Life in Asia

A day in the Life of Ban Sam Yord

2011-10-28T23:27:00.005+01:00

The village of Ban Sam Yord belongsto more than two hundred Hmong people. My first view of the village was arather disappointing blue tin roof, much like the one on Khamma's kitchen Thaiin Thamuang.

The scene quickly changed into a scene of huts scattered onthe hill side with chickens, ducks, pigs, cows and goats wandering around.

There was a lot noisy activity taking place in the centre of the village,coming mainly from the men folk who were constructing a small building in whichto store rice. They were using machetes, crude saws and a hammer andnails; as we say in the north of England 'rack of th'eye and ruleo'thumb'. As usual, there were more watching than working! In between this centre of attraction, manychildren were running around playing games or just being inquisitive towardsthe new strange arrivals.

The Tourist Department constructed the hut we stayed in especiallyfor visits like ours. It was quite spacious with a room for sleeping anda kitchen. The floor was hard packed dirt but it was cool and cosy. After claiming a sleeping place on the raised platform that was the bed,we ventured round the village to see what was going on.

We called in a homewhere four generations lived; the eldest was grandma at a good 78 years old. Wesaw children playing a game with spinning tops and watched the animals livingcheek by jowl.

By the time we arrived at the rice store, the men had stopped and wereviewing us quizzically. They were smoking from a water pipe and Mark andTil could not resist having a go. By their reaction and their antics forthe next thirty minutes, there was no doubt that the smoking mixture was a bitwhacky.

Our guide, Somphone, asked what we would like for evening meal. We had a choice of goat, duck, chicken or pork. We settled for porkand Somphone promptly identified a succulent specimen in the yard. A manfrom the house next door caught it and trussed it up. It was small, but it could kick and squeallike an animal ten times its size. First, the front legs were tiedtogether, then the back legs and a small log passed from front to back. It made enough noise but was bound in such away it could not move. Just outside the hut was a water well, which wasthe main supply for drinking, washing and cooking. There was also a square frame, and the log,complete with trussed pig, was placed in the frame at about waist height. The pig’s head was at the side of the frame and because it was upside-down,the underside of its neck was exposed. Somphone placed a bowl under itshead and, at that precise moment, out of nowhere, another man appeared with aknife and slit its throat. Warm bloodpoured into the bowl as Somphone stirred it with his hand to prevent it fromcongealing. The pig was jerking and writhing until all life had expiredand it became meat rather than an animal.

Once the flow of blood had stopped, the pig was untied from itsbondage and the job of scrapping the hair from its skin began. Boilingwater was poured over the skin and using a spoon suspiciously similar to theone we used earlier in the day at lunchtime, its hairs were 'shaved' away.

It took sometime to de-hair the pig, but once finished the anatomylesson began as Somphone opened up the pig to reveal its insides. Everything was carefully extracted out of the animal, including ears andtrotters, and eventually we started to recognise pig meat.

It was a strange experience. It is no use taking moral highground. This is the way of village life ina remote forest in northern Laos. It is differentculture and it was my privilege to learn from their way of life (or death ifyou prefer).

Activity switched to the kitchen as the cooking pots boiled overcharcoal fires and Somphone took control. We chatted amongst ourselvesand in the common ground of a Laotian forest, we exchanged stories ofbackground and travels. I think our German friends were quite impressed withthe catalogue of expeditions and travels Dave and I had notched up. It never ceases to amaze me even if I say itto myself!

After the culinary theatre of the preparing and cooking the pig,the actual meal itself was not exciting. I had a feeling the best meatended up on somebody else's plate in the next hut. What little we had wastasteless and smelt of steamy abattoirs. The pumpkin soup was goodas were the vegetables and spicy sauce. Sticky rice does nothing but givethe illusion to the stomach that it is full, and if you eat too much, it bungsyou up for days. However, Somphone's work was appreciated and he was the perfecthost.

There was no pub to go to, so we settled down and listened to thenoise of village.

I awoke at some stage to hear a very faint chanting coming from ahut that I thought was behind us. It was a rhythmic repetitive chantwith about four voices. Interspersed I could hear distressedcries of someone in obvious pain. Then it stopped. Nextmorning I learnt that someone had been very ill in a hut about 100 metres awayand the shaman tried his best to save her life, but she died.

Trekking in the Nam Ha National Conservation Area

2011-10-28T18:13:00.000+01:00

We spent the next couple of days on busestravelling to Luang NamTha, which is a small town very close to where Laos borders with Burmaand China. This was once the Golden Triangle, infamous for cultivating opium andillegal drug activity. The plan was to trek into the National Park andstay in a village or two with the locals. Eco-tourism plays an importantpart of the economy and they welcome intrepid foreigners to join them on strenuoushikes through dense forest, up and down hillsides, through rivers and eat localproduce with the villagers. The sun is very hot at this time of year,which does not make it any easier.

The journey took a day and half. It was interesting to see this part of Laos, whichreceives relatively few foreign travellers. The countryside is spectacular and our fellow passengers were greatfun. Sat next to me was a 19 year youthfrom Vietnamwhose English amounted to my Vietnamese. He shared peanuts and other snacks and called me Witnala, another variationon my surname! I never discovered hisname or found out what he was doing.

We sometimes walked as the bus drove through themud. The precarious position of housing made me wonder how they managed to keep from slipping into the water. I would not be happy staying the night in some of them!

We arrived at Oudamaxi as the sunwas sinking behind the dust clouds in the west.

Next morning we caught the mini bus for the 5 or 6 hour journey toLumag Nam Tha.

Luang NamTha is a busy market town with avery busy bus station. We stayed at the Bus Station Hotel, which was ok,but felt a bit grimy for its $4US per night. There were some decent cafesand restaurants and even the internet was available (this was 2006 remember). At one cafe, a couple of Akha women enquired in hushed tones if we wereok for ganja.

We have never found a need for this so we did not even haveto think twice about the warning posters from the Laos PDR Central Committeefor Drug Control sponsored by the United Nations Narcotics Board of Control. Instead, we opted for some fun haggling over local crafts. We tooka version of a Laosmassage, which is supposed to knead out the knots, sooth the stiffness and bendout the bumps that accumulate following a week of relatively uncomfortabletravel on river boats. It was excruciating but the hot sauna brought backthe blood to the body parts strangled by the sadists posing as masseurs. Agreat way to spend an afternoon for only 3$US.

On the way back to thehotel I decided to have my hair cut after spotting a small barber shop. It was not the best hair cut I have had but at 5,000 kip (30 pence), itwas certainly the cheapest.

Trekking is organised by the TouristOffice and we were lucky that a trip was departing next morning exactly to thearea with the stop-overs we wanted to experience. It is very unwise toventure into the park without a guide because maps are unreliable and thetracks are constantly changing. It is easy for a foreigner to get lost inthe dense undergrowth, reading 'missing persons presumed lost' posterstestified the warnings. It is also a sobering thought that Americanbombing raids between 1964 and 1973 left Laos the most bombed country in theworld. We were aware that there is still a lot of unexploded ordinance,probably not so much in this region, but you do not get a second chance if youstep on a land mine! Over 260 million tons of bombs were dropped on Laosduring the war; that's 210 million tons more than the combined total ofbombs dropped on Iraq in 1991, 1999 and 2006, or a plane load of bombs droppedevery eight minutes, 24 hours a day, for nine years. Staggering!!! (See www.legaciesofwar.org for more info)

We joined two other trekkers, Mark andTil, students from Bonn in Germany. Our guide was Somphone and his young assistant was Mouaxeng (pronouncedMowasing). After stopping at the market for fresh vegetables and stickyrice, we drove to a roadside village where the track up the hillside, throughthe rice fields and into the forest and beyond began. It was baking hotin the noon day sun as the mad dogs and Englishmen zig zagged up the path.

We were soon sweating, but thankfully, we had an early lunch and aleisurely break, which gave us the opportunity to get to know each other alittle better.

Onwards and mostly upwards, we trekked forabout three hours before we reached the village Bam Sam Yard. This ishome to about 200 Hmong people and it did not take long to meet our hosts.

Apocalypse Now country

2011-10-23T23:38:00.001+01:00

The Nam Ou hotel was a ramshakle affair, taking on the air of a backpacker's hostel, without the 'hostel' bit if you see what I mean. It was laid back and comfortable, almost, but not quite, an oasis from the chaos of the river bank.

I awoke at 6.30 am to usual sounds of Laos village life, similar to the previous morning - listening out for cocks crowing, birds tweeting, the chatter of women against the 'pock, pock, pock' of mortar against pestle grinding chillis, mango and spices into aromatic sauces. I hear children playing, babies crying, the odd motorbike and adults coughing. Not just any old cough, but a male voice choir of hawking, retching, gobbing and spitting stringy strands of spit and goz in long glutinous lobs in the direction they happened to be looking into at the time. I cannot get used to the way Asian's clear their lungs in the mornings.

I did not have the gumption to work the shower, so I had a cat lick in cold water, packed my bag and presented myself for breakfast. What a start to the day!

After a stroll through the town, picking our way through the mud and gobs of spit, we arrived at the pier in search of our boat for the final leg.

We met a couple of student backpackers from Switzerland who informed us that the boatman wanted $20US each and that they could not afford that price. When Dave and I enquired, the price was the same. The students could not see the logic in charging the same price for more passengers, so they started to haggle. Dave and I stood back and watched a skilled haggler perform a master-class in driving the price down to $12US each. Very impressive.

Meanwhile, there was huge entertainment in watching the ferry boat cross over from the far bank.

The huge floating pontoon carried trucks and cars and was kept from floating downstream by a tug.

The current was deceptive and at one point it seemed likely that the float would escape, but the boatman knew every inch of the river and skilfully guided the platform onto the ramp just below where half the population of Muang Khua had gathered to witness.

The vehicles rolled off and relieved drivers continued on their way to China on road 2E.

Although the movie Apocalypse Now was based in Cambodia, about 600 kilometres south, my imagination often wandered with visions of 'Charlie' lurking on the banks ready to snipe at our vulnerable boat chugging upstream.

My day dreams were brought into sharp focus as we boarded our vessel. Today we had the 'comfort' of being protected by a armed guard who took position, with his rifle, on the stern. I convinced myself it was a hunting rifle, but all of a sudden the prospect of meeting Colonel Walter E. Kurtz seemed a little bit too real for my liking!

The river was becoming narrower and there were less signs of villages, fishermen and boats, but more bird life, especially kingfishers. The boat was full and the seats were even harder than the previous two days.

At one point we stopped and picked up three young men and six pigs. Two of the pigs were small enough to put inside bamboo baskets, the two medium sized pigs were apparently trusted to sit quietly in the back, but the two big ones had to be trussed (presumably to stop them running all the home - wee wee wee wee!)

The pigs obviously objected and fought and squealed as their captors bound their legs together. It did look distressing as they bundled them into the back, but this is the way of the world in these parts.

We arrived at our destination, Fong Sali, around 5pm. We were about 25 kilometres east of the Chinese border, 25 kilometres west of Vietnam and about 40 kilometres south of the northern border with China. It was very remote and a far cry from the 'hot spot' of Luang Phrabang.

As I disembarked, or rather unfolded my spasmed body from the near foetal position it had fossilised into, I managed to spike my hand on a rusty nail. As I did so, my reaction caused me to do the splits over the side of boat, resulting in dragging my crotch and associated body parts on the rails. I was not sure what hurt the most, but the bleeding hand needed attention. Later I discovered the other area needed the attention of a Savlon antiseptic wipe as well!

However, the immediate need was to negotiate a bus ride to the town to find a hotel. Being older and wiser than our Swiss co-passengers, we left them to negotiate the price.

There was a stand off as the driver smelt US $ in our pockets, but there were six locals who wanted to ride the bus as well. It became obvious we were subsidising their fares and they would not be going until the price was agreed.

Eventually the Swiss compromised, and although we had to share the back of the bus with the pigs, we were at last on our way.

As we climbed onto the back the bus, the pigs were tied onto the tailgate! It had a bad day for the pigs, and tomorrow would be worse as various bits of them would be sold at the market.

We found a hotel in the town and after a meal with our Swiss bargain hunter friends, it was an early night to work out how to find a bus for the long journey south to Oudomxai.

Day Two - A slow boat to China

2011-10-22T21:02:00.003+01:00

Despite the early evening rain, there was hardly any rainfall during the night. I woke to morning sounds of village life in Asia. Random cries from the chickens. The occasional motorbike, crying children and the soft sweet singing of the women folk as they prepare food with fresh produce bought in the early morning markets.

I showered, even managed a shave in the cold water. After breakfast we left the Many Poon and made our way back through the streets to find a boat for the next leg. First the good news, the boat was running. Secondly the bad news, we were the only passengers and it would cost $60 US. No choice. We had to pay, but noted that suddenly the boat filled with local people and it was safe to assume they paid considerably less, or not at all. Still, $30 each for a day on the river is a good price especially if it helps the local economy.

We boarded the boat and I was intrigued that food preparation was carried out right next to boat.

The cargo that was loaded in the stern ranged from dvd players to pigs trussed up in bamboo baskets. I cast my eyes over the passenger and counted twenty two people. I noticed one girl with sharp cheek bones and stunning eyes. She was in her twenties and was desperately trying to control her son, who I reckoned was a bout two years old. She was losing the battle and judging by the look on her face, the will to live as well! She hit him, but this made matters worse until the boy became exhausted and fell asleep. Another young mother was feeding her baby and I realised that babies in Asia, especially in the villages, do not wear nappies. How the mothers know when their baby is going to wee or poo I don't know.

As we set off under and chugged under the bridge, we entered some rapids, which for a moment made us realise that if this overloaded boat should tip over, we would make the world news. After that early excitement, about ninety minutes later we suddenly stopped. Dave and I had no idea what was going on, but most people got off the boat and sat on bank. It gradually became apparent we had too much weight and the boat was taking in too much water. Eventually a replacement boat arrived, but we couldn't work out how somebody knew to send one. Mobile phones don't work and there was no village to run to. It must have been by message on a boat returning downstream.

Everything was transferred, including the dvd and the pigs, and we set off again. Dave and I found ourselves sat opposite five Akha ladies. Follow this link for more information http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akha_people

They kept staring at my hairy legs and again I realised that staring is a national pastime in Laos. It is an inquisitive, thoughtful and silent stare, which neither gives indication that knowledge is being stored, or simply thinking that 'What on earth is this I am looking at, and I wonder where it comes from'. I could not make eye contact with them and one of the ladies even kept her face covered nearly all the time she was on the boat. I thought she had a cold, but she was probably embarrassed.

Throughout the day, our fellow passengers departed and eventually we had the boat to ourselves. Because of the unscheduled delay, we were travelling as dusk fell and it was touch and go if we have enough fuel. Our best estimate of a five hour journey turned out to be nine hours bordering on epic.

We arrived in Muang Khua as darkness fell, and luckily for us the Nam Ou Hotel was only a few strides across the muddy banks of the river. At $3 US a night, a supply of Beer Lao and tasty veg soup, it was even more convenient.

Into the Golden Triangle, northern Laos, by river boat

2011-10-22T20:01:00.001+01:00

In September 2006, I visited Laos with Dave. The plan was to travel as far north as possible on the Nam Ou from Louang Phabang, which is more or less in the centre of northern Laos. Once at our destination we planned to visit hill tribes before catching a bus back to Louang Phabang. Sounds easy when you say read it like that.

Louang Phabang Mekong River

In Louang Phabang we stayed at a hotel called Lam Sok and explored he town's ancient temples and river banks. The rain poured down all night and did not bode well for the river-boat trip. In the morning there was no electricity therefore no shower. However, after a hearty breakfast and with rucksacks packed we waited patiently for the boat and hopefully other passengers. We had heard that the boat does do not depart with less than five passengers, unless $80 is forthcoming from hard up travellers. According to the 'timetable', or the word of mouth rumour, whichever you prefer, the boat departs at 8am. By 9.30am there was still no sign of a boat, but our spirits had been lifted by the arrival of a Swiss couple who wanted to go on the same boat. A short time later, it arrived with a fifth passenger and we were set to go on the adventure. Had we misread the timetable, looked at an old one, or even the wrong one?

The Nam Ou (River Ou) flows into the Mekong river 25 kms north of Louang Phabang at a place called Pak Ou. At this point there are caves on the west bank hoarding thousands of Buddha images, whilst on the opposite bank the village of Ban Xang Hai is famous for its whiskey made from fermented sticky rice. Contrasting images characteristic of south east Asia.

The Nam Ou soon revealed its own character. It is narrower than the Mekong and the high river banks revealed spectacular towers of limestone. Sadly the sun was not shining, but sound of the boat's diesel engine chugging away and echoing off the rocks reminded me, once again, of my favourite movie Apocalypse Now!

The river was in full flow because of the monsoon rains, and it was fast flowing making our progress seem laboured as we made our way upstream. The river is the life-line to the villages scattered along the banks. Not only does it provide transport, but also food, irrigation and washing water. The dense forests provide wood for housing and a small income from its sale to Europe and North America. Back in Louang Phabang, I had noticed sacks of rice labelled with the United Nations food programme logo and wondered if they were destined for the ramshackled villages lining this beautiful river.

Occasional rapids appeared and made our hearts beat faster as the prospect of sinking was a constant possibility. If you feel unsafe on this journey, I advise you to take your own life vest! Brilliantly coloured birds, small and large, constantly darted across the river looking for and sometimes diving for fish in the green water. Their eyesight must have been at x-ray standard to see further than six inches in silty water.

There was no shortage of people, usually children, by the water's edge. The women washing clothes, food or themselves and the children playing on mud slides, laughing, shouting and waving with joy as the boat passed by. There wasn't a computer game in sight. The menfolk, looking more serious were fishing, logging or tending the rice fields. Always a stare sometimes a forced wave, but rarely a smile or expression of emotion. More bewilderment at white men on a boat. I had fleeting thoughts of Jerome K. Jerome but hoped for less comical eventualities.

The boat was about a metre wide and twelve metres long. It had a low roof, which meant crouching and, as tall foreigners with hardly any flexibility in back or legs, we found awkward. The wooden seats became extremely hard, and although the boatman had thoughtfully provided cushions, they did not contribute to the level of comfort. There was little chance of stretching the legs, other than the infrequent stops whenever the boatman thought about it.

Our stopover for the night was the village of Nong Khiaw (I think Google maps refer to this town as Hat Sao). Nong Khiaw, or Hat Sao if you prefer, is the first point at which a road bridge crosses the river. This makes it easy to fine on the map. Darkness was falling as the boatman waited patiently for a family to finish their ablutions. We entered the village by forcing our cramped limbs up the steep steps. We both commented on the similarity to villages we had passed through in Nepal. Tea houses lined muddy tracks where children, chickens and dogs ran excitedly in all directions saying hello and giggling when we replied in English.

We found a room at the Many Poon guesthouse for $4 per room, including mosquito net, but the bargain price meant we shared the shower and squat toilet with the owner and his family.

For those of you not familiar with Asian showering etiquette, you quickly learn that it is achieved by scooping cold water from a tank and pouring it over the body, lathering up the soap and rinsing off with addition scoops of water. Not ideal, but it does the job. The art of using a squat toilet is also learnt by necessity, and for some becomes a preferred modus operandi. However, with dodgy knees and zero flexibility in my legs, I prefer the traditional design patented by Mr Thomas Crapper.

Dusk was falling as we walked over the bridge to the Sunset Guest House for supper and a welcome Beer Lao or two. I had pumpkin and coconut soup followed by egg and vegetable fried rice. Sadly the setting sun was absent from our lofty position on the terrace of the Sunset Guest House, and as the rain began to fall we ran back to Many Poon for a night cap and good night's sleep under mossie nets listening to night sounds of the forest, the occasional dog bark and the snoring of other guests through the paper thin walls.

The Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres 28th 29th August 1990 My Summary

2011-08-22T23:44:00.000+01:00

When I read Phil’s story I remembered that after we returned to England, I made a tape recording of the climb. I either was too lazy or had no time to write down the details. Amazingly, I found it in an old tape deck and it is in good condition.

My story with my voice is not as entertaining as Phil’s written word, but I suppose somebody in the family will play it one day and be reminded of me.

There are no discrepancies between the versions, even the times are the same; set off at 5.20am, summit reached at 10.50am, return to hut 14.50hours.

I made more of the dangers we encountered. For example as we climbed up the Coolidge Couloir the mist and clag crept up the mountain, threatening to envelope us so that we could not see where to go. In addition, I recorded that crossing the bergschrund was very difficult. Short climbing on loose rock with crampons scraping for purchase and an ice axe thumping into fresh snow trying to find something to pull up on.

I noted Phil was in good form leading up the couloir. He climbed for two hours without a stop!

On the descent I recalled that we had three choices to cross over the bergschrund. Firstly to back climb, but that was too dangerous; secondly to literally run and jump, but there was a high chance of falling and breaking a leg, or falling into an unseen crevasse; thirdly to abseil off the frozen rock. I noted and respected Phil’s good judgement in choosing the rock from which to abseil.

In my conclusion, I said that I would never forget this day out in the mountains. I also commented that I was pleased, privileged and happy to be with two good climbers on day that we will never forget. This is spirit of mountaineering with the Powsers.

Sadly, Phil died of a sudden heart attack about eight years ago. Everyone that knew him misses him. His sense humour often got him to trouble, but he was able to laugh at himself. I still vividly remember him singing Danny Boy in Irish accent in a very Welsh Anglesey pub at a Saturday night singsong. Not exactly the best choice of song, especially as he forgot the words and we were invited to leave!

As I read his story of the Ascent of Mount Pelvoux I heard Phil telling the story. The words in capitals are exactly the words Phil would emphasise as he narrated the tale.

It is 21 years this week since our epic adventure. Doesn’t time fly?

Phil on the summit of Mont Pelvoux with his favourite SNICKERS

Phil and Pete back at the hut after our epic

The Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres 28th 29th August 1990 Part 2

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Phil's drawing of the route taken

Ascent of Mont Pelvoux (3,946metres) 28^th 29^th August 1990

Phil Winder

Part 2

No problem returning to the col, but the couloir looked a lot steeper going down. We also had a new problem. The layer of new snow which had adhered to the ice and provided some support earlier in the day was now AVALANCHING down without any help from us. Every few steps and we went into an involuntary slide. OK except that there was a large crevasse below us. All did several ice axe arrests – Pete decided to turn face into the slope. Progress was slow.

The way over the bergschrund looked dodgy; it was either a spirited leap or an abseil. A convenient rock embedded in the ice provided an anchor. Ray was doubtful. A channel was cut in the ice round the rock (just like John Hard showed us at Torside J). Phil tried it. OK. Next Pete, then Ray. The angle of the slope relaxed as we reached the main glacier. Back to the rocks and moraine and a rest and off with the crampons at last, after 7 hours. The ice slope was avoided by skirting around it. All that remained between us and the SAFETY OF THE HUT were the dreaded ICE SERAC BLOCKS. It was a desperate spot. The Glacier du Clot de l’Homme hung in natural ice arches above us. The blocks as big and green as snooker tables were fresh and clean. Pete scrambled half way across and stopped. MY GOD he’s stopped in the middle. ‘I have to clean my glasses’. Phil shot past him muttering unprintable words.

