travel – Page 2 – Adrian's Got The Moose

Chaotic Cairo Part I

Cairo, the city of a thousand minarets. A city with both feet firmly in the past, trying to sway into the future.

I would love to claim that I booked my hotel in Cairo with deliberate care, with consideration for location, amenities, and reviews. In fact, I booked it after ten seconds of thought, based on price, while frustrated about my lack of progress on planning this part of my trip. My hotel was five stories above an alley dedicated to selling car parts. The staircase wrapped around the old elevator shaft, which had stopped working decades ago.

Would you believe it looks even worse in reality?

The handrails may have once been quite ornate, but any pretense of grandeur had long ago been given up. My room was small, being divided up from a larger suite, two walls made up of unpainted plasterboard, the ceiling peeling paint, and plaster dropping away from the wooden beams. I had to provide my own soap and toilet paper; the shared bathroom did not even feature a bum gun or bucket and jug. It was clean and safe enough, but I took care not to leave anything in my room worth stealing.

In the morning, I walked a short distance from my hotel and found a traditional cafe in an alleyway. There, I enjoyed my first Arabic coffee since COVID.

I think what draws me to these sorts of places is that in a world where you are never far away from a Starbucks, these cafes are largely doing business in the same way for the last hundred years. Cash only, coffee brewed by hand above flames, and barely any English spoken. Fully caffeinated, I completed my efforts in returning to full human status by getting a shave and a haircut at a tiny barber shop I passed earlier. I was, however, not feeling up to any serious sightseeing, so I continued walking aimlessly. I got lost in a series of streets lined with shops selling name plaques, name stamps and similar office supplies. When I managed to escape this enclave, I got lost in a series of streets focused on selling lighting fixtures and other electrical parts. Eventually I found myself in an alleyway where the focus was more useful to me; coffee and shisha. I spent a few hours here, drinking coffee, reading, and watching the tide of humanity, which seemed to be darker-skinned than what I expected to see in Egypt, which I assumed to be Nubian.

There was a lot of traditional dress, traditional three-kisses greetings between men, and, of course, mobile phone use, which was the single sign of modernity, apart from the noise of traffic.

Early evening, I found myself in a pedestrian boulevard, having eaten nothing in Cairo yet, I discovered a no-frills restaurant, which was something of a local favourite.

I wandered some more after my early dinner, finding some nice, more modern cafes down alleyways closed off to traffic.

Later, I was craving air-con and a place where I could do some writing unmolested. I walked to a nearby McDonald’s and ordered a tea from the kiosk before heading upstairs. After waiting half an hour, another patron took pity on me and sent a staff member to find out what was going on. Sarah appeared and commented on my handwriting being much like hers, then proved herself wrong by writing her name in my notebook much neater than I could ever manage.

When Sarah returned to me with my tea, I handed her one of my mini business cards, which delighted her, but she seemed to make a point in accepting it as a souvenir rather than any interest in contacting me. My hopes of gaining a beautiful Egyptian girlfriend dashed, I drank my tea and returned to my hotel to climb the stairs, alone and rejected.

Kabukicho

It’s long been my habit to book accommodation close to places I can eat and drink. It doesn’t worry me much if I have to take public transport or a taxi to get to a historical site or a famous market, as long as I can chill at the end of the day without trying to negotiate with a taxi driver while half-cut. For Tokyo, I was staying within the confines of Kabukicho, Japan’s most infamous red-light district. Now that I have typed that, I have to wonder if calling a red-light district infamous is redundant, but I’ll leave that kind of argument for when I am not sober.

Kabukicho is full of host and hostess clubs, soaplands, love hotels, girl bars, pickacho palours, claw game arcades, plus regular bars and restaurants. Traditionally, the Yakuza held massive influence here, and while the Yakuza have been diminishing in both numbers and influence in the last ten years, their impact here is supposedly still strong in Kabukicho. While I enjoyed wandering around, I didn’t linger, except for a meal at the world’s narrowest KFC while feeling despondent. At street corners in the larger ward of Shinjuku, loudspeakers warn of touts inviting you to bars that overcharge by factors of a hundred. I soon learned that these touts were exclusively Nigerian, well-dressed and friendly, but informed by the loudspeaker warnings and my own research, this was easily ignored. Stereotypically, the touts are working illegally after overstaying their visas, yet operate so openly that I can’t work out why the authorities are not rounding them up.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Basile_Morin

