be wheeled out. This is probably fair enough, mainly ‘cos I’m not. Putu is a real character. He immediately wants to know about China, and to tell us how he has read the Tao Te Ching and I Ching and loves their ideas on truth and wisdom. He also quotes the Gita and the Koran during our brief stay. He’s a pretty clued up, spiritual kind of chap.

We are treated to lunch by the stunning three-tiered pool which faces square onto the ocean. We are, however, left to our own devices, and so I am terrified that I will be asked to foot the bill myself. Ling and I order the cheapest meals we can find and one mixed fruit smoothie to share. We dine with just the sound of the ocean and a splash or two from the pool where a young, beautiful French couple are frolicking. They are, at least, taking photos of one another enjoying the luxurious surrounds. This reassures me that they, too, are not perhaps completely au fait with this whole lark either. This is the kind of place that everyone should experience once in a lifetime. But perhaps no more than once.

After lunch, Putu takes us down to the beach in a funky little beach buggy that fairly races up and down the steep windy lanes. The beach is pepper-coloured, but the texture is fine and comfy and the sea wonderfully blue. Just behind the seafront is a long emerald green pool flanked by sunbeds and high, high palm trees. A busty Japanese girl gives me the eye as I go to get a picture, waddling into the pool with a provocative gait. You get the impression this lifestyle goes hand-in-hand with this kind of temptation.

We are finally given a chauffered ride back to Ubud. Ubud Hanging Gardens, our next hotel destination, is located about 25-30 minutes outside Ubud itself. It’s a real bitch to get to, and, indeed, staff soon talk about taxi drivers frequently have to call to ask where they are going. Apparently, it’s the only resort on the far side of the Ayung River valley. Most are on the side of most of Bali’s urban spots. This one faces the other way.

The heavens open as we arrive. Ayu, the PR Director, gives me a quick guided tour but I am eager to get away so I can take a dip in our private pool villa. It’s built to the same height as the living room floor and wraps around the room in a L-shape. It’s now hammering down and I down straight into the cold water. I stand arms splayed, face up to the heavens, Shawshank Redemption-style. This is what it’s all about. The view across the misty valley from the pool is spectacular. Not for the first time this trip, I feel as if I have died and gone to heaven.

Coming out of the pool I dive straight into the outdoor bathtub where water flows off a flat stone conduit. The water is steaming hot. Outside it is still pouring. The bathtubs are something of a triumph at the Hanging Gardens, two mirrored tubs separated only by a glass screen – one inside one outside. Being able to run between the steaming hot shower and the cold pool where raindrops are thumping down is a lovely, lovely feeling.

Back inside and I have trouble controlling my increasingly spoilt mind. I start to compare things to Amandari, which is dangerous, to say the least. From the word go, it’s obvious the Hanging Gardens is a beautiful resort and wins hands down on Aman in terms of value (220 USD vs 675 USD). However, Aman’s villas are much, much larger. Moreover, the service, and quality of the buildings are lacking something that Aman had. Everything here feels like it’s been built from slightly less stoic materials. The handle of the outdoor bath falls off in my hand, for example. The air conditioner has a remote control on it, which – far from being convenient – somehow seems lacking in class after the automatic centrally controlled systems of Aman. The chain on the bath plug is slightly too long and the bamboo blinds have a little mould on the insides – very small things but oversights which you would never see Aman making. Lastly, the turn-down guys knock on our door at 10.30pm to ask if we want our room spruced up. Nice notion, but what about spoiling our privacy at such a ‘romantic’ time of the evening? Amateurs.

The evening is spent outside the resort. By the time the restaurant opens at 7pm, we have worked out that we cannot afford to eat there, so we grab one of the free umbrellas provided next to each front door (nice touch) and wander out into the adjacent village. The world is misty and mysterious, lit by orange street lamps. We pass a temple where a wacky religious guy invites us in, only to realize that I am not properly attired in a sarong. His name is Monku Siram, and his English is rudimentary. He has this wonderful habit of desperately trying to communicate his role at the temple by pointing to himself and saying, ‘I, holy religious, prom dis temple. I holy religious’. Holy Religious. Great line.

We walk in search of food and cheap beer, passing one stall where they insist a small beer costs 10,000 Rupiah, which is more than it cost in a bar in Kuta. We move on. Just as we give up, we pass a little place just outside a temple, where a ceremony is in full swing. Several blokes are out front chatting and smoking. Nobody speaks English, aside from one guy who introduces himself as Andy. He has one eye missing. He bargains a price for us which seems fair. Ling begins to take an interest in what they are making and before you know it, we have been invited into the back of this little restaurant and have two plates of local beansprouts, ground peanuts and rice patties. It’s delicious. I’ve never had a better meal for such a cheap price – all this just a few feet from one of Bali’s most upmarket hotels. Here, a huge meal for two cost us 2,000 Rupiah. The cheapest starter back at the hotel restaurant was 100,000. Go figure that one.

As we eat, the temple music strikes up from across the street. Young kids drift in while on a break to munch on what we’re having. I feel very, very lucky to be here with Ling, witnessing all this. Ling offers to loan me the sarong which she has presciently bought out with her. The lady of the house sees me struggling to do it up and comes over and takes charge, sending me packing towards the temple with a handsome looking dress to show for her efforts. I mingle for a while with the cymbal guys who are smashing the hell out of their instruments in this almost-constant hubbub. Back at the restaurant, I sit down and drink beer, offering it to the guys out front. We share a drink and suddenly I feel very, very humbled. One of the lift operators from the hotel, a chap named Datuk, comes in with his daughter and we chat. He says that we have now seen the real Balinese culture, and I think he just might be right.

Oily Flesh

2006-10-06T16:00:00.000+01:00

Our organized morning activity, a ‘trek’ into the Ayung River valley, begins at eight. The guide leads us down on a wonderfully picturesque public footpath. Last time I was in Ubud I was left with the impression that the area was quite flat. Today we are passing amphitheatres of rice paddies, way down below us, drenched in dappled morning sunlight. It’s spectacular. We cross the Ayung (Bali’s longest waterway) on a rickety bamboo bridge and head up some steep steps to the lunch spot for the white water rafters who come this way. We pass a local primary school where the kids rush out and scramble to get their beaming faces into the viewfinder of my camera. We head across a golden paddy field of ‘Filipino’ rice (one of two varieties grown in Bali) and past a battalion of ladies who are noisily chatting over a rice breakfast. Next we pass a village with its scores of stunning temples, each with a signature thatched ejuk roof, before heading away into the forest paved country lanes.

The guide and I talk about corruption, Indonesia’s ever-changing education system, the price of motorbikes, government-run birth-control policies (Indonesia has a two-child system) and the tragedy of slave wages in a capitalist economy. We conclude that China and Indonesia have a lot in common. It’s funny, the subtext to our discussion seems to be him trying to let me know how poor he and his family are (he has three sisters who couldn’t afford to go to school) and me subtly trying to remind him that I live in a country much like his, and thus shouldn’t be considered in the same bracket as most of Amandari’s guests.

Eventually we reach our breakfast spot, a little verandah on the opposite side of the valley to the hotel proper. A driver has joined us and helps our guide lay out our things. We eat croissants stuffed with avocado, salmon and cream cheese, beautifully crispy muesli, and fresh fruit, while supping on locally grown coffee and juice, freshly squeezed this morning and somehow kept ice-cold for us to enjoy in the great outdoors. It’s a marvel.

Our guide and driver wait patiently for us at the top of the stairs. When we are ready, we drive back to the hotel. I’ve panicked about the need, or otherwise, to tip but I decide that I can’t simply do nothing so I slip the chap a couple of dollars, along with a business card – just so he knows I’m here ‘working’. Some work.

This afternoon we wandered around Ubud centre. After the exclusivity of the hotel, it almost comes as a shock to see some many foreigners around. Especially those carrying backpacks. Ugh. Actually most of the tourists are Asian, the majority Japanese but some from Taiwan too. We actually get the opportunity to speak a little Mandarin as we help young travelers take pictures of each other in front of the main palace in Ubud’s busy centre.

The shopping element of our expedition comes to nought. We drive too harder bargain it seems. Basically, we look at stuff, work out what it would cost in China, and offer that price. It makes most shopkeepers scoff. Saying that, they look at us as white American, and yellow Japanese, whereas we should both be considered to be in the same category of ‘improverished Chinese’. Nevertheless, our prices are clearly unpalatable as we are allow to walk away without or offers being met. You live and learn.

Back at the hotel and it’s another dose of swimming in the infinity pool at sunset, before retiring to our outdoor bathtub, and gazing up at the silhouetted palm trees as the sky slowly turns dark. The pyschadelic sounds of the gamelan continue to play from invisible speakers. At times like this it’s tempting to crack open to bottle of Hennessey and really enjoy myself. However, it’s not difficult to resist temptation when the bottle costs what I would expect to earn in a month or more in China. Prices are, unsurprisingly, steep here and little freebies are not part of what Aman does. There’s free cake in the afternoon, free fruit daily, and free internet, but aside from that, you are paying your own way (even considering you’ve already spent 700 USD on the room).

We dine on scraps – Chinese mooncake saved from the plane, bananas from the fruit bowl and the two slivers of cake saved from the afternoon. We are saving ourselves for two reasons – one we saw the price of a meal in the restaurant last night, and two we have a spa coming up. The full moon is rising behind the palm trees as we stroll through the hotel ‘village’. Despite the mood of complete privacy and utter exclusivity, the villa entrances are collected around one another, and have ever-open doors, giving gusets the impression there is something communal going on here.

The massage is wonderful. We are given our ‘treatments’ in an outdoor room, with a pool of lilies and reeds off to the left, sprinkling by water that is constantly poured from the edge of the thatched roof. The sound of cascading water is matched by the sight of the cascading bamboo poles that hold up the roof. As you open you eyes, the sounds and the sights seem to merge.

The massage is based around rhythmic, persistent hands rushing over oily flesh. The path of the hands follows obvious contours and passages between bone and muscle. In China, I sometimes sense there is a masterplan to why they do things a certain way, but it’s based around Chinese ideas about the body. This massage, I can follow far more easily. The masseuse’s fingertips send a pulse of pleasure surging up through the body, conveyed through every organ. In the fingertips wake, there’s a resonating, tingling pin pricks of pleasure. Silken hands rush over thighs, down ribs and – perhaps most enjoyably – over buttocks. Unlike China, there’s no slapping, or harshness – and definitely no happy endings. It’s all about comfort.

After the massage we wander around the deserted hotel and take night shots with the tripod. Feeling peckish, we veer away from the lovely outdoor restaurant (which has one of the most well-buffed black wood floors I’ve ever seen) and head out onto the street in search of cheap eats. It looks grim. The temples are dark and doors are shut. Only a few groups of youngsters hand about on their bikes (and say hello as we pass). Miraculously, just we are about to turn back, we pass a little late night shack for locals. Nobody speak English. We point at a few of the scraps that are on stacked plates in the window and take our chances. It’s delicious. I love moments like this. After all the comforts of the hotel, I derive almost as much pleasure from getting the sense that I am doing something genuinely Balinese. This is a spot for locals to eat cheaply. There are no frills. It’s very real. And very, very nice.

