Glutter:

Industrial Fishing Boats Loom Over as I Find My Way Home.

Just a grrl

This morning I woke up to complete silence. The bed was really comfortable, there was light coming through red curtains. The large mirror has not been unwrapped, and everything was basic. I got up and went to brush my teeth, it was an orange and white toothbrush. A mosquito buzzed at my legs. Afterwards I walked out into an empty living room. White walls, a TV, a small couch, with the dehumidifier on. I stood there and looked around for a long time while the same or another mosquito buzzed at my leg. I did not move, I watched as it landed on my calf and slapped my right hand on the spot and came away with half a mosquito body in my hand and the other still stuck on my leg. I got a tissue off the table, wiped it away, then found a rubbish bin. I noticed I was staying in room 1. There was no one else anywhere.

I went into my room and packed up my stuff. There wasn't a lot. Just a plastic bag filled with wet clothes and towel. My water bottle that was empty, my phone, wallet, keys and my ever present banana custard body wash/shampoo/bubble bath combo in a small plastic bottle. I have it with me always in my backpack because whenever I take it out, I am going to do something that would mean I need a shower at the end of it. Even though pretty much everywhere has it's free cleaning agents, I always prefer my own. There is something more personal about that.

I noticed that my baby blue, bamboo soled flipflops were not there, I must have left it outside and upstairs last night. I look at the clock and know it's far too late. I should have gotten up hours ago to windsurf before I go to the city. But it was so nice to lie in a basic room with nothing, in pure silence, away from everything that is life that I decided to stay in bed. I never get silence at home. I live right above a bus stop and road.

Before I left I considered what to do with my toothbrush. It seems a waste to throw it away. I could take it home but that didn't appeal, so I walked up to the TV and opened an empty draw and hid it there. From experience, that's one place that no one who visits or backpacks generally leave things, they would prefer it in the cupboards of one's room because the room can be locked. I wondered how long I could keep it there, and whether I would ever come back. The first thought I had when I walked into that apartment was, if I ever need to come back to Hong Kong I think I would ask my couch to let me stay there.

As I left I turned off all the lights behind me, closed the door and walked up some concrete stairs. It reminded me of Central America, I thought how odd that I had to go half way around to world to experience what I can only an hour away from home, but this wasn't really just a little bit away from home. I got here through a journey of devoting sometime to a practice, a skill, and putting myself out into the ocean. I got to stay there last night because my windsurfing couch invited me.

A few weeks before, I hit the big winds. I could barely hold onto the sail, in fact much of it I could not. The wind was strong that weekend. Force 4. I thought it would be fun. I had not considered how much strength it would take when I got out into the open waters. I still have to learn about the different distances, and had followed the general direction of a few people and having gone too far and did not realize how much stronger the winds would be once I got further out in the bay. Losing a certain amount of control I had gone precariously close to the giant fishing boats. I never knew how big the boats actually were only having seen them from afar but when I got closer, they simply loomed over in a much greater mass than I could imagine. I felt fear. It was just a sense of its vastness, its destructive power, and how it feeds the mouths of greedy masses all around Asia, where over fishing has left the Hong Kong and surrounding waters devoid of its once plentiful sea life. These boats were necessary monsters, and I felt like a very small entity surfing next to them. I was also in awe of its electronic netting devices, the power of the engine, and how I was right next to the hull. There is no glory in colliding with them, although I would be able to laugh about it later.

I honestly was not sure if I could return on my own or whether I needed to be rescued. I was unsure if that sport was even for me. I wasn't sure if I had the strength to handle larger sails, bigger winds, far more precarious conditions. I wasn't sure if I had the intellect to learn the ways of the winds, and how to direct a small board of fiberglass, synthetic material to go the way I wanted, to the destination I needed which was the beach: Kwan Yin Wan, the Mother of Mercy Bay. But [swear words inserted] I really wanted to. I wanted to tame the board and go with the winds.

After an hour, I tamed the board and learned the way of the winds enough to get back to home base.
I walked back completely triumphant for myself to be met with a certain amount of nonchalance.

"Hmm. You came back yourself," I was told.

