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Asia Travelogue,
part 1
I
returned to
for me to determine that there was still nothing on TV, so I re-packed my
backpack and headed for
next few E-mail messages I send to you will be based on those notes.
Consider this Part I of my Asian travelogue.
When the Wright brothers invented the airplane, they probably thought it
would greatly reduce travel time by allowing people to travel in straight
lines. I’m sure they would find it peculiar that in order for me to get to
the Pacific coast, it was necessary for me to fly south to Dallas and then
northeast to Toronto, which is near New York. I also doubt that they
anticipated 6-hour layovers, which is what I had in
not scheduled to take off until 10:15 p.m. After stopping in
would land in
at the airport is closed, the bank is closed, not all the buses are
running, and hotels are not checking in guests. That
is brilliant
scheduling.
Considering the flight time -- 19 hours, if you count the time spent on the
ground in
there were too many on-board announcements. Take the usual number of
announcements and multiply by four. All announcements were made in
Cantonese, Mandarin, English, and French. I was one of maybe 10 white
faces on the plane. When I heard the captain speaking in French, I looked
around for any Chinese people wearing berets, but only saw blank stares.
Nonetheless, in compliance with Canadian law, all information would be
translated into French right up until we touched down in
earlier flight to
questionnaire concerning the French announcements. It consisted of a
single question: “Has it been beneficial to you to receive on-board
announcements in French? Yes or No.?” They tried to
make the survey sound
official, but I’m guessing that it was really Air
probably show the results to the government as proof of how asinine the law
is. In the meantime, there will continue to be planes full of Chinese
people flying to
movies, and being told in French to store all carry-on bags in an overhead
compartment.
Luckily, I had two seats all to myself, so I was able to partially lie
down. I was doing just that and watching a movie when, two hours after
leaving Vancouver, a Chinese girl came back to my seat and asked if she
could sit in the “empty” seat. I had to sit up and rearrange all my stuff
to allow her to sit down. Not only did this threaten to spoil the rest of
my flight, but it also created a great deal of confusion on my part. The
girl was carrying bags as if she had just gotten on the plane. Unless she
was a member of Delta Force, I thought that would have been difficult to do
while flying over the
took her two hours to make it down the aisle to her assigned seat. I
quickly kicked my “get-away” power into high gear and she promptly stood up
and moved further back in the plane. I stretched out again and resumed
watching Return to Me on my personal television screen.
We landed at Chek Lap Kok
airport in
July of 1998. It was built on an island composed of land reclaimed from
the sea and connected to the rest of
suspension bridge. The total cost was HK$156.4 billion.
It was a thirty-minute bus ride into the city. Until we reached the
bridge, I did not see much development. I saw mostly low mountains covered
with rich green grass and young trees. It had a somewhat tropical look.
The power lines and concrete drainage ditches cut into the mountainsides
created an orderly appearance as if the whole island was designed like an
amusement park or a golf course. There were no cracks in the road and no
trash anywhere.
The bus took me to the
Kong
BP International House, which is a high-rise hotel. I would stay here two
nights.
Although I never had the opportunity to visit
hand-over to the communists, I assume that it hasn’t changed much. It
still appears to be a fast-growing, modern city, jammed with people who are
in a hurry to make a fortune. Skyscrapers are built close together and the
sidewalks are crowded with people, but they have an excellent system of
very clean buses and subways that help keep the traffic flowing. Most
people are Chinese, but there are a large number of British and Europeans,
especially in the tourist areas. Many signs are in English and most people
who are in the service industry speak English. On the down side, the sun
is unbearably bright and the air pollution is bad. Many of the women keep
a handkerchief to their face to help them breath as they make their way
along the sidewalks.
Although I hadn’t slept in over 30 hours (except for maybe an hour on the
plane), I didn’t want to waste any daylight, so I went walking. First, I
went to a travel agency and purchased a plane ticket to
that would allow me to travel to Mainland
later that afternoon to pick them up, which meant that I was tethered to
the
I walked to
skyscrapers built right up to the water’s edge like
waterfront on the
Hong Kong Cultural Centre Complex and the Hong Kong Museum of Art. This
was
buildings and big capitalist appetites -- there is culture too! I skipped
the Cultural Centre, but decided that the museum would be a good way to
kill a couple of hours. It had a few interesting exhibits, but it
contained old scrolls of Chinese calligraphy more than anything. It should
have been named the
actually the view of the harbor from the back. There were five stories and
on each story there were couches and chairs facing large picture windows
overlooking the harbor. I enjoyed the fact that Hong Kong spent several
million dollars on this building to provide its people with a bit of
culture and yet I saw more people sitting and staring at the tall buildings
across the harbor than I saw in the exhibit rooms.