Going Upmarket

2006-10-05T15:36:00.000+01:00

Ling and I breakfast on the outdoor terrace next to the pool (most unexpected for a 20 USD a night hotel) before rushing off towards the beach with a good two hours to spare before our anticipated departure to the uber-luxurious Amanusa resort. We planned on having our first and last swim in the great, wide ocean before heading off to the Balinese hinterland. It wasn’t to be. Not one minute along the street and we were stopped by a chap ‘just wanting to show us something’. He hands out two promotional postcards with a generic ‘Bali Love Peace’ title – leading us to think he was representing some kind of quasi-religious organization just wanting to collect a few coins for the general good. Not so. These postcards double as scratchcards and, what do you know, I’ve won a t-shirt, and Ling – the lucky, lucky girl – has only gone and won the TOP prize. Either she will scoop AUD 1,000, USD 200, a new camcorder, or seven free nights in a top Balinese resort. The chap, now finally disembarking his little motorbike, informs us that he has NEVER seen one of these before in all his years working the street. What’s more, what’s good for us is great for him. He will receive a 50 USD commission on our prize. Only snag is, we now have to go to the ‘tourism organisation’s’ office to collect it. But don’t worry. It’s a free taxi ride there and back, and a mere five minutes drive away. Nevertheless, it all feels very dodgy, particularly when the rep discovers the fact we are only staying in Legian one night, are both self-employed, and - most crucially - leaving Bali on Monday. 'Don't mention any of that,' he tells us. As far as they are concerned, we are in Bali for two weeks and have good, well-paid office jobs etc.

We turn down a little alley and are escorted into an office where we fill out forms testifying to the truth of this. We also need to tick a box indicating that, before we collect our prize, we are willing to endure a 60-minute presentation with no obligation and no charge involved. Our ‘consultant’ comes down to greet us. She leads us up a narrow flight of stairs into a room where several male-female foreign couples are already well into their ‘consultations’. Our lady – a sweet, and wide-eyed lady called Dewi – seemed almost at pains to waste as much time as possible before cracking on with the business in hand, which was, unsurprisingly, selling us something. She kept on flicking open brochures stuffed with hotels that we could stay at if we did something, or paid someone something. It was all very mysterious. Ostensibly we were filling out a questioniarre, but after every question was complete (‘if money was no object, where in the world would you go?’) she would refer back to the brochure to point out how, 'look', judging from our answer (‘Australia’, for example), this programme was perfect for us because, look, we have hotels in ‘Australia,, and here, Australia, and Australia, and another Australia' etc etc. Twice, a smooth talking manager came over to consolidate the sales pitch will a bit of arm twisting and hard selling. Frustratingly, neither party ever gave us a price for what membership of this timeshare-esque scheme would cost. A couple of times, we came close. ‘What would you say, if for [he goes to write a figure down on a bit of white paper] THIS price, you could stay anywhere in the world’ etc.etc. but when I insisted that I didn’t even have 100 USD in my account, and assuming the real price is a fair bit more than 100 USD, I am not the customer for you, he finally lost interest. He didn’t believe that I had no money. He said as much. 'If you had no money, you wouldn’t be in Bali.' It was very hard for me to explain my situation. I DO have no money, I live in a developing country and I am only here because I am blagging, BIG STYLE. By the end, Ling and I were just staring at our watch, waiting for the hour to be up. Eventually, we wriggled out of the situation – though it took me saying, ‘Listen I am not interested’ about ten times before the hopelessness of the situation was accepted. We came back downstairs for the big unveiling of the prize – dah, dah, dah, dah – it’s option B – the seven free nights in a luxury Bali resort. The resort in question is the company’s very own, which is currently under construction and (presumably) dependent on a few more people like us buying the timeshare programme before necessary funds are available for its completion. We are given the voucher. It says that our prize can be redeemed any time between ‘October 5, 2007 and October 5, 2008’ (presumably, they are assuming that – in a year – we are going to forget about it, either that or the company will long since be bankrupt by then and so won’t have to honour the deal) and that an ‘Administration charge’ of USD 100 will be levied when we make the booking. Dodgy, dodgy, dodgy.

I think I only agreed to go along with the scam because we were in Bali. Elsewhere, I would have smelled a rat long before I actually did. But here, with the memory of my last trip still fresh, I want to believe that Balinese people are truly pure of heart. This morning, I learned that isn’t quite true. The buggers.

We eventually got back to the hotel at five to 11, with the idea of swimming in the sea a distrant dream. Things, though, were shortly to improve immeasurably. From our USD 20 a night room, we are chauffeured to Amanusa, one of the Aman Group’s three properties in Bali. We are driven in an air-conditioned Toyota, with an iPod giving me full control over the stereo, and ice-cold drinks served by the driver out of a cool box in the front and big, white cushions supporting our backs. Free peanuts and snacks are available.

We are greeting at Amanusa by a Japanese chap called David Nakano. After a strawberry smoothie on the terrace, he gives us a tour of the property, speaking all the while in a beautifully slow, languid manner. Turns out he has only been living and working in Bali for a few months after being transferred from Japan. Previously he lived in Bora Bora for 20 years where he met his wife. His English is indistinguishable from an American’s and he’s also fluent in French and, of course, Japanese. One of his funnier stories is a tale about a new activity the hotel have put on. It involves taking guests down to the local market where they sell turtles for stew. The hotel then buys up the turtles and they are taken back to Aman’s private beach where there is a big ceremony as they are released back into the ocean, presumably to be caught again by gleeful Balinese fishermen.

We begin our drive to Amandari, the place we are to lodge for the next two nights, passing the fantastic colourful bougainvillea blossoms that line the drive way. The beach (pictured) is a two minute drive away and there’s also a wonderfully well groomed golf course next to the hotel grounds. I am already fantasizing about coming back on Sunday and trying to squeeze in an afternoon round.

It’s an hour drive north to Ubud – there’s more iPod options and cold drinks. The driver keeps referring to me as 'Bapak', though, given the pronunciation, it sounds like 'Buba'. As far as I can discern, this Balinese for 'Sir'. Nevertheless, it still feels a bit odd for a middle age-man to call another bloke ten years his junior Buba. Such titles should surely be reserved for blood relations only. Amandari welcomes us with two young children throwing petals over our faces as we step from the car. I think the intention is to shower us in blossom but the kids are too short (or we are possibly too tall) and they end up launching them square into our eyes. We are taken to our enormous villa overlooking the Ayung River valley. It’s sumptuous. Pyschadelic gamelan music plays from an invisible stereo system hidden up I the thatched roof. There are welcome drinks and profiteroles and a gorgeous fruit basket full of local treats, helpfully explained by a thick book on Indonesian fruits that lies next to our bed. There is an outdoor sunken bathtub and an our private pavilion in the garden, overlooking the valley. Frankly, it’s gorgeous.

We take a swim in the main outdoor infinity pool (Asia’s first, allegedly) at sunset. There’s nobody else about and we have the place to ourselves – aside from the occasional villager who wanders up a pathway from the valley below. When we go to leave, I ask to take one of the pool towels back to my room. I realize instantly that it’s the kind of request that would cause a major fluster among European staff who may have been informed this is against protocol. Here at Aman, the customer is never, ever to be challenged. ‘Of course, of course,’ the man says with a smile. Ling and I take a bath as the skies grow dark. Somewhere in the distance a woman is singing. I enjoy the sound while staring up at the palm trees, now silhouetted against the blackening sky. I realize that the water is slowly draining from the tub, though I can barely notice. The temperature is so perfect that inside and outside the water are equally comfortable. This really is heaven.

We dine with Liv Gussing, the hotel’s manager. She’s rushed from trying to put her two-and-a-half year old daughter to bed. She’s young (no older than 40), elegant and very urbane. Born to Swedish father and Indian Kenyan mother, raised in Sweden and International School in Switzerland, tutored in Hotel Management in USA and integral to Aman’s Thai operation, first working in Bangkok, then in Phuket – she is the epitome of cosmopolitan-ness. She speaks fluent Thai, Indonesian, Spanish, French, Swedish, Hindi and English and refers to herself in the third person. Her cultured ways are intimidating, I have to confess, especially for a comprehensive school Basingstoke boy. She refers to a T.S.Elliot poem when describing the seas around Pattaya and sends a bottle of wine back to the cellar that I had given the all clear to not five minutes before, on the grounds it’s not quite perfect. I feel I am operating out my league. Neverthless, we find plenty in common. We discuss language issues when rearing children in multicultural couples (her partner is Italian), and interior design. She talks with great pride of the resorts place at the pantheon of traditional Balinese design. The place was built in 1989 and, genuinely, feels traditional without being jaded. It’s become a ‘design reference point’ for other hotel designers, she tells us. It’s classic, and timeless, as evinced by the fact that it’s barely changed in 17 years, bar the odd renovation. She lets down her guard slightly when confessing that the relationship with the village elders isn’t almost as harmonious as it appears, and I too, feel that I can drop the pretense of perfection. We chat about Shanghai, about Asia and Away and about food. It’s a lovely evening. Down below us, across the aquamarine pool, two chaps are playing the gongsa. The valley is so peaceful, and the mood is bliss.

When we get back to our rooms, we find it has been cleaned for the second time that day (we only arrived at 3pm for heaven’s sake). Of course, it’s all done invisibly. Somebody notes the fact we have left to dine in the restaurant and, presumably, hurriedly calls in the maids. The fruit bowl has been moved out the way, and the flowers that had been outside before now stand in the middle of our central table.

The huge windows have now been completely covered with sliding blinds and the darkness is total when we turn off the light. Before I do so, I look up from my pillow to see a cascade of bamboo falling down from the ceiling’s apex. Somewhere on the other of the thatched roof, a family of birds click away harmoniously. Out there in the jungle, we can just about hear the cicada’s making their sounds. It’s great to be here.

Escaping Golden Week

2006-10-04T16:01:00.000+01:00

Escaping China in the midst of Golden Week is never a bad thing. Golden week is anything but golden. Picture the seething crush of humanity you've probably seen on documentaries of Shanghai or Beijing and multiply it by three or four. Rapidly increasing car ownership means city centre roads are choked. Prices, even for the most mundane things, immediately increase. China, for a week, becomes an ugly, unpleasant rip-off. And at times like these, I account it high time to get to Bali.

From Guangzhou, Bali is due almost directly south. The direct flight time is a mere four and a half hours. Normally, Garuda Indonesia don't fly direct but today the Jakarta flight is stopping first in Denpasar, Bali's capital, because the airport there is closing early. This kind of thing happens a lot in Bali. Nothing to do with bombs, and security warnings. The locals have probably got an important temple ceremony to attend.

Our carrier is a small one, and reminds me of a budget airline. No Business section, just one medium sized cabin. There are 168 seats, I'm told by the air stewardess (who has an irresistible Latino roll to her 'r's). There are only 33 passengers.

