A real Chinese meal

Last Friday evening we visited a very traditional Chinese restaurant for a very traditional Chinese meal called a 'hot pot'. The evening was organised by Billy who works in the airport office and is one of the nicest guys you could ever wish to meet. Billy has gone out of his way to make me feel at home in Hong Kong and I knew his suggestion to try a traditional hot pot would be a good night out. Khamma made her way to the airport where we met Billy, Surria and Phil and eventually caught the high speed train into Central Hong Kong. After a short taxi ride I believe we arrived in an area on the west side of Hong Kong Island between Sai Ying Pun and Kennedy Town. The area was unfamiliar and we seemed to move from a highway to a road to a street to an alley in the space of a hundred yards. It felt closer to an old Chinese world than the bright Johnny Foreigner lights and noise and bling of the Soho area in Central. I was the only white person in sight as we walked down a brightly lit alley way with the light rain adding to the atmosphere. I was certain that George Smiley was hiding in the shadows and we were being led to an opium den in a twist of fate skillfully crafted by the pen of John Le Carre.

Well our excitement was sharpened in a different way than the adventures of the cold war spies in 1970's Asia as we climbed up the wide stone steps of a former loading bay to a warehouse into the dining area of a Hot Pot restaurant. There was nothing pretentious in the decor and furnishings; the strip lighting and plastic table covered with cling film made sure that if you had any doubt at all, this was going to be a messy meal. Even the yellow and white uniform of the San Miguel beer girl failed to add any glamour or colour to the scene.

We were completely in the hands of Billy and we left ordering the food to him as we settled back into the small hard plastic chairs that had probably been there before the room became a restaurant. The tables were full with local Chinese enjoying the hot pot and volumes of drink ranging from the San Miguel beer supplied by the beer girl to bring your own wine supplied by the guests. The volume of chatter increasing in direct proportion to the consumption of alcohol. This was hard core dining.

In the centre of the table was a large gas ring very similar to one my Grandma had about forty years ago, except considerably larger. It probably was just as dangerous however as my leg caught the gas pipe which snaked underneath the table from a hole in the floor. The idea of the hot pot is put a base stock into a metal pot and boil selected dishes ranging from pig's legs to octopus. It's a bit like a Chinese fondue but more basic and a lot more fun.

The cooking pot with bean curd and the ladle with turnips

We started with bringing the base stock up to boiling point. It had a very thin milky texture with a strong taste of pepper. Billy ordered pig's leg bones and dumped them into the pot to strengthen the stock and add flavour and warm up the meat. Meanwhile we mixed raw and lightly toasted garlic and chillies with soy sauce to make a dip for the forthcoming delicacies.

The service provided by the staff was excellent and I would say much more attentive than the average downtown restaurant where the waiters work as if they were doing you a favour. Here in deep, deep Hong Kong eating is a passion and the customer is much more demanding so the service has to match or the restaurant will die. A clever idea is to turn the tea pot lid upside down when a top up is required. This is easily spotted and the teapot whisked away to be replenished in a jiffy. The same attention is lavished by the beer girl, but I suspect she was motivated by the commission on selling as many San Miguels as possible.

Thinly cut strips of beef and Chinese mushrooms

Anyway the next 'course' arrived which was thinly cut strips of dark beef cut from the shoulder which apparently is the most succulent part of the cow. The strips were folded into a personal ladle, about the size of a golf ball, and placed into the boiling pot and after a minute or two it was ready to eat. Next to arrive was Chinese mushrooms followed by a sticky guey fish paste, octopus, dried fish skin coated with breadcrumbs, strips of bean curd, vegetable dumplings, pork dumplings, turnips and various salad leaves. Oh and of course steamed rice. You selected which ingredient you wanted to eat and added it to the pot and simply took it out when it was cooked to your liking. As the stock was reduced the waiter added a little more. It seemed like an endless feast, and it was.

From the back left side; dumplings, octopus, fish paste, dried fish skins, San Miguel

Dumplings

I was a little concerned for the welfare of my stomach and other vital organs but I need not have worried, everything was working fine on Saturday. The whole meal and several beers only came to 700HK$ which is about 60GBP for 5 people. That is good value anywhere, and the added experience was very special. Thanks to local knowledge from Billy.

Billy holding a pig leg

As we left to catch the last tram home I caught a glimpse of a figure scurrying in a dark corner. He was carrying several smoker's pipes and heat lamps and he opened a small metal studded door which led into a dimly lit room occupied by several well dressed people reclining on sofas. The room was decorated with tobacco tinted embossed wallpaper with four or five badly hung paintings of harbour scenes from 1850's Shanghai. A thin smoke with an odour of intoxicating sweet herbs drifted into the alley. As he closed the door he turned and stared menacingly directly at me with his roving glass eye. The ghost of the opium den vanished as the misty humid rain began to fall harder and we left the old China world and returned to the new China on the Gold Coast.

Why do bloggers blog?