My guidebook listed the
visit in
ornate Taoist temple. It was indeed ornate and colorful, like all Chinese
temples, but I noticed that the principal building materials seemed to be
concrete and fiberglass. I read a bit further in the guidebook and
discovered that the temple was built in 1973. For me, that diminished the
awe factor. However, the book said the temple was worth visiting primarily
for the crowds. That’s an interesting concept -- getting tourists to show
up to see a crowd. That’s the ultimate self-perpetuating tourist
attraction. Admittedly, this particular crowd was unique -- they were
bowing and praying to a building that doesn’t even predate the Nixon
administration. The billowing fumes of incense smoke and the signs warning
of pickpockets were enough to drive me away.
I returned to the travel agency and picked up my plane ticket and passport
containing a new visa stamp. I placed them both in a plastic J. Seward’s
shopping bag from
This will become significant later.
I found a relatively cheap place to eat, bought some food for breakfast at
a grocery store, and then returned to my hotel room. It had been almost 48
hours since I had slept.
The next day, I took a ferry across
then walked to the Peak Tram. It takes passengers up the side of a
mountain at a 45-degree angle to
down on the roofs of the skyscrapers and see most of
you’ve been to the Peak, there is nothing left to do in
Thanks to my Lonely Planet guidebook, I knew that the “Peak” is not really
the top of the mountain. I walked along a residential road that slowly
winds its way past several million dollar homes and an immaculate park and
playground until I reached the true summit. From the observation platform,
I could see the south side of the island and a bit of
in the haze. I could also see another mountain peak about a quarter of a
mile away. It was a bit lower than the one I was standing on, but it
looked like it would be fun to climb because it came to a sharp point at
the top and had a thin ridge to walk along. A trail going up the east side
was clearly visible. Although it was steep, it appeared that the trail had
steps. I heard a young American couple talking about climbing it and so I
told them I would go with them.
First, we had to climb down from the peak that we were on. Following the
trail down was easy enough, but when we reached a park at the bottom, the
trail ended. We were unable to find the beginning of the trail that would
take us up the second mountain. The woman asked an old Chinese man who
then pointed straight ahead at the base of the mountain. He started
walking forward. The woman asked him he was going to the top and he nodded
his head and said, “Up, up. Top.” We told him we would
follow him. He
then plunged into thick green foliage that had grown over a narrow dirt
path. We assumed that it would soon open up into the nice trail that we
had seen from the other peak.
It became very steep very quickly. The woman dropped out, but her husband
said he would carry on. Now it was steep enough to necessitate using hands
as well as feet to climb. The trail just about disappeared and the husband
dropped out. The Chinese man was starting to make low moaning sounds. The
vegetation got thicker and taller. It was now above my head. I felt like
I was huntin’ Charlie, armed only with a Lonely
Planet guide. The Chinese
man would occasionally lose his footing and then turn his head around and
ask, “Okay?? The moans were getting louder. As difficult as it was going
up the mountain, I started wondering how much more difficult it would be
climbing back down with an old Chinaman slung over my shoulders. I decided
to pass him so that if he fell, he wouldn’t take me down with him. Soon
thereafter, I emerged into sunlight and then reached the top. I could see
the back of a metal sign. I walked around to the front where it read, “Steep
slope.
No
climbing.” In front of the sign was a
lovely paved trail
with steps going all the way to the bottom. I guess that Chinese man just
wanted to test my mettle. (I took the stairs down.)
That night, I decided double-check my departure time for my
morning flight
to
removed everything and then went through my backpack -- still no ticket.
The J. Seward’s bag had not been out of my sight from the time I left the
travel agency until I reached my hotel room. If someone had gotten into my
bag in my hotel room, why would they leave my passport, which they could
sell on the black-market, and take a plane ticket that is of no value to
anyone but me? Not knowing where it went is almost as upsetting as the
cost. I remember an old Saturday Night Live skit in which St. Peter tells
a man who had died and reached the Pearly Gates that any and all questions
he had about his life on earth can now be answered. My first question
would be what happened to my plane ticket to
that, then my next question would be what happened to the original Rose Law
Firm billing records.)
The next morning, I returned to the travel agency and told them my story.
Even though I presented them with the receipt for the ticket, they told me
that I would have to purchase another one. Just like in
end up with two tickets for the same flight. (From now on, maybe I can
save myself a lot of time by simply buying two tickets for wherever I’m
going.) To make matters worse, they told me that it was too close to
take-off time for them to issue the ticket; I would have to purchase the
second ticket at the airport. They did tell me, however, that they would
refund the money for the original ticket if I would provide them with a
Lost/Stolen Property Report from the police.
I left the travel agency and went directly to the police station. (Yes,
this God-fearing Republican boy was going to the communist police for
assistance.) The police were courteous, professional, and helpful. I
told them my story. When I told them the name of the travel agency, they
all looked at each other, rolled their eyes and laughed. I did not find
that comforting. They filled out the report and gave me a stamped copy. I
didn’t have time to return to the travel agency, so I caught a bus and
headed for the airport. At the airport, I bought a plane ticket for
--
shuttle that would take me to the plane just before they shut the door.
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