Author: Adrian's Got the Moose

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.

December 2019 I landed home after my epic one month trip through Jordan, Palestine and Israel. I honestly thought my next trip was going to be in a year’s time, just long enough to save some money and holiday pay, and come up with the kind of vague plan that that could be written on the back of a ATM receipt.

I’m still dreaming of that next trip, and it doesn’t seem much closer now than a year ago when I should have been booking tickets. Not cancelled, I will still make that trip as soon as I can, but I have been thinking about how travel will change when we are finally able to. I’ll intersect my predictions with some of my travel memories, so this doesn’t end up being too dry.

Proof of Vaccination:

This one is fairly obvious, but if you think you will be able to travel any time in the next ten years without proof of a mainstream COVID vaccination or without a medical condition contraindicating the jabs, then I think you are dreaming.  People tend to forget that sovereign countries have the right to deny entry to travellers,  and safety is a fairly reasonable reason for cancelling a visa. Judging by some comments on travel Facebook groups, people seem to think this is some violation of their rights, which strikes me as naive considering how many countries have similar rules in place for financial checks, Yellow Fever vaccinations, etc.

Leaving Bangkok in a mini-bus, Two Israelis started singing Spanish love-songs in Hebrew. Between songs I spoke my first words since getting on the bus, I have no idea what you are singing, but its beautiful. I spent much of my evenings in Kanchanaburi with those two. 

Testing:

You know porn stars in the USA get fortnightly tests for HIV?  One of those facts that I learned that refuses to exit my brain. I expect you will need a negative COVID test two to four weeks before you travel, and another one within forty-eight hours of travel. I suspect a whole industry will be created to administer these tests in a timely, and affordable manner, perhaps the cost will be included in your plane tickets. I imagine immigration staff won’t let you legally leave the country without proof of the results, and airline staff will check again before you board.

Lombok, my first day and I’m invited into photos. School kids and groups of young guys were treating me like a minor celebrity, which was good for my ego. Lombok seemed to be a popular destination for middle class Indonesians and private school trips. One man tried setting me up with his beautiful, but way too young for me daughter. Obviously I declined, but I often find myself wondering what happened to her.

Masks:

I suspect having mandatory masks laws will be implicated at a moment’s notice in countries when there is an outbreak, and possibly at all time for planes and other public transport, potentially all tourist sites as well- If you refuse to mask up you will be denied entry.  The anti-mask brigade amuse and frustrate me, I wear P2s a fair bit at work, they are more annoying than the surgical masks people get so upset about, but I still wear them when spraying higher schedule herbicides or handling asbestos.

War Remnants Museum,  Saigon.  Unapologetic anti-western it is, but I couldn’t spot anything that was a blatant lie. Highlights include a stillborn baby, mutated by Agent Orange, in a glass jar with Formaldehyde. 

Contact Tracing:

Another condition of entry will be submitting to some form of contact tracing, whether an app to  scan QR codes on entry (which is what Australia has been dealing with for the last nine months), or an app on your phone that reports your GPS coordinates every hour or so, or something along these lines. In a number of countries every time you check in to a hotel or hostel they photocopy your passport to send to the government, so the system is already there.

Phnom Penh, Cambodia- I was walking back to my grim hostel after visiting some sites and by accident I ended up alongside the US Embassy. I paused a moment to consider that US embassies always end up looking like castles built out of concrete with good gardening staff, when I noticed a local man hurrying past, complete with acid burns. my pre-trip reading taught me that throwing acid at political enemies is very common. 

 

Numbers of travellers:

I can see that a lot of the casual, “I heard the beaches were nice”  kind of tourists are simply going to give up traveling entirely due to a perceived lack of safety, or limit themselves to only travel to places just as boring and sanitized as their own home. Hopefully this will lead to a reduction of drunk Australians vomiting in gutters the world over.

Selchuk, Turkey- Exhausted, I found my way to the hostel I found most appealing in my Rough Guide, the ANZ Guesthouse. I opened the gate and stepped into the courtyard, where my fellow backpackers were gathered smoking a water pipe, sat on traditional low couches. I was invited in and immediately was introduced to Fran and Miles from New Zealand, Eloise from Melbourne, Amanda from Spain, John the American and our host Mehmut. As is often the way at the best backpacker places, within minutes I felt like I was among lifelong friends.

 

That brings me to my final prediction. Hopefully when we can travel, a lot of the firm lines between different kinds of travellers will be blurred, and people will mingle much better, joined together by the simple pleasure of visiting other countries and meeting new people. I can only hope.

