The Vagabonds

And now for something completely different.

Following our departure from India, Jakey returned to Manchester whereas Pepe remained away from home in a far, distant land. Thus, we becomes me (hello!) and the blog continues from Hong Kong.

My experience here has been wholly different to India. This is not solely because of its apparent disparity to India. Whilst yes, road traffic is somewhat civilised, neon lights glitter the streets and the food is sweet rather than spicy, my Hong Kong affair differs in the respect that I have spent the past three weeks working here as opposed to merely visiting. As a result of this, my subsequent descriptions will be categorical rather than chronological as most days have been squandered in an office clad with strip-lights, prim cubicles and perfunctory workers.

Inevitably, the most looming and cumbersome question which must be addressed is what’s Hong Kong actually like? Predominantly, it is a consumerist Mecca. Everywhere, everyone and everything is attempting to sell goods and products to the tourists who flock here. Incandescent signs permeate the landscape informing you about what you want or what you need. If you attempt to slip down a backstreet, behold! More signs and more people will greet you.
Whilst this may resemble many other places, Hong Kong is demarcated by possessing a pungent culture without being a cultural city. On the one hand, its quaint restaurants, relentless pace coupled with leisurely walkers, underground walkways and outdoor aura endows it with vivacious sense of originality; conversely it is manifestly bereft of any substance, whether literary or theatrical or historical (Hong Kong does indeed have an elaborate history, but all remnants of it appear to have been discarded). Predominantly though, it is a city’s city; whereas in other major metropolises people covet the insulation of their apartment or house, Hong Kong’s residents tend to deplore such narrow confines and hence spend an exorbitant amount of time in the city’s streets and establishments. Supposedly this is because as families in Hong Kong usually live together for much of their lives – predominantly, children only move out once married (partially due to rent, partially due to custom) – and the living space here is often minimal, it is a harrowing endeavour to remain indoors with mum and dad and grandma and grandpa and Auntie Maggie and so forth.

So where do I start?

Food.
Glorious food.
At home my appetite usually only whet when hungry, but here my palette is perpetually craving another culinary delight. The cuisine in Hong Kong is vast and varied, as is the price of a meal which can range from $15 HKD (£1) to $600+.
More startling however is the meat and fish which is available to sample. It would be easier to list what they do not eat here because most animals are considered fair game. Apart from dog though – the effect of British Colonialism must linger on as our canine companions are safeguarded from execution under the law. Attempting to be brave and audacious (always with a stern face), I have ventured to at least taste most of the food which is available. Hitherto, this includes; Chicken feet (soft, chewy and appetizing), eel (a personal favourite), jellyfish, goose (I will opt for turkey in future, thank you), condensed milk on toast (sweet and fulfilling), yin-yeung (a concoction of black tea, coffee and condensed milk which I be drinking back in England), a boiled-egg with milk and ginger drink, sundry dim sum (my favourite is Goubuli which is a steamed bun stuffed with rice and meat) and several dishes which I do not know the name of (one of which resembled a casserole but tasted like dairy-flavoured rice). Also take note: do not , not even if you are in a drunken stupor or have sterilised your tongue, eat an ox’s stomach. It was so deluctable and tantalising that I have sworn never to try it again!

My life in Hong Kong, as aforementioned, has been different to my habitual travels. Weekdays I wake up at 7:00 am and arrive at work for 8:45. Lunch (food again!) is revered, not only because it provides me with an opportunity to escape the office, but also because of my amiable cohorts – John, Ian and Mike – who I eat with. This troupe epitomises globalisation is its triumphant might; they are citizens of Canada, America and France respectively. I usually leave work between 18:30 and 19:45, hence giving me little time to explore, but most nights I wander around the city, finding haunts to eat or relax in and exploring the small intrinsic streets which spider around the main central hubs.

