Author: Adrian's Got the Moose

Saturday night came around and I was invited over to watch Lord of the Rings with Arum’s friends. Courtney, a beautiful and attentive host, and Adam, a vivacious Englishman with endless enthusasim for football and Tolkien, both worked with Arum at the learning centre that kept them living in Hong Kong, and in my opinion and theirs, exploited. It was a sobering experience hearing from Courtney and Adam about their working experiences. All three love their work, but ultimately the conditions they worked and lived in are not sustainable. All three also have to spend considerable percentages of their income to share flats, and have little chance of improving their situation under conditions that would be llegal under Australian labour laws.

While we watched Fellowship, the Two Towers and a minor league English football game the trains stopped, and started again while Adam gave us a running commentary on characters and events in LOTR lore, as well as football and his underdog team. At some point we made our way to the nearest Seven-Eleven for more drinks, which Adam refused to let me contribute to. There was so much genuine hospitality and friendship I struggled to know how to behave after so much Hong Kong indifference.

After making our way back to Arum’s apartment early Sunday morning, we slept away most of the day before having dinner at the Indian place next to the apartment building, which was a vegeterian set affair, and quite lovely.

The next morning as Arum was getting ready for work I started getting horrible stomach cramps, followed by a complete lack of propriety from both ends of my digestive system. This continued for twenty-four hours, until I was brave enough to almost sprint to the Circle K downstairs and across the road for loperamide and Pocari Sweat. Arum’s married couple flatmates then made the mistake of trying to talk to me while I was trying to act like a person with a minimum of human dignity and failing. Twelve hours later I was feeling mildly human and left the apartment. I changed some money and ate a disappointing fast food meal that nonetheless stayed in my stomach. I bought some more drinks and snacks, and made my way back to the apartment. I checked my email and discovered that my Vietmanese visa had finally aproved, in a very SE Asian interpretation of the three working day time frame.

I slept away most of the morning until a staff member of the hostel knocked on my door to find out if I was going to check out or book another night. After I sorted that out I visited the visa agency and picked up my passport and my partial refund.

Then I found my way to the nearest Starbucks, where I applied for another Vietnamese Visa using their wifi and comparitive calm compared to the streets below. Already losing the light, I went for a methodical walk through the Avenue of Stars, the Chinese answer to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I spotted martial arts greats such as Jackie Chan and Jet Lee, as well as Michelle Yeoh from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Tomorrow Never Dies.

But the real treat for me was a plaque commemorating Director Wong Kor-Wei, director of Chungking Express.

Later on I met up with Arum again, and found some lovely painted steps leading up to Kowloon City Park.

As well as some excellent statues showcasing cartoon characters that I lacked the cultural background to recognise.

We were also entertained by a mime, who was well worth the few dollars we put in her hat.

We had a very pleasant dinner of stir fried vegetables and noodles, and after picking up the tab I led Arum to a corner behind ISquare Shopping Mall, where I had a debt to pay.

Earlier in the week I had to buy some first aid supplies to cover up a tattoo after the sansiderm peeled straight off in this humidity, and a lovely Laotian lady helped me with the bandage and only after handed me a flyer to the massage place she works for, which makes her a cut above most of the people hawking around Chungking. I found her again and asked to be taken to the massage shop, which ended up being up a few levels overlooking the same street. Arum and I got foot massages, while holding hands under the blankets and watching Jaws on the TV screen, out of a need of our hosts to make us comfortable.

Something not mentioned here yet is that almost as soon as I landed on Hong Kong concrete I matched on a dating app with Arum, a South African lady working in Hong Kong. At some point, I mentioned that I wanted to go see the Big Buddha and invited her to join me. Arum, foolishly, accepted this offer and on Wednesday we met up and travelled together for the day. This involved a ferry across Victoria Harbour and another water body not important enough to be labeled on Google Maps, and then a long hilly bus ride to the base of the monastery grounds.

We had an impromptu morning tea involving sour gummies and Pocari Sweat in a nearby garden currently ignored by the rest of the tourist hordes

The path towards the steps leading to the Big Buddha is guarded by statues of the twelve heavenly generals of East Asian Buddhism, which also align/represent the Chinese zodiac and certain times of day.

Two hundred and sixty steps lead up the hill to the Big Buddha, to serve as time for contemplation. while Arum and I used the landings between the steps as rest breaks, as well as the occasional photo.

The view from the statue itself were fairly epic.