I nodded and said, "I wasn't sure. I was pretty scared."

"What's there to be scared about?" My couch said, "You are sure to come back."

"I wasn't sure."

"You need to believe in yourself."

I came back not to homebase but the next week. Only a few days after a giant typhoon that has left 40,000 passengers stranded in the airport, 100 year old trees uprooted from the ground, I got on the board again. The shallow water was filled with debris and trash that was whipped up from the typhoon, and although the wind was not strong, I finally learnt the meaning of tempestuous.

There was no logic to the winds, it came and went as it pleased. It shifted directions ever so slightly at various intervals. It grew strong and weak, and the only way I knew it had changed its mind was when my sail would whip towards me. I struggled, and pushed, I pulled and fell. I swore at the board a few times and hit it once.

All this was viewed through the binoculars to the great amusement of a few at home base. Si Hing (the scholarly older brother, meaning someone who has more experience than me who follows the same teacher or school) told me it was like watching horse racing as they announced my new moves. "She's gone towards the rocks! She's going around! No, she's gone back! Wait... she's going to fall... oh, no.. wait! She made it. Oh wait. She just did." I have decided that next week, I will get there early to sit on the patio, over take commentary duty just to return the favor.

In fact, part of the fascination this week was whether or not I could go around "Bread Rock" as I was sent to do. My couch said, "Well if you want a small challenge, you should go to the rock over there then go around counter clockwise because that way you would have passed through all three kinds of winds."
Having been told to believe in myself, I tried it.

Having not told anyone else in the shop that was my assignment, many believed I had gotten really lost and when I returned they were surprised.

This time, I was better, this time I knew I could get home.  I believed in myself. Thank you couch.

Sooo.. Who Killed Princess Diana??

Backpacking

Random but true. The only conspiracy theory I ever agreed with, think it might be true and not the creation of bored and paranoid freaks is that Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed was murdered by the "establishment" whoever they may be. Don't laugh, I really believe it, even if that kills any credibility I might have in being a sane person. (Although that's probably diminished with me ranting about my ex for eight days straight.)

I was in London in the summer of 2001 (pre-911 and the politics of that part of the world taking front and center) and just chatting with the security guard which used to be part of Diana's Palace which is now part of the common wealth offices (rumored to be haunted, and that's why it was given away, which I had to admit was about the creepiest place I have ever been) and I was waiting for a friend who was working there in the reception area. So in the mean time I was asking lots of useless questions like, "So how long have you been working here? So you worked for the palace? So you know things we don't know? Like do you have people trying to break in and steal files? This place looks like somewhere spies would hang out. Are there any stories you can tell me?"

The man who was much amused replied, "Well nothing I can tell you, but not that I have anything to do with it but Princess Diana was murdered."

"What?"

"Yeah, really."

"You don't really believe this. You're playing with tourists!"

"No really, the British royal family would never allow a Muslim to be the step father of the future King and head of the Church of England or have a half sibling  of his who is."

"You're crazy!"

"Ask around, we all think it."

I have no idea why, but having never thought this thought in my life, something in my gut sorta went, "Ya know... it might be true. In fact, I believe it."

Maybe it was because I was in the midst of a few centuries old ex-palace filled with paintings of wars long gone, soldiers falling off speared houses with spears and arrows piercing their bodies, portraits of royalty over antique furniture, dying carpet, and taking in whiffs of perfume coming from nowhere said to be from long dead mistresses of some King and it felt so old, dark and mysterious that you really could see the history, intrigue and the power of  the British Royal Family which made the story so palatable.

Anyway so when a few years back, Princess Diana's note to her butler saying that she was sure that she would die in a car crash and he husband was going to plan it surfaced, I remembered thinking "That guy was onto something you know," and I even think I wanted to put a post up about it but thought that it was far too silly.

However...

New Inquiries has led the lead investigator so say that "It's more complex than any of us has thought."

That Dodi's dad is out there talking in interviews about how Prince Philip orchestrated the whole thing. It's been established that the driver of the car they died in was a double agent. The British Police has called in possible MI5 agents to be interviewed, and the Lord who is in charge of this investigation's computer and files just got stolen last week. Not to mention the strange death of a Paparazzi photographer who is also a double agent, a few days after the crash. And now the US and French Authorities as asked to hand over files which they don't seem to want to.