Twenty minutes later (1400 hours) we were in the ‘nice’ cabine consuming omelettes au champignons and a nice bowl of TEA. It was Phil’s turn to carry the ROPE AGAIN. Just below the hut, a loud rumbling (not the effect of the omelettes) signalled yet another fall of ice blocks – thought provoking? (One of those could alter your looks).

Trudging down the lacets (remember that word?) and along the valley, savouring the tranquillity of the alpine scene and the contentment after an epic ascent. Past the pinewoods, overtaking tourists, past the towering rock faces – ‘NEIL! NEIL! Climb when you’re bloody ready!’

FIN

Foot notes

— When making ice axe arrest you should caution it with the words, ‘Anything you say may be used in evidence.’

— Glacier du Clot de l’Homme – probably means something rude. Clot is from the verb ‘clore’ – to close, shut or end.

— Repere – means a mark – this peak has a trig point

— Le Phoque (m) means a seal – the one that smells of fish

P.W.

Couloir Coolidge (photo by Thomas Gurviez from http://www.summitpost.org/ - permission pending)

The Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres 28th 29th August 1990 Part 1

2011-08-22T23:21:00.000+01:00

Phil Winder

Ascent of Mont Pelvoux (3,946metres) 28^th 29^th August 1990

Phil Winder

Part 1

Not since 1953, when the Queen, after her coronation, climbed Mt Everest with Sherpa Tennison, has the news of a greater ‘feet’ of mountaineering broken on the unsuspecting British public than the ascent of Mt. Pelvoux (Poldu or Poldark according to Ken O’Connor).

When their leaders, John Hughes and Peter Neumann, abandoned the base camp and its rarefied ATMOSPHERE, three members of the expedition remained. They were (in descending order of weight) Peter Griffies, Ray Withnall and last and certainly least, Phil Winder. They had resolved to do something BIG. (But Bob Wint wasn’t there). Their attention was turned to Mont Poldu (sic).

No information was available concerning the route; bookshops were scoured for information, in vain.

‘We will just have to give it OUR BEST SHOT,’ said Ray as Phil brought him his tea in bed that fateful morning on the 28^th August. The day had dawned warm and sunny with no hint of WHAT WAS TO COME. The meteo was quietly confident of ‘beau temps’ for the next day. The first plan was to take the mountain by STORM tactics (a la Neumann / Winder method) but this was rejected because of a lack of confidence in the route and the fact that we thought it would be too ‘naquering’.

Mid afternoon saw our intrepid trio, fully accoutred, moving up the valley path from Ailefroide (1,500 metres). ‘NEIL! NEIL! Climb when you are ready. (Pause) NEIL! Where the bloody hell are you?’ Just some Brits on a 1,000 foot rockface. Other expletives. NEIL was not very popular. Someone abseiled from an invisible platform.

The path rose gently up the valley beneath the pines. Sweat rolled off Pete, even though PHIL WAS CARRYING THE ROPE. After about 1 ½ miles the path divides (1,932 metres), one along the valley to the Refuge du Sele, the other straight up. What seemed like 87 lacets (French for zig zags) and 1 hour 40 minutes later, a huge cairn appeared. The Poldu (sic) hut (2,704 metres) is cunningly set back and not visible until the last moment. Plan B* looked doomed to failure – La Cabine de Mont Pelvoux was EMPTY.

Alors, the hut lady was very friendly – if a little fat – and produced ‘eau chaude’ and ‘potage’. Later two guides arrived with their clients – one was to climb Pic sans Nom, which initially follows the same route that we were destined to follow. Phil, lapsing into fluent vernacular, chatted up, first the lady client and then the guide and was HORRIFIED to hear about the DESPERATE long way up Pelvoux with abseils and large crevasses, until he realised the guide was talking about the TRAVERSE of Pelvoux. However, the Couloir Coolidge was not recommended – tres dangereux – better go by the Rochers Rouge.

‘Right, we’ll give it our BEST SHOT’, said Ray and we walked outside behind the hut to reconnoitre the start. The path ran for 50 metres to the base of a grade 2 rock scramble up a cliff. Should be fun in the dark. Clouds were covering the peaks as dusk turned into night.

That night Ray wrote in the hut book, ‘This is a nice hut’.

Time for bed – just seven of us in the dorm. ‘Thank God Ken O’Connor is not here’, and other prayers for success on the morrow. Instead of Ken, God sent his second best SHOT, a THUNDER STORM to keep us awake. The rain lashed down, HOPE OF SUCCESS WAS EBBING – ZZ ZZ Z ZZ……

‘Bonjour, il est quatre heures!’

‘Merci Madamme’, a dit Pierre.

‘Phoque off’, replique Phillipe et Ray.

The guides and clients got up. ‘Jasus d’ey’re goin on de hill.’

‘Go and see what the sky looks like Pete.’

Peter returns – ‘A bit cloudy, some stars. You go Phil, see what you think.’

‘Sod it’ etc. Yes there was a chance, anyway we had PAID IN ADVANCE for morning tea water. That was the decider.

There followed a leisurely breakfast. The guides left well ahead of us. 5.20am found our heros blundering up the ROCK BAND to the path above. Two sets of lights away to the left gave us a rough idea of the route. Our faint path led us to the moraine below the Glacier du Clot de l’Homme where we were confronted by huge SERAC blocks. Luckily, we could not see where they came from. Beyond, a traverse left over broken rock led to a STEEP ICE SLOPE. So crampons on. What we took for a path across was just a dark band of the ice – we crossed the ice onto broken slabs, but obviously off route and too high. Crampons off. Route found, round a rock bluff and up loose scree and rock ledges to moraine by the Glacier de Sialouze. Dawn approached – she told us that we had passed the Rochers Rouge, but high up on the right ran the COULIOR COOLIDGE, under six inches of new snow.

Ray was carrying the rope now, so Phil was well ahead. Pete had taken an original route on the ice, which put him in third place. We’d passed the rocks SO THE COULOIR IT WOULD HAVE TO BE. Crampons on…….two hours later, having crossed the bergschrund via a rock ice scramble, and with mutinous mutterings from Ray below, Phil announced that he reached the col and the upper glacier. JUBILATION and A REST. NOTHING COULD STOP US NOW. (Is that a pop song?)

The Glacier de Pelvoux was nothing like so steep as the coulior. At first on the ridge, and then with the ridge a gauche, and roped up, we simply followed the edge of the glacier until we reached the SUMMIT rocks. It was 10.50am. Sunlight bathed the glacier and rocks of the Repere on the far side, whilst below a sea of cloud hid all but the Barre des Ecrins (scene of earlier triumphs). FANTASTIC – CONGRATULATIONS – HANDSHAKES (no kisses) – PHOTOS – EAT SNICKERS BAR and a cup of coffee. Phil wandered off to a minor summit to check that it wasn’t higher – it wasn’t.

The drop on the left was horrendous. We solemnly toasted ‘ABSENT FRIENDS’. ‘This is a nice mountain’ said Ray. He decided that he would write that in the hut book when he got down – if we got down! Will Ray, Phil and Peter GET DOWN – Stay tuned for Part 2 of this gripping narrative.

Commercial break ‘I bet they drink Carling Black Label!’

Ray Withnall in his climbing days

Pete Griffies with Alpenstock and Peels Arms sweater

Twenty One Years Ago This Week!

2011-08-22T23:09:00.001+01:00

I think I have to add this blog post to my Life in Asia blog even though it is not about Asia and it is a story about an event that took place twenty one years ago this week.

In some ways there is a connection with my Asian exploits because it is a story of adventure into the unknown, friendship and an element of danger. At the time I was a very active mountaineer and climber. My life revolved around finding excuses to climb mountains and rock faces. The story is set in the year that I resigned as financial controller of a snack food company in Skelmersdale to go to the Himalayas and climb a 6,000 metre virgin peak near Makalu. I returned to England via India, and after a brief couple of days to change my clothes, I set off for Clavier on the border between Italy and France where I spent six months as a ski technician. It was the best job I have ever had - the pay was rubbish, but the working conditions were out of this world!

After the snow had disappeared, I spent the summer between England (I wonder where Patsy is now?), the French Alps and Turkey.

This story is about an epic climb in the Alps, very close to Briancion in the Parc National des Ecrins. I was climbing with Phil and Pete and between us we trusted our lives. That is a powerful experience!

My climbing exploits are zero nowadays. This saddens me, but the journey that took me to Asia started all those years ago.

I was reminded of the climb only a couple of weeks ago by Pete. He sent me a photocopy of Phil's story of the 'Ascent of Mont Pelvoux 3,946 metres'. Phil is no longer with us. He died about eight years of a sudden heart attack, and we miss him to this day.

Phil's story comes in two parts but I have added a summary to make some further points. I hope you enjoy it.

I have copied Phil's story word for word to post in the blog to celebrate the twenty first anniversary of our epic, and in memory of Phil.

The Champasak Palace Hotel

2011-08-19T17:55:00.001+01:00

The fact that the photographs of the Champasak Palace Hotel are impressive and the rate offered at www.agoda.com was even more impressive, I was immediately hooked on this gem of a hotel.

It really is a former palace of a former King, really! Well at least the advertising blurb says so. I have tried to research the last King of Life, a certain Mr Jao Ma Ha Chee Vit, without success. It seems the palace was built in 1969, but wasn't this the height of the Indo-China war? Lao territory was crucial to both sides and the proximity to Ubon's US held air-base springs to mind as well. From 1964 to 1973 the USAF flew 580,944 sorties, (average of 177 per day!!!), and dropped 2,093,100 tons of bombs. That's one plane load of bombs every eight minutes round the clock for nine years!

I would love to know more about the construction of a palace in the midst of all the bombing.

However, Mr Jao Ma Ha Chee Vit left Champasak for France in 1975, before the palace was finished. This probably co-incided with the proclamation of the Lao People's Democratic Republic on 2 December 1975. The king abdicated and the communist government, fearful of a Royalist reprisal, imprisoned the royal family in a cave close to the border with Vietnam. Sadly they died and the Lao monarchy was gone for ever. If Jao Ma Ha Chee Vit was related, he had a lucky escape. But what happened to him?

The Champasak Palace was renovated in 2004 by Thai investors. The result is an excellent and fine example of Laotian craftsmanship. With the opening of the road bridge over the Mekong and a direct road route to Thailand, the area is currently thriving with commerce and the hotel is well placed to take advantage. In addition, a hotel with a unique style will appeal to the tourist, especially on their way to or from Thailand.

I really like the hotel. It is quirky though, and tries very hard to keep up to the image portrayed by its marketing department. It boasts a coffee shop (the area around Pakse has excellent coffee plantations), but it is the same as the restaurant, and you cannot see the difference. It boasts a gym (yes I packed my trainers and shorts) but the equipment is broken and has grey strings of cobwebs hanging in shame from dumbells and barbells. The running machine belt was ripped and obviously not in working order. It has a laundry service, but Khamma could not borrow an iron. There is also a sauna, spa and massage but we did not check this out.

But, and it is a big BUT, the rest of the hotel lived up to my expectations.

Everywhere was very clean. The bedroom was very large with AC (although the room had a curious front and back door arrangement I could not get used to). A good bed that was wider than it was long, an excellent bathroom, although the bath plug was missing. Good TV, good internet, good food, wonderful friendly staff.

If you are staying in the area I recommend the Champasak Palace Hotel.

The price was £44.71 for two for two nights. Good value.

A quick visit to Laos - Part 1 The Journey to Pakse

2011-08-06T21:22:00.002+01:00

I previously mentioned that on my birthday, Khamma and I were in

Laos

. Actually, to be more precise we were in Pakse, which is in the south and about one hours drive from the Thai border at Chong Mek.

On occasions whilst waiting for a bus to somewhere in Ubon’s busy bus station (opposite Big C), I had an urge to jump on the ‘International Bus’ to Pakse and see what was going on over the border. I visited northern Laos about five years ago and with Dave, where we travelled for three days on the river Nam Ou from Luang Prabang to Phongsali close to the Chinese border on local cargo boats. It was a wonderful river trip into the heart of the Golden Triangle, and I spent most of the time thinking about the movie Apocalypse Now! About the scariest thing to happen though was the trussing up of pigs for transport to market, although we did spot a local with an AK-47 slung on his shoulder. Anyway, I digress….

The bus leaves Ubon at 9.30 in the morning. You can only book your ticket at the time of departure and you obviously need your passport. The ticket clerk enters your passport details into a ledger, and issues you with a ticket. The cost is 200 baht. There was plenty of room on the bus, but I think it gets crowded at weekends and holidays.

Once on the bus it is about one and a half hours to Chong Mek. On the journey, it is worth filling out the immigration forms if the bus company hands them out, otherwise make sure you have your pen handy for later. There is a great market at Chong Mek selling clothes, snacks and all the usual stuff, but you do not have time to wander round. The Thai border station is in the process of being upgraded, and will be a fine building when it is finished. The bus driver will ask you to leave the bus to enter Laos on foot. Going through the Thai border is simple enough and is similar to the process at the airport, just a short queue and a patient wait (Ha Ha!!).

Walking through no man’s land, you can sense you are entering a country where the apparent affluence is not as great as that found in the country you are leaving, which is not exactly flush either.

The real fun starts at the Laos Border Control. Signage is non-existent at worst and misleading at best. But, that’s part of the fun. As Johnny Foreigner, you are required to pay US$35 for a visa, and everybody has to pay 50 baht for an entry stamp in their passport. Eventually, after a confusing fifteen minutes or so, you are free to walk into Laos and back on the bus. There is a moment of panic when you think the bus might go without you, but the driver counts everybody out and everybody back in.

I love border crossings. As we entered Laos, we quickly saw the similarities and realised the differences. Khamma was pointing at the rice fields and the houses and said ‘same Thamuang’, but there was less sparkle about the temples and the roads were not quite as good as Thailand.

We reached Pakse and the sight of the Laos-Japanese Friendship Bridge across the wide river Mekong. The building of the bridge in 2003 has created a trade route into Thailand from southern Laos and transformed Pakse into a vibrant commercial city.

Even so, I thought Pakse presented an air of promise that something was about to happen, but of what it was not sure. It was like an actor frozen on the stage and staring into the footlights, knowing he should be doing something, but for the life of him could not remember. First impressions are often wrong, as were mine on this occasion.

Once off the bus, we had to find the hotel, but first we needed money. The Laos currency is kip and there are about 13,750 of them to the GB£. Unusually, the main currency exchange is the Western Union money transfer office rather than the bank.

With a fat wallet containing nearly 1,ooo,ooo kip (I wished it were GBP) we caught a taxi to the Champasak Palace Hotel.

It was at this point that Khamma realised the local dialect was the same as hers and should speak quite freely to the locals. A fantastic asset to have that would save lots of bother during our stay.

Our Friendly taxi driver. Passengers sit on a seat under the canopy.

The magnificent Champasak Palace Hotel

Getting out of the Comfort Zone - Part Two the Day After My Birthday

2011-07-23T00:41:00.002+01:00

The day after my birthday, we returned from Pakse on the 15:30 bus to Ubon. It arrived on schedule but sadly, the last bus to Trakan had already disappeared along Highway 2050. We turned to the new TaxiMeter service, but the taxi driver thought it was too far to drive to Thamuang. I greeted this astonishing piece of news with a mild remonstration, but, nobody was listening except a gang of Thai youth who may have agreed with me, or, more likely, found it amusing that a farang had dumped on, again.

We decided to stay with Pell, Khamma's daughter. She has a small room close to the university, where she stays during the week. After a quick phone call, Pell arrived and shuttled us back to her room. Within half an hour, Khamma's sister had telephoned, and hearing our plight, invited all three of us to a karaoke restaurant.

The Thai's love a good singsong and by the time we arrived, the party was in full swing. The restaurant has private dining rooms complete with a karaoke equipment and the facility to choose the tracks to sing-a-long to. This arrangement reduces inhibitions and embarrassment so that instead of standing up in a room full of strangers and making a complete fool of yourself, you do so with greater intimacy in front of your friends. It is that simple, and it gives the allusion that you have some control, whereas, in fact, in makes no difference to the end result, which remains an unpolished performance.

However, as the farang, the Thais perceive me as the novelty act. I feel a shockwave of pressure coming towards me from the twenty odd people in the room who vocally demand that I sing. I decided there was no escape, except because all the tunes were in Thai, I might be excused of assaulting the Thai language and music. The crowd, to some extent respected to my plea, but the techie (there is always one) in the group found a range of English songs and the pressure upon me intensified. I had no escape; I had to get on with the act.

I admit I am shy to performing in public. Even though I can blast out a few tunes on the harmonica, and bang out some beats and rhythms on the bodhran, I find it embarrassing to unleash my talent on people I do not know. There was no way out of my comfort zone - again - two days in a row.

I sang Song So Blue with my old mate Neil Diamond, the Green, Green Grass of Home with king of the music hall - Tom Jones and Oh Carol with Neil Sedaka. Most of the Thais said they enjoyed it, except about half of them who chose the moment to visit the toilet.

I actually quite enjoyed the experience. I only did what everybody else was doing with ease; I joined in the fun and had a laugh, with good food, good company and a good glass of Beer Leo.

It was amusing that the taxi driver's refusal to take us home resulted in a cracking night out, and me facing my fear of being outside the comfort zone. I had conquered another fear, but was somewhat deflated that they only wanted to hear three songs from me.

Next morning we squeezed into the bus with about 60 other people and returned to Thamuang, smiling and pleased with our week’s adventures.

Getting out of the Comfort Zone - Part One My Birthday

2011-07-19T05:54:00.000+01:00

I have always assumed that as one becomes older, the balance between being adventurous and opting for an easier life tilts in favour of the easier life. Certainly, the body seems less inclined and slower than it once was, and the mind develops demonic filters to question the sensibility of an apparently foolish scheme or activity. Such is the ageing process.

However, I try hard not succumb to travelling on this one-way road and, like a salmon swimming against the current, I cling onto the vestiges of my youth. Sometimes I think it is hopeless to think I can replicate my youth, even more so to do things I never had the guts or confidence to do twenty or thirty years ago.

Some adventures are physical, but others are adventures of the mind and especially those that take you out of your comfort zone. These adventures involve either challenges where the outcome is at best uncertain and at worst costly, physically, financially or both. However, the reward is pleasure and satisfaction at having done something different.

Not all adventures and challenges require planning, nor need they be expensive or time consuming. Two such occasions arose unexpectedly last week.

Last Thursday was my 58^th birthday. I panic when I think how quickly time passes, and I am almost beside myself when I wonder how much time is left. There is so much to do.

However, to celebrate my birthday, Khamma and I decided to take the short trip to Pakse in Laos. It is only three hours away by bus, and that includes the border formalities. We stayed in the Champasak Palace Hotel, which really was a Royal palace before Laos became the Peoples Democratic Republic of Laos. Nowadays it is a bit quirky, but not expensive, and not a bad place to stay.

As usual, we did not have a particular plan regarding activities for the day until we came across a shop renting motorcycles.

I have a bit of a love-hate fear of motorcycles, as a couple of my friends will testify. I fear them because I can see it does not take much to have an accident, and I ‘love’ them because I can understand the freedom and exhilaration they provide. I have never owned one, save for a scooter in the distant Mods and Rockers era of the sixties and seventies. I have never driven a proper motor bike save for pottering around on Khamma’s Honda, which I thoroughly enjoy.

Nevertheless, the rental offer was a bargain at 50,000 kip (£4) for a full day. Compare this to the ‘comfort zone’ alternative guided tour at $65 each per day, and you can understand why my brain started to work in the way that it did.

There were many disadvantages in taking up this challenge. My first thought was that I had reached 58 years relatively unscathed, and this was neither the time, nor the place, to blemish this achievement. The second thought was I had not seriously ridden a motorcycle, never mind passed any kind of road proficiency test. In Laos, they drive on the right hand side of the road, if they drive on any particular side at all! However, most important consideration of all was Khamma would have to ride as pillion passenger. Not that appeared to worry her unduly, but she did not realise the limitations of my experience, in particular the lack of experience driving a motorcycle with a passenger on the back! With this mental list of disadvantages rapidly forming in my mind, I signed the ‘contract’, paid over the money, left my passport in the shopkeeper’s capable hands and we rode off, before I changed my mind.

There are critics claiming that males cannot multi task. My counter claim is that they have not studied the myriad of thoughts running through my mind as I started the bike and Khamma clambered onto the back.

Where are the gears, brakes etc

Keep to the right of the road

Where is the traffic coming from and where is it going to

Where is my confidence to move and join the traffic?

Balance the bike with Khamma on the back, who, by now realised this is not easy.

We need fuel, where is the petrol station

Watch that bike and car coming towards me on MY side of the road

Careful of that car overtaking me on the left

Where is second gear?

Is 30kilometres an hour fast enough?

Where are we actually going?

Look at the state of the road – pot holes more like craters

Was this a good idea for a 58-year-old novice? The answer was of course yes. We had a fantastic day out with lots of laughs and about 130 kilometres under our belts.

Ubon Ratchathani Candle Festival 16 July 2011

2011-07-18T06:58:00.001+01:00

When I visit Thamuang, I really enjoy playing in the 'Glong Neow' band. It is a loose collection of the some of village men folk playing traditional Isaan drums (glongs) to the accompaniment (or is it the other way round?) of a pin, which is an ornate three string guitar. The music is not varied, it is not particularly melodic to the western ear, neither is it necessarily in tune; but it is authentic and a great deal of fun. It is my way of communicating with the village and joining in, and they seem to like my company, or at least tolerate me.

I have blogged several times before on events involving the band - from the ordination of monks to a battle of the bands, but playing at the Ubon Ratchathani Candle Festival parade is a real treat.

Firstly, not all village bands are invited, and secondly as far as they know a farang has not performed in a band at the festival before. Naturally, I have been looking forward to this for a long time.

The events leading up to the parade involved a few practice sessions in the streets around the village. Khamma's son Yo is a very keen dancer, and very good as well I might add. The dancers had most work to do as far as learning the intricate movements and shaping the hands and body to represent the dance. As far as the band was concerned, it was as much to provide the music as anything was, because I do not think there are any more then three tunes they can, want or are able to play. That is not decrying from the sound they create, because it is very authentic of the village.

The way in which the village comes together for such events is very interesting. As many as forty or fifty dancers and twenty odd members of the band, make an event involving nearly every family. This is very special.

Khamma's son was up at 1:30 am on the great day! There is a lot preparation required for making up and dressing correctly, and with the parade starting at 9:00am, there was not a moment to be wasted.

As for me, 6:00 am seemed early enough to wake up and a saunter up to the meeting point for 7, as planned (for once) for the traditional blessing, followed by a quick practice to get the adrenaline pumping.

We loaded up the truck with the amplifier and six speakers powered by a huge battery that probably takes a week to fully charge. The drums were safely stowed away, which is more than can be said for the thirty or so passenger’s squatting and hanging on to any available space in the back.