It has been more than a couple since I put finger to keyboard and blogged about what is going on in Asia. Khamma has been staying with me in Hong Kong and has managed to distract me so that grabbing an hour or so to tell a few stories has been difficult. It is also very busy in Hong Kong International Airport with the project sometimes going ok and most times not going anywhere, but enough of that.

I have missed my blogging moments and that made me think why should I miss recording a few funny stories about cultural differences and allowing people into my little world. There is a constant amount of chatter between seasoned bloggers on this subject and I am sure you can follow the links to a couple of sites where the authors come clean about why they indulge in blogging.

For me it is a way of letting friends and family know what I am up to, although this is not a substitute for a personal email. I'm not sure how many people regularly drop by for a catch up but I am sometimes surprised when people make it known that they do. It is very pleasing that out of all the rich veins of information available some people can search out my tiny corner of cyberspace.

I also blog to keep a sort journal of my time here in Asia. I have been keeping journals of my travels since 1986 when I travelled to Canada to find space during a particularly troubled time of my life. My collection of travel journals now consists of Nepal, India, Italy, Kenya, Tanzania, Namibia, Botswana, Finland, Latvia, Estonia, Germany, France, USA, Norway, China, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Czech Republic, Poland, Turkey and Orkney Island! I am impressed with that list but I get more pleasure from remembering the stories, often in vivid colour. The tradition lives on in the electronic age of the blog.

I'm not one for trying to justify doing this or that through the blog, I prefer to record what has happened and to let the future sort itself out. That way is exciting for me and I often get a kick out looking back over twelve months and thinking how on earth I have managed to end up where I am with everything that goes on in between.

I am more inclined to write about something that intrigues me or I find interesting and fascinating, usually something inconsequential and unusual. I like to share those moments especially if I can't share the real moment because most of the time I am alone.

So there's some catching up to do over the next few days, including a real Chinese meal at a restaurant in deepest darkest Hong Kong, a trip to see the 'Dollar' Buddha and a fascinating visit to the site of the Lost City of Kowloon which I promise will leave you asking for more. A few details to report from Thamuang, including a sad story about Cookie, my favourite dog, who we think has had a fight with a snake and has come off worst!

Read on dear reader, whoever and where ever you are! Thanks for dropping by.

1 CAR 1 Obituary

You may remember that when we visited the UK last Christmas Khamma and I had more than our fair share of bad luck. One of the incidents of the troubled holiday was the theft of the car we had hired from 1-CAR-1, and the subsequent lack of sympathy and woeful customer care they displayed as they literally left us stranded after their point blank refusal to replace the car. In the process certain individuals made us feel like the accused rather than the victims of an unpleasant experience by the assumption that until the car was recovered we were blacklisted and would not enter into another agreement with us. This maybe common practice in the cheap and dirty end of the car hire market, but that didn’t placate me at the time.
Now it seems that 1-CAR-1 is now on the receiving end of some bad luck because it is announced on their website that they have been put into administration. (Thanks for tip Bruce).
‘Oh dear’ Khamma said. ‘Up to them’ she added.
I can’t say I am pleased and overjoyed because there will be several good people that were employed deep within this tin pot organisation that deserve a lot better than a letter from the administrator. I didn’t talk to any of them during my brief acrimonious relationship, but they will be in there somewhere and I feel for them. It is the senior and middle managers I direct my jibes to; the ones who thought they knew how to treat their staff and talk to customers, the same ones who cowardly instructed their staff to fob off their ‘valued’ customers and treat them as they did, without respect. Well they do so no more! I imagine they are sat home watching ‘infomercials’ and licking their wounds. I imagine the unfortunate staff, the real people, are wondering that if, just if, they had been managed to treat all their customers with a little bit of courtesy and respect they might just be still in a job.
‘Never mind’ said Khamma. Amen to that!

Macau - where Europe meets Asia

The Cobbles of Macau

Macau lies sixty kilometres to the west of Hong Kong and is also a SAR (Special Administrative Region) like its near neighbour. It was the first part of Asia to be colonised and was also the last region to be handed back when the Chinese resumed sovereignty in 1999. The Portuguese arrived in 1557 and rented Macau as a trading post between East Asia and Europe. Trading soon began to decline and Macau became a back water and when the British colonised Hong Kong Macau was all but wiped off the map. In the 1900's immigrants fleeing the ravages of war in Japan and communist control in China gradually arrived and modest economic growth was briefly re-started. However the rise and rise of Hong Kong as a world financial centre failed to attract adequate foreign investment and by the 1970's Macau had become a problem to Portugal and they tried unsuccessfully to hand it back to China. However by 1999 an agreement was reached and finally control was back with Beijing and Central Office. Nowadays much of the Portuguese influence remains in the culture, food and architecture, but this small country now survives on its casinos and the day trippers from HK.