Host and Hostess clubs are nightclubs, where you have your drinks poured and cigarettes lit by incredibly attractive, attentive, and charming members of the opposite sex. While that does sound lovely to a lonely person, and there are many of those in Japan, the price is exorbitant, and the host/hostesses are incentivized to make their guests order more and more. This is not a scam, but one certainly should be very aware of the underlying principles. As much as I would have liked a woman hanging on my every word, I didn’t want to spend my entire Tokyo budget on a few hours. I have been told that it can become very addictive, and in some less reputable host clubs, women can rack up such bills that the Yakuza step in and the women are forced into sex work to settle their bills. Also, some of the hostesses are working illegally, or are victims of exploitation (such as passports being taken from them) and trafficking, so that’s another aspect a guest would need to be aware of.

Japan has very different ideas about ideal male beauty than the West.

Brothels in Japan are usually called Soaplands, which used to be called Turkish baths before the son of a Turkish ambassador took offence. From what I read, it’s a very ritualistic way of conducting sex work, similar to the soapy massages one can get in Thailand. Actual sex is negotiated after the bath. If one is not aware of the meaning of Soaplands, a person could walk past them and have no idea what is going on behind the door, which I guess is the way the Japanese like it.

Nothing to see here, no, totally not brothels back to back.

In the heart of Kabukicho, right next to the KFC I previously mentioned and the neon signs of the Toyo Building (Mostly a cinema featuring the famous Godzilla Head, was the messiest sight I saw in my time in Tokyo. Numerous youths, and some older Westerners, sitting on the ground or on folding chairs, surrounded by rubbish and uniformed security staff who were attempting to look nonchalant. These are the Toyoko kids, runaways, marginalized youths and their hangers-on. Homeless and largely ignored by society at large, they have formed their own subculture based on their situation and fashion choices. It’s important as an onlooker not to romanticize their existence, they are mostly homeless and highly susceptible to exploitation by others.

Another thing in Japan that is considered normal, but also ignored.

Moving further through Kabukicho, I discovered two lines of young women, many dressed in Cosplay or school uniforms, kept in order by security guards. They were handing out flyers to hostess clubs, girl bars, and similar establishments. Mostly, they appeared bored and disinterested, although I did get a smile back from one of them as I danced around a group of gawking Germans. I suspect they share some membership with the Toyoko kids, and do not get paid more than a few yen an hour unless they walk someone into an establishment, or their flyers have an identifier that is taken into the bar.

Also in Kabukicho are Pachinko Parlors, which are confusing, pinball-like games that skirt the gambling laws by not having payouts issued from the same building. Love hotels are also common, where couples, Johns and their new lady-friends, can rent a room for a few hours to watch TV and nap. This offers a place for many couples who still live with their parents (paper-thin walls, etc) to get some privacy. There are also bars high in skyscrapers, where, for a modest cash fee, one can receive a much higher invoice for tax or reimbursement purposes.

I suspect that William Gibson’s Night City was directly inspired by Kabukicho, as it also appears to be a barely lawful zone that keeps the rest of Tokyo orderly, safe, and child-friendly. It was also the only place in Tokyo I saw rats. For all that, its probably the most exciting place at night to see in Tokyo, and visually spectacular; on the first night I visited I wished I had a D-SLR and tripod with me, to do super-long exposures.

I know how you feel, random red-shirted guy.

If you, dear reader, are interested in this aspect of Japan, I suggest you watch this video, which does a more reporting-style take on the scene and other aspects of Tokyo.

Tipsy Tokyo

Drinkers are spoiled for choice in Tokyo, the drinking culture being well established before it ever became a tourist hotspot. My capsule hotel is a two-minute walk from the famous Golden Gai. Golden Gai is a small collection of alleyways, full of tiny bars, some seating no more than five people. Before being mentioned in every travel guide, BuzzFeed article, and blog post about Tokyo, locals flocked to it, often choosing their own favourite bar. Some functioned as private clubs, with entry only permitted for members. It was especially known as a haunt for writers, which, of course, helps my fascination.

