The Vagabonds

What the next hour, or two, shall entail is daunting. Negligence is not an excuse, but a fact. Every day, if only for a matter of seconds, I contemplated updating this blog. But as the content increased, so did my apathy, for fear of how long it would take to complete.
So, without further ado, let’s begin.

At some point, the pollution cleared, the smog disappeared (visibly that is, as, even during the Olympics, it will still linger in the air) and sun began to twinkle. That is irrelevant however. I must not digress; I must persist in writing only about how I spent the remainder of my stay in Beijing.

It was beautiful; love at first sight. As I waved the taxi down one Saturday morning, requesting to be transported to Beijing’s football stadium, I knew immediately that I had met a kindred spirit. The driver smiled, danced in his seat and to my eternal pleasure (his sweet hymns are still resonating in my ears), even sang too.
Oh what a contrast this was to the asphyxiating subway, which I had yet to endure. For, once I began studying for the International Relations course on China’s foreign policy, I had an interminable daily commute to Beida (Peking) University.
My routine:

• 06:45 am: Wake up
• 07:15 am: Leave Alice’s apartment. Purchase ‘balzer’ – steamed buns riddled with surprises ranging from meat to vegetables to nothing – for breakfast (hence the title of this post) whilst walking to Subway station
• 07:30 am: Arrive at the Subway’s Pink Line
• 07:45-50 am: Change to Blue Line
• 08:05-15 am: Change to Yellow Line. (This, is not a meagre task; it entails a ten minute walk, mostly up stairs, whilst jostling between hundreds of other eager commuters).
• 08:25 am: Arrive at Wudako station.
• 08:25/30/35/40/45/50/55 am: Find a taxi. Request/Insist/Demand/Beg that they drive to Beida University. (See below)
• Five minutes hence: Arrival!
• 15:30: Repeat

Now, business is business, one would assume. Not in Beijing. The commute to Wudako was debilitating; that I had to plead with most taxi drivers to actually accept my simple proposal was simply devastating. From Wudako station, Beida was a mere five minute drive, but thirty minute walk away. My legs, already scathing me for depriving them of sufficient rest, could not endure the latter. Moreover, that would have forced me to wake up thirty minutes earlier. Five hours of sleep is inadequate. Any less and I would have imploded from fatigue.

But, back to the bliss, before the Beida course began. Driving to the football station, the endearing taxi driver inserted his favourite cassette.
And then it happened: Years of childhood trauma came flooding back like a terrific torrent of denial. I thought, foolishly it seems, that those days were behind me. But they were not. He was back.
[MEDIA=2]
Too many days were wasted, ruined and desecrated by that pernicious monster. I despised how, thanks to my mother, I would have to wake up listening to John Denver and then continue to endure him throughout the commute to and from school, supper, sleep and so forth.
And now he was back in Beijing.
But how could I remain vexed at the taxi driver? He was sweet and affable; a real gentleman. So we embraced each other and sang a duet – he in broken English, me out of tune…
Did I write that I would not digress?

Okay, warning: Never, ever, even if for free, watch a Chinese football match. It may have potentially been an exhilarating affair. Beijing vs. Shanghai, replete with doting European footballers, Brazilians who did not quite make it to Spain, Italy or England (or even France for that matter) and a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers. Sunday league football however, has never been as appealing as during the ninety minutes I endured in Beijing. Shanghai eventually won. This was not because they were particularly adept or skillful. Rather, it was Beijing’s sheer ineptitude to even kick the ball out of their own half (I do not jest) that made the impending 3-0 obliteration inevitable.

Beijing was marked by several riveting nocturnal forays. First, there was the night at the Russian restaurant where we subsequently idly chatted through the night in a bar overlooking the ‘Drum and Bell Tower’. Emerging from the bar, the birds chirped and local residents were walking their dogs. It was time for breakfast…
There was also the reggae night, the European cup final (the prior three night’s, were, in fact, on three consecutive) and of course, the time I swam in Xihai lake with a group of Alice’s friends, as the sun rose from its nightly slumber.
This, of course, exacerbated my jet lag.
What made the aforementioned escapades so notable however was the people I met. Through Alice and her roommate Pete, Beijing’s expatriate scene was opened up to me. There were no pretensions and the overall milieu was mired with generosity. Unfortunately, 3/4 of the expats I met have since fled China due to the Olympics and the ongoing unremitting debacle.