We arrived in Ubon and parked the truck in a temple close to the start point. One of the reasons for the Candle Festival is celebrate the end of the rainy season, unfortunately, it had rained the night before and the temple grounds resembled scenes similar to Glastonbury when it is wet and muddy.

We quickly prepared our traditional clothing of jackets and sarong like skirts. Most items were co-ordinated, but the array of headgear and footwear left much to be desired. Again, this did not detract from the fun we having, and the banter was as good as any I have experienced.

The sun made its appearance, and it became hotter as we grouped with our traditional dancers and a last minute addition of another group displaying traditional Isaan life of growing rice, fishing and general frolicking around.

We slowly made our way into the parade. Many spectators pointed and smiled when they spotted the farang in the glong neow. My ear tuned in to pick out the word 'farang' in their chatter. Smiles, thumbs up, handshakes and posing for photographs became the routine for me. I was in the spotlight, and I must admit, it was pretty good!

One enterprising young man gave each member a baseball cap advertising his insurance company, so at least now our head gear looked good, but the footwear was a right off.

We entered the main grandstand viewing area and the guests of honour greeted us enthusiastically. The commentator introduced each group, and, most importantly, the cameras were in abundance. It was a great atmosphere and everyone smiled and waved at our performance. I think there were only a few glong neow bands in the whole procession, so we must have been a little different. Of course, the star attractions in the parade are the magnificent wax carvings celebrating scenes from Buddha's life. It is impossible to describe the fantastic detail of carvings and to relate their scale, for they are beyond the justice of words. A tractor pulled each creation closely watched by several attendants whose job it was to make sure the overhead power cables did not get in the way, and to spray the wax with water to prevent the sculptures from melting.

Meanwhile, our route took us through the centre of Ubon and the crowds lined the streets. In fact, it reminded me of the time I ran the New York marathon and the encouragement and banter with the crowds on Fifth Avenue. That is an interesting comparison if ever there was one!

Eventually, after three hours and rising temperatures we reached the end of the parade. Somebody bought the whole entourage an ice cream each, and we wearily made our way back to the truck for sticky rice and chicken.

What a fantastic morning I had with the village folk of Thamuang. It was a privilege and I felt honoured that they took me into their lives.

I am looking forward to next year already.

As Khamma and I walked back to Owerrrouse, I spotted one of the band members in his rice field. He was already back at work, in the searing heat, working in the same way they have worked in this part of the world for centuries. In the morning, he had celebrated his tradition and in within ten minutes of returning home he was back into the reality of Isaan farming. This was my abiding memory of the day.

Chae Son National Park - Lampang

2011-07-15T15:50:00.001+01:00

Our superb hosts introduced us to the Chae Son National Park, about 80 kms north of Lampang on road 1157. The journey takes you through spectacular forests and occasional rice fields, but in the full sunshine the views around every corner are memorable. The scenery is more hilly than Ubon and makes it far more interesting with greater colour and variety. With the excess of wood in this area it comes as no surprise that many of the houses are constructed by craftsmen skilled in the using beautiful timber to stunning effect. There are several new houses, of unique design being built that would be the envy of Alpine villages in Switzerland and France.

There are many fine natural features in Chae Son, but the river has to be the jewel of its crown. Waterfalls tumble down into a series of pools and lagoons, splattered by sunshine filtering through the trees. The cool waters originate from the far far north, gathering pace on the journey through northern Thailand and eventually, somehow into the sea at the Gulf of Thailand near Bangkok. We relished the cool shade and marvelled at the nature.

Idyllic lagoons

Cool as a mountain stream

Sun dappled water

Refreshing waterfalls

Chae Son also boasts hot springs. As if we needed more heat! Water bubbles out of the ground at 82 Centigrade, with the unmistakeable smell of bad eggs - sulphur. We put some eggs into a bamboo basket and carefully placed them into a pool to boil. Meanwhile we bathed in the natural jacuzzi soaking up the soothing powers and wondering what the poor people were up to!

Chae Son is a wonderful place to visit, the calming waters are a million miles away from Willwriting.

Hot springs - just like Iceland (not)

Chief Egg Boiler

The Thai Elephant Conservation Centre

2011-07-15T13:09:00.001+01:00

After the experience of Ubon Ratchathani's zoo, ( Click here ) I was a little sceptical of what I might find at Thailand's elephant conservation reserve. However, my fears were washed away as soon as we arrived in the car park. The facilities are excellent, and it is obvious that the welfare of the resident elephants is paramount.

In the 1980's the Thai government ceased the wholesale destruction of the forest areas in northern Thailand, and elephants became redundant. They had been used for many years to break new ground to access more forests and clear them of felled trees by dragging logs to the nearest transport. Their numbers declined and many were kept as 'pets' in poor conditions. Their welfare was not looked after and cruelty became them. The Forest Industry Organisation set up the conservation centre to care for the sick animals, but also to promote an environment in which Thai people could continue to appreciate one of their national treasures. In 1992 a new centre was opened on the current site and included a hospital to care for the sick and abandoned animals.

Is it cruel to teach these animals tricks, and for whose benefit do they perform? Personally I think they are hugely intelligent and need stimulation rather than just let them sit around being bored stiff. You can usually tell by an animal's eyes if they do not enjoy their captivity, and these beasts seem to like being centre of attention and to be constantly pampered and cared for.

Just as we arrived, Sac spotted a Scolopendra crawlling on a ladies tee-shirt. He instantly made to broad sweeping motions with his hand over the poor ladies back. She thought somebody was attacking her. In fact she was right, but it was the Scolopendra who was the villian. These are giant centipedes and can bite hard making the poor victim sick with high fever for several days. She had a lucky escape. I found a video on YouTube if you want to see on on Thailand's less friendly inhabitants.

Scolopendra

Lampang - Northern Thailand

2011-07-15T11:59:00.001+01:00

Lampang is 100 kilometres south of Chaing Mai in the north of Thailand and 800 kilometres from Ubon Ratchathani. It is also the home of Mieow, Khamma's life long friend from Thamuang. She moved there 7 years ago after getting married to Sac. We decided to go and visit them, and after leaving Ubon on the over night bus, we arrived in Lampang 15 1/2 hours later - weary! It doesn't take that long to fly from Bangkok to London. However, even though our bus was a 'Gold' standard bus, it was a struggle, but at 800 baht each for a one way fare (that's £16) and seems reasonable enough to me.

The hospitality extended by our hosts was remarkable. They run a roadside restaurant serving typical northern Thai food from early morning to late at night, but their profits are not exceptionally high. They live in a small apartment type home with a front yard for the car, a living room, kitchen and downstairs toilet with two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. They have seven year old son called First, who is very bright and the apple of his Dad's eye. They closed the restaurant for two days to take us on a visit to the Elephant Reserve, a National Park, an ancient temple and several excellent restaurants, including their own of course.

Khamma re-united with Mieow after 25 years, and Sac

The charismatic First

Khamma and Mieow never stopped talking about this and that, and it is was only afterwards that Khamma told me they had only met one time before in the last twenty five years. The reason being different circumstances in each of their lives took them to different parts of Thailand, and their paths failed to connect, even at important occasions like weddings and festivals. However, they always talked on the phone especially when either of them had a problem or an issue to deal with. True friends.

Sac could speak a small amount of English, that was probably equal to the amount of Thai I can speak. It will not surprise you that our conversations were somewhat short. But Sac was keen to make sure we did not pay 'Farang' prices to enter the parks, and drove a good bargain in the markets.
After a shy start, First came round to being a lot of fun. I taught him farang tricks like touching fingers together behind your back and street-wise handshakes. He responded by hiding under the stairs and touching my feet as I walked down them, making me jump a mile in the process.

General Election in Thailand - Part 3 Voting Day in Thamuang

2011-07-04T05:10:00.001+01:00

There are many special days in Thamuang, and the general voting day is about as special as it gets, except, of course His Majesty's birthday and various religious occasions.

Khamma arrived at the temple just before 9am. There was already a long queue of approximately fifty people waiting patiently and chattering jovially amongst themselves.

The temple acts as community centre or, in direct comparison to Diggle on these occasions, Wrigley Mill Methodist church. There are no political party number collectors wearing anoraks and colourful rosettes, but a notice board where the electoral register is posted alongside details of every candidate.

The first thing to do is to take off your shoes because this is a building and it is customary to leave your shoes at the entrance. This is similar to my house in Diggle. So far, the comparison score is 1-1.

The first task is to identify yourself to the register clerk. At this point, you have to produce an identity card, confirm your address and sign against your name. A small observation occurs to me that the ID card in a country like Thailand, which is infamous for its disorganised bureaucracy, makes such prolific use of an ID card. Where did the UK fail to make this work?

The clerk issues a ticket, which is handed to a second clerk who issues the first voting form. The problem is that the queue for this clerk stretches back, at the time Khamma joined it, more than fifty people long.

ID card produced, name checked, signature, ticket issued - NEXT!

The queue stretches back to receive voting papers

It struck me that in the UK there would be protest about the length of the queue resulting in mild unrest and uneasiness amongst the electorate. The scene in Thamuang was so different; the Thai people take the situation as it comes, without protest. No doubt there was a rush as the polling opening because there is so much to do during the day - the rice fields are being planted, which in itself is a major task this time of year.

The second clerk allocated a ballot paper for the election of the main MP for the area. The main difference was that the voter had to sign a receipt for his paper and show the ticket provided by the first clerk.

The voter then joined the queue for the third clerk who provided the voting paper for the election of the second MP, which is based on some proportional representation for the area. I could not obtain a satisfactory explanation of how this works. The voter has to sign the counterfoil and the clerk ceremoniously folds the paper before the voter enters the booth to enter their 'cross'.

It appeared chaotic, but there was order and process

Finally, the voter can now vote and make a difference to way the country is led for the next five years, or something like that.

Finally, the vote is placed in the ballot box.

It was estimated that 75% of the village turned out to vote. To me that is biggest difference between Thailand and the UK. There appears to be a passion in Thailand to way the country is led. It has been seen in the last five years - the airport closure, the city centre siege, the military coup - we might not approve of the way it is done, but these people care, they care a lot. Many of them are poor, and cannot hope to escape the poverty, but they have a vote and they use it to try to speak out. In my humble opinion, I do not think that is evident in the UK.

The red shirt party have won the election. Thailand has its first lady PM, but she has a lot to do to prove her ability in government. She will receive advice from her brother, but is it enough for Thailand to emerge from the shadow of recent violence. We hope so.

Thank you to Thamuang for allowing me to use your pictures and trying to understand your politics.

General Election in Thailand - Part 2 The build up to voting

2011-07-04T04:16:00.000+01:00

During the five years of post Thaksin politics there has been a pre-occupation of a battle for control of power. There are so many interested parties: the 'red shirts' who are mainly the agricultural poor and pro Thaksin supporters, the 'yellow shirts' who are the middle classes and support anybody except Thaksin, the military who are supposed to be neutral but will state their position when they want to do so. In addition, there is the powerful and respected influence of 83-year-old His Royal Highness the King of Thailand to consider.

The battle for control has led to the closure of Bangkok airport by the yellow shirts, the siege of the centre of Bangkok by the red shirts in which 90 people lost their lives and various skirmishes and postures between the antagonists. Since the coup, the military have remained loyal to government. However, they were instrumental in clearing the city of the red shirt siege in the city centre. The King, who has served his country since 1950, is in poor health and denounces all violence. His voice is powerful though and many Thai people look towards him for guidance. He is a remarkable King, and we hope and pray for his health and long life.

After last year's siege, it was agreed that elections would take place in July 2011. I arrived in Thailand ten days before polling day and the only evidence of an election I could see was several posters, identical except for the life size portrait of the candidate it was promoting and their election number, which appears on the voting form. It was a massive difference from the expensive campaigning of American or British political battles. There were several pick up trucks touring the towns and villages blaring out political messages, but it seemed the main rallying was reserved for the big cities, particularly Bangkok.

Sadly, I do not speak Thai so I could not find out what the main party messages are, but it does seem that in the latter stages, a smear campaign began on both sides. No differences there then.

All I could establish was that Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva's government had brought in improved roads and bridges to the village Thamuang where my wife lives. This has significantly improved the village, and, perhaps helped them to decide which way to vote.

However, issues on the economy, education, transport, benefits and policing are insignificant to agricultural societies. In these communities there is no money, transport is limited at best to a poorly maintained motor bike, there are zero benefits (no family income, no old age pension, no unemployment benefits) and policing is more or less left to the village leader (except major crimes like murder and drugs). The people of the poor northeast would like consistency of the price of rice, compensation for flooding and greater medical facilities. Unfortunately, I am not sure if the main parties engage in a national level discussion on these issues.

Nevertheless, there was a build up to the expectation of casting a vote, scheduled for Sunday 3 July 2011 between 8am and 3pm in the local temple. This in itself is a big difference to the UK, where it is always a Thursday between 7am and 10pm.

General Election in Thailand - Part 1 Thaksin Shinawatra

2011-07-04T03:28:00.001+01:00

In 2006 Thaksin Shinawatra was ousted as prime minister in a military coup. I was in Bangkok at the time, but it was only when I returned to England a few days later that I heard the news. Such is Thai politics that its understated drama completely underwhelms the population.

Thaksin is (was) a tycoon businessman who made his fortune in the growth of Thai telecommunications. He started his political career by forming the Thai Rak Thai (Thai loves Thai) party in 1998 and quickly gained the support of the nation's agricultural poor by introducing improved medical care, debt relief and denouncing Thailand's upper classes from a nationalist platform. Thailand's economy improved with a style became known as Thaksinomics and after years in the doldrums the Thai economy began emerging.

On the other hand his handling of the crack down on drugs in which 2,500 people are believed to have died and accusations of corruption in his government began created a new level of uneasiness and tension about his tactics.

The sale of shares in the Thaksin family telecoms business lead to a snap election in 2006. The sale proceeds were $1.9 billion, avoided taxation and passed a national asset to Singaporean control. Some argue this was a shrewed business move, but politically it made many more enemies for Thaksin.

After the military gained control, Thaksin started his life in exile but his influence over Thai politics has not wained. He faces prison in Thailand after being found guilty of corruption, but has found refuge in Dubai from where he regularly transmits live video links to political rallies held by his 'red shirt' supporters.

His support is now with the Pheu Thai party which is led by his 44 year old sister Yingluck Sinawatra.

Yesterday she became Thailand's first female prime minister and the fifth since Thaksin was ousted in 2006.

Ubon Ratchathani Zoo

2011-07-01T05:08:00.000+01:00

I am not a lover of zoos. This does not mean I am against them, because if they are managed correctly they do add to our understanding and education. However, to see animals in their natural habitat is much more exhilerating and unpredictable. I have seen lions in the wild on two occassions where I was able to get within feet of them as they basked in African sunshine after a successful night's hunting. The excitement of finding a leopard on the plains of Africa makes the blood run fast through your veins, and being chased by a matriarch elephant is another close encounter you don't get in a zoo.
My visits to Africa include Kenya's Masi Mara where I went walkabout in the bush with a local Masi tribesman. It includes a couple of days in the unique Ngorongoro crater, which some say is the Eighth wonder of the natural world, and Samburu where we ran the gauntlet against the 'Shifta' gangsters and required armed guards to protect the camp. I have travelled on the Okavango Delta in Botswana, visited Namibia's Etosha game reserve where we punctured a tyre in the middle of nowhere! The wild remote environments of the Botswana's Makgadikgadi Pans and Namibia's Skeleton Coast, only add to my perception that animals kept in zoos are deprived from their natural habitats and climates.
Anyway, zoos are zoos and with nothing better to do on a rainy Wednesday we decided to visit Ubon Ratchathani's Tiger Kingdom and Zoo.
Like most places in this area, it does not exactly have a clean welcome appearance, but looks can be deceiving so we paid 30 baht each and wandered in as the first visitors of the day.
The first animals to be seen are the tigers. There are lots of them, about fifteen or sixteen, and are kept in individual cages.
We found leopards, a baby tiger, a black bear, a python, crocodiles, deer, various birds and a variety of monkeys. There is a pond with large ravenous fish you invited to feed for 10 baht a bag.
Curiously there is a cow with five legs. I kid you not. It was quite comfortable lying on the ground, but quite clearly you could see a fifth leg coming out of its back.
I want you to make up your own mind about the zoo by watching the video;

Tesco Credit Card - Normal Service Resumes

2011-07-01T04:08:00.000+01:00

After my huffing and puffing on the Tesco Customer Care Service, I can now reveal that normal service has resumed. I was able to contact the fraud department by phone, by reverse charge call and discuss the transaction which resulted in freezing my card.
You will by now be completely bored with my ranting about Tesco, so to bring the shenanigans to a close it appears Tesco requested their store in Ubon to call them when the transaction was first transmitted. The Tesco Thai store policy does not allow this, so the call was not made and the card frozen.
For my part when I called the UK I used the international dialling code 00. It is in fact 001. Better still I should have entered '+'.
If both these events had happened in the first place, we could have prevented the issue. Tesco apologise and so do I.
Now let's move on!

Tesco Credit Card - Failing Customer Service

2011-06-29T14:39:00.000+01:00

The magic of Twitter is that big companies should respond quickly to bad publicity. Eager to try out the theory I posted a Tweet and copied Paul Wise the money expert at the BBC. That should set the cat amongst the pigeons!
Sure enough, within twenty minutes Tesco Customer Support tweeted back through a 'Direct Message' that they want my contact number in Thailand. I sent it back by return and waited. And waited.
A second tweet arrived saying they could not get through on that number, did I have an alternative. I sent the second number, and waited and waited.
Eventually a third tweet arrived from the customer support unit saying they could not get through on this number either and could I send them my customer number. I sent this back and suggested we communicate by email.
The fourth tweet from them said "we have passed your information to TescoBank and they will be in touch many thanks".
I waited by the email in a vain hope that the powerful and resourceful Tesco Bank could find it within themselves to send me an email asking me why I wanted to talk to them.
After an hour of futile waiting, I sent a public tweet out to my followers, including Tesco, that they still had not contacted me.
A response from the Customer Care tweeter said "sorry for the delay in getting back to you. We are still looking into this and will get back to you as soon as possible".
Looking into what? I only want to talk to them.
It is now 24 hours later and Tesco's still has not contacted me. I am only a customer and if I treated my customers at Hay Tarn Wills (www.haytarnwills.co.uk) in the same way, I soon wouldn't have any.
Still Tesco Bank is going to be one less customer pretty soon.

Tesco banking - Every Little Hinders

2011-06-28T04:42:00.002+01:00

Yesterday we decided to designate to sorting out jobs requiring a visit to Ubon Ratchathani. First on the list was to change the ADSL splitter, which had not worked since TOT (Telecoms of Thailand) had condescended to replace the router after one month of failure due to a previous thunderstorm. Eventually Khamma's fury scared them into action, but alas, only half a job was completed. We called into the TOT office and without further ado; we exchanged the offending piece of plastic. Simple really isn't it?

The second job was to exchange the shorts Khamma had bought me as a present. They were too large, I am pleased to say, but the stall in the entrance foyer at Tesco Lotus was not open due to another shop opening somewhere across town. Other stallholders informed us that the owner would return after lunch. This did not really cause a problem so we rode on to job three.

Job number three was to service the motorbike. It had a bald front tyre, squeaky brakes and a slack chain. It was, I suspect, waiting for me to arrive in Thailand so that I could rescue it. We called in, un-announced to the main Honda dealership in Ubon. I was a bit stunned as Khamma drove straight through the plush show room into the service area at the back. When I caught up with her I was immediately impressed with the employee's white uniforms and spotless workshop area. It was like the pits in a Lewis Hamilton Formula One Grand Prix. Khamma drove her bike to the end of the queue; a reception person wrote down some details, gave a quick estimate of the cost and told us to come back in two hours.

Honda Ubon - Clean, Efficient, Professional

To while away our time we had a coffee at the Black Canyon Coffee House and a wander round the shopping complex in which it is located. After leaving here, we called in at 'Big Buys' and looked at air con units and fridges, both of which are much needed in Owerrrouse. Khamma's face was a picture when she found out how much they cost! Leaving there, we returned to Honda to pick up the bike. It was ready on time, at the exact cost estimate, and it rode much better for a pint of oil and a bit of TLC. Amazingly, it had cost only £22 and including the new front tyre, a new chain and the usual bits and pieces of a good service.

Electrical Health and Safety in Ubon

Stop number four was the drum shop. I am looking forward to playing in the village Glone Neow (Drum Band) at Ubon's annual Candle Festival in July. Yo is training up the dancers so it is a family affair. I was looking for a bodhran type drum. This type of drum is becoming popular in Irish music, but has its roots in the Middle East. Anyway, I am become very fond of bashing out reels and jigs, and, if I say so myself, I am becoming quite good at it. Meanwhile, unsurprisingly my optimism was not upheld by the news that the drum shop does not stock anything approaching a bodhran.

After a diversion to Ubon Watsado, the Thai equivalent to B&Q in

England

, to buy some electrical bits and pieces, we returned to Tesco Lotus where we ate lunch and exchanged the shorts. Lunch was fantastic. For 138 baht (about £2.70), we each had copious pork noodles, a dessert I cannot start to describe, and a Sprite.

The shorts exchanged we entered Tesco Lotus so Khamma could purchase cosmetics and I could look at fridges and compare the cost with Big Buys. We soon realised there was some bargains to be had and we decided to buy a Samsung 12 litre capacity fridge for around £250. I have noticed in south East Asian shops that sometimes there as many assistants as there are customers, and on a slack Monday afternoon, the ratio increases twofold. Nevertheless, the deal was struck and the long laborious process of confirming delivery and payment began. On the good side, Tesco charge only 70 baht to deliver the fridge (that's about £1.45!). The not so good side was the increasing frustration I felt in trying to pay for it. It is at this point where our cultures meet and I am reminded of the cliché where east meets west at the Bosphurus bridge in Istanbul. Here in Tesco Lotus, Ubon Ratchathani the struggling Asian economy of Thailand meets the equally struggling western economy of United Kingdom head on, and neither, it appears, is willing to give way.

I wanted to pay for the transaction with my Tesco Clubcard Credit Card, which logically should keep the Tesco shareholders in each country quite happy. I inserted my card into the card reader and waited whilst the modem dialled up the UK Tesco computer to complete the process. It failed once, twice and thrice before the slightly embarrassed cashier returned my card to a very embarrassed card owner.

On the back of the card is a 'reverse charges Tesco Credit Card Helpline' number. I called it only to be told by a computer generated message that reverse charge calls cannot be connected directly from Thailand. I have to contact the telephone operator in Thailand to do this for me. My next problem was that nobody knew who or what a telephone operator is or was. It is a concept not used in the lives of those people who surrounded me. I was stuck. Reluctantly I used another credit card, but I know from previous experience that that card is now frozen until I contact the fraud department to explain that it is really me using the card in Thailand. Anyway, face not quiet spared but at least not contorted or grimaced, my Egg credit card completed the transaction.