Apparently I only took a single photo — Golden Gai

Many of the bars have their own themes and have become famous in their own right, such as Open Book, filled with bookshelves and noted for its excellent lemon sours, and Deathmatch in Hell, a heavy metal-themed bar. Due to the popularity of many of these famous bars, I only ended up drinking in Golden Gai once, at a place whose name I never quite caught, hosted by the vivacious Suki. I drank alone until a group of beautiful Dutch youths showed up. On asking for the bill and finding it less than I expected due to the absence of a cover charge (very common in Tokyo, and sometimes described unfairly as a scam), Suki asked if I could shout her a shot, and of course I could not let her drink alone, and thus I had my first Tequila since the exit of a certain South African from my life.

It was the logical thing to do. — To be fair, I was a little besotted by Suki.

I found my regular drinking hole a little further away from my hotel, past the touts of Kabukicko, the holographic cat, and past a common spot where buskers plied their trade.

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Omoide Yokocho, which translates to Memory Lane, is another collection of small alleyways, better known by its earlier nickname, the less salubrious Piss Alley. When the bars here were not entirely legal post-war, there were no bathroom facilities, and punters would simply relieve themselves on the nearby train tracks. Since then, the alley has been largely gentrified, with very nice toilets hidden in between the bars, but it’s still a lot of fun. The atmosphere is great, with the smoke from the cooking meat, the hanging lanterns, and fake tree decorations; it’s a great, if difficult, place to photograph.

Also, crowded — Apparently, I didn’t take a photo of the entrance.

As well as copious draft beer and sake, the main focus here is meat skewers, cooked on a grill on the bar. The first bar I entered here became my regular place, and I became a big fan of their minced chicken skewers.

meat on a stick and beer, what more could I want? Apart from female company, of course.

The staff were fantastic and attentive, and took a genuine interest in their customers. And were happy to pose for some photos for customers.

At least I was wearing a different shirt than in my Golden Gai photos — And hamming it up!

I drank there for half an hour on my last night before catching my flight onwards to Cairo, and I felt sad that I wouldn’t see these guys again. Hopefully, I’ll get back to Tokyo sometime soon, as I found it almost as addictive as Istanbul.

A Tourist in Tokyo

Perhaps because I had trouble navigating the public transport system, I never felt like I was massively successful in visiting Tokyo’s historical sites.

The Meiji Shrine is surrounded by vegetation with minimal undergrowth. The shrine is dedicated to the spirits of Emperor Meiji and his wife, the Empress Shoken, who are most famous for the Meiji Restoration. They were both transformed into gods after their death.

At the time of my visit, the shrine was hosting a festival to honour dolls, which are often considered to have their own spirits. I couldn’t help but think sadly of my old teddy bear, stored away at my parents’ house.

I should not be shocked that there is an association.

I was definitely missing much context, as I know little about Japanese history and little about Shintoism. But at least I didn’t have to pay for the privilege, something I should have appreciated more at the time. The original complex was, as much of Tokyo, destroyed during Allied raids in World War II. It was rebuilt from publicly raised funds.

Much of the outer features of the shrine were either closed or not readily accessible, and having hiked to the Treasure Room, and finding it closed, I ended up swapping the change in my pocket for an iced tea and some chocolate from a conveniently nearby bank of vending machines, and sat under a tree and read for an hour, which seemed to be a popular choice. I lingered longer than I intended, as a group close to me seemed to be getting ready for some kind of photoshoot, but it took too long to get started, and I moved on.

Making my way back through the shrine grounds, a Canadian lady who gave her name as Mary thought I looked put together enough to ask me for directions. I walked her back to the main building before leaving her to it and making my way back to the train station.

Asakusa Shrine I found to be more interesting, perhaps because it was positioned in one of the older parts of Tokyo.

Thunder Gate, yes, it was that busy everywhere. Is that a Willow Tree to the left?

Between the main gate and the main shrine building are hundreds of small shops, selling tourist tat, traditional foods, and handicrafts, including hand-made Buddhist scrolls. I was tempted by a katana letter opener, but it seemed like the kind of thing that Customs back home would have questions about.

The Treasure House Gate is two stories high, with the upper story containing many of the shrine’s treasures. The entire area was packed with people, and I struggled to gain any type of understanding.

Some women, tourists and Japanese alike, choose this place to have photoshoots in traditional kimonos, accompanied by professional photographers or lucky boyfriends. The Japanese women here put most of the Western women to shame, perfectly poised and made up in their multitudes, like ordinary angels, routine and mobile works of art.

Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to view Tokyo as a whole rather than a bunch of train stations with their surroundings, or perhaps it was some monkey-brain need to find the tallest thing around and claim everything I could see as my own.