The Big Buddha was surrounded by six smaller statues, “The offerings of the six Divas” each an impressive work themselves. 

The Big Buddha itself is 34 metres tall, weighs in at 250 metric tonnes, and was created from 202 separate pieces of bronze. When casting the largest piece, the face plate, they only had forty seconds from the smelter to pour it into the mould, otherwise they would have to redo the piece. after it was cast they had to wait five days before breaking the mould and finding out if it worked or not. I doubt many of the people involved got any sleep during those five days.

In the opinion of your humble narrator, The Big Buddha is entirely deserving of the awards it has been given and is well worth the time checking out, even for an atheist like me.

However like much of Hong Kong’s sights, its mired by an unhealthy dose of consumerism. While the 711 is always a welcome sight, the addition of the high priced cookie shop and a claw game parlour seemed rather crass to me, like someone building a Maccas in the Louve.

Sadly on the bus ride back to the ferry dock, I got a bad case of motion sickness and had to get off the bus at the Interchange station at Discovery Bay. I sat, sweating and shivering against a wall, while Arum sat with me patiently and worriedly. At least one well-heeled expat asked if we needed anything while I sat, embarrassing myself, like a poorly finished monument to the folly of travelling on anything faster than a donkey.

After recovering some colour, we discovered there was a train that took us right back to Hong Kong Island, which we took, but not before watching a group of children playing in one of those water fountains, a good time being had by all.

On the train I received my one and only call on my HK Sim, from the agent I was using to get a Chinese Visa. My application had been denied, no reason given but the agent suspected it was because of my sparkly new passport being considered suspicous by the Chinese government . This flew the rest of my plans out the window, my plans were to travel overland from China, and then the train to Hanoi, and my Vietnamese visa was not valid for weeks yet, and was only good at one particular land border.

Tuesday out of a very male desire to be on top of things, I made my way to the lower Terminus of the Victoria Peak Tram, something that is always on those web articles about ten things to do in Hong Kong in a day. I should have known better. After shelling out a full stomach of dumpings worth of dollars I queued with the tourist horde and was injected into the tram. The ride was a little disconcerting due to the steep angle-I was glad I didn’t have to try to walk- the view was amazing if rather spoiled by the design of the train

I didn’t get a photo of the apartment window decorated with three brightly coloured teddy bears, which I’m sure has brightened the day of many a small child, in addition to at least one jaded backpacker.

Once at the top I had to pass through Hong Kongs’ biggest and trashiest souvenir shop, and past a selfie studio, muliple high priced cookie shops, jewellry shops (In case you are in sudden need of buying a string of pearls while suffering from altitude sickness) and one racially insensitive resturant, before finally reaching the top.

Which was honestly quite spectacular, mildly spoiled by the fact that wherever I stood was the exact place a dozen other people wanted to be standing and taking photos from.

Of course the need to take selfies is also on me, but I still claim as a lone traveller I was doing it before there was a word for it.

After being unceremoniously shoved into the tram to get back down, I made my way to Art Lane, where I enjoyed an iced mocha at a pet-friendly cafe (and patted a cute Scottish Terrier) and saw some lovely if politically neutral street art.

on my way back to Chungking Mansions, I took another walk through Kowloon City Park, where I saw some wonderful trees, and some wedding photography.

    unshaven and unrepentant, I passed through Immigration and Customs, pausing just long enough to change some currency and grab a Sim card before hurtling my way to Chungking Mansions, and force my way to my hostel.

I laid down with the plan to snooze for a few minutes, then promptly slept the rest of the afternoon. I walked around TST, savoring t

he hustle and bustle , the sights and the smells, both good and bad, all comforting after my COVID hiatus.

I engaged in some people watching on some steps overlooking the MOA and the Hong Kong Space Museum.

Then, mildly unimpressed with myself, I spent an hour in a complex dedicated to conspicious consumption.

Where I barely managed to depart from no more broke than I was before.

I slept away most of the next morning, then wen’t across the road to a travel agency where i paid a significant sum to arrange my Chinese Visa, the next planned part of my trip. On my way through Central I discovered there was an Anime conventon about to start, walkways filled with cosplayers, most depicting characters I lacked the apppropriate nerdiness to understand.

It was an incredible sight to behold but didn’t help me get anywhere.

Eventually I made my way to Tim Ho Wans, which while having all the ambiance of a Mcdonalds, has food simply to die for.

Also, while moving through the streets with all the grace of a kangaroo with two broken legs I saw large groups of South East Asians having picnics under walkways, staircases, anywhere in the shade.