Hong Kong is quite unique in its landscape and size. Due to the voluptuous mountains which penetrate the city and the coastal beaches that encompass it, within a ten minute walk of the urbanised tumult of Central, you can be isolated amongst a bucolic backdrop of thick trees and dense groves. During these treks the unrelenting sound of cars and people vaporises as you climb higher and higher, creating the illusion that you have escaped into the wilderness.
Accordingly, this enables you to witness the city from a range of different heights and angles, each providing a different perspective. Of course, the most famous (and arguably the best) view from The Peak – towards to the highest peak in Hong Kong – is bedazzling. Due to its height, you can actually observe Hong Kong’s geography with the slinky water piercing between Hong Kong Island and Kowloon, before seeing this narrow funnel dilute into the all too vast ocean. Conversely, beholding the harbour view from Tsim Sha Tsui in Kowloon offers a momentous image of salient skyscrapers competing vertically for pride and prestige. Every night at 20:00, as those who have visited Hong Kong will know, the most prominent of these buildings flash and gleam and emit lasers for twenty minutes during a frivolous light show. Interestingly, the ‘International Finance Centre’, which is the tallest building in Hong Kong, does not participate in this jamboree though. Instead it resolutely remains lit in the same white colour like a staunch patriarch, reminding the spectators gazing at the skyline that Hong Kong’s aim is to make money, and this is a serious business – literally.

There is a plethora of small epochs and stories and memories which I could ramble about, but they are, like most, best reserved for memory. Noteworthy mentions however include the Tian Tan Buddha statue mainly due to the vicinity surrounding it, Dim Sum lunch with Dawn (see below) and her family, experiencing Hong Kong’s nightlife (and not the British export comprised of Expats and tourists which permeates the bar district), urinating over the city from the 28th floor of ‘The Felix’ restaurant in The Peninsula (okay, not quite, but near enough) and spending time with my colleagues from work visiting bars and restaurants.

Hong Kong has had an indelible effect upon me. Not only has it helped clarify what I want in life (it is still ambiguous and hazy, but the fog has cleared only to reveal that the sky is cloudy), but it has also enlightened and revived me, particularly after experiencing India. Certain people have undoubtedly augmented my experience, notably Dawn – a friend of my sister from Oxford – and her family who have not only been hospitable and friendly, but have also enabled me to experience an element of Hong Kong’s culture which is normally reserved for its residents.

Tomorrow, I am taking the train to Shanghai where my brief foray into China begins.

Tally-ho!

P.S. New pictures and one video (of my spacious room) have been added! If you want to see what a cooked ox’s stomach looks like or witness me urinating over Hong Kong, check them out!

Take a deep breath.
Slowly.
In and out. In and out.
What is it like? Refreshing? Hydrating? Relieving? As if life is flowing in and out of your lungs?
Not for us. At least, not yet.
By tomorrow India will be confined to our memories; part of a seamless web of distant eclectic moments, events and experiences that never quite appear real.
Now however we are still in the country where pollution manifests itself into a corporeal substance of viscous, asphyxiating smoke and where vehicles garner their pride and prestige not through the size of their engines or the sleekness of their design but by the volume of their horns.
Beep beep? Not quite: Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep and so forth until infinity.

Following Pepe’s brief foray with death in Agra, our physical – and mental – conditions have scarcely improved. If Pepe feels revitalized and recovered one morning, Jakey will stumble into a stupor by night.
In Varanasi though, our next destination after Agra, we did feel okay.