Somewhere amongst this, I also visited the old Summer Palace. The grounds were elaborate and expansive, yet, not as exquisite as Beijing’s primary Summer Palace which I visited last year. This may be because the French and British ravaged and plundered the former during the Colonial era. Thus, it can remind the Chinese of their haphazard history and re-instill nationalist fervor.
At the old Summer Palace, whilst composing a photograph, I accidentally dropped the lens of my camera lens into a swamp. Was my subsequent anxiety rational? Of course not! Asian values salvaged the day! Upon discovering my ordeal, not one, not two…but a whole troupe of Chinese tourists strived to recover my loss. And they prevailed, but only after ten minutes of toiling in the marsh. It was embarrassing, yet endearing. This epitomises Chinese culture.

Beida University’s International Relations course was superb. My fellow classmates are best described as eclectic in both their respective backgrounds and personas. They spanned the globe and whilst some were informed and intuitive scholars, others were imbeciles (without wanting to name anybody, one person departed with 100 pounds to purchase a Mao suit).

As always, I become disillusioned with staring at a solitary screen for too long, and thus all enthusiasm to write dissipates from my mind. So, I apologise if this is too terse.
Following my the conclusion of the the Beida course, I left Beijing for Yangshuo. For regular readers (i.e. all three of you), you may remember (but most probably do not) that I visited Yangshuo last year. So, ‘why return?’, I hear you scream. Because, I hoped to teach Chinese migrants English for a short while.
The train journey to Yangshuo was unremarkable. However, ninety minutes before arrival, I met two Brits, Clare and Marcelo, who had been studying Mandarin at Beida for the past six months.
Auspiciously, they provided some respite from my exasperation upon discovering that the ‘migrants’ whom I was meant to be teaching, were actually affluent business people hoping to acquire competency in their English. With my flight departing Beijing on August 12th, time is scarce. I was livid.
Oh well, what the hell.
Yangshuo was as beautiful as I remembered it to be. At night, I ‘taught’ my students before meeting up with Clare and Marsello.
Notable on my final day, I woke early and met the Brits. We walked for several miles, leaving the town’s vicinity. Eventually we plunged into Yangshuo’s supple, shimmering river and swam back towards the town centre.
It was refreshing, invigorating and beautiful.
Only nothing can ever be perfect.
Mere minutes away from the shore, we encountered a pipe protruding from the water. It was disposing waste. So we clambered to the side and, following an audacious (and imprudent) climb up a steep cliff, we managed to escape.

Almost there…

My plan was simple. After agreeing to conduct research for Durham University’s geography department, I had to reach Xishuangbanna. Consequently, I hoped to board a bus to Guilin (approximately 45 minutes in transit) at 14:00 and book a ticket for the 16:55 train to Kunming (because Xishuangbanna does not possess a train station, I would subsequently board a bus to reach my destination). Of course, one could not anticipate that the bus would taxi at Yangshuo’s station for thirty minutes. Similarly, only a bold, brazen individual would predict that the bus would opt to refuel before reaching its destination, in an endeavour which would last thirty minutes.
But it did.
And hence, I was late.
Furthermore, after queuing a the train station for a further thirty minutes with the lofty hope of purchasing a ticket for the following day’s train, as I approached the counter, the clerk drew his curtains and hung a sign stating the desk was closed.
At this moment in time, for subliminal reasons which even now I am unable to discern, John Denver’s lyrics penetrated my mind.
Moping around the station, deliberating my options (return to Yangshuo? reside in Guilin? Board another train?) my first moment of luck materialised. A senile old lady, asked me, I assumed (she could not speak English) where I wanted to go.
“Kunming”.
“Bus”, she croaked.
And so she explained through various diagrams and exotic symbols: I should board her bus which will arrive at Nanning for 23:00 and once there, connect to another bus which should reach Kunming the following day at 12:00pm. Apprehensive that the kind, gentle lady may actually be a wicked witch determined to wrangle my money, I desperately rang Marcelo, asking him to clarify the situation in Mandarin with the woman. After speaking to her (this required three phone calls since even he was perplexed) he gave his grace to the deal.
I handed her my money and boarded the bus.

