14) THE HEIGHT OF FANTASTIC

I LOVE HELICOPTERS!
I LOVE HELICOPTERS!
I LOVE HELICOPTERS!

Most people are aware that Hong Kong is the most densely populated city in the world, yet very few know that over 40% of the land mass is comprised of protected green spaces. This morning, just before our 'goodbye lunch' we took a helicopter tour of Hong Kong - and to describe the views in a single word: spectacular.

My last interview was also a success - sitting on the sun drenched deck of the private Pacific Club, drinking espresso with the Swiss chef and sampling the latest coffee craze here - java sweetened with caramel sauce. The sun was setting, the haze was clearing and Tsam Tsui across the bay was finally visible. Below are a sampling of shots from the helicopter ride. My internet will be cut off shortly, so unless I find wireless at the airport, this will be my final Asian post.

13) FRUIT WITH THE CONCERTMASTER

It's embarassing to admitt, but when I stepped into the marbled foyer of the Wong family apartment, I had no idea I was stepping into the home of such an esteemed musician and Hong Kong resident. The man in the blue tracksuit is indeed Wong On-yuen, the concertmaster of the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra. As we sat on the blue leather couches in the living room that looked out, once again, over the beautiful harbour, the concertmaster pottered about with the kettle, and set the table for tea. Yet as he flops into a recliner and slips off his maroon flip flops, it is hard to imagine he has cut 27 albums and has a very succesful DVD currently on the market. (I received a free copy from the maestro himself!)

For a journalist, losing control of an interview is never a good situation to to be in, yet when you require the help of a translator, (mine being Jonathan in the suit) you must put all your faith in their capabilities to express your ideas and in the belief that they actually know what you are trying to say. Luckily, we are working as a well-oiled machine at this point, and when long stretches of conversation occur, I sit back and take in the view of the ocean, or scribble notes on the furniture and photographs about the room. Physical clues are often more interesting than background research, and when I ask about a lone Er-hu that stands in the corner, we soon discover there are another hundred just around the bend. Lining the walls of numerous glass cabinets, each bares a special significance- an album finished, a concert with a special conductor played. His Er-hu collection tells a story he says, the maturation of his life as a musician.

During the Cultural Revolution, Wong was hand-selected by Mao's wife, Jiang Ching, to play the violin in the revolutionary Beijing Opera. In those days, every performance was graded, and the next morning musicians would check to see if there was a red or black flag beside their name. A red flag was satisfactory,a black flag was a dire situation. And when I asked "and two black flags?" His response: "it would be unthinkable."

The intervew is winding down, an hour with the concertmaster at his home is a great honour, and especially in Hong Kong when few people entertain guests in private. We gather our belongings, yet Mrs. Wong is intent that we stay and produces a plate with sliced pear. On her orders as we demolish the pear, she reappears with a plate of sliced apples. They all talk loudly to one another and I much fruit in silence, trying to pick words out of the stream of chatter. Mrs. Wong's did direct one comment directly to the Anglo: "Summer," she says pointing to my three-quarter length cotton sweater. "Winter" she says pointing at her own polarfleece jacket in neon yellow. (It was 21 degrees today).

12) Music Man

A civil engineer, a musician, an instrument maker, an instrument visionary, an artisan who, through trial and era, has spent the last 35 years making replicas of Tang dynasty instruments down to the mother of pearl embossed ornamentation. All this from the tiny workshop that sits behind his cluttered livingroom; all this on the 23rd floor of an apartment building that overlooks the ocean.

The truly brilliant are indeed the most modest. As the interview unravelled, hour after hour, the boundaries of his limitations expanded to such a degree that I was convinced there was nothing he could not accomplish, short of self-levitation, and even then, I am not sure as I never asked. He plays all the instruments in the orchestra - he is self taught.