Was Princess Diana really pregnant? Was that why they embalmed her before her body went back to England for an autopsy which was against the law and only 45 minute plane ride away? What will the CIA tapes of Diana's last conversation show if they hand the files over?

There really is no reason for the British government Inquiry to go that far, to the point they are delaying the report due date if it was just a straight forward accident. These are not things that representatives of the crown do for fun. They don't want the headlines, so to go that far, something must be going on.

And you know, when I was growing up my dad had a friend who was ex-MI5 (I remember he pointed out the offices to me in London and said, "This is where James Bond works," and ever since I wanted to be a Bond Girl) and just knowing how he was utterly devoted to Crown, the way he spoke about the royal family with such respect and awe but somewhat not so great about the organization or the people he worked with. That I don't doubt a moment if Prince Philip called upon any of those men to do something like that, they would do it with nothing but the utmost efficiency.

You will never hear me talk about anything to do with aliens, crop circles, princess grace, how Courtney Love Hired a hit man to kill Kurt Cobain, fung shui, nor is Elvis or Jim Morrison Alive. I don't even think Bush won the election due to voters irregularities.

But this one. I am really not sure. I just think this story isn't what people think it is.

THE DIANA DOSSIER  (Sorry, this will be the last time I ever link to the Mirror News Paper in the UK again, I know it's trash but it's got all the details in here.)

Sudanese Protester Taken Away By Police

The Last Supper and Arrests of Sudanese Refugees (1)

Milan

Each day Milan offers unexpected and disconcerting experiences. This morning I sampled the great Leonardo Da Vinci Mural of the "Last Supper," in a high security air conditioned reconstructed hall followed by a large purchase of chocolates. I went to sit in the Duomo to write in my diary. I had half an hour of my own time just to chill before G came off work.

I decided to see which new big star was at up at the mall as there seemed to be people holding placards. Yesterday is was some singer whose name started with P and I no longer remember, but some young girls talked excitedly of his possible appearence. I had thought MTV does a show once a week up in that place but obviously it was more often. Except those holding placards were black men and police in their somewhat humourous uniforms surrounded them. A quick glance told me that it had something to do with Sudan, something to do with political asylum, and that within the next hour some people were to be arrested.

I knew from the faces of the police, I knew from the faces of the protesters, the silence that had decended and the tension that filled the three meters between them. There is a certain relaxed way police hold themselves when they are simply there to keep the peace. They talk, they joke, they stand in a huddle together near their police car or maybe in the corner. There is a way they hold themselves when orders have been sent that they may need to use force. They don't smile, they stare at the crowd nervously, they stand in line. They do not talk amoung themselves, and always always grimace when  a camera is pointed at them because no one ever wants to be photographed using force splattered on the pages of the newspaper.

I had a camera.

I waited with the rest of the crowd.

The police started moving the crowd further and further way from the protesters.

Two men and a woman in Tweed Suits arrived to negotiate.

Two boys with dreadlocks acted as go betweens and translators.

The Sudanese men sat in silence.

The crowd watched, and I stood on a podium on the side of the protestors and turned my camera off.

After so many years of photographing protests I learnt to conserve batteries.

The familiar and unfamiliar of making a hamburger.

Milan 2005

Everyday I go to the supermarket. I walk around the big aisles and look at things I have no intention of ever buying, some never will ingest but I like to walk around it. I am slowly learning what is on each shelf and which aisle. I am getting to know the products. The chips is on the second aisle in the front of the fridges, the water is at the back near the beer, and the very last section of the supermarket near the teller, there are five different kinds of felt tip pens any self respecting kid can choose from. They all seem kinda the same except the cheapest one is 1 Euro and the most expensive one is 4. The roast chicken with herbs cost 8 Euros per kg while the whole without herbs cost 4. It turns out the price is actually really similar coz one roast chicken doesn't add up to 1 kilo.