This is the first bit of good fortune. The second is the flight time - we leave at 3.45pm. The third bit of luck is that we are flying immediately due south, so the sun will sink immediately to our right. And the last incidental is the fact we will be crossing the equator, moreover, doing it at sunset. It all adds up into a fantastic opportunity to shoot some great clouds.

We pass some amazingly high and grumpy looking swirls, eventually emerging into a vast landscape of cotton wool buds and wispy threads, lit up in the sun's evening glow. I need not try to describe the scene, as - at the risk of sounding smug - I'm fairly happy with the pictures I got. Being able to get up and move around the cabin, picking my spot for the best shots was fab.

Don't believe the Indonesian immigration documents, which indicate that it's either a three-day or a thirty day visa. As of today, you can still choose either a week-long visa, for 10 USD, or a 30-dayer for 25 USD.

The Bali customs desk is a treat. No sooner are we on the ground, than we are installed in a very short queue for pay for our visas. Indonesia is famously corrupt and my experiences at the airport in Jakarta last year left me worrying this time around. No need. The chap listens to our plans, decides the best price arrangement for us, takes a crisp 100 USD bill from us, and returns with two receipts (mine, again, indicating that I am to receive a three-day visa, despite a sign saying that I've just paid for seven days) and a written explanation of the change, which is given in Rupiah, and is inevitably a little confusing (one pound sterling is about 17,000 bleeding Rupiah).

Next to collect the visa. I ask for a favour. I only have four pages left in my passport and I will need three visas over the next two weeks, so I am looking to save space. I've located a spare page bang in the middle of a gaggle of other visas, and ask my visa is stuck there. No problem, to the friendly headscarf-wearing customs official. She asks after my plans. I can't resist mentioning East Timor next week. 'Oh, wow. Will that be business or leiure?' Leisure, I say, conscious of the er...recent 'difficulties' between the two countries. Ling arrives at the desk. 'Oh, why have you got a month-long visa when your husband only has a week?', the customs lady asks. 'I'm going to Jakarta next week, he's leaving for East Timor on business'. The lady smiles sweetly and we are allowed on.

Every traveler has his bags once-overed by the Balinese customs officials these days, which is perhaps understandable, but the manner in which it is done is fabulous - all smiles, pleasantries and apologies for the inconvenience. On the outside, we head to a taxi booth where the prices for trips to various districts are mercifully displayed on a board for all to see. I had assumed there would be tricks, leading to squabbling, leading to an inflated fare. Not so. It's a 6 USD ride, and everyone's happy – apart from me when the driver drops us off and, seeing we are not going to be forthcoming with a tip, says, 'Tip, Tip, Tip' in a less than subtle manner. We shout him a dollar.

Our digs at the Suriwathi Beach Hotel were booked online for 20 USD a night. I expect very little but it's actually rather pleasant, little semi-detached villas set in a peaceful little garden. There's a swimming pool and an restaurant on the verandah. I would have been happy here for a week, I think, but this is just the starter before things really get going tomorrow.

We wander out through the streets of Legian. The bars are all touting for customers but things are desperately quiet. This area is clearly aimed at Australians. There's plenty of Australian flags on show, offers of 'barbies' and 'steaks' and beers are being drunk out of those little squishy cooler things that Aussies are so fond of. Locals also keep calling out 'G'day mate' in a deliberately affected accent which, for some reason, I find quite irritating.

We make the five minute walk to the beach. Aside from a chap trying to sell me dope, all is quiet out on the sands. The light from the two sea-front hotels here makes it less scary than it would otherwise have been. It's fabulous scene. The air is warm, but pleasant, the waves are huge, and stirring, and the sand soft. Ling and I walk along the sea front hand in hand. A few hours ago we were in pollution choked Guangzhou and now here. If I had known Bali was this close, and this easy, and this cheap, I would have been here before now.

We stop for a beer and a plate of chips on the eerily quiet walk home. For western food comforts alone, Bali is proving a worthy escape. James Blunt is playing an MTV set on a big screen behind us. Our waiter, Puta, comes over for a chat. I love Bali.

A Golden Day?

2006-10-01T14:51:00.000+01:00

Today is National Day. It was 57 years ago to the day that Chairman Mao ascended those steps at Tiananmen and proclaimed the creation of the People's Republic of China. A three day public holiday has always been in place to mark the occasion but, since 1999, the government has manipulated the peripheral days to ensure that labourers and workers across the country have seven consecutive days off. They do this by combining a weekend, with the three days, adding two extra days on, and then forcing you to work the next available weekend to make up for this time off. The original idea was economic., the intention to increase the people's willingness to get out, travel, shop and (generally) spend. It's worked a treat. In fact, it's worked too well. For this 'Golden Week' as it is known generally means frenzied crowds, noisy, littered walkways and a ruthless price increase. In a tourist town like Zhaoqing, the effects are intensified.

These were the scenes a few minutes ago at Zhaoqing's busiest crossroads. There is a traffic light somewhere in the middle of the melee above. The traffic had long since given up obeying the reds and greens. It was chaos, and the repercussion were felt for several kilometres in either direction. We walked the three kilometres home from a friends house (where we have just eaten some amazing dumplings!) far quicker than we would have done in a bus or taxi. It seems every one of the several thousands new car owners in this city has chosen tonight to go out for a cruise with the extended familiy. Nearly every car has a small child standing up in the front windscreen, marvelling at the view. Car ownership is this country is perhaps one of the most obvious empirical markers of the emergence of a new middle-class, very much in love with shiny new things and consumer products that might mark them out has 'having made it.' Plenty have made it, and they all want to show off on days like National Day when families are likely to gather. It is, frankly, a nightmare.

Blood Test in China

2006-09-04T08:21:00.000+01:00

I went for a blood test today. In China, a blood test is never just 'a blood test'. It's an insight into whole new worlds. Pretty bloody frightening ones too, pardon the pun.

My wife and I began by heading to Zhaoqing’s impressively named ‘No.1 Hospital’. First thing Monday morning, and the place was a hive. There were people lolling around the entrance and the courtyards and corridors, sitting, smoking, waiting, praying. Having clambered over a few bodies, we went straight to see Ling’s brother’s friend’s fiancé – our inside contact - who swiftly wrote down our request for a blood test on an official bit of paper. Back then we went to the finance department to pay for the service we were yet to receive (I understand those in critical need of care go through, largely, the same process). The scene was a shocker. The far wall was one long window where twelve separate cashiers were busy taking money from the baying hordes. In front of each cashier was a pair of metal railings stretching back about three metres. Each was rammed full of people waving cash in a scene reminiscent of Guangzhou Railway Station at New Year. To the left was a huge LED display where the sinister countenances of the resident doctors slowly flashed up, along with a description of their expertise and various certificates of medicine. As we got closer to the front we were able to spy on the name of each patient, along with the money owing, courtesy of a massive outward facing screen in front of each window. Small wonder they didn’t also flash up the precise nature of each person’s ailment. We got to the front and suddenly the figure 139.50 popped up on the screen, next to an ominous configuration of the letters R, M and B. My reaction was, ‘Fuck that,’ and without another word said in anger, Ling hoisted me out of the queue and our request was withdrawn. The speed with which the cashier binned our receipt and moved on to the next person indicated that encountering patients unwilling, or unable, to pay was not particularly uncommon.

The solution? Why, in China it’s simple - head to a different hospital. Last time, Ling was initially checked by a local outfit close to her Mum’s home, and this was where we now headed. In the taxi on the way, I asked Ling to explain how this worked? Her answer, as I understood it, was that the test we could have done at the smaller hospital would be basically the same but maybe it wouldn’t be ‘as detailed’. It would still yield the information that we needed, but that information but, of course, might be wrong. The information at the ‘No.1 Hospital’ could also very likely be wrong, she added reassuringly. ‘Not everyone can afford to pay 139.50 RMB, so they go to a cheaper hospital,’ was the jist. Such is the way in China.

Things soon became clear. We first went to the Welcome Desk of the hospital where a little man asked us for two RMB. This was to pay for the right to see a doctor. Not for him to do anything useful for us, you understand. Purely for the right to enter his office. Finding a doctor was the next trial. It’s essentially left to the patient to wander the corridors of the hospital, peering into each room in the hope they might glimpse a doctor who isn’t already being assailed by a mob. We went from floor to floor doing just this. Eventually we found one guy whose desk was only surrounded by four people and we decided to try our hand here. It appeared that the doctor was seeing to all four people at the same time, giving advice, instruction and warnings. He was also smoking. Ling barged her way to the front and asked the doc to help. Looking highly amused, he took a pen and scrawled something down on another official bit of paper and sent us on our way before returning to the business of smoking his cigarette and delivering grave health warnings to the assembled crowd. That was our two RMB’s worth. He wrote down a bloody request for someone else to do a blood test.

So back we went to the reception the ground floor, firstly to pay for the blood test, and then to – hopefully – actually get the damn thing done. Immediately next to the Welcome Desk was a glass window, behind which a solitary and deeply unfulfilled young lady shuffled around with Death Row alacrity. Four uncovered test tubes filled with urine saw next to a little hole at the bottom of the glass barrier. As were stood there waiting, various patients wandered over clutching yet more uncovered test tubes of their own blood. Eventually, our turn arrived. The lady took our bit of paper, went to the drawer, took out an empty test tube, some glue and a bit of paper and duly glued the paper to the glass. She then handed it back to us. It was left to us to work out that we should then take this to yet ANOTHER room where yet another lady would finally get around to sticking a needle into my arm.

An incredibly clean, painless and (hopefully) sterile injection later and we were heading back to the hole in the window where, reaching over the expose urine, we handed over my blood. The other, expensive, test would have taken five days to reveal its findings. This one will be resolved within the next hour. Total cost, 25 RMB.

Before we left the building, we decided it might be worth asking after a sperm test (It’s been a year of marriage and no babies to report...nuff said). We ventured into yet another room where a little lady in a white gown (they ALL wear white gowns) sat us down and talked us through the process. As she did so, two other couples wandered into the room and stood immediately behind us waiting for their turn. One of them shoved a bit of paper in front of the doctor, who, remarkably, was able to sign it off while continuing to talk to us. Everything was shared between the six of us – Ling, me, the doctor and the three people standing around the desk. They were all made aware of the fact that the foreigner was about to go home for a wank. Private, it was not.

The scary thing is, Chinese people can barely blow their nose without rushing to the hospital for an injection or a batch of pills. They are terribly unstoic when it comes to their health and, frighteningly, seem to think that the ghouls in white gowns can actually help them.

I really need to think about buying insurance for the year ahead.

Sleeping It Off In Hailaer

2006-08-30T13:16:00.000+01:00

The final day of a very long tour. I had grand plans to do some travelling of my own at the conclusion of this trip. I was going to visit Liaoning and undertake a similar sweep of another fairly large province. But right now, I have as much enthusiasm for travelling in rural China as I have for setting fire to my penis.

