The Complex Men

The Complex Men officially formed after a jamming session in a guitar shop in downtown Shanghai wherein we were offered a regular cafe gig and potentially the honour of opening for a great local band who travel to all the Shanghai universities.

We also ride our bicycles as a gang, the streets of Shanghai are rough - we go into red mode when presented with opposition.

We play covers because the potency of our orignial creations often cause death by inner-ear orgasm.

Coverage of performance dates TBA.

Portraits

hanging in shanghai

   
Today was the first (of many to come) that I spent outside of the campus walls and in the wide world of Shanghai. It was unsurprisingly very cold, but today I really appreciated the beauty that comes with winter in a big city. The streets are lined with bare trees, naked without their foliage they scratch upward to the grey smog sky. People appreciate the value of warmth and its relativity to life. Scattered along each street, plumes of steam from massive bamboo dumpling cookers signify crowds of construction workers lining up for nourishment. The metro is well heated, and sleepy people slump themselves down to get from one side of Shanghai to the other. It’s very real, it is a living, breathing working city. The people do their jobs as individuals with reason and importance, yet there is a collective conscience – a kind of hive mind in which everyone is aware of everyone else. This city might fool you with its looks, lulling you into the sense that it is just like any other, but the people that fill the space also fill the space with something especially unique to Shanghai. 

This old man drew my portrait when I was on the metro. No fee, no hassling. He just enjoyed the work.

This man had a rickshaw filled with rabbits and guinea pigs and small birds. Wheeling around a pet shop through the French Concession.

Each alleyway presents you with a alternative scene of life. The ordered streets give way to something entirely different in just a few steps.

being grateful

5 Days

Ok. Where to begin…

I will begin with an apology for not posting anything for the last week, and continue with a reasonably good excuse as to why not. On my second last day in Hong Kong I was jumped by the notorious novovirus hoodlum, and it took me hostage in the isolation ward of the hospital for three days. My captors stuck drugs into me, starving me saying ‘nil by mouth’ and making people wear masks when they were around me. Forced to watch midday television in an unrecognisable language, I thought my spirits were surely weakened beyond repair. When I woke on the third day to yet a new pair of strawberry-patterned pyjamas and matching undies, I knew I had to make a change. Luckily I ended up kicking its ass and making my way out just in time for an emergency flight to Shanghai because I missed my original train.

Still shaking from sickness and managing the weight of my luggage, I stumbled out of the airport into the Shanghai night and began shivering from the cold. A two hour bus ride saw me dropped at the side of the road, hailing a taxi, practicing my mandarin already with the driver who tried to scam me. Now I’m hauling my own luggage out of the boot, straining to find a street lamp so that I can read my map of the campus. Find my way, find the right information desk, hand over my documents, get told that I am not registered for a room.

Now I am actually in despair. I brainstorm places I could sleep for the night, then I call my mum. Hallelujah and angels descend from the heavens – my lateness should have been expected, people had been informed, I was to have a bed. It was time to get big. I approach the desk, looked them man in the eye and do my best Blanchett-as-Queen-Elizabeth-getting-pissed impression. It works. The dude is checking emails. Turns out some guy sent an email to this dude – and I have a room!

I get to my room on the fifth floor, it’s even colder in the room than outside. I have no mattress. Or pillow. Or doona. I have no food and no water. Step outside my room to look around and my door closes behind me – locks me out. Down the stairs to the desk. Ten minutes later and I manage to make myself understood, get laughed at, get back into my room. Take my seven pills of medication without water and put as many clothes on as I can wear and lie down on the wood. Six hours of time and one hour of sleep later, its morning. Thank god.

Make a new friend and we go eat a feast. Things are getting much better, very quickly now. With a belly full I go get proper bedding and some food and water from the supermarket. Then after some red tape registration stuff we have another belly full of dinner and retire. I now have a hot water card, so I figure out how the showers work and scalded myself with lukewarm water until my skin adjusted to the idea of real heat once again. My heater is working well this night, I can feel my toes and I have set up my internet!!! Life is grand!!! I crawl into a bed that is soft and warm, and I go straight to sleep.

When I woke up this morning I felt like the past week was just a bad, bad nightmare. I can function as a human being again now, and I am emailing and skypeing like a fiend. The campus is beautiful, my new friends are hilarious and the food is awesome.

I am amazed at how much my life can change in the space of 5 days.

beads and beats

Yesterday was wonderfully productive. We took the ferry over to Lamma Island (again) which I originally introduced in this post. It was just as beautiful the second time, and this time we were on a mission! Fumbling round on the internet for a map of Lamma a few days ago, I found a website for a lady who offers glass classes on the island. Bowls and figurines and lead lighting are some of her other classes, but we opted for glass bead making.

  

Without any real street names or maps, Lamma is hard enough to find your way around, letalone when you are searching for an address that is just a number and the name of one side of the entire island. Just when we thought we were on the right street we found a number 63, then an abandoned shed, then a number 69. The address we got was “top floor, 65”. It was amusing for a moment, before we realised we had no idea where to go. Asked four different people for directions and finally found out that we were in the wrong place. Once we got on track and climbed our way through the terraced warren of 3-level housing buildings, we stumbled onto the place we were looking for. Ascending the staircase I noticed empty tins of cat food all over the place, and before I noticed the hairs collecting on my shoes, the smell of cat completely filled my noise and almost halted me. Once you get past the feline introduction (made even stranger by the fact that I could not see any cats) you round the corner into a small studio. It is wonderful.

Here's one I prepared earlier.

