tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6518468684137488582024-03-05T21:56:56.420-08:00Stuart Heaver BlogThe ramblings,rants and observations of Hong Kong-based professional freelance writer and journalist, Stuart Heaver.Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-58346066024370527402022-06-23T09:39:00.000-07:002022-06-23T09:39:18.816-07:00The Coal Black Sea<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEQzyik4VWXgVJfPZOHfKLZHwDxceOQTpLHIZcEqZMDznnL3p6hqKhIcguJfFmxgZLDXlA1ILe2kY-ad92kEaKUxJfOB-EiPJrinOcbPyqXxmdvGnJa4enynQ2OfrntI6Rg6fT5djTbO-Aj0lUWph2W_wlSX12ljrksK114zyHy4b4ZP_zk7OxdCy/s499/Coal%20Black%20Sea%20cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEQzyik4VWXgVJfPZOHfKLZHwDxceOQTpLHIZcEqZMDznnL3p6hqKhIcguJfFmxgZLDXlA1ILe2kY-ad92kEaKUxJfOB-EiPJrinOcbPyqXxmdvGnJa4enynQ2OfrntI6Rg6fT5djTbO-Aj0lUWph2W_wlSX12ljrksK114zyHy4b4ZP_zk7OxdCy/s320/Coal%20Black%20Sea%20cover.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p></div><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="text-align: center;">I am extremely proud to announce that after eight years of research, my new book, The Coal Black Sea, Winston Churchill and the Worst Naval Catastrophe of the First World War is published today by <a href="https://www.thehistorypress.co.uk/publication/the-coal-black-sea/9780750999601/"><span style="color: #01ffff;">The</span> <span style="color: #01ffff;">History Press</span>,</a> (ISBN: 9780750999601). </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">On the morning of 22 September 1914, when three Royal
Navy armoured cruisers were sunk by a German U-boat, in the southern North Sea,
just six weeks into the First World War, 1,459 men and boys lost their
lives, shocking the entire British nation. When HMS <i>Hogue, Aboukir </i>and<i> Cressy </i>sank,
the coal from their bunkers turned the sea inky black for as far as the eye
could see, as hundreds of naked men struggled for their lives in the frigid
water.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">One of those
lost that day was my great Uncle, my grandmother’s older brother, Leading Seaman William
J Potter RFA. Six of those lost came from my home town of Whitstable in Kent.
The ships were originally designed and built on the Clyde in Scotland for the
China Station in Hong Kong. There was next to nothing in the way of support for
the victim’s families ashore, apart from an embryonic armed forces charity
called SSFA (later SSAFA). There were lots of personal connections for me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Initially, I was
intrigued why such a high profile wartime naval incident which made such a
dramatic impact could have such a low profile. When I served in the Royal Navy,
none of my family told me about Uncle Will being a First World War hero or his
death in HMS Cressy. The incident had been successfully brushed under
the carpet for a century, until a retired Dutch physics lecturer called Henk
van der Linden, wrote a book about the so called Live Bait Squadron and
initiated a major commemorative event at Chatham Historic Dockyard in 2014.
Even then, it was never explained why it had taken so long for these brave men
to be recognised.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">My aim was to dramatically recreate the story of the incident as a gripping
non-fiction narrative from the perspective of those serving at sea based on
numerous press reports from survivors, from official records and accounts from
respected historians. It quickly became apparent that things didn’t add up. At
the time, this was the biggest story of the war—it made international headlines
and questions were asked in parliament. The king was distraught and the Prime Minister Asquith distressed. The death toll was greater than Trafalgar or the sinking of the
Lusitania. It was only a few less than the Titanic’s death toll, yet hardly
anyone has heard of it. The incident struggled to escape from the margins of
official histories. It was never classified as an official action and was
generally described as a sort of tragic anomaly of little relevance to the war
at sea. It didn’t even have a proper name. Something didn’t make sense.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">In search of an explanation, I explored the dusty corridors of Whitehall and the lumbering bureaucratic edifice that
was the Admiralty—responsible for all aspects of the largest Navy in the world,
from pay and uniforms to shipbuilding and weapons development.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">And it led me
to the man in charge. The 39-year-old charismatic, energetic, industrious
intellectually agile, brash, controversial and highly ambitious, First Lord of
the Admiralty, Winston Churchill. The man with the Midas touch. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I knew little
about Churchill other than his glowing reputation as the greatest Briton of all
time. I certainly had no axe to grind but the more I discovered about the first
nine months of the First World War at sea, and Churchill’s response when things stated
to go wrong on his watch, the more horrified I became.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">If you read the
book you can draw your own conclusions but even the most ardent admirer of the
great man would have to concede it was not his finest hour, by any means.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">My own
conclusion, for what it is worth, is that, not for the first time in history, or
the last, brave men (it was men in this case) were sent to war and performed their
duty with distinction and cheerful stoicism, without the necessary tools for
the job. They were then artfully and brutally stitched up with sophistry and
spin for political expediency, while their grieving families were left to fend for
themselves.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Some might say,
nothing changes but at least a humble and noble attempt has been made to put
the record straight on behalf of the 1,459, and Uncle Will. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p>Even 108 years
later, the truth should still matter.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ6ieXE6zuvJXeALDXmpWs8OoW6TbcI1Zxkkg5cm9DfIeR9JtmQHtynBKhAQBzqzyyKC2957zLqON-90EWdLDV-yFA9xuAJQgioKFhQq6GtyXCeZDn1-7Z6t667xARBWUYIF0yowchbllK5MxZEQuawqP08IlUdTbp3tL4l127a_5WUJjv8hgDtr8/s4032/Stuart%20Heaver%202.jpg" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ6ieXE6zuvJXeALDXmpWs8OoW6TbcI1Zxkkg5cm9DfIeR9JtmQHtynBKhAQBzqzyyKC2957zLqON-90EWdLDV-yFA9xuAJQgioKFhQq6GtyXCeZDn1-7Z6t667xARBWUYIF0yowchbllK5MxZEQuawqP08IlUdTbp3tL4l127a_5WUJjv8hgDtr8/s320/Stuart%20Heaver%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Whitstable, UK51.361047 1.02425623.050813163821154 -34.131994 79.671280836178852 36.180506tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-40973187301864625812021-11-10T23:10:00.000-08:002021-11-10T23:10:48.950-08:00Locked up in Q Prison Hong Kong<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDB3tWgfDVzgp4_WC93dDBp60Nk5khFUSdzjy5a-db6gt5P0HhBAJ5lrqppxqjPYK2u09e45LJ7Fh2EHeJh-njuG31svZ8lPDg5530sDNyIMSBeBzjpHxCZX3y-_S-8Co2r9S9b8cwUEM/s2048/20211027_155615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDB3tWgfDVzgp4_WC93dDBp60Nk5khFUSdzjy5a-db6gt5P0HhBAJ5lrqppxqjPYK2u09e45LJ7Fh2EHeJh-njuG31svZ8lPDg5530sDNyIMSBeBzjpHxCZX3y-_S-8Co2r9S9b8cwUEM/s320/20211027_155615.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;">These days, you are more likely to be locked up than locked down, in Hong Kong.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">This once
freewheeling, transient, cosmopolitan and welcoming city has adopted the themes of
captivity and isolation with remarkable enthusiasm. If you are looking to visit
from the UK or just about any other western nation, you might as well forget it - unless you are an official resident with a valid ID card, double-vaccinated, desperate
and/or deranged.</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br />
At 21 days, Hong Kong holds the world record for the world’s longest and
strictest COVID-19 quarantine incarceration requirement. It's known locally as Q
Prison. Even gaining entry to this enforced hotel imprisonment is a protracted
test of patience. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The last time I saw
Hong Kong airport in May 2020, it was mostly deserted but it still resembled an
airport. This time, it resembled a mass human transit station. Long lanes; multiple
signs; make-shift Perspex cubicles; solemn officials; forms to be completed and checked; QR codes to be scanned; PCR tests to be performed; certificates to
be issued and advisory booklets to be read. </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">One masked man behind
one of the many cubicles cheerfully informed us that if our 21-day compulsory hotel
quarantine was breached for any reason, we were liable to a HK$25,000 fine
and six months imprisonment. </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Having been officially
processed and duly warned, inmates stumbled, exhausted, to the holding
area. Wearing green identity labels, secured around our necks on a
red lanyard, we all located our coded and designated white table and chair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A matching white neatly-folded plastic trash
bag was assiduously placed in the left-hand corner of every identical white desk.
This must be what it’s like to be a bewildered specimen in a large-scale
laboratory experiment.</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Knowing this could be my
last opportunity to walk more than five paces in the same direction for three
weeks, I frantically paced and jogged up and down the polished marble floors of
the airport concourse, like a demented marathon runner, warming up for the big
race. No one would be departing from these departure gates for anywhere exotic,
any time soon. These are all human holding zones now, full of weary and compliant passengers,
all awaiting to start their sentence in Q-Prison.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Hong Kong has a zero-tolerance
policy towards COVID-19. In the last two years it has seen about 12,300 cases
and recorded 213 COVID-related deaths. The city is about the same size as London
which has suffered more than 19,000 deaths from COVID-19, over the same period.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hong Kong has done well but now it has a
serious problem simply because most of the rest of the world has not done such
a great job. So, the city’s leadership desperate to re-open its border with Mainland
China, is terrified of importing cases that might damage its COVID-free status,
offend Beijing and wipe out its older residents, many of whom are reluctant to
get vaccinated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Hence, this once vibrant
entrepot has just about cut itself of from any physical contact with the rest of
the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is effectively isolating
and throttling itself, simultaneously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
returning residents must comply with the extremely stringent 21-day quarantine
regime which incorporates no less than nine PCR COVID- tests before even parole
will be considered. Good behaviour is not taken into account. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Much of the local news
concerns the latest unfortunate citizen to be jailed for falling foul of the recently
imposed National Security Law. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
showing a movie the authorities don’t approve of, can land you in the clink. Detention
seems to be the way forward in Hong Kong. Not surprisingly, airline traffic between
here and London is almost one way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">After one of the many gender-neutral Hazmat suits had handed out yet another form, passengers were
permitted to proceed through immigration control, collect their bags and join
yet another queue – this one for the bus to town. Four hours had passed in a
slowly unfolding bureaucratic torture and there was nothing in the way of good
humour or irreverent banter to alleviate the pain. </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The HKSAR government
carefully selected the most dilapidated mini-bus for the final leg of our epic
journey, some 26 hours after arriving at Heathrow Terminal 5. After our bags were sprayed with some noxious substance, we were allowed to board and sitting in separate
seats, grinded and bumped our way through the dark, lesser-known back
streets of Causeway Bay district. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Our tour guide for the
evening, was a humourless and officious woman with large black spectacles,
wearing the obligatory blue Hazmat suit, rubber gloves with matching shower cap
and visor, who squawked instructions into her mobile phone and snapped impatiently
at the driver. Zombie passengers were deposited furtively, in the concealed
rear entrance lobbies of their designated hotels. </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Check-in formalities for our room on the 23<sup>rd</sup> floor of the Best Western Plus Hotel in Sai
Ying Pun, were undertaken at a tatty office desk, surrounded by an uneven
makeshift wall of Perspex. Hotel staff were dressed ready for any unexpected chemical
and biological attack. A bank of glowing CCTV screens displayed multiple hotel room
corridors and doors. Staff are monitoring them to check no one steps outside their
room during their 21 days of captivity. The police are called if there is a breach.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 105%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">It’s all very serious
and as we were ushered towards the lift to commence our custodial sentence in Q
Prison, no one laughed when I asked them what time the hotel bar opened. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com1Hong Kong22.3193039 114.1693611-5.9909299361788442 79.0131111 50.629537736178847 149.3256111tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-48026610481013556242021-02-04T07:21:00.001-08:002021-02-04T07:21:28.899-08:00I tested positive for COVID 19- let's celebrate<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AVxUyQ4JvoRKGmsYFbUmZFDJ4oyooM-VE3Q3q3EnuDC_aAK2dfccuKcUh8I_-WcnwMWeQ0W0iptWCy7AAM57SUdnCQAP9dcUpPfBo-2CBsHmizcrUvhxxBD39ToX2kb05SNEjzMSXmw/s620/Manston+COVID+Test+Centre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_AVxUyQ4JvoRKGmsYFbUmZFDJ4oyooM-VE3Q3q3EnuDC_aAK2dfccuKcUh8I_-WcnwMWeQ0W0iptWCy7AAM57SUdnCQAP9dcUpPfBo-2CBsHmizcrUvhxxBD39ToX2kb05SNEjzMSXmw/s320/Manston+COVID+Test+Centre.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I tested positive for COVID-19 yesterday.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There is nothing exceptional about that of
course. The day that I sat in my car on a grey and desolate airfield in Kent (<i>right</i>), carefully
sticking a swab into my nose and throat, there were 16,840 new COVID-19 cases
reported in the UK. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There have been in excess of 7.8 million confirmed
cases in the UK to date and 1,449 people in Britain died of COVID-19 just on the
same day I was tested. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">One of them, was the national hero, Captain Sir
Tom Moore. That was his reward for raising more than </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">£</span><span lang="EN-US">32 million for the NHS and offering a heart-warming news story
during bleak times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a political gesture
so cynical, it made me wince; the Prime Minister initiated a public clap last night
in Captain Moore’s honour, when a public apology might have been more appropriate.
