Anywhere

I've decided I want to go to Hamburg. I shared this with my husband in the car on the way to Kent to spend a weekend tearing down my sister-in-law's dining room wallpaper. He seemed a little non-plussed, despite his constant protestations over the years that we should go to Germany, on account of the fact that he did GCSE German and therefore knows how to say really useful things like "Where is my guinea pig?" and "There are four sausages in my cupboard." I don't know why I want to go to Hamburg. My reply to that question would be: "Why not?"

Actually I have a very roundabout logic that I think only works in my own fair head. It goes something like:

- I am meant to be revising for an exam, and am thus allowing my mind to wander onto anything that doesn't involve Heresies, definitions of religion and spurious ways to get football into my answers. And one such thing is...
- I want to GO SOMEWHERE! Having just come back from Somewhere Else, I already have the urge to run away from all the things I've come back to. From, in no partcular order, web stalkers, work, exams, general creeping anxiety and worry.
- There is not a chance in hell I'm getting on a plane for 13 hours EVER AGAIN.
- I have the Beautiful South song "Rotterdam" on my iPod and thus in my head. Always. Incessantly. It's just one of those songs.
- Ooh, and talking of Rotterdam, I'd quite like to go to Rotterdam.
- Yeah. That would be good. I've never been there. Nice.
- Enter The Husband, with something like "Why do you want to go to Rotterdam?" followed shortly by "is it because of that annoying song?" (I have to admit to - and possibly make apologies for - having a certain fondness for the Beautiful South, having seen them perform a late-evening set at an unusually un-muddy Glastonbury years ago. That's my excuse, anyway, and I'm prepared to stick to it...)
- Patiently explain, um, well, you see, that gave me the inspiration, you know, the song, and seeing as we've already been to both Liverpool and Rome, also mentioned, that leaves...
- Him: "I'd rather go to Anywhere."
- Hmm. What might constitute "anywhere?" Well Hamburg's a port and it's kind of only just on the other side of the border... roughly speaking...and of course there's the Beatles connection...
- Bingo! I want to go to Hamburg.
- That's decided, then.

So if anyone's been to Hamburg and has any suggestions of things to do there, please let me know. Preferably while I'm still "revising" as it will give me something else to think about. Cheers my dears :-)

Bind Us Together

Hmm, so ending the first day of the working week with those immortal words of one Stephen Patrick Morrissey - "In my life/why do I give valuable time/to people who don't care if I live or die?" - running through my head is not a positive sign of things to come. (The answer, by the way, is normally "because you get paid for it.") And now I'm sitting brooding in a corner, Tears for Fears providing appropriate mood music, pouring hot water onto a mango teabag and wondering how many times I can do this before it stops tasting of mango. (Not that it especially tasted of mango in the first place...)

I could of course go for a deep and meaningful walk, secretly wondering if anybody will bother to come and look for me, but they won't; and anyway, it's pissing it down; and I've already been running tonight; and my tea would get cold.

So...

I'm going to think of ways to work Bradford City into my impending AKC exam instead.

And everywhere I look opportunities present themselves!

OK, so I probably won't get very far working it into an essay on Heresy. I can't think of even the most tenuous link that might do anything other than bemuse the examiners. But that's OK - I have my fun cut out of me already there trying to think up some cow definitions for Apollinarianism and Arianism. Oh yes. You'll see it here first.

And then, as I pretended to read Durkheim, elaborated little analogies started to form in my mind. Durkheim, you see, was the bloke who said that rituals were "designed to elicit, maintain and reproduce certain mental states among participating groups" (that's a quote, that!) Can you apply this to the (unswervingly optimistic) fanbase at Valley Parade? Damn right you can.