A small bathroom, room for a fridge, and tables and chairs and materials. A massive balcony the same size as the indoor area overlooks the breathtaking seaside views that Lamma is blessed with. It is an artists’ dream. I can imagine Hemingway writing here, my mother painting here, this old cat lady making beads here. It so perfect it’s almost stereotypical. Anyways, making the beads was great too. It took us two whole hours to make four beads, though, so next time I look at an entire necklace of glass beads I will certainly have a lot more respect. I am not so great at this new artistic medium, but I would be totally keen to make a bowl or lamp – something bigger. The glass looks like candy and it’s all about colour. We very much enjoyed the artistic process.

Moving on, we had the best vegetarian burgers of our lives, and then caught the ferry back to central just in time to catch the train to the Hong Kong Arena to see Eric Clapton!!!

HELL YEAH ERIC CLAPTON

He was insanely good – off the charts good – rocked my world good – I’m going to the record store and buying his entire discography good. Very very good. The funniest part was probably when all of the more mature (read: older (read: old) ) audience members got up and started dancing quite funnily (read: badly) in their tie-dye pants and waist-length grey hair and circle sunnies. I hope I still love my favourite musicians that much in a hundred years time. They did Eric proud, they certainly did.

Stanley

Took a bus all the way out to Stanley today. It's a sleepy little seaside town with a very westernised feel, famous for its markets and maritime museum. It reminded me very strangely of the Italian town Mongibello that I read about in The Talented Mr. Ripley recently. It is quiet and yet there are quite a few people around, and it is picturesque yet the sky was completely grey and there was a cold wind.

The markets had some strange items that you, like me, might find amusing.

Apart from that, well......
Nothing, really.
That's about it in Stanley.
You go there to shop and see funny stuff and each good sandwiches.
I did all those things.
Very pleasant.

Nam Koo Terrace

Found a super scary building today. It’s called Nam Koo Terrace, colloquially known as The Wan Chai Haunted House. The wiki link is here, but it must be censored by the government because it certainly doesn’t do justice to the actual history of the building or to how seriously creeped out I was when I went there myself. 

It was used as a brothel when the Japanese had possession of Hong Kong, and local women were forced into prostitution to ‘entertain’ Japanese troops. It is said (read: in this case is incredibly likely) that the women were also frequently tortured and killed.  Now the building is owned by a development company, and despite the land being worth billions, it is heritage listed for “its beautiful architecture.” (Read: the Chinese are an incredibly superstitious people.)

It is so obviously colonial. The wrought iron, the balcony, the brickwork - and those
white panels are actually plaster boards - put there so that people can't see or get in.

I did a bit more digging on the place and found out LOT more juicy and frightening – and recent – information. To start with, it’s only occasionally inhabited by squatters. This is a pretty bad sign considering the number of homeless in Hong Kong and the fact that this building is in a quiet, isolated yet central location. It is also very rarely patrolled and there is no nearby security to fend off potentioal homeless people. Ordinarily this would be the ideal location for squatters or homeless, but it is still empty. Secondly, the building is a freaky kind of ‘suicide hub’ for depressed Hong Kong residents. People go to hang themselves from boughs and balustrades or throw themselves off roofs and verandas. Although the last reported case was in 2008, street knowledge is that in Hong Kong many suicides still go unreported – especially those that would create unnecessary hype – which is exactly what happens when anything happens at Nam Koo. Lastly, a couple of years ago a small group of ghost hunting students managed to get right into the building, in an attempt to stay the night and witness evidence to support the stories. The media went crazy when the story leaked out that one of the young girls had been ‘possessed’ and was hospitalized thereafter. She was hysterical – screaming and attacking police officers that came to retrieve the students.

My experience at Nam Koo? Where to begin… The building itself is difficult to find – it is hidden by massive overgrown trees and impossibly tucked away despite being smack bang in the middle of SoHo. Once you find Ship St, you are pitched against continuous flights of stairs that both crumble and narrow as you get closer to the top. The pathway finally comes to the edge of the brick building where it is boarded up with wood and signs and barbed wire. If you look closely, however, you can see a worn path through the dirt which winds around the side of the blockades and lets you peek over into the private property. A thin wooden plank presented itself as a bridge to climb over the wall onto the roof, and I’m not going to say that I didn’t try, but it took me about twenty minutes of shuffling around the place taking photos to work up the courage and put my booted foot forward. Luckily I wasn’t listening to my ipod, because as I shifted half my weight onto the rotting timber, I heard a crunch and a crack and quickly looked down to see it bent downwards in the middle. The fall wasn’t too far, but there was rusty wire and nails everywhere, I wasn’t supposed to be here, I was already shitting my pants, and I was completely alone - no one would have heard me scream. No exaggeration. This building exists in a vortex of creepy.

By the time I had even made the decision to try and cross (letalone began actually trying), I was breathing quickly, feeling lightheaded, and sweating despite the drop in temperature. After the near fall, I was essentially hyperventilating and my mind started playing tricks on me. The wrought iron bars in the red brick frames covered dusty windows, and the reflections in them moved as the wind in the trees did. I couldn’t see all the way around myself and I certainly couldn’t see around any of the corners in the building itself. I started really freaking out and figured I should get outta there quickly, but tripped on barbed wire as I scrambled down the hill. Now I was honestly close to [assing out. My body just felt like it couldn't get oxygen. It was insane. So intense. I gripped the railing so tight as I took the stairs three at a time back down, tripping again twice. I reached the bottom. Panting, with eyes watering (read: I was not crying. Maybe.) I gathered myself for a moment, and despite the incredulous looks of a couple sharing ice cream, I was glad of the human company.