I assume the Prime Minister calculated that the more we stand, slapping our
hands together like well-trained performing seals, the less we might notice the
catastrophic scale of the death toll, including so many of the frail and elderly,
like Captain Moore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The Prime Minister stated, without irony, this was a suitable
way to honour Captain Moore and the NHS staff, he raised money for. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Surely, containing the disease which killed the Captain would have been a more fitting and lasing tribute. </span>As usual, Mr Johnson omitted to mention the many thousands
of other UK victims of COVID-19, who have all lost their lives on his watch. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Mr Johnson is not fit to lace the boots of men
like Captain Moore but by perfidiously associating himself with a nationally
admired figure, Mr Johnson neatly deflected attention from his own bungling incompetence. ‘You can fool most of the people most of the time,' seems
to be the Prime Minister’s sole political mantra. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My COVID-19 case hardly merits a mention. Fortunately,
my symptoms are minor but my more pressing concern is that I made a routine
care visit to my 86-year-old mother, the day before my symptoms kicked in. Mum’s
Alzheimer’s is acute now and apart from her dedicated carers, the visits from
me, or my brother, are the only human contact she has. I wore a surgical mask
as I always do, but Mum told me she was feeling cold, so I wrapped her in a cardigan
and a blanket. In doing so, I may have inadvertently killed her but we won’t
know for sure for another six days. Ironically, she received her first vaccination
the day after my drop in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Not that it makes much difference now, but my
wife and I have been very cautious throughout the pandemic and complied with
the so-called lockdown rules. Having witnessed the impressive public response
to the coronavirus in Hong Kong, we remain avid mask wearers and meticulous hand-washers.
The only person to enter our home since October last year, was the man who
replaced our boiler and that was several weeks ago. We have no idea where we
might have caught it. The location of our local infection hot spots remains a
mystery. A year after this all started, it’s like stumbling around a minefield,
wearing a blindfold.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So, forgive me if I don’t embrace the febrile
celebration of the great British vaccination roll out or any government-inspired
bouts of mass applause. Somehow, the experience at the Manston Covid-19 Test Centre, followed by a rushed explanatory email to Mum's carers on receiving the result, while feeling like a victim of a violent mugging, did not quite put me in the party mood.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There is zero justification for celebratory
rhetoric or triumphant bombast. It’s not only inappropriate, it’s disrespectful
to those who have lost family members due to the Prime Minister’s abject mishandling
of this crisis. A recent You Gov poll reported that one in eight Britons know a
friend or family member who has died of COVID-19. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another indicates that as of today, only 34%
of people believe the government has handled the pandemic ‘very well’ or ‘somewhat
well’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">More than 108,000 people have died in the
UK within twelve months from a single cause. It’s the third largest per capita
death rate in the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I told the NHS track and trace representative who called me today about the one person, I had
spoken to on the day I became symptomatic, he advised me that unless I could
confirm that the contact had definitely come within 1 metre of me, or within two
metres for a 15-minute duration, he would not include it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“We don’t want to ask people to self-isolate
unnecessarily,” he assured me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many more
deaths before it will be necessary to tell someone who has been in direct indoor
contact with a confirmed COVID-19 case, to isolate for ten days? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">No surprise that the UK has a worse record
than the USA, Brazil, France or Italy. And it’s much, much worse than Hong Kong,
Australia, Taiwan, Korea or Vietnam, which have largely contained the pandemic
with proven measures like strict border controls and rigorous
track/trace/quarantine protocols. The UK government refuses to adopt these
measures even after 108,000 deaths. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This failure is possibly grounds for a
public enquiry or even a series of private criminal prosecutions but it is certainly
not a reason for celebration or applause. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com1Whitstable Kent, UK51.2787075 0.5217254000000001222.968473663821158 -34.6345246 79.588941336178848 35.6779754tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-90144984542577029272020-11-16T04:17:00.001-08:002020-11-17T01:56:50.243-08:00Lest we forget<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iBI_Lt8AtrQRawzfISs2CuGB8TUbXn9ARiw0YB1B8uPbHpDXuNKb8yq0lix7XFDZkjd-M3mAz6gtN-9RsQeSN4mRxSCn_JUbuZohPIZKkVec-3yFcd-MUJa09InQ2eN0ydrGIMJf8Sk/s750/Lest+we+forget.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="750" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iBI_Lt8AtrQRawzfISs2CuGB8TUbXn9ARiw0YB1B8uPbHpDXuNKb8yq0lix7XFDZkjd-M3mAz6gtN-9RsQeSN4mRxSCn_JUbuZohPIZKkVec-3yFcd-MUJa09InQ2eN0ydrGIMJf8Sk/s320/Lest+we+forget.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Remembrance Day was observed in the UK last week with
a dignified two minute’s silence but there was no commemoration for the tens of thousands of families mourning the victims of COVID-19. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">There were no crowds at the Cenotaph in London this year, or ranks of marching
veterans of course, because the nation is in lockdown. Yet the unprecedented combination
of Remembrance Day and a lockdown to combat a deadly pandemic, did not prompt any sort of memorial event for those lost to the disease. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Of course, these grannies, grandads, uncles and aunts, were not in uniform; they did not die in battle or while defending freedom; though surely their families deserve
a whisper of comfort. An ounce of common
compassion.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The official total is 56,698 COVID-19 deaths registered in England and Wales, up to 30 October 2020 (31,339 men and 25,359 women) but there have been no two minute's silence, no floral tributes, no doorstep applause and no high-profile services of remembrance.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The number of deaths from COVID-19 in England and Wales is
greater than the Luftwaffe caused during the Blitz of London in World War Two. It’s
now a greater loss of life than the Black Death and the Great Plague. It’s more
lives than the Royal Navy lost in the whole of World War One and that took four
years, not eight months.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Yet even on Remembrance Day, it seems these dead are already
forgotten and their families apparently abandoned to grieve alone.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Just imagine, if 56,698 people had all died
in a terrible fire in a sports stadium, or in a brutal terrorist attack or in a
natural disaster- a tsunami or an earthquake say. It’s hard to imagine everyone
would just carry on. No black armbands, no services of remembrance, no tragic personal anecdotes of grief and loss, inundating
TV and social media.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">The British are sometimes accused of being over
enthusiastic to embrace an orgy of grief but when 56,698 all die of COVID-19, most just
look the other way. It’s a mass denial. A taboo.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Officially, one in 85 people in England and Wales are currently
infected with COVID-19 but many people I speak to think the pandemic has been “over
blown”. A few think it doesn’t really exist at all. Others point out that lots
of people die in winter anyway or suggest it only seriously affects ethnic minorities
in the north of England.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">There is an <a href="https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/311923"><span style="color: #fcff01;">online petition</span> </a>to
establish a UK national holiday in remembrance of the victims of COVID-19; as
of today, it has 56 signatures.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p>According to the <a href="https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/birthsdeathsandmarriages/deaths/bulletins/deathsregisteredweeklyinenglandandwalesprovisional/weekending30october2020"><span style="color: #fcff01;">Office
of National Statistics</span></a> There were 1,379<span style="color: #fcff01;"> <a href="https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/birthsdeathsandmarriages/deaths/bulletins/deathsregisteredweeklyinenglandandwalesprovisional/latest"><span style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #fcff01;">deaths
involving the coronavirus (COVID-19) in England and Wales</span></span></a> </span>in
the week ending 30 October 2020 but we are not told who they were, or where
they were, or how they may have contracted the disease. It feels like a
conspiracy of silence.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">These are dangerous levels of delusion and denial about a
deadly disease on a grand scale and my suspicion is that it is no accident.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Because if more attention is drawn to the epic scale of
this public health disaster and the mass aggregate of personal family tragedies
that it consists of, some people might want to ask the forbidden question which
those in authority must fear most: why are so many people in Britain people
dying?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">According to <a href="https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/data/mortality"><span style="color: #fcff01;">John Hopkins University</span></a>,
the UK’s per capita death rate from COVID-19 is the fifth worst in the world. Only Belgium, Spain, Argentina and Brazil fare
worse than the UK in terms of deaths per 100,000 of population.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">More people might also wonder why a rich nation like the UK, with
a well-established public health organization and a comprehensive state- funded
national health service, staffed by dedicated professionals, is doing quite so
badly ?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Britain may have talent and it may have a great bake off too
but, lest we forget, compared to most nations in the world its government has
proven to be abject at preventing tens of thousands of its own people dying
from an infectious disease. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The least
they might do is acknowledge the scale of the tragic loss and offer a dignified commemoration for the
dead and a crumb of comfort to the grieving.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Whitstable, UK51.361047 1.02425623.050813163821154 -34.131994 79.671280836178852 36.180506tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-73830741446556533142020-06-30T13:48:00.001-07:002020-06-30T14:04:49.436-07:00The taste of China<br />
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Please spare a thought for the people of Hong Kong today. After more
than a year of protest and more than 23 years of aspiring for nothing more than
the democracy and basic civil liberties they were promised, the people of Hong
Kong have been betrayed and face defeat.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v3IGBRsVASZxTBvKLOx9ZQaCeuOxJ5Zq-JFTl6Hb8Y3DnBcnlQrPLHmA8qoxYlwqHddFlfQx-_i7fOrdYFtIV4i0N5c-5OHWBTesAJkTRxEWP_Gc6WAQpTE8jTlffmdbLVu4ASzTG8w/s1600/Riot+police+Wan+Chai+Nov+2+2019+Hong+Kong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v3IGBRsVASZxTBvKLOx9ZQaCeuOxJ5Zq-JFTl6Hb8Y3DnBcnlQrPLHmA8qoxYlwqHddFlfQx-_i7fOrdYFtIV4i0N5c-5OHWBTesAJkTRxEWP_Gc6WAQpTE8jTlffmdbLVu4ASzTG8w/s320/Riot+police+Wan+Chai+Nov+2+2019+Hong+Kong.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Might triumphed over right today at 11pm local time, when
Beijing approved a new security law to be imposed on Hong Kong in violation of
the 'one country - two systems' principal. It lists four categories of offences –
secession, subversion, terrorism and collusion with a foreign country or
external elements to endanger national security. The maximum penalty for each
crime is life imprisonment and a new Gestapo-style security agency will be established
in Hong Kong to investigate political cases and “strengthen the management” of
foreign non-governmental organisations and media agencies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Make no mistake, this new law sanctions
a police state and outlaws anything that Beijing considers to be a threat to
national security which is a euphemism for anything that the ruling Communist
Party of China (CCP) disapproves of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">As I write this, citizens I have been following on Twitter for months are
cancelling their accounts and pro-democracy activists are disbanding their groups
for fear of being arrested, extradited to Mainland China, denied a fair trial
and spending the rest of their lives behind bars in a grim prison in an unknown
location. This isn’t a theoretical civil rights issue; this is raw fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">One year ago, on July 1st 2019, hundreds of thousands, including me, marched
against the proposed Extradition bill. It was a positive, peaceful and creative
campaign which was ignored and then oppressed until it descended into a series of
street confrontations between police and protestors.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I make no claims to be one of the regular battle-scarred front-line news
reporters from that perio</span>d but by November, I found myself taking refuge in a
small burger restaurant in the Wan Chai district
of Hong Kong, weeping and sniffling uncontrollably from tear gas
inhalation.</div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I had spent the previous few hours covering the local election hustings
in nearby Victoria Park which was broken up by baton-wielding riot police firing
tear gas indiscriminately into the crowds which included families with young children.