I am writing this entry in Xishuangbanna. The journey was not bereft of travails however. There was no connecting bus from Nanning to Kunming; I had to board the train. This was not a grave issue. That there were no ‘sleeper’ tickets available however, was. Restrained and resigned to destiny, I purchased a ‘hard seat’ instead. The name of the ticket was a misnomer however; there was no seat. I sat on the floor, my bag and later, perseverance rewarded me with the edge of a seat (my tailbone is still writhing). Oh, and the journey was not thirteen hours as the geriatric from Guilin averred, but nineteen. And once I arrived in Kunming, after a two hour break (a cherished prize), I boarded a bus to Xishuangbanna, which arrived nine hours later.

I am still in pain.

But, let’s hope that it was worthwhile…

My plan for tonight: Sleep.

My plan for tomorrow: Balzer for breakfast.

Innately, I have restrained myself from beginning this new travelling chapter with ‘So it Begins’. This is not beginning, but rather, continuing; whether from last summer or, indeed, my gap year, abandoning Manchester (again) feels more like a resumption of past endeavours than the generation of a new frontier.
Thus, let me begin:
And so it continues. [MEDIA=1]Click for audio enhancement.

The film is rolling. And, like the third take of the same scene, little has changed.
The night before I was due to depart, I had yet to pack. Why bother? I had only been home for two days and there were friends I had yet to see. Hence, I productively procrastinated. 7pm, 8, 9…midnight…who cares?
3 am. Trepidation. Time to begin.
Seven hours later, I was almost finished. Packing itself is not such an arduous issue, but the peripheral aspects are deceptively protractive; organising the music (I was honestly abhorred whilst updating my ipod to discover Air Supply occupying valuable storage space), picking which books to carry and locating critical documents (i.e. my air tickets).
Nevertheless, with suspense and aplomb apt for the Chariots of Fire, I finished packing with a whole twenty minutes to spare.
The only problem, of course, was that I jet-lagged even before I had stepped onto the plane. The flight was therefore seemingly over even before it began; as it took off, I slept and as it landed, I wakened.
This was all reminiscent of October 6th 2005 – the day I left Manchester for nine months. Confronted with three choices, the outcome was inevitable:
a) Packing
b) Organising logistics
c) Watching ‘Team America: World Police’
Then, as now, everything, somehow, merged together successfully.

My flight entailed a four hour stopover in Dubai. Bar the innumerable oil rigs protruding like pharaohs from the proximate waters, there is nothing worthwhile to note about my experience there. The airport was disconcerting in the same way as an indoor shopping plaza obfuscates the mind with its pervasive placards and people.
Also, the possibility of traversing the Middle East via my return home was struck a mighty blow by the ineptitude of the Emirates staff, who averred that I was unable to alter my flights, despite what I had hitherto been told.

As soon the airplane’s wheels kissed the tarmac of Beijing’s Capital International Airport, a symphony of mobile phone ringtones spread throughout the plane. Initially, this was amusing. However, with the airplane still continuing to drive towards its docking station ten minutes later, it became quite harrowing. Why it took the plane so long to finally taxi still bewilders me; it may have been waiting for its docking space to be vacated and prepared or, have simply had to drive to its destination as the airport is so colossal.
Discussions about airports rarely enthral, however, the sheer size and ambition of Beijing’s new airport cannot be readily dismissed. The interior was vibrant and expansive, and the lines laced across the ceiling generated a sense of momentum.
If only the same could be said about Heathrow.
London 2012: Semper (un)Paratus

Beijing differs to last year’s recollections. This may have been due to the disparity between India and China, whereas now, the comparison between the latter and England is more palpable.
Visceral smog infiltrates the air, producing a soft, lingering haze; Indian smog on the other hand, as I remember it, was as viscous as burning timber.
The weather is subdued. Maybe the summer is concealed behind the smog, or, is being contained to optimise the sunshine during the Olympics. Either way, it is not the bliss I was anticipating.

