10 out of 10 for Vicente

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.

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.

Then there was a sudden torrential rainstorm during dinner in Central and again on the ferry returning to Lamma Island.

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.

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.

During the course of Monday the tropical storm somewhere in the South China Sea had turned into Typhoon Vicente 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.  

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 Vicente.

By 5pm we were at Level Eight and mighty Vicente 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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

A typhoon like Vicente 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 Vicente.

Filipino Polar Bears

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.

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.

I had been fortunate enough to be the (paying) guest of Mr Reinhold Schaeffter, at his newly opened, Bear Island Paradise Resort.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Designed by a local architect, it 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.

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.

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.

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.

I suspect we might be the first and only guests in the resort and the charming staff or Reinhold’s Angels 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.

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.

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.

“We must help the Greeks in very way we can” says Reinhold as he offers another glass of the liqueur.

We raise our glasses and toast the Greeks.

And given the current state of the European economy, that’s a pretty majestic gesture.

Bangkok's Rustic Retreat

Some people never quite get to grips with Bangkok.

For many visitors it is a city with plenty of heart but little soul and no discernible centre.

For others it can be just a little, well, overwhelming.

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.

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 Faa Sai.

“Faa Sai literally means clear skies but also has spiritual connotations of a higher place or pure heaven” 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.

“The locals believe the air here is very pure” she says, as a butterfly floats above her head.

Here at Faa Sai, 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.

It feels more like pure Thailand and isn’t really a tourism area at all.

“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 Faa Sai. Pineapple, banana, jack fruit, mango and papaya all grow here and they taste wonderful.

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.

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.

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.

It’s probably much the same sight that the early Chinese traders witnessed in the 15^th century.

“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.

Having said all that, it always feels informal, homely and welcoming and never like being part of some devout eco-project.

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.

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.

Bronwen admits that neither the cattle nor the fish are ever likely to reach the tables of the Faa Sai restaurant.

“The animals the have become more like pets” she admits.

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.

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.

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.

Catching the two of them serenely toiling in the heat with rakes and hoes, it is apparent that Faa Sai is as much a rustic retreat from Bangkok for them as it is for their guests.

Christmas at CocoCape

There is a resident three legged dog at Coco-Cape Resort, Ko Mak where we are spending Christmas.
The waiter says she is very old and she hobbles around the dining tables sadly before collapsing in the sand.
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, there is a loosely assembled pile of coconuts.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There is something quite deliberate and focused about her solitude.
No roast turkey this year. Just huge deep fried prawns and delicious seafood at the beach café.
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.
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.
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.

China birthday

Two days after my birthday in China , China had her birthday.

Or to be more accurate, the Peoples Republic of China celebrated being 60 years old.

I went to Guangzhou last week to look at the republic 60 years on and it was difficult not to be impressed.

New metro. New roads. Nice shops. Huge sky-scrapers and the Pearl River glittering with neon and glowing with a new self confidence.

The "40 watt city", historian and author, Jason Wordie had called it back in 1993. Dim, grim and difficult.

Well not any more. Guangzhou has megawatts to spare.

Skinned and gutted cats in a bucket of water at the municipal zoo.

That was the lasting impression of Canton, fifteen years ago for Jason.

Now they are restoring the old colonial buildings on the waterfront, the food is great and everyone smiles.

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 Shamian Island.

Used to be tea in this city but now its over-priced designer coffee.

No-one is sure if this is a love of heritage or just economic pragmatism that stimulates this urgent preservation programme.

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.

They have travelled and they have cable TV.

If you are looking for a passive and glum China-man shuffling along in baggy, daggy blue denim you have some to the wrong place.

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.

The world's economic centre of gravity is shifting east and China is ready and waiting.

Tony Benn- come back all is forgiven

Given the widespread cynicism about our current crop of politicians and the scandal over MP’s expenses, what an honour it was to attend an audience with a proper old school politician at the Gulbenkian Theatre in Canterbury.

At 84 years of age, Tony Benn has lost none of his idealism and none of his passion or deep convictions for democracy and for socialism.

His political beliefs were forged from his own experiences in the Second World War rather than Student Union debates and left wing newspapers.

He remains what he would call a “signpost” politician explaining his beliefs and persuading voters in the hope they will follow his lead.

What a contrast from the current crop of what he calls “weather-cock” politicians who will frantically study opinion polls and focus groups in the hope of being able to tell us what we want to hear.

Tony Benn, like most the electorate can see very little point in that political exercise.

His integrity and ethics shine through almost everything he says and he seems genuinely devoid of ego. He urges a young student demonstrator never to protest against policies but always to demand what is just.

When asked by a local teacher how she could persuade her students to become interested in politics Tony eyes flashed and his hands started their characteristic gesticulating

“You must tell them to get involved in politics before politics gets involved with them” he replied.

There was no point in young people disengaging from politics and then complaining about being sent to war or being taxed or persecuted when it was too late.

I share very few of Tony’s classic socialist beliefs but few would dare challenge this passionate advocate of representative democracy and allowing people to protest and determine their own futures.

As he shuffled to the shadows at the back of the stage to thunderous applause, I found myself very moved by this warm engaging old man and his genuine wish to take his message to the people.

On balance I think I would prefer to offer my support to an honest man like Tony Benn whose views were sincerely held but not those of my own than I would any of the shabby imitations who seek my favour with endless spin, policy initiatives and shallow trivia.

Come back Tony, all is forgiven.

Gesture Politics Gone Mad

Writing about politics is usually the kiss of death for any writer or journalist unless they are part of the Westminster Village elite but I just can't help myself.

I received a letter from Canterbury City Council last week, advising me of the new government scheme to offset any future business rate increases over two years. There were 4 sides of A4 to explain the radical new initiative to help small business beat the recession. The bottom line was that no-one would know how this was going to work until July, when they would write to me again.

With a thinly veiled sigh of exasperation, the notes pointed out that with negative inflation forecast for the next year, any pressure on business rates would be downward rather than upward anyway.

"Hang on.." I thought, "this fabulous government initiative that requires four pages to explain it actually means that a potential increase in business rates, that probably will not happen anyway, can be offset over two years?".

This is clearly another example of those clapped out government apparatchik announcing any new initiative that might sound vaguely constructive or positive when announced with a weary fanfare on the TV and Radio news.

They should have a special New Labour Good Ideas Competition whch would be a variation on those Blue Peter Competitions we remember so fondly from saner times -just think of any policy or initiative that stupid people will think is designed to help them but in fact only makes the government look good.

Answers on a postcard to Mr G Brown, 10 Downing Street, etc etc. We could even invite Valerie Singleton or John Noakes to draw the winning entry.

I can hear John's distinctive tone now "And the winner is Ed Balls from London again Val..get down Shep"

After a few seconds, even stupid people will realise that the latest idea is another pointless policy announcement designed to make the government look good. But by then they will have another competition winning idea to announce.

Appearance is the new reality and generations of future taxpayers will pay for the current governments vanity and short term poll ratings.

I am eagerly waiting the new government initiative to reduce rainfall in the summer to help those depressed due to the (global and nothing to with G Brown and friends) recession.

Actually that's not such a bad idea.