I witnessed an election candidate called Richard Chan, a grey-haired
middle-aged man with spectacles, being pepper sprayed in the face by police officers,
violently wrestled to the ground and made to kneel while he was handcuffed. He
was clearly shocked and distraught and he told me he had no idea why he had
been arrested.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The burger bar had become an improvised first aid station for press, election
candidates and protesters as a street battle raged outside. Staff calmly sealed
the glass doors with wet towels to keep out the tear gas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see residents, shoppers and tourists outside
dashing for cover to avoid the toxic fumes billowing around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Police had just started using a new type of CS gas sourced from
undisclosed suppliers in Mainland China. It penetrated most types of gas mask
(including mine) and had a thicker and more acrid synthetic taste. It hurts. While
I knelt on the floor of the restaurant and cursed about the new gas, a
volunteer paramedic washes my eyes out with saline solution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“What the hell is that stuff?” I asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“That my friend, is the taste of China” he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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This draconian law is more of the bitter taste of the authoritarian
government of China but few will stand up for the courageous people of Hong Kong
and their ideals. Senior pro-Beijing figures in Hong Kong were enthusiastically endorsing the law before they knew what it contained. There is too much money at stake and too many craven vested interests ready to kow-tow for any serious objections to be raised.<br />
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Hongkongers will be left to fight for themselves despite the
impossible odds but who will be next to sample the taste of China?</div>
<br />
<br />Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.3193039 114.169361121.8493704 113.5239141 22.7892374 114.81480810000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-22479663924652059942019-07-31T20:46:00.000-07:002019-07-31T20:46:13.835-07:00Shopping for Justice in Yuen Long 27/7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Despite the intense heat, an estimated
280,000 people reclaimed the town of Yuen Long in north-western Hong Kong in a
mass act of defiance, last Saturday.<br />
<br />
It was their collective response to the shocking mob
violence by thugs at the town’s MTR railway station and the police failure to
react to it, the week-end before.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The authorities had already declared the
march illegal, on public safety grounds but attendees were undeterred. Many joked,
saying they were just shopping, sightseeing, praying or on a Pokémon hunt.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“I am shopping for justice,” says Edward Ng
Ka-fung a quietly spoken IT consultant waiting in the shade of a municipal
building for the march to start. Ng says he has been on every recent protest
march with his wife but with this one declared illegal by the authorities and
with widespread fear of clashes with local villagers and Triad thugs, she has
stayed at home this time.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t want to get beaten up but I just
want to send the message that we not accept it (the violence of last
week-end),” he says as we set off with thousands of others down Castle Peak
Road, towards Yuen Long railway station. Many marchers wear hard hats, many
wear black masks and most carry umbrellas to shield them from the fierce
afternoon sun. There are young people, old people and I count at least three people in wheelchairs.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Yuen Long resembled one of those remote
cowboy towns in classic Hollywood Westerns. Shutters pulled down on shop
fronts, buses parked up and driverless at the bus station and shopping malls
deserted except for protesters enjoying the chilly air conditioning. Only
tumbleweed blowing down the street was missing from the scene.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The crowd had started gathering near the
sports stadium opposite Yuen Long police station, a large concrete compound
with conical watch towers on each corner like a fort. The cavalry who failed to
arrive last week-end at Yuen Long MTR station, were safe and secure inside.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As always, the march started peaceful and
orderly, despite the absence of any obvious leadership, the posters were witty
and the shouted slogans subversive.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhkOBbpvCMKL5R8mzIBrfjE2me405VGd21t0taqRIEtZSkT7TkZon_hbcweQddVhyphenhyphenm6nnbEI3Q_HEwOtkynsh7Z8fBRWYLJlZCueBXuTXbuAsCGpDGDvGcvyGCuMfSYj386VvX10Q-Jk/s1600/Yuen+Long+Hong+Kong+27+July+2019+by+S+Heaver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhkOBbpvCMKL5R8mzIBrfjE2me405VGd21t0taqRIEtZSkT7TkZon_hbcweQddVhyphenhyphenm6nnbEI3Q_HEwOtkynsh7Z8fBRWYLJlZCueBXuTXbuAsCGpDGDvGcvyGCuMfSYj386VvX10Q-Jk/s320/Yuen+Long+Hong+Kong+27+July+2019+by+S+Heaver.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Har-geng-haw-zee,” was a popular chant,
meaning <i>shame on the police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Those attending made little or no reference
to the unpopular Extradition Bill which triggered the latest wave of mass
protests. Instead, they condemned what they see as police collusion with
criminals and they call for the “liberation of Hong Kong” from Beijing-backed
crony capitalism. In case you hadn’t noticed this is more than a protest now, it’s
a revolution; the hard hat revolution. A revolution of our times.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">During a brief refreshment break, I am
approached by an “independent observer” from the Mainland, a euphemism for a
PLA spy. He tells me how Western governments are influencing events on the
streets. He speaks very polished English with a Beijing accent and says he is
an export businessman from Guangzhou, specializing in trailers. He has all the
sincerity of those scammers who hang around the Imperial Palace in Beijing and
invite tourists for a cup of coffee, so their daughter can practice her
language skills and then rip you off.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As he leaves, the hardcore protesters are
preparing to get “geared up” in alleys and side streets. A ripple of
spontaneous applause from bystanders greets one platoon of black-suited
activists in masks and hard hats and armed with metal poles, as they march past
purposefully. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s approaching party time in Yuen Long. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the main crowd surges in silence towards
the Yoho Mall which is adjoining the MTR station, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it’s time to put a hard hat on, just in case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.3193039 114.1693611000000621.8493704 113.52391410000006 22.7892374 114.81480810000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-56071528638567501042019-07-22T06:56:00.000-07:002019-07-22T06:59:52.161-07:00Blood, bombs and pollution- welcome to Hong Kong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBJFP5aUusCnBjVpQm7gH7LqtJ3tQIEP68bgkXO0oo8R4rKW664sqwkF_d9A7XGYadB94NmlRKqpKbvEZ6cpFEFt2tNUZidZADd1WTObR4mB5bxwGCozsdWGOGqcWEIWVL5jfFsrtCnc/s1600/We+are+Hongkongers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBJFP5aUusCnBjVpQm7gH7LqtJ3tQIEP68bgkXO0oo8R4rKW664sqwkF_d9A7XGYadB94NmlRKqpKbvEZ6cpFEFt2tNUZidZADd1WTObR4mB5bxwGCozsdWGOGqcWEIWVL5jfFsrtCnc/s320/We+are+Hongkongers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s genuinely shocking. Watching such a
great city unravel in the intense summer heat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">White shirted mobs assaulting members of
the public with bamboo poles in an MTR station while the police turn
a blind eye. There was human blood shed on the polished marble floor of a
public transport hub in Hong Kong last night. It’s hard to digest. This
is the safest city in the world, or at least it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">There is no shortage of phone video footage
from Yuen Long MTR station of terrified passengers standing in an open train
carriage, trying to defend themselves with umbrellas, as thugs hurl abuse and
attempt to beat them with sticks and poles. One unconfirmed report suggests a pregnant
woman was beaten to the ground and one male passenger is in a critical medical condition.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">The police were nowhere to be seen for
more than 30 minutes and no arrests were subsequently made. There are widespread
allegations that the mob had Triad affiliations and may even have been paid to
exact some retribution on protestors, returning from a demonstration in Central that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">From all accounts the town of Yuen Long
is now shut down with mobs prowling the streets like a dystopian scene from
1970s Haiti.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">It was reported this morning that bomb making
equipment was miraculously found in premises rented to pro -independence political
groups who reported a break-in to police a few months ago. Police were reportedly "acting on a tip off". Really? Do they think we are all stupid and will all just
swallow this garbage?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">The sea is polluted, the air is polluted
and now the entire political system is polluted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">The political establishment is now running on empty in terms of credibility or legitimacy. Propped up by Beijing, by the corporate elite and now, it seems by organized
crime syndicates. They remain completely impervious to the demands of ordinary
Hongkongers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">No-one knows where we are all headed. It
feels like a revolution but it also feels like a pending catastrophe. No-one is
predicting a happy ending. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.3193039 114.1693611000000621.8493704 113.52391410000006 22.7892374 114.81480810000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-83401784582721085752019-07-01T07:37:00.000-07:002019-07-01T07:40:23.721-07:00Keep calm. Don't shoot. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjC-0Qd3hJ3sz83poWkqFGYu4db13hs3El-p2DPdUqZcL81ey9v1z4-4smKjLrulfnInOdP8Ot6kDL4f8c7rEL7HgV1L_3iKKYbLa9od1RQuRBDs3ZS8u12dYsSw9lz8_eAGN3EtNrGo/s1600/Keep+calm.+Dont+shoot..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjC-0Qd3hJ3sz83poWkqFGYu4db13hs3El-p2DPdUqZcL81ey9v1z4-4smKjLrulfnInOdP8Ot6kDL4f8c7rEL7HgV1L_3iKKYbLa9od1RQuRBDs3ZS8u12dYsSw9lz8_eAGN3EtNrGo/s320/Keep+calm.+Dont+shoot..jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As I pour out of Exit E of Causeway Bay MTR
station with the rest of the hordes of black shirted bodies, I almost collide with
a young man sitting on top of an aluminum step ladder. He is holding a donations box crammed
full with Hong Kong bank notes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It's Joshua Wong Chi-fung, the poster boy of
the localist movement, only recently released from prison. I find myself shaking hands
with him and enthusiastically stuffing a modest $20 into his clear Perspex donations
box. I can exclusively report he had a reassuring firm handshake and I have to admit,
I admire that in a political figure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I should have asked him for a telling quote
I suppose but today I am a citizen not a journalist, though often the lines get
blurred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Every street is crammed with people standing
shoulder to shoulder in the intense heat, shouting slogans and holding posters
and banners. If this is a revolution it’s a very Hong Kong revolution. The people
are very nice you see. They are all generally very restrained, polite and
dignified. They bring their aunties and their kids. Plastic bottles are recycled,
drinks are shared, litter is picked up. </span>Even the policing is very low profile and
restrained for now, at least. The posters being handed out are well designed
and witty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Keep calm, don’t shoot,” was my favourite,
though there were many contenders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">This movement which traces its roots
back to the 2014 Occupy movement and beyond was supposed to be dead. Carrie Lam
Cheng Yuet-ngor had most of its leaders and figures of inspiration behind bars.
The remaining former student leaders were expelled from political office and their
followers demoralized, rejected and cynical. Job done as far as Beijing was
concerned and all justified by the rule of law too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well done Carrie. Well done indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She should have heeded the words of John F
Kennedy before she attempted to introduce the proposed Extradition bill and on such
blatantly bogus grounds as the urgent need to bring an alleged murderer to
justice in Taiwan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Never paint your opponent into a corner,” Kennedy
once said, referring to international diplomacy. Or, to put it more crudely, don’t
keep poking a defeated enemy with a sharp stick because eventually it will
strike back, even if it knows the fight is futile. There is no more noble a cause
to fight for, than a lost cause, after all. This is Hong Kong’s lost cause and
many are prepared to fight for it. Some even say they are willing to die for
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So, as this is being written, the Legislative
Council building in Admiralty is being attacked and ransacked by angry young
Hongkongers right next to the PLA headquarters where China’s soldiers await orders
from Beijing. No-one knows what will happen next but even the most avowed optimist would
struggle to predict a happy ending. Please keep calm Hong Kong and don’t shoot.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.3193039 114.1693611000000621.8493704 113.52391410000006 22.7892374 114.81480810000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-9091216387375960602017-12-30T00:57:00.000-08:002017-12-30T00:57:09.048-08:00Christmas in Shanghai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtKt8gheC0Aq2PcyBPRX3JpnnNTo9emROlLFIz-WWgQyCSx8TtxGXLeBbLDfLUvV6fDP2g91xt7kCNngOWBm-iGCnakrQUPGUEQULMm8zqAsv-QTn1aFjqhVgOp6GObWzpHqWr8fHfWTU/s1600/Lobby+of+Peace+Hotel+Shanghai+by+STUART+HEAVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtKt8gheC0Aq2PcyBPRX3JpnnNTo9emROlLFIz-WWgQyCSx8TtxGXLeBbLDfLUvV6fDP2g91xt7kCNngOWBm-iGCnakrQUPGUEQULMm8zqAsv-QTn1aFjqhVgOp6GObWzpHqWr8fHfWTU/s320/Lobby+of+Peace+Hotel+Shanghai+by+STUART+HEAVER.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Christmas morning is not greeted by a choir of heavenly angels but by the excruciating whine of an angle grinder being enthusiastically operated by a labourer outside my hotel window at 7am. Welcome to Christmas in Shanghai.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If, like me, you dream of avoiding Christmas every year, then China is the place for you. The religious festival that justifies a three-month febrile commercial circus in Europe does not even merit a public holiday on the Mainland. Almost any international hotel anywhere else in Asia will try to include a compulsory and overpriced Christmas gala dinner and so maintain the tradition of ripping off their guests during the season of goodwill to all men. Not in China though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Don’t think for a moment you might escape the Christian festivities in Buddhist Thailand and Myanmar or Muslim Malaysia or Indonesia. Not a chance. I once travelled for several hours in a bumpy speedboat to a remote island, off the coast of Cambodia, to escape Christmas, only to be greeted by a member of the hotel staff in swimming shorts and a Santa hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Are you here for merry Christmas or merry Christmas and happy new years,” the man inquired earnestly looking for my name on a list on his clipboard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">China is the place to be at Christmas if you don’t appreciate the tackiest extremes of Christmas fare being rammed down your throat 24 hours per day and Shanghai is perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Apart from the over-enthusiasm for power tools in the early morning, this vibrant, young, switched on commercial metropolis gets Christmas just about right with a suitable smattering of festive glitter, cold clear days, amazing food and some great bars to drink to forget the festive season.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The quirky Muller hotel located in the former French concession, once owned by a European business man who wished to indulge his daughters’ passion for fairy tales by building a home that resembles a 1930s version of Disney’s magic castle, gets it spot on. Of course, there are the obligatory cheesy Christmas decorations and jingle bells is on a closed loop over breakfast but at least it’s better than Abba or Jonny Mathis and rest assured, few in China have heard of Cliff Richard. And it’s a small price to pay for the fact that all the public attractions, museums and shops remain open over what is considered a holiday period almost everywhere else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Wrap up warm and browse the boutiques situated along the tree-lined avenues of the French quarter, check out the residence of Soong Chi-ling, try the amazing soup dumplings, or walk the Bund before demolishing a few cocktails in the jazz bar at the Peace Hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For the thinking person’s Christmas, choose China every time. </span></div>
</div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Shanghai, China31.2303904 121.4737020999999729.4934199 118.89191509999996 32.9673609 124.05548909999997tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-68289878561908400882017-06-30T06:58:00.000-07:002017-06-30T07:06:10.706-07:00My arrival in Hong Kong with President Xi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCupRSiM1gLBXDkHaxvmfaDV8U4fxKoZdJtaxay2xltiygv4-L-y3XNKH6pnBWCzrp8xmFomxbfExaFYQaCm5LVhKqyt3hplHC9xm2MkFV0TYg19R0wJ2buEkEeluiChQ6PB0ZLpnjDyk/s1600/Future+of+Hong+Kong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="940" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCupRSiM1gLBXDkHaxvmfaDV8U4fxKoZdJtaxay2xltiygv4-L-y3XNKH6pnBWCzrp8xmFomxbfExaFYQaCm5LVhKqyt3hplHC9xm2MkFV0TYg19R0wJ2buEkEeluiChQ6PB0ZLpnjDyk/s320/Future+of+Hong+Kong.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I arrived back in Hong Kong airport yesterday
with General Secretary Xi Jinping. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It was the first visit of his nine-year
tenure as supreme leader of China but I live here. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We arrived at the same time but were not travelling
together. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Fortunately for the General Secretary, he did not, like me, fly Cathay
Pacific or he would still be on the tarmac in Beijing. He would have arrived
five hours late and may have missed the carefully stage-managed greeting from delirious
school children, waving flags in a suitably synchronized fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">No doubt, the Presidential jet served up something
more appetizing than stale peanuts and greasy stir-fried chicken because Xi and
his glamorous first lady looked far more composed than I did on their arrival, judging
by the glossy images shown on the relentless TV news bulletins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">While my ID card was being rejected by the
automated immigration gate in the arrivals hall at Chek Lap Kok, the most powerful
man in the world, unless you count Donald Trump, (and very few do) was speeding
to town in an old-style cavalcade with motor cycle outriders. The scene was in
the finest traditions of deluded dictators of third world tin-pot dictatorships.