Earlier today I decided not to pursue my Mandarin lessons. It took me ninety minutes to commute towards the office (only to eventually abandon any hope of finding it in exasperation). Moreover, with only seven days before the politics course at Peking University begins, the possibility of learning anything substantial (or worthwhile), is minimal.
Instead, at least over the forthcoming days, I doubt that I will complete.

I have realised that I am at my most comfortable whilst travelling; that is, not simply being abroad, but literally boarding trains and buses, smelling new scents and seeing different scenery.
Time to plan post-Peking.

Let’s go.

N.B. As I will be predominantly working in Beijing, I may use this blog about eclectic thoughts, probably arising from my experience here, but not necessarily related.

Also, please comment.

It makes me smile.

Wait until you get outside…

Blackpool?

Oh! The horror!

Whilst in Hong Kong I was frequently given stern and foreboding warnings about the degeneration which is prevalent in China.

Traffic is relentless and uncompromising I was told; in fact, if a car happened to clip your heel, it would proceed to turn around and run you over for killing somebody is certainly cheaper than and less tedious than paying insurance premiums.
If you ask for chicken in your soup people quipped, they will give you dog instead, not out of spite but because dog meat is more feasible than a chicken’s tender loins.
People are rude and abrasive, inconsiderate of other peoples personal space and harmony was ultimately, the general consensus amongst those I spoke to.
The streets were also purportedly dirty and laden with litter.
And so forth.

This was not the case though as I found the traffic to be controlled, the food delectable, the people affable and the streets clean.

My expectations of China even before I heard these extravagant apocalyptic accounts was somewhat morose. The government’s proclivities for the death penalty, capriciously obliterating satellites in space, aiming missiles at Taiwan, supporting Kim Jong-Il and most recently, hacking into the Pentagon, generated a rigid facade in my mind of what I should anticipate.
The people were not brutal murderers however, nor were they penny-pinching thieves. They were, in fact, the opposite.
Whenever I required help, ultimately, most people, despite the language barrier, were grateful to offer their support.
One notable instance was in Xi’an; I was bewildered and lost, unable to find my bus, and a taxi driver who had previously been heckling me saw my disposition and consequently personally guided me to where my bus was situated. This was without asking for money, of course (unlike the tendencies in a certain other country which I have recently visited). Furthermore, this was not an isolated incident.
All societies have citizens who are good and bad, benevolent and malevolent, honourable and evil and so forth. Yet in China, from my travels there, the former epoch disproportionately overshadowed the latter.
Consequently I have realised that maybe was are slightly xenophobic towards the Chinese; a fear arising from the reality that a new, potent and powerful force is emerging in the world.
Is China a threat? It is too premature to tell, although, judging by the people it is undoubtedly better to engage rather than altercate with them.

What I realised whilst walking around the streets of the major cities and seeing rows of shops selling Gucci, Prada and Nike is that this country does not practice Communism. No, instead ‘Chinaism’ leads the way, for this is the Communist Republic of Capitalism!

And so, the tone is set.

Shanghai, my first destination in China, was a vast sprawling city. Compared to the compact convenience I had become habituated to in Hong Kong, exploring the city was particularly assiduous upon my feet. Nevertheless it was fascinating to wander through (with the aid of the subway) as the juxtaposition between the old and the new became apparent; between the old, quaint colonial buildings and the new looming skyscrapers. The most remarkable area was The Bund where you can take postcard picture of the skyline. Although, in contrast to Hong Kong, Shanghai’s skyline appeared slightly barren, with the array of cranes constructing new landmarks in the distance, it seems apparent that within a decade it will be as saturated with glass, steel and concrete than its southern neighbour.
After subjecting myself to a day of rigorous walking, I passed a massage at night and was tempted by a foot massage – for two pounds. That the young wench seemed to have more of a tendency towards my thighs than my feet (and once the massage was over she asked if I would like her to continue with a “full body massage”) is not of too much importance; the sensation of feeling as if I was walking on a blanket of woolen clouds is!
I decided to truncate my stay in Shanghai to only one night though in an attempt to maximise my meagre schedule.