Determined to regain some face and respect, I returned to the shelves to buy a few things and pay for them with my Tesco credit card at another terminal. My hunch was right; the transaction went through without a problem, suggesting the amount of the first transaction is the likely cause of Tesco’s rejection. I proudly displayed my new purchase to the doubting cashier at the first terminal, and she just smiled, as Thai people often do, in that 'OK no problem' manner they have.

However, I still have an issue with contacting Tesco to let them know it is really me trying to use my card. If I cannot dial the number directly and there is no telephone operator in Thailand to place the call for me, I can at least email a business colleague in England to call Tesco Credit Card to tell them to call me on Khamma's mobile. That is proactive thinking, but I am still waiting for the call.

I completely understand how Tesco want to make sure that nobody is using my card without my permission, and I know Tesco try hard to keep on top of credit card crime, but why don't they know that tourists in Thailand cannot call directly to them to explain. In addition, if you think this is a problem in Thailand it is bound to be the same in the rest of South East Asia. Tesco have succeeded in tightening up credit card crime, but they have also scored spectacular success in making it infinitely more difficult for the humble cardholder to contact them and confirm everything is ok. If you think it is just Tesco, then Nat West and Egg are the same. In the past, I have held long discussions with Nat West about creating a simple message system on their secure website so that at least the cardholder leave a number for the fraud department to telephone back their client. Not everybody takes their mobile with them to countries like Thailand where the roaming charges are prohibitive. I do not understand how they have lost the ability for human contact between customer and service department. A technocrat’s flow chart has succeeded in creating a closed loop system at the expense of isolating the client. Worse still is that it appears Tesco have not even bothered to test the system to see if it works!

I checked on Google and found out how to speak to the Thailand Telecoms operator. For future reference (?) dial 100. The voice at the other end informed me they are not allowed to place reverse charge calls and gave me a number to dial that would put me in contact with an operator in England. The number is 001 999 44 1066 - I like the logic '999' the UK's emergency number, '44' the UK international dialling code and '1066' the last time the UK was invaded by enemy forces. The problem now is that the computer voice at the other end wants me to enter my British Telecom account number - WHAT!!!!!

Therefore, I am no nearer solving this than I was yesterday, except the problem seems to be reaching greater proportions like trying to scoop an overflowing jelly back into its cup.

If anyone one can help, please leave a comment.

Back to Owerrrouse

2011-06-26T16:13:00.001+01:00

I arrived in Ubon Ratchathani late on Wednesday night and was greeted by Khamma, Pell, Yo and Ying (another of Khamma's multitude of cousins). After a meal at the very same restaurant we visited after our wedding, we drove home where the dogs, Cherlon and Kitty (!), barked a symphonic reception and jumped up at me as if it was the return of the Irish Rover.

Nothing much has changed around Thamuang, people come and go whilst wanting to know your business, but it is easy to just drop into the slow pace.

For the first three days I just relaxed and fought off the jet lag, which hit me pretty hard this time. We ventured on the motorbike to Trakon Phutpon on Friday. A serious mis-calculation found us sheltering from torrential rain with thunder and lightening thrown in. Needless to say we arrived home cold and wet. The weather is, apparently, mild but to my sensitive English disposition it is humid, hot and horrible to relax in without dissolving in pools of sweat.

About three months ago we, or rather the house and the kitchen in particular, was attacked by termites. There was no warning sign, they just appeared and destroyed what lay before them. Copious spraying of insecticide seemed to send them away, and we have since injected the floors with some of 'termite-icide', in the expectation (or hope in my case) that the little blighters will die!

Termites idea of a meal

On Saturday I had a little wander round the farm and found Bung, my brother-in-law, busy ploughing a rice field, the new cows, a new chicken shack and young boy ploughing the family rice field ready for planting this year's seedlings.

My brother-in-law never stops working

The new cows

Happy chickens in their Five Star Chicken Shack

A young lad spending his Saturday morning tilling the earth

It never ceases to amaze me just how hard these people work in conditions that are beyond anything we have to endure at home. I couldn't last ten minutes doing what Bung does, and I ashamed that his fourteen year old son leaves me for dead as well. It is best just admire from the sidelines, but show an interest and have a go by all means, because that attitude endears you to village, and actually makes the locals proud to show you what they can do.

Bung is so resourceful. We have not had water for two days because lorries keep breaking the mains pipe about two miles up the road. Bung and his family live next and for some reason get their water from another source, which is not affected. He somehow configured our pvc piping to connect to his supply, and hey-presto we have water. We filled the bath and several 'Ali Baba' type monster pots and we have enough to shower and drink until our pipes are fixed - maybe tomorrow, but who knows? If this was Saddleworth we would be phoning the emergency services.......

The Wedding Dinner

2011-06-25T09:42:00.001+01:00

The formalities over, we returned to the limo to go to a restaurant to celebrate our wedding. After some deliberation, none of which included me, although the expectation was I should pay, they decided to go to Ubon Ratchathani’s plush lakeside restaurants. This turned out to be a great choice. The weather was dull but warm, the restaurant quiet but friendly and the company was relaxed and happy.

The menu was in Thai, so I just left them to it. We ordered drinks and I was a little surprised that Khamma’s cousin and the village leader order a whiskey each. There was a slight delay as a waitress scurried round to the next restaurant to ‘borrow’ a bottle, but otherwise we started to ‘unwind’ from our ‘not so wound up’ morning.

In the meanwhile, a small mystery was emerging in my mind, and that was the gender of our ‘waitress’. I was not sure, but it seemed likely that she was not a she, but a he pretending to be a she. Unfortunately, in my opinion, he was not making a good job of it and the mystery unfolding in my mind was ‘Why is he bothering?’ There are a high proportion of male Thai teenagers thinking they are girls, and it is widely accepted amongst their family and public. I suppose that if a girl is trapped in a man’s body, then there has to be a presence of mind for its release. It is quite usual in Thailand to see boys dressing up as a girl and their siblings ploughing the fields or catching snakes and frogs. I decided to take Khamma’s advice and declare my position as ‘up to them’ and returned to continue enjoying the excellent feast being laid before us.

The food was delicious and it was either eaten or put into a doggy bag for later. The total cost was 1,200 bhat which is roughly £24 – for five people though!

We drove back to Thamuang where I discovered that the leader had somehow acquired the bottle of whisky. I would have been annoyed but it was only the 100 Pipers brand!

So we returned to Owerrrouse as husband and wife (Poor and Mia – in Thai phonetics; guess who is Poor? Yes you are correct – it’s me). Khamma started doing something and I started reading a book. Nothing seemed to have changed, so I decided to go and see Billy an ex-pat friend in the next village.

I was now husband to Khamma and she was my wife. I could never have predicted I would fall so much in love with a girl from Thailand, and Khamma could never have seen her future with a farang such as me. But ‘That’s it’.
So we are very happy together and unlike most weddings, it cost next to nothing. A good result for Saddleworth man, do you agree?

Our Wedding Our Way

2011-06-24T15:14:00.001+01:00

So, without any further intervention we fixed the wedding plan. As an ex Project Manager, what could be more simple; the committee had agreed the terms of reference, the project leader had fixed the completion date and provided the resources. All I had to do was find the finance, and with the party now the difference between air conditioning, or not, that was secured as well! Result.

On Tuesday 24 August 2011, we woke up to the sound of raining. It was no surprise as it had not stopped for almost a week and the villagers were passing worried glances at the rising river levels, but this was going to be our day. My designer wardrobe extended to a pair of old Wrangler jeans and a trendy Next long sleeved shirt. Luckily I had the Merrell trainers recently purchased as a 'goodbye gift' from the world's leading Food Travel Experts, otherwise I would wear an ancient pair of Clark's 'Jesus sandals'. Khamma's choice of clothes was a summer dress purchased from H&M in Singapore.

As we locked up the house, Khamma reminded me not to forget the ring. Ahhh the ring I hear you ask. We had purchased this the previous Sunday in Ubon Ratchathani at the gold shop near Big C. The choice was not as extensive as we would have liked, but with Pell and Yo (Khamma's daughter and son) in tow, we had an excited committee to make the choice for us. With the ring safely tucked in my jeans and my plastic useless crash helmet velcroed round my chin, we set off on the motor bike to meet up with Khamma's mother, her cousin and the village leader. The rain had eased off a little bit, but there was more than a threat of a heavy shower languishing and ready to pour down at any time.

After two minutes we arrived at Khamma's mother's house and I mistakenly assumed the pick up with a length of drain-pipe in the back was our limousine.

After a few minutes, Khamma's cousin arrived in his pick up, without a drain pipe, and Khamma, Khamma's mother and the village leader squeezed into the back of the cab.

I climbed over assorted builders merchandise (called 'watsado' in Thai) into the co-pilot's seat and Khamma's cousin glided into his shiny leather driver's seat and off we set for the twenty minute drive to Don Mudang, where the local 'Town Hall' is situated.

This was my first experience of a Thai wedding and all I had to base it on was my limited knowledge of Registry Office weddings back in England. This amounted to a pre-conception of events to follow on the lines of giving the bride away, taking oaths, and signing books, kissing the bride and making way for the next couple. I imagine, dear reader, that my pre-conception is not an unreasonable choice to you.

We arrived at the Town Hall (called the amphur in Thai) and found our way through a series of grubby corridors to what I can only describe as the Registrar's Office.

Inside the office, along one of the walls, there was a string of chairs stretching its whole length. We sat down and Khamma explained this is where people wait their turn to meet the 'Registrar'. Luckily, for us, rainy Tuesdays in August are very unpopular for Amphur style weddings. We amused ourselves watching the news on the office television, not that I made any sense of the latest market rice prices!

Soon three members of the office invited us to a desk. I could see that the size of the chair accompanying each desk regulated the office hierarchy. From small plastic chairs to a top executive recliner, everyone knew, and accepted, their place.

The first part of the procedure, sorry ceremony, was to check the paper work. At this point, it crossed my mind that I might not able to do anything if my papers were not accepted. I just handed over the file and hoped everything was in order. Khamma did the same, but there appeared to be a snag. After much debate, Khamma announced that my papers were fine, but hers were not! She needs the original divorce paper, and a copy was not sufficient. There was no other choice but to return to the house. We summoned Khamma's cousin who had disappeared into the corridors of power trying to find his friend in the planning department and wended our way back to Thamuang.

During the journey, I learnt that divorce Thai style is a question of both the man and his wife turning up to the same office in which they married, sitting on the same chairs, meeting the same office staff and signing the divorce book. It is that simple and that scary!

Luckily, Khamma soon found the missing document and we retraced our steps back to the office. Because it was a rainy Tuesday morning (soon to be an afternoon) in August, we had not lost our place in the queue of one. The attentive ladies of the office re-ticked the boxes and began to write in the big books of recorded marriages. The computer’s printer produced marriage certificates; the bride and office staff exchanged idle chitchat, including the revelation that I was the first foreigner ever to be married in this Amphur. I took that, rightly so, as a great honour to be bestowed upon me. After several minutes, the office staff recalled the absent witnesses from their wanderings around the great corridors of local government to sign the register. At the same time, I had to sign my name on several pieces of paper and several books against statements written in Thai, the meaning of which was about as decipherable as the Clingon language. During these moments, the precise one I know not and passed by me forever, we became man and wife. The giving away of the bride apparently gave way to just turning up at the office. The exchange of oaths was, apparently, exchanged for signatures in the Big Book of Thai Weddings. The 'You may now kiss the Bride' cliché was kissed goodbye to the matter of fact comment and statement of the not so bleeding obvious, 'That's it, and now we are married'.

The precise moment will never be confirmed, but about this time we became man and wife

Or was it this moment?

Of course, everyone was very happy, but there was no shaking of hands, no kissing the mother in law on the cheek; just a universal declaration that it was time for lunch!

Next time - Our Wedding Reception - Our Way.

The Wedding Day - we did it our way!

2011-06-23T13:16:00.000+01:00

We returned to Thamuang from Bangkok arriving home about 4am. Tired but triumphant. I have always said the system can never be beaten, but if you do what they say you can glide through the process without any problems.

The next decision was when to get married. We decided on August because that was the next time I planned to visit Thailand, and maybe we need to plan for a party. If I am totally honest I am not a party animal, especially if I am supposed to be in the limelight. The Thai people do not need an excuse to party that's for sure, but it isn't really essential. I was still trying to work out why it cost Khamma's cousin about 1 million bhat for the party he threw for his son. That's about £2,000!! He allegedly invited 1,000 guests, so that had something to do with it, and it lasted 6 days, which is another reason, but to a lad from Saddleworth, it sounded like a lot of money when we needed a new fridge, car and air-con!

In the mean time, Khamma spent three months in England and I took redundancy from my job as an IT Project Manager with the World's leading Food Travel Experts. These were very significant circumstances in a continuing changing 'Life in Asia' environment.

I arrived in Thamuang in August and during one of our casual conversations, I asked Khamma when she thought we should get married and what planning and arrangements were needed. I must admit I vaguely based my experience on English traditions involving wedding planners and rumours of family arguments over details from the font size on the meal placement cards to the style of dress for the bride. Khamma's response was refreshing to my ears. We can just turn up at the local equivalent to the town hall and register. That's it! OK When can we do this? Up to you darling, we can go anytime, I think tomorrow!

My response was to check about the party, the transport arrangements, the clothes to wear and not forgetting the font size on the place settings. Khamma thought this was unnecessary and phoned her cousin to see if he could be a witness together with the village leader, or the leader of the council, as it were. Ten minutes later, it is sorted and we are getting married in the morning. No time to tell friends in England, no time to go to Burton's for new suit, no time for Khamma to even get her hair done!

Next - Our Wedding Our Way!

Marriage for Aliens - Part One

2011-06-05T10:40:00.001+01:00

Sometimes I do feel like I am from another planet

Khamma and I decided to get married in January 2010 whilst we travelled to Bangkok to sort out Khamma's UK visa. We thought that once we had submitted her re-newal application and she had attended the interview, we could set about uncoiling the bureaucratic red tape and jump through the administration hoops of both Thai and UK governments to obtain the necessary paperwork allowing us to marry. Why not?

Actually it wasn't that difficult. We had already learned that a high degree of subserviance is required when applying for visas. They (UK Border Agency) have what we want (the visa), therefore if they say the application must be written in the ink from a China Sea octopus, then, in my humble opinion, so be it.

The process required a personal visit to the British Embassy in Bangkok with my divorce paper. Next day the Embassy had produced a certificate testifying my eligibility to marry. All very straightforward, but time consuming and in English. The next step is to translate the certificate into Thai for registration with the Thai authorities. This is where the fun begins.

The area immediately around the Embassy is awash with tiny offices offering translation services. We did not have wait long before the office tout ambushed us as we appeared from behind the heavy armoured plated door of the Embassy. On the basis that one office is as much the same as another, non of which meet any standards, we plumped for the first tout. He guided us, rather gushingly I thought, to a pokey little office with two rooms and a small reception area. In one of the rooms I could see another farang and his girl discussing visas with a second tout who was giddy with expectation of trapping a farang and relieving him of lots of bhat for a process that, as I discovered, only requires finding ink from a China Sea octopus. Still I am speaking on the smug side of success, so let it be.

Our tout quickly dispatched the certificate for translation and he then set about convincing us that the registration process was difficult, time consuming, requiring multi visits to the Thai government office and, because I cannot speak Thai and neither of us is familar with the process, we would be better off paying him to do it. It would take only two days and cost 8,000 bhat - about £160. I politely declined his generous offer, stating we have plenty of time and actually quite enjoy the adventure. The reality was we only just had enough time, we both prefer to do better things than hang around offices all day, but, more truthfully we could spend that sort of money on essentials for the house. I couldn't blame him for trying.

Our decision to go it alone was made.

We took a taxi to the government offices, somewhere well out of the centre of the city. Luckily the sun was shining so I knew we travelling south east, I think. Unfortunately the taxi driver did not know one building from another, so we picked out the biggest and started from there. Inside was a space so vast it difficult to even estimate how vast. It was the vastest space I have ever been in, with the exception of the launch preparation building for the Apollo space missions! This country never ceases to amaze me!

Thai Government Offices - look carefully for the people near the trees!

Eventually we found the correct office. There was a demoralising queue of people and our worst fears that this would take a long time started to become real. Nevertheless we handed over the certificates, filled out more forms, made our humble thanks with genuine smiles and were told to come back after lunch.

There are many great things about Thailand and food is one of them. The ability of Thai chefs to produce high quality fresh food in cramped conditions, in the quantities demanded at a very cheap price is beyond me. Lunch was excellent!

We wandered back to the waiting area and after about 30 minutes, my name was called out. This amusing when English people try to pronounce my name, but can you imagine a Thai contorting and twisting her jaw at the same time as pursing her lips and tongue into positions never before explored in public! We were presented with another certificate stating that we were both free to marry each other whenever we wished. It was a joyous moment, almost like being married in its way, because it was hurdle we had cleared together in our committment to each other. The next step was to decide when to tie the knot.

We talked about how much the tout wanted to charge, and wondered why we shouldn't set up our own agency to help farangs in the same situation. Never mind - up to them was Khamma's response as we travelled back to town with a smug smile of satisfaction of a job well done and the bonus of a day to spare.

Next - The Wedding Day - we did it our way.

I'm back! Better than ever!!

2011-06-04T21:43:00.002+01:00

It is almost two years since my last published post, and I feel the urge to blog about Life in Asia again. I thought it was right to stop after I returned to England, but it also feels right to start again now. I had many 'silent followers', but it seems I still have a lot of people visiting the blog even now. I was humbled by a comment left by an anonymous visitor only a few weeks ago saying that one of my blogs (more like a rant when I re-read it) had helped him. He or she didn't say why or how, but I felt I must have touched someone - thanks go to them for visiting, and I hope everything is sorted out with their problems.

Since returning from Hong Kong in June 2009, a lot has happened.

I couldn't settle back into working in the UK after spending the best part of three years in the United States, Singapore and Hong Kong
I was playing a bit part role in the company moving around in this project and then that one, not having much in the way of job satisfaction
I was offered voluntary redundancy and I left my job as an IT project manager with the 'Food Travel Experts' in June 2010
Khamma and I married in August 2010
I started my own business as a Willwriter in October 2010
My father survived a cancer scare by having major surgery and bouncing back stronger than ever

How do I feel now? Fantastic and I have never looked back. My love for Khamma grows every day, my business is showing signs of success, my closeness to Mum and Dad is fantastic and I feel a much better person than I did before, in fact I am a better person than I was before!

The one thing I miss is Asia. I often think about Singapore and Hong Kong. I had great times there and I realise how lucky I was to spend great chunks of my life exploring off behind the tourist cash traps, working and living in different cultures and being paid for it. It could not have been better, but jobs like that don't last for ever and I could see that my chance had come, I had taken it, but likelihood of it being repeated was slim. Thanks anyway if anybody from the Food Travel Experts ever bother to read this.

Why am I a better person? Simply, because I am my own boss. No more meetings with scores of people, listening to endless points of view. I make my own decisions, usually in seconds not weeks and months and I do everything, which means my actions make my results, equals my satisfaction. Of course I get things wrong from time to time, who doesn't? But I can see my efforts work. Everything I do is for a reason, that is to make my business work. Before I do anything I ask myself 'what's in this for me?', and 'does it cost money, or does it make money?'. A lot of people working in a company as big as the Food Travel Experts don't ask those questions and it used to frustrate me so much. Of course I have had many moments with my head in my hands thinking I should have toughed it out knowing my salary would be in the bank at the end of the month. But I am better for coming out of the comfort zone and making something out of nothing. I often wonder what my colleagues at the FTE thought of my business idea, and I am sure there were (are) several who dismissed it. It will please me to let them know it is going well, if ever I meet any of them again.

In my next blog I am going to tell you about the day Khamma and I decided to get married. We have recently witnessed the Royal wedding, and the cost of that is impossible to compute. I compare it to our wedding and I feel slightly embarrassed I got change out of £30. Those people that know me will not be surprised by this revelation, but I must admit I am amazed myself!

Housing crisis in Thamuang. Today we built a chicken shack!

2009-06-26T20:08:00.011+01:00

The Chicken Shack - made from re-cycled materials (or what was left lying around!)

One day last week, Khamma nipped out to the shop at about 10am on the motorbike for some yogurt and orange drinks. She returned five minutes later having met a man carrying three large cardboard boxes strapped to the back of his motorbike. Inside the boxes were chickens, I would say about a week old. After a brief inspection, Khamma bought thirty chicks! There had been no previous discussion, or even inkling, that she would like to add to the eighteen chickens (minus two recently eaten) already occupying the two hen houses in the garden. This is Khamma at her impulsive best behaviour. She even forgot the yogurt and the orange drinks.

Chicken's eye view of the, err, chickens

The chickens seemed healthy enough, not that I am expert. They made glorious chatter, looked lovely, but where did she think she was going to keep them?

Swift re-arranging of accommodation was required and the chickens from hen house two were transferred to hen house one and in the process given a little more freedom to roam around the garden. It seemed they had come of age and could be trusted a little more; but in reality, they are one-step closer to becoming a tasty meal, poor things! This is Thailand, remember!

Hen house 1 - under the rice house

Hen house 2 - at the back of the rice house

The new clutch was Khamma’s new babies and she watched over them most of the day. One of them was weaker than the rest so she decided to give it some extra tender loving care by isolating it in a sort of chicken intensive care unit. Dehydration was taking a grip on the poor thing, but after drinking from its personal water supply fashioned from a throw away plastic bottle with half its side cut away to make a miniature trough, restoration to normal chicken life was complete. Remarkably though, the mother hen, who was looking after six of her own chicks in hen house three, adopted the ailing chick. By dusk all the chickens were merrily ‘cheep, cheeping’ away accompanied by frogs, toads, lizards and goodness what else, in an improvised musical cacophony that was a symphonic masterpiece of rural Thailand.

A duck's eye view of the, err, ducklings

Soon enough life re-adjusted to a new routine of feeding the animals. Nevertheless, not content with thirty chickens, Khamma could not resist the offer from a neighbour of twelve ducklings also about a week old. These are lovely little birds with the softest yellow duck down and darkest eyes you can imagine. I can understand why she wanted them, but it did present a bit of a housing crisis for the bird population of Owerrrouse. Summing up the situation, we had sixteen chickens in hen house one and twenty-nine chicks in hen house two and eight baby chicks (including the adopted chick) and the mother hen in temporary hen house three. This is fifty-four rapidly growing birds. Oh! I forgot the eleven ducks roaming free in the rice fields and staying in the duck house about fifty yards from the back door. A grand total of sixty-five birds, most of them destined for the cooking pot.

Eventually this became duck house 2

I found Khamma sat on a footstool gazing at the birds and contemplating the crisis. She had partially solved it by adding the eight baby chicks from hen house three to the twenty-nine birds in hen house two. The twelve ducklings were now resident in temporary hen house three. However, this is not a long-term solution, and so the next day she started to build a chicken shack next to the duck house. By the time I arrived, she had cut various strips of bamboo into poles to support the walls. She then split more bamboo poles with a machete, into half-and-half again, to make thin strips that were to become the walls. It was my job to weave these strips in to the first set of poles and make sure the gaps were not too wide for the chickens to escape. It was a pleasant way to spend Sunday, and I even had the feeling that Ray Mears (the survival expert) would learn a trick or two from the bush people of Isaan (Khamma and me).