   

Yeah - like this plank was going to support my weight.
It looks like it's been there since the goddamned war.
It's also about double the length of what you can see in the photo.
And it was a deep ditch, let me tell you.
I also have no idea what a wrought iron cage on the roof would have been used for.
I don't think we want to know.

I can honestly say that I have never been so affected by a place. I never give much consideration to the supernatural (apart from when Dean and Sam kick ass), but this place is seriously creepy. I don’t even look back at the visit and think of it as a funny anecdote. I was honestly scared. To date, this is the most scared I have ever been.

I would be interested to learn about the history that hasn’t been efficiently cleaned up since the war. Whatever went on inside this building must have been horrendous. I am also interested to know why the building is privately owned, and when (if ever) it will be restored. For now, though, Nam Koo remains a mystery and a danger.

breathe in the city

Today we enjoyed a trip out to Mong Kok, the Flower Markets and the Yuen Po St Bird Market. It was the coldest day so far this winter in Hong Kong, and we felt alive and immortal in our massive coats and boots out against the weather. The flower market is something I have been waiting to see, and it did not disappoint. Two entire, long streets crammed on either side with breathtaking flowers. The blooms en masse were so violently vibrant I could not believe I was seeing this much colour in the otherwise grey and drab country. 

Even more impressive than the spectacular visual presentation, was the smell. If you could manage to find yourself a spot to close your eyes and just enjoy the moment, you really realised how amazing the scent of that many flowers in such a small area can be. Especially in contrast to the smell of the rest of Mong Kok. I haven’t smelt that much nature since I arrived, and it was so much stronger than perfume, yet so much less aggressive. I could have sat down and picked out each scent from my memory as though I were picking the flowers themselves. The roses are easy to recognise, but lilies and carnations and tulips have individual scents too. It was sensory overload. Just incredible. The sounds were those that you would expect in a market – bustling, with trucks beeping reversing and packing tape going over boxes and bosses yelling commands at young workers. But there was just such immense beauty in this small backstreet of such an industrial city, I felt myself truly inspired by nature.

How could so many different flowers exist without someone to create them? There is no need for these things to be so incredibly beautiful, or varied, or scented. Their one purpose is to attract bees for pollination, but this could be achieved by means that weren’t so obviously aesthetic to humans. It baffles me how complex and endless nature is without any apparent purpose other than for us to marvel at it. I can truly say that after today, I will never underestimate the beauty of the natural world again. So much colour, and scent and texture existed in one place – brought together by humans and celebrated by humans. It was nothing short of inspirational.

   

After the flowers, we continued on to the bird street markets. These were considerably less populated due to the fact that the day was so cold and usually the elderly sit out with their Rens and Sparrows, and this chill factor was just too high for bones that have seen better days. But nevertheless, a little imagination and it was easy to picture the bird market in its prime. Small shops line the side of the garden walkway, selling either pretty birds as pets, or brown birds to buy and set free. Old men feed the fluttering creatures little caterpillars with chopsticks through the thin bars of their tiny bamboo cages. Seed is loose on the ground everywhere, and the noise of the free birds chirping and the caught birds singing is almost powerful enough to drown out the city bustle just meters away. It is a sanctuary, like an aviary without wire, but this place is more for the people than it is for the birds. They get together and share soup and tea and they talk and enjoy each other’s company. The birds are a common factor between these people, but nothing more. They have found a medium for connecting to others which is free and enjoyable and all about community. If only more places around the world had small birds on small bird streets to bring their small elderly people together. It was lovely.

Cheese

Yesterday involved a visit to a small, yet renowned, restaurant called ‘Classified’. Classified is famous in Hong Kong primarily because of its cheeses and wines. Having been in Asia for a while now, I had been deprived of a good shave, hunk or bite of cheese for far too long, and we decided to drop in for a platter. 

Absolutely blown away is an understatement of how this place impressed me. We simply had a cheese platter with some olives and bread, but we enjoyed almost two hours there and my taste buds have not been the same since. I dare those of you who consider cheese merely as an addition to an already fine meal, to really go out and acquaint yourselves with the hefty mistress that it truly is. We went into the cold room to choose our cheeses and then they were weighed and brought to us. 5 different types, and five completely different explosions in my mouth soon followed. It was as if I was at a fancy gallery, and had just been introduced to five amazing new people. And they were introduced to me with an explanation as to their most virtuous characteristics. And they all wanted to be my friend. On a rustic wooden chopping board. With excellent beverages. Naked.

No longer do I think that Brie is one kind of cheese, and that Cheddar is another, as is Gouda. No, I could not have been more wrong. It is like saying all people from one country are the same – listen to me saying that! I am ignorant and embarrassing! No!!! I now understand why a cheese is worth its time waiting to vintage. I now understand why actually clever people enjoy it as much as they enjoy a good drop of wine. I now understand why this restaurant is so goddamn popular and expensive.

But you have to be careful. Jimi Hendrix did not understand the power of cheese. He died following an attempt to experiment with aerosol cheese. The Gods of taste recognised the sin of not appreciating cheese for the epic miracle that it is, and decided he could not be allowed to live. Make sure you do not meet this same fate!
    

Get into cheese!!!