This morning the group got up for a final sunrise session. I refused the offer and stayed in bed. Bloody glad I did, because, apparently, in one last heroically incompetent effort, the drivers set off too late and the photographers ended up missing the moment. A little later, after lunch, willing photographers are offered a trip to the local Russian market. Again I refuse.

Instead, I spent the morning reading and sipping coffee. I do manage to head out for a little wander at one point. I pass a worker doing some renovations on an apartment block. He is standing three stories up, on a plank of wood suspended between window ledge and a sidewall. Waiting at the base of the apartment was an ambulance.

A little later I pass a huge field with a couple of knackered goalposts at either end. I learn later than this is the city stadium. For now, it is full of very young-looking military recruits (above). They march back and forth in pointless fashion. It all feels quite Pacific Island-esque in its futility. Only this is supposedly the world’s next great superpower.

The afternoon is spent in bed. As the sun starts to dip towards the horizon, I decide to get up and see the river that appears to be next to our hotel on the map. On the map it's a mighty waterway, cutting its course through the urban sprawl. In reality, it’s a depressing dribble. On the other side of the bridge, a massive development is taking shape behind huge advertising hoardings. They show brightly coloured images of what the place will look like in a few months time. There are pictures of smug looking city traders, sitting in front of their laptops.

Presumably these are the kind of buyers the developers want to interest. One ad (pictured) advertises 'valuable service for glitterati'. Judging by their appearance, you'd be hard pushed to describe any of the local townsfolk as 'glitterati'. Beneath this advertisement, down in the mud, are two lengths of wire, strung up as a makeshift washing line. It feels very shanty town, and the contrast between the image, and the reality, has me thinking. Apparently, there will even be a McDonalds in this new complex. Progress aint all it's cracked up to be in my book. The evening is spent at a little hotpot joint. The hotpot itself is a crazy contraption, with big brass pipes coming off the ceiling and down into the middle of the sizzling bowl of broth. The slices of lamb are thick and meaty and it’s finally a meal than I can really get excited about. The rain starts coming down outside and a couple of bottle of rice wine smash on the floor in the wind. After a week being around the stuff, the whiff of rice wine is not what I need right now but the smell soon passes. It’s a lovely way to end the trip, away from the government leaders and away from the Buicks. Free as last, free at last, thank God almight, I'm free at last.

Good Hard Sex

2006-08-29T15:19:00.000+01:00

I wake early and walk around Oronchonqi. I’ve put on a pair of trousers but it’s cold. Kids are pedalling to school, the little three-wheelers are belching filth into the perfect blue sky and donkeys haul cart-loads of junk down the wide, main avenue. The sunlight is soft and gentle. It reminds me of September in England.

We are due to leave at 8am but, for the second day in a row, the cars have problems. We stand around in the morning sun, kicking our heels. I chat to one of the government guys from last night. He’s a wonderfully goofy chap; buck-toothed, bespectacled and thoroughly wrinkled around the eyes. He tells me he studied English at university but doesn’t get a chance to practice much these days. He had toasted us last night with a grin and an enthusiastic ‘Cheers’. It was a lovely moment. He went to university in a city called Tongliao, still in Inner Mongolia but close to the Liaoning border. Coming from here, Tongliao must have seemed like the bright lights. Beijing would have been, and remains, an unattainable dream. Foreign lands might as well be outer space. I suddenly feel quit sad for this chap. He’s government, but he’s thoroughly trapped. He’s glimpsed a world bigger than this little shit-town but there’s no way for him to find it now.

Eventually we get on the road. It’s going to be – surprise, surprise – another full day of driving, all the way back to Hailaer (on exactly the same road). We pause to photograph a traditional village. It where the sunflower (above) and the old misery-guts (below) were shot.

Lunch is taken in the railway depot city we passed through yesterday. The place is notable for one thing and one thing alone. The schoolchildren of this particular town have the word ‘GHSEX’ written on their backs. We speculate as to what the GH might mean. ‘Good Hard', Kerrilee suggests. Oh, we laughed.

Eventually we work out that it’s an acronym of the city’s name (the G and H) followed by the word for ‘city’ (Shi) followed by Number Two School (Er Xiao)….GHSEX. Still, it still looks a bit odd for all these young girls and boys to be riding around with the word 'Sex' splayed across their backs. Laughing at this is perhaps a lilttle childish, but, hell, after the week we’ve had, we need all the fun we can get.

After lunch we stop at a ‘minority’ village – an ugly little prefab place with nearly no redeeming features and zero charm. I know, I know, us foreigners want it both ways. We get angry when we see minority culture commercially packaged and appropriated (the ‘wedding ceremony’ at the beginning of this tour being one example) but we also want a place labelled as a ‘minority’ village to have some evidence that it’s at least a little different – in appearance, cuisine, culture, clothing etc. – to every other village we’ve passed. The only thing different about this place are the ugly new houses which, I feel safe in say, do not reflect some kind of traditional architectural style. It’s all a bit sad. At least the kids were cute though.

We manage to cut a slight corner and suddenly find ourselves driving past Mr Fan’s Farm of a few days before. The sun is setting across the downs and the world looks beautiful again. It’s only at this point that I realise that I’ve been viewing it for the last week through a window that has a massive ‘Meiniu Milk’ sticker plastered all the way across it. Because I’m reasonably tall, I’ve been able to crane my neck to get a view that isn’t obstructed by this sticker, but ordinarily, if I’m just relaxed in my seat, it’s there right in my eye line. Another fine example of the planning and thought that’s gone into this trip – take photographers on a tour of one of the most naturally beautiful provinces in the country, and stop them looking at it by plastering giant stickers across the window.

Before we re-enter the city proper, we pause for photos at sundown over the grassland. The shot below was taken there. For the last three days I’ve been dreaming of the four-star hotel in Hailaer and finally we arrive back. A soft bed, a good shower and an on-site coffee shop. I’ve really learned the meaning of the word remote. I think I would have walked off the tour had I not realised that getting myself back to civilisation would have been so damn difficult.

Dinner is, for possibly the first time this tour, a warm and welcoming occasion. The most senior Communist Party official is sitting directly opposite. She has the appearance of a junior school head teacher: 50 or so, kindly-looking, but with enough lines in her face to know that she gets mad sometimes. I think I especially like her because her way of solving the rice wine problem is to surreptitiously fill her liquor glass up with mineral water while doing the rounds. Unlike every other leader we’ve met, she doesn’t feel the need to link her ability to govern with her capacity for alcohol.

She toasts the group, her sidekick toasts the group, I toast the group. I don’t know what happens, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming love for my fellow man. I’ve spent most of the last week hating. And now it’s nearly over, now I know I have survived, I feel nothing but gratitude. It’s been an experience, and whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger etc.etc. If it had been easy, it wouldn’t have been half as fun. And boy, have we laughed a lot. My pictures, I have to say, are not particularly stunning, but that’s ok (not least because, in Mr Gao, I have a very good excuse). I feel good. And I tell the assembled crowd as such.

This is my third speech, and I feel like I’m getting good at it now. I first thank the hosts for their gracious hospitality. I then thank our government leaders, for being so damn decent in organising such a wonderful trip. I thank my fellow snappers for being such good fun, and I praise the wondrous beauty of Inner Mongolia. Everyone’s happy. I even get warm applause from Gao. I think he almost feels relief. Apparently, he apologised today for his finger jabbing of yesterday. He knows his support is on the wane, and here I go, moving to shore up his credibility in front of the local leader by personally praising him. I feel like I should hate myself for doing it, but actually it’s quite exciting. I should move into politics.

Business cards are exchanged and gradually people start to filter out. Only the hardcore ‘leaders’ table remains and I am sitting on it. Gao tells me that tonight (for the first time), I can drink as much or as little as I please. I opt for the former. Gao asks me to sing a traditional English folk song to the group and thanks to the beer, I agree. I sing Yesterday. I then wow the crowds with my stock Cantonese song, Hei Foon Neh. All is forgiven. I am loving it.

Gao Gets Angry

2006-08-28T15:12:00.000+01:00

I stand in a chill morning wind, wearing shorts and t-shirts, waiting for our car to arrive. Apparently, one of the four Buicks is feeling ill this morn, no great surprise considering the battering that they took yesterday. There’s a huge puddle outside the hotel. Men with donkeys clatter past. A Siberian wind blows. Everyone else is wearing at least three layers. My attire is positively skimpy by comparison.

The skies over Inner Mongolia this morning are bewitchingly textured. Fluffy clouds stretch to infinity. The sun occasionally emerges to pour its golden light over pockets of the vast landscape. It’s truly beautiful. And unsurprisingly, the photographers want to stop to try and capture a little of the magic. It’s not to be.

Cracks appear in last night’s negotiated compromise very quickly. We had been promised autonomy but within seconds of us stopping, the airwaves are buzzing. What’s happened? Why have we stopped? How long will we be? A minute later and we are being urged to get back in the car. We stretch things to five minutes, get back in and drive.

Two or three miles up the road, we find the other members of our convoy waiting by the roadside. Mr Gao is pacing beside his car. As we slow down he approaches our window and, leaning across Crystal, jabs his finger in the direction of the dirver. ‘Don’t stop again,’ he says menacingly before storming off. The man is angry. Sadly, so are we. This wasn’t part of the deal.

Shortly after the warning, we pass some of the most stunning scenery of the trip. Below the road, off to our left, is a wide river which snakes through a vast birch forest. The clouds are swirling, the sun is bursting through and we are utterly trapped in our car.

Onward we press. The drivers are by now taking turns to set the pace, overtaking each other with a playful beep. I was quite glad we were car number 13 as it meant we were rarely the one’s leading the pack as we headed into a blind bend on the wrong side of the road. Thanks to the new system, it’s now our turn to feel the fear. Our driver insists on taking bend after bend, not only at high speed but also in the left hand lane. It’s gruesome. If someone driving as badly as we are comes the other, we are a gonner. Obviously, our driver cannot countenance that even as a possibility. He’s still not wearing a seat belt. He's still far too important to die.

Hours roll by. The schedule has today’s drive at 90 minutes. It’s already been three and still there’s talk of our destination being 150-200 kilometres away. We race across railway crossings. The driver has a very irritating habit of looking left and right only as we are actually going over the tracks. If there was a train coming, it would be far too late. There is apparently only one train per day on these rails, so we'd have to be fairly unlucky. Still, we manage to come across it, travelling in our direction. For a few miles we drive side by side. I keep hoping that either the road will straighten out to let us speed off, or that the road becomes so windy that we fall behind the train. As it is, I am terrified that this little race will be declared a dead-heat when, at the next crossing, we clatter straight into it.

It takes five hours to arrive at Oronchonqi. I pray that the place we have been delivered to is only for the purposes of eating. It’s not. This is out hotel for the night. And it’s grim. We are led through wide, high-ceilinged corridors. Everything is grey. Up the stairs, and past the toilets, we eventually arrive at our dining hall in the back of the building. It's a massive room, huge tables, one small TV in the corner. All quite sinister.

