Back in ten

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This could be pre-emptive but my journey is now over. My bags sit packed, surf board suitable insulated, in the Hong Kong hostel where I am out-staying my welcome. My flight is around 8am tomorrow so to make check in via public transport I have to leave tonight at 10 then sleep/not sleep at the airport.


Hong Kong is the last stop on my trip because that is where I was born all of 22 years ago. I didn't return in a particularly asupicious manner, five hours on the plane, a vague idea of where to stay and incorrect change so I had to skip the bus fare. I had been worried about wandering Kowloon with all my bags since in every picture I have seen the chinese stand cheek to shoulder with one another but it was fine. After Bali where the sun went down at 7pm and street lights are scarce it was a change to be under the neon lights and pressure selling of electronic goods small and smaller. Its not just bus drivers and airline meal providers who like things diminutive.

On Monday I embarked on a personal cultural tour within Kowloon to the former site of the British Military Hospital. The city doesn't make much sense in the day, with most businesses shut and the fog lending to the bleached appearance of everything. I risked SARS by asking directions in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, this is't a joke the hospital was on a high alert. Whilst I appreciate the poetry of dying in the hospital opposite the one I was born in, this blog isn't worth such sacrifices. The BMH site is now taken up by a block of trendy flats which I photographed. On to Broadcast Avenue and to the flat we used to live in. This too has been ripped down and the air is so poor that people there wear surgical masks. My appartment is a hospital and my hospital an apartment.

Having weathered the possible identity crisis I set about the last two days of the trip. Yesterday I took the iconic star ferry to Hong Kong Island, a centre of commerce and shopping as well as home to the Victoria Peak tramway. This rides up a steep hill to a plateau giving specatcular views of the city, even with the seasonal fog. It is 5c cooler than the city and breezy making it a tranquil retreat above the pneumatic drills and pedestrian crossings. There are still a few colonial buildings standing, one of which is a tea museum which convinces you through sights, poetry and sounds of the wonders of tea only to not serve it on the premisis. Later I read of a traditional tea/dim sung restauarant in the area so today went there for breakfast only to be serverely priced out and even charged $20 HK for the usually complimentary tea. All was rectified after a trip to a tea shop where the kind lady was continually brewing tiny pots in the traditional fashion. The best one, a floral oolong, tasted of apricots.

Since this trip was supposed to serve some sort of eductional purpose I went to the Hong Kong Museum of History, a multimilliondollar enterprise that walks you through artifacts and reconstructions from 400 Million BC to 1997. The final exhibit is a movie of the 156 year British lease of area with a strong focus on China's interest in the area and the bold Modernist future under the People's Republic, Kowloon Disneyland included.

Tomorrow after 189 days Britain gets me back.

This could be pre-emptive but my journey is now over. My bags sit packed, surf baord suitable insulated, in the Hong Kong hostel where I am out-staying my welcome. My flight is around 8am tomorrow so to make check in via public transport I have to leave tonight at 10 then sleep/not sleep at the airport.


Hong Kong is the last stop on my trip because that is where I was born all of 22 years ago. I didn't return in a particularly asupicious manner, five hours on the plane, a vague idea of where to stay and incorrect change so I had to skip the bus fare. I had been worried about wandering Kowloon with all my bags since in every picture I have seen the chinese stand cheek to shoulder with one another but it was fine. After Bali where the sun went down at 7pm and street lights are scarce it was a change to be under the neon lights and pressure selling of electronic goods small and smaller. Its not just bus drivers and airline meal providers who like things diminutive.

On Monday I embarked on a personal cultural tour within Kowloon to the former site of the British Military Hospital. The city doesn't make much sense in the day, with most businesses shut and the fog lending to the bleached appearance of everything. I risked SARS by asking directions in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, this is't a joke the hospital was on a high alert. Whilst I appreciate the poetry of dying in the hospital opposite the one I was born in, this blog isn't worth such sacrifices. The BMH site is now taken up by a block of trendy flats which I photographed. On to Broadcast Avenue and to the flat we used to live in. This too has been ripped down and the air is so poor that people there wear surgical masks. My appartment is a hospital and my hospital an apartment.

Having weathered the possible identity crisis I set about the last two days of the trip. Yesterday I took the iconic star ferry to Hong Kong Island, a centre of commerce and shopping as well as home to the Victoria Peak tramway. This rides up a steep hill to a plateau giving specatcular views of the city, even with the seasonal fog. It is 5c cooler than the city and breezy making it a tranquil retreat above the pneumatic drills and pedestrian crossings. There are still a few colonial buildings standing, one of which is a tea museum which convinces you through sights, poetry and sounds of the wonders of tea only to not serve it on the premisis. Later I read of a traditional tea/dim sung restauarant in the area so today went there for breakfast only to be serverely priced out and even charged $20 HK for the usually complimentary tea. All was rectified after a trip to a tea shop where the kind lady was continually brewing tiny pots in the traditional fashion. The best one, a floral oolong, tasted of apricots.