Victims of Fashion

We all know about the crazy Japanese Harajuku girls who wear tripped out costumes, but I have just grown to love the everyday fashion that presents itself all over Asia. It appears that people just do what they want, which is something I very much admire. I would now like to showcase an example of the different fashions available in the wide Asia area:

Here is a perfect example of the pyjama look. Wear long top and bottom items in matching flannel prints is so chic right now. This look is nicely complemented by matching shades of thongs, brown towel bucket hats and bags of groceries from the market.

I like to call this one Pimpin' Gram. Because she is a grandma, and she rocks this look. From the bottom up, we begin with Nike vintage burgundy suede trainers, then to sky blue woolen sock with a nice cloud and love heart detail. Continuing on we are gifted with no-holds-barred leopard print spandex leggings. It doesn't get any more committed than this. Further up, there is a flash of a black under singlet before velvet edge detailing on the traditional style Chinese silk print jacket. To finish the look, add block white framed glasses and a beige corduroy hat. Epic.

This lady was catching a ferry. She is wearing a poncho with MnMs on it. Enough said.

I honestly have no idea why these people dress so crazily on such a mass scale. I certainly see crazy outfits for sale, but I don;t know what kind of demon goes around possessing people to buy them, let alone wear them. Must be a hoard of demons. A hoard of tasteless demons inflicting pain on their masses of fashion victims. I can see the headlines already.

David Attenborough on Expatriates

Expats in Asia are embarrassing.

No really, we just are.

After two months of travelling the region, thus far I have encountered no animal or being or species as embarrassing or ridiculous as an expat. To testify to this, I have written a short transcript for a BBC documentary, voiced (naturally) by Sir D. Attenborough.

Note: if you are truly a lover of irony, please read the following in a stiflingly pompous British accent. (read: pretend you are David Attenborough and it's even funnier because he is the world's ultimate expat.)

Opening scene - tall, old, round, white man walks from a distance towards the wide-angle camera. He is pushing his way through a market street crammed with people buying and selling food and goods. It is a noisy, bustling environment, but he can be seen clearly because he is a head taller than everyone else, and heard clearly because he talks embarrassingly slowly and loudly. This is - He is - expat.

"Welcome to downtown Hong Kong. We are currently in SoHo - an area known for it's high density of food outlets, laze-inducing travellators and ridiculously high prices. Here, we observe the "Expat". The incongruous Homo Sapien struggling to manage outside of it's natural habitat.

Traditionally, the inhabitants of this area dine on staples such as rice, green vegetables and basic meats. However, the introduction of this foreign species (the Expats) into the area saw a dramatic incline in food groups found in the upper levels of the food-group-triangle. Prior to their introduction, cake and cheese and spaghetti and burgers and Ben & Jerry's had never been heard of, let alone consumed, by residents. The results of constant grazing on such foods are evidently catastrophic to the unassuming Homo Sapien, as exampled by the startling race:weight ratio of Hong Kong inhabitants. Looking around us now, I would say that on average, the Expat species is at least double the weight of the resident species. A shocking development, to say the least.

A freakishly direct result of this dietary imbalance can be seen in the latest machinery to be introduced into the previously natural landscape: The Travellator. This invention, brought to SoHo by the Expats, allows them to travel from their central area of work, to their recreational areas of eating and leisure without walking at all. It is unclear when, as a group, the Expats decided that exercise was something to be avoided at all costs, but one suggested reason is that this invention allows the female Expats to dress in sexual shoes which normally hinder their natural ability to move from one place to another. As curious as this behaviour is, it is simply one example of the illogical mannerisms of the Expat. On the male side of the species, the competition for position of alpha male reveals itself in extremely abstract form.

It would appear that the car is another piece of machinery loved by Expats which negates the need for an individual to need to ever exert themselves. The island itself is considerably small in size, and the infrastructure for personal vehicles is hardly convenient. There also exists a complete lack of parking spaces around the places that a human would normally drive to, and taxi fares are incredibly affordable. Despite all of these factors of life, the Expat who can afford a car feels compelled to do so. The uselessness of the machine in such a new environment really physicalises the idea that money brings status, regardless of how retardedly it is spent. Nevertheless, the Expat still thrives. So now we must ask ourselves why?

Why is it that so little sense and so much food and such extreme whiteness can come together to form a hybrid species which can dominate areas of a land originally occupied? Is it because they are so easily identifiable to each other that they can easily come together and form protective groups, marginalising others in order for pack-mentality gain?

Why do they not look at themselves and realise that their behaviour renders them as the butt of the jokes for all the other groups of Homo Sapiens? Is it because their constant exposure to only-other-Expats has provided them with a subconscious bubble in which they live - so they can no longer perceive real Hong Kong, but only exist in SoHo land?

These are questions which may never find answers, my friends. All that can be said, is that watching the development of the Expat simultaneously with the other normal groups of Homo Sapiens in this city and others, will eternally provide the humble outsider with endless hours of amusement and pity.

Until next time, goodnight.

the difference between

America

Phnom Penh

I endeavour now, to turn your attention to the subtle difference between these sets of images. 'The East' in contrast to 'The West', is what I present to you, in three very simple, very common settings - barbers, dancing, and butchers.
Every human gets some kind of hair cut, every couple enjoys some kind of dancing, and every society consumes some kind of meat. What, then is the real difference between us? How is it that we are all human, and yet we have all developed in such incredibly different ways and at different points in time. The idea that The West is more developed is certainly given more weight as globalisation becomes more prevalent. Comparisons between countries are infinitely easier to make now that we have 24 hour news and frequent flyer miles to spare.

Yet I can't help but get the feeling that some things are still really the same.