Oh and before you point out that this is not some new discovery, OK, OK, I know it isn't. My book - yes I'm reading a BOOK for this exam. Get me! - even uses football as an example of "the sacred in secular society". But to put me in a little perspective: I have an English degree. I'm qualified merely to read Durkheim and compliment him on his flowing sentence structure. Except I can't even do that, because he didn't even write in English. I'm the person who pointedly read "The Communist Manifesto" on the exercise bike in Fitness First, not because I understood it, but because I delighted in the irony of this little tableau. I know enough about sociology to snigger when F describes his A Level Sociology lessons as "Here's a picture of Marx. Now colour it in." But that's about it.

I do know, though, that Bradford has an unusually high turnout for a beleagured (by which I mean "rubbish") club, packing out a stadium of Premiership proportions every other week, and taking coachloads of supporters down to the most Godforsaken areas of Britain on the Saturdays in between. What binds them together?

I'm sure studies have been done - and when I have time I shall look for them - that look at class, and adversity, and all of those sorts of things, and the turbulent history of Bradford as a City as well as a Club probably does a lot to bring them together under that one corrugated iron roof in the name of football just as much as the tantalising power of the sport itself. But my book (same book - I'm only reading one. Oh come on, I'm not THAT keen!) gives some examples of events that have become "sacred", amongst them the death of Diana and September 11th. At Bradford, it was 11th May 1985, and it was the Bradford Fire.

56 people lost their lives in horrific circumstances when a stand caught fire and burned to a cinder in a mere 4 minutes. Now I'm normally cheerful (um, OK, that's pushing it. Shall we say "aiming at humour"?) on this blog, but it needs saying: people remember Hillsborough (and rightly so), and Heysel (at which 39 died); people forget about Bradford. Unless you're a fire safety officer (my husband watched the video of the disaster in Fire Safety Training) it isn't necessarily something you'd know about. But whole families were erased in an instant.The youngest to die was a boy of 11; the eldest a man of 86. Now, after every match, if you pop round the back of the stadium to have a peek at the simple, understated memorial you will not be alone. People pay their respects there week after week, and flowers are still left there. Silences are held each year; church services commemorate the dead on the anniversary. The club, despite its own financial problems, raises thousands every year for the burns unit at Bradford Royal Infirmary. And in the area directly around the stadium you don't generally find the undercurrent of racial resentment that can at times plague other parts of the city. In Manningham, local shopkeepers and residents, mainly of Asian origin, flocked to help, taking victims into their homes, making tea, letting people use their phones.

So yes, football does bind people together and instil a sense of community through its very power. But so does tragedy. I intend to write about both, if I get the chance, but in the meantime, I probably ought to stop sulking and be grateful for what I have. May God bless the victims of the Bradford City fire, and, of course, may God bless Bradford City.

So my father-in-law read my blog, and thus read "Overkill", and now I can only assume he thinks I'm a nutjob. So I'm going to refrain from writing anything that's come out of my own fair head today and will instead relate some pearls of wisdom from what is probably the single most offensive book ever written in the English language... and (wrongly?) possibly the most humorous.

In 1898 one Professor Mieklejohn published something which he erroneously termed a "text book" - one "A New Geography". Complete with a map proudly covered with pink bits, Mieklejohn sets out on an epic 576 page mission to offend every nation across the globe, with the notable exception of the British, throwing in a few sweeping generalisations and random (possibly unfounded?) observations.

Of the Dutch, who, he observes "have a fondness for old costumes", he remarks that "their most remarkable external virtue is cleanliness". He comes across as bordering on pleasantly surprised by this discovery, which makes you wonder about the hygeine of the rest of Europe.

He's rather complimentary about the Germans, who he describes as "a straightforward, honest, steady, hardworking, brave and loyal people", but dismisses the Spanish as "lazy, sleepy and prone to reverie."

To be fair, he is less dismissive of the Italians, on whom he goes into a certain level of detail:
"The common notion is that they are extortioners, uncivil, given to revenge, assassination, lying, treachery and dirt. This is a mistake. The genuine Italian is wonderfully gracious and charming, and attractive in manner. He is uneducated - 62% of the people cannot read or write. He is an ardent lover." This has to be one of the more random list of attributes I've ever read.