Xi was only missing some Rayban sunglasses and a pseudo paramilitary uniform adorned
with copious medals. Papa Doc en-large.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The walkway from IFC mall to the central
ferry piers was fenced off with metal barriers and officious police notices but
his hotel was several kilometers away in Wan Chai. Stoic and pragmatic Hongkongers side-shuffled past
each other through the narrow passageway left for the public. Apparently, the
risk of the General Secretary being embarrassed by the fleeting sight of protestors
was simply unacceptable. The newspaper I work for carried a full page sponsored
feature on page five. It was headlined ‘one country, two systems enriched by Xi’.
Yes, really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In my two-week absence to help prop up my
elderly parents and see family and friends, the fare on the Hong Kong Express
had increased by 15% and this wonderfully rich, diverse and tolerant city seems
to have descended into 1970s Haiti. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There is lots of press coverage of course
and no shortage of pompous political analysis. Few want to mention though that the city that
served as a haven for the oppressed and starving for over 150 years, today
witnessed TV coverage of an unelected dictator greeting his goose-stepping troops
from a glossy green military jeep. Perhaps the General Secretary thought he was
in North Korea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">During its brief and imperfect modern history
Hong Kong has welcomed (or at least tolerated) many political dissidents. Ho
Chi Minh, Jose Rizal, Sun Yet Sen and Edward Snowden, amongst others. Today the
same city welcomed Xi Jinping, the man who locks dissidents up with impunity and
the city was treated to a chilling glimpse of its future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At least the police only locked up the pro-democracy
demonstrators for 28 hours. Papa Doc would have had them imprisoned, tortured
and summarily executed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But let’s face it, after 20 years, it’s still
early days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.396428 114.1094970000000321.9264945 113.46405000000003 22.8663615 114.75494400000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-87938571409687946412017-01-22T00:04:00.001-08:002017-01-22T00:04:48.080-08:00Thompson on Trump<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnGlOGMUVS3CqFmZTmww7FdkIrZOAcq1ozB2FtXzHma3khKdKsn0iDxfwV3lb5kaTTctusMyZdD6MGu1qbfbYBPUTjub15aVd7vcBH4sdnV8rnDCb-g6hO0QpMqSetK9eKaWX2cb4SvI/s1600/Hunter+S+Thompson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnGlOGMUVS3CqFmZTmww7FdkIrZOAcq1ozB2FtXzHma3khKdKsn0iDxfwV3lb5kaTTctusMyZdD6MGu1qbfbYBPUTjub15aVd7vcBH4sdnV8rnDCb-g6hO0QpMqSetK9eKaWX2cb4SvI/s320/Hunter+S+Thompson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It is a bitter disappointment that one of my literary
heroes and second-favourite American writer (after Hemingway) is not
still with us to offer his acerbic analysis of the election, and subsequent inauguration, of the orange-haired narcissist and sociopath, who now leads what used to be
called ‘the free world’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole
world—a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully,”
wrote Hunter S Thompson in a frenzy of righteous scorn provoked by his nation’s
prosecution of the Iraq War. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The seasoned political journalist and writer
of great wit, originality and verve who employed razor-sharp and visceral prose, died in 2005. He was the self-styled “freak” who confronted bullies, hypocrites and bigots, and
those “flag-sucking half-wits” who supported them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Thompson liked to quote Edmund Burke who said the only
thing necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good men to do nothing and he would
not have been content to just wring his hands in despair or whine in moral
outrage on social media, about odious President Trump.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Though the hard-drinking, gun-toting and often drug-addled,
Thompson was not an obvious paragon of virtue, he possessed a profound sense
of liberal justice and was never slow to confront oppressive, totalitarian,
corrupt and fascist tendencies, wherever he detected them. Over his years of
reporting, he developed a talent for hitting the political nail on the head, with his unique uncompromising style.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“At the end of the decade,” he wrote of the 1990s, “no
one will be sure of anything except that you must obey the rules, sex will kill
you, politicians lie, rain is poison and the world is run by whores.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One can only speculate about what he would have made of a
political era where inheriting lots of money and being popular on reality TV, were the key qualifications for holding the highest offices of state. “Doom is
the operative ethic,” he once wrote and when he describes “the ominous
polarization between right and wrong,” he could easily be referring to 2017.
Donald Trump is a monster-ego, fuelled by undiluted hubris, created in 1990s
America and Thompson could sense his creation in his own dystopian visions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“He is like some atavistic endeavor on speed- just
another stupid monster as Attorney General of the USA, a vengeful jackass with
an IQ of 66,” was his description of John<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>R.
"Jay"<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Ashcroft who he also
regarded as “dumb as rock.” Perhaps, like Thompson, more should just tell it how it is <o:p></o:p>and give up excusing or seeking to rationalise those who support bigotry, ignorance and greed. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“They speak for
all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are
the racists and hate mongers among us—they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down
the throats of these Nazis. And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.396428 114.1094970000000321.9264945 113.46405000000003 22.8663615 114.75494400000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-75560014864521050192016-07-31T02:22:00.000-07:002016-07-31T02:22:23.520-07:00Sweat, sweat and tears.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumfDy97aFMFSg7dh_uJOkLwQu3va-ZHAO4Rtt668VFn8C-Ze3UHBX1GgIt_Ic04a0mqZzQkzcvGkIWhv6Kt_qnCwGZoVHalH77dFgV22TT3XMduCNKmziwttyUD3RNnRJufx3Gmtuj0I/s1600/z++v+sweaty+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumfDy97aFMFSg7dh_uJOkLwQu3va-ZHAO4Rtt668VFn8C-Ze3UHBX1GgIt_Ic04a0mqZzQkzcvGkIWhv6Kt_qnCwGZoVHalH77dFgV22TT3XMduCNKmziwttyUD3RNnRJufx3Gmtuj0I/s1600/z++v+sweaty+man.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now temperatures are soaring to inhumane levels in Hong Kong, it is time to suffer the season of ultimate social indignity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now I should be conditioned to the anxiety of being
witnessed melting uncontrollably in rivers of sweat, like the traumatised
ex-Vietnam pilot Ted Striker, in the movie Airplane but like Striker, I just
can't get over it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the city's urban elite remain insulated in their own
artificially controlled arctic microclimate, from temperature-controlled chauffeur driven limousine to air-conditioned
office block, they remain blissfully unaware of the cruel embarrassment us
lesser mortals must suffer. They have probably never even heard of a 'three shirt
day'.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The three-shirt
procedure is mandatory for those forced
to venture outside into the huge open
air pizza oven to stagger to bus stops,
ferry piers or MTR stations. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those not familiar with the protocol, it necessitates a replacement shirt being concealed in a
small discrete plastic bag together with a small bottle of highly pungent
deodorant. Shortly before reaching the intended
destination, it is necessary to dive discretely into a conveniently located public toilet. Here, start to unpeel the offending wet shirt (shirt
one) that has adhered itself to your skin during the journey in the searing
heat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A dry replacement can then be put on over flaccid damp skin after a liberal dosing of
toxic deodorant has been applied to the upper body. Always wait at least three minutes to dry and
avoid the temptation to use toilet paper to mop excess moisture from your upper
body. This can result in tiny fragments
becoming attached to eyebrows or other body hair, giving colleagues the misleading impression that you are suffering from a rare
and contagious dermatological disorder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shirt three remains in a reserve plastic bag in case of any unexpected
social invitations that evening. If so, the offending shirt (2) is normally removed in a small toilet cubicle in the bar or
restaurant. This exercise often requires the
agility and grim determination of Houdini escaping from a strait jacket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Abstaining from this golden rule, as I did recently for an informal
party at a neighbour's house, a short walk away from my home, will only produce
tragic results. Even though the sun had set and I had taken the precaution of walking at a funereal pace,
it did not prevent me bursting into spontaneous fountains of fluid by the time I entered the party. My light-blue shirt (always a high risk sweat colour) had stuck to me like glue, so
that my nipples protruded from the sweat-soaked cotton in a revolting limpid mess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The desultory party small talk stopped abruptly apon my
dripping entrance. The host took one horrified look at me and said,
"please, go inside and I will find you a shirt to wear. " It was the calm
matter-of -fact paternal tone often reserved for a small child who has
accidently defecated in their trousers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend told me later that
it was the first time he had ever heard of anyone being offered a
replacement shirt on arrival at a Hong Kong social engagement and he has lived
here for over 37 years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The host kindly produced three short sleeve shirts on a hangar
and asked me to choose one. The first had tiny motifs of Bob Marley spread
across it, the second was a sick mustard colour so I opted for the third, an
innocuous faded blue floral patterned print.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As if the evening could not get off to a worse start, the
shirt, while perfectly tasteful, was several sizes too small for my ample
frame. The buttons stretched across my
torso and grey chest hair sprouted through the gaps like dead weeds on a cracked
patio. I felt like I was about to audition, unsuccessfully no doubt, for a part
in a 1970s porn movie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided to spend the remainder of the party sat very still
within close range of an air conditioning unit but the final indignity was yet
to come. On making my excuses, hoping at least to make a graceful exit the host
insisted on having his shirt returned. He
explained he was about to go on holiday to Europe and it was one of his
favourites. I paused hoping in vain that this was an ironic joke as all eyes
were turned to me once more. I slowly removed his shirt and left, rather self-consciously and topless, to
make my way home in the dark. </div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.396428 114.1094970000000321.9265115 113.46405000000003 22.8663445 114.75494400000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-39184768277998776332016-03-24T00:47:00.000-07:002016-04-07T13:14:46.462-07:00Hong Kong Hamlet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDbRxZSDvhYwSN26wzKKBvjdrOpFbQOGtvYRt4y7CKJgoTYtFz_OWLkGpCe0z_X5Cr3O25YZ27FMkBwE6B1q1Buc0S1RZwwvPTYKIlrzV7MryOh2Q3fCoZDdgcsdgJq3-84vR62KI9RY/s1600/Hamlet-Cumberbatch-Hong+Kong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDbRxZSDvhYwSN26wzKKBvjdrOpFbQOGtvYRt4y7CKJgoTYtFz_OWLkGpCe0z_X5Cr3O25YZ27FMkBwE6B1q1Buc0S1RZwwvPTYKIlrzV7MryOh2Q3fCoZDdgcsdgJq3-84vR62KI9RY/s320/Hamlet-Cumberbatch-Hong+Kong.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was lucky enough to enjoy a memorable evening out a few weeks ago, with Benedict
Cumberbatch and my mother in law. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was starring in the National Theatre production of Hamlet
which was showing at a cinema in Hong Kong and she was visiting from England. I
was eager to see Cumberbatch in action after the penny finally dropped that he has become a huge
media sensation in Asia. On a recent visit to Vietnam, he was the
only subject the young female representative, meeting me at Da Nang airport, wanted to chat about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I love Benedict...he is my lover," she confessed solemnly as we waited patiently by the baggage carousel .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cinema was sold out though it has to be said, this
production of Hamlet is average at best.