My boss has been staying with me this week and we share a sense of fun and enthusiasm for new experiences, so when Billy, a colleague in the office, suggested a trip Macau we quickly accepted. Going with a local guide always helps to find places that little bit quicker and to appreciate the sights and sounds otherwise missed by tramping around solo. There is an almost constant procession of high speed catamarans carrying up to 400 people operating twenty fours a day between Hong Kong and Macau. So with a full day ahead we boarded the 10.30 ferry and one hour later I was crossing my thirty ninth different border control. Passport control was organised but the arriving passengers were impatient to move on and the officials were not exactly keen on delaying them either. The majority of visitors to Macau want to gamble in the many casinos and mini buses lie in wait to transfer them as quickly as possible to the tables of baccarat, blackjack, boule, dai siu, fan tan, pai kao and roulette.

The Grand Lisboa Hotel and Casino

We had no desire to part with our dollars so quickly and we caught a taxi for the short journey to Monte Fort which was built in the early 1600's by Jesuit monks. If necessary the monks could survive a siege for up to two years in Monte Fort, but there was only ever one notable incursion and since 1622 the cannons surrounding the perimeter walls have remained silent. Next to the fort are the ruins of the church of Saint Paul. Christianity is very evident in Macau and this is one of China's most important sites to the influence and history of the Christian religion. Nowadays there are crowds of people crawling over the well preserved ruins and viewing the surviving relics in the crypt.

Billy is very knowledgeable about local food and he appeared with very tasty pie like delicacies baked on the side of what appeared to be an oil drum! The meaty contents were spiced with peppers and piping hot. Why people were queuing for a Big Mac I have no idea when this superior product was so much better. This was followed with custard like tart, also hot and delicious. The narrow streets in old Macau have a very Mediterranean atmosphere although the shops are mainly Chinese. Noticeably the road signs are predominately Portuguese followed by the Chinese translation.

The A-Ma Temple

One of the most important Chinese temples in Macau is the A-Ma temple. There has been a temple on this site since before the Portuguese arrived and being close to the harbour it is very important to the fishermen who make offerings before they leave for the sea and returning to give thanks for a safe trip. A short walk away, but up a steep hill lies Penna Hill where, on much clearer day than we had, there is a fine view overlooking Macau town and the Pearl River into China. A Catholic church sits on the hill and in the garden leading to the entrance was a man selling souvenirs. His stock was mainly overpriced Chairman Mao and Communist artifacts but his conversation was that since the Macau had returned to Chinese control the tourist business had flopped because now everybody now wanted to go to mainland China, and the Chinese tourists visiting Macau did not want to buy Chinese souvenirs when they probably had draws full of the stuff back home.

At some point during the day we had to visit a casino so we somewhat reluctantly went to the Las Vagas stylised Sands Hotel. The garish gold exterior was highly polished and reflected sparkle dust to lure the punter into a web of optimism that they could leave with more money than they entered with! This of course assumes they run the gauntlet of security where bags have to deposited at entrance, screened by the airport like security scanners and don't mind being watched by hundreds of CCTV cameras and followed by ranks of security staff who seem to latch onto everybody as soon as you enter the gaming room. We watched as people played baccarat which I am told is easy to play, and so in my book easy to lose. I saw $1,000 bills being played and it seemed the banker was having a good day. Other games like Dai Siu were popular. This is a game played by betting on the score of three dice which are thrown in a covered glass box. We lasted twenty minutes and spent nothing therefore leaving with considerably more than everybody else.

Finally we visited a restaurant with a Las Vegas sounding name but was as traditional Macau style as we could find and served excellent food including a local dish called African chicken which is grilled chicken with peppers and spices influenced from Goan (India) and east African recipes. A glass of Portuguese vintage port was a perfect end to a very enjoyable day.

Macau Tower - Next time!

The Big Thamuang Wedding

I mentioned that at wedding was taking place over the weekend in the village and Khamma told me that 1,000 people had been invited. Well, I know Khamma very well and she is not prone to exaggeration, so when she confirmed again that 1,000 people were attending the wedding, I have to accept her word.

She started helping with the preparations last Wednesday by making various sauces and mixes to be used in the cooking. I think she was using chillis and other spices and oils, but how much they know to produce is anybody's guess. This carried on into Thursday and then they started to set up the kitchens and fires. By Friday they were collecting tables and chairs from the temple and creating one of Thailand's biggest dining rooms. I can't imagine where all this was taking place because the streets are narrow and the houses are not very big. One thousand people do not easily absorb into the surroundings.

By Saturday they had four big cows and a pig to slaughter, butcher, cut into workable quantities and start cooking. I spoke to her on Saturday night and already 300 people had arrived and they were being fed and watered.

Khamma told me she got out of bed at 4am on Sunday morning and the catering started in earnest. The remaining 700 guests arrived soon after and the wedding ceremony started at 8am in the home of the bride. A couple of hours later the boys in the band performed their second gig of the week and it was all finished by 4pm and everybody had gone home.