The Russians don't come out of it all quite so well, the "peasants" being decribed, in another rather random list, as "hard-working, fond of music and song, light-hearted, extrenely loyal, but dirty, superstitious and prone to intemperance."

But they do come out of it rather better than the entire population of Africa, who are generously described as "not all wholly savage."

But once we arrive in Asia things go rapidly downhill. Japan receives great praise: "The beautiful land of Japan has often been called, and with much justice, "The Great Britain of the East"." He then goes into the various geographical similarities, before concluding, with a hint of smug pride, "Both peoples are industrious, upstanding and fond of commerce." This however is merely context-setting for what follows:

"In character the Japanese exhibit striking constrast to the Chinese. The Chinese are dirty, the Japanese scrupulously clean; the Chinese are conceited and despise everything foreign, the Japanese keep an open mind for everything that is good; the Japanese are naturally industrious, the Chinese lazy."

Well, that told 'em.

But the Chinese are not alone. The Professor isn't all that keen on the Afghans, either. This is because they are, apparently, "rude, coarse, and careless of outward show. They are skillful artisans, generous, even truthful(!!)..." (wait for it...) "at least in peace; but when their evil passions are stirred up by war they are cruel, vengeful, treacherous and greedy. "God shield you from the vengence of the cobra, the elephant and the Afghan" is a common saying" (Yes it is! Have you not heard it?) "When any specially atrocious act is done, the Afghans themselves speak of "An Afghan job".

Riiiiiiight. Good, unbiased, factual stuff, then.

But the Piece de Resistance? Well, the Prof saves the best for last. Summoning all his remaining vitriol, he finally turns his attention to the "Native Australian", and unfortunately for the Native Australian he has obviously done something to offend this intrpid academic, who describes him as "the most degraded of all savages, with no pottery or religion" (pottery, obviously, is the measure of civilisation here; that's probably why he was generally nice about the Dutch) "In his language he can count to five and no further. He lives on shellfish, lizards, worms and grubs, and sometimes eats his own children."

I do rather like the image of grubs washed down with oysters. But other than that, words fail me.

Unfortunately, though, Miekeljohn doesn't know how to leave his audience wanting more. Having ritually abused most of the human race, he goes out on a climactic final chapter tantilizingly entitled "Coaling Stations of the British Empire".

If you come across the sequal in some obscure, UKIP-endowed second hand bookstore, do let me know.

A "genuine Malay village"

I've only been on one organised "tour" since I've been here, as I've had mixed experiences of those sorts of things. This tour was around the area of Johore Bahru (though not visiting the city itself, which I'm told is a Good Thing.) We visited some truly beautiful stuff - a large mosque and a mausoleum, some old colonial buildings, and the coastline around the Straits of Johore. Then we went to a "Genuine Malay Village".

Now I don't know what they normally get up to in Malaysia, but if this is a genuine village I can't think that most people in this country ever accomplish very much. It also makes Malaysia seem like a sort of giant, Asian version of Beamish. In this Genuine Village, all the trees have signs stuck to them, in both English and Malay, so you can see what they are. "Palm Oil", one proudly proclaims, as he sits side by side "Rubber" and "Pepper". Genuine Malay Village clearly can't decide what its main industry is going to be, so has a bit of everything in one very small space to be on the safe side. This is very handy for the visiting tourist, keen to get a glimpse into Genuine Malaysia.