 

 

Expectation:

You walk into the shop, spot the click and collect counter, and throw down some ID.  “I have made a purchase, fetch it, you superfluous swamp-donkey”  The person checks your ID, looks you up and down in disgust, and says “I don’t want a malodorous miscreant like you in my fine establishment one moment longer than I have to”  He disappears, and moments later throws your package at you and turns his back on you in disdain. Total elapsed time: five minutes.

Reality:

You walk into the shop, spot the click and collect counter, which is deserted. Eventually someone arrives and asks if you need help. You inform them you have a click and collect, this causes confusion, and once they manage to accept that click and collect exists, they send someone to find the paperwork, when that’s found they go looking for the item on the shelf. Now they try to make you pay for it again, and you attempt to show emails, bank statements and obscene hand gestures to prove that you have already paid. Eventually they decide its easier just to let you leave without paying for the item, and you can finally leave. Total elapsed time: half an hour, if you are lucky.

It was shaking up to be a perfectly decent Thursday evening. I had the Xbox fired up, a stomach filled with Chinese food, and a six pack of Thailand’s finest import I was making a dent in. However my alcohol and gaming-induced relaxation was shattered by a small brown blur making laps between behind the heater, to the bookcases, to the tv and my desk. It took me a while to soak into my poor brain that it was indeed a mouse, a small one and one that didn’t seem at all concerned with my lack of my offering it sacred guest right. To make the situation worse, I couldn’t enjoy my gaming with this little fucker running around, so I went to bed and read some tedious science fiction.

In the morning I went to the Big Green Shop, the most expedient answer among the array of rodent dealing gear was baits, so I bought a pack of Ratsak rodent baits, and threw a few behind the bookcases and the heater. That evening I sneaked up to the mouse, and observed him nibbling on one of the baits. I returned to my couch, smug in the knowledge that this interloper will soon be hemorrhaging out of various orifices and will plague me no more.

In the morning the baits were gone, but that evening the mouse was seemingly unconcerned with the LD50 of Brodifacon.  Had this mouse found a Ring of Poison Immunity in some previous encounter? And one that could fit on its tiny paws?  Clearly a different tact was needed, this time I decided to go old school. I got my hands on a pack of those cheap, horrible mouse traps with the wooden base and the stainless steel spring loaded trap of death. I loaded one with white chocolate, set it and slid it between two book cases.

Next morning, I discovered that the little fucker triggered the trap, and judging by the mouse blood splash up the wall,  injuring himself in the process. However the chocolate was gone. Excellent, I thought to myself, surely he crawled away and died with a curse on his lips and regretting many of his life choices. Sadly a week later he was back, running his insane laps and unconcerned by his brush with death.

Back to The Big Green Shop, and this time, my credit card screaming in pain, I got something that doesn’t so much resemble a mouse trap as a mouse maze with a trap door. A week later I accept that this is not at all appealing to this mouse, and I buy a trap that has been banned in various EU countries due to the violence of its method of killing.  I load it with peanut butter, set it and shove it behind my TV.  Unfortunately the thing is clearly designed for bigger prey, and my antagonist manages to steal the peanut butter without  triggering the trap, no doubt giggling in glee, and saying mocking things about my numerous physical, emotional and sexual shortcomings.  I am at a loss how to continue, as my only other option would be to call an exterminator, which would go against my DIY ethic, and my bank account.

A few days later and I am playing Xbox again, refusing to become a vampire (again) and playing with a Leatherman knife I had assumed I had lost until I did some tidying in the spare room, when I spotted my nemesis again, running up the wall, and then hiding between my desk and the exposed brick wall. Was this mouse actually some kind of Russian spy trying to learn secrets from my aging desktop computer? Enough was enough, and it was time to go medieval on his arse.

I sneak up to the desk, and stabbed two and a half inches of Japanese steel at the mouse. the mouse bolts away and disappears, and while I see no blood on the blade, I am sure it met resistance. Two weeks later and there is no further evidence of mouse activity in the unit, and I can declare victory. I have named that pocket knife Mouse-bane, and if I had a mantle I would mount Mouse-bane above it.

I have noticed that since the Night of the Short Knife, my humble abode seems a tad too quiet and still. This mouse was the closest I have had to a housemate since I moved in nine months ago- My need for some extra cutter has been dynamically opposed to my need to live alone after twelve years of living with other people- But now I don’t have anyone to swear at. A frog has recently taken up residence in my backyard and does his mating call for a few hours in the early evening (I know how he feels) but it’s not quite the same. Maybe I should get a cat.

UPDATE 01/05/2021:  Last night while watching Netflix at my desk, I heard a sharp metallic snap. It was the only mousetrap I hadn’t bothered packing up and putting away catching and killing the mouse. He must have been driven indoors with the rain.