Varanasi is the holiest Hindu city and thus one of the most sacred sites in India. People flock there to die and if they do not quite make the journey, their relatives send their corpses there anyway. Then they are incinerated and subsequently have their ashes scattered in the interminable Ganges that penetrate the city. This supposedly allows the dead to obtain the pious position of Nirvana and consequently escape the process of reincarnation, being thrust up to heaven (or the Hindu equivalent) instead.
Pepe took a boat ride down the Ganges during sunrise which was calm and tranquil despite the floating bloated corpse he saw in the water. At night however when Jakey joined him, we witnessed a vivid specter of religious rituals whilst also fearing for our lives.
The journey was initially idyllic. There was a soft glow emanating from the sky, the air was warm and unimposing and our quaint boat ebbed gently over the water. Observing the ghats (which are essentially entry points into the water) was intriguing as boy, girls, women and men bathed and cleansed themselves in the water which was opaque with contamination. The principal burning ghat where fires are ablaze for every minute of every day of the year emitted puffs of smoke as dead bodies were added to the piles that were amassing, waiting to be reduced to a few wisps of salt.
As corpses were being plunged into the water before being burned, we could not help thinking to ourselves that we could be joining them soon, such was our pessimism.
Auspiciously, the day we ventured down to the Ganges was the beginning of a month-long Hindu festival, so once we saw the various ghats our boat stationed itself outside a temple where a ceremony comprised of dance and fire was being conducted. We watched the scene for twenty minutes. Then, as the wind began to blow and bellow, our boat swayed and then rocked rather than ebbed. Thus our rower started his return journey back to the ghat adjacent to our hotel. The waves rose so high and moved with such a relentless rush though that as our man rowed and rowed even harder, we progressed no further. It was as if strings were plucking us from the sky, pulling us back if we dared to step forward. Water soon sprayed on to the boat. In and out. Our rower continued to row, futilely. Fortunately as other more mobile boats passed us, we grabbed hold of their tails and finally reached a ghat (not ours, but for some reason we were in the mood to walk) as they hauled us away.

The next morning over breakfast we read in a newspaper that one boat capsized, killing all ten people on board.
So it goes.

After Varanasi we commuted overnight to Jhansi. As soon as we arrived however, we traveled to Orchha to observe their array of venerated temples, which were reminiscent of those around Angkor Wat due to the bucolic surroundings and disparate complexes.
Pepe however was ill, again. This time he struggled to breathe as each time he inhaled, an acute and acerbic pain infiltrated his abdomen.
Once we had seen the sites in Orchha we asked our tuk-tuk driver to return to Jhansi and take us to a hospital. Pepe, in an attempt to be thrifty, requested a government hospital.

Rule number one: Never be frugal with healthcare, particularly in India.

Walking inside the murky compound and main building was like jumping into a trench after a night of heavy rainfall during The Great War.
It was dimly lit. The smell of dust and decay amalgamated into a pungent aroma of death. People littered the floors. As did dogs. At one point a doctor decided to drive his motorbike down the corridors, and why not, for there appeared to be no rules.
As Pepe lay down to be check and diagnosed, he turned on to his left side and saw warm, wet blood dripping from the shelf next to him.
In and out.
The irony: Pepe was given a more thorough check than in the private hospital. The doctors were attentive and considerate, but unfortunately the squalor of the surroundings seemed to mitigate both Pepe’s and Jakey’s condition.

When we went to the nearby city of Gwalior the following day it was Jakey’s turn to endure a slideshow of symptoms. Unfortunately he could not wholly appreciate Gwalior’s capacious fort which was encircled by intricate salubrious statues which were more akin to those found in Egyptian Aztecs.
That night though we had a train booked to Goa; a thirty-six hour journey.
Despite Pepe being unable to breathe and Jakey unable to think, somehow, we endured it.
Jakey even met his ultimate nemesis – the Lucifer of his dreams and the Satan of his nightmares – on board the train: the mouse.
He jumped to the top bunk as if the linoleum floor below him had capriciously turned into smoldering coal, and he did not return until we arrived in Goa, but apart from that brief folly, he managed to delay that inevitable altercation with the mouse, which one day, will leave on of the party’s involved dead.

To reach Palolem, the beach we decided to reside at in Goa, we needed to travel on a further three more buses.
After a thirty-six hour train journey, this is not recommended.
Heavy rainfall graced every mile we traveled and the nearer we became to Palolem, the worse we felt.
Pepe was so distraught and fatigued and ill by the time we actually reached Palolem that he immediately rushed to the hospital, again. The pain in his abdomen had not abated and the doctor accordingly prescribed him with more drugs.