England

Siem Reap

Australia

When I see a mother scold her son for being loud, it is the same everywhere. When I see awkward young teenagers working at fast food joints, it is the same everywhere. When I see an elderly couple in funny outfits holding hands walking together, it is the same everywhere.

Things like GDP and environment and race and politics can change, but more often than not, the fundamentals of human relationships stay the same.

Hong Kong

I often wonder why some things I witness give me culture shock as oppose to others, and the more I look, the more I realise that the most shocking differences come from the most human elements of a society. Seeing people in different clothes living in different houses does not stress me. Seeing humans behave differently to what I have been taught is 'humane' does. When I am in a new place where the people instinctively behave a certain way towards other human beings, and this way is different - this is when I am most uneasy. I long to believe that we all share the basics of humanity, but the more I travel the more I see that everything we do is learned.

I'm not sure which is better.

The incredibly optimistic part of me longs to believe that an idea of 'inherent humanity' is inside of all of us, but the current state of the world in terms of religions and global warming and poverty really suggest otherwise. Then I begin to understand that most humans share many negative attributes regardless of race or location.

So now I have simply arrived at the conclusion that humans worldwide share a lot more than they care to acknowledge, considering how much they persecute 'otherness' simply because of skin colour or politics or  borders. However, humans (read: my understanding of humans based on me) will never cease to identify and be either amused/discomforted/angered/interested/upset by the differences between themselves and the others. For me, these differences are intriguing when they come from more trivial origins, such as hair cuts and dancing. I become upset when my preconceived ideas of the 'universal truths' of humanity are challenged.

The greatest thing I have learned so far, is that these challenges have nothing to do with the so-called 'levels of development' of different countries.

Heavy thoughts for heavy times

Among those works deemed to be good enough for preservation, none are by men base in character. If by chance a man morally despicable was found to be artistically gifted, his works would surely be rejected.

             - Ho Iu-kwong

This delightful quote was discovered by one of my party on an excursion to the Hong Kong Museum of Art. We were on the third floor admiring the calligraphy and watercolour exhibits, the captions of which spoke of age-old traditions and name dropped artists who had ‘drawn inspiration from’ (read: copied) artists who had copied artists all the way back to the age of dinosaurs. The exhibit showed calligraphy brush technique which had inched closer to ‘perfection’ with every generation. Watercolours depicting the same iconic cliffs and forests and lakes repeat themselves into an oblivion of washed out colours. To the untrained eye, (read: everybody’s eye) these artworks showcase an absolute lack of originality, and almost hypnotise you into thinking that this is the only kind of 2D artwork that the Chinese are capable of producing. Moreover, taking even one moment to read any one of the many artists’ biographies, you can find that all featured were sons of wealthy men of high standing. Apparently these men were deemed to possess not only the highest moral fortitude, but also unmatchable insight in regards to everything within the entirety of the universe. The calligraphy is often poetry - also demonstrating their depth of acceptable emotions. The landscapes are painted from lavish pavilions in the countryside – proof of their noble (and ample) heritage.

This artwork is not about the art so much as it is about the individual. The viewer is supposed to think of the artist when they see the work, as oppose to the aesthetic value or message of what is in front of them. It is almost the epitome of what I find so unimpressive about the direction of the modern art world. One side of this cynical coin, is that so long as the man/artist was excellent in the aforementioned ways, so his work would be excellent. The flip side is that it was/is completely unacceptable for a ‘scoundrel’ (read: simply non-wealthy-with-no-connections) to produce great work. They could not possibly possess the personal attributes necessary to create beautiful work. I hope I do not even have to begin explaining how ludicrous this is.

I began my theory of protestation to another member of our party. Explaining why I thought Iu-kwong was foundationally stupid. I received the response:

“Yeah, but that is Chinese culture. That’s what they believe.”

Now here is where the true ideological discussion begins. From an early age, we are taught that things from other places are not ‘wrong’ but ‘different’, that cultural differences should not result in a relationship of superiority and inferiority, and that we must be accepting of ‘foreignness’ because it will always be ‘normal’ to others. But where do we draw the line? Where do we stop and say “that is not only different, but in its difference it is wrong.” When does it become acceptable to recognise that the idea of any ‘culture’ is simply a set of ideas and practices which have become tradition over time – and therefore are not necessarily correct. The repetition of an action over centuries does not make it acceptable. It has been normalised by a group of people who therefore call it their ‘culture’ - an indestructible word to the politically correct. A person of one culture cannot criticise another’s. This is how we are taught. And this is called ‘respect’.

I remember becoming upset when I was first exposed to the Masai tribe in Africa. It was a gigantic slap in the face of culture shock, but more than that, it was sadness. I recognised the obvious differences between our cultures (their rejection of modernisation made Tony Stark look Amish) but there were more serious differences that I could not simply accept as ‘different’. Female circumcision is different. Completely denying AIDS is different. Domestic violence mixed with polygamy is different. Valuing the life of a child as identical to the value of a head of cattle is different. Here’s the problem. I believe these things are not only different, but wrong. Why? Because this is how I have been brought up. Because I am judging what is normal to me as what is right. So how can I justify my opinion? My values correlate with those of the UN declaration of human rights – but this declaration was created primarily by people from similar cultures to mine. Who am I to say that equality is better than strict patriarchy? Who gave me the power of universal moral knowledge?

These are questions I struggle with the more I travel. Every time I see something that makes me angry in a foreign country, I am reminded of my presumptions and arrogance. The ye olde idea of me travelling to a foreign land and ‘civilising’ people who clearly don’t know better just sends off alarm bells of colonisation, and yet I believe so strongly in happiness for all I find myself lost in a self-imposed powerlessness. When can we draw these lines? How valuable is tradition and culture in opposition to forward-thinking change?