He begins to play them, one after another, matching the authentic replica instrument and song. "This one was played in 200 BC, in the afternoons. Most likely in the gardens . . ." And then he picks up the modern version, and plays a 1970s theme song to a Cantonese soap opera, describing the differences in woods, in size, in technique. He has started becoming involved in moving towards eco-instruments, substituting synthetic compunds for python skins. He is altering the sound, yet preserving the music, making it relevant for contemporary society. Such eco-friendly measures will save 50 000 pythons every year, and now as an illegal material to traffick internationally, China may now continue to produce instruments to be exported to other Asia Pacific nations, and to the West.

And sadly, he has no apprentice. No one with his skills has yet come along, willing to devote their lives to such an obscure profession, and without passing on his knowledge, the craft may eventually die out.

Throughout the hours, the teapot never ran empty, and he boiled water continuously on a little table-top stove. The water, he poured into a large cup, and sifting out the tea leaves with a saucer, filled our mugs again, and again. He smoked continuously, switching been pulls of a cigarette and puffs on his pipe. He took drags from his cigarette and then let it droop from the corner of his mouth and burn til the ashes fell upon his lap, yet he continued to play undisturbed. He is a truly remarkable man, and I am humbled to have met him.

11) THE SOUND OF MUSIC

The Suona is an instrument with origins in Central Asia, yet during the past few centuries it has become 'sinicized' to the extent that most Chinese assume it is but another invention in the pantheon of Chinese inventions. Most commonly associated with funeral processions, musicans like 23-year-old Ge Li who choose to devote their careers and their lives to the obscure, clarinet-like instrument, are to be commended for their passion. Especially in a city like Hong Kong, a 'dead-end' job is hardly thought of favourably.


On the contrary, Ren Fei who is a Zheng specialist, will have a prosperous life whether she is taken into an orchestra or if she whiles away her years teaching private lessons. Why? Because in Hong Kong playing the Zheng is the ultimate nouvelle-status instrument. It is part of a pop culture trend to reclaim Chinese identity. Yet, over the past decades the Zheng has been transformed with the addition of metal strings, foregoing the silk ones it was originally created to use, and is now a closer cousin to the piano then any other instrument. Pleasant on the ears, it is a parents dream come true, and like a piano it is thought of as 'furniture instrument' that ornaments the house whether it is ever played or not. What is quite fascinating about the Zheng is that the player is required to wear nail extensions, tortoise shell guitar-pick implements that attach to the hand with tiny elastics. Unlike Ge Li who would be paid minimally for funeral playing, Ren Fei will be paid handsomely to accompany celebration banquets and wedding ceremonies.


To understand the complexities of Classical Chinese music in a modern context, I was urged to read a book by Prof. Yu Siu-wah: "Such the Fading Sounds" an English translation of his PhD thesis, which he completed at Harvard. Only after arriving did I realize the suggesion was more than just advice, it was an imperative as an interview with the man himself had been arranged on my behalf. Naturally, I wanted to present myself as well-researched and began my quest to read his work before meeting with him. Naturally, something as easy as purchasing a book turned out to be a ridiculous adventure and involved me visiting 8 separate stores before buying my own copy. Apparently, as the book is bilingual, with alternating chapters in Chinese and English, none of the clerks would sell me a copy even though the book was in stock. The night before my interview, I demolished his turgid text and felt smug as we wandered around the musical instrument archive together and I could mumble with some authority "that would be from the Tang dynasty I imagine . . ." At the end of the afternoon together, he autographed my precious book for me.

10) FERRY ME HAPPY

I was beginning to fear that I would never like, let alone understand, Hong Kong and its inhabitants. Although I am a shopper, I could not connect with consumption as a 24/7 activity which should more correctly be described as an obsession. Tired of getting lost among the same labrynth of shop lined streets, each with the same assortment of Giordano's, Lacoste's and 7-11s (literally one on every block) I made my way to the pier and hopped a ferry to the otherside of the bay. Along the boulevard of the stars sits the Hong Kong Cultural Centre and during a performance of the Butterfly Lovers by the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra (the centre of my actual work here) I found the beating heart and soul of the city. Ironically, as the orchestra was perforing a stirring musical rendition of an ancient poem, outside the nightly laser show over the harbour was in full-swing.