I wish I had more information, but Khamma treated it as though this happens every week. She fell asleep on the sofa and Yo had to wake her. She told me she wanted to watch Manchester United and Spurs in the Carling Cup on the television, but that was too much and she went to bed.

Today there was more clearing up and apparently this afternoon they relaxed by the river at another restaurant no doubt recalling the stories and planning the next one.

Sorry I can't be more specific but I will hopefully see some pictures in a couple of weeks when Khamma comes up to Hong Kong.

A weekend in Thamuang; Day 3 Always Expect the Unexpected

Dawn broke and shed its watery light across the fields and the first rays of the sun broke through the tiny cracks in the window shutters of the bedroom casting a deep golden spotlight on the far wall. Small specs of dust floated silently in the beam of light and the geckos scurried back to their sleeping holes in the gaps between the wall and ceiling. I slumbered in a half sleep and listened to the sounds of another day in the village. The distant chatter from the kitchen, the motorbike along the lane with dogs running behind barking and marking their territory, or wanting to play, I don't know which. There's the call of the rooster, a duck quacking in the next field and the low bellow of the water buffalo. Now the twitter of birds revelling in the cool dewy morning swooping on the abundant insects in the rice fields. I was in a dream state happy within my soul where I was flying high and my eyes could clearly see the village below, yet someone was shouting;

'Tirak'. It was Khamma in a familiar yet unusual tone echoing off the tiles in the living room. The harsh and piercing syllables interrupted only by the sound of a door opening.

She continued to invade my dream, 'Tirak! Get up we meet my cousin to go to Ubon for table. Breakfast ready.'

There goes my lazy day, it was 7.30am and we are off again.

I showered and shaved as if my life depended on it, quickly found a clean T shirt and presented myself in the kitchen Thai. Breakfast was rice and eggs with selected pastes of fish, chillis and other Thai delights ranging in spice heat content from 'hot' to 'too hot for farang by far'!

Apparently Khamma's cousin was coming round in the pick up at 8am to take us to a particular shop in Ubon where Khamma had seen a beautiful table, but as she delightfully put it, 'Oh, expensive, Tirak. Sorry but I think expensive. What you think?'. Well until I could see it I couldn't think, but I knew Khamma's psychology was working very hard at this early hour and I felt I was being painfully, even unfairly in my drowsy state of mind, manipulated to a position where I knew there was only going to be one outcome.

I waited patiently and on the stroke of 10am the cousin arrived. On Thai time again, well it was Saturday (as if that makes a difference). So without further delay we jumped into the Toyota pick up and drove the half hour to Ubon. The table was still in the shop with big discounts draped all over it and hungry staff eager to please and to sell something on this slow, hot, baking hot Saturday morning. It was a one horse race because this table was the furniture makers equivalent of a Michelin 4 star restaurant. It was a round table with an inlaid marble base and a turntable in the middle in the Chinese style which makes handing round the food much more civilised. The six chairs were each inlaid with a marble 'eye' that is great fun when you shine a light through it. The deal was quickly done and the excitement and celebration that followed was enthusiastic, and that was just from the staff in the shop. I joined in by buying a wooden reclining chair, at which point I was elevated into celebrity class by the staff and received a plastic clock for my extravagance.

With the table and chairs safely loaded onto the pick up we drove away waving to all the staff promising to visit again. Foolishly I thought we would be going home and was beginning to plan my afternoon of reading David Guterson's unbelievably good book 'Snow Falling on Cedars', when I realised we were driving in the opposite direction. We were going to visit Khamma's aunt apparently to give her an invitation to a wedding. Khamma's niece is getting married on 1 March and it is the biggest wedding I have ever known. There are apparently 1,000 people invited, I'll write that again 'one thousand'. I don't know 1,000 people well enough to invite to anything let alone a wedding. I digress because this has to be reported on later. But we arrived at Khamma's aunt's place, and I would dearly love to have written 'house', but I can't, because there wasn't one! Well technically that's not true because they are building a new one and it is about one fifth finished. They are living in the yard. Kitchen, sitting room, bathroom and bedrooms and TV right in the middle of the yard with electricity cables running precariously from extension box to extension box and covered in mud and dust. At least the sun was shining. I would have reached for my phone to contact the UK's Channel 4 TV programme 'Grand Designs' if I had had it with me.

More out of sympathy to get Khamma's aunt out of the 'house' we ended up going to a restaurant and along the way apparently inviting more family to come and join, at my expense of course. In the end we had to put together 4 tables to seat the 12 guests at this impromptu dinner of mouth watering Thai cuisine at its best.

We eventually left the restaurant but we couldn't let the opportunity to visit Big C pass by. Actually I could but I had no say in the matter. So after buying enough washing powder to do a week's washing for the 2nd Battalion The Royal Gurkha Rifles based in Afghanistan I declared 'enough' and we started for home.