The second part of last night’s compromise is, thankfully, honoured. The foreign photographers are given the option of skipping the afternoon’s activities – a visit to a cave, a river, and a gorge. I accept, but am dismayed the find that Kerrilee and Philippe both want to go. I change my mind. Then I change it back. I can’t face it. I need space. I watch them drive off from my depressing little room (pictured) with a feeling that probably, for the first time this tour, they’ll have a cracking afternoon.

I can’t sleep. I head out to an internet bar. Oronchonqi is a strange little town. It feels like the kind of place where you would expect to get stared at. Only nobody seems too bothered. Then I remember that we are not a million miles away from the railway. The Trans-Siberian passes this way, I think.

I walk. I don’t know where. The city is circled by hills so I walk down a random street that seems to head in the direction of one that looks climb-able. The modern buildings give way to shacks. The front gardens are strange. Either they are is pristine nick with a beautiful variety of pot plants; or they are stinking piles of rotting litter. I buy a watermelon and munch on it as I walk towards the sunset. At the end of the street is a gang of young punks with big dogs. I feel really threatened...until they say ‘hello’ with a wave and point me in the rather obvious direction of the hill in front of us. This is precisely the kind of place that men with expensive cameras would expect to get shafted in foreign lands. Not in China.

I begin to clamber up the hill. I pass a couple of ladies picking some kind of fruit in the bushes. I get chatting. They ask if England has what they are picking? What are you picking? I reply. Look? The lady takes out what looks like a nut and, using her blackened hands, peels away the layers. When one particularly stubborn bit stops her progress, she shoves the nut in her mouth and cracks it open. Finally, she hands me the contents. I have no other choice but to eat it.

As I climb high into the hils, my mother calls me. Sitting in the sun, with the city down below me, we chat. It’s lovely to be free finally, to be up here by myself. I haven’t even taken the camera out. This is less for photography than for me own sanity.

I spot a man leading a horse and cart up the hill. He stops to chat to me and smiles for a couple of photos. Next I rummage around in the bushes where three cows (well, two cows and one feck-off giant bull, pictured at the top of this blog) are munching away at the undergrowth. Then I get chatting with a Hui Muslim sheep herder who wanders down off the adjacent hill when he spots me. He tells me he is taking his flock up into the hills for the night before heading back to town for tea. He shows me how many layers he is wearing. He is bemused that I would be up here with only a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I ask him for a picture and he proudly poses with his sheep. The cows wander down to take a look and so I snap him with them too. He’s so happy. It is lovely to see.

As he wanders off into the sunset, I take an interest in another bunch of cows. When they spot me, they begin to take an equal interest in me. One moves toward me. The faster I backtrack, the faster he trots. I panic and start to run up into the hills. I can hear the beast moo-ing maniacally somewhere behind me. Only when I can no longer see or hear him do I feel safe.

Sadly, I am now high up in the hills and the sun is fast going down. Moreover, I am due back at the hotel in about 15 minutes. I decide to head down the mountain in the most direct fashion possible. I stagger through the bushes with ease. The area is so well grazed that the entire mountain is open to hikers. I love this place. I ask another herder the way back to town. He points over the hill yonder.

At the bottom, just past the shack where the gang had been hanging around with their dogs, a man offers me a lift in his three-wheeled little taxi m-thingy. I accept it. I don't even have to tell this guy which place I’m staying at. He already has assumed it's the 'main' one. If our hotel is the best one in town, God help the others. The driver is bizarrely playing a Tom Jones tape. He asks me to translate the lyrics. I tell him that it’s a little difficult to say.

Back at the hotel I meet Kerrilee and Philippe who have had a fun afternoon. Apparently, the scheduled activities were rubbish and they ended up running away from the convoy. They went rafting instead.

Dinner is out of town. The waitresses put up blinds around our three tables to ensure that we are put off our food by the sight of commoners sharing the same restaurant as us. More rice wine toasts, though things seems a little scaled down tonight. Perhaps Gao is learning. We head home early and it’s straight to bed.

Fan's Field

2006-08-27T16:11:00.000+01:00

Breakfast yields frustratingly few clues as to what Mr Gao may or may not have said to Mr Gong to provoke yesterday’s bar-room brawl. There are murmurings that Gong was not happy about picture arrangements. Too many banquets, not enough time in the field. As if to demonstrate the receptiveness and sensitivity of our overlords, it’s announced that Mr Fan, one of our more senior members, has proposed an addition to the day’s schedule. On our way to the next hotel, we are to stop by a farmer’s field and observe ‘Agricultural Mongolia.’

It wasn’t publicly mentioned that the person who owned the farmer’s field in question was none-over-than Mr Fan himself. This only became apparent via yet more back-seat whispers as we sat in the Buick waiting impatiently for our colleagues to finish their photography. An hour earlier, we have been delivered to a field where, right on cue, a squadron of combine harvesters were waiting to make a charge for our photographic benefit. Sadly, the light was terrible, the field was boring and the machines themselves fairly uninspiring. We played the game for a time, crouching in the straw and pointing our lenses in all the right directions. But after 30 minutes or so, it became obvious that we had already sucked all the pictures opportunities out of the moment. Not so, according to our leaders. It was proposed that we head up high into the hills to get some aerial shots of the field. How about some wide-angle perspectives from the middle of the field? What about some farm-hands at work? While our car refused the various offers and went off and sulked, the other three vehicles were shown every single conceivable angle of the farm. We eventually drove off, but were immediately barked at over the radio. ‘Stop where you are. Nobody is going anywhere,’ was the basic message. And so we waited.

The whole thing was a joke. The event was supposed to be a surprise ‘insertion’ into the schedule, made to appease those who had been complaining about the lack of picture opportunities. As far as the foreign contingent were concerned, it was little more than crass opportunism on the part of Mr Fan who wanted news of his modern agricultural enterprise spread to the world. And, sadly, it only ended up making us feel even more trapped, even more bored, and even more abused.

By this stage, I had detected a change in attitude of our driver. He seemed, well, different. Yesterday, Crystal let slip that she had complained about him to her boss, and apparently her boss had called the driver’s boss in Beijing. Clearly the trick worked, because today, the driver was one of us. Gone were the scowls, and the attitude. He was smiling. He was saying hello. He was offered to help with our bags and close the door of the car. Clearly it helped that we were now siding with him. We wanted to drive and get on with it, just as much as he did. Maybe our shared love of the Michael Jackson VCD also helped too. All I knew was that I was beginning to like this guy. Even the near-constant use of the five-speed siren wasn’t bugging me as much now. When he did it, we laughed, and he laughed back. It was all becoming a bit of joke. As was the entire trip.

We talked politics. Zhao An, Philippe’s interpreter, explained that, in China, every place, every town, every county, every province, even every enterprise, has two management hierarchies: one 'civic', the other 'communist party'. It explained why every ‘important’ person we had met was merely ‘vice’ this or ‘vice’ that. What that meant, in essence, was that they were at the head of the communist party structure, and even though there may be a civic leader (a local expert in the field, in you will) above them, it was they who held power. Mr Gao fell into this category. And so, even though he didn’t really have the right, or authority, to stand up and say, I am the leader of this tour, it was his by default, thanks to his position in the party. There was another senior figure with us, a photographic expert in charge of the project that we were ostensibly on. But Gao edged him in terms of ‘authority’ and so he had to sit back and watch Mr Gao run the show. With every bit of gossip, the collective hatred of Mr Gao was growing. We had found our scapegoat.

It was a mere two-hour drive from Hailaer to the town of E’erguna. Well, it would have been without the farmer’s field. Nevertheless, we arrived, as always, just in time for lunch. More rice wine rounds. The view out the back of the restaurant took in a vast swathe of lush wetland. It was stunning. Sadly, obstructing the view was a toilet which I soon discover was of the open-pit variety. Just two wooden planks stood between you and a five metre drop into years of accumulated filth. Also out back, with great views over the landscape, were two great big bears. Naturally they languished in cages, barely big enough to contain them. They had no shelter from the sun, little water and unsympathetic guards. Everyone wandered over, pointed, took a picture and walked away smiling. I was fairly depressed, so much so that I didn’t even bother to get my camera.

After lunch we walk to the top of ‘the mountain’ next to the restaurant. Suffice to say that we had already driven up 95 per cent of it to reach the restaurant in the first place, so it was little more than a five-minute uphill stroll. At the stop was a stunning vista taking in grassland, forests, a wonderfully curvy river and distant mountains. What should have been a source of inspiration, necessarily, turned into a source of yet more anguish. ‘Why are we here now?’ we protest. ‘This is perfect for sunset. Can we come back at 5pm?’ The answer? Negative. I got even more pissed off when I spotted Mr Gao, the man who had stood up at countless banquets and boasted of Inner Mongolia’s natural beauty and stunning environment, taking out a film and tossing the plastic case and cardboard box onto the ground. I could take it no longer. I dashed over and snatched the case and box off the ground, glared at Mr Gao, and angrily strode over to the litter bin, a few feet away. Mr Gao pretended not to notice, though I did hear one of the Chinese photographers point at me and laugh. He seemed to be saying to Mr Gao, ‘Look, foreigners don’t like it when you throw litter down.’ Maybe he was trying to help, but I just found it patronising. ‘Look, what curious creatures those foreign monkeys are,’ was how I read the utterance.

By 1pm we were already seriously unhappy bunnies. By 3.30pm, we were ready to kill. Our government minder had scheduled a visit to the Russian border for us. It involved driving for two and a half hours down dirt tracks that we not yet fit for vehicles. As Zhao An and Philippe’s heads clattered against the roof of the car, and as huge swirls of red dust poured down the windows outside, we implored Crystal to devise an excuse for us to turn back. All we wanted to do was have an afternoon taking pictures. We were desperate to take pictures. But yet again we were stuck in a car, on the road to who-knows-where. At one point we stop and drive down to a riverbank so Mr Gao can demonstrate to the group just how clean and pure Inner Mongolia is by washing his face in the pristine water. Sadly, one of the driver’s uses this as an opportunity to dispose of the plastic bottles that have accumulated in his car. He throws them into the water. Nobody bats an eyelid. On the way out, our car gets stuck in the shingle and we have to push it half way back to the road. The other three cars, which had all left their mark not only in tire-tracks but also in wrapping paper and stray plastic bottles, got away easily. Only our car, the innocent car, got stuck. Sometimes, there’s no justice.

After a torturous 150 minutes, we arrive. And it’s cloudy. The view is, undoubtedly lovely, but tempers are fraying. A local reporter, who has been bought along for the ride, tries to interview me for radio. I tell her, THREE times that I cannot do it - that I cannot speak Chinese well enough and that I do not have the mood to talk. She just carries on regardless, shoves the microphone in my face and asks her first question. It is, ‘What do you think of this place?’ I say ‘Nice grassland, the road’s a bit crap though’. Crystal, the girl who has wandered over to help translate, looks a little bit stunned. She just stares at me, waiting for me to say something nice she can work with. In the end, she turns to the journalist and explains that we are very tired. I promise to give her an interview ‘later’. In China, later normally means ‘never’. Sure enough, she doesn’t bother me again.