Next on my itinerary was Xi’an where the world renowned Terracotta Warriors are situated. The city itself was considerably more pleasant to wander through than Shanghai, with a bustling Muslim Quarter (that served appetizing dishes which kept my palette whet for several hours after finishing devouring them), a few pagodas and a selection of museums. On my final day there I visited the ‘Forest Steles’ museum which proudly proclaims that is possesses the heaviest library of books in the world (…because each ‘book’ is written on a capacious slab of concrete). The Confucian layout of the museum was so simple and serene though that the books became unimportant; the ambiance was enough to enjoy and admire.
As for the Terracotta Warriors, such a venerated attraction can be dolefully disappointing.
This was not the case, although, I was not overawed either. Each of the completed warriors was alluring to gaze at due its intricate design and originality, but surprisingly, the army was not as comprehensive as I anticipated. Witnessing in one compound the archeological ruins, as they were discovered, and in another that completed reassembled statues was intriguing though.

Before visiting the next major city – Beijing – I stopped off in the small town of Pingyao for the day. When I did finally reach Beijing I had spent three out of the prior four nights sleeping on trains!
On the joy!

Pingyao was worth the visit. Its small size provided idyllic circumstances to ride a bicycle around and the narrow, charcoal coloured streets, whilst affected by tourism, had not been tainted by it. A day was apt for Pingyao despite how it probably contains more museums per square foot than any other place in the world. The museums themselves were not particularly enthralling and it was circumnavigating the city walls (which were akin to Xi’an’s, but due to Pingyaos succinctly smaller size, these walls were much more conspicuous and thus affecting). With the invaluable help of the black market though I left for Beijing on a train that was already full, less than twelve hours after I had arrived…

In Beijing I was hospitably housed by Alice (a friend from university) and her amiably exuberant Aunt (Xiamen, is, I think, how you spell her name). There are a plethora of small anecdotes and events that I could list for Beijing, but instead I will just write about the notable attractions.

There was, of course, The Great Wall. After a degree of contention as to which part we should visit, Alice, her friends (also from university and equally as friendly) and I opted for the ‘Mutinayu’ section. Whilst touristic and partially renovated this is supposedly the best part in close proximity to Beijing to see, and it is unsurprising why.
Yes, you must overlook the cable carts which bring you up and the tobogganing ride which takes you down from the Wall, but despite this it was easy to appreciate its magnificence. Not until you are there can you wholly comprehend how far the wall stretches, how high it soared and how steep it inclines. It was as if the remnants of an archaic game of Snakes & Ladders had been abandoned and left to wilt in the distance. Furthermore, the older, disintegrating sections of the wall which had not been renovated for tourism on adjacent mountains was a palpable reminder of how old the relics are.

The following day I visited the Forbidden City (which is located next to Tiananmen Square) and the Summer Palace. Despite the prestige of the former, it was superlatively surpassed by the latter. Although the Forbidden City did possess some emanating elements, outside of a historical context it was quite monotonous with each courtyard leading to another courtyard that was essentially identical. Conversely, the Summer Palace, whilst undoubtedly defined by its bucolic beauty, contained sundry facets that augmented each other; the colossal central azure lake made the trees and landscape seem so small yet exuberant; resolute temples overlooked the city outside of the Palace, discording the anciently artificial with the contemporary; quaint peddle boats glided in the water whilst a cumbersome but beautiful marble boat perpetually remained docked by the periphery of the lake.

In my quixotic attempt to see and experience as much as possible, I opted to embark on a two day, one night excursion up Mount Taishan from Beijing, intending to then subsequently return to Beijing for one more night before departing for Guilin.

That I missed my initial train to Tai’an (the city where Mount Taishan stands) is not too important for I fortuitously managed to board one later that day. Thus, arriving in Tai’an at 22:30, during the nights infancy, I took a taxi to the mountain’s base to begin my overnight trek.