Everyday things are different and strange and I don't speak a word of Italian. Each day I find a new way around somewhere I have not seen before and then each day before I go home I stop by the supermarket. I think it's because it's the first thing i did when I got to the neighbourhood and in this space of unfamiliarity I find comfort in the static placing of produce. I know I will never find where the soy milk is in because most probably it doesnt' even exist.

But I also search for the familiar and cannot find it. There are no hamburger buns, there are no toffee chocolate, there is no soy sauce, chinese vegetables, bread that makes sense. I have never been so happy to come across a bottle of Heinz ketchup in my life as I thought maybe, maybe I was to be forced into purchasing some European brand of the very American product and when I came across it, I thanked god for commericialism, for brands, and celebrated cocacola and macdonalds for forcing Americana into every tiny crack of the globe. To hell with all the rightful politics of my fellow "liberals" they weren't happenning to try and make hamburgers and cauliflower and cheese in Italy because  it seriously poses it own special brand of complication that would never occur to anyone. In a market where there are THREE separate sections for cheese, one behind the counter, one self serving one opposite the counter, and the last in the refridgerated goods section near the yougurt, among 100s and 100s of different kinds of cheese, one cannot locate the Chedder because the most basic of cheeses doesn't exist in the more sophisticated pallet of these cheese eaters.

So odd but reminds me why I have always believed Europe to be the furthest place in this universe from home be in HK, LA, or Sydney even if it takes the same amount of time to fly from one to the other. Why is it so far away? Because it's so hard to make a hamburger.

Transit in London: the feeling of arrivals

Backpacking addict.

Arriving to london has a different sensation. It's like I am catching a bus and getting of nowhere. I have no emotional response to the landing, there isn't a blip of excitment that acompanies most landing. Sydney makes me smile because I will hang out with my mom and dad in the patio and smoke cigarettes when I try to work out dad's cross words getting a few right but most wrong, I know I will reaquaint myself with my cousins and then still alive grandma. I look forward to seeing my sister's dogs, and Tenzin in particular. He's really quite stupid and extremely happy and I like that trait in a dog as well as many humans. Arriving in LA gives me a sense of return. I wonder if it has changed and what adventures i will encounter once that miraculous transformation  of my pysche and me that comes with arriving to the stomping grounds of university. By default of knowing I will see my brother, my dad, my buddies brings a sense of completetion. Hong Kong is always met with relief I am home and trepidation of what faces me both professionally and personally plus the sudden spike in intensity. Then there is the arrival to New York where I feel a heady spin of visiting a city that really is the best, a place where I always hoped hong kong could be but didn't know it actually existed. I once likened New York City, Manhatten in particular to my Atlantis, a place where so many of my dreams could come true. Where the hip and cool, the different and edgy has a veneer of perfection that when you scratch the surface only proves that is it as good as it seemed maybe better than you first imagined.

And here I am in London.

I feel nothing. It's not just because I will be heading out of here in a few hours it's just i am not too keen on this place. There is a sense of cynicsm that permeates the people and the place, a search for cool that isn't always so self confident but bravado and lots of really drunk people prone to violent outbursts for no particular reason I could ever find. But I promise that one day I will give it another chance, but as i arrive, I see no smiles, just a general deadness but I have to admit it's currently 6am in the morning. But London just exists in my mind with not much emotion, for me Londong sits in my brain simply as an acknowledgement of existence. Although on a personal front London is a city filled with love in my life and memories, as there are many a people I love in London, and i feel such affection for the time we spent elsewhere. But for me, it's just a shell that they exist in while other places the city, the space speaks to me more. I don't know why, but it might just come down to the weather although with it raining so much it allows me the excuse to watch endless TV which is great and read red tops which is trashy and the broadsheets which I always feel are impressive. So maybe London is more a non-object for me, existing as a concept -solid only in its media and thus cannot elicit an emotional response.

But I do have one observation about London I found most interesting and more than a slight relief.