Not surprisingly, it is very focused on the energetic superstar in the title
role, as he dashes and sprints over the stage like a hyper-active labrador. This interpretation has the youthful
exuberance of a sixth-form production and lacks a little soul and finesse. While the innovation is to be applauded, seeing
a play at the cinema is perhaps the worst of all worlds. You miss the intimacy of
live actors and can't make up for it with sexy cinematography or special
effects, like in Roman Polanski's classic film adaptation of Macbeth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyone spending over three hours in a local cinema risks acute
hypothermia, given the sub-arctic air conditioning preferred in these parts, so
at least there was lots of energy to keep the audience's pulses racing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The play was also a timely reminder of what a bloody good
writer Shakespeare was when it came to dealing with those timeless political
themes of ambition, corruption, injustice, deception and disorder. Some of his
lines work as perfectly in Asia in 2016 as they did in London in 1597, when his
work was first performed. In Hamlet, when
it all starts to go noticeably 'Pete Tong' and Polonius delivers the famous
line "there is something rotten in
the state of Denmark," there can't have been many in the audience, who
were not thinking about recent events in Hong Kong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a very witty script for an updated and highly
satirical 'Hong Kong Hamlet' that someone once lent me and surely it about time
it was dusted down and performed.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
"When sorrows come, they come not single spies but as battalions,"
laments Claudius and few would disagree with him, some four centuries after the
line was written. It's a shame Shakespeare
is not still around to write the next
series of House of Cards and add a modest short cameo role for Asia's latest heart-throb,
Benedict Cumberbatch.</div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.396428 114.1094970000000321.9265115 113.46405000000003 22.8663445 114.75494400000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-36159785800449506102015-06-05T02:41:00.002-07:002015-06-05T02:41:26.714-07:00Uncertain times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKlmWbVHdXiRRFc5a-jwsQW-OCUqbTheHakkOfzJTr2UjUvUqS1xrr2qgjyDGKNjVQDwfl62amSQGwtyrAH8jEU-FQJUk_w65CGyfZ1pWFRuSb_ld-yeW2UyhwsQacfc624KImNb9EZo/s1600/June+4th+Vigil+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKlmWbVHdXiRRFc5a-jwsQW-OCUqbTheHakkOfzJTr2UjUvUqS1xrr2qgjyDGKNjVQDwfl62amSQGwtyrAH8jEU-FQJUk_w65CGyfZ1pWFRuSb_ld-yeW2UyhwsQacfc624KImNb9EZo/s320/June+4th+Vigil+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They say that last night's candle-lit vigil to mark
the 26th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests and to commemorate its victims, attracted fewer people than last year, as though it was somehow an admission of defeat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the ground the event</span> feels more like a victory though, albeit a restrained and dignified one. From Tin Hau MTR station to Victoria Park the area is crammed with people of every demographic profile, patiently proceeding along a narrow route lined with colourful banners, women distributing leaflets,
police officers, volunteers with collection
boxes for the victim's of the crackdown, young men bawling into megaphones, and cheerful T-shirt
vendors. The atmosphere is orderly and restrained but hot, noisy, political and electric too.
I ask the women selling one distinctive yellow T-shirt decorated with black
characters to explain the slogan. Her colleague turns the shirt around to
reveal the English translation; "Uncertain times call for certain
action."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By the time we reach the park, the assembly area
is already full of </span>thousands of people sitting, listening to the organiser's announcements with the soft glow of
their candles piercing the dark night air. It is a moving spectacle and they remain
dignified, defiant and determined as our procession files past into a secondary area on the
Causeway Bay side of the park, where a large video screen conveys the events to
the ever-swelling crowd.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This is the only place in China where a
public event marking the military suppression off the Tiananmen Square student protest
in 1989 would be allowed to happen and it is the first vigil since the Occupy
demonstrations. It is peaceful, well
organised, spontaneous and uncensored in any way. Perhaps it represents all that is
best about Hong Kong and the event must be an annual thorn in the side to those dry apparatchiks of
the Chinese Communist Party looking on from Beijing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Given that many feared those
idealistic young protesters in their tented settlements in Admiralty and Mon
Kok might suffer the same fate as their counterparts in Beijing 26 years
ago, this year's event is particularly poignant. In such uncertain times, it seems tragic that some of the
younger, more radical localist groups have boycotted the vigil as an irrelevance to Hong Kong affairs
and not of their direct concern.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The unfortunate reality is that freedom of expression and civil liberty in China must be everyone's concern and this event deserves everyone's support, if only as a symbol of the distinctive identity and the essential values of Hong Kong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0Hong Kong22.396428 114.1094970000000321.9265115 113.46405000000003 22.8663445 114.75494400000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-3188428508252629582014-12-03T19:57:00.002-08:002014-12-03T20:54:24.851-08:00Lessons in Dissent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEUms5k0NfkXM2Qp4nsM4n8hqMKJ5W_wRn5hFw883QzyCoio7j5zxHslYXvKwvN3LfedzaZ3LU9lT1SC5FxouvYBTiE3h5-njmS6tZKTuD1lixp75395BGpY8qmRdgIA6G7kCu3i_9pI/s1600/Joshua-Wong-Chi-fung-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaEUms5k0NfkXM2Qp4nsM4n8hqMKJ5W_wRn5hFw883QzyCoio7j5zxHslYXvKwvN3LfedzaZ3LU9lT1SC5FxouvYBTiE3h5-njmS6tZKTuD1lixp75395BGpY8qmRdgIA6G7kCu3i_9pI/s1600/Joshua-Wong-Chi-fung-web.jpg" height="320" width="275" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a natural reticence on the part of many Westerners
in Hong Kong to demonstrate overt support for the Umbrella Movement and
Occupy Central. However sympathetic to the cause, they fear it might inadvertently
reinforce the Beijing fictional narrative that youthful dissent on the streets
of Hong Kong is somehow inspired and supported by Western capitalist agents. In reality, many of the activists weren't even
born when Hong Kong was a British colony and when you visit the Occupy sites
most of the well-behaved youngsters in the sprawling tented communities assume
you are just another gawping tourist. 'Gweilos' are just about irrelevant in
their campaign.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My feeling of
impotence and irrelevance was only increased by watching the excellent new movie
by Mathew Torne, shown at the Foreign Correspondent's Club this week which succeeds
in touching a few raw nerves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lessons in Dissent documents the contrasting political
development of two very young social activists, Joshua Wong, the church-going co-founder of the student
group Scholarism and Ma Jai, a more vehement anti-establishment figure and
instinctive rebel, with appropriately long hair and a rock & roll personal image. Curiously,
both boys grew up on the same middle class housing estate in Ap Lei Chau and while
Wong becomes the well-scrubbed media darling of the student campaign to oppose
National Education and Beijing's tightening grip of authority on Hong Kong's
civil society, Ma Jai becomes slightly cynical about relying on media-invented
celebrities like Wong to achieve political change. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's a fascinating dual portrait combined with an exposure
of the extremely mild but determined and idealistic version of radicalism, born
in Hong Kong schools and universities that is now at the very heart of the
Umbrella Movement. Torne should be congratulated for his foresight, fortune or
instinctive talent for spotting such an influential movement and its key
characters, at such an embryonic stage and bringing it to wider attention. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joshua Wong appears as articulate, energetic, persuasive, politely recalcitrant and occasionally
over- zealous as he confronts leading
establishment figures about their failures in office. He is truly impressive
and the viewer has to remind themselves this is a vulnerable 15 year old
child we are witnessing, directing dissent against arguably the most powerful
and ruthless organisation on the planet- the Chinese Communist Party.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wong, now just 18, is on a hunger strike. Today it was
reported that his blood sugar levels are dropping to alarming levels but he is refusing medical advice
to accept glucose water. He is younger than my youngest son and he and his
colleagues like Ma Jai, are prepared to risk their health for their ideals
while the rest of us gawp, sneer, ignore, or even moan about them delaying our
taxi journey by a few precious minutes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hats off to Mr Wong. That's what I say. Well done son and please ...take care.</div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-44589480948775465022014-08-31T00:02:00.000-07:002014-08-31T00:16:00.570-07:00The Chinese kiss of death<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfBswWL9Z4rYdz4ycVIx1_OdkkdOljy1cnASpyG9n2HS7eNJ27n7RdumTBWwTmWh1qdkISLjHHrVv5sMhdmdKKoRhrUb8gd2WLzEUvbP-QaLTHVSEQZJomUuksV_UnMkA4FGolVvA9Vo/s1600/somersault+kissing+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfBswWL9Z4rYdz4ycVIx1_OdkkdOljy1cnASpyG9n2HS7eNJ27n7RdumTBWwTmWh1qdkISLjHHrVv5sMhdmdKKoRhrUb8gd2WLzEUvbP-QaLTHVSEQZJomUuksV_UnMkA4FGolVvA9Vo/s1600/somersault+kissing+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Social kissing has become another version of public
humiliation just waiting to happen and there seems to be no definitive guide on
how to kiss in Hong Kong.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who do you kiss and when and where? How many times and in
what order?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's painfully confusing and getting it wrong can be a social disaster. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At one exclusive public reception at a smart hotel in Kowloon, I was introduced to the hostess who offered
such an alluring smile of welcome, that I inexplicably felt compelled to launch myself
towards her for a social kiss. Stooping down and puckering
up simultaneously in a most unsightly manner, it must have made a terrifying
spectacle for the poor woman. As I aimed
for her right cheek, her warm smile turned
to a look of impending horror and like someone avoiding a nasty car-crash, she deftly stepped back a pace as I approached. I missed her cheek by a considerable distance and stumbling,
collided heavily with a table of savoury snacks.<br />
<br />
A simple etiquette guide would avoid this sort of social
embarrassment. In France they seem to master these delicate social intimacy
issues with consummate ease and across
South America people are embracing everyone like old comrades, so why are we so
inhibited in this city?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One friend told me that at the conclusion of one particularly dreary private reception, he was invited to kiss his hostess's
hand like a knight from the round table about to depart for battle in her
honour. Instead, he left her snooty party only in search of a taxi that might transport him to to the Star Ferry.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what about air kissing? Is that insincere or just more
hygienic? What if your host or hostess is wearing a sanitary face mask? Should you just go for it anyway, safe in the knowledge you
are unlikely to contract avian flu? <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps the recent internet sensation of "somersault kissing" should be
introduced as the obligatory greeting at Hong Kong's premier social functions.
For those not familiar with the popular manoeuvre, it requires one person to
bend forward, burying their head in the host's
crotch. The host then flips their partner backwards through 180 degrees by jerking
violently upwards on their guest's buttocks.
If successfully implemented, the guest ends up straddling the host's waste and is able to
give them an affectionate peck on the lips.<br />
<br />
Might be a useful ice-breaker anyway.</div>
<br />Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0China21.28937435586041 117.0703125-6.71929514413959 75.7617185 49.298043855860413 158.3789065tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-57840445293849150222014-07-30T05:46:00.000-07:002014-08-30T23:52:08.246-07:00There's a rat in the kitchen...or is there?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlcA_XwB890_N9gk_xCWDz1jARgpaZ4yPLLCImoMzmHiPmDhPWoG0UjSQ2pf-gWlvcsJlN2UkvplC45_HJIjzJ_abTa1tRWpewmbtueFv4Do4chlCVD0HnEcARb29rFI1S8g5NcfDM7k/s1600/Rat+Trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlcA_XwB890_N9gk_xCWDz1jARgpaZ4yPLLCImoMzmHiPmDhPWoG0UjSQ2pf-gWlvcsJlN2UkvplC45_HJIjzJ_abTa1tRWpewmbtueFv4Do4chlCVD0HnEcARb29rFI1S8g5NcfDM7k/s1600/Rat+Trap.jpg" height="287" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is hardly cause for acute alarm when there is evidence of
a tiny mouse in a flat, particularly when you co-reside with poisonous centipedes, burping
toads, cockroaches, geckos and the occasional snake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first tell tale signs of our furry visitor were little
pellets of black poo in my wife's knicker drawer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was early days in our epic challenge with this uninvited
guest but in retrospect, it was the first indication that this was no ordinary
rodent. Subsequent weeks were to confirm
this was no less than a super-rodent with an apparent weakness for junk food and a perverse obsession with women's underwear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over recent weeks this little fella has become
increasingly cheeky. Reluctant to encourage his nocturnal wandering around my
wife's lingerie, we decided to close the kitchen door overnight. The next morning
revealed that he had chewed through the door frame (presumably in a desperate attempt to
escape and surround himself in lace and silk) leaving a significant pile of
wood shavings and brick dust on the floor. He has also scaled the highest shelves in the
kitchen and deliberately tipped my emergency rations of pot noodle on to the
floor below, splitting the carton and allowing him a salty and very unhealthy
snack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having developed a worthy respect for my adversary, I was slightly
hesitant to revert to the local Chinese anti-rodent solutions that can verge on
the barbaric. Instead, I tried opening
the kitchen window and closing the internal kitchen door in case we had blocked
his means of escape. Things looked encouraging for a couple of days except that
a large Huntsman spider took advantage of the open window to gain access and take
up residence in the cupboard under the sink where he remains getting bigger and
more grumpy. When there was no immediate sign of super -rodent, we deluded ourselves that
he had returned to his family in sleepy rodent-ville, deep in the Hung Shing Ye jungle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then one evening, two days later we saw him , darting
under the gas hob towards the pot noodles and he did not look like a rat or a
mouse. He (or she) actually looked quite cute (ish) with pointed ears and legs that
splayed out at the back like a squirrel. This confirmed sighting presented the
perfect opportunity for our friends to play the role of expert zoologist and confident identifications ranged from a possum to a ground squirrel and even a mongoose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile our bananas were being eaten in greater quantities
and when I left some English muffins on my desk inside my rucksack after a late
night out, he found those and gobbled them up too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gloves were off. We had clearly exhausted all diplomatic avenues and it was
time for tough action against this unilateral and unprovoked terrorist rodent
attack. A trip to the hardware stores in the village highlighted a number of
solutions. First I was offered a small clear plastic bag from under the counter
with a skull and crossbones crudely printed on the side above a forbidding label
saying 'poison'. The storekeeper refused to take any payment but insisted that
I must not accept it if I had children or maybe he meant if I wanted to have
children. In another store I was offered a solution which, judging by the illustration
the side of the box, was like fly-paper for mice and rats. This highly effective
adhesive pad would ensure that any passing rodent would just simply stick to it.