Since this trip was supposed to serve some sort of eductional purpose I went to the Hong Kong Museum of History, a multimilliondollar enterprise that walks you through artifacts and reconstructions from 400 Million BC to 1997. The final exhibit is a movie of the 156 year British lease of area with a strong focus on China's interest in the area and the bold Modernist future under the People's Republic, Kowloon Disneyland included.

Tomorrow after 189 days Britain gets me back.

I have a new flight date which gets in to London on 10th April.

Bali without waves might as well be Basingstoke

Not too much to report really.

I didn't stay on Lombok very long, just a night before driving up to Gili Trawangan. That was a definate change in pace from the scooters and stray dogs. The main modes of transport are bmx, horse drawn cart and aside from the mosquitoes the only animal life was stray kittens.

The guide book described the losmen I stayed at as "uninspiring" which was pretty accurate although they made a mean pancake for breakfast. The Island is suffering from low crowds as a knock on from the bombing last autumn but I met a few people who were there working in the dive shops. Over the course of dinner I was successfully talked in to doing an introductory dive which cost about 30 pounds and involved pool training and 45 minutes on the reef. I found diving really meditative becuase of the initial shock of being able to breath under water and the amount you have to focus on not holding your breath. The afternoon was less sunny than the morning which was bad for visibility but it was still good. My instructor took me down on wall reef on Gili Meno which had abundant marine life. I didn't win many style points becuase I swam to upright.

I was back on Bali by Saturday night after a long drive. Road signs here, and where they do exist they are frequently covered by tree branches. There was a good swell running over the weekend and I caught a many times overhead wave at Uluwatu which was very satisfying. Sadly the apettite that spot has developed for my board resurfaced on Monday during a savage hold down on the reef. To make matters worse the very next day I took it out at the beach and rode straight over to two guys who were trying to drop in on me. Two days lost to board damage in a row then a sloppy day made for a bad end to the Balinese Year 1927.

New year here is called Nyepi and was celebrated on the 29th with a parade of floats some of which were huge and traditional and others featured surfers, motorbikes and David Beckham. They are carried down the street and then from midnight until 6 am on the 31st there is complete silence and house arrest with external house lights being banned. I chose to spend the day praying and fasting which was made more difficult by everyone I was with deciding to spend it eating and drinking but the day passed fairly quickly. To the best of my knowledge nobody saw any spirits.

Today sound and movement returned but not the surf although I am expecting great things of my last week here.

Adventure. The word on everybodys lips. Getting off the beaten track. In an utterly guide book approved manner.

In my case this has proved altogether too literal since the only maps I have are photocopy of the lonely planet one and a larger one for a ferry company. Neither corresponds that well with the other, let alone the roads but the lonely planet listed 4 places of interest, Ubud, Danau Bratan, Batur so I dilligently linked them all together over the last 2 days. First stop was Ubud which is famous for its artist community, culutral activity and sacred monkey forrest. I took in the forrest first and even got to feed bananas to the monkeys which has to be done quickly else they grab food from your pockets. Later I went to the gallery ARMA gallery which worked out particularly well since the one picture I stopped to note the painter of turned out to have be painted by the attendant's father who lived near by. After work I was taken to meet him at his studio. His famous piece is an elephant made up of people which he was kind enough to sketch in my journal. His job is a precarious one since the neighbourhood kids delight in exploding things outside his door. I wonder how many paintings that has ruined.

Yesterday I headed for Danau Bratan which has a botanical gardens and beautiful temple as well as being a stunning ride on the bike. There is far more village life out of the cities and it was really nice to pass so much vibrancy by. The strangest thing is that people by the side of the raod insist on trying to communicate large pieces of informatiobn to you. invariably you catch none of it as you speed by. After Danau Bratan, I turned down through the coffee plantations and was able to freewheel to the coast before turning East to Lovina which is supposedly a laid back beach down. When I arrived it was an overcast beach town and every single hawker descended upon me. I escaped to a cafe and watched 2 exceptionally fried looking caged parrots climb around their cage using claws and beak. To shake this depression I got back on the bike for the climb up in to the mountains for my stop at Kitamani where I planned to set off from for a sunirse walk at the Holy Mount Batur. Two other guys in my homestay were doing the same so we found a guide and then set the alarms for 4 am. It was gone 10 by the time we returned since although the rain held of for the sunrise it penned us in on the summit then on the ride home the bike I was riding of the back of was blindsided by an idiot in bell bottom trousers. I was unhurt but the front wheel of my guide's bike looked distinctly square and he had bad cuts and bruises. It was while before we could get a ride back in a car and I could push on for the coast.