Much of the immigrant labor only have Sundays off and can not afford to eat out, but make do by sharing home cooked meals with family and friends. I wish I had something to contribute, but alas, i could only wish them a happy meal. It was a comforting sight after so much of Central being so generic it could be anywhere in the world.

In the afternoon, I walked through parts of Kowloon City Park, complete with ancient trees, sculptures, birds and a cat.

I noticed that trees that have been documented for attention have been given an “Old and Valuable Tree Number,” the conservationalist in me approves.

One of the less pleasant duties of my job is picking up the dumped refuse people are too lazy or cheap to dispose of correctly. Usually we are too tired or jaded to feel much about it except for annoyance before we finish up and move on to the next job. This week was different.

The pile of mattresses and couches were loaded onto our truck using a mini-digger, but the rest had to be thrown on by hand, leading to an awareness of what lead up to this dumping.

There is a SPO2 Monitor, property of Perth Children’s Hospital. Next is a clear plastic envelop, marked with a caption indicating the contents being a prisoners property. Scattered around are photos of kids, happy, clean and well-fed. Under a pile of clothes is a folder from a law firm. Yonder is a school certificate, rewarded for good behavior, then documents from a court house. An application for public housing smothers makeup kits. No drug paraphernalia, which is unusual for us, and comforting.

Assumptions: The mother was jailed, and the children placed into foster care, and then evicted from their rental accommodation, and as is typical, the landlord or their contractor simply threw their entire possessions they couldn’t take with them into a truck to be dumped into the nearest forgotten and accessible corner.

Ill probably never get closure, I hope the kids are safe and are some point reunited with their mother, who gets the help she needs so this doesn’t happen again.

There is an adage that we have been hearing a lot in these decisive times, the one about how all opinions, beliefs, and viewpoints are to be listened to and respected. This is often stated by peacekeepers, moderates, and those with fringe views that don’t hold up to basic scrutiny.

To these people, I say fuck off.

Fuck off, and keep fucking off until you encounter a sign that says “No fucking off past this point”, then fuck off some more because that sign doesn’t apply to you.

I don’t have to respect your opinion that gay people are sinful for engaging in consensual relationships and intimacy, while you ignore the systematic cover up of child rape within your church. You are the reason that people tend to back away when someone says they are a person of faith.

I don’t have to respect your bullshit that vaccines are poison, while you smoke Winfield Blues and refuse to wear a mask. You are keeping us in this pandemic.

I don’t have to respect your much repeated statements that the world would be perfect if everyone was as perfect as you think you are. I think you are confusing virtue with boredom.

I don’t have to respect your assertion that there is no reason to travel overseas, because Australia is the best country, and outside is nothing but terrorism, filth and strife. I feel sorry for you.

Due to a desperate desire to make a blog post, I thought it would be fun to create a list of my favourite travel Instagram travel (ish) accounts, so without further ado…

Mexican Kitchen:

The actual Mexican Kitchen is on the north-east coast of Gilli Air, Indonesia, and is the perfect place to enjoy a cocktail while the light fades after a hard day of beach bumming. the complimentary nachos and roosters are a nice touch as well.

 

Icon Klub:

Probably the coolest bar in south east Asia, set in Luang Prabang , Laos. Set in the style of classic late night bars, this cosy place attracts an older, expat crowd, and contrasts nicely against the backpacker fav Utopia. Hosted by a vivacious Hungarian woman, I only wish my town had a bar as cool as this.

 

You Know You’re a Backpacker When:

A meme account, which is exactly what it says on the tin: All the fun, cringe and infuriating things about the backpacker lifestyle. I have seen this account be used as an icebreaker to potential love interests in three different countries.

 

Cocker Turkiye:

A cocker spaniel in Istanbul? What’s not to love?

 

Iran in Photos:

I probably spend way too much time stalking this account. The photos are amazing and inspiring, and remind me exactly what I am currently missing out on.

 

Peter Moore:

My favourite travel writer, and he’s to blame for my slightly off sense of humour when things go hopelessly wrong when I travel, and in my favourite travel moments, I can almost feel him over my shoulder.

 

Soheilaflaki:

A tattoo artist based out of Karas, Iran. My on and off again interest in getting a tattoo is currently being swayed by his Farsi calligraphy tattoos. If I get to him I would love to get a Joseph Conrad quote on my arm- “It has been said that I must be loyal to the nightmare of my choosing”

 

Backpacker Story:

One of the most consistent posters of envy-worthy photos from around the world, bonus points for posting Elephant Rocks in Western Australia.