We arrived back at Owerrrouse and lovingly assembled the new addition in its prime position in the dining room. But news travels fast in Thamuang and in no time at all there was a steady stream of neighbours calling in to see what the fuss was about. Mostly the reaction was 'WOW' but the impact of the table on the family was to rearrange the dining arrangements from the kitchen Thai to the dining room. A meal of chicken and rice was quickly put together so we could christen the table and celebrate with a 'Chok Dee' toast in the new wine glasses Bell bought from Big C.

We sat around the table all evening chatting and joking. Bell stole my chair and watched TV, but at last I could indulge in a few pages from Mr Guterson's book before drifting to sleep trying to work out if Kabou had murdered Carl, or if the racial prejudice of post war US was looking for a scapegoat.

A weekend in Thamuang - Day 2; Fishing

After the morning's tumultuous events with the band and the monks' ordination there was barely time to catch my breath before Khamma reminded me that her brother and nephew were fishing with a couple of friends in a pond in the rice field at the back of Owerrrouse. In fact it was the same pond I mentioned in a blog in April last year.

http://lifeinasiaandthamuang.blogspot.com/2008/06/fishing-thamuang-style.html

The pond had been previously excavated and the soil deposited on the 'make tall' wall of Owerrrouse following it's partial collapse after heavy rain. It was now about two metres deep in places and the water pump was used to drain out enough water so that it was possible to stand up without drowning! Good progress had been made and by the time we had arrived the boys were wading neck deep trawlling a net behind them in the hope the fish would get tangled up. Their movements were slow due to their feet sinking into the mud and silt on the bottom of the pond and the weight of the net they were pulling. I was reminded of synchronised swimming as they weaved across the pond trying to make a 'basket' out the net to be lifted up out of the water by the enthusiastic onlookers. I wasn't actually sure this elaborate ducking and diving was in any way co-ordinated, but it was much better to watch than participate in, about that I was certain! I wasn't invited to take part and I didn't let my enthusiasm get the better of me, saving my ineptitude for another day.

They had a good first trawl with some fairly large catfish type specimens but mainly medium sized fish, that should really have been given a second chance, in my humble opinion.

For some reason they decided to use a second net, but this ended in comical fashion. The mesh was too fine and the water couldn't pass through making it difficult to pull. Khamma's brother, Bung, was hilarious as he tried to move forward in the sticky mud pulling a dead weight. He succeeded in quickly going nowhere except for the occasional ducking as he slipped under the water. They caught nothing and I am sure I heard the fish laughing as loud as the experts who were gathered on the edge the pond in the shade of a convenient tree.

Meanwhile Bung's son was pulling out fish from under the bank and received the unwanted attention of a leech who had taken a good hold on his shoulder. A third net appeared from somewhere and this proved to be the most successful because it had a chain weighting down the bottom edge. A few passes up and down the pond added to the catch and about 50 fish were ready for their fate on the BBQ.

As the fishermen showered and cleaned up the fishermens' wives gutted the fish and prepared several Thai style recipes including fish soup with herbs, BBQ fish basted with chilli, fried fish with vegetables and spices and tonnes of rice. There was plenty of Thai whiskey, the odd glass of beer and much needed fizzy drinks.

We all sat around the outside table in Bung's yard and chatted away talking about the ordination, the farang in the band, and I imagine a lot of other gossip I wasn't privy to.

Eventually I took myself away and left them to it. Khamma's friend had called round and they were busy chatting about husbands and children and looking at the photos from England. Occasionally I was asked a question, but I was happy to hear the lyrical tones of their chatter and imagined they were singing rather than gossiping.

The day ended with a magnificent orange sunset. The dark descends quickly and announces the end of the day and time for sleep. Thamuang's pattern is the same everyday; it is alive when there is daylight with many adventures and surprising things to do and see, but as soon as darkness arrives it is time to sleep and be at peace in this amazing place.

A weekend in Thamuang - Day 2; Playing with the Band at the Ordination of Three Monks

The previous evening Khamma had asked me if I wanted to play in the glawng neeow (the drum band). This is the village band consisting of drums of various sizes played with the hands and a single guitar like instrument with only three strings, not necessarily in tune, called a pin. The band played at the house warming last July and I was allowed to play with them as a guest. But this time was different because the band was required to lead the village procession in the celebration of three novice monks being ordained into the temple. This happens in Thamuang about two or three times a year and is a very important event for the village, and more public than a wedding. Of course I wanted to play. I had the chance of playing in the band and getting a close up view of the ordination. We quickly walked round to the village leader’s house to ask his permission. The leader said ‘yes’ and I was in!
In Thailand events such as this are ritualistic and as such they follow a certain sequence and order. Everybody seems to instinctively know what the sequence is, but nobody bothers to let me know, until somebody decides the time is right to get on with it and it’s anybody’s guess how long it will take to finish. Remember? This is Thailand.
We met at the leader’s house at 7am and I was presented with a red England football jersey, complete with the three lions badge. This is the band’s team strip for any public performance. I felt proud wearing my country’s shirt and of being a member of the band on its own terms. Before we left the house my drum was re-tuned using a block hammer and a piece of bamboo to increase the tension of the skin and produce a tighter sound.