Today, I once again explored the far side of the city, up to the areas known as the New Territories, reclaimed land which houses the actual residents who do not wear Gucci and Versace every day of the week. I delighted in the simple outdoor fairs that seemingly were everywhere.

The 21st Annual Koi exhibit featured dozens of large plastic tubs with Koi fish in various sizes and colours, some in plastic bags, and others floating freely in the cool waters. Prizes were awarded for a variety of categories and one man cried when his fish was voted the largest.

My favourite event of the day was the Hong Kong Community Gardens award ceremony, which was a touristless venue, and I relished strolling the crowds without people trying to hawk their wares. At the stall for the New Life psychiatric rehabilitation centres, I met a woman with impeccable English who explained the ethos of her group, teaching cultivation skills to clients of their services so that they can obtain job skills and hopefully a part-time job. I left the fair ground, after a performance by little ballerinas of a harvest dance, feeling rejuvenated and with the knowledge that beyond the theatrics and flash, Hong Kong is a place where people truly live.

I then headed even further North, to the Lei Cheng Uk Han tomb, a 2nd century BC era burial chamber that was excavated in the 1950s. There were no more neon signs, or crowded streets. I stumbled upon the city bus depot among the endless run-down towers and walled parks with elderly tai chi practioners. Men carrying their caged pet birds gathered together around stone tables to smoke and play cards. Philipina domestics sat in hair-braiding circles, whilst others performed improv karaoke song and dance numbers to the faint strains from a portable radio.

I sat on a bench nearby and ate from my pork-stuffed bun, splaying my pen marked map across the table with impunity. I did not belong there, but no one cared. They were too busy being concerned with the problems of their own existance. And finally, I could say I was happy in Hong Kong.

9) BRIGHT LIGHTS BIG CITY

The bus ride from the airport to the hotel was almost half the duration of the flight from Malaysia. There is congestion everywhere, even in the late hours of the evening on a weekday, and I wonder who is crazy enough to want to take a car anywhere. During those hours, I stare out the window at thousands upon thousands of apartment towers, each with hundreds of little windows, some with laundry hanging, plants, others illuminated with strings of christmas lights. It reminded me of an ant colony, with the people scurrying about, always seeming to be late, always needing to get something done.
It is cold, much colder than I ever imagined, (the coldest day of the year) and without heating in my hotel room, I shiver and head out for the main strip. It's past 10pm and the throngs are jostling me side to side. I am the only white woman on the streets, the only person not wearing a jacket with a fur collar, or a neon coloured parka. Even the dogs are clad in flannel jackets and matchig booties. I try on a few coats, the salesgirls all rush to me when I arrive. "Miss, you would look lovely in this . . ." they thrust coats, and handbags, and footwear, and anything in the store in a size large. Malaysia has increased it's clothing sizes, but Hong Kong has yet to follow suit. So I am the perfect target to unload end of season stock upon. "miss, for you a discount. You have Asian eyes, you must be a good person."
I buy a coat for the equivalent of $105 (Cdn).
The next morning, the cleaning woman provides me with a space heater, the little white box whirs and warms my toes as I type. I have decided to write a very long letter to the management of this hotel, as the staff, save the nice door man who is dressed like it is the height of the British Raj in India, have personality issues. Specifically, I object to them uttering "gwei lo" (white devil in Cantonese) to one another whenever I complain (no hot water, no large bath towels, broken heater).

I have also discovered one of the difficulties of traveling solo- picture taking. Despite the length of my arms, I can not coordinate both a non-stressed facial composure and my whole face in the same frame.

8) IF WOMEN RULED THE WORLD

Putra Jaya is the federal capital of Malaysia, a city 25 years in the making, conceptualized exclusively by female architects. There are about 100 park spots for every car, and is essentially a ceremonial locale where national events are staged and government bureacrats toil in obscurity. Pristine and uncongested, it is a world unto itself. The city is constructed similarly to Washington, with one long avenue that runs the length of the central area. On one side, the Prime Minister's office, at the other end, a conference centre which displays shades of Star Trek. If it was not 36 degrees I may have exited the car to take more pictures. Alas.