 

Mad Monkey Hostels:

If you have never heard of this chain of hostels, you have probably never backpacked in the last ten years. They are infamous for hard drinking parties, and popular with the gap year/spring break crowd.  I have never managed to bring myself to stay at one (but I have stayed in a few hotels owned by the chain), but they are a good back up plan for booking bus tickets or tours.

Recently, the Albany franchise of the Baptist church hosted an event named “‘Real Lives’- Where some Christians who experienced same sex attraction and gender dysphoria will share their life stories in the context of the church community” This event was part of a roadshow by True Identity International, “We offer peer support thru Education, Recovery & Advocacy around child sexual abuse, porn addiction, human sexuality, gender dysphoria, male/female identity. Strong support leads to stronger people. Simple!” True Identity International engages and endorses gay conversion therapy. Of course they deny this, even as they post proof of it on their FB page.

Of course this doesn’t mean the event was a gay conversion event, or specifically set up to promote it, but it’s certainly rather distasteful to anyone who thinks being queer is a valid form of expression and love.

Albany Pride, a group I am loosely affiliated with, protested on the grounds of the church on the night of the event. I was planning to join the protest, until events at work left me feeling frustrated and angry, and it was better for myself and Albany Pride for myself to stay away.

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Comments on posts from both the Albany Advertiser and the ABC Great Southern’s FB pages proved to be quite the battleground. Supporters of the church declared that the event had nothing to do with gay conversion therapy, while also claiming that any effort to curtail gay conversion therapy is a removal of religious freedom and parental rights, both nefarious concepts at the best of times. I also can’t help but notice many of the people defending the event are also antivaxxers and racists, based on comments by them on other threads.

People accused Albany Pride of using the event to push their own agenda, because apparently not wanting people to be psychologically tortured is apparently an agenda. Also people claim that what happens at church or church events has nothing to do with secular society, like it’s all behind one confessional seal. Also people claim that it’s freedom of speech to hold gay conversion therapy, or events promoting it, which is all kinds of bullshit.

Gay conversion therapy is an umbrella term for a range of unscientific practices to attempt to change and individual’s sexuality, from something other than straight to straight. It is often forced on children by their parents. There is no peer reviewed, mainstream studies that back up any claim that the therapy can change an individual’s sexuality. In fact many mainstream medical groups, for example the American Psychiatric Association, condemn the practice. In the past, gay conversion therapy included lobotomies, castration and aversion treatments. Now it mostly includes counseling, social skills training, psychoanalytic therapy and spiritual intervention (pray the gay away) and peer pressure.

The whole reason for gay conversion therapy is the notion that being gay is wrong, and something that needs to be cured. This entirely ignores the fact that homosexuality has existed in our species for as long as our species has existed, and there is no proof that sexuality can change by external forces.

Something that probably passes straight over the head of True Identity and the Baptist church is that sexuality (as far as hetero, homo and bi is concerned) is a spectrum, with gay on one end, straight on the other and bi in the middle. Labels like those are very useful in social and political settings, but are gross simplifications. The most gay conversion therapy will do is to teach its victims that its better to act straight socially and to suppress their sexuality by being celibate. For every apparent success story dragged out by proponents of conversion therapy, there is dozens of people who used to claim to be converted, and are now out and proud. Added to this is the incredibly high rates of depression and suicide among survivors of gay conversion therapy, it’s safe to say it should be banned.

Because I don’t quite feel I have beaten this dead horse enough, the biblical evidence for the gay is bad mantra, is sketchy at best. Homosexuality didn’t even make the ten commandments, while not lusting after the hottie next door and not working on a particular day of the week does. So you have to cherry pick particular verses while ignoring others- like the ones about not eating pork- to reach the conclusion that you can’t be a gay christian. It’s worth noting that many of the more progressive churches manage to look past a handful of anti-gay biblical verses and welcome our queer brothers and sisters.

This makes me think that the whole thing is just an excuse for homophobia, as well as a need by many conservative christian groups to be as homogeneous as possible, which certainly backs up my belief that Baptists, Seven Day Adventists and JWs strive to be as boring as possible.

As for me, apart from basic respect for human dignity, it’s in my nature to support minorities and the marginalised, even if that support is minor, and sometimes nothing more than letting the marginalised know that I understand.