People laugh when I tell them that one day we will all look back and become ashamed that we ever ate the meat of animals. The practice has become so normalised that people cannot even conceptualise a world without meat, let alone a meal that tastes good without it. I liken it to slaverly, however, and many become uncomfortable. Slavery was, for hundreds of years, not only acceptable but it was believed to be the ‘natural order of things.’ People who encouraged thoughts of equality were not even considered sane. There were obviously reasons people kept slaves, and it had always been that way and so it would continue to be. I cannot help but see the horrendous treatment and slaughter of animals as akin to this blatant denial of humane logic. The suffering of another is not lessened by centuries of suffering. I have heard every reason in the book to support the consumption of meat by humans – and why? Because they enjoy it. I do not think a wealthy Roman could not come up with an extensive list of logical reasons as to why he kept slaves as property. I’m sure you realise, however, that he is missing the point. That the opposition to slavery did not win over simply because the cons outweighed the pros, but because humanity prevailed. The people who fought for equality against slavery are heroes in the modern world, but were afflicted with brands of lunacy in their own time.

Again, how can we label what is right and wrong, other than by beginning at the centre of our own universes? I do not believe that a poor person cannot create beautiful artwork, nor that a rich person’s poetry will always be great. I do not believe that female circumcision for the purpose of control and male domination is acceptable in order to keep order within tribal communities. I do not believe that humans are oblivious to the suffering of inferior races or species throughout history.

Who am I to tell others these things are right, and that by natural contrast their ideas are wrong? Well, I am Bri Lee and I’m working on it.

If you wanna fight me, you know where to find me.

Today I found a robe that makes me look like a wizard, so I bought it to wear with my tie-dye onesie.

Deja Vu

Today was an excellent day, the first of many more to come now that I have been joined in Hong Kong by an excellent friend. The reason I have Deja Vu is because today we played arcade games and then had frozen yoghurt. If you can remember back to THIS post, I promised that I would give you a gif of the frozen yoghurt dance. Here it is. Notice the witch in the background of the yoghurt store. Don't question it, man, just appreciate.

You are welcome.

Sunday Nights

I think perhaps there is a special insight to gain from a city on a quiet Sunday night. People are more relaxed on Sundays during the day, yes, but late Sunday nights have a certain quirk about them. I get the feeling that people are trying to prolong the enjoyment of a weekend that has clearly already finished. The feeling of warmth in the belly you get when you wake up on a Sunday is a distant, almost melancholy, memory by about 11pm, and the entire working week looms ahead. Almost like boxing day for a child who loves christmas - yes, the time is still good, but you can't help but feel a little sad.
Similar to seeing an old white man at a strip club - yes, he is temporarily happy looking at a naked woman, but look at this time frame in context to his existence as a human and feel your excitement dull.


Everyone I encountered late this evening knew what they wanted: happiness from free time. This is something they cannot achieve and are therefore quiet, awkward, a little sad. They appear to move by shuffling slowly. Also appear hungry.

Their surroundings: almost post-apocalyptic as everything is closed and the streets are dirty from weekend action. The people themselves are sparsely spread and emit vibes of desperation. Soft wind blows plastic bags across the street.

I was: carrying a large one-shouldered bag, searching for the place I was to sleep at this evening, wearing Doc Martins, walking in the middle of the road. Wind blowing hair across my face.

Final conclusion: I was, for those short two hours, in a zombie movie.

Final theory: from now on, after 10pm on a Sunday, you are in a zombie movie.

Good Signs / Bad Signs

This is not an ordinary park. Nor can ordinary kids play here, no, despite it's identical
layout and equiptment, this park is for TEENAGERS.

I'm not so sure I want my Green Salad with a serve of depression...

Finally we know where Blake got his new one from!

I don't think I want to know what 'seadog pills' are. Or what they are treatment for...

I don't know what the business actually does, but advertising with bad imitation pacman sure got me hooked in!

Peace to all y'all hairs out there.

Yeah - screw magic - who needs that rubbish anyway?

The Gift of .gif

The Gift of .gif

Nothing shall ever be so suspicious, nor as iconic, as two hunched men walking down a tall and narrow alleyway.

The Gift of .gif

Just in case you did not, in fact, know how to gut a fish.
Check top left corner for a face that really just enriches
this image as it moves.

10'000 Buddhas, Fake Meat & Real Meat

I had received a recommendation that the trip all the way out to Sha Tin was worth it because in Sha Tin there is a monastery that holds more than ten thousand Buddha's. It is called (very originally) "10'000 Buddhas Monastery". I took this advice seriously and decided to get up early and make the pilgrimage. And let me tell you, a pilgrimage it was.

I spent half an hour on a train, walked twenty minutes, spent one hour on another train, walked for an hour, got lost and walked for just over another hour, then found my way and walked for another thirty minutes until I ended up at the base of the four hundred steps to my destination.

I had left home at almost 9:00 in the morning, and arrived at the entrance gate to the monastery at about 1:30. The walkway up the mountain to get to the monastery is more than four hundred steps. Safe to say, I was expecting a lot from this place (read: I was a little pissed).