7) BACK IN IPOH . . . WE ATE

For the serious eater, three meals a day are not enough, and in Malaysia, the fourth meal of the day is often eaten at the Pasar Malam, or open street market which sells food and an assortment of other loot from alarm clocks and socks to CDs and hairclips. If you can't buy it here, you may not actually need it.

Needless to say, nightlife thrives in Ipoh and most people can be found at a food market, which is a food court with table service. Pass a stall and place order, leaving your table number to ensure delivery. It is just past 9pm and hundreds of people are squeezed shoulder to shoulder around tables crammed with plastic dishes in kindergarden colours, stacked with dumplings and chicken feet and bowls of noodles.

As we wander, I see the eyes follow me, hundreds of pairs of eyes are following me, critiquing my reaction to every new smell and sight. I am bookended by my Aunt and Uncle and on the locals faces I see the confusion, the questions - who is she? And why is she with them? But I do not flinch because this is old hat. Being stared at may initially feel like you are an animal at the free-range safari, but it fades and becomes routine, and in the end you just smile and nod at all the onlookers.

6) PENANG, ISLAND OF PLENTY

I always knew growing up that my father's family spent most of WWII hiding from the Japanese, living as farmers in Penang. The full version of the storyI finally learned from my Uncle this past week.

When Japan invaded Manchuria in 1932, overseas Chinese began collecting 'war bonds' to aid the Chinese resistance fighters. My grandfather was a central figure in his locality for this type of fundraising, and when the Japanese invaded Malaya they arrived with hit-lists baring the names of these ringleaders. Therefore, my grandfather and his family were forced into hiding, first living in barracks at migrant tin miner camps, before finally fleeing, with the help of servants, to the relatively undeveloped island of Penang.

Today, the island is known for five-star beaches and hostels with the latest-wave of backpackers looking for R&R in relative luxury. Sadly, our arrival was greeted by warm drizzle and fog over the bay.

Unlike my last trip to Penang when I lay feverish in bed for several days, listening to the lapping ocean waves and Hil calling out from the beach, delighting in the surface, this was all work. I met with one of the musical Lim twins, friends of my cousin Li Han, who helped prepare me for my Hong Kong tour. Not until half-way through my interview did I figure out that there was a langauge barrier that was resulting in some rather bizarre responses to my rather rudimentary questions. Luckily my Uncle intervened and saved the day, leading the interview back to the land of the coherent. Well versed in the specificities of Classical Chinese Music, the image of Mr. Lim I will always remember was the little orange comb that protruded from the flap of his pocket.

I can now distinguish and Er-hu from a Gao-hu, which is basically telling the difference between the viola and the violin. It's a small accomplishment, but as the saying goes, the journey of a thousand steps begins with the first step.

5) SHOP TIL YOU DROP IS A WAY OF LIFE

IMELDA MARCOS II DOES IPOH PARADE MALL!



The exchange rate alone is reason enough, but selection is the best reason to shop til you drop in Malaysia. With 12 months of summer, where else to stock up on summer foot wear?

My cousin LiHan, Auntie Siew Pheng and I hit the Ipoh malls - and wow I am still awestruck by the frenzied experience. Someone needs to buy a new shoe rack . . .














My uncle asked about what I would wear with certain of my purchases, and I told him it didn't matter what I wore, the shoes would be the main event. "You mean you go out naked?" he replied.

4) A HILL IS A MOUNTAIN WHEN THE TEMPERATURE RISES ABOVE 33

Ipoh residents may love their food, but they also love their exercise. Kelandang "hill" is part of the Kinta chain of mountains, and on weekends is populated by throngs of residents from pre-school to the golden age, some pumping arm weights as they climb. The winding path is lined with endless acreage of vegetation, monkeys swinging from trees, tropical birds chirping away and little temple rest-stops replete with locals lighting incense. The musty scent of sandalwood hangs like limpid wet laundry on a humid day, and no matter how high I climb, I can not elude its odour, now absorbed into my sweaty flesh. Locals believe there are spirits on the 'hill' and pay homage to them through prayer and offerings.