Duck house 1 on the right and new chicken shack on the left

Intricate bamboo lattice work is the main feature

The chicken shack is a temple to re-cycling. All the materials had previously been lying around the yard and they lashed together with bits of thin wire and string. The exception was the roof, which is the ubiquitous corrugated iron sheeting, and cost about 20GBP. The final appearance has a ‘permanent temporary’ feel about it, but I am sure the chickens will appreciate their new shack. They move in tomorrow, all fifteen of them.

The concept of 'permanent temporariness'

PS: If you have calculated the maths and think this should be sixteen, not fifteen, Khamma is cooking the missing chicken as I write.

Thamuang Update

2009-06-26T19:01:00.006+01:00

Returning to the village is, I have decided, the perfect antidote to Hong Kong’s stressful living. Even though my project work is suspended, I felt stressful. I find this hard to explain, but because the objectives of my daily work are to improve systems so that managers can make better decisions which leads to improving the working lives of the people who have to use them to produce the reports because they working more effectively. Suspending the Hong Kong project was the correct decision made for the right reasons, but re-adjusting from strategic thinking to passive, everyday, thinking takes a lot longer than you can imagine. I take this personally by feeling I have let the local people down, especially those required to churn out information using very antiquated and, for the most part, inaccurate methods, often working long hours for no extra reward. Promises made easily, succeeding so many made before.
Therefore, it was with some relief I arrived in Thamuang where I hoped I could relax and recover from the mini burn out I was experiencing in Hong Kong.
This time of year is one of the busiest for the northeast Thailand rice farmer. The heavy rain showers are a welcome relief after the long hot dry season that has left fields baked stone hard, leaving water scarce. Ideally the farmer wants a prolonged period of steady rain that is readily soaked into the soil and not short sharp showers where the rains runs off into the rivers. This year was perfect and long showers with mostly cloudy conditions made it ideal to work in the fields.
Ploughing the fields is the first priority, even though some of them are under water. In the old days, this was the job for the water buffalo and hand held plough, but nowadays the tractor makes lighter work, it is still arduous work. Khamma keeps reminding me that it was not all that long ago that she in fact ploughed the fields with a buffalo!

Khamma's brother ploughing the field at the back of Owerrrouse

Khamma’s brother was busy for a couple weeks ploughing the family’s land that consists of about thirty fields. Soon after spreading chemical fertilisers, some of the new fields will have rice seeds scattered by hand and left to Mother Nature, and good luck, to take root. These fields look patchy with dominant random patterns. In the established fields, small armies of workers dressed in colourful clothes from head to toe, can be seen transplanting seedlings throughout the day row after row after laborious row. These plants usually yield more crops and, in the end, managing them is easier. However, for everybody it is hard work from dawn to dusk and dominates domestic duty and daily rhythm. Once the seedlings are established, they can be more less left to grow until harvest time in late November and early December.

The rice is starting to come through and changing the landscape

During the week, Khamma was often working at 5.30am through to 11 or noon when the sun made it too hot to do any more. I was very impressed with her commitment but even more so with Yo who had to be out of bed by around 6am to get ready for school. Like any other kid he was entirely enthusiastic about this, but he stuck by his task to get the school bus on time at 7am. He was back home at 5pm and eager to eat noodles with his friends in the village before completing his homework. I thought that might be enough for him, but as soon as this was finished he had two hours of dancing practice in the village. Eventually at around 9.30pm his day was complete and he fell into bed exhausted.
Yo is just as distracted by youthful modernity as any other twelve-year-old boy anywhere else in the world. He knows about fads and fashions, he has a haircut that is familiar on the streets of Manchester and he knows all the latest pop songs. So do his friends. However, he lives deep in the heart of rural Thailand where it is easier to know but is less likely to participate. There are no shopping centres to lurk around and domestic reality dominates his life. Nevertheless, he is uncomplaining in his situation.
I am not sure what his equivalent in England is. Certainly they will taken to school by a parent in a car, they will be few if any ‘out of home’ activities like dancing and boy scouts and youth clubs to occupy their minds between arriving home from school and going to bed. There is nothing like Thamuang’s nature where learning to live and play within the natural surrounds is the main option. Yes, he does have access to TV and console type games and really enjoys playing with them, but is equally content climbing trees and playing outside.
Yo and his friends are extremely well behaved and polite and there is hardly ever any occasion where they are disciplined for lack of respect to their elders.
Who between the typical English twelve year old and the Thai equivalent is the more adjusted? Who makes the most of what surrounds him? Who has the most self-discipline? You know my answer by now.
However, the opportunities available to emerging youth in Thailand are very limited. Whatever the socio-economic climate in England it is apparent that emerging youth can get a foot on the ladder. In Thailand Yo will be lucky to find a ladder by the time he leaves school! In general, this bothers me because I can see that Yo and his friends are the most delightful kids. There will be an abrupt change as they leave school because the ‘system’ cannot support them. They will need luck and will need to be ‘well connected’ if they are to find the ladder leading to escaping the poverty trap of rural life.
In the UK, the transition from school to work is not as huge and eventually everybody makes it, with or without student debt, one way or another. The ladder is visible and there are even people willing to help put the feet of the next generation onto the first few rungs. However, underneath are these young people as qualified in the life skills of their Thai counterparts? This is an interesting question, but I fear many answers depending on your point of view.
Yo, I think has the right idea to give himself the best possible chance. Even after a busy week at school and dancing practice each evening, he was up at 8am on Sunday morning for his special English lesson. This is an additional voluntary activity provided by his teacher, at his home, school during term time and lasts for four hours. Not many and teachers, and even fewer children, would give up a day in bed to go back to school. Neither is he alone, as the class has twenty pupils.
I am going to this miss thirst and eagerness for knowledge and education, and I can only hope everybody’s hard work is fruitful in a country so deserving of much more than it is capable of delivering now. The prospect of England’s disaffected youth led by ineffective politicians is depressing.

Life in Asia! The Epilogue - Part 1

2009-05-23T00:20:00.009+01:00

Singapore - a clean, safe and good place to live

Blimey I am that old I can remember the epilogue on television. It was broadcast at the end of the day's programmes. Well I think I will have a few epilogues to wind up the Life in Asia. Can you do that? Have a series of epilogues that is. Or is an epilogue supposed to be a final single closing? That is the good thing about blogging; you can write the rules as you go along.

Anyway, Life in Asia! The Epilogue - Part 1.

Starting in Singapore I set out on a journey through my work, but at the same time be closer to Khamma in Thailand. I enjoyed Singapore immensely and if I had to chose between Hong Kong and Singapore to live, I would choose Singapore. It is a country dominated by the rules and regulations of a single man, Mr Lee Kwan Yew. Singaporeans feel safe in a society that is proud of its status. If you are a Singaporean you are looked after from cradle to grave. The only thing you have to do is toe the line. Step over that line and you face the wrath of the big machine of law and order. Of course the reality is different and most people do what they want to do and make sure they don't get caught. I like that. There is an image of subterfuge as citizens, and visitors, dart about in dimly lit streets, getting away with things that wouldn't deserve a second glance anywhere else in the world. Just underneath the surface you can find shady deals, black money and most other normal things.

But the Singaporeans don't have to think too much because Mr Lee's machine is doing it for them, and sometimes this overflows into the work place or public domain. You can see the blank look of panic at not knowing what to do, say or otherwise react to simple situations like should I turn left or right, should I say yes or no, or should I stay or should I go? That is a little bit simplified, but it seems sometimes to get an answer to a question it had to go up the chain of command until it reached somebody with enough rank, or guts, to speak his mind. I still have many outstanding unanswered emails sent to people who think it should be answered by somebody else.

Singapore is clean, safe and easy to get around. I had a great place to live at Bayshore Park and the airport is the best in the world, bar none! The climate is constantly hot and humid all the year round which does restrict some activities like jogging and cycling, but once I got used to it I found it was good.

The main problem for me in Singapore was the relative lack of scenery and things to do outdoors. Some people will disagree but compared to other places there are no mountains, or even hills, no dramatic coastlines and nothing much over a hundred years old. Yes, I did find things to do and see, but it usually started and ended in a shopping mall or a new housing estate.

Hong Kong is different again. Here people are not cossetted. You will see beggars on the street and raggy arsed kids running about. Here you will see harsh living conditions and it is common for three generations of family to be living together in a cramped apartment, sharing a kitchen and queuing for the bathroom with three or four other families on the same floor of the forty story building. But the Hong Kong people have fight in them. They have to fight to survive, and fight harder to get ahead!

I found that Hong Kong people will be as evasive as their cousins in Singapore, but instead of going away and asking somebody else, they will figure out how they can get an advantage and go and do something about it, without letting you know, so they have the upper ground. This difference in approach comes from years of practice under British rule, and dodging the Chinese communists at the same time. Singapore as we know it today, is only a little over forty years old, but Hong Kong's culture and tradition goes back much further.

Hong Kong - has that mystery under the surface

Today the average Hong Konger has a superiority that is borne from the release of British control with the considerable amount of latitude provided by the Central Office in Beijing. It feels like China, but it isn't China. I don't think Hong Kong is the China that Beijing aspires to, but it certainly is the image that the Central Office wants to provide to the rest of the world. As a result the Hong Konger feels he can do know no wrong. They get away with far too much!

The city has an excitement and there is so much more under the surface than in Singapore. The guide books only give you a hint of what lies waiting to be discovered in places like Kowloon. The triads still run this place and I do not know how the society can co exist with its own legislature, police force and direct line to Beijing. Who knows who is controlling what, where and when! The amount of black money lining the economy is beyond imagination. It pays to be well connected in Hong Kong. Fascinating.

Just across the border is Shenzhen, which is real China. Here you will find more people almost staring through the glass at Hong Kong wondering what opportunity lies ahead. It is much cheaper here and open for the counterfeit goods and copies of watches, bags, designer clothes, DVDs, perfume. There is even a huge store made up of small individually run stalls selling everything from cameras and computers to ladies make up and shoes, all western brands all a fraction of the cost in west. Behind all this there is even more humanity another fascinating area to wander and observe. The flats with thousands of people co-existing sometimes sleeping four to a bed. This arrangement is possible by sleeping sideways on the bed with a chair to prop up your legs.

Shenzhan - the emerging China

Shanghai is where you really see the difference. From a work point of view I found it gets more difficult the further north you travel in Asia. I have experienced the legendary frustration of working in Thailand, but in north China it isn't just frustrating, it is 'stone walled'.

Shanghai - light at the end of the tunnel?

Chinese people go through the state education system being taught the usual things like maths, language and reading but they are not taught to understand things. You will see in Chinese schools a discipline that begins with early morning exercises carried out uni-formally in the school yard to the accompaniment of the national anthem. You will see disciplined lines of children in the classroom and neat and clean uniforms. But there is no 'thinking outside the box'. They are taught what they need to know and not how to search around to enrich and expand thinking and free thought. Consequently there are issue when these kids start work and see a middle aged English bloke wanting to change the way things are done. I heard one story of a girl about 16 or 17 at work in one of the restaurants in Shanghai airport and she was asked to mop the floor. This is a perfectly normal request but she refused because she had never in her life mopped a floor. This was not her job in the family home and she could not understand why she was being asked to do it now. She did of course eventually begin, but she was crying and so upset about losing face.

So in conclusion I prefer to live in Singapore, feel the excitement of Hong Kong, revel in wandering around Shenzhan, and I am not sure about Shanghai.

Thats it then!

2009-05-20T12:59:00.005+01:00

My time is up! Life in Asia has come to an end, or rather, let's say one chapter is ending and another will open; in England.

The project I am (was!) working on in Hong Kong airport has been suspended. I could write a new blog on the politics and situations I have found myself in, but it isn't my style. We decided last week to call a halt to further work and take another review in the autumn. It is too early to say when and if it will re-start.

So in mid June my life returns to Diggle and I will be UK based for a few months. In truth I was becoming a little disillusioned with working in Hong Kong and I was becoming increasingly unhappy being so far away from family and friends in England and Thailand. I hope I have portrayed a positive image of Hong Kong because it is fun to wander around and become immersed in the culture. I will miss this and I bet I will be aching to get back after a few weeks in England. But it is the right thing to do, and to a large extent it has been decided for me.

It has been a privilege being able to work in new cultures and I would not have changed a thing. Khamma and I have grown closer together, and because I have lived apart from my family and friends in England for so long, I feel I have grown closer to them also. As my Dad says, 'I can hear the pumps squeaking', which is his reference to pulling a pint. I look forward to that too!

I not sure my boss reads this blog. I suspect he does but he never says. I never ask. But thank you Matthew for giving me this opportunity.

Khamma and I believe in fate and as we enter a new scenario that is far from ideal, we believe I will be happier in England and we can sort ourselves out in time to come. In fact Khamma is applying for another six month visa and I have already booked a ticket for her to come over to Diggle at the end of July. We will decide the next steps later.

In a couple of weeks I will close the blog, but there are some topics I want to blog on before then. I have been thinking about writing a book, but I keep losing the plot.

Have a Nice Day!!!!!!

2009-05-17T08:41:00.016+01:00

Today I decided to stroll on the Gold Coast beach. This is a piece of artificial beach created some years ago when the Gold Coast apartments and hotel complex was constructed. It is a welcome addition to the coast line around Hong Kong, which already has some excellent beaches and rocky coves and outcrops interspersed between scruffy industrialised premises and dock yards which are typically neglected and possibly contributing to a toxic coastline.

But on this hot sunny Sunday I don't want to be pessimistic. So I joined the crowds who don't want to fight in the shopping malls and markets, and instead prefer the freedom of the great outdoors at the Gold Coast where you can soak up as many ultra violet rays as you dare and have a great time having fun with the family. What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon knowing you are free from inhibitions and free from work and free from the stresses and strains of living six people to room in a dark apartment on the thirty ninth floor in Mong Kok. Free that is until you arrive at the Gold Coast beach.

This is the first sign inviting you to park your car, if you have one, in the right place.

The Gold Coast beach is owned by the Sino Corporation and due to either the health and safety regulations imposed by the local Hong Kong authorities, a sense of corporate responsibility, or Central Government wanting to make sure every knows what the score is; there is a collection of simple rules strictly imposed on to the public.

Having successfully found a parking spot you stroll expectantly down to the beach entrance. If you arrived by bike you are about to encounter your first problem. If you have a dog and it is couped up all day on the thirty ninth floor and is desperate for a walk, you also have a problem. If you are on your bike and have the dog as well, there are two problems and one solution; go home!

However, should you be without bike and dog there is a helpful plan of the beach area on the next notice board.

But please note: No Smoking. That is generally a good thing and pretty difficult to do when you are surfing, water skiing or diving, but you not allowed to do these things anyway, so that saves you the bother. Actually if you do go in the water beware of jelly fish and submerged rocks. Even if you don't want to go into the water and fancy a spot of fishing, you are advised to think again and leave the tackle at home. Finally just to remind you again in case you didn't see the one metre by three metre poster when you first arrived, that you cannot bring the dog, ride your bike and whilst we about it, don't even think about a skateboard. In addition you are told not to feed pigeons or wild birds because this causes dirtiness to public areas. But if a bird accidentally craps on you then you are asked to wash your hands. Presumably this is common sense to avoid bird flu. Whilst we are about it, yes there are signs posted about pig flu as well. Incidentally if you want to complain about these excessive rules you are invited to telephone the hot line. I can only imagine the reply you will get from the frumpy old Chinese 'jobs worth' at the other end.

Well ok, so far so good. I don't want to surf and all those things. I haven't got a bike or a dog, I don't smoke and the birds seem to fly away from me. I don't want to swim so the jelly fish will stay hungry.

The next notice board is actually by the sand;

From top left anti clockwise; no digging for clams. Keep away from the shark prevention net and swim within the booms. Toilet and shower directions to the left, and, finally, just in case you brought along some activities you are reminded; no kite flying, no kicking of balls (presumably football), no playing with remote cars or boats. Just a gentle reminder in case you have forgotten - no dogs but now it is extended to no animals at all, presumably to prevent the spread of pig flu! No fishing, and 'we don't care how many times we have to tell you' but there are no bikes and no skateboards. Get the message? Understand? NO? Really? Well read on Mr Numpty and take note. AGAIN!

We said NO DOGS! NO BIKES! NO SKATEBOARDS! Understand?

We are good people who like you to have a good time, but listen up:

NO LYING ON BENCHES, DON'T DRY WET CLOTHES, DON'T DROP LITTER AND IF YOU DO SEE ANY PLANTS TRYING TO SURVIVE IN THE STERILE ENVIRONMENT WE HAVE LOVING CREATED AND STRIVE TO RETAIN - LEAVE THEM ALONE.

One final message to the exasperated - DON'T SPIT even in disgust!

I am getting exasperated. All I want to do is walk on the beach but I am feeling intimidated especially as there are security patrol guards and life guards watching every move of every body. They are ready to pounce at the slightest indiscretion. But that isn't enough for the Sino Corporation; they have a public address system through which a waxy American female voice welcomes 'our valued guests to the Gold Coast beach', but then goes on to repeat the warning messages for the benefit of those people who can't read. Thoughtful!

Luckily they have directions to the toilet but just in case you think otherwise here are the warnings:

I am happy they thought of these eventualities and possibilities.

Still undaunted and perhaps against my rebellious nature (but nonetheless feeling wound up and starting to resort to venting my anti establishment feelings) I ran the gauntlet and walked along the pathway to the far end of the beach. I found more thoughtful advice;

I was now drained and defeated. This was not the simple walk of freedom I had set out to enjoy. I was trapped by unfounded corporate responsibility which was hell bent in denying me of my rights to go out and enjoy a good walk. What is there left to do on the Gold Coast beach?

Enjoy the sun, of course. But don't stay out too long or you will get dehydrated, your skin will shrivel and you get skin cancer. 'Go home and write a blog', the voice in my head started shout at me. Good idea.

City of Darkness

2009-05-09T01:32:00.012+01:00

The Walled City Park - a beautiful oasis in Kowloon

On an overcast Sunday morning during Khamma's last visit to Hong Kong we were wondering how to make the most of a dull day. In the Lonely Planet guide to Hong Kong there is short unassuming reference to a place called 'Kowloon Walled City Park'. It describes a park on the former site of a piece of land that during British rule of Hong Kong fell between the cracks in the diplomatic corridors of power. This land was not included in the 1898 lease agreement between Britain and China and therefore technically was not subject to British law and governance. Equally it was a bit of a thorn in the side of China who had more important priorities to manage. Consequently it became 'no man's land'.

The area of land covers 6 1/2 acres which is roughly 100 metres by 200 metres. It is located almost next to the old airport at Kai Tak. I never had the chance to use this airport but several friends tell me how amazing it was to land there. The runway was in the middle of the Kowloon residential area and on landing you could see inside the rooms of houses lining the airport perimter and see what people were doing, it was that close.

Historically the land was strategic in the defense of Hong Kong because of its proximity to the sea and adjacent to Hong Kong harbour. After the British occupied Hong Kong in 1841, the Chinese realised the importance of maintaining a garrison there and transferred the local administration to the fort and buildings occupying the surrounding rea. By 1847 an impressive wall surrounded the fort and government buildings and a 'visible and psychological symbol of Imperial control' was established.

Before long the area immediately outside the walls degenerated into a squatter's slums. It was described in the Hongkong Telegraph of the day as a 'wretched agglomeration of Chinese hovels'. It was a breeding ground in the pursuit of iniquity and opium dens, brothels and gambling houses all prospered, much to the outrage of the local authorities. It was about this time the British negotiated the lease to govern Hong Kong and the Chinese saw this as a convenient 'get out' in their efforts to establish law and order in this 'festering sore' of Kowloon City. However the Chinese did not want to lose face by deserting the city, their belief being that the Emperor would not be able to enter the royal temple and face his ancestors' spirits.

Therefore the Chinese, whilst wanting to relinquish control over this small area, found they were unable to. The British, in their Colonial wisdom, thought that there would be little consequence if the Chinese remained in the city, at least for a few years. The diplomats tussled with the wording about what to do with the city and eventually reached an agreement, but reality was that both sides were happy to leave the place alone, and as time moved on the city became desolate and administratively isolated. Forgotten by the authorities, but an increasing problem to the Hong Kong authorities and population.

The walled city became a curiosity for local Hong Kong people as more squatters started to set up homes in an unorganised, unplanned haphazard free for all. Eventually the Hong Kong authority decided to resolve the issue by developing the land in an attempt to wrest control and bring it line with the more strategic commercial developments arising in the adjacent area. By 1940 progress was being made and the area was on the point of being totally cleared, but World War II brought an abrupt end to their ambitions.

The Japanese arrived and promptly demolished the impressive wall, the last remaining relic of the city. Today it can be found underneath the runway of the old airport!

Today the old airport is in ruin

After the war the Chinese authorities announced their intention to reclaim jurisdiction. But post war Chinese refugees started to arrive and occupied the grounds deserted through the warfare. Confusion returned about who controlled what. The squatters were escaping the harsh conditions of China's agricultural conditions and saw Hong Kong as a chance to improve their lives.

In early 1950's the situation was spiraling totally out of control, but still the Chinese and British governments could not reach agreement. The Hong Kong government meanwhile decide to evict the refugees, but this ended in a bloody riot with the diplomatic and political effects being felt as far away as Shanghai.

The city grows out of control

Inevitably the problem was put to one side and the politicians tried to forget it existed, once again. The Hong Kong authority was powerless and decided their only course of action was to see what would happen by leaving the area to its own volition. The result was predictable and the city rapidly became a 'cesspool of iniquity, with heroin divans, brothels and everything unsavoury'.

By the 1960's the city was a firm stronghold for criminals and illegal drug dealing, particularly opium and heroin was controlled by the ruthless triad gangs, notably 14K. Through several land mark court cases, where attempts were made to exert justice under British law, it was established that there was no legal jurisdiction over the area. Many of the inhabitants enjoyed total freedom and no fear of arrest for whatever crime they committed, whether it was murder or protection rackets.

Drug use was rife and there are many reports of the bodies of addicts being tossed onto the Hong Kong streets for the authorities to dispose. Gang disputes over drugs led to brutal fights and death resulted in a perpetual of cycle of violence. Inside the city, plagues of rats prospered in the untreated rubbish of the squats, and the sewage disposal can only be imagined. Water was difficult to find and polluted once located, and electricity was non existent.

By 1971 there were 10,000 occupants in 2,185 dwellings, but the numbers continued to grow and by 1980 35,000 inhabitants were estimated to living in the confines of Kowloon's notorious estate. However, not all the residents were criminals and gradually a sense of order, through self regulation, started to prosper. With the authorities powerless to do anything other than offer advice they turned a blind eye to the regulations the rest of Hong Kong had to follow, and family businesses evolved and began to prosper. Doctors and dentists, who could not afford the license fees in Hong Kong, set up surgeries and consulting rooms. Shops and factories from engineering to watch strap manufacturers became established despite the absence of basic facilities like electricity. The resourcefulness of the residents knew no boundaries with their backgrounds from the villages and harsh conditions they had left in China, and the family commitment to work hard and make money.