When you walk through the gate the Buddhas start. Giant, gold-painted Buddhas with freaky expressions and bright red lips on each side of the steps the whole way to the top. Each Buddha is different - looks like a different person -  freaks you out even more. As you get further up the hill, and you are more puffed, the path becomes thinner and the Buddhas get closer and apparently fatter. And more freaky. Their long feet stretch out and rest on the only hand rail. Their staffs finish with long hairy things that look identical to their beards and dangle near your head. Some of their faces are really long and sometimes their eyebrows are way too high and some of theirs mouths are frozen open with red paint flowing over the gaping hole where teeth should be. One Buddha reaches out with an arm that is double the length of his body. Another super fat one sits on a peacock with a malicious grin on his face and the white paint has worn off his eyes so he looks like a demon with whole-eye-filling pupils.

Safe to say I'm not impressed on the walk up (read: WHAT THE HELL GET ME OUT OF HERE).

Despite the knot of fear (read: maybe also cramp) that grows with each step towards the top, you cannot help but wonder what this place is going to be like. It must be good, surely! Tons of people come to this monastery! Something must be waiting for me at the top. This is my pilgrimage. It took me so long to get here it just has to be good.

So you round the corner and practically kiss the plateau of levelled cement that stretches in front of you. Walk a little further and then you see the temple. Then two things happen:

1. You see that yes, there are most probably more than ten thousand Buddhas here.
2. .... wait ....

NOTHING ELSE HAPPENS

SO THERE ARE TEN THOUSAND BUDDHAS - GREAT - IM NOT EVEN BUDDHIST - THEY DON'T EVEN LOOK NICE

(read: WHY AM I EVEN HERE?!?!??!)

Fine. I'll climb the pagoda. Climbed it. About 150 steps. It was a smaller-than-average cement structure with no viewing platform. It was filled with more Buddhas, but they were all facing outwards so all you saw was about 30 Buddha asses with plaques. One was called Herman. What kind of damn crazy people name a Buddha Herman? Climbed back down about 150 steps.

Fine. I'll eat at the restaurant. I sit down at the plastic, semi-child height table. I am the only customer and I place my order to a young waitress who had just been sitting down smoking next to an old lady who (in between eating) was hacking and coughing up flegm incredibly loudly. The old lady pressed down on one side of her nose and breathed in with such strength that the room filled with the noise of her snot  shooting down her nasal canal. A sip of tea and she was back to shovelling food in her mouth. I ordered "vegetarian chicken with sweet and sour sauce" at the recommendation of the waitress. She nodded, and walked back to the table with the ill old lady. Then - get this - she hands the order to this old lady, who scowls, runs her hands through her hair, wipes them on her pants, grabs a white cap, and then walks into the kitchen.
Holy shit. Old snot lady is chef.
Suddenly I look at everything with fresh eyes. Are these bits floating in my teacup really leaves? Has this gigantic bowl of chopsticks ever been cleaned? How often do they carry food up here? Where am I?

My food comes out, is placed in front of me, and then moved away from me on the table. The old lady then brushes my hair over my shoulders and starts jabbering vividly to me in Cantonese, saying god knows what. She finished speaking, then stood silent for a moment staring at me, and just walked away. I have no idea what just happened. Am I allowed to eat? More importantly: do I want to eat this?

Fuck it. After hours of being lost and hundreds of steps I'm ravenous, so I just literally shovel a glob of "vegetarian chicken" into my mouth and start chewing. Now I know the paradigm of successful mock meat - deep fry whatever the hell you want, cover is with so much sauce that you can't taste anything else, and then call it whatever animal tickles your fancy. It works. It was delicious.

So I pay, take a last look around, and find one gold Buddha that actually has a corpse in it. It's like a mummy of a monk. A dead guy, painted with plaster stuff, sitting upright at eye-height. I just shake my head now, I stopped trying to understand these things after the first week of being in Asia. I don't wanna know. I try and stop wondering what the hell I just ate.

Then I start the walk back down the steps. Getting quicker the further I go, fuelled not by the "chicken" (read: miscellaneous substance), but by my ever-increasing phobia of giant golden Buddhas staring at me. I nearly tripped over a cat. The cat doesn't have any significance really, it just amplified how abstract the day was.

So I reached the bottom at about 3:00pm, got lost on the way back to the train station, and accidentally wandered blindly into a "wet market". A large, but enclosed space where the live animals are sold next to the butchers next to the fish tanks next to the chopped up fish. I actually found it difficult to breathe. The ice from the seafood melted into puddles that were then contaminated with the blood dripping from the butchers' tables. People shouted prices at each others faces and held live chickens by a single wing, impervious to their cries of agony. Over and over. My eyes were watering from the stench, and I was crying a bit because of the horrendous cruelty I saw in front of me. A lady in front of me was carrying a small dog in her arms. As she pointed to the left at a set of ribs on a stand, the dog reached out to the right and came within centimeters of licking the lungs of an entire pig's entrails that were hanging on a hook from the ceiling to an inch from the bloody floor.

The whole pig, but without skin or flesh. You could see the process of sustaining life as if it were a celebratory diagram. The miracle of air flowing through the trachea then down to the lungs and the diaphragm. The complex process of food going in at the top, through the stomach, the intestines, the liver, the kidney - it was all there - with the heart at eye-height - in varying shades of reds and browns and purples.
And then there were piglets in cages on the other side of the walkway.
I was so overcome by such disgust I had to leave. Not disgust at the blood and bone itself, but toward the people filling that market. I felt as though I had stumbled into a void of humanity. A black hole where hunger and habit overcame any single other concept known to humankind.