The sun makes an appearance or two over the course of the hour we spend on the hilltop, staring over the river towards Siberia. Taking a great landscape picture is impossible and, aside from the photographers themselves, there is no conceivable foreground. I spend twenty minutes just to manoeuvre myself closer and closer to the ground so I can make one of the small thistles my foreground plant. Judge for yourself whether I was successful.

After an hour it becomes obvious the sun has gone in for the day, and we demand to be taken back. The Chinese guys want to stay, but it’s agreed that we can leave first. We drive back down the same road and stop at one point to get some pictures. The wind is now howling and it’s obvious a storm is coming. Off to our left is a massive expanse of grass upon which a herd of cows is grazing. Immediately above the sky is blinding white, but closer to the horizon it’s pitch black. I am reminded of that final scene in the movie, the Terminator. I hum the tune and I attempt to shelter from the wind. I feel a llittle bit excited.

As we near town the skies get dark and the lightening begins. It’s real, proper fork lightening, orange in colour, and stretching all the way to the ground. It’s in front of us, it’s off to our left….hell, it’s all around. Our driver has his foot to the floor and we are being thrown around in the back and we charge across this bleak, empty plain of grass. Up above, the heavens looks ready to swallow us whole. If I wasn’t so frightened, it would be breathtakingly beautiful.

We make it to our hotel, back in town, five minutes before the skies open. It properly rains. Luckily, our rooms represent a rather pleasant place to take shelter. Apparently, this place only opened last month and, by golly, you can tell. The walls are freshly painted (generally in cheery, luminous colours) and the shower is has a rain-spray variation. It’s wonderfully art-deco. They even sell Corona beer down in the lobby. After the day we’ve had, I need a drink.

The rest of the gang arrives back safely (I had secretly been hoping that at least one of the cars would slide, catastrophically, off the road) and, in true fashion, we are given two minutes of warning before being told that we are due at dinner. We race to a dismal little restaurant where the local leader demands we join him in getting very drunk. Kerrilee, who is looking very pissed off, very nearly has to fight the guy to get him to understand that she doesn’t want to drink (his fucking) rice wine. I try to talk to the guy in Chinese, explaining that we are really, very, very tired and just want to sleep, but doesn’t seem to accept that. ‘We are Mongolians, we don’t see many foreigners here, we want you to know just how welcome you are, and happy we are to see you. So please drink.’ It’s difficult to argue against this logic.

Luckily there are enough drunk people to distract him. One of our drivers suddenly gets up and heads over to the far end of the room where a karaoke system is ominously placed. He gets the music started and grabs Sandy, the pretty ‘entertainment’s manager’ from China Foto Press and begins to throw her around the room in an interesting rice-wine inspired dance step. The foreigners decide this is about as much as we can take and just get up and walk out. Mr Gao, naturally, has to be consulted but we’ve made it rather difficult for him to do anything other than agree to let us go home early.

Back at the hotel, I order another round of Corona. The rebels in our party, Kerrilee, Philippe, me, and Li Lin, a photographer from Yunnan, talk strategy. We raise the possibility of walking off tour in protest. Or at least heading back to Hailaer. We don’t want another day just sat in the back of the car. Crystal agrees to help us pass on the message.

Soon enough, the rest of the group returns. Mr Gao is stopped in the middle of the lobby and our views are expressed. He is not happy. He doesn’t once look over at us or try to talk to us. He just spends a lot of time gesticulating, pointing and talking very quickly. Crystal, to give her her due, persists and, after about thirty minutes of quite frantic negotiations, it’s agreed that tomorrow - though we MUST continue with the group on the tour - we will at least have the freedom to decide when and where we want to stop, and the afternoon’s scheduled activities can be considered 'optional'. It’s a compromise. Against Mr Gao, it feels like a huge victory.

Gao Gets Glassed

2006-08-26T16:09:00.000+01:00

Four AM and there’s a bang on my door. The thought that I might be able to set an alarm myself doesn’t occur to our group leaders. I go back to sleep and wake at 4.25am. At 4.26am Crystal is at my door informing me that everyone is waiting for me. ‘No problem,’ I say. I’ll literally put on this jumper and be right there.

It’s at this point that I am told that I need to pack my entire case as we have to check out now. Last night, I had been expressly told that we could leave our luggage in the room when we went out for sunrise. In the few hours in between then and now, things have somehow changed and unlike the other night in A’ershan (when Crystal phoned my room at 11.30am to tell me there was no news), nobody deemed it worthy of mention. I frantically pack my bag and Crystal and I emerge into the darkness at 4.35am to find everyone waiting. The cars lights are on the engines ticking over. I can sense the tut, tutting and I just know everyone assumes that I overslept. I want to scream – ‘But nobody bloody told me’. There is really no point.

We scream across the grasslands in the milky light of dawn. The entire vista is merely land and sky, rendered in a mysterious shade of bluey grey, punctuated by the red tail-lights ahead. The drive takes about 20 minutes and sees us go a little off road for a time. We pass a gang of men already at work on the road that we are bypassing. One guy stands apart from the crowd. As we pass, he is silhouetted against a pink sky, lighting a cigarette. One man in the middle of all this wilderness. It would have made a lovely picture. The fact I am having to describe this scene perhaps answers the question of whether we were allowed to stop to take it.

We reach Lake Hulun about ten minutes before the sun rises. The lake is colossal – apparently the fourth largest freshwater lake in the country. It’s more like a sea. All four of the cars all park up in exactly the same spot. I’m grumpy enough as it is, but when another request to park in a different location, close to a group of Mongolian tents is refused, I take matters into my own hands. Clutching my camera and tripod, I run back in the direction we just came. It’s a race against the sun.

My anticipated silhouette shots of the Mongolian tents against the sunrise prove a bit rubbish. As I manoeuvre my broken tripod from location to location, a man wanders out of his tent and lights up a cigarette. He is dressed in a thick, puffy jacket and shivers against the wind off the lake. I wave to him and he beckons me over. As I approach, his dog comes sniffing around my knees, making me slightly nervous. Dogs up here bite, I’ve heard.

He tells me only eight people live in this camp. I assume it’s some kind of wild, nomadic existence until he tells me that, essentially, this is a tourist camp and a restaurant. He’s the boss. ‘Look, here comes the chef’, he tells me, pointing in the direction of a bleary eyed man wearing a classically naff western suit.

These are men of few words, and spending a few minutes in their company, out here on the grasslands, with the wind whipping in off Lake Hulun, feels quite special. The old man points in the direction of the lake. ‘Over there is Russia,’ he says. He turns 90 degrees and points back over the empty grasslands. ‘And that’s Mongolia.’ A pause. ‘Out here in the winter, its gets to minus 40’. He asks me about England’s weather. I tell him it’s the same as this in summer, but not quite as cold in the winter months. He nods, pulls up his jacket and smokes his cigarette. I ask for a picture. No problem he says. AS I am shooting outside one of the tents, the chef emerges. I capture them together, looking melancholy and lonely (it's the shot at the top of this blog). It’s one of my best pics so far.

I bid them farewell and head back to the group, who have all been down on the beach. I feel like I have stolen a scene. I feel happy. The early start feels worthwhile.

We head back to town and straight back to the hotel that I was forced to check out from two hours earlier. I try to ask why, but Crystal can only tell me it was her instruction. She too is confused. With an hour still to kill before breakfast, I head back to the internet bar that I had frequented last night to see if anyone had responded to my thinly disguised ‘cry-for-help’ of an email. The young manager of the bar is sleeping across three chairs close to the entrance. Behind him, the kids continue to surf. I’m sure many of them are the same kids as were in here last night. There’s not much else to do on the weekend in this part of the world, I guess.
Breakfast is a serving of yet more boiled eggs and overly salted milk tea. Before leaving town, we visit the local museum – another pointless exercise in terms of photo opportunities and information gathering. Nothing is in English and nothing is translated behind the obvious, ‘This is a museum’ kind of comments. The highlight is a topographical map which gives guests a great idea of just how close we are to Russia and Mongolia. It also shows us just how close we are to Manzhouli, the border town that we were supposed to visit but have been told that we cannot now see. It was billed as being one of the highlights and now, after travelling many thousands of kilometres, we are going to stop, a few miles short. The reason, apparently, is that the direct road between Manzhouli and the main city of Hailaer isn’t built yet. Or maybe it’s undergoing renovation. Nobody is quite sure. Anyway, given that Hailaer is unalterably our next designation, the drivers don’t want to go all the way up there, only to have to come all the way back again. So that is that. Manzhouli is where the trans-Siberian Express enters China. It might have made a nice shot or two. Oh well.

We drive out into the grasslands and assail a poor herding family. They kindly tether their rather fierce looking dogs before we get out of the car. The chief attraction appears to be a little boy, probably no older than 18 months, who is toddling around the entrance to the tent. Next to him is the grandmother, a withered, haggard old lady who could easily get part-time work in the horror movie industry had she the right contacts. Flies buzz around the tent and a rancid smoke drifts from the burner within. The docile manner in which the pair pose for a wall of photographers is truly a sight to behold. Apparently, they had no warning we were coming. It can’t be everyday that a cavalcade of photographers with giant lenses screams to a halt outside your tent and begins to take pictures as if you were a piece of attractive-looking meat. I doubt the assertion that the visit was entirely unplanned and spontaneous. If Crystal is telling the truth about that, those people were seriously good people. If it had been me, I would have set the dogs on the lot of us.

We are, by now, well off-road and are just driving over the grass in whatever direction we choose. We burn up and down a fell or two and come across a sheep pen. Once again, we pour out while the locals, who had previously been quite inactive, suddenly come to life and do a spot of work for our benefit. It’s at this stage that I realise there are two mysterious boys in our party. I had assumed they were the well-dressed sons of that family we had dropped in on but they are still with us. I make a few discreet enquiries and it turns out they are the sons of the local leader, who has also hitched a ride. Maybe he couldn’t find anyone to baby-sit?

As I get back in the car, I also notice a profusion of empty Coca-Cola bottles lying around the four Buicks. We had bought a crate of Coke that morning in town. It wasn’t too much of a mystery who the culprits might be. Anger wells up inside me once more.

We head for an hour or so down a dirt track. We pass through a puddle of rancid water and kick up a huge stink which filters into the car. The driver immediately opens his window and loudly exclaims that one of us in the back has farted. I take objection to this and tell his that it was the filth we had just driven through. Crystal, the translator, is surprised that I know the word for ‘fart’. I tell her that dirty words are the first things you learn in a foreign language. I teach her the word ‘dickhead’ and say that it a good application of it might well be used in a description of the driver. Kerrilee does the hand action to support my case.

We are delivered to a sandy beach. The light is blinding and the heat fierce. After a short wait, we are herded to the Mongolian tent shaped brick-built restaurant set back from the lake. A waitress heads into the building carrying a plate a fish and heads out clutching a filthy little puppy. The puppy, however, is a persistent fellow and makes a reappearance during the course of our lunch, leaping up onto a sideboard where the dishes and cutlery is kept. He’s very cute, granted, but, my, is he dirty.