Public health was an issue but the Hong Kong authorities dealt with collecting rubbish if it was thrown on the street, they treated the water pumped up from the wells with chlorine and they collected the sewage which was left on the streets each morning. Everyone was anxious that serious diseases should be contained, and if the Hong Kong authority were powerless to enforce they at least adapted to notification and education. The heavy hand of the health regulations was felt elsewhere, which did lead to some resentment from the majority of law abiding residents in the rest of the island.

During the 1970's the second and third generation of residents began to react and a concern for improved conditions was evident. Although crime within the city was high enough it was, generally, directed at people outside the city walls. The triads had taken control of water supply and they introduced electricity by tapping into the general supply outside the city. But the younger generation were determined to make a change and ever so slowly the associations of residents became recognised and politically they made a difference.

By the 1980's the triads no longer had the same control, crime was manageable and for the first time street lights were installed. Light in the City of Darkness. High profile politicians made visits to the city and there was a sense that change was about to take place. The Chinese declared that economic development had to take precedent over defending the territory with military might. Then suddenly on 14 January 1987 it was announced the city was to be demolished, compensate eligible residents and a park would be built.

A solution to problem of Kowloon City had been found.

I became fascinated with the history of city. When we arrived at the park we found very little reference to the conditions in the city until we arrived at the old Yamen which used to be an old people's home. A small, understated exhibition of conditions in the city is displayed, but there was such a powerful effect on me I instantly became enthralled and eager to know more.

A search on the Internet reveals several references to the Walled City and most of them come across as a no go area, where foreigners would not be welcomed, where life was cheap and law and order non existent.

However there is a gem amongst all the references on Google. It is Ian Lambot and Greg Girard's magnificent book called the 'City of Darkness' - Life in Kowloon Walled City. This book has excellent photographs and commentary from residents of the city in the three or four years before the city was demolished. The quality is excellent and it is now in my library of prized books.

Through the pictures and commentary I have started to learn about this unique place where the residents could live in a 'harmonious state of anarchy'. From the early 1950's the city developed without plans, without regulations, without central or local government. A unique urban society with a population reaching 35,000 at its peak, although official records were never kept. It was, at this time, the most densely populated place on earth, with almost one person occupying one square yard!

I hope over the next few weeks to bring out some of atmosphere I found on that dull day in Kowloon City. The life in the past, the park today and some areas still remaining in Hong Kong that have retained the magnificence that was once the Walled City.

I have been in contact with Iam Lambot, one of the authors of the City of Darkness, and he has very kindly given me permission to reproduce some of his photographs. I cannot do justice to the art work he created during his labour of love, but I have selected some photographs that depict this fascinating place. I thoroughly recommend this book which is available from Watermark Publications and is in its seventh reprint. Thanks Ian for your permission and for having the foresight to make this remarkable record of life in the city.

In contrast to Ian's book is an account written by Jackie Pullinger who was a British missionary in the City during the height of the opium era. Her personal story describes a terrible scene of triad gangs and violence amongst addicts where death seemed to be the easiest way out. She treated many of hardest addicts through Christianity and a Baptism to the Holy Spirit, using her faith in God, and God's faith in her, as her only defense between her and some of the most brutal people on earth.

Yesterday, as I sat in the gardens of the of the City of Darkness, I was watching birds catching flies over the lily pond. A more tranquil scene could not be found in Hong Kong, but my imagination was trying to think just how harsh life could have been for some, but how so many more were reluctant to leave.

Respect

2009-05-05T12:55:00.007+01:00

Every so often something happens that make me stop in my tracks, or rather my thoughts, and realise the world doesn't spin around me and Thamuang. Recently my daughter Clare announced she was running the Manchester 10k, this pleased me greatly and in fact inspired me to get out and start running again. Clare is still on target for the race and I am impressed at her tenacity, hopefully she will continue her campaign and go on running for many years to come. But last night I received an email from my Mum and suddenly understood how important certain beliefs are to her and my Dad.

Let me briefly explain. My Dad was a soldier in World War II, a proud private in the Black Watch, and saw a great deal of action and fighting on the front lines in France, Belgium and finally in the big push across the Rhine into Germany. Since retiring from work, over twenty years ago, he and Mum have been very active members of the British Legion and the Normandy Veterans Association. Sadly although they both sat on the committee of Poynton branch of the Legion, they decided to resign, along with other stalwarts, in protest to activities of club committee. Recently the NVA was disbanded because unfortunately the number of veterans is reducing. Through both these ex military associations they have formed lasting friendships and almost all of their social life has been centred on one or the other groups. My Dad is a very fit 84 year old. He is still active in the garden and helps our more doddery relations by ferrying them around in his car. But his enthusiasm as the NVA colour escort with his friend and fellow Black Watch veteran Ben, has over the years, helped him maintain an active interest and, indirectly, kept the remembrance of the War alive in our thoughts. He has visited schools as guest of honour and talked to children about the war, he has been awarded more medals than he can wear at one time and has visited Normandy on or around D Day for the last fourteen years, visiting different memorials to pay respect to his comrades.

My Mum hasn't exactly tagged along on these visits. She enjoys the administration and organising within the groups and of course has many good friends as well. Her memory of the War is not as vivid as Dad's, but she was brought up in a time of uncertainty and was surrounded by sad news of neighbours being killed in action. She remembers the blitz years and her older sisters working in the munitions factory. Nowadays she is a silver surfer and keeps in touch with friends and family through email. You can tell she is becoming more addicted when she starts complaining about her new BT hub and the wireless dropping out every two minutes. (It is sorted out now - thanks Clare).

It isn't easy for them to give up their social life because of the demise of the associations and they are very much looking forward to going to Normandy in June for the fifteenth year in succession. They are going as a small group of the former Stockport branch of the NVA, which has continued to meet as an unofficial group for the last year.

But their interest does not diminish and through her email network she forwarded this email yesterday. I had no idea what it was about until the end. I then realised how much respect they have for others, and how much respect others have for them. It reaffirmed to me how much love and respect I have for them.

Last week I was in West London attending a conference. While I was in the airport, returning home, I heard several people behind me beginning to clap and cheer. I immediately turned around and witnessed one of the greatest acts of patriotism I have ever seen.

Moving through the terminal was a group of soldiers in their uniforms, as they began heading to their gate everyone (well almost everyone) was abruptly to their feet with their hands waving and cheering. When I saw the soldiers, probably 30-40 of them, being applauded and cheered for, it hit me. I'm not alone. I'm not the only red blooded Briton who still loves this country and supports our troops and their families. Of course I immediately stopped and began clapping for these young unsung heroes who are putting their lives on the line everyday for us so we can go to school, work, and enjoy our home without fear or reprisal.

Just when I thought I could not be more proud of my country or of our service men and women a young girl, not more than 6 or 7 years old, ran up to one of the male soldiers. He knelt down and said 'hi,' the little girl then asked him if he would give something to her daddy from her. The young soldier didn't look any older than maybe 22 himself, said he would try and what did she want to give to her daddy. Suddenly the little girl grabbed the neck of this soldier, gave him the biggest hug she could muster and then kissed him on the cheek. The mother of the little girl, who said her daughters name was Courtney, told the young soldier that her husband was a Corporal and had been in Afghanistan for 5 months now. As the mum was explaining how much her daughter, Courtney, missed her father, the young soldier began to tear up.

When this temporarily single mum was done explaining her situation, all of the soldiers huddled together for a brief second. Then one of the other servicemen pulled out a military looking walkie-talkie. They started playing with the device and talking back and forth on it. After about 10-15 seconds of this, the young soldier walked back over to Courtney, bent down and said this to her, 'I spoke to your daddy and he told me to give this to you.' He then hugged this little girl that he had just met and gave her a Kiss on the cheek. He finished by saying 'Your daddy told me to tell you that he loves you more than anything and he is coming home very soon.'

The mum at this point was crying almost uncontrollably and as the young soldier stood to his feet he saluted Courtney and her mum. I was standing no more than 6 feet away as this entire event unfolded. As the soldiers began to leave, heading towards their gate, people resumed their applause. As I stood there applauding and looked around, there were very few dry eyes, including my own. That young soldier, in one last moment, turned around and blew a kiss to Courtney with a tear rolling down his cheek.

We need to remember everyday all of our soldiers and their families and thank God for them and their sacrifices. At the end of the day, it's good to be British.

RED FRIDAYS

Very soon, you will see a great many people wearing Red every Friday. The reason? Englishmen and women who support our troops used to be called the 'silent majority'. We are no longer silent, and are voicing our love for Country and home in record breaking numbers. We are not organized, boisterous or over-bearing. We get no liberal media coverage on TV, to reflect our message or our opinions.

Many British people, like you, me and all our friends, simply want to recognize that the vast majority of Britain supports our troops.

Our idea of showing solidarity and support for our troops with dignity and respect starts this Friday and continues each and every Friday until the troops all come home, sending a deafening message that every Briton who supports our men and women afar will wear something red.

By word of mouth, press, TV -- let's make Great Britain on every Friday a sea of red much like a homecoming football team. If every one of us who loves this country will share this with acquaintances, co-workers, friends, and family, it will not be long before Britain is covered in RED and it will let our troops know the once 'silent' majority is on their side more than ever, certainly more than the media lets on.

The first thing a soldier says when asked 'What can we do to make things better for you?' is...'We need your support and your prayers'... Let's get the word out and lead with class and dignity, by example; and wear something red every Friday.

IF YOU AGREE --

THEN SEND THIS ON

IF YOU COULD NOT CARE LESS

THEN HIT THE DELETE BUTTON.

IT IS YOUR CHOICE.

THEIR BLOOD RUNS RED---- SO WEAR RED! ---

Lest we Forget.

The email has a heart warming story and it drums up modern day patriotism. But whilst the message is for the British troops posted in many war zones around the world today, it reminded me that Dad was in the same position sixty odd years. Of course the World War II was fought for different reasons, but Dad was fighting for King and Country and without that I wouldn't be where I am today. I won't forget. Thanks Dad, and special thanks Mum as well. You are both heroes.

Dad (on the right) in Normandy June 2005

This picture appeared on the whole of the front page on the Daily Telegraph - I had so much pride telling the newsagent 'This is my Dad!'

A Sorjourn into China

2009-05-04T12:31:00.010+01:00

One of the more recent benefits to my job in Hong Kong is the acquisition of a multi entry visa into China. I will visit Shanghai several times in the next few months and obviously make the most of my visit to that fast changing city. But meanwhile I thought I would hop across the border between Hong Kong and Shenzan and see how the other half live. Despite Hong Kong technically belonging to China it is a still a separate administrative region (SAR) and visas are required to enter the mainland, even for Hong Kong residents.

Shenzan is a new town. It has grown in less than thirty years from a small agricultural town to a metropolis and model city for the People's Democratic Republic. I can only assume that the Chinese saw the separation of Hong Kong from Great Britain as inevitable and the far sighted central committee thought fit to develop the border area for easy trade access to the west and therefore the expansion of China. In 1992 Deng Xiaoping, who was responsible for bringing China out of the woes of the Cultural Revolution into its present day economic force, made a famous speech in Shenzan where he declared 'Poverty is not Socialism; to get rich is glorious'. Deng died in 1997 at the grand old age of 92, which was a little to soon to see his prediction come true, at least for some. I think there are several million living in China today who either wish for the old days, or wonder where why they didn't make it on the band waggon.

Anyway it is still China so yesterday I decided to have a little adventure and set the alarm for an early start. I caught the bus to the MTR railway at Tseun Wan where I boarded the train to Prince Edward and changed to the Kwun Tong line for the short hop to Kowloon Tong. Here the East Rail line goes to the border at either Lo Wo or Huanggang. I choose Lo Wo for no particular reason. The journey took just over two hours, and I have since found out there is a quicker way from the Gold Coast by going to Tuen Mun and catching mini bus to Sheung Shui, but that is for next time.

I love border crossings, especially new ones, where there is unpredictability of the outcome. I knew this time wouldn't be an issue because I had the visa, a valid passport and hundreds of others seemed to be doing the same thing! Nevertheless I was cautious and watched what everybody was doing. First step was to leave Hong Kong and I am always impressed with the way the Hong Kong Residents Card works. It leaves the UK in the 20th century of technology, and whilst the British Government agonise and debate the rights and wrongs of ID cards, Hong Kong have a great success with their card and finger print identity that processes you out of the country in seconds. That was the easy bit done.

There followed what is best described as a convergence of people into a relatively narrow passageway towards the Chinese border. I think normally this 'funnel' would adequately cope with hundreds of people at a time, but the emergence of pig flu has brought with it an extra step in the no man's land between the countries. Since a case of swine fever was confirmed in Hong Kong on Friday, there has been a proliferation in the use of face masks. Personally I doubt whether the masks are effective in preventing germs spreading from the wearer, nor are they any use in preventing the wearer from inhaling the annoying and lethal bug H1N1. Nevertheless the face mask is almost part of the national costume in Hong Kong and the pig cold is a fantastic excuse to dig out the old mask and wear it with pride. However, wearing a mask or not, everybody was required to fill out a declaration that we weren't feeling dizzy, had a runny nose or had fainted in the last seven days. We had to enter name, address and phone number and sign it. How this stops the spread of the bugs I don't know, but the Hong Kong citizens met the challenge with gusto and chaotic scenes broke out as the realisation dawned on each departing passenger that the form was compulsory. The problem was a shortage of pens. There was either a big group with one pen between, a small group who each had a pen but were in a hurry, or individuals like me who didn't either have a pen or knew anybody who could lend me one. The good news was the authorities recognised the issue and set up a line where the penless could get assistance, the bad news was the queue stretched further back than they anticipated and almost stopped people from coming out of the Hong Kong border control points. For a moment the air was tense as the 'jobs worth' border control clerk shouted at the queue and queue shouted back. All of this was in Chinese and of course I was blissfully above whatever was going on.

Twenty minutes later I joined the throng of queues waiting to hand the form into the other border control guards whose task it was to collect the useless declarations. Fortunately the lines moved quickly enough but it was interesting to watch how the Chinese deal with queues. As a patient Englishman I am happy to join a queue on two conditions; one, it is moving quickly enough, two, everybody takes their turn and doesn't jump in front of me. Especially me! Sadly this last rule is lost on all Chinese who will wriggle and worm their way through to the front whilst somehow I end up further back from where I started. I have learnt to join them, and the great thing is nobody cares, especially the old ladies. Give as good as you get and progress blossoms like a daffodil in Spring time.

The border guard had a problem with my useless form. It isn't so useless after all, because he questioned where I had been in the last seven days. When I said Hong Kong he looked at me with that border guard disbelieving look in his eye. Carefully watching if his right hand was moving towards his Smith and Wesson Magnum firearm I quickly produced my ID card and I was through.

Next hurdle to clear was passing through the Chinese border. More immigration cards and more queues specially set up for 'Foreigners'. After the form filling, with pens provided this time, and another line, in which the queue jumpers from India showed off their perfected technique, I was declared 'fit for purpose' and the formalities were completed. I walked straight up to empty booth marked 'Special Needs', well by this time I thought I 'needed something special', and the lovely Chinese police lady stamped my passport and at last I was in!

From leaving the apartment to entering China it took three hours, the last hour spent travelling all of fifty yards!

So what do I do now in this wonderful city of mainland China. On leaving the border control I found myself in a huge pedestrian esplanade leading into the main part of the town. I was approached by the usual touts wanting to take me a shopping experience, and other things I will leave to your imagination. But I was intent on seeing as much as possible. I didn't have a map so I relied on the position of the sun and the small hills to west of the station as my landmark.

Just 30 years ago Shenzan was a small agricultural town

To be honest there isn't all that much to see in terms of tourist sights like museums, buildings and so on. I was interested in looking at the differences in life between this town and Hong Kong. The way people go about their business, prices, what is for sale? Where people live, what they eat, how they deal with pollution, waste, traffic. There was a lot to look at.

Downtown Shenzan

Definitely prices are cheaper and I splashed out on and Adidas running T shirt for 2GBP. It is obvious everybody loves shopping and the markets were heaving with humanity. I grew weary of that and found a street cafe where I lunched on generous helpings of rice, fish, beef and two veg for the equivalent of 80 pence in the UK. It was tasty too!

Universal shopping

There is hardly anything in English so looking at shops to try and work out what it is can be hard work. Asking for directions is useless so I found myself constantly remembering where I thought I was in relation to the station. That didn't work either, so I gave up and opened my mind.

This 'free the mind' approach led me into a working class estate where I was made welcome enough, but it was obvious not many foreigners ventured in these parts. It was a bit of an eye opener with many fairly tall apartment blocks about twenty stories high but barely a gap to walk through between them. What struck me was that the windows from one building were about one metre away from the building opposite. Washing was hanging from many windows adding to the black and dingy atmosphere. In many of these alley ways were temporary kitchens and right in the middle of these blocks I found small shops selling household items. It was a dark world and reminded me of the 'City of Darkness' that was once Kowloon City in Hong Kong. (Note: I am compiling a blog on this fascinating lost city for Hong Kong, but if you google 'City of Darkness' you will get a feel for the subject). The streets were over flowing with life, from children playing, men playing cards, women chatting. There were shops everywhere selling everything from clapped out computers to engineering spares; from bakeries to clothes shops. None of them looked particularly inviting but I noticed an abundance of hairdressers. Asia has a fascination for its hair but Shenzen must have the highest ratio of hairdressing salons per head of population (forgive the pun).

Back to back living in Shenzan

I think you can judge differences between cultures through the simple act of a haircut. When I am in the mood I like to put my trust in a local barber just for the fun of it. I have had haircuts in many countries from rural Laos and Thailand to The USA, Canada and as of yesterday, China.

I decided on a fairly decent looking shop in the middle of the estate. They couldn't speak English, but it was fairly obvious what I wanted. I was seated in the chair and a small towel tucked into my T shirt. A girl of twenty something was assigned to wash my head and giggled at the foreigner and his foreign hair, or in my case lack of it. I had a shampoo where lots of soap was lathered up on my scalp and water sparsely added, in what is called a dry shampoo. This went on for ten minutes with a sublime scalp massage. I transferred to the sink and when the shampoo was washed out I was ready for a cut. The male barber executed the style exactly as I wanted it, despite no English being understood (a number 2 razor cut to make me look mean and tough). After that another rinse was followed by a towel dry, and that was it. I had no idea how much this luxury experience was going to cost, so imagine my surprise when the cashier charged me 15 yuan - the equivalent to 1.50GBP. Now that's what I call value for money. I was made very welcome and there were lots of 'bye byes' as I left. The saving on Hong Kong prices nearly paid for my trip!

I wandered round aimlessly observing life, and although I only saw a handful of westerners, there was no animosity directed to me and I wasn't challenged or made to feel uncomfortable. There is no reason to, but sometimes this type of voyeurism can be met with antagonism.

After all the walking I succumbed to my first ever foot massage, and I instantly decided I had missed out on this for far too long. I will revisit next time I go to Shenzen. It cost the equivalent of 3GBP for over an hour's intensive pounding and pummeling on my tired legs. I had earned this from the tough walk on Friday and the day's wandering round this city. As hit the streets again my legs were rejuvenated and I made my way to the border, which actually was a bit harder then planned; mainly because my most important navigational aid, the sun, was hidden by a sudden onset of thick cloud. Luckily I met someone who could speak English and he was delighted to strike up a conversation and, actually be understood as well as giving important instructions about my route. He got left and right mixed up, but with some animated sign language we overcame that mistake and I am sure he will remember right from left next time.

The return back to Hong Kong was less hectic than the arrival, but I still had to fill in the useless form for Hong Kong's obsession with pig bugs.

It took two hours to get back to Gold Coast but I had enjoyed a excellent day out. Next week I am going to Shanghai. It is a hard job but someone has to do it.

A Walk in the Hills

2009-05-02T03:12:00.011+01:00

At last the sunshine and clear blue sky has settled on Hong Kong. After last weekend's rain and climatological misery where my mood was the same as a caged animal, I was free to explore the hills and at the same time see the horizons without getting wet. Yesterday was a public holiday and I was early to rise to catch the ferry to Mui Wo a small bay on Lantau Island.

This small village has a different atmosphere from the flesh pots of Central and Tsim Sha Tsui. There is a freshness and a more casual approach, far fewer people and feeling that there are not the same rules and regulations to abide by. Perfect for a welcome day off. My plan was to walk up Sunset Peak followed by Lantau Peak and eventually arrive at the site of the Buddha Dollar, the subject of a previous blog where Khamma created the much better phrase 'car on string' to describe a cable car. The day didn't quite turn out like that, but first things first.

After stocking up at the Wellcome supermarket, which has a much better choice than my local at Gold Coast, I set off up the steep road towards the Nam Shan picnic area. It is a fairly monotonous road but I was briefly side tracked by the cemetery. The Chinese are extremely respectful of the deceased with festivals and offerings regularly made in the temples. But in this unusual cemetery the authorities were combining the burial of the dead with slope management. During the heavy rains in the summer there is a considerable risk of land slip and mud falls. Where this is a danger the Government Department for Slopey Land (?), will stabilise and more or less eliminate the risk of land slip. They strengthen the soil and then pour cement on the slope so that the rain washes off and is channeled into water catchment areas. All these slopes are numbered so that if there is a problem the slope is quickly identified and repaired. In this small cemetery it appeared they were re-burying the bodies into mini mausoleums and then creating a cement slope so the bodies don't wash away onto the beach!

The trail started in a woodland paradise, perfect for walking with sun dappled glades and tantalising views of the villages and deserted beaches through the trees. It was a steep path because the walk starts at sea level and rises to 869 metres (2,851 feet). But this tranquil and deserted path tricked the mind and the hard slog in the heat soon transformed into, well, a hard slog in the heat! But time passed by quickly enough.

The trees started to thin and the hills opened out into a rolling and folding landscape. I thought of the Peak District without the peat bogs, I thought of Scotland's Munros with similar walks from sea level to over 3,000 feet without the midges, I thought a lot about my climbing friends past and present. The views opened up and to the south I could see the bays and inviting beaches and to the north the airport with aircraft landing and taking off. In the far distance towards the north I could just make out the Gold Coast and the apartment block where I live. I met several groups of people but otherwise I could enjoy the solitude, although the peacefulness was constantly interrupted by the distant roar of aircraft. It was nice to hear the birds sing and see butterflies in aerobatic combat with each other.

The Office!

Eventually the route leveled out and the rolling mountainside opened up onto a windy plateau. Here I found several mountain huts that were constructed about fifty or sixty years ago as retreats for missionaries working in China. Nowadays they are apparently available to hire, but there was little evidence of a high occupancy rate. The summit of Sunset Peak was close but for some reason the path did not lead up to it, but rather circumvented the round cone shaped peak. I wasn't going to let this get in the way of standing on the third highest point in Hong Kong, so I 'pirated' my way upwards through tufted grass and across boulders, watching for snakes at the same time.