The delicate art of drum tuning!

We walked through the village to the temple and the locals were surprised to see a farang carrying a drum with the obvious intension of playing in the glawng neeow. They laughed in good humour and, I think, were pleased a foreigner could enjoy their culture. Apparently the village leader had announced that a farang was performing with the band in his early morning broadcast around the village. As we waited at the temple the rest of the band were encouraging and guided me through the necessary rituals which pre-cede a performance. Today there was a kind of ‘wake’ for a member of the band who had recently died. We arranged the drums around the cart that carries the battery and amp and speaker for the pin and knelt down behind an assortment of the articles that must have meant something to the departed. There was Thai whiskey, cigarettes, cooling talcum powder and various flowers. A couple of candles were lit and placed on his drum and it seemed to me we just sat there for five minutes in celebration of his life. The whiskey and cigarettes were passed around for those wanted an early morning snifter and/or gasper. At this point the cooling talc was applied to the neck and face and rubbed into the hands and onto the drum skin. We were now ready, apparently, for the rousing opening number after which the procession started.

Remembering a friend

Becoming a monk is a tremendous event for a family. It is a statement by the son (girls cannot become monks) to repay his parents for his well-being, education and upbringing as a boy. I cannot see this catching on and becoming popular in England. It is one of the fundamental differences between our cultures and is founded on respect, which is something generally missing in the west.

The young monks to be

The procession round the village

The three monks each around 20 years old sat in the back of pick up trucks looking slightly embarrassed and nervous about being centre of attention. They each carried three lotus flowers, three incense sticks and a candle and were dressed in white delicate jackets. Their freshly shaven heads glistening with sweat reflected by the morning sunshine as the procession left the temple for a parade around the village. Their very proud parents and families were dressed in colourful traditional Thai suits and dresses and followed behind the pick ups carrying gifts of the practical things required for life in the temple. Next followed a group of friends and the some senior ladies of the temple who danced to the rhythm of the band which brought up the rear with me, the proud farang, trying hard to pick out the best beat for the tone of drum I was carrying.
We weaved our way through the village and those that weren’t in the procession were dancing and moving to the music as they lined up outside their houses and shops. Unsurprisingly I was picked out and pointed at and victim of comment liberally doused with the word ‘farang’. Khamma told me afterwards that the comments were friendly and generally complimentary about my playing and having the guts to join this loose bunch of the village’s men folk.

The band and the dancing girls

Eventually we arrived back at the temple and circled the temple three times before the monks to be descended from their lofty perches and threw paper flowers into the multitude which were fought over by the children because each one contained a one baht coin. This symbolised the renunciation by the monks of their worldly goods and possessions as they left their ordinary lives behind to find their Buddhist faith and beliefs.The monks then entered the sacred temple to join the already assembled most senior monks from the surrounding areas. Women are not allowed in this temple but for some strange reason they didn’t seem to mind a farang in a red England football shirt to go in a photograph the proceedings. I felt very unsure that I was doing the right thing but there were a couple of other photographers and the senior monks appeared not to care that I was present.

The serious side of the ordination

The ordination events commenced and the three monks received their new robes and changed from their white garments into the new ones. I could sense at this point it became more solemn but I stayed in the temple with my back pressed against the back wall trying to be invisible, but fascinated and taking everything in and snapping the odd picture. Soon a portly looking monk of about thirty years old got up walked to the back whilst fixing his eyes in my direction. I learnt later he is a cousin of Khamma’s but he certainly didn’t look as though he was coming to introduce himself to me. He walked outside and must have said something to somebody because as he returned into the temple he was followed by a man who could speak a little bit of English and I was politely invited to join him outside. I was very embarrassed about this as I certainly did not want to cause to offence or appear to be rude to what amounts to the most highly respected part of the village life. I didn’t know the protocol, but you can imagine how I felt as I emerged from the temple. My curiosity had a last got me in trouble and I was red carded on my debut! As I write I offer my sincere apologises to the monks and the temple and I seek a pardon for my ignorance. I have learned since that a few farangs have been in exactly the same situation. It was a very humbling experience.

The very serious part of the ordination

In fact most people had, by this time, left the temple gardens and gone home. Khamma and I did likewise and got ready for the next adventure; the afternoon fishing trip and BBQ.