The fish is exceptional. It’s been caught in the lake outside, we are told. That lake essentially forms the border between China and Mongolia. Mongolia is no more than one mile away. Mr Cheng, who by now has a gutful of rice wine in him, makes a joke that the fish we are eating is from Mongolia. He makes the same joke about five times over the course of the meal. He also begins to do a most strange thing. He begins to translate every thing that is said into English – or at least try to. The conversation of other people, toasts that are directed towards him alone, indeed, his own statements, which are made half in English, half in Mandarin.

After lunch we are told that we must spent two hours at this beach. We protest, saying that it would make sense to get a start and get to our destination early (i.e. before the sun has already gone down rendering decent pictures an impossibility) but Mr Gao, our leader, is having none of it. The plan – which he didn’t mind changing at will earlier on, must now be stuck to at all costs. We are to leave at 2.30pm.

We spend the time sitting under a sun shade on the beach. A few of our member, including the totally inebriated Mr Cheng, take a swim. Mr Cheng is not a small man, you understand. He bombs into the sea creating a mass wave and spends ten minutes shouting at the top of his voice. He emerges looking absolutely wasted. He staggers around in the sand with legs like jelly. A couple of times he threatens to collapse. Eventually, when he finally has the wherewithal to dress himself, he emerges from the changing room shouting that his phone has been lost. We spent some minutes searching in the sand before it is duly found in Mr Cheng’s pocket.
At 2.20pm, we are suddenly beckoned back to the car. At 2.25pm, the drivers are on the megaphone, demanding to know what is taking so long. The sirens are going like the clappers. I lose it slightly and demand to know why the driver is angry that we are taking so long when we had all AGREED to leave at 2.30pm, which is still five minutes from now. I am getting seriously miffed at the way that, time and time again, our well-laid plans just arbitrarily change without anyone informing anybody else.

Nerves are calmed in a most unusual manner. The driver has managed to borrow a Michael Jackson VCD from one of his fellow drivers and is playing it over the internal system. We watch Wacko prance around like a poof in his deeply pretentious 1992 video from In the Closet. There’s also the sickening video for Gone Too Soon, featuring one of Wacko’s alleged former victims, an AIDS campaigner whose name I forget now. Kerrilee and I take the opportunity to teach Crystal the word ‘pervert’. Off we speed, through the grasslands of Inner Mongolia in our oversized Buick, watching videos of a world separated from us by both time and space. It’s a world in which a man with a mop for a head (Guns’n’Roses’ Slash) can become a guitar legend and a world where a weirdo like Michael Jackson can be considered cool. It all seems an awfully long way away, and an awfully long time ago. Inner Mongolia doesn’t seem half as strange after watching that.

We drive. Some hours later we pass a Buddhist temple in the middle of the grasslands. None of the photographers have the energy to stop but stop we stop regardless.. Again, we are dismissed with an order to be back in the car in fifteen minutes time. The temple is truly an oddity. It looks for all the world to be a Tibetan Buddhist temple, but it’s all the way up here in Inner Mongolia. Quite why, I know not.

Just before sunset, we reach Hailaer. Our government minder makes us wait on the outskirts of the city, just at the precise moment we could have been taking some stunning shots of the setting sun over the grassland. As it is, we are stuck in some stinking suburb.
We are finally delivered to our hotel and it is truly a sight for sore eyes. Our rooms are lovely and have all the trappings of a five-star establishment. I immediately take advantage of the shower facilities only to hear Crystal shout through the door that dinner started five minutes ago. It might have been nice to have been told that before.

Nevertheless, I don’t regret a thing. Going to dinner having had a shower makes a world of difference. I actually feel like eating, like talking, like smiling, when the government stooge toasts me. I feel good, for the first time in days. I’m glad I felt good because tonight was a night where it paid to keep your eyes open, for safety’s sake if nothing else.

First came the rice wine. Then came the speeches delivered over a microphone that had been set up in front of the three main banquet tables (I even made a speech of my own in which I thanked the drivers for having been so good….I received applause for that). Then came a rendition of local folk songs, the delivery of which would have had anyone wearing a wig seriously worried. Then came the drunken belief that we could all give it a go. The usual suspects made their way forward. The pipe-smoking Mr Cheng was first up. He was fired up by a renewed bout of drinking and but clearly hadn’t fully recovered from lunchtime’s extravagances. His timing was so badly out of kilter, and inability to hit the high sounds so pronounced, that the two professional singers sent in to accompany him could not conceal their anguish. Despite clearly concentrating almost totally on suppressing winces, their facial expressions said it all. It was hilarious. Thanks to the rapturous applause and general hilarity, Mr Cheng, came away firmly believing he had bought a unique Beijing delivery to a grassland folk classic and sat down very pleased with himself indeed.

Then it was Mr Gao’s turn. Mr Gao, unwisely in my opinion, decided to deliver the same song he had sung for us in Ulanhot – the one he wrote himself when he was a student. Only this time something strange happened. The keyboard accompanist instantly recognised the tune and began to play along with him. Either she had a remarkable ear for music, or Mr Gao’s claims to have written the song himself were not strictly true. Owing to Mr Gao’s status as our dear leader, nobody said a word.

Or perhaps they did. Because not five minutes after sitting back down at his table. Mr Gao was glassed. This was interesting as my understanding of Inner Mongolian culture has it that glassing somebody is really quite rude.

With glass shattered across the floor – and Mr Gao (sadly) not bleeding – the culprit, was hauled out of the room. The man in question was one of our group, the youngest Chinese photographer on the tour. Mr Gong, 32, was the picture editor for the Chinese version of National Geographic traveller magazine. And he was one pissed off man. It wasn’t clear what had been said. It was clear, however, that he was fairly drunk, but there was nothing unusual in this. It would have been rude not to be drunk. The gossiping immediately began. What had been said? Was it the song that had pissed him off. Had Gao done a Matarrazzi had suggested that he’d like a piece of Gong’s sister? The room was still talking in whispers when Mr Gong re-entered the room, accompanied by the two girls who had removed him. They both had the look of people who had calmed a difficult situation and were confident that everything was going to be alright. I love this about China. You can glass a man, but as long as you say sorry and pretend it was only because you were drunk, everything is instantly forgotten. Apparently not as within 30 seconds of sitting down to make his peace, Mr Gong and Mr Gao were arguing again. Fingers were being jabbed but, disappointinglyy, no more glass was smashed. The two girls re-entered the fold and, each taking one arm, hauled Mr Gong out of the room for the final time that night. He was never heard of again.

Shortly after the worst of the commotion died down, the Vice-Chairman (or she may have been the Vice Mayor), Miss Sun, got up to give us a rendition of a locally written grassland song. The woman sang beautifully but nobody paid any attention. In fact, Mr Gao and his inner circle were standing up talking all over the performance. Miss Sun sang on regardless. In China, at time of embarrassment, it generally pays to persevere as if nothing has happened. Miss Sun did this admirably.

The talk around the tables was that Mr Gong was ‘too young’ to have been invited on this trip (making me a little worried about my own status within the group...I was four years Gong's junior). Again, I love this about Chinese culture. There may be a complex problem that everyone knows is a complex problem that involves many causes and effects etc.etc. but the Chinese will naturally prefer to deal in simplified and utterly tenuous explanations. Mr Gao had been glassed because Mr Gong was ‘too young’. End of story. That was the easiest narrative and that was the one repeated ad nauseum.

Of course, anyone with half a brain could guess that the reason Mr Gao had been glassed was because he was an incompetent, bumbling, sycophantic fool. This isn’t to say that he deserved to have a glass thrown at him. It seemed a little over the top, I have to say. But there was a back story.

Later, upstairs in the corridor, the truth emerged. Zhao An, the French-speaking assistant to one of the foreign photographers, Phillippe, admitted that Gao had confessed to him his frustration at the way the trip was being managed the previous day: the fact that, to Gao, meeting government leaders was far more important than good pictures; the fact that Gao changed his mind every second without explanation or forewarning; the fact that Gao had done everything in his power to keep us all together, taking the same pictures, in the same places, at all costs. This was then real reason for tonight’s excitement. I concurred with Mr Gong entirely, though I would have perhaps stopped short of physically attacking the most senior Communist Party official on the trip. That seemed, to me, unwise.

I went to bed with a new sense of excitement. What would tomorrow bring? I couldn’t wait to find out. I had hoped to drift off to sleep watching some football on TV but it turns out that Inner Mongolia is the only Chinese province I have ever visited that doesn’t take a dodgy feed from ESPN on Saturday night. There good, honest people up here. Good, honest, and generally drunk.

Forest Fires

2006-08-25T14:07:00.000+01:00

It’s a 7am wake-up call for a 7.30am breakfast (peanuts, boiled eggs and steamed bread remain the staples for the foreigners…for me, I’m still too sensitive to eat) and an 8am start. Last night’s hot spring apparently involved getting stark bollock naked with, well, everyone – friends, neighbours, drivers – so I am rather glad I declined.

We head in convoy out of town. Before we leave A’ershan’s city limits, we stop to visit a local spring so clean that water can be drunk from it directly (oh, the novelty). Water is flowing out of wooden conduits into a shallow concrete basin. I am told by the kindly Mr Chen – a wild eyed PLA man – that I cannot drink as the water is too cold for my sensitive stomach. The Chinese are not shy about dishing out medical advice.

Just as I go to cup my hand to the water, a tour bus arrives. It’s madness. The size of the spring is probably less than 1.5 square metres and the chief attraction is apparently the cleanliness of the water. And suddenly there is a baying horde of around 50 tourists elbowing each other to get a chance to cup the water to their mouths. What was already a less-than impressive local attraction has instantly become a joke.

A classic Chinese slogan has been carved into the hillside high above A’ershan. The message is this: A’ershan Forest Workers Welcome You. A touching sentiment. Though a little confusing. I want to know why the local shopkeepers aren’t also welcoming us. How about the Joiners’ Union, or the Fire Service. Why is it that only the Forest Workers want to extend a hand? Frankly, they look to have been far too busy anyway. The message has been created on a perfectly green, well grazed hillside, framed against a perfectly blue morning sky. The nearest forest is miles away.

We drive for about 90 minutes or so through some very, very lovely countryside. The rivers up here are amazingly clean and the fields seemingly unblighted by the ubiquitous plastic waste that one normally finds here in China. Some of the roads are hemmed in by sun-dappled hedgerows. If we weren’t sat in the back of gas-guzzling, horn-blaring, all-American Buicks, I could almost image we were driving down a little English country lane.