But what then, I thought?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I stumbled across the perfect solution. For a mere $35 HK I procured an intricate wire cage with a spring door that
can be baited, in this case with the obvious choice of English muffins, banana
and a pair of lacy panties from Marks & Spencer. This will be
humane, effective and Monsiuer Rodent can be released into the wild several
kilometres from my pot noodles and my wife's underwear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So tonight is the big night in our struggle with super
rodent. The bait is set and the lights are dimmed. Game on my little furry friend. The morning will reveal if I
have finally outwitted my worthy yet elusive opponent and he can be returned to the wild
with the other rats, possums, ground-squirrels and mongeese. Or will this be the year of the rat, after all? </div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-55436132469251530032014-01-19T02:56:00.002-08:002014-01-19T02:56:39.457-08:00Paradise Lost- Pulau Pangkor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJGIo4M42Y7sBefuHj2EEUS-6eWv1kCIP2PrpFs4DeXKEXonLDCaRfiI0dj35KNP_mPwAYRZoTy6nwyCkpy7N45-OfPuS-Q3phQwpTXAOdtVfsL4WG0T1Yk9s05EnXzr-h3IfYx81j3M/s1600/Mr-Hungry-Hornbill-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJGIo4M42Y7sBefuHj2EEUS-6eWv1kCIP2PrpFs4DeXKEXonLDCaRfiI0dj35KNP_mPwAYRZoTy6nwyCkpy7N45-OfPuS-Q3phQwpTXAOdtVfsL4WG0T1Yk9s05EnXzr-h3IfYx81j3M/s1600/Mr-Hungry-Hornbill-web.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even the male leaf monkey turns his nose up with disgust, having
tentatively inspected my squalid hotel room from the balcony outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps inevitably, the Pangkor Bay View Hotel does not
offer a view, except of a rubbish strewn wasteland and it is certainly nowhere
near a bay. Sadly, this crumbling concrete edifice located a few hundred meters
up a scruffy narrow road, is entirely devoid of any charm, rather like the rest of the island. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once upon a time, this was a natural unspoilt gem, sited
just off the west coast of peninsular Malaysia in the straits of Malacca. A few
humble fishing villages, some quiet white sand beaches and the forsaken ruins
of a 17<sup>th</sup> century Dutch fort, reminding visitors of the days when
this was a strategic maritime spot in the lucrative spice trade and later in tin
and rubber.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the ferry from Lumut passes the naval base and approaches
the traditional fishing villages of the east coast of Pangkor, it seems surprisingly
sleepy and undeveloped. It’s not difficult to imagine how, not long ago, it was
a romantic island paradise, popular with Malaysian holiday makers and a few western
back-packers. Now very few visit except organised tour parties of
hysterical local students, those imprisoned behind the high fences of luxury resorts who could be in Barbados for all they know and those few who still pay any attention to Lonely
Planet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mountainous spine of the island is thick with dense steaming
jungle but the periphery is lined with a smooth black tarmac road that
separates the forest from the sea. Along
the east coast piles of refuse are either stacked in stinking heaps near the
traffic or just distributed casually across the beaches and on the forest
floor. Polystyrene food cartons, plastic bottles, discarded food waste, soiled
nappies, plastic bags; an impressive smorgasbord of shite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teluk Nipah is a handsome U-shaped bay with two boulder
strewn islands guarding each end of it, which has been tragically ruined by
callous disregard on the part of humanity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Concrete bunkers have been built on the shoreline to
accommodate tacky shops selling “I love Pangkor” T shirts. The narrow strip
adjoining the road looks like an abandoned seaside refugee camp complete with rusting barbeques, discarded kayaks, wrecked
jet-skis and dilapidated temporary buildings. Hundreds of faded orange life jackets
hang from every tree on temporary string lines, ready for a maritime disaster that
may have already occurred. Giant black Hornbills perch on the fence of a deserted restaurant being fed sticky rice and crisps by bored tourists and those greedy Hornbills won’t hesitate
to share anyone's lunch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surly and recalcitrant youths sit on motor scooters and rev
the engines before screaming away in to the distance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is high-season but there is an unmistakable atmosphere
of mass resignation and desolation as a white plastic chair is washed in the
surf and the high water line is marked by a thick strand line of marine
rubbish. There are more pariah dogs to be seen patrolling the beach than
tourists sunbathing and a single converted fishing boat tows an inflatable raft
at high speed across the polluted bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are no high-rise resorts in this small soulless
village so the greed of international corporate groups and global capitalism
cannot be blamed for this local man-made disaster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least that monkey has the good taste return to his jungle
home in the mountains and I can escape from this lost paradise on the first
ferry back to the mainland the morning. <o:p></o:p></div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-10476438107551027502013-11-29T01:22:00.001-08:002013-11-29T01:22:08.449-08:00Learning Cantonese, I think I’m learning Cantonese, no I don’t think so.<div class="MsoNormal">
For someone who has exhibited little or no aptitude for
mastering second languages to date, learning Cantonese is proving to be several
steps too far. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RtOsNfuTEaFUtbQkXesan3QV4RY7L2WzbIfx60F5kK4YFvYETx81-gnlIELrD5rO-wX62gkcuOXbLAk73ruIqQV2eu9dOqFNBqTjw9YawDunsK5K9INgHOcOvaYavwRPspuc-EJcQgY/s1600/Chinese+characters.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RtOsNfuTEaFUtbQkXesan3QV4RY7L2WzbIfx60F5kK4YFvYETx81-gnlIELrD5rO-wX62gkcuOXbLAk73ruIqQV2eu9dOqFNBqTjw9YawDunsK5K9INgHOcOvaYavwRPspuc-EJcQgY/s1600/Chinese+characters.gif" height="320" width="233" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only two lessons into an intensive course of eight, at the Panda Cantonese Academy on Lamma Island with my
devoted and proficient tutor, Dilys, and things
are already looking ominous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cantonese is monosyllabic which should make it simple. Unfortunately,
it also has a number of tones that must be mastered before vocabulary can be
attempted or grammar properly grappled with. Some text books insist there are
no less than thirteen tones but Dilys has decided we will stick to six, which is more
than enough for the time being, as far as I am concerned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because of these different tones, one word can have multiple
meanings depending on which tone is adopted and making basic errors can
have quite devastating consequences on your social life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example, “Ngo Hai (6<sup>th</sup>
tone) Stuart, “means simply “I am Stuart”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, “Ngo Hai (1<sup>st</sup> tone) Stuart,” means “I
fuck Stuart”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you can probably appreciate, this is quite a crucial difference in translation when
introducing yourself to the neighbours in Hung Shing Yeh or, even worse,
exchanging friendly banter with schoolchildren on the ferry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One tiny and subtle variation in pronunciation can mean the
difference between approving nods of amusement and being arrested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when I use my new list of stock Cantonese phrases on local
shopkeepers and café owners, they just look at me blankly as though I might
have uttered Russian, Hebrew or even Welsh rather than their own Mother tongue.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tragically, during Lesson two, things descended rapidly from
mild embarrassment to utter humiliation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least at school you could mime along with the more linguistically
gifted or just mumble enthusiastically in the back row but at these intensive
one to one sessions at the Panda Academy, there is nowhere to hide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be fair, when I was asked to repeat an audio Cantonese conversation between
Mr Wong and his boss Miss Cheung, I was still suffering from a slight hangover
from a night at the Happy Valley racecourse the night before. My mind went in to a blind panic as the
dialogue speeded up to the pace of near normal conversation. I started looking at my notebook in desperation
when Mr Wong says “Ho Ho” as I thought it might be some sort of Christmas comedy
being acted out featuring a Chinese Santa. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This caused the
usually patient Dilys to accuse me of “Chut
Mau” or “cheating” though literally translated it means “chucking the
cat out of the house”. I feared that Dilys might chuck me out of her house so
poor was my performance. I am confident
she would have done if I had not been persuaded to pay for the first eight
lessons in advance. <br />Poor Dilys has just emailed me the recording of today’s
lesson but I am too embarrassed to listen to it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lost in translation without a GPS.<o:p></o:p></div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com1Hong Kong21.28937435586041 115.444335937517.53422985586041 110.2807619375 25.04451885586041 120.6079099375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-22422624006084486332012-12-12T02:50:00.001-08:002012-12-12T04:26:58.341-08:00Successful psychology for bus trips in Laos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwRlRTmuufSdNPWGS8xDKf_JjfFGruxbgTbVS7GFeGNDxpDcDLPNY0Y1TPbXhVisMH9o2Tk0tvPH_zj98vZlUsOfWSvuyJvLbSxfTC8Bu3czXS8BcCBkLQosbiQdAoQ6OhgF9KcAysFc/s1600/VIP+BUS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwRlRTmuufSdNPWGS8xDKf_JjfFGruxbgTbVS7GFeGNDxpDcDLPNY0Y1TPbXhVisMH9o2Tk0tvPH_zj98vZlUsOfWSvuyJvLbSxfTC8Bu3czXS8BcCBkLQosbiQdAoQ6OhgF9KcAysFc/s320/VIP+BUS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bus station at Vientiane is crowded, chaotic and thick with
hot choking diesel exhaust even at this early hour as I grapple with wads of
the incomprehensible yip currency to pay for a small bag of satsumas from a hawkers
stall near the ticket office.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am still trying to
mentally calculate whether this modest polythene bag of fresh fruit has cost
about 50 pence or £50 as I look for the 0800 Express VIP service to Luang
Prabang and remind myself of the first psychological tip for bus travel in Laos.
Never take any notice of the name of the bus or the bus company for invariably, the luxury implied in the name is inversely proportional to the luxury experienced on board the vehicle in question.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For <i>Premier Class Luxury VIP express</i> think <i>squalid rusting wreck
that leaves two days late and breaks down in
muddy lay-by in the middle of a jungle.</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like most journeys in
this region, this one starts early in the morning or early in the
evening. Arrive in the dark or leave in
the dark-take your choice. Having squeezed my frame into the last remaining vacant seat for the
10 hour bus journey north, a painfully cheerful Australian man with a white beard and
spectacles politely informs me I am sitting in his seat.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am immediately reminded of a famous management guru book
you might be familiar with called "Who moved my cheese?" Without
wishing to reduce a rather tedious best-selling self-help guide to a sentence
or two, the mantra is that if something changes just go with the flow rather
than waste a lot of energy resisting that change which will in all probability achieve
nothing at all.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is particularly relevant to seat allocation on buses in
south-east Asia.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having located an alternative spot, the 0800 VIP express departs promptly at 08.23 sharp which introduces
the next psychological tip after the cheesy one. Remove your wristwatch or
indeed any other device that might reveal the time and secrete it deep in your
baggage. Ideally, just smash it into a thousand tiny pieces because the
south-east Asian bus network does not work to the same time zone or convention
that you might be familiar with.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next, you must meditate very deeply indeed and cast aside any
tangible consciousness of the destination that might be printed on your ticket.