Goa was plunged in the middle of the monsoon when we arrived and Palolem unfortunately did not provide a safe haven from the rain. The vicinity was small to walk around in ten minutes, but if we ever tried to, rain would greet us before we completed the circuit. Nevertheless, it was harmoniously placid in the area with several sundry restaurants lining the street and genial, forthcoming locals.
To relax and assuage ourselves after our misery, we even paid for another massage. The beast who treated us was probably the Athenian God of wrath though, for he not massage us – he was abusive instead.
First, the bed sheet we lay on was brown, black and yellow despite obviously possessing some white colour in another lifetime.
Second, he crushed us, literally.
Third, at one point (or part in his process) he made us sit in a chair, dressed only in our shorts, with the door wide open as mosquitoes consequently nibbled on our flesh, whilst bashing our heads with his hands with more might than Rocky.
Fourth, he promised to massage us for an hour, but after forty minutes he halted and made us practice yoga instead.
We have still not recovered.

Another bus and another train journey late, we arrived in our final destination – Mumbai. The city, despite still being palpably India, is less polluted, overpopulated and tumultuous than the others we have visited in India. As tuk-tuks are banned from the city centre, the tumor has been removed from the landscape. The residents tend to be more helpful and friendly and this is the first large Indian city which is actually somewhat pleasant (or at least worthwhile) walking around.
On the night we arrived, we decided to watch the Simpsons film at the cinema. A surprise awaited us. As we sat comfortably in our seats, Jakey eating his tacos and Pepe drinking his soda, a message appeared on the screen: Please may everybody stand.
Bemused, we obliged.
Then, something happened which is ineffably absurd – a green, orange and white flag faded on to the screen and the Indian national anthem began to played with absolute pride, pomp and prestige. Everybody stood and everybody sang.
We cried.

Something else happened in Mumbai too; the event of the century. Our lives were transformed by it and we will never regain our prior personalities or humble dispositions.
We were extra’s in a Bollywood film!
The film: Me, you and Hum.
Yes, the title is trite tripe (and another adjective comes to mind) but it is supposedly the most anticipated Bollywood film of the year. The set which depicted a British bar/nightclub was grand and magnificent, incorporating two bars, several podiums and a curvaceous dance floor. When the film has been released and become an international sensation, you can take pride in knowing that you read the blog of extra’s 42 & 43 before they were such pre-eminent stars. The bad part is that if you are reading this, we will probably not talk to again, but do not worry: we will not forget you, that is, not until we have associated ourselves with a new group of friends and acquaintances.

The remainder of our stay in Mumbai was spent viewing and meandering around the city, seeing the prodigious Taj Mahal hotel, Indian gate and just enjoying the general atmosphere of the locomotive city.

So: Seven weeks in India!
Seven weeks!
In and out.
Seven days would suffice in giving somebody a sense of what the real India is like, but seven weeks has left its taste on our palette, its smell up our nose and its sounds ringing in our ears.
It tastes of spices, sounds of car horns and smells of…shit.

With the experience – that is consummately what India was – of seven weeks in India now flung over our shoulders and behind our backs, we can soundly conclude that we will not return in the near future.
It was a worthwhile and rewarding venture; the disparate landscapes ranging from verdant mountains to arid sand dunes have often possessed unsurpassed beauty; the culture which is so unique and flamboyant is like no other; we have witnessed a developing country that is still making the giant leap into a truly consumerist society; and we have an abundance of exuberant memories.
The illnesses which have lingered like parasites however were difficult to endure. Our resolve needed to be resilient, but sometimes even the strongest men falter to folly’s and we are not quite Spartans (who needs to be a Spartan though when you are a Bollywood superstar?).

India is the quintessential dichotomy.
On the one hand there are wretched, post-apocalyptic and debilitating cities such as Delhi, whereas conversely, such appeasing places such as Jaisalmer can eclipse those shadows. Srinagar has the bliss of the Himalayan Mountains and lascivious lakes, yet it is blighted with violence and the conspicuous presence of the army. Even the sun which provides heat and warmth and comfort can be so pungent that it turns malevolent.

But every last minute has been worthwhile.

Pepe and Jakey.
(Autographs later)