Inside the Genuine Malay Village the inhabitants are busy at work making Batik, which is rather intricate and very pretty. Fortunately, if you like them, you can go to the Genuine Malay Giftshop at the end and get some. But first, the people of GMV break into a spontaneous dance routine, followed by a little rendition on some wooden musical instruments. I can only assume this happens all the time in GMV, in the same way that we in the UK frequently leap onto our desks for a quick spot of morris dancing to break the monotony of the working day. And how fortunate that, while this is going on, there happen to be some handy benches, arranged in just the right formation for you to sit and take in this spectacle. If this has all made you work up an appetite, well, that's just unfortunate, because they then proffer durian fruit to you, possibly the single most disgusting thing to come out of South East Asia. I'm intrigued to know what possessed the first person to come across a fruit that smells like a sewer and looks like a hedgehog to think "I know, let's see what that tastes like." And I can't really describe what it tastes like. The closest description would perhaps be that it tastes like an extremely artificial, manufactured, sickly-sweet chocolate centre. It's sort of sweet, a bit like custard, with the consitency of over-ripe melon. Am I selling it to you? Fortunately we didn't take any back, since they smell so bad that they're banned from public transport.

The whole thing would be rather like visiting East London and being greeted by a group of men in caps speaking in rhyming slang, banging some dustbin lids together and breaking into the Lambeth Walk before feeding you some jellied eels. Tourists may think they've had a Traditional British Experience, but if you're that gullible I'm not sure how you'd have found yourself to the other side of the world in the first place.

And so we leave GMV, after three pewter shot glasses (which is apparently a local product, which they thus try to sell to us) of sumptuous cold chocolate drink to take the taste of durian away, several dollars lighter (yep, GMV takes dollars as well as the local ringit, which is pretty handy!) and carrying some Genuine Batik Handkerchiefs, with Malaysia written on them just to prove their authenticity. As we leave the Genuine Villagers have returned full circle and are back to their work, costumes at the ready should they suddenly have the urge to break into another dance, which I suspect they will in half an hour or so, as a coachload of Australians has just pulled into the Geniune Carpark.

Po Lin and the Buddha

So here I am on the other side of the world seeking out the most exotic things I can find, and I found this. I sent this picture, which really sums up the most intriguing parts of the trip, to a good mate back in Europe, and the response I got was this:

"Wow, a fat man at the top of some steps. That's paradoxical..."

It made me smile, and it made me miss home.

The "fat man" is of course the Buddha, and not just any Buddha. Oh no. This, as the literature is at pains to tell you, is "The largest bronze seated outdoor Buddha in Asia."

That's quite a niche claim, and it implies there may be other Buddhas in various positions made of a whole range of materials in other parts of Asia that beat this one hands down. For a moment I'm intrigued as to what other positions a Buddha could take, as I think I've only seen them in the lotus position. Reclining, perhaps, or maybe Buddha standing up doing the ironing, or Buddha playing golf. Who knows? But it's still big, and climbing up the 280 steps to get to him does give you a sort of sense of achievement, not to say aching legs.

The Buddha is the centre of what is, unfortunately, becoming a somewhat tasteless tourist attraction. You arrive via cable car to Ngong Ping Village, which is entirely artificial and a sort of Center Parcs of the East. Here you can sample the delights of Euro Go Go, a pizza restaurant in the centre of the village, and you can buy bright purple hoodies with sparkly gold depictions of the Buddha emblazoned across the front (erm, you will NOT see me in Regent's Park in one of those.) You are given a schedule upon arrival which maps out each minute of your visit. First, you are instructed to "sample the delights of Ngong Ping Village", which presumably means buying some tatt and enjoying the use of a toilet that doesn't involve squatting or reaching for the packet of tissues in your handbag in the absence of anything you could call toilet paper. You are then allowed to go up to the Buddha, for which your brochure allocates 30 minutes. Before this you are supposed to go to the "Buddha Experience" which I think is some sort of exhibition housed in an oriental-style hut that looks as though it's come out of Disneyland. I'm afraid I can't report on the "thrills that will await you", because we didn't go. We did however trek the 280 steps up to the Buddha himself, foregoing the option of purchasing a meal ticket (much to the indignation of the lady behind the meal tickets desk.) This turned out to be well worth the effort. Upon arrival at the top you are greeted with a stunning view of Lantau Island and the sea beyond it. Unfortunately much of this view is now a building site, and the noise of several bulldozers, along with American tourists shouting "Hey, Candy, take a shot of me here!" cuts into the tranquility of this secluded spot. Unfortunately the Chinese view of "development" differs from the European one. In Europe, we'd call it "conservation". Such a spot would be protected, with perhaps a number of small, apologetic outlets being introduced to the area to cover any tourists' needs, hopefully disturbing the prevailing atmosphere as little as possible in the process, and the general look of the place would be maintained. The Chinese however are creating a themepark - the bigger the better. You descend the steps and are greeted by a chap selling bottles of diet Coke and the brand new, shiny "Walking with the Buddha Souvenir Store". Hmm.