That way you will only feel delight and a mild sense of excitement when, after
less than 2km into your ten hour journey, you feel yourself grinding to an
unscheduled halt outside a scruffy tyre repair shop or fuel depot on the
outskirts of town. The bus remains here for no apparent reason for an indeterminable
time while one of the posse of assistant bus drivers smokes a cigarette with
the owner of the aforementioned tyre repair shop and shares what appears to be
some sort of raucous joke or anecdote that is evidently highly popular at this
ungodly time of the morning.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the time the agony of the armrest digs more deeply into
your forearm, the man behind continues to pummel his knees into your lower
spine and that cute baby you made funny faces at while waiting at the depot is
now screaming at full throttle.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Often there are tell-tale signs of when progress may
re-commence. On the 0800 VIP Express to Luang Prabang it is when the engine
stalls, which is does infallibly every time the driver attempts to engage first
gear. As the engine stalls I can feel my body relax slightly as he restarts the
engine and we draw away uncertainly from the kerb.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Laotians and Cambodians must have a much more
highly developed sense of self-control than us Europeans. They are sanguine and
philosophical about the entire bus travel affair. If there is only a cardboard
box to sit on then that will have to do. If the bus is six hours late it cannot be
helped. If the clutch scrapes and slips making an excruciating grinding scream
as we engage a steep gradient there is little that they can be expected to
contribute.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no question in their mind of complaining to the driver,
demanding a refund or spontaneously starting a fight with the man behind with
the restless knees. There is little value in writing to the bus company or
taking up the matter with the local MP. Even a sigh of exasperation or a
sardonic raised eyebrow is a waste of energy on a hot day in the tropics.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They must have all read that cheese self-help book or more
likely, have never felt the need to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By way of contrast, I have observed that North Americans often seem to make the most impatient and
intolerant of travellers. I remember hearing an American complaining volubly on an English train when
he was asked for his ticket by a surly inspector for the fourth time on the same
relatively short and much delayed train journey.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus H Christ, what sort of dammed fool train service to
do call this anyway?” he demanded.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fellow passengers all tutted silently and turned their heads
away from his rudeness having wanted to ask the same question for decades but
always lacked the nerve.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Strangely enough my travel companion for the next 10 hours
is a young American man from Washington DC called Chip. Chip is wearing a very
suitable khaki outfit and has that well groomed <i>Ivy League</i> look about him with
thin brown curly hair, high cheek bones and clear blue eyes. I notice he has unusually thin and bony knees
for an athletic looking chap and he tells me that he has spent six months
travelling to get over a broken relationship but will be returning to his
steady job in banking next month. He was rather keen on Indonesia and Albania.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wondered sadly if the love of his life had been unable to
reconcile herself or himself to a life with a banker with knobbly knees.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disproving my theory about Americans, Chip kindly offers me
the aisle seat and proves to be taciturn, diffident and most importantly,
still. We exchange a few words of pleasantries but as seasoned bus travellers
we both respect that in such cramped conditions the maximum amount of mental space
must be offered to one's fellow travellers.<br />
<br />
This could, I suppose, be another tip.
Always be very tentative and gentle in all attempts at conversation with fellow
travellers in the hope that this courtesy might be reciprocated. Never put your
face in someone else’s and progress to tell them your entire life story in a
ten hour uninterrupted monologue. You might well find that you are left stranded on the side of
a remote mountain road during a toilet stop as only your neighbouring passenger
will raise the alarm to the driver if he has left without you.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The road to Luang Prabang winds, dips and turns relentlessly through
the beautiful mountainous countryside of Laos, a poor nation of about six million
souls where 85% of people are subsistence farmers scratching a modest living
from the earth and from the abundant Mekong river and its many tributaries that
appear and disappear in the valleys as we rattle and bump our way north. Gazing
out of the stained windows I casually observe that while rivers meander more on the
flat, the road winds more when on the steeper gradients. I am pleased with
my private observation but taking my own advice, decide not to share it with
Chip.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old Laotian man across the aisle introduces himself in
English and tells me something about the scenery pointing out a fish market and
two Chinese cement factories-the only industrial buildings seen over 500km. Mr
B lives in Luang Prabang and does some work as a tour guide. Life expectancy for men in
Laos is only 58 so it is impossible to guess his age but he has deep lines
etched into his dark bony face and his sharp jaw a gives him an air of
distinction. Smartly dressed in a pressed blue shirt and wool trousers he could
be a university academic or the district chief of police.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With alarm, it suddenly occurs to me that he could also be
my minder that the people in Bangkok had warned me about.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled at him warmly trying to convey innocence, honesty and
honour in one complex grimace but he only looks back blankly.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not deterred by my contorted facial expressions, he tells me
he also speaks Lao and Czechoslovakian. He studied agriculture for five years
at a university just outside Prague in the late 1970’s. I could only try to imagine what a young man
from the mountainous tropical jungles of Laos would have made of a snowy bleak
winter in communist Prague. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Some days it was minus 30 degrees Celsius” he tells me, as though reading
my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></div>
Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-25330612343255280552012-07-23T23:56:00.000-07:002012-07-23T23:59:16.074-07:0010 out of 10 for Vicente<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsgYDDmc94cqt5rHNRE30pc2nZPzsMyTZNCCmdyyTKyGTIcEEyq_kqCenVU6jVMhgbrCORq7FN2Ja1Um01qEub23m-8Ssr4ZmpXVUwKcNwa0faq4BjW14UwunlQjUs1Rh2U5AOZylZSM/s1600/After+the+Storm2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsgYDDmc94cqt5rHNRE30pc2nZPzsMyTZNCCmdyyTKyGTIcEEyq_kqCenVU6jVMhgbrCORq7FN2Ja1Um01qEub23m-8Ssr4ZmpXVUwKcNwa0faq4BjW14UwunlQjUs1Rh2U5AOZylZSM/s320/After+the+Storm2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There are
four official warning levels issued by the Hong Kong Observatory during Typhoon
season (1,3, 8 and 10) but the first unofficial warning was the gecko in the
sink on Saturday morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That evening
the light in the harbour went distinctly faded and fuzzy as we crossed on the Star
Ferry from Tsim Tsa Tsui, as though there was a sandstorm brewing somewhere in
Kowloon. Elizabeth reported that her doorman had said something about a typhoon
when we bumped into her by the Star Ferry terminal on the central side but we
thought little of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then there was a
sudden torrential rainstorm during dinner in Central and again on the ferry
returning to Lamma Island.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By Sunday morning
the sea, which had been like warm brown washing -up water all week, suddenly felt cool and clear during our morning swim at Hung Shing Ye. Seeing
a fish at all is a rarity in Hong Kong waters, which are mostly polluted and
overfished but today there was a large shoal of over-excited small silver fish
rising and causing a rapid pattering noise on the surface of the water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By Monday morning
it was raining seriously and the official Typhoon warning level was Number One.
A tropical storm was developing in the South China Sea but it was still 400km
away so this was only a cautionary measure.
No need to panic. Just don’t plan any solo sailing trips across the
Taiwan Strait and think about bringing your washing in. I thought it
appropriate to tie down the pot plants on the patio, just to enter into the
spirit of things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">During the
course of Monday the tropical storm somewhere in the South China Sea had turned
into <i>Typhoon Vicente</i> and rather than
tracking harmlessly west towards Hainan Island, it had turned right 90 degrees
and was heading north; straight for us. Level
One was quickly upgraded to Level Three. It was time to start lashing things
down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The rain
was now beating down outside the French windows and squally winds bent the
trees over like straws. In the bay, just 92 steps below our patio, the wind was
picking up spray from the surface of the silver grey sea and whipping it across
the surface of the water. There were now two dozen river trade vessels and coasters
visible between the squalls, anchored up in the West Lamma channel, hoping for some
shelter from <i>Vicente.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By 5pm we
were at Level Eight and mighty <i>Vicente</i>
was on his way. He was edging north-west at about 20km per hour towards the
Pearl River Estuary and Hong Kong. At sunset
the wind was raging, the rain smashed down in great sheets and for once, there were
no mosquitios. I spotted a small frog trying to take shelter in one of my shoes
left outside the windows and left him to it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The night
hours were quite magnificent as the storm created an immense din of rain, wind
lashed trees, howls, and cracks interspersed with the distant smashes of broken pots
and glasses. Sometimes inexplicable scraping noises like a large boulder
rubbing against a tin roof. In the background, the steady chorus of frogs
croaking and groaning their approval.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Being in
the lee of a reasonable sized mountain, we felt we could safely open the patio
doors and watch the entire nocturnal display of natural raging violence, as large
unidentified flying debris swept past the window. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Later, the wind changed direction to the
south-east and leaves and small pieces of vegetation were being blown in and plastered
against the windows by horizontal rainwater spraying in all directions. The patio chairs, carefully stacked and pressed
against a sheltered wall were found lying on their back in a hedge on the other
side if the flat. It was time to shut the doors and lock them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By midnight
just as we went to bed the warning was raised to Ten for the first time since
1999. A huge potted plant tied by me to
a steel railing was effortlessly bowled over. The bamboo bowed and ducked as
wave after wave of rain was smashed down on it by the winds. Lightning flashed through
the darkness but the sound of thunder was lost in the cacophony created by the wind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next
morning the worst was over and it was possible to survey the scene of the worst
teenage party you could imagine. Every path littered with branches and leaves
of every shape and size. Our sea view had expanded by 25% as the top section of
a tree in front of us had been chewed off and spat on the ground. Even narrow
spindly branches from hedges had been savagely ripped off by the Typhoon, which
had never reached closer than about 30 km from our home. It veered west again about
2am and headed for Macau but that was close enough for comfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The tall
trees on the beach which families had shaded under last Saturday had been uprooted
and dumped on the sand. Water poured from the steps of the Concerto Inn as the
rainwater carved a completely new river channel for itself through the small hotel's grounds and via the beach outside to the angry grey sea. A large fallen tree was propped up
by a split and partially crushed corrugated iron fence. Our neighbour, Ros,
told me it was the worse she had seen in 40 years in Hong Kong. Another neighbour,
Annie had been so scared she crawled into a corner of her flat with her dogs-
kept away from the windows and hid on the floor praying for it to end. She seemed
very shaken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A typhoon
like <i>Vicente</i> is a powerful, frightening
and dangerous phenomena though there is also something magnificent and exciting
about nature brushing aside mankind with all of our modern sophisticated technology
leaving us to quake helplessly in its path. For that reason, I think
its 10 out of 10 for naughty <i>Vicente. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-54875502945249587472012-02-26T02:44:00.005-08:002012-02-26T03:49:07.711-08:00Filipino Polar Bears<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJwBjEgVJFHVBkXxpcrGpVMkHbRah0K4pjHhC7o29cjLUGYPNgNO7Vxow339Y4eGlEXk7lDH5NP3o8YfnJawM22BD3_diN94O4sF2ZJUOb88vnnWOEp1VMw4FUts_PF5qO40AadXTSWI/s1600/Bearland-2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJwBjEgVJFHVBkXxpcrGpVMkHbRah0K4pjHhC7o29cjLUGYPNgNO7Vxow339Y4eGlEXk7lDH5NP3o8YfnJawM22BD3_diN94O4sF2ZJUOb88vnnWOEp1VMw4FUts_PF5qO40AadXTSWI/s200/Bearland-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713394228128688178" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnsLb1bGlmGD4X72mS6FRJYTPXxULXo38D_8izXkk8ztN1rpTQMX32dD2bvfw1tzZu2x6nNRtAP6r7V5HV46mWusOtYMtkA6MZR1yGyrawRy19Auw0nxRwYkC8AZWrrdy-n-kSO5vbUw/s1600/Bearland.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnsLb1bGlmGD4X72mS6FRJYTPXxULXo38D_8izXkk8ztN1rpTQMX32dD2bvfw1tzZu2x6nNRtAP6r7V5HV46mWusOtYMtkA6MZR1yGyrawRy19Auw0nxRwYkC8AZWrrdy-n-kSO5vbUw/s200/Bearland.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713393780978686850" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">You don’t expect to see polar bears in the Philippines but having seen a chicken being checked in for the Manila flight at Iloilo airport, nothing surprises me in this part of the world.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I was returning from the noise, colour and partially controlled chaos of the annual Iloilo Paraw regatta when I saw the distinctive tail feathers of the chicken. They were sticking through a gap in the top of the cardboard box that was slightly too small to accommodate it. Its owner did not look the least concerned about its welfare as it joined his other baggage on the black conveyor belt, bound for the aeroplane hold.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I had been fortunate enough to be the (paying) guest of Mr </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%; ">Reinhold Schaeffter</span><span lang="EN-GB">,</span><span lang="EN-GB"> at his newly opened, Bear Island Paradise Resort. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Three life-size stone polar bears greet you on arrival at the resort at Tigbauan, just down the coast from Iloilo city. Even though the freshly painted white bears are not real you still can’t repress a feeling of concern for their comfort and welfare as they stand in the concrete car park as the afternoon sun beats down with all its indiscriminate brutality.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Reinhold is a charming German banker (if you can imagine such a thing) who gently patrols his resort in his swimming trunks and straw cowboy hat like a benign King surveying his kingdom. He pauses once and a while to exchange pleasantries or share an anecdote with his loyal subjects. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He is a small man, probably in his early seventies, with parted white hair, a small red face and twinkling eyes. Queen to this modern day monarch of Bear Island is his elegant wife, Shirley.