Near the top of Kelandang, I sit on a stone bench and wait for my uncle to join me. The rest area is lined with benches that overlook the cliff top and below onto a panorama of the entire valley with a setting sun poking through from behind lavender hued clouds. I hear spluttering from over the side of the baracade and rush over to see what is the matter. To my surprise there is a small party of elderly locals clambering up the cliff side, (apparently those who do not find the traditional path adequate free-scale the dusty climbs of 'Bald-Man's Peak'.

Although Kelandang is the highest peak in the region, the karstic mountains on the outskirt of town that house the Budhist cave temples are by far the most famous geological formation. Literally burrowing beneath the mountains, the series of caves, each with various temples, series of ornate gold statues and pilgrims are worthy of the acclaim they receive.

In the parking area, hawkers sell garlands of green vegetables, and I did not understand the purpose until we exited one of the cave passages into a naturally formed attrium. To my surprise, there stood a red shingled temple flanked by karstic cliffs on all sides at least 50 storeys high, adjacent a pond filled with lucky turtles. Feeding the turtles, the equivalent of throwing pennies into a fountain.

3) I IS FOR IPOH

Between the hustle and bustle of Kuala Lumpur and the sunbather-strewn beaches of Penang lies Ipoh, one of the largest urban areas in Malaysia - and luckily still unravaged by the tourist hoards. Nestled in the Kinta valley, the city's tin mining glory days are over, yet there remains a vibrancy centred around community and food consumption.

For my family, eating is the central aspect of existance, and the days consist of many meals and whiling away the time between each of these feasts. It is impossible to avoid the topic, and when one is finishing breakfast, discussion begins on possibilities for lunch and even dinner, and/or meals in days to come. The number of hours that may/will elapse between the current meal being consumed and the one to come is also calculated and dissected, and the duration of the current meal is perhaps even lengthened.
"No food for at least, mhmm, 3 hours."
"No I think it is closer to three and a half, maybe even four! Order another plate of chicken rice just in case."

However, as my last foray into South East Asia consisted in a lot of bathroom time between each meal, for weeks on end, I began a strict regime by the book: no ice, no uncooked vegetables, no water that does not come from a bottle that I do not open myself, no fruit that needs washing, no fruit in a shell that I do not peel myself. (And no chilis, lah.)

The pomello, the sweet juicy fruit with flesh that ressembles grapefruit, but a taste that lacks the bitter back-bite has become my favourite. My Auntie hands me a plastic shopping bag for my lap, and I tear off chunks to stuff in my mouth as we drive about town.

Location comes a close second to what is being consumed. Chicken rice is served all across town, but there are certain places to frequent and certain to avoid. My favourite stall uses margarine in their rice.

There is a contraversy in town over the true flavour improvement of cooking satay chicken over charcoals or over a modern grill. I opt for charcoal-hands down! Many of the local breakfast 'joints' are the same ones my father frequented back in the late 40s and early 50s. My favourite satay man, who also served my father way back when, just retired this past year, his grill purchased by another local who will benefit from a customer-base decades in the making.

2) FROM HK TO KL

Just as Dipal made me stressed, Ranjit made me relaxed – which he might say is a balancing of cosmic energies. My seat mate to Kuala Lumpur, on the second leg of his journey to Kerala for a three day Hindu pilgrimage to Sabarimalai for the God Swami Ayyappa, was a delight from the start. An IT guy from Silicone Valley, his sojourn in America had rekindled his faith and his desire to relocate his family back to India - ironically for many of the reasons that led him to leave in the first place.

Ranjit and I parted ways at another monorail, this one with two tracks, beneath the glass domed enclosures of the KL airport. One of the most tranquil places any traveller could be lucky enough to find themselves stranded in, KLA was constructed on tropical forest land and somehow manages to fuse modern transport with natural habitat whilst avoiding the perils of kitschy Las Vegas theme-decorating.