After this you are allowed to go to your next stop - the Po Lin Monastery. This is a working monastery and it's a relief to see genuine pilgrims lighting incense and praying in front of the many gold Buddhas inside. Despite the tourists the area is quite tranquil, and even the surrounding commercialism is put into perspective for those of us who've been to Rome and been confronted by the mile or so of JPII paperweights and glow-in-the-dark Virgin Marys that line the route up to the Vatican.

If you're clever enough to sidestep the shops on the way back then one interesting and more tasteful bit of tat that's been erected is the sign telling you where you are, namely 12968 miles from the Statue of Liberty, 1972 miles from the Great Wall of China, and 9632 miles from Big Ben. I've never felt so far from home, and indeed never been so far from home. Commercialist or not, I was reluctant to leave Lantau Island and head back to the frenetic heart of Hong Kong.

Oscillate Mildly

So two weeks into this and I seem to be inadvertantly clocking up as many modes of transportation that I possibly can, from the weird to the wonderful to the downright terrifying. In two weeks I've been on planes, trains and automobiles, buses, trams and ferries, not to mention travelling a distance of around a kilometer on a very big escalator through the centre of Hong Kong and travelling on the underground networks in 3 different cities. Most excitingly perhaps was a dizzying 30-minute ride over Lantau Island on a cable car, which we were warned may experience "some mild oscillations" due to the wind that day. Now I don't know about you, but i'd rather not experience any oscillations while dangling a precarious 400 metres above the South China Sea. But maybe that's just me.

More on that later...

Hong Kong - Don't Lick The Birds

I have to admit I wasn't wholly enthusiastic about Hong Kong. This is partly because I’ve already been away from home and my husband for a while, and I’m starting to get homesick; it’s also because I’ve actually been finding it uncomfortable to breathe here. I’m told it’s the pollution and the weather, and this is probably true: visibility improved significantly today, along with my breathing.
Desperately lonely, I sent an email to a few friends begging for reassuring words. I received the following order from a friend:
“Just get out you – go look at some bird markets or something. Don’t lick them.”
So I went out. I left the University and I walked. And walked. And walked. Here’s a snippet of what I saw:
- A sign advertising “Adoption Day: Puppies and Pensioners”. I’d like to adopt a pensioner, but I don’t know how I’d get them through Customs.
- Lots of signs telling me not to feed any birds. So not only should you not lick them, you shouldn’t feed them either!
- Lots of birds – the ones you’re not supposed to feed. They’re everywhere!
- A Museum of Teaware. Yes, such a thing exists! It’s located in a lovely colonial building – one of the oldest in Hong Kong – and it’s actually rather good.
- The whole city, from the top of Victoria Peak. Whenever I go abroad I seem to go on trams and up high things, and if at all possible I combine the two. I went on an extremely steep tram climb up the Peak, and despite lashing rains and the sort of winds that turn your umbrella inside out, the view was spectacular.
- A lovely lady called Jill, visiting from Michigan, who was kind enough to hang out with me at the top of the Peak, and take some photographs to prove I’d been there
- An Irish bar serving Japanese beer and showing Italian football
- A taxi driver who spent the entire journey driving whilst reading the paper and hacking up phlegm out of the window
- An escalator that runs down a hill and across several streets. Apparently Jill’s friend “travels” to work on this every day.

I still have a love-hate relationship with this largely down-at-heel, consumer-obsessed, polluted city, but now there's a little more love and a little less hate.