It regards airport security. They are rather thourough, serching the people they have picked with utmost care. The person before me had a literally ass-grabbing pat down and a opening of bags, at the same time letting me through without a bat of the eye. Which leads me to the (rather superficial) conclusion unlike the US, the British don't have to make a huge spectacle of non-racial profiling, and therefore makes far more specifc searches on potential terroists. To say it badly they simply pics dark skin men to throughly search, leaving me and other tourists and business travellers to go quickly through security. I know it's wrong and selfish, especially when taken to the most extreme means shooting at the wrong people, but I always wondered how effective the "random" checks of the US when I found myself, an old lady and a woman with a three years old. standing in the High security line only to watch men of a certain age and culture who are far more likely to be terroists than us pass through because they did not come up in the numbers game. It's not that I think all muslim men are terroist and I understand why they would be angry with that kind of checks but sometimes maybe we all have to give a little for the safetly for all.

Mi Familia in Guatemala.

Backpacking Addict

This is mi familia in Xela (Quezaltenango) in the Northern Part of Guatemala whom I lived with after university. Not speaking a word of espano, papa Arturo, mama Francisco, Carmen, Paula, Zura, Matias, and Miguel Tacsin fed me much better food than my friends who house-stayed with others, showed me around the parks, universities and places tourists don't go. We played a lot of cards and somehow manage to communicate for the first weeks through a dictionary and my willingness to help with housework (because sweeping the floor is universal) until Miguel (who was five at the time) and I created our own brand of spangchinlish; all the while mama taught me to make tamales and local Mayan recipes, where I am still convinced I maybe one of five Chinese women in the universe who can do so, as the Chinese population of the last 15 years there were eight including me.

I was meant to stay in Central America for three weeks, I ended up there for six months so much I fell in love with the continent. The photo above is us at the dinner table, and the ones left and below are when I dressed up the girls as 90's candy ravers and papa decided to try on my much laughed at Silver Jacket.

Xela is one of the heavily affected areas of the Flooding in Central America.

As I said during the Tsunami, Glutter has never asked for donations for upkeep or put advertising on this blog for its existence (and never will) but I would most appreciate it if my regular readers (anyone who comes everyday, or once a week, or through the last six months) could donate a small sum to the charity of my choice every so often.

I have picked Mercy Corps because they have an international donations online, and 92% of the donations go to directly into aid.

Thank you.

Mercy Corps Central America Campaign

 

Five Days By Boat to New York

Backpacking Addict

I was watching this interview with Jerry Springer on Parkinson. Springer said when he was five his family caught the boat from London to New York. It took five days and you arrive by looking at the statue of liberty. That sounds like a cool trip. I wonder if you can do that now-a-days? Can you catch a boat from London to New York? Do you get really seasick? Hmmm... I should check it out.

How To Live Life

Backpacking Addict

For the last six months my friend Tracy's been travelling South America. She often updates us with photos. I never look at them. That is until today and I went through her life in the last few months. And as I looked through them, I remembered what it was like to be so far away from civilization with everything you own in one backpack, the only connections you have to the world is the people right in front of you and your worries include staying safe and what to see next. And how the pain and joy of every day is so immediate, the frustrations so strong and the experiences heart-eye-soul expanding.

No matter what I do, it informs me to know that this alternative existence is only a plane ride away. That I could melt into the hot dessert or cold mountain, sink into a reef or dive with a waterfall and live in relative comfort for $20US a day. Which always informs me that there is no point in doing what one hates, be in a relationship that hurts you, hang out with people who do not inspire and make money for the sake of ownership as there is a lightness in having nothing but what you see and what you are doing.

Tracy is thinking of giving up her banking career to work in non-profit much like I decided to give up on the corporate world to make art and help along the way to the causes I wanted to. Because sometimes you realize how much happier one is by spending our time wisely as for every moment you are miserable you could actually be in some far off country making just enough and swimming with whale sharks instead.

That the only "excuse" to willingly exist in the over indulgent modern first world with all its destructive power (and perks) is that one is living an extraordinary fulfilled life that at least in part is somewhat worthy. Otherwise something else is out there.

 

42 More Teddy Travels Photos

Backpacking Addict

See Shatki in Rome, Florence, London, Liverpool, plus Ancient Ruins in Sri Lanka and Honduras

Teddy Travels Photo Set View as Slide Show