I spend an hour in the customs line simply because my Canadian sense of decorum does not immediately permit me to partake in the jostling antics of my fellow travellers. But after at least 2 tour groups, and several families of 12 push past me and I found myself still lodged between two marble columns. I partner up with a New Zealand tourist and use elbow thrust manoeuvres on both flanks to quell the surging hoards behind us, and maintain position against those already ahead trying to sneak in stragglers.

In the arrival hall, I scan the crowd, but my Aunt and Uncle are no where to be found.I trundle my suitcase along towards the information desk as I feel the masses descending. Although nothing can compare to the onslaught of ‘tour guides’ that besieges travellers at the Port of Tangiers, past experience has taught me to refuse anything offered and always to do it with a smile and a quickened pace. A security officer dials my uncle’s cell phone and I spot him not 10 feet away.

We emerge from the airport and the air is thick and moist. 30-something degrees and I am wearing a wool sweater, jeans, wool socks and sneakers. I peel off the layers of winter wear and roll up the cuffs of my jeans, placing my faithful blue Havianas on my tired feet. Speeding down the highway towards Kuala Lumpur, my back sticky against the vinyl seats of the 1960s Mercedes taxi, my eyes slowly adjust to the sunlight and the sight of all that lush green vegetation.

1) LONG DAY'S JOURNEY TO ASIA

Bali sounds like a wonderful place for a winter vacation, I say with all sincerity
“I am going to mourn by dead family members who perished in the Tsunami” he replies with tears in his eyes.

I have been seated next to the man in the Khaki suit for less than 3 minutes and already things are going irreparably badly. Only 23h and 42 minutes before I can leave the seat . . .
His English is terrible, we “talk” about the food, the weather, and he proceeds to “help” me find a good movie it watch on my personal monitor by pushing the buttons on my consul until he is satisfied I am viewing something suitable and of good quality.
Khaki man: Four Brothers – Very Bad movie
Me (I agree)
Khaki man: The Island – he doesn’t like the end when the bad guy dies
Me:(well now I don’t need to see it I guess),
Khaki: Friends Reruns -I feel sorry for the woman who’s husband runs away with a slut
Me: (he’s definitely Team Jen),
Khaki: a BBC documentary series about a man who is trying to start his own nation – rubbish!
Me: (I rather enjoyed it, especially the interview with the man who sells lunar property from upstate New York)

The crew from Toronto disembark when we refuel in Anchorage and are replaced by Cathay Pacific’s long-haul harpie brigade. Never has one shift of airline workers ever been so disgruntled or less inclined to make wan smiles at passengers.

We land in Hong Kong around 7:15am. Dipal waves at me madly as he heads to the Transfer desk. I begin my running-walk gait which will forever be known by me as the HKA shuffle.

Through some miracle, I am whisked through customs, collect my bag and then head back upstairs to the departure gates, purchase another ticket and reenter. The desk clerk at Cathay, another porcelain beauty with clipped English and a curt demeanour did not bat an eye when she sold me a ticket for a flight set to take off 15 minutes from the moment she tagged my lightly packed suitcase (17.2kg- a personal best!) I proceeded to HKA shuffle to a credit card swipe internet stand, the Chinese customs exiting authority, the monorail to the departure gates and finally onwards to gate #78 (of 80).

Cathay dolls were placed throughout the terminal with signs baring my flight and destination with the words LAST CALL MISS AU – and I wondered as I lumbered along with each of them calling after me, yelling into walkie talkies, when they had time to print up such lovely signs and place themselves about the terminal when I had only just purchased a ticket. Efficiency should be the middle name of Cathay Airlines.

The plane is delayed 11 minutes on my behalf, yet there is chaos a foot in the cabin: the plane is taxiing down the runway and there are children running about unbuckled, airline attendants playing tug of war with passengers clutching parcels, the captain calling the chief steward over the loud speaker who is too busy to respond and I finally realize I am back in Asia.