The view was good. There was a trig point which immediately reminded me of England. All of the trig points in England have been retired now and only a handful are cared for by voluntary groups driven by a nostalgic necessity to keep alive a monument in memory of someone or something. I would be surprised if Hong Kong's trig points are used with all the GPS and radar technology dotted all over the islands, but it was in excellent condition.

Sunset Peak Trig Point with Lantau Peak in the background

My pirate route across the grass almost back fired as I moved towards my next target, the Lantau Peak standing, no looming, at 934 metres (3064 feet). The path I should be on was far below me and slowly going in a different direction to mine. Some serious pirating was needed and I found a faint path which after about thirty minutes stumbling brought me back to the straight and narrow, except on this occasion it was winding steeply downhill in a series of steps.

I had been warned the descent was tough on the legs and it certainly was. I couldn't decide if it was easier to walk at the side of the steps or to use the steps themselves. Both were heavy on my thighs which at times trembled under the pressure of transferring body weight. My thoughts turned to who constructed this path and how long it took them, it is a remarkable achievement. But my attempts to make my mind wander did nothing to stop the muscle burn and eventually even my toes were hurting from the constant bumping in my shoes. My spirits were not lifted by the sight of Lantau in front of me and the thought that every foot descended on Sunset Peak represented a foot ascending on that monster of a hill. Whereas at first I could see the mass of Lantau set against a hinterland of other smaller mountains, including the Buddha Dollar, after half an hour on this searing descent all I could see Lantau, big and awesome.

There was an escape! In between my rapidly demoralising state of mind and the Lantau Peak was a bus back to Mui Wo. I succumbed and decided Lantau summit will have wait for another day, it isn't going anywhere, even if the Government Department for Slopy Land hasn't registered it yet!!!!

On the beach

Back in Mui Wo I wandered amongst the local houses with the usual stores selling fresh fruit and veg, the men playing Jahong, and the women looking after the babies. On the beach was the temporary influx of townies but there was little to keep my interest. I returned to Central and enjoyed a few moments looking at the cityscape in the twilight before wandering around Tsim Sha Tsui and returning home, tired and almost beaten.

On my way back I sneezed and then grunted like a pig. I hope I haven't got swine flu.

What on Earth are They Thinking About?

2009-04-28T12:40:00.007+01:00

We all make mistakes from time to time, especially at work. Some of us live in dread of the consequences of a wrong decision here or a misplaced judgement there, and as you get older and wiser the fear of the mistakes doesn't diminish. But I suppose as one gets older other people's mistakes can be judged using an accumulation of experience gained over one's lifetime. But occasionally some mistakes of monumental proportion hit the headlines that it beggars belief what was going on in the person's head.

I have come across two such instances this week and I have to share them with you, dear reader.

Firstly there is the unbelievable admission by the owners of the new Wembley Stadium that the micro climate generated by the design of the stadium is detrimental to the growing conditions required by the grass on the pitch. Excuse me for being thick but isn't this the national stadium, designed at phenomenal expense, and over spent by who knows what the real amount was? Isn't the primary purpose of Wembley Stadium to watch football matches on a pristine pitch? I wish I could see the terms of reference and the objectives of the project. I bet somewhere it mentions football and pitch in the same sentance. It is a disgrace and an insult to the football public of England for FA to say we built you a stadium fit for a World Cup final, but we forgot about the pitch. What rubbish!

The other big monumental mistake was made in New York City Hall yesterday. Somebody in there gave permission for a 747 plane, owned by the President of America, and an air force jet fighter, owned by the US Air Force, to fly together at low altitude over the city. His mistake was he didn't tell any of New York's residents, not even the City Mayor knew what was going on. What would you do if you were walking down 5th Avenue, looked up, and saw these aircraft flying very low? Would you think 'Oh, look they are flying a bit low'. Or would you think 'Gez H Christ, get the *%^k out of here now' and run like crazy just in case you were about to die from a terrorist attack or yet another crashed aircraft that failed to take off from JFK, Newark or La Guardia? This city doesn't need reminding of 9/11, or airplanes landing on the Hudson river, but the stupid, idiot, moron 'son of a bitch' in the City Hall does! What a dense pillock.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_depth/8022881.stm

Double click on the link to see BBC footage.

Normal service will resume tomorrow.

More Songkhran and a School Re-Union

2009-04-26T02:33:00.006+01:00

There was one more push to squeeze the final amount of money out of the merit seeking villagers. The band was to meet in the late Sunday afternoon sunshine, we then started in turn from several households scattered at the four corners of the village to escort the family through the streets back to the temple. During the morning the families were busy creating more elaborate floral displays with money inter twinned with wild flowers, leaves and other foliage in a bed of rice. Two or even three households teamed up together and there was unofficial competition between them to see who danced the best, who looked the best, which display was biggest and who was the loudest. No prizes except increased pride!

I was tired and my hand was sore, but I wanted to play and so I met the boys at roughly the arranged time, give or take an hour, and we walked a short distance to the first house. With the family in procession we set off in a noisy but rhythmic parade to the temple. The family danced, the children ran in between them, the cats and dogs dived for cover. This carried on all afternoon until the sun set. We made five or six escorts back to the temple and then collapsed in a heap. It was less formal than the previous day, but the band plays on and plays its heart out.

The next day was the main songkhran day. This is the day when everybody, and I mean everybody, gets a good soaking. The only exceptions are the old and frail, pregnant ladies and grumpy men. We decided to go to a beauty spot about eighty kilometres away called '3,000 boats'. I might have all of this wrong because I couldn't for the life of me work out why it should be called 3,000 boats. I am not even sure where it is, but never mind!

The plan was simple, it has to be because this is Thailand. We opted, well my mind played out the fantasy, for a military campaign. Our arsenal consisted of three huge water butts placed on the pick up truck full of high grade explosive water. The personal firearms were hand sized scoops used to throw the water over a twenty to thirty yard trajectory in the direction of the enemy. We climbed aboard and took up position and on instruction from Field Marshall Sir Thamuang Farang we set off. Those of you that saw the movie Kelly's Heroes will get the picture! We had travelled all of one hundred metres before encountering our first skirmish with a well armed but fixed position para-military songkhran unit (FPPMSU). They were six or seven strong and well armed with powerful but well used plastic ex US Army 'H2O grenade launchers; Made in China' supplied by Tesco Lotus Arms Dealership in Ubon. We took a hit on the offside of our troop carrier but manage to return fire with several rounds of water droplets from the hand scoops. No casualties except for a mild wetting of the upper garments. A good opening round to warm up.

The Toyota Troop Carrier is an ideal RTTC (Rapid Transit Troop Carrier) designed for off road warfare in rural Thailand

We advanced north towards Trakan Phutphon on the main 2050 road. There were several small groups of guerilla fighters on both sides of the road, but the speed of the Toyota troop carrier ensured we were not hit. There was an early problem with range finding on several of the hand scoops and it took a while to adjust the sighting mechanism and the WARF (Wind Adjustment Range Finder). The problem seemed to be related to the amount of water in the hand scoop and the speed of the troop carrier. Some of the platoon solved this quickly and were prompted to positions at the back of the carrier, some of the troops needed more practice and were given time but were reminded that a direct hit had serious consequences, and the rest couldn't get the hang of it so they huddled up behind the wind break and the FWD (Forward Water Deflector).

In all cases of rapid advancement by SUTC (Single Unit Troop Carriers) there is a danger of meeting the enemies mobile seek and destroy units (MSDU's for short). We encountered several high performance 4x4 Hummer type vehicles with the latest high powered polypropylene Chinese 'H20 grenade launchers; Made in China', supplied by 'Big C Arms and Defence Manufacturers' in Ubon. This weapon carries much more force and is able to lob huge globules of water for considerable distances with remarkable accuracy which explode on impact soaking the victim to the skin. We could not compete with this technology and suffered heavy causalities. Water everywhere and a clothes wet through.

Under attack from rebels at a fixed position para-military Songkhran unit (FPPMSU)

This strategy continued all the way to our target destination. We had to re-arm at a fuel dump but by then we had penetrated the enemy lines and we were marching towards victory. Police road blocks were encountered in several sensitive areas. An uneasy truce broke out in the area just before and after the barriers. Knowing that the enemy lies within at these road blocks, and 'Rambo' Songkhran tactics will not be effective, requires strong leadership. Field Marshall Sir Thamuang Farang was lucky to be advised by a first class platoon with immense local ground knowledge, and he was able to restrain the young tigers in his control from instant detention in the Ubon Ratchathani Police Hilton. Only once was Private Yo Sroikham allowed a single sniper shot at a police man. He hit the target across the chest and an instant soaking marked the policeman's pristine uniform. Our driver was too fast, and Private Sroikham's punishment was restricted to a wave from the laughing policeman. On the final approach we encountered remaining insurgent groups but they were easy pickings as news spread that the victorious Thamuang army had won.

A loyal soldier from the Thamuang Songkhran Army in full camouflage

After a quick walk round the beauty spot and a very poor meal we retraced our steps to Thamuang. After a few soakings I decided to pull rank and sit inside the cab with the driver to discuss navigational and strategic manoeuvres and have a well earned sleep.

Later that night Khamma and I went to the village school re-union. I expected a few people and polite conversation and maybe a beer if I was lucky. I was wrong again and amazed to see the school yard transformed into an open air restaurant with about 800 guests. There was a stage and a band and the lighting was just enough to make a very special event under the warm sky and twinkling stars. Being constantly surprised is a great reason to be in Thamuang. Apparently people had travelled from Bangkok and Chiang Mai (hundreds of miles) to be here and catch up on the gossip and fortunes of past pupils. It was a great night and a fitting end to a wonderful weekend.

Next day I travelled back to Hong Kong but I cannot settle. There is a way of life in Thamuang that cannot be replicated in Hong Kong, and there are family and friends in England I miss so much. Hong Kong is good but I will move on once the airport business is finished.

A year on

2009-04-25T03:37:00.002+01:00

Today is the first anniversary of my 'Life in Asia' blog. It is one year old and over a hundred entries long. I pat myself on the back for my tenacity and comittment. But life in Asia, has it been worth it? Simply speaking yes it has. I have had the opportunity to visit Thamuang frequently and Khamma has spent time with me in Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong as well as going to England. We are very much together and in love.

That side of life is good, but there are downsides. I am missing my family and friends in England much more and becoming increasingly unhappy in Hong Kong. Right now my mood is not lifted as I look out over the Pearl River estuary towards the South China Sea and I can see the grey concrete apartments, the grey river, the grey harbour, the grey sea and layers of grey clouds all around. It is raining and this adds a thin grey mist across the bay. OK I know it rains in Hong Kong but give me a break!

The blog keeps me going and even though it is raining I find a little bit of sunshine from England, and a clear blue sky in Thamuang.

Thanks for reading whoever you are.

Drumming Up Funds for the Temple and a Songkhran soaking

2009-04-25T00:36:00.016+01:00

Band on the Run

By now the village was in full flow and the holiday spirit and carnival atmosphere was being enjoyed by everyone as normal daily routines were put on hold. I was keen to join the band and parade around the village in the annual fund raising for the temple. It takes a fair amount of cash to keep the temple in good repair and to improve the facilities not only for the monks but so the village people can enjoy the solitude the garden provides. The temple is like a community centre in England. Each house hold is expected to contribute and the money they can afford is presented in a simple floral display which is then paraded around the village as at least one member of the household follows the band. The procession starts and finishes at the temple, but the early morning rain which dampened the warriors spirits at last night's gig was still lingering. This made the start time of the procession unpredictable, but the call of the leader over the village public address system sent everybody scurrying around and in no time at all villagers on bikes, motorbikes and on foot made their way to the temple.

The temple was full when we arrived and Khamma explained that the prayers and readings had begun at 4am. People could join or leave whenever they wanted. I saw Khamma's mama and she had been there since 6am, nearly five hours earlier. The boys in the band always appear to be on the fringe of the Buddhist activities, but when the music starts they become the aural if not the focal point. They gather together in a corner chatting amongst themselves and as I joined them they made me very welcome with handshakes and smiles. There are curious stares from people as they enter the temple and some of them are confused at the farang joining this motley crew. Others are casting a wary eye over all of us wondering what to expect from this strange gathering of men, young and old, with drums of different shapes and sizes and our own shrine made out of an old pushcart with wobbly wheels carrying over sizes speakers and an amplifier and the biggest and heaviest battery I have ever seen. Because it is raining it is covered with a dirty plastic sheet and will only be unveiled when guitarist is ready. It is marginal whether the dirt will fall into the amp and short circuit it, or whether it better to let the rain do it instead.

We drank our 'whiskey' and paid homage to something; I am not sure what but I join in just the same! The guitarist, or 'pin player' or even 'pinnest' (?) tunes his three strings into the key of 'yale', and turns up the volume to make sure everybody within a ten mile radius can hear. The Abbott and his followers are hit by a wall of sound. Eyes turn again in a curious bewilderment and resignation that 'boys will be boys'. Without any obvious sign or cue that this was the right moment the band began to play. Diddle um dum - dum - dum - dum; diddle um dum, dum dum. I just caught up on the second bar. The sound of the pin is piercing and already hurting my head.

We set off in a thin line two abreast and walked around the temple three times. We are completely oblivious to the solemn proceedings in the temple. Walking round the temple three times is a respectful to the temple and we gather momentum with every diddle um dum dum. The drums pick up their beats and it almost sounds like a samba. The rhythm is picked up by the two manic, energetic and skinny constantly smiling twenty somethings whilst the first and third beat is picked up by the deeper sounding drums belonging to the older ones. For my part I have to play the first, second and third beats - one, two, three; one, two, three; or even nueng, song, sam (in Thai). The less energetic play symbols but one of the struggles to keep the knot in the string to stop the symbol falling off and eventually gives up.

Outside the temple we pick up groups of party animals, mainly ladies, who are dancing in a morlam variation with lots of seductive arm weaving and hip swinging. I take up a position very near the back of the band but right underneath the speakers on the pushcart. I regret this but I don't want to lose sight of my mentor whose one, two, three is perfect. Nevertheless we walk through the village and I am greeted with waves and thumbs up as the farang of the Thamuang Gang.

The weaving of hands and swaying of hips

The procession picks up other people carrying their simple displays of flowers and notes of money folded and placed in bamboo sticks that have been split at one end and decorated with delicate multi-coloured tissue paper. In a way it is a display of 'whose best and gives the most', but the sheer number of these donations overwhelms even the most creative. Many households in Thamuang will donate much more than they can afford to, but it is their believe they are making merit and preparing for a better future in this world and the next. But every donation is given willingly and with happiness.

After walking round every street and up and down the main road we returned to the temple. By this time the first 'pinnest' had made way for the second. We started to play in confusion as the style was different and vacant looks were passed between us as we tried to make sense of what the new guy was playing. The dancers began to sway as a different beat knocked them off balance, two ladies nearly fell over, three bumped into each, three started shouting at us and some stopped altogether. The onlookers started laughing and pointing even more. But order was restored and a new Thamuang beat was discovered. Bearing in mind this band never practices new tunes or beats I think we did well to recover our composer, sorry composure.

Our second pinnest was replaced by a third one. He was a young boy, no more than twelve years old and playing like a master. His pin was his pride and joy and he was relishing his opportunity. His mother looked on with pride as he made his debut performance with the band. With re-newed vigour and energy the drums responded and I even ventured with a da-da, da, da or even a da-da, da-da, da. Sometimes I played a clear note sometimes I played a deep note from the middle of the drum. I didn't care I was in a groove. But my hand hurt like mad.

We arrived back at the temple and completed three laps whilst the monks and their faithful were still reading from the Great Scriptures. They had been inside for a marathon eight hours but the final notes of the band signalled an end and everybody gathered together in an open sided kitchen and dining area to hand over their donations. It looked fairly formal but I joined the hundred plus people by sitting at the back. As usual I was the butt of the joke about my knees not allowing my legs to bend underneath me, but that one is wearing a bit thin now.

The Abbott was accompanied by a more senior Abbott and there was a short prayer ceremony followed by the senior Abbott walking around spraying the blessed water over us. The formalities were now over and everybody queued up to hand over their donations that were meticulously recorded in giant ledgers. It was estimated 50,000 baht had been collected. That is 1,000 GBP.

There now followed a short respite for lunch, but at 4pm we started all over again!

This time the band was required to leave the temple (after three laps) in a procession behind a paper-mache effigy of an elephant which was carried in the back of a pick up. The elephant is sacred amongst Thai Buddhist and the idea of this procession was to adorn it with the same sticks used in the morning's fund raising activity, but with more money. We walked through the streets past the crowds who eagerly handed over their sticks with 20, 50, 100 and the odd 500 baht notes and before long the elephant had a garland of money sticks around its neck. We paraded much further this time and the weariness was beginning to tell on each of us. We had a short break on the edge of the village where a party was in full swing and obviously the spirits were flowing in every sense of the word! We marched on out of the village and I was wondering when and where all of this was going to end. But soon I could see several monks in a field by the side of the road sitting under a tree, and a gathering of people sitting on mats in front of them.

The elephant was positioned to the side of the monks and faced the gathering, the band sat down some distance away and opened up the whiskey. I joined Khamma in the gathering. The pushcart with its wobbly wheels was man handled into position to the other side of the monks and the leader handed a microphone to the Abbott who was more or less sat in the middle. A long piece of cloth, decorated with scenes from the Buddha stories, was encircled around the gathering and the monks. This made the open air service more intimate as if the blessings and prayers could not escape, or it could have been to keep the band away. Then there was a short pause and a realisation that the monks had forgotten to bring the gong which is an essential part of the service. The pick up driver was dispatched back to the temple, but the elephant remained with the crowd. By now a group of eight ladies started stifling giggles, then there were three loud guffaws and a couple of snorts, which led to more giggles and a signal for everyone to join in. Then several more guffaws and snorts were released that had the Abbott smiling. This was sanuk (good fun at the Abbott's expense). The novice monks started giggling too and then everybody had the giggles, except the band who were fast asleep and the driver who cursed his bad luck.

Once the gong arrived and was sounded the Abbott turned the serious business of prayer and blessing. I found a comfortable position for my knees and decided it was much easier sitting on a soft surface than the hard floor of temple. The Abbott finished and then walked amongst us splashing the blessed water for everybody. I definitely got a soaking!

After the blessing the monks climbed into the back of another pick up, the elephant was loaded back on to its pick up and the band was woken up from sleeping. The monks quickly went on ahead and the crowds formed a long single line and started walking, carrying the banner to their side, with the band lazily bringing up the rear. We marched towards the temple but were ambushed by the novice monks as they soaked us with water! Songkhran had official started!

At the end of the day I was weary. I didn't think it was going to be such hard work and my hand was sore from all the drumming. We were in high spirits and everybody was happy, and Khamma and I triumphantly walked back to Owerrrouse to the soft drumming with my good hand - da-da, da, da; da-da, da, da. Khamma said 'This is Raymond!'.

A Weekend of Fun - Thai Boxing and Morlam

2009-04-21T12:43:00.005+01:00

My weekend in Thamuang coincided with the annual festivities of raising funds for the temple and Songkhran. Khamma and I and most of the family made the most of everything that was going on in the village and from Friday night to Monday night there was never a dull moment and hardly a nano second to take a breather. It is testament to the spirit of the village community that so many events were organised and well attended. Of course we have village fetes in Diggle and the Beer Walk and the Whit weekend band contest that are firm favourites and well attended. The atmosphere is different in Thamuang because everybody knows each other and there isn't that uneasy feeling of half knowing someone through watching them drive to work at 7.30 every morning but not quite familiar enough to say hello face to face. When I was more permanent in Diggle I hardly saw my neighbours from one month to the next. Often, as I cleaned my car, I would cast a half a wave, more in hope than expectation, that I would engage in conversation about something or other with a neighbour. I always had a good chat with John, one of the rare breed of neighbours who genuinely enjoyed a natter, Sarah Jane would say hello, but usually she was off somewhere in a hurry. I don't know much about the rest of my neighbours even after nine years living in the same house.

In Thamuang it is different. There our neighbours drop in for a chat and a glass of water, or bring some surplus mushrooms and bamboo shoots. It is an echo of my childhood in Hazel Grove where neighbours would take in your washing if it started to rain, or help with the shopping, or lend a cup of milk. As you walk down the road in Thamuang people ask where you are going, what have you got and how much did it cost. In Diggle we would tell these nosy parkers to 'bugger off' and mind your own business, but the Thai openness and superficial inquisitiveness make it as natural as, well, getting on with your neighbours.

So it was with spring in our step that we strode purposefully to the temple for the annual Thai boxing and Morlam music concert (or gig as we would call it in Diggle). The temple was transformed from the usual open and peaceful and tidy sanctuary into something resembling a fair ground. Lots of mobile fast food stalls selling fish balls (?) meat balls, fried grasshoppers, BBQ chicken, beef, pork to be consumed with spicy sauces laced with chillies, garlic and ginger were parked on the main road. These vendors had a steady trade from the Thamuang faithful who turned out for the event. I was taken aback by the controlled access into the temple grounds and somewhat astonished to see Khamma's cousin smartly dressed in the khaki uniform and shiny black boots of the village security corps. He looked very smart but completely out of character wearing a riot helmet and carrying a sizable truncheon in his right hand tapping the side of his leg. He was one of many similar dressed trying to look menacing with a look in the eye that indicated they were there patrolling the grounds to prevent trouble, but if anything started they were unsure how to stop it!

We moved into the Thai boxing area which on every other day of the year does nothing except bake in the fierce sun, but for this night only was hosting a floodlit boxing ring with ringside seats for the judges and dignitaries and the famous. There was a commentator amusing the crowd with his comments and wit. There was a beer stall also enjoying a brisk trade on this hot humid night under the Thailand stars.

Altogether there were fifteen bouts starting with the young kids of about ten years old rising through the age groups to the top billing of the champions (I think). I had not been to a Thai boxing event before and soon realised I didn't know what was going on, for example how do they scored points and decided a winner. I have been to professional boxing in the UK and like to watch out for local heroes like Ricky Hatton and Amir Khan. As a kid I enjoyed sitting round the radio with my Dad listening to the Henry Cooper fights against Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson and of course Mohammed Ali was, and still is, my all time hero.

No such legends were on the bill tonight at the Thamuang Temple, but there were plenty of feisty young kids and it was a very entertaining and enjoyable evening. I remember one young boy who was about three foot nothing ducking and weaving like the champ, then a kick where his leg spun his entire body round and his perfect balance brought him back to the start all in the flash of eye. This was serious fighting with prize money as well as pride at stake.

The smell of the boxing liniment, the glistening muscular bodies shining in the lights. That first contact where the impact of the irresistible force against the immovable object explodes into a spray from a mixture of sweat, liniment and water and is silhouetted against the clinical white lights of the ringside spotlights. It was a great atmosphere egged on with the crowd backing their favourite and 'oohing' and 'aghing' as every punch and kick landed on their opponent.

I think this is close to a true sport as you can get. Then a spotlight bulb fell out of its socket onto the ring. Luckily none of the barefooted fighters trod on it.