Mount Taishan is the holiest Tao mountain in China and consequently hoards of people exert themselves throughout the year to climb to its summit to view the morning sunrise.

As I arrived, I was eagerly embraced by five Chinese people – three girls and two guys – who entreated me to join them, so I did. The climb aside, it was a remarkable feat how I managed to converse with them for over six hours when their English was restricted to a few broken sentences and my Mandarin was constrained to a whole two words (I have mastered those words though you ought to be glad to hear)!
With only our torches lighting the invisible path during the first half of the climb, the mood was eerily subdued. When we shone our beams to the side, sometimes archways were revealed with ancient symbols whereas on other occasions nothing by a distilled form of darkness was evident. Along the path diffused glows sometimes swayed in the distance, which, as we approached closer, became part of a larger conclave of small reverent temples reeking with incense and permeated with smoke.
During the second half of the trek more people emerged from the darkness like fireflies, humming and buzzing with their faint spotlights. The incline steadily became steeper as the clock moved forward, but we arrived at the peak for 5:00am, one hour before sunrise.
The view was ineffable.
For the first time in my life the horizon was more than a wisp of light – here it penetrated the sky separating light from dark. Whilst I was hardly a lone wanderer above a sea of fog for people were speckled around me, the clouds stretched like an ocean across the sky, as I was above them. Then, as light gradually became to glow, the sun appeared through a slit in the design in the distance, rising of the horizon’s perimeter.

Back in Beijing later than night I felt weak and fatigued, as not only had I been depriving my body of adequate sleep since I left Hong Kong, but by remaining awake throughout the whole of the prior night whilst simultaneously vigorously exerting myself, my body must have been swept into locomotion.

That was just the beginning though.

The next day I met Alice for lunch (although I was still residing at her Aunt’s apartment, Alice had just begun her new job) after which we offered our salutations and goodbyes.
My train to Guilin was at 19:10.
Somehow, after completing a few last minute tasks I was back at her Aunt’s by 17:50. I hastily packed by bags and ran outside.

And there it was:
Immovable cars jarred by the traffic.

Flailing and waving around it was not until 18:35 that I finally found a taxi.
He told me that it was impossible.
I was determined.
The car turned and swerved through the traffic as the clock marched ever closer to the deadline.
I arrived in the station at 19:05.
I ran.
Overhead, I do not know whether out of spite, sadism or support, the station’s PA blared out the melody for ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?

Pushing through people, still clinging on to that fleeting hope, I raced towards my platform.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

People were staring, my back was aching and scratched due to my rucksacks metal shards and I was struggling; but I kept on running, hoping.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

And then I saw it; my gate, with the clock stating that it was 19:09.
I had made it!

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine,
And we’ll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

Grasping my ticket and flaunting it to the warden, she removed it from my grasp, observed it and… duly dismissed me away!
Her reason!? Check-in ended at 19:05.

The music seemed to rise to a crescendo as the demise started. I began my walk to the bus station, back to Alice’s Aunt’s apartment.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine,
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit,
Sin auld lang syne.

Auspiciously, if such a word is appropriate, with the defatigable and altruistic aid of another of Alice’s aunts, I managed to board the same train the following day to Guilin. She had somehow managed to purchase, literally, the last available ticket for me. The only folly was that it was not a ‘hard sleeper’ but a ‘hard seat’.
Surely it could not be too bad?
Truthfully, it was not. Whilst the conditions were unsanitary and overwhelming, with, for example, my row of six seats being occupied by eight people and the isle-ways heaving with seat less others, the charismatic and ebullient nature of the Chinese people made it an endurable experience. Even when the lights and radio were kept on throughout the night…

Guilin was such a voluptuous and beautiful place that despite the time (23:00) and the fact that I had just endured a twenty-seven hour journey with little sleep or comfort, upon viewing the monstrosity of mortar and bricks, I left immediately for Yangshuo.
It was not that Guilin was utterly abhorrent, but I was anticipating luscious hills and green plateaus; seeing luminous skyscrapers instead deterred me from staying.