The next few days I am headed to Lombok which is East of Bali. It has some surf in the south and some paradise islands in the noerth so the plan is to see both before returning to Bali for the new years celebrations on the 30th.

To say that everybody should come to Bali at least once is a silly cliche. For instance if you only came once for a day then it would be more accurate that everybody should come to Bali thirty times.

Chronology uber alles, however. Australia. Hot, some surf. Lots of jelly fish. Nice hostel but everyone was french, even our allies the Canadians. I only stayed a week because its damned expensive and just as western as all my previous stops. The plan had been to travel all the way up the East coast, Sydney to Cairns, but I had no idea how big the country was and the thought of another coach brought that dusty dry retch reflex up in my throat.

So Bali. My planning, as ever haphazard, meant that what I thought would be a 2 hour flight was in fact 5. I based the earlier assumption on a flight from 2 hours further north with no consideration of time zone changes. No matter, more galling was the confiscation of $20 board resin, paying 20 sterling for 25 US to pay the entry visa. Fortunately I was let off $70 in overweight bags, my check in attendant probably recognised somebody on the verge of the kind of flamboyant huffing fit common amongst cabins staff. Possibly halucinogenic in the presence of resin. There was a funny moment when I got a call out of the PA, having got away with out paying, only for it to be to collect my itinery that I left with said saint of Australian Airlines.

Landing in Bali was a complete shock. Culturally I mean, I had every intention of landing there physically. The first encounter with locals was the 3 porters who carried my bags, I felt like Jonn Q Colonial with an embarrased grin not a parasol. It was only when the asked for money that I found out they weren't airport employess. I just looked at them blankly, having no currency and they gave up. Sheer desire to get to a hotel meant that haggling over the taxi wasn't an option. Yes here take my money, stop telling that its a special price and don't apologise for everything.

The hotel is a very nice budget one in traditional bungalows with good air conditioning, bed, occasional table and an ensuite occasional toilet. There is a surf break at the bottom of the street which runs between the 2 Legian Streets. Helpful. Surfing here is like eating out. You have an enormous menu and you know its all good but where to begin. Being without wheels I spent the first 2 days surfing the beach which is pretty consistant before the breeze picks up, then passable in the evening. The water temperature is like a bath only with lots of litter in it. I'm not squeamish but things touching me in the water, especially after the jelly fish in Oz and fabled great white in Taranaki sets me on edge.

I now have transport. A 50cc Honda FxFit which I ride like Steve McQueen and Uma Thurman's love child. In my mind. The procurement process went something like this. Have you got an international license, no, ok give 200,000 rupees and we will get a police report that is good for a month. In the meanwhile I spent the day riding back and forth in the alley making the occasional roar or screech that proabably did little to instill confidence in the lender. The following morning one of the staff, Wayan, had a day off so took me and Kitty by the real roads to a surf spot. The ride was insane, through alleys and chickens and more motorcycles than I could count. The sun out here is an intense orange orb of heat which singles you out individually for punishment. There is always something on fire and coming through fragrent temple smoke and paddy fields is one of the best experiences of this trip.

My next bike excursion came later that day when some dutch guys, with very Irish Ebglish accents, were heading out to Dreamland, a friendly deep reef break. They took Kitty and I followe, PI style, through traffic. It was both possible and fun to imagine Kitty had been kidnapped and I was the trail. The only sour note was the 60km freeway stretches, scary, especially with misdirected mirrors showing all too clearly the past folly on my right elbow. As Nathan once said, "smith, for one who can be so intelligent you do some very stupid things".

Yesterday was an eventful trip to one of the crowning breaks (as in world class but breaks heads), Uluwatu. The ride there was a sketchy since I had to keep up with 3 more experienced riders. I knew that day was off to a bad start when I mistook a Canadian for an American, couldn't get a board rack and made soem erratic lurches on the bike, all within the space of 11.45. Later we got pulled over by the police, which was funny. They looked at mine and Sol's police reports, laughed to each other and let us go having given me some riding pointers. My Balinese is more disintegrated than broken but I knew they didn't buy the 2 licenses stolen in the same street line but somewhere along the line that 200 g's bought them so on we went.

I got 3 very nice waves at a not too crowded Uluwatu which outnumbered the 2 holes in my board but not the 5 in my feet from coral, the lesson is boots in future. The disastorous day, in a paradise island sense, was given its icing moment when I ran up a 200,500 phone bill with the wallet to back it up. It was all smoothed over with a crisis lone from the Canadian, not American, Cole so perhaps they are our allies after all.