A weekend in Thamuang - Day 1

I arrived at Ubon Ratchathani airport at 9am on Thursday morning and was greeted by Khamma. She looked very smart in a new black and grey dress which complimented her dark skin. It was good to be back.
On my last visit I had ordered a new pair of spectacles to replace the ones I had broken when I fell against the plate glass window of a 7/11 store in Singapore. From time to time, over the passing weeks, thoughts had crossed my mind,in preparation for the inevitable, about the various things that could go wrong. At Top Charoen opticians we were greeted by a trio of smartly dressed staff and I was instantly recognised as the ‘farang’ customer from a couple of months ago. My new frame was gently placed on my face and various measurements taken to ensure the lenses would be fitted correctly. However after a conference involving everyone except me it was decided my nose was too big! This was pretty obvious really because when you take a look at the average Thai specimen and compare the two, you will conclude the farang nose is rather big and mine is a little bit bigger than most due to genetics and getting bashed several times in my youth whilst playing football. So here is something to remember; spectacles for the Thai market do not cater for the average farang snout. There followed a lot of activity to find a replacement pair with a wide enough bridge to fit me. The search resulted in only one suitable frame out the whole stock in the shop. For better or worse, probably both, I settled for them and the lenses were fitted into their final resting place.
The one thing that cannot be done in Thailand is to rush things along at an English pace, and this is especially so in Ubon Ratchatani opticians shops when trade is slow. So about an hour later the final product appeared from out of the back room. I was asked into the fitting room, the gleaming spectacles were placed on my big nose and I was requested to read from a prepared card. I just stared at it and there was increasing concern until the three assistants in their smart uniforms and Khamma in her smart dress, realised the card was written in Thai. Laughter all round and eventually a happy ending.
We left the opticians and discovered the bus to Thamuang was not leaving for another hour so we decided to eat and Khamma chose a café that made Greasy Gwens roadside takeaway look like a Gordon Ramsey Five Star! We had the ‘all in’ beef noodle which would give a Big Mac a run for its money. It literally included the guts and intestines as well as the chewy meat and gristle and noodle designed to look like the entrails. It was surprisingly tasty but I thought I was letting myself in for trouble with a dose of the early morning Thamuang two step shuffle.

The new garden

The new chicks

The rising football stars

Back in Thamuang I found a few new additions to Owerrrouse. A vegetable garden has been created and is coming along nicely even though the hot sun this time of year is parching everything to a cinder. But chilli peppers are thriving and the tropical shrubbery will need some harsh control in about six months time. Most surprising is the addition of half a dozen four day old chickens. I don’t think we can afford to become too attached to them though because they are being fattened up for the table and will ready in four months time. In the rice field directly behind the house a football pitch has been created complete with bamboo goal posts. Each evening from about 4.30 it seems nearly every boy in the village aged between 10 and 15 turns up for a game. It reminds me so much of my youth at ‘the Rec’ where each summer we play everyday regardless of the weather and how many on each side. I hope Peter Reid the manager of the Thailand national team is reading this because he could do worse than keep an eye on the young tigers from Thamuang. Eventually when it is too dark to see the ball everybody goes home. It is an amazing gesture from Khamma and her brother that they allow all these kids to run around in what amounts to their back garden every day. Even the ball they use is the one I bought for Yo about a year ago. The boys are so well behaved and they follow the rules very fairly with no arguing or fighting. But not content with just a football pitch there is also a beach volleyball court.
After a family meal Khamma and I left the whiskey drinkers and joined other party animals at the local temple where there was a fairground and a stage with live Morlam music. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Morlam it is ‘the music of Issan’, which is the name given to this area of Thailand. Some of it is actually quite catchy as it basically follows a western rhythm and beat, but there is a hard core element that is very similar to story telling and therefore a little bit beyond the understanding of the farang. The gig was predictably hard core and everybody seemed to be enjoying the festivities. For me the main focus was on an instrument called a ‘karn’ (possibly wrong spelling). It is a version of the pan pipes but produces an ethereal sound, very earthy and mysterious. It doesn’t look that easy to play but the additional skill seemed to be following the singer as she weaves her story about daring adventures and comical stories from the Issan region.
So the eventful first day back in the village drew to a close, and on the way back to Owerrrouse we could see the stars and galaxies, and I couldn’t help thinking that the global economic troubles, wars and suffering was passing by this part of the world, leaving it in peace to have fun.

The Morlam gig at the temple

Hong Kong's Brighter Side of Life

I am, on the whole, a person who likes to make the most of whatever comes my way. The last weekend was full of opportunity and surprises and now I am basking in that blissful state that is enjoyed after everything has gone well and every minute has been packed with fresh and exciting things that will be looked back on with fond memories. Except Monday was a pig of day back in the office. However..........

The only disappointment was the weather and whilst it didn't rain, it was cloudy, humid and warm. But I had to bear in mind what the weather was doing and what it might do, and plan accordingly. Throughout the previous week I was looking forward to walking high in the hills, but sadly as the day dawned on Saturday morning the cloud was shrouding everything above fifty metres and it was pointless spending effort plodding upwards and seeing nothing except the droplets of sweat dripping from the end of my nose. So I decided to visit the town of Stanley and hope, rather than presume, that the weather would be different on Sunday. Well of course it wasn't but that gave me the opportunity to walk around the island of Cheung Chau.