Sunlight burnt my eyes when I finally found my way out, and I got straight on the train and headed home. Sat down to write this and realised that the hundred-or-so images of messed up Buddhas, and fake chicken, and fucked up real chickens that I thought I took, had been taken on a non-present memory card. Hence the lack of visual support for this particularly visually vivid day/post.

Perhaps a fitting, if not somewhat disappointing end to yet another educational day in Hong Kong.

no cars go - Lamma Island

I have found a place where there are no roads, no cars, no highrises, no neon lights, no cats and very few people. It is a place where each family has a boat, where each bird song is heard, where each view is uninterrupted. This place cleans your lungs and your stomach and your soul - refreshing your perspective on life like a god almighty F5.

Disembarking the ferry - your introduction to Lamma Isl.
This is the main road and the most populated part of the island.

Because everyone needs aircon in their seaside tin shed.

This door was as tall as my belly button.

Stepping off the jetty, you walk straight through the island's 'hub' - if you will. Narrow streets are barely filled with people and their dogs, and I get a good-natured feeling from the numerous vegetarian restaurants around me. The air is fresh, like drinking rainwater after chlorine. A different taste entirely, and although it seems foreign, you can just tell that its good for you.

Less than twenty minutes of strolling and you find yourself on the outskirts of 'town'. A small temple marks the end of recognisable civililisation as you begin the journey to the other side of the island. A couple of hours fly by. Paths lead you past crisp white beaches, lush and noisy forests, over breathtaking peaks and down through gulleys.

Honestly, it's easy to think that you are the first person to have ever stepped foot on half of Lamma island. I think perhaps even more powerful than the panoramas, however, are the small characteristics which make this island all its own. I encountered beautiful puppies wherever there were houses - well fed and adorable. There were whole families everywhere - real families that spanned three generations. A secluded section of pathway saw me meet an old man pushing a cart up the steep cliff - he was carrying canvas and a palate and wearing a painters coat.

There are hardly any people on Lamma during the week, but when I did meet them, they were all awesome. I came to a resting spot by the name of "Herboland" which I soon came to realise was not really a shop, but 'the only organic community garden in all of Hong Kong'. They had wooden signs with Gandi quotes everywhere, and bunnies. Real bunny rabbits - lots of them - just hopping around! Like this place couldn't get any more chilled (read: hippie)...

They offered cups of organic tea with over 30 varieties of freshly-prepared brews, so I went with "Forever Young". Customary brewing time was five minutes, and I was anticipating some goooooood tea!!!  It smelt a little like dirt and tasted like thick honey. Perhaps my body just can't take this many good vibes in one day - I watched bunnies and waited till it cooled and no one was looking and poured it into some poor scraggily (read: organic-looking) pot plant. It was pretty funny.

Another hour of rejuvinating walking and I was on the other side of the island. With it's own "main street" that felt like a ghost town at 6:00. I sat down at the only open restaurant for a smooth dinner before the 7:30 ferry, and I felt invincible. They day had gone so perfectly. Lamma Island was exactly what I needed. I nonchelantly ordered something good-sounding and began to read the novel I had brought with me. A hot cup of tea warming my hands as the cool breeze whipped off the ocean. It was perfect. As if the universe was in harmony.

And then my meal arrived.

Next time I will ask for an english menu. Hahahha, not to worry though - a beatiful ferry ride along the lights of the harbour carried me back to Central where I had cake and soymilk for a late-night snack. Now my belly is full of food, and my lungs can hang on to the memory of fresh air for another few weeks!

The Peak

With a name like "The Peak" I had great expectations for Hong Kong's most famous tourist attraction. I luckily awoke at midday to a brilliant sunny and clear sky, and after a double stack of pancakes I was ready for the cold mountain air. A hair-raising tram ride to the top revealed a new view of Hong Kong and a little perspective regarding the sheer size of the city. Expanses of apartment buildings all looking the same stretch out in front of you until the smog blocks everything from sight. The harbour reveals its true nature - hundreds of cargo ships coming in and out, in and out. Birds of prey circle the sky in freak numbers, as you realise that the city is expanding into their habitat day by day.

I visited the gardens and then took 'The Governors Walk' around the top of the peak. It was a Monday morning and so on most stretches of the paths I could not see another human being looking foward or back. I found this newly discovered silence almost frightening. Tiny birds rustled in the trees, and the fact that I could not only hear them, but stop and stay still and silent enough to eventually spot them, was something altogether different from the entirety of Hong Kong I had experienced thus far. To be brutally honest, I found it unsettling. The drop in temperature meant that I could see my breath and not feel my fingers, and the paths were often steep and I continued onwards uneasily - aware of my extreme aloneness. The shock did not subside even after two hours of (what should have been) peaceful walking. I could do nothing but think, and as the sun began to set and the views faded I was stripped of even visual stimuli to keep my mind alert.


There is something, for me at least, continuously comforting about a bustling city. It is warm even in winter. I am never lonely despite being alone. I am always interested, even if I have seen the streets a thousand times before. Hong Kong pulsates with an energy you can draw from, and I lost that resource when I found myself cold, alone (read: lonely) and exhausted on it's highest point. The view from this place made the city herself look ugly, as if The Peak deliberately aims to reveal the ugly side of it's CBD sister. I did not like this new view, after all, Hong Kong has been incredibly hospitable to me...

What shocks me most is that normally I love the great outdoors. Today has left me confused. The uneasiness that jumped like a monkey on to my back at The Peak has hitched all the way to my writing desk even now.

With a bit of luck a hot shower might scold him off. Then spaghetti, to get that good normal fully-belly feeling back. Perhaps also cake, just for good measure.