New Zealand, as I may have mentioned is a beautiful place. But sometimes, with 22 years of wisdom I can say, mere beauty is not enough. Having departed with my material possessions (Kitty), I began what Monks call a Perigrination in to the West Coast wilderness beginning with Queenstown. The original intention had been to surf at Kaikoura but the road hugs the coast and it just wasn't happening the day I arrived. Faced with a night in a whale watching hotspot where people wear t-shirts saying "club sandwhiches not seals" I was swiftly back on the bus and arrived in Christchurch.

Queenstown is apparantly the 10th most visited place on the planet, I assume by tourist rather than extra-terrestrials. Its reputation grew out of the bungy jumping exploits of some guy and its ski-hills and now is home to anything that pits man against gravity in an under-dog fight. The cheapest way to prove my mettle was downhill mountain biking in the trails that by way of orientation traverse a hill with a gondala on it. Sadly the heli-drop and mini-bus expedition were out of range so I had to push my bike Frodo (so called because it possesed just the one ring) up the Mount of my impending Doom. The trails available ranged from a DH world cup training run to intermediate single track with inviting names like the rock-garden. To my credit I only went over the bars once and that was because of over-braking rather than reckless machoism/masochism. The second tumble cost a little arm skin but the tan is ok so don't worry yourselves. Unfortunately the weather came in that afternoon so I didn't really make the most of the day. It was the kind of rain that made you think it had passed the worst then got harder which is why, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I spent my last evening as a 21 year-old watching desperate house wives at a campsite.

The following day, the 28th, I celebrated my birthday and shrove tuesday in one with a pancake breakfast in the kind of restaurant where you say something to the staff, they nod comprehendingly (page 17 of "working abroad"(Harper Collins, 2005)), then it doesn't happen. My plan to go to Milford Sound was thwarted by the sheer distance, likewise Mt Cook which I did get a good look at on the way through. Instead I hitched to Wanaka via 3 lifts and a free nectarine from the road-side stall (an unwitting birthdtay present). Wanaka is a more tranquil Queenstown but my idiocy budget was exhausted so save a skate I left unscathed for Haast which is big on my YHA map because it has a hostel and small on anything to do. I walked to the beach (14km), the wind blew and by 9.30 I was so entirely out of ideas I went to bed.

Haast was redeemed by a trip to The Fox Glacier, in the town of Fox Glacier, with two English ladies. It did have a poetic Maori naming stemming from the legend of a lost lover and his missus's tears, but some whitey in shorts preferred his own name.The weather obscured the drive down although there were several newly formed water falls about. After a walk to the impressive Glacier, further progress onto it requiring a guide, I was content to spend the afternoon watching idiotic movies from the extensive hostel collection and rotating who I stole milk from to make tea. That night was the coldest I have ever spent in a tent but was also the turning point.

I had planned to walk to Lake Matheson which before the wind gets up is perfectly still and has a relfection of Mt Cook and Mt Tasman in it, both snow capped. I caught a Ride with Gregor a German guy in my hostel and a Belgian we picked up (he later announced he had slept in a phonebox and had a hat that made this statement extemely credible). It took a little over half an hour for the mist to clear but the wait was worth it since the reflection came through perfectly before the first breath of breeze shattered it. The path back was the west coast writ large since all those leaving knew it was gone and all those going thought we were suckers for seeing 8 in the am. Very similarly all those going North on route 6 look pityingly at you when you say your next stop is Greymouth whilst they are pleased as punch to finally getting to see Haast.

Gregor, and his more sleep inclined girlfriend Nadine, were my next lift. That is after we had jump started the car which had been left all morning with the lights on. The weather returned and we headed North via cafes, jade jewelry shops and various turnings and lakes. Greymouth hostel is the best in the country having an amazing kitchen and a warden who casually bakes muffins for everyone. We used these to supplement the BBQ we had, the days eating being hugely disrupted, I for my part eating 375g of finest biscuits for lunch. The meal was so pleasant I decided that that was my birthday, a rare luxury of not getting a 29th for real.

This ability to see what you want to see may be useful when grilling lamb and brinking ale but has altogether different consequences when the bus timetable is involved. My casual booking revealed I was 2 days shy of Chirstchurch and had insufficient funds on my pass say nothing of the flight I'd miss. Christchurch isn't an easy word to fit on to a piece of A4 paper (don't try it, I'm telling you) but mine was legible enough to have a ride this morning inside of an hour at the turn off. The road winds through the Southern Alps and ended at the hostel door which pretty much does for the NZ leg.