Stanley by the sea

Stanley is odd name for a town and it evokes memories of explorers in Africa, footballers in Newcastle, Blackpool and Accrington and a comedian called Stanley Unwin once famous for mangling English pronunciation (Goldiloopers and the Three Bearloaders), deep joy, oh yes! Hong Kong's version is a sea side town which, in my opinion is a little trumped up. I wasn't sure whether it was promoting its market, its closeness to the sea, its many restaurants, or just a good place to go enjoy all of these things and be seen by everybody else as you do. On the whole it didn't do a great deal for me except satify my curiosity, and I was grateful for a grey Saturday afternoon in which to do it. Maybe it was because Saturday was Valentine's Day and whilst Khamma and I had spoken first thing in the morning to exchange our love for each other (OK, I'll spare the gush), the place was swarming with 'Love's young things' publicly expressing what they probably do all year in private anyway, or, maybe at last they had found the romantic excuse to really say what had been burning in their hearts for so long, but couldn't just find the courage, or the moment, to come out and say it before.

'Love.....is the principle means of escape from the loneliness which afflicts most men and women throughout the gretaer parts of their lives' Bertrand Russell

Sunday's weather promised as much as Saturday's did, so I decided on a low level stroll on Cheung Chau island which is about a 45 minute ferry ride from Central Hong Kong. The boats can carry up to about 500 people and they sail every half hour, and amazingly they are always full. Well at $16 each way it is a rare bargain in this town. The city buildings quickly disappeared in the mist on a day when the sky came to earth.

Hong Kong's misty shore

A huge spider like creature surfaced silently from the depths of the South China Sea

The ferry was announcing its arrival with solemn, long, dull drawn out drones from its fog horn and fishing boats appeared like giant spiders on the calm flat sea as we entered Cheung Chau Wan. Onshore we were greeted by a colourful dragon dance display accompanied by raspingly out of tune symbols and drums being enthusiasically bashed in no particular rythmn by a band of young men still celebrating the Chinese New Year. The town was busy with an array of restaurants intermingled with cheap souvenir shops, super markets and everything else the shopkeepers tell you you need but somehow, you have a spent your lifetime so far surviving perfectly well without it.

Dragon Dance

I walked to the south and before long was free of the town centre and the crowds and entered a car less, couldn't careless world which was so laid back it was almost flat on the floor. Every few yards or so there was something new; the group of laughing and giggling Filipino domestic helpers packing under sized boxes with over sized goodies for their families back home. The long boats used to race across the harbour, the temples, the sampans, the wobbly bikes with their equally wobbly riders.

The concrete ribbon hugging the shore

The sign posts pointed to Cheung Po Tsai cave but it was disappointing as caves go. The concrete path stretched out like a grey ribbon hugging the coastline with occasional steps carefully inlaid where it was too steep. By magic the sun appeared as if it knew I wanted to meet and greet it. Passing by Reclining Rock I found the picturesque Pak Tso Wan beach deserted except for a group of boisterous youths enjoying a swim and having a BBQ. Onwards and pass by the cemetery where briefly the mist rolled in from the sea making it difficult to define where the graves ended and the sea began.

The dead centre of Cheung Chau

Further pass the squatter houses, the religious retreats for the Catholics, the Buddhists, the Luthereans, the Bible Society, the Salesians, the Salvation Army, the Alliance Bible Society and the Xaverians and the Jockey Club of Hong Kong. Not to mention the temples, the shelters and sitting out areas and even the Round Table. If that isn't enough to guide or rejuvenate your spirit and belief there is the Self Help CARE village presumably extending a warm welcome to come inside and join in and well, help yourself!

Nam Tam Wan

I had lunch at Nam Tam Wan where there is a temple that keeps turtles in a strange concrete structure that may once have been a water butt. The bay is perfect and I watched a young man painting a sheet of corrugated iron with gloss paint and then reattach it to the roof to make a metal patchwork quilt. The path changed into a endless track of carefully laid cobbles which was affectionately called the Mini Chinese wall. I can image it will still be there in a thousand years time like its big brother in the north. Back along the beach to the north of the island where there is steep climb followed by steep drop to the isolated Tung Wan Tsai which is littered with plastic bottles and polystyrene foam blocks washed up from the sea and displayed on the beach as cheap trophies won by human mankind in the race for materialism , by you and me actually, the guardians of the planet. This eyesore was in stark contrast to the contribution made by nature and the beautiful dense bamboo trees spilling down the headland in a tropical garden overflowing with bird life. Nature's full force defiant to the ribbons of smelly rubbish washed up and dumped on the beach.

The Mini Wall of China

Looking to the south

Taken from the same spot looking to the west

Back on the trail and over the hill to the west coast and back to town passing the ice factory, the ship yard, the rickshaws and the endless restaurants and more shops selling more stuff. The ferry goes back every thirty minutes so the only decision is when to leave this part of Hong Kong where the brighter side of life shines through whilst the rest of Hong Kong was in its shroud of mist.