Fortunately Yangshuo was only a one hour bus journey away and the further away the bus drove from Guilin, the more natural the surroundings became. Yangshuo was a minute town completely absorbed by the innumerable mountains rising like humps in the landscape. Each mountain resembled a small island, possessing its own unique traits whilst forming the components of a perfect portrait.

One day in Yangshuo was actually spent on a tour of nearby Longshen which I had been relishing to visit for the views of its mountainous rice terraces. I was not disappointed as each hill was formed like the deft layers of a wedding cake, creating intricate steps that circled around each mountain’s circumference.

During my other day in Yanghsuo I rented a bicycle and cycled to ‘Moon Peak Hill’ which is one of the most renowned of the vicinity’s mountains due to the hole that has formed towards its summit, creating a passage to look through and observe the surrounding beauty from all sides. From the peak the sheer depth of Yangshuo’s mountain range became evident as the mountains appeared to form a fortress of nature around the area.
Later that day I decided to rest by Yangshuo’s salubrious Li Jing river.
Maybe my esteemed reputation has already spread from Bollywood to China, or maybe it is just because I am a Westerner, but by the river, no less than four separate groups of Chinese people asked me to have their photograph taken with them, all within thirty minutes!
Despite the serenity, eventually I had to escape.

My mode of transport from Yangshuo to my next and final destination in China, Shenzhen, was by a sleeper bus. What I had not been forewarned about however was that this was a sleeper bus for Chinese people; thus my legs were perched upright all night as the sleeping space would have been considered as economic even by a pigmy’s standards. Moreover, the driver’s penchant for crass nineties dance music made it an excruciating endeavor trying to sleep as even the most aloof of people would struggle to rest whilst hearing ‘No Limits’ and ‘The Venga Boys’ rumbling on in the background.

Shenzhen epitomises the political dichotomy of China – it is essentially a Chinese Hong Kong where unrestrained capitalism prevails. This is protected through its status as a ‘Special Economic Zone’, which also means that although it is part of the mainland, even Chinese citizens are required to pass through a customs border to enter the city.
There was scarcely anything to do in Shenzhen except complete last minute bargain shopping and have a two hour massage (for 5 pounds!) before hauling my rucksack across the border to Hong Kong.

Back in Hong Kong I remembered how perpetually bright the city is due to the effusive neon lights shimmering across the streets. It was placating returning to such familiar smells and sounds.
That night after quickly finding accommodation, showering and changing clothes, I took the Star Ferry to Central where I met Will, Dan, Patch, Ben and Dave – all friends from Durham – in Lan Kwai Fan. Following a quick drink and dinner we visited Temple Street night market which was reminiscent of my first night in Hong Kong.

The following day I boarded the ferry to nearby Macau; the egregious gambling haven which has recently opened a ‘Venetian’ casino, that is the largest gambling complex in the world.
Gambling aspects aside Macau is actually a pleasant city to visit with its often bemusing juxtaposition between Portuguese Colonial architecture – embodied by the cathedrals dotted around the streets – and Chinese shops and stalls. Even the weather accentuated the continental aura as the strident sunshine basked over the city with a gentle breeze sweeping through to offer some respite.
From the casinos I visited, I soon inferred that there were two types – the old and the new. The former were relentless in their gambling pursuits, destitute of appeasing entertainment to those who did not care to watch their bulging wallets emaciate like magic. Conversely the latter at least possessed shops and restaurants, with the ‘Venetian’ containing its celebrated canals and gondolas.
Macau’s gambling district is still incomparable to Las Vegas as America has learned to diversify in a plethora of manners, offering much more than mere gambling. However, with investment seeping through Macau like a gushing waterfall, it may become a viable alternative to Vegas by midway through the next decade.

The end is nigh.

My final day was the embodiment of my prior stay in Hong Kong; rushed, busy and hectic. I met John, Ian and (briefly) Mike from where I worked for lunch and shopped around.

Am I happy to be returning home? Yes.
Am I sad to be leaving? Yes.

But as always, whatever goes up must come down; all things that have a beginning have an ending too, and this is mine.

So, for one last time:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine,
And we’ll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine,
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit,
Sin auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o thine,
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

Thanks for reading.
Pepe

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!