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The delightful small resort might be Reinhold’s folly, his investment, or even a sentimental gift for his wife to whom he appears totally devoted. No-one is quite sure.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Designed by a local architect, i<a name="_GoBack"></a>t is very luxurious by local standards with well-appointed cabanas, a huge swimming pool and freshly tended gardens. Unlike the Shangri-La or the Marriot though, locals are encouraged to come and picnic in the grounds for a nominal fee and neighbours just pitch up to use the bar by the pool or meet with friends.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The resort sponsored and hosted the local jet -ski championship reception. It was a lavish affair with outside caterers and fresh white linen tablecloths. The local picnic parties could hardly believe their good fortune. For their modest 150 peso fee they discovered that champagne, fine seafood and roast suckling pig was included amongst the fountains and the palm trees.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The local Mayor, a young good looking man with an expensive Manila haircut and manicured nails, is often seen enjoying a quiet drink in the shade or in animated discussions with his host.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">From the terrace beyond the infinity pool, white or blue triangular sails of paraws, the traditional sailing canoe with two bamboo outriggers, skim downwind towards the fishing villages further down the coast. Local children scream and play in the surf.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I suspect we might be the first and only guests in the resort and the charming staff or <i>Reinhold’s Angels </i>as they are known are inexperienced but extremely attentive. There isn’t a restaurant yet but breakfast and snacks are fixed in Shirley's private kitchen. Dinner can be taken at a neighbouring hotel a short walk down the beach.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">At dusk a small army of frogs appear on the lawns waiting patiently for the garden lights to be switched on to attract the bugs. During a power-cut Reinhold and Shirley organise buckets of water and offer the use of one of their private apartments.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">One evening after a private traditional German dinner hosted by Reinhold and Shirley complete with sausage and Bavarian ale, we continue conversation about Vietnam, London and the plight of the Euro, over seven-star Metaxa.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“We must help the Greeks in very way we can” says Reinhold as he offers another glass of the liqueur.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We raise our glasses and toast the Greeks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And given the current state of the European economy, that’s a pretty majestic gesture.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-31057004725252195262012-01-29T00:29:00.000-08:002012-01-29T01:47:18.719-08:00Bangkok's Rustic Retreat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1YRu83rsGMRP6z7n5DT7wnxK-SL17n3vq3HOLxJVrudC78fR7k6l_hpO6stWYiwd0NKEs68Vanwo9CVVImRslvcAFP64ZpYiF6revVq2eNz_Mj-iTmEggUp8arlOFqT62cJeSvw34_D8/s1600/Savan-Kajongit-Uncle-It-web.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1YRu83rsGMRP6z7n5DT7wnxK-SL17n3vq3HOLxJVrudC78fR7k6l_hpO6stWYiwd0NKEs68Vanwo9CVVImRslvcAFP64ZpYiF6revVq2eNz_Mj-iTmEggUp8arlOFqT62cJeSvw34_D8/s200/Savan-Kajongit-Uncle-It-web.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702974602970435122" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Some people never quite get to grips with Bangkok. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For many visitors it is a city with plenty of heart but little soul and no discernible centre.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For others it can be just a little, well, overwhelming. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Even for those that thrive in the city's polluted air and congested, bustling streets, there comes a time when a retreat is required. A rural idyll perhaps, where the only noise is the soft tinkling of cow bells and the rustle of banana palms, swaying on a sweet coastal breeze.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Maybe that was running through Bronwen Evan’s mind when she and her husband Surin bought a piece of scrubland overgrown with tussock grass, weeds and rattan vines on the side of a hill next to the Gulf of Thailand. They set up a small resort there and decided to call it <i>Faa Sai</i>.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“<i>Faa Sai</i> literally means clear skies but also has spiritual connotations of a <i>higher place</i> or <i>pure heaven</i>” explains Bronwen, as we climb the shaded path spanned by dry tree roots that leads from her charming little resort up the steep tree studded hill behind it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“The locals believe the air here is very pure” she says, as a butterfly floats above her head.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here at <i>Faa Sai</i>, hidden away, about 250km south-east of Bangkok and not far from the old maritime city of Chanthaburi, it’s not just the air that’s pure. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It feels more like pure Thailand and isn’t really a tourism area at all. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“From our garden” announces the young waitress as she places a huge plate of sliced tropical fruit in front of us. Those three words make quite an apt motto for <i>Faa Sai</i>. Pineapple, banana, jack fruit, mango and papaya all grow here and they taste wonderful. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The area surrounding the resort is fertile and abundant and Chanthaburi has a rich history as a trading area for the Chinese, who came in their sailing junks in search of the hardwoods and other forest products more than five centuries ago. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You can still see why those early traders made the effort, if you take a just short bicycle ride or make a longer trip by car into the charming city of Chanthaburi, about 40mins drive away. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Carefully tended cashew orchards, fish ponds surrounded by low banana trees, gridded salt ponds with large sacks of salt for sale at the side of the road and countless fields of peppers and spices. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s probably much the same sight that the early Chinese traders witnessed in the 15<sup>th</sup> century.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> “Our mission is just to preserve a small natural habitat” says Bronwen who developed a love of green spaces during her childhood in New Zealand and has won a number of green awards for the resort over the years. The water at Faa Sai is solar heated, indigenous plants and trees are grown in the gardens, they grow much of their own food, re-cycle the water and train and employ local people.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Having said all that, it always feels informal, homely and welcoming and never like being part of some devout eco-project.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From the resort it is easy to walk to the nearby beach or cycle to the private smallholding complete with fish pond. Here the huge black fish are so friendly they greet you if you peer into the clear water that reflects the blue skies above. Swallows swoop into the water to drink. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Revealed by the sound of cow bells, Uncle It, the gardener, tends to the cattle while his young grandson completes his school homework in the shade of a Bodhi tree, its huge heart shapes leaves shielding him from the afternoon sun.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Bronwen admits that neither the cattle nor the fish are ever likely to reach the tables of the<i> Faa Sai </i>restaurant.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“The animals the have become more like pets” she admits.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her guests tend to be European families with a sense of adventure who want to see something of rural Thailand before heading for the beaches of the Ko Chang archipelago to the south or ex-pat and Thai executives and their families from Bangkok who return again and again just for the peace and quiet.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Bronwen organises a huge range of tours to the local sights but often guests are content just to sit by the swimming pool with a trashy novel or two while their children run about under the flame trees and explore the extensive gardens.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She still has her high-powered corporate job in Bangkok and her precious week-ends are spent managing the resort and tending the gardens with Surin.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Catching the two of them serenely toiling in the heat with rakes and hoes, it is apparent that <a href="http://www.faasai.com/"><i>Faa Sai</i> </a>is as much a rustic retreat from Bangkok for them as it is for their guests. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-30680359222544230282012-01-09T19:15:00.000-08:002012-01-09T19:45:35.123-08:00Christmas at CocoCape<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiRAVvUvEgN3aISrU73DcMwsOupXcMJ7P4swzdBfQ17t2U9xE7HlpeLAytJw5GMNqQ21XAvEdXy9nx__dsbLrOUvhC_F0apBwrFQuD2pbkQ8bzcP5oVA6KrKiEkq4T1Dxma_SukkpB_o/s1600/Beach-at-CocoCape-Ko-Mak-web.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695844216910820626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiRAVvUvEgN3aISrU73DcMwsOupXcMJ7P4swzdBfQ17t2U9xE7HlpeLAytJw5GMNqQ21XAvEdXy9nx__dsbLrOUvhC_F0apBwrFQuD2pbkQ8bzcP5oVA6KrKiEkq4T1Dxma_SukkpB_o/s200/Beach-at-CocoCape-Ko-Mak-web.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div>There is a resident three legged dog at Coco-Cape Resort, Ko Mak where we are spending Christmas.<br />The waiter says she is very old and she hobbles around the dining tables sadly before collapsing in the sand.<br />Thankfully, even on Christmas Eve, there are few signs of traditional Christmas festivities except the model Father Christmas resplendent in a red velvet suit. Santa has been inserted into the bows of a dilapidated wooden boat dragged up on the beach. He is holding some reins but as the boat points into wind it looks more like he is holding the painter of a speedboat. In the stern of the blue boat a hammock has been rigged, presumably in case Santa should feel the need for a siesta later on his journey. Instead of presents,<a name="_GoBack"></a> there is a loosely assembled pile of coconuts.<br />It’s a worrying sign that the staff have taken to wearing those cheesy Santa hats in the burning sunshine and 30 degree plus temperatures. They wear them with an excited pride and I have even seen one or two wearing them off duty.<br />“Are you staying just for Merry Christmas or Merry Christmas and Happy New Years?” they ask you cheerfully as you scramble out of the pick-up truck to check in.<br />There is no chance of a white Christmas here but the wind has been very strong over the last two nights. Our small hut sits on stilts above the ocean and as the tide rises under us and the sea batters the shoreline powered by the strong northerly wind, it’s like being at sea in a storm in a boat that does not move.<br />The young Polish couple in hut next door confessed that when they were awoken at 3am by the sound of crashing waves underneath their bed they feared a Tsunami had struck.<br />It’s very romantic to lie in bed at night with the doors of our hut opening onto the restless sea with white caps visible in the darkness. I insisted on leaving the door open and dispensing with the mosquito net only to be eaten alive by sand-flies seeking shelter from the gale.<br />In Thailand, the backpackers, perverts, winos and free-loaders have all returned home for the festive season and Ko Mak was never really their scene anyway. No cars, no night-clubs, sleazy bars or high rise hotels here.<br />Our fellow guests are mostly young families from Scandanavia or Eastern Europe escaping the biting cold of home, some romantic couples from Asia avoiding intrusive family questions and, of course, the single ladies of a certain age.<br />These affluent professional women in their forties who holiday conspicuously on their own are becoming more prevalent in Asia. Accompanied by no more than a laptop computer, or a more likely an IPAD, they seem to take traveling in isolation to new extremes.<br />While families or couples may smile benignly in your direction or exchange a brief greeting en route to breakfast, she will avoid eye contact at all costs. She will even find an urgent need to rummage for something on the treeline rather than pass you on the beach. She swims alone in the pool early in the morningand she eats alone in the restaurant in the early evening, engrossed by private data on her computer screen.<br />There is something quite deliberate and focused about her solitude.<br />No roast turkey this year. Just huge deep fried prawns and delicious seafood at the beach café.<br />No bracing walks through snowy woods and fields with the mad big eared one. Just endless swimming in perfect blue seas, an occasional massage,or a gentle cycle through shady rubber plantations.<br />No Queen’s speech to avoid this year. Just quiet talks on the end of the sun- bleached timber pier which stretches out into the Gulf of Thailand.<br />No port and stilton. Maybe just a glass or two of local Sang Som rum which softly erodes the brain and stimulates weird dreams of ships captained by Santa Claus and beach parties with dancing three legged dogs.</div></div></div></div>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-651846868413748858.post-86460634838395036862009-10-05T04:40:00.000-07:002009-10-05T05:00:43.546-07:00China birthday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOvW7bFfqvKYU-pi14xeUJ8XpVo2jJxGvQClivsmUhlKIaaU5SuEdsVhy-XOsKTFUs6ohLCV7YpHo8FLMifbGFuXUITyAVgEWBLpuf3oJtl-NohLc7tdV2exuNuCqMTdJCGRx8BhyLww/s1600-h/glow-boat-guangzhou.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389084528243801730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOvW7bFfqvKYU-pi14xeUJ8XpVo2jJxGvQClivsmUhlKIaaU5SuEdsVhy-XOsKTFUs6ohLCV7YpHo8FLMifbGFuXUITyAVgEWBLpuf3oJtl-NohLc7tdV2exuNuCqMTdJCGRx8BhyLww/s200/glow-boat-guangzhou.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Two days after my birthday in China , China had her birthday.<br /><br />Or to be more accurate, the Peoples Republic of China celebrated being 60 years old.<br /><br />I went to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Guangzhou</span> last week to look at the republic 60 years on and it was difficult not to be impressed.<br /><br />New metro. New roads. Nice shops. Huge sky-scrapers and the Pearl River glittering with neon and glowing with a new self confidence.<br /><br />The "40 watt city", historian and author, Jason <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wordie</span> had called it back in 1993. Dim, grim and difficult.<br /><br />Well not any more. Guangzhou has megawatts to spare.<br /><br />Skinned and gutted cats in a bucket of water at the municipal zoo.<br /><br />That was the lasting impression of Canton, fifteen years ago for Jason.<br /><br />Now they are restoring the old colonial buildings on the waterfront, the food is great and everyone smiles.<br /><br />The tea go-downs on the banks of the Pearl River are once more being restored and turned into boutiques, restaurants and coffee shops. Starbucks have already arrived in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Shamian</span> Island.<br /><br />Used to be tea in this city but now its over-priced designer coffee.<br /><br />No-one is sure if this is a love of heritage or just economic pragmatism that stimulates this urgent preservation programme.<br /><br />If you want to attract the best people from Shanghai and Beijing to your city and to invest in it- you need the best infrastructure and best culture. The second generation of entrepreneurial Chinese middle-class are more sophisticated than their parents.<br /><br />They have travelled and they have cable TV.<br /><br />If you are looking for a passive and glum China-man shuffling along in baggy, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">daggy</span> blue denim you have some to the wrong place.<br /><br />The merchants of Guangzhou were trading with the Romans and the Arab nations, while we Europeans thought rowing a chicken across the village pond counted as maritime trade.<br /><br />The world's economic centre of gravity is shifting east and China is ready and waiting.</div>Stuart Heaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219273457342237214noreply@blogger.com0