We stop at one point for a pee-break (…for some. For other’s it’s an increasingly rare opportunity to actually photograph the lovely landscape we are passing through). As a gaggle of photographers walks down the middle of the road, a motorbike approaches beeping its rather squeaky-sounding horn, as is the norm in China. Most of the photographers move but one chap stubbornly remains in the middle of the road, daring the motorcyclist to run him down. The motorcyclist beeps ever more frantically and, just short of hitting the photographer, slows right down and swerves to avoid him. Glares are exchanged. The motorcyclist departs and the photographer grins smugly. I am watching all this, fuming. I cannot believe the arrogance of certain members of our party. It’s all adding up: the demand that the service station employee hand over his evening meal, the way 'civilians' are told to pass out of the way for us at attraction, the beeping, the way the driver drives recklessly but never deigns to wear a seat belt, the way rubbish is tossed out of the window. Maybe I am over-analysing, but the behaviour of that photographer seemed to contain the message that I am, one, from BEIJING (dontcha know?), two, travelling on a government pass, and three, just generally far too important to have to heed the beeping of a pathetic Inner Mongolia farmer like YOU. I hate it. I hate being associated with any of this.

We reach the gate of some kind of national park. We stop while our government minder gets out to negotiate. The usual charge is 100 RMB (which is more than a ticket to enter the Forbidden City). I am intrigued to know what might be inside to warrant such a charge. That said, charging citizens (the equivalent of a week’s wages) for the privilege of enjoying nature is not a new phenomenon in modern China. I ask Crystal, our translator, where we are going. ‘A mountain’, she says.

Not for the first time, Crystal is wrong. It turns out the chief attraction is actually a lake around which there has been a very picturesque forest fire. Apparently it happened three years ago and happened thanks to an exceptionally dry summer (and, of course, had nothing at all to do with the propensity of Chinese male smokers to toss lit cigarettes on the ground/out of car windows). It’s very pleasant, but hardly worth 100 RMB. I head down to the water’s edge in a futile attempt to snap some of the dragonflies that are riding around on one another’s backs in a frenzied mating game. As I sit there, two of the drivers come up behind me and lob a big rock into the water, just in the area I am trying to take pictures. ‘Oh, look, a big fish,’ they say, giggling all the while. I glare at them. My driver then proceeds to take my tripod and fiddle around. I am seriously pissed off, so I grab my things and leave.

I cannot believe we have been taken here. I cannot believe we have driven so far, through some amazing landscapes, just to be delivered to the stock ‘tourist attraction’ lake which really isn’t much to write home about. Hell, there’s been a forest fire. Is anyone thinking? We came here to take attractive pictures. And they give us this.

We get back in the car. I ask Crystal where we are going next. She says: “We are going to another place.” When we will arrive in this ‘other place’, I ask. “Maybe later.” This girl is a real bright spark.

Our next stop turns out to be just up the road, a ‘Stone Forest’. This area has apparently seen thousands of years of volcanic activity and, indeed, odd brown volcanic rocks testify to the truth of this (I’m beginning to doubt everything). Sadly, the Stone Forest isn’t yet ready for tourists. A wooden boardwalk is being built over the top of a particularly striking formation but at the moment it’s a mess. Workers are hammering nails, little mixing machine chug away and belch black filth into the firmament. Nevertheless, the crowds who have paid to come in her are determined to get their money’s worth and a large group of them are making their way across the rocks, down to a little lake a few metres below. I take a look and decide to cut my losses. I head back to the parking lot and am accosted by a man. He is wearing dark glasses, has prominent black hair protruding from his nasal passages and knows how to speak English, albeit with a nearly unbearable whine. He asks me who I am and what I am doing. In Chinese, I answer that I am a journalist and I am here taking pictures as part of a group. My Chinese is bad, I admit. The man says, in English, ‘Ah, but how can you be a journalist in China when your Chinese is so poor.’ I am not really inclined to continue to conversation, especially as it now seems little more than an opportunity for this man to show off his English skills. ‘I went to study my Master’s in the US,’ he says, inadvertently explaining that awful whine. ‘I work in Beijing in the Enforcement Division of Intellectual Property Protection Department. If you have any IP issues, call me,’ he says. Thanks, I say.

We drive to another 'scenic spot'. The whole park is beautiful, the whole province is beautiful, but right now, we are only concerned with 'scenic spots'. It's very revealing of Chinese tourism, which is all about visiting as many pre-designated 'beautiful places' as possible and getting a posed picture beside it, before rushing off to the next location. In order to access this place, we turn off the main road and down a dirt track. Just shy of our destination we get a puncture in the front left tyre. Our fellow Buicks, in classic Chinese style, slow down to get a look at our misfortune before speeding off into the distance. Nobody stops to help. To be fair, we don’t do much to help either. We sling cameras over shoulders and leave the driver to sort out the problem on his own.

Luckily, our destination is no more than 100m up the road. This time it’s a river and once again, a boardwalk is in the middle of being constructed. We clamber over the timber and get down to the water’s edge. It’s a nice spot but picture opportunities are limited by the fact that there are so many of us all trying to get the same shot.

Lunch is taken in this monstrosity of a building. I still can’t eat anything, but a glass of green tea would go down a treat. Drinking options are local Mongolian milk tea, rice wine, or a solitary bottle of mineral water. I take the water. While the group feasts, I head outside and wander around in the dust and litter. Construction vehicles pour past. Plastic bags, discarded drinks cartons and bottles and used tissues swirl around in the wind. This feels anything but a national park.

The litter problem is partially explained as we drive on. Owing to my sickness, I am still sitting in the front. As we drive out of the park and back down those little country lanes, Hazel discovers that a bag of fruit she had in the back has gone bad in the heat. She hands it to me and asks me to dispose of it. I go to pick out the decomposables to chuck out of the window but the driver quickly instructs me to just lob out the entire thing. Littering is a bit of a bug bear of mine and I am enraged. In my best Chinese, I try to say that I will never throw out the bag, especially not into a national park, because it is plastic and it will…..I try to think of the words for ‘decompose’ but come up against a mental brick wall. Still, Crystal and driver get the message. I lean out of the window and empty the rotten fruit out. I leave the two plastic bags in the front foot well of the Buick. It was a futile gesture. A little later I looked down and found the bags were no longer there. The driver had clearly disposed of them himself. I can virtually guarantee that they were not deposited into a waste basket.

We take the road back into town, but before reaching A’ershan, do a sharp right and head northward. Soon we are passing an impressive range of granite cliffs, part of the Volcanic Area. As the group ignores the pleas of the drivers (issued over the megaphone) to only spend five minutes taking pictures and, instead, heads up into the rocks, I stay in car, thoroughly fed up with everything. These five-minute photograph breaks are no good, especially when the drivers are so reluctant to stop.

We drive on, through yet more beautiful undulating landscapes. The driver has yet another smoke. Previously he had always opened his window while doing so. This time he closes it tight. My window is wide open and the smoke drifts across me. I start spluttering ostentatiously. No effect. I pull my t-shirt over my face, covering my nose and mouth. No effect. Crystal, the girl ostensibly in charge of the group, sits in the back sniggering. Indeed, if I were in a better mood, it might be funny but as it is, I want to kill the driver. He knows I am sick and he is now deliberately provoking me.

As we head north, the landscape begins to flatten out. This is the real grassland area – mile after mile of flat land with stretches all the way to a distant horizon with only a cattle herd or two to interrupt the view. Horses graze in pools of water next to the road. The scene is idyllic. Well, it is until the moment the driver gets on his horn, sending the horses running for covering. He sniggers away to himself, and I now want to not only kill him but do it causing maximum pain. A garrotte, perhaps?

When we stop, I discover that the grass is growing on an incredibly loose topsoil, comprised mainly of sand. Huge patches of it occasionally poke up through the greenery. We stop at one point to get a picture of a horseback herder and his flock of sheep. The Chinese photographers run straight into the middle of the herd, sending the animals fleeing. The dust kicks up and fills the air. The view of the photographers, emerging from the haze, is quite some sight.

We pass a sign that has the demonic brother of Mickey Mouse imploring passing drivers to take care. Suddenly, in the middle of the grassland, we are pulled over to be greeted by our government escort. He leans into the car and hands out little blue booklets outlining – to the hour – our schedule for the coming evening and following day. Thank God, we all say. After yet another near full day of driving, we are nearly there. Wrong. Twenty minutes after encountering our mysterious grassland host we do stumble across a melancholy grey city but it takes a ten minute drive around the centre for our driver to realise that it’s not the right city. It seems inconceivable that, our here in the grassland, we could take a wrong turn. The road network isn’t exactly a matrix of possibilities. Yet, somehow, we’ve managed to get it wrong. Not only slightly wrong. We emerge back out in to the grassland and our driver informs us that’s still another 100 bloody kilometres to our destination. Not for the first time, I am wondering whether anyone really knows what is going on.

The sun begins to set as we head along a phenomenally straight road into that dissects a vast plain of grass. The land stretches away to infinity. This is a lonely place to be, especially if you are out here by yourself, sitting on the back of a horse. That’s exactly what one man is doing as we whiz past him in the gathering gloom. The gang jokes that perhaps he’s another government escort out here to welcome us. About an hour later, we discover that that was exactly what he was. And we drove straight past him.

Finally we do arrive, and the sight isn’t one for sore eyes. We are to lodge for the night in a dirty little shit town nestled up close to the Mongolian border. Once again, we must leave the car and head headlong straight into another rice wine fuelled banquet in the best hotel in town. I’m just beginning to feel that, for the first time in two days, I can eat again but there is nothing on the huge, huge table that gets my saliva flowing. Once again, more food that can possibly be consumed in one evening is bought to us.

This hotel is sadly not where we are to sleep. We get back in the car and head 200 metres down the road. Crystal points to the top floor of a grotty three-storey block and indicates this is where we are to rest out head. If this is where ‘government help’ gets you, I would rather go it alone. We head up a seedy unlit stairwell, past the flashing neon lights of a nightclub on the second floor where a group of intimidating looking teen punks are loitering. The hotel itself is a fright. Mercifully I have my own room, and even have a bathroom (complete with squat toilet and a dribble of a shower). Nobody else has such a luxury. The Chinese girls next door are sleeping five to a room and have no toilet facilities at all. I loan them the use of my bathroom while I am downstairs in the internet bar writing a summary of events to family and friends. When I come back, the hot water has finished. I also discover that there is no soap provided so I head back downstairs to buy some. I walk down the darkened stairwell trailed by a group of four slightly and drunk-looking locals. They ask me if I am Russian. I say no and when they realise I can speak a little Chinese, they are all smiles and begin to pat me on the back. If I hadn’t been able to speak Chinese, I would have been convinced these guys were mob men. As I walk back from the local corner store, the lads hanging around the nightclub on the second floor shout, ‘Oi, look there’s a Russian.’Once again, I feel quite scared. Being Russian clearly aint good in these parts.

Back in the hostel, I encounter Crystal and Kerrilee in the corridor. They ask me what I have in my hand. I say, ‘Soap.’ They say, ‘Er….but it’s the size of a brick….and it’s orange, give it ‘ere.’ They look at it, smell it and say, ‘Graham, this is the kind of soap you use to wash clothes.’ It’s not been my day. Just behind us, five men pour out of a ridiculously smoky room. We appear to be lodging in a hostel for migrant workers.

My lucklessness is confirmed when I get back to my room to find there’s no hot water (pictured is the attendant, trying to find some). And when I learn that tomorrow we are heading out for sunset at 4.30am.