We met up with Adrian and Rattana our new friends from down the road. It is good to meet farang to have a chat and compare notes and I'm sure we will be sharing more beers together in the months to come.

We moved onto the Morlam gig. Morlam is the music of Isaan area of northeast Thailand. Tonight was a fusion of normal drums and guitars with a traditional 'cann' and singing in a deep monotone style. In its way it is similar to English folk songs, but it is much more popular and the people of Isaan love to listen and dance and sing. We took a spot near to a group of friends and family and watched the 'cann' player weave his music around the stories spun by the singer. They were backed up by the band and the men were distracted by the 'eye candy' of the dancers who did an excellent job contributing to the visual effects of the music! Everybody on stage was performing well and the crowd was dancing in front of the Buddha. I looked around and caught a glimpse of the monks looking on from their dormitory, smiling and no doubt wishing they were dancing with everybody else. It did occur to me that it seemed incongruous for the temple to open itself to all this cavorting, but the senior monks are just as part of the community as everyone else and as this is an event to raise money for the temple so, I guess at worst they tolerate it and at best they enjoy it as much as anyone else.

But suddenly, on the stroke of midnight, a shock wave poured through the crowd from the dance floor. Screaming and shouting displaced the band and the stage was being evacuated part in self defence, part in an futile attempt to restore order. The pent up anger of local youth which had been festering over the last twelve months burst open like an angry boil on the back of your neck. Local gangs clashed and now targeted males were being beaten senseless. Of course drink was the catalyst, but the event itself was the obvious draw for this kind of trouble. Entirely predictable, hence the local security from Dad's Army, but nobody could keep the rivals apart. There was a panic for a while but after twenty minutes the band re-appeared and started all over again as if nothing had happened. Dad's Army re-appeared from behind the temple to assure the crowds they were in control, but a glance around the grounds showed that nothing was further from the truth and it was only a matter of time before round two would kick off.

There have been gigs like this in Thailand where guns have been produced and the violence is more serious. Luckily this is Thamuang where fists do the the talking. Khamma and I had seen enough so along with Yo we walked back home under the stars to the sound of the frogs in the fields.

The comparison to England is the same. Drink fuels violence whether it is in Thamuang or Diggle. Young men will always strut their stuff wherever they are, whatever their creed and culture, whenever they have drunk enough to let their bravdo surface and take on all comers. The guns are also there as we saw in Bangkok last Friday and was affirmed today by the now underground leaders of the red shirts. It is a pity that some in the world want to be like this whereby the majority just want to get on with their neighbours.

The normal things

2009-04-19T10:01:00.008+01:00

At the end of my first day I reflected on normal daily life around Owerrrouse. I have been in Thamuang for over a year and have slowly collected some memorable experiences and images on almost all aspects of life in the village. My understanding about how the community interacts is beginning to be more mature and not just built on first impressions. During this short holiday I was to discover more about family values and to learn how to have fun - Thai style. But right now Bung wanted to go fishing, and he was determined he would empty the pond and gather up the remaining fish before the rains start to be more frequent. Everybody, well almost everybody, joined in.

He rigged up the water pump and soon the pond was becoming empty. Bung's young son is called Tao and is the same age as Yo, Khamma's son, but unlike Yo, he loves to get muddy . Tao was relishing every moment of catching fish in the squishy warm mud and was joined by two of his real cousins larking around. Yo meanwhile had caught a bird for the fun of it.

In the space of a couple hours about sixty fish had been caught with a couple of sizable ones taking the top prizes.

Tao with the pick of the catch

As usual the women folk prepared supper and the surplus fish sent to neighbours to enjoy. There is no concept of keeping the fish in freezer for another day because the freshness will have gone and they will not taste the same. With vegetables and spicy hot sauces with a choice of sticky rice and steamed rice, we had yet another feast. The whiskey on ice with soda was good, but not as good as the Leo beer.

We talked into the night with friends dropping by to see what was going on. The insect life is a little daunting, especially if like me, you are not used to it. Flies can be everywhere and the lizards, geckos and other things of the night are close by. There was one night where we had to shut all the lights in the house because a plague of freshly hatched mayfly type flies swarmed in on anything giving out light. The next morning the floors inside and out were littered with wings, but the bodies were nowhere to be seen.

Schooling is very important to everybody as it is seen as a way to improve the chances of earning better money and therefore not spending a life in the rice fields struggling to make ends meet. Khamma and I are committed to make sure Pel and Yo have the best educational opportunities going for them. Pel is currently in her second year at Ubon University and is enjoying some work experience as part of her course. She is working in the filing department at one of Ubon's police stations, and whilst she finds it a little tedious she is learning and trying to impress. Yo is about to start his 'big' school and will go through that painful experience of leaving the village school where he was a big fish in a small pond, to the high school where he will be a small fish amongst 3,000 other students! He will have Tao for company which is a blessing.

Yo and Tao in their new class room

I wanted to see the new school so we drove to Trakan about ten miles away and Yo proudly gave me a tour round. He doesn't officially start until 4 May, but he is required to attend several Saturdays as orientation days, and Khamma is required to attend with him as well. I am not sure any learning goes on but they do get to know how the school operates and they have to queue to buy the uniforms and books and stationery necessary for a term's work. It is also a good way to get the family integrated into the school and to manage expectations. The teachers work hard on this part of their job and the families join in appreciatively.

Every school has its big kids

The is some building work going on to make new classrooms, but I was intrigued to work out how the school could accommodate 3,000 and with the average class size being 45, this means they need about 60 or 70 classrooms! Most of the rooms are open sided because of the heat, and building cost, and I can imagine the noise and an environment that isn't particularly conducive to learning. But we have every confidence. This is Thailand!

In the class room the desks and chairs have obviously seen a lot of service and the graffiti etched into them probably goes back to when Khamma was a school girl, but they do the job well enough. The rooms are swept clean but being semi-outdoors you can see a lick of fresh paint wouldn't be a miss. The posters on the wall were also quite old and depicted the Royal family, and others explained different religions for example Islam, Christainity and Judism. Nothing was disfigured and even though it looked scruffy it is obviously treated with respect. There is emphasis on sport with football pitches, basketball and volleyball.

A very interesting morning and I wish Yo 'chok dee' for the five or six years he will spend there.

Thamuang Update

2009-04-19T01:59:00.010+01:00

Khamma returned Thamuang after two weeks in Hong Kong and suddenly there was an emptiness in my apartment. It was short lived though because I had booked my Easter leave and was eagerly looking forward to spending a week's holiday at Owerrrouse. Very fortunately for me this coincided with the Songkhran festival which is the equivalent of the Thai new year, but more on this later.

The house looked splendid in the morning sunshine as our taxi turned into the lane and suddenly Hong Kong was a long way away. I changed into Thamuang attire of shorts, scruffy tee shirt and flip flops and at once I relaxed into the slow pace. The events over the next week were to be centred on Songkhran and temple fund raising. There was something going to happen everyday and most evenings, and if there was a lull we could go fishing or to Big C. I fastened my seat belt and jumped onto the Thamuang whirligig.

Although the weather was extremely hot I wanted to see the rice fields and the extent of what Khamma and her brother are intending to cultivate this year. They have extended the fields even further by doing what I recalled from my A level geography lessons, as 'slash and burn' technique, except nowadays it is more like 'bulldoze and burn', or more precisely 'Kamatsu / Caterpillar / JCB and burn'.

Creating more land to grow rice

The scene was unrecognisable from twelve months ago and the lunar type landscape just about doubled the land available for planting rice. From this they can expect to increase yields but whether they will make a healthy profit depends on the price they get at the market and the additional cost of labour they will need to employ to plant the rice in July and harvest it in November. You may remember last year Khamma's Mama experimented by planting a field of potatoes.

http://lifeinasiaandthamuang.blogspot.com/2008_06_01_archive.html see 2 June.

Unfortunately this was not a success and we can safely conclude that the Sroikham family are excellent rice farmers but will not be continuing to diversify into potatoes!

The old potato field

As we ambled around the fields I could sense that Khamma was mentally preparing for the hard work ahead and the plans about what to do with each field were spinning round in her mind. She enjoys the farming very much and it is marvelous to see her excitment when she is explaining what will happen here, and what she plans there. Although she knows she will be exhausted, she is immensely proud of what she does and wants to improve every year.

Eventually we came across a cluster of out buildings which housed a few pigs, chickens and cows and belonged to one of her many cousins. I have often remarked that nearly everybody in Thamuang appears to be related to one another, but the word 'cousin' is often used to mean a special friend as well as blood relation. Another mystery solved.

The noise of the rice threshing machine was coming from the largest shed. These machines are fascinating and for me they epitomise and bring together the skills the Thai people have as farmers with the ingenuity they have as engineers. There must be thousands of these machines in rural Thailand, but each one is special and needs creativity to keep them working to churn out the refined rice. You can almost feel the soul of the machine humming away as the raw grain is tipped in at one side and clean edible rice is spurted out at the other. It is the final process in the production of rice and as much work and care goes into this part as it does in the fields. It would be foolish of me to romanticise this too much, but when the rice is poured into a sack ready for the cooking, it marks the end of a remarkable journey for the rice and the people growing it. The rice growers are proud and determined and each day as they eat the rice, they are fuelling up to commence cycle again in a few weeks time. It could be easily written off as subsistence farming in the A level geography books, the government policies, the UN food programmes, but this ignores the individual passion and the collective concern the farmers of Thamuang have for their rice. It ignores the beautiful changing landscape as the rice matures through the rainy season. It ignores the co-operation between families and neighbours to make sure every last bag is collected. It ignores the meals sat outside in the evening warmth eating as a family with the fruit of labour being presented in many different ways through the recipes handed down from mother to daughter. There is so much more in a bag of Thamuang rice than just rice.

The remaining outbuildings reminded me of the nature of the ubiquitous 'garden shed' in England except here it is on a much bigger Thai scale. There is a reputation in the UK that the shed is a hideaway for the menfolk where they can drift into a timeless and possibly meaningless world of eccentricity without the nagging of the other and often better half. The latter knowing that at least if her husband is pursuing some mind numbing activity in the solitude and cosiness of the shed, at least he isn't up to any other mischief. Or is he?

Follow this link for an analysis of the different types of shed heads in the UK - http://www.backyardgardener.com/article/green/1577.htm

This collection of buildings had the same playground workshop feel about it. I found broken concrete casts of Buddhas, drying cow hides, tools, old cans of oil, pig pens, old clocks that hadn't worked for years, cobwebs, rickety chairs and a radio. Nothing much different from my granddad's shed from forty five years ago with his collection of old bikes, a work bench and the smell of oil. Even today my dad likes to keep a corner of the garage for the collection of gardening tools, old pots and pans and other stuff he cannot bear to throw away. He was very unhappy when his shed had to be pulled down about four years ago and in the clear out he unearthed old engines, tins of oil, tins of paint, tools and cobwebs, old clocks and radios! Same same?

The contents of a Thai man's shed

Hanging cow hide to dry for new drum skins

Later that evening we relaxed at Bung's house as everybody returned home from doing whatever they had been up to during the day. We ate a substantial amount of food and I couldn't help thinking about the journey the rice on the plate had been on. It was the end of the day but there was an exciting prospect of a week of fun, or sanuk as the Thai's call it. Bung announced that tomorrow he wanted to go fishing and have a BBQ. Sounds good to me. Up to him said Khamma.

Sad news about Cookie

2009-04-15T14:58:00.010+01:00

Poor old Cookie. Missing presumed dead.

A few weeks ago I wrote that we suspected Cookie had been in a fight with a snake and probably had venom sprayed in his eyes. At first he was sick and off his food as well as having swollen eyes and a loss of balance. The vet, who happens to be a family friend, gave him medication and for a few days there was an improvement. But just over a week ago he disappeared and has not been seen since. Cookie has either gone walkabout driven delirious with the pain, or simply sat down somewhere quiet and died.

I have often said it is tough being a mutt in Thamuang. There is no such thing as eating Pedigree Chum and going for walkies in the morning and early evening. There is no tender loving care from the owners and training to sit when told. Life as a Thamuang mutt is brutal. The dogs soon learn to eat the leftovers whether it is fish or rice or spicy hot or fried or steamed. The rule is simple; you don't eat you starve. There is the freedom to come and go and they are fiercely territorial and it is common to have four or five dogs in a pack. They protect their patch and are the best early warning system of visitors in the day and night. They have the freedom of the rice fields and amazingly have an understanding of each other's likes and dislikes which leads to an occasional gnashing of teeth, but nothing more serious.

Churlon eats what his given

Life could be worse but it is very much better being a western dog than a Thamuang one. It appears that Cookie must have disturbed a snake, possibly a cobra, and licked the venom that was spat at him.

I grew very fond of Cookie who loved being stroked and often sat next to me on the porch enjoying the evening sun. I wish he could have let us know where he was going so we could say goodbye, but life goes on.

We still have Churlon, Lucky, Pepsi and Jackie. We had ten chickens until we ate one of them for dinner last Sunday, but the good news is one of the others hatched nine chicks on Monday. We also have eighteen ducks. There is pond that is minus about sixty fish that were caught last Friday. We also have a gecko, several lizards, a toad, a snake, frogs, bats and more insects than I care to think about.

Gecko in the kitchen Thai

Snake on the drive

Toad in the garden

Ducks in the shed

The Car on String and the Buddha Dollar

2009-04-14T16:47:00.010+01:00

34 metres high including the podium - the world's biggest, seated, bronze, outdoor Buddha statue - honest!

Whenever I visit a town or village in Asia, I am sure to stumble across a Buddhist temple or relic proudly displayed and in regular daily use by the local folk. There are many different temples from the ornate to the simple, from the large complexes to the shrines tucked away in a corner. Lantau Island in Hong Kong is no exception, but, in my opinion, has a slight twist to the way in which the Buddha presented. Here on this lovely island there is a Buddha claimed to be the world’s tallest seated effigy of the Buddha.
The local guidebooks and even the respected Lonely Planet have given the statue and the temple a big build up and the promise of an enlightened day out. I have read of open air restaurants where pilgrims can enjoy delicious free vegetarian meals whilst contemplating in the beautiful gardens tended by monks in saffron robes. I should have visited the statue last time I was in Hong Kong and so it featured high on my list of places to visit. My anticipation fuelled by my vivid imagination of a celestial paradise transcending into a Buddhist world where simple answers to difficult questions are freely given and meaning at last being attached to most the complex values of this fascinating belief.
I wanted to approach the statue and temples by walking a few stages of the Lantau trail in a sort of pilgrimage in which I had earned the right to contemplate the surrounding beauty and meditate whilst absorbing the panoramic vista from the 2,500 feet vantage point. Unfortunately, in the week’s preceding Khamma’s visit, the cloudy weather prevented me from realising this part of my dream as I did not feel the urge to walk these beautiful mountains without seeing anything but mist. However, now that she was here, I thought the next best approach was to set off with Khamma who has an innate spiritual understanding and would appreciate the journey’s end as well as the journey itself. But rather than walking the strenuous twenty or so kilometres from sea level, we decided to go the tourist route. In doing so I began to cynically think that this particular Buddha statue has more to do with extracting hard-earned Hong Kong dollars than it provides in spiritual understanding and enlightenment. The statue is situated about five miles away from Hong Kong’s Disneyworld. I thought this was far enough away to preserve tranquillity, but the glittery stardust from Mickey Mouse and his friends has caught a westerly breeze and floated over the mountains before raining down on the statue and cascading in spectacular floes down the steep mountainsides towards the town of Tung Chung.
We began our journey by catching the MTR train to Yung Chung from Hong Kong station Central and after saying ‘have a nice day’ to the Disneyworld expedition members we were soon at the end of the line. At the side of station, we found the start of the cable car ride to the distant mountain passes on the high, cloudy horizon. It was also the start of my cynical thinking about the whole set up. The cost of the round trip ticket was the equivalent of about sixteen British pounds and I couldn’t help comparing this to a day pass in a European ski resort which is about thirty pounds. A ski pass gives you access to vast areas of mountains and scores of lifts and the only limitation is your skiing ability. As we stood in line I remembered the queues in the ski lift as we jostled with clumsy ski boots and carrying skis and poles and trying to retain coolness and ‘ski cred’. This queue was made up of loud families of Chinese on a day trip and thus my suspicions were beginning to germinate in my over active mind. But the delight on Khamma’s face broke the spell as we sat in our cabin and hooked onto the cable and set off above the sea with spectacular views of the airport. She called it the ‘Car on string’. Another one of Khamma’s endearing English phrases that are so much better than the original.

The Car on String

In the cabin was a notice reminding every passenger to smile at the monkey waiting at the arrival station who was going to take a photograph of our ecstasy of having completed the twenty-five minute ride in the ‘car on string’! This did nothing to quell my growing belief that the marketing was aiming at the dollar extraction rather than creating an inner belief of Buddha’s teachings.
I ignored the monkey.
As we exited the station that is the lofty mountain home of the ‘car on string’, we were guided, that is to say, corralled into the ‘village’ consisting of restaurants catering for every national taste between Los Angeles and Hong Kong, gift shops selling everything you thought you needed but believed didn’t exist, theatre shows, film shows, public displays of Chinese acrobatics and whatever else because by this time I was convinced the Buddha statue was a big con and a subject of the imagination of some overpaid and too smart for his own good, marketing executive.

Ming Ying and Lady Yang

There wasn’t a Buddha, temple or monk to be seen anywhere until we had walked the gauntlet of village street vendors and low and behold, there it was, high in the sky on top of a hill about half a mile away. We felt slightly better at this sight but decided to eat before setting off on a hike, and we re-traced our steps to find a Vietnamese kitchen selling over priced noodles.
After filling our stomachs and emptied my wallet we followed the red brick road to the end of the village and joined a very normal Hong Kong style pot hole rutted road pass several authentic noodle houses and road side eating shops. I felt cheated because the glitzy Mickey Mouse village restaurants had suckered and conned us!
We reached the steps leading up to the Buddha statue and found signs regarding the veggie meals. Alas these are not free anymore but at $60HK it was a better bargain than Mickey Mouse’s Vietnamese noodles. We were too late anyway, so I didn’t let it overwhelm me and instead gritted my teeth for the lengthy climb to enlightenment.

260 steps to the Buddha

Predictably the view was shrouded in mist but the statue was impressive enough although a little too big to be photographed properly. We enjoyed the moment and took a little time to read up how the statue was sponsored by the Hong Kong Electical Company after the British had donated the land in the 1980’s.
Following our decent, we explored the temple complex and we concluded it was a little tired looking and did not compare with the temple in Thamuang. So with time marching on we climbed into the ‘car on string’ and returned down the mountain as the sun began to set.
Back in Tung Chung we explored the shopping centre and enjoyed a bowl of Thai Tom Yun soup before returning back to the Gold Coast.
My curiosity was satisfied but as you no doubt have gathered I despaired that the exploitation of the Buddha statue to generate tourist dollars was greater than its value to teach the wisdom of Buddhism.

The best value of the Buddha Dollar was the free sunset!

China Scene seen in the China Daily

2009-04-03T12:32:00.007+01:00

Hong Kong has a rather good free daily newspaper called the China Daily. It is the equivalent of a broadsheet back in the UK and usually headlines with world stories but from the Chinese perspective. Usually the news is represented in a fair and recognisable way, at least compared to the BBC World Service, but with a slight spin here and there to represent the nationalistic perspective.

There is a section called 'ChinaScene' which relates news from other newspapers throughout China. The stories are only a paragraph or two long but they give a great insight to daily life and attitudes in China. I have selected a few gems for your entertainment.

Woman carrying acid to boyfriend's home is burned: Wen Wen was on her way to visit her boyfriend, who had dumped her, to try to reconcile the relationship. But she was severely burned when the acid she was carrying in her pocket leaked out. She explained her boyfriend had refused to marry her.

31 bombs found under farmer's home: A farmer unearthed 31 bombs from under the house he had lived in for 20 years. He realised something was wrong when a magnet in his house moved strangely.

Beijing man kills wife, hides body in balcony: A Beijing man is on trial for killing his ex-wife and hiding her body in a brick wall. He killed her because of a dispute over their child and property. He strangled her and hid the body so the child could not find it.

Woman donates new pair of wheels to dog: A dog that had its front legs amputated and was forced to hop like a kangaroo has received a wheel chair and is now moving about like a normal dog. (?)

Burglar's antics expose him as a bad neighbour: Xiong stole a computer from his neighbour's dorm whilst wearing a face mask to hide his face. When the neighbour woke up and cried for help, Xiong ran away and hid the computer in his own room. He then returned to his neighbour acting breathless and pretending he had chased after burglar. The neighbour saw through the trick and called the police who found the stolen computer in Xiong's room.

Excited mahjong winner swallows false tooth: A mahjong player needed emergency surgery after he swallowed a false metal tooth as he celebrated by laughing out loud on winning a game. Doctor's said the tooth almost broke his aorta because it was lodged in his gullet.

Couple arrested for selling infant baby: A couple sold their son, who was born in January, for 30,000 yuan ($4,390) because they had money issues.

Husband furious over wife's 'missing you' SMS: Peng wants to divorce his wife of 20 years after he read a text message on her mobile phone. He was wakened by his wife's phone as it received a message. The sender wrote that he, or she, was 'missing' her very much. Peng's wife didn't know who sent the message so Peng called the phone company to enquire if they could trace the sender. They told him it could be an April Fool's joke.

It makes a change from quantitative easing and the state of the world's finances.

Running for the New Manchester Children's Hospital

2009-04-01T15:13:00.004+01:00

I recently received an email from my daughter, Clare, which was titled 'Manchester 10k'. It intrigued me because it could only be about the annual mass 10k race held each May around the streets of Manchester. I ran the race in its first couple of years and it is a good day out, but being in Hong Kong made it impossible for me to think about entering this year. So what was the email about?

Clare was announcing, more like committing, to run the race and raise some money for the New Manchester Children's Hospital.

I was absolutely delighted she was doing this and felt quite proud of her. Clare has not really been interested in participating in sport. She preferred to extend her incredible music talents whilst at school and became very proficient playing the oboe as well as enjoying singing and playing the piano. She gets this from her mother's side and I am very envious that she can perform extremely well in front of large audiences, the likes of which I can only fantasise about. My musical performances with the blues harmonica are reserved for private audiences only and the occasional blast on a Friday night at the end of a hard week and a couple of pints at the Tunnel End in Marsden! I digress.....

Clare has joined a group of colleagues from work and risen to the challenge. She has started a training regime and so far she is on schedule and, more to the point, enjoying it. A slight injury to her knee caused some concern last week, but it was something and nothing.

I would really like to join her and I have half an idea to run 10k on the same day at the same time in Hong Kong. Sadly my knees have reached the stage where they are starting to wear out and I cannot run too far without starting to hobble. But there are a few weeks to go before 17 May.

I really hope Clare gets to the start line feeling fit and raring to go. She will have a great time and the atmosphere in these events is very special. Any reader wanting to donate can leave a comment and I will send on the details.

Good luck Clare.