Whatever my motivations, I found myself waiting in line for half an hour, passing through a rigorous, but entirely polite security check, and rode in an elevator for fifty-five floors to get to the Southern Observation Deck of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building. This proves that while close to a billion US dollars were spent building the skyscraper, they spent five minutes in a committee naming it before heading to an izakaya.

The view was impressive, and the gift shop was lovely. The cafe seemed delightful, but the price for a latte were as high as I was. This may be to compensate for the free entry to the observation deck, the Japanese being oddly principled and pragmatic in that way.

On my last day in Tokyo, I decided I should see the Imperial Palace. Unfortunately, I discovered that it was only open on seemingly random hour-and-a-half blocks, so I never ended up inside the walls. I did, however, take some nice photos in the nearby Hibiya Park, which had lakes, tennis courts, and scattered historical places of interest.

The Trouble with Tokyo

Tokyo is vast and filled to capacity with both locals and tourists. The small percentage that is not filled with skyscrapers are roads, historical sites, and small, underfunded parks- That last may be unfair, but the parks I visited were poorly maintained compared to my own fair city.

The size of Tokyo, unrestrained by geography, meant it was hard for me to get a proper understanding of its soul. Wherever I went, hordes of people were moving in every direction. Personal space is mostly academic here, as every shop, elevator ride, and street is jam-packed.

I was not the only person taking selfies at the famous Scramble Crossing that day.

Tokyo’s train stations, which 99% of locals and tourists will use multiple times a day, are a confusing mess, even to the Japanese. A single station will have multiple sections within it, functioning as separate stations in their own right. Google will send you to an entrance, and ten minutes later, you discover that you cannot get to the platform you need, and you have to exit the station, walk to another entrance, and try again. I barely ever sat down in a train in Tokyo, and often struggled to even walk through the corridors without colliding with people. Perhaps because of how extensive the public transport system is, or because of my own bloody-mindedness, I managed to not resort to Uber, but I did walk a great deal, resulting in sore feet, the purchase of a cheap pair of sneakers from an amused elderly man running a hole in the wall shop in Asakusa, and the abandoning of an expensive pair of well-worn hiking shoes that had survived my entire three month SE Asia trip.

I found the Japanese to be faultlessly polite, and often highly reserved unless alcohol is involved. Many people online have mentioned that Japan has a deeply conflict-avoidant mindset. Often, bad behaviour will be ignored, rather than have more attention drawn to the behaviour, Which may explain why serial pests like Johnny Somali managed to make so much content in Japan. In many ways, this leads to a harmonious society. I don’t think I heard a raised Japanese voice in the five days I was there. However, I suspect that the same conflict-avoidance prevents their society, both people and government, from addressing the homeless and disenfranchised youth.

On the Subtle Art of Washing your Testicles Amongst other Sets of Testicles

I have stayed in capsules (also known as pods, or coffins if one is feeling disparaging, or claustrophobic) in Singapore, Bangkok, Jerusalem, and Phnom Penh. But this is the first time I have stayed in a purpose-built capsule hotel. Japan, of course, is where this method of accommodation originated, with the idea that drunk salarymen who missed the last train home needed a cheap place to sleep, sober up, and start again in the morning. It’s the same thought process that leads convenience stores in Japan to sell underwear and socks. For budget travellers in a country known for being tough on even a generous travel budget, they are an ideal alternative to hostels, providing a place to sleep, attend to personal hygiene, and to have a tiny piece of privacy, which is in short supply in Tokyo.

By Chris 73 / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19656 Same model capsule as in my hotel.

Two things bugged me about this capsule hotel. The first being the fact that even with my multiple-night booking, I still had to vacate the hotel by 1100 every day, and my belongings evicted to a tiny locker or the luggage storage room on the top floor. The second was the public baths, which were the only option for bathing for men staying at this hotel.

You strip naked at your locker, and enter the main bathroom, where you sit at a plastic stool set in front of a set of taps and a wall-long mirror. Shower gel and shampoo are provided, and here is where you lather up your entire body, scrub, and then rinse off. Once you are clean enough, you are free to have a soak in one of the spa baths or use the sauna.

Now you are clean and relaxed, you sit at what amounts to bathroom sinks, and brush your teeth, do your hair, shave, etc.. Still, during all this, you are supposed to be completely naked. Once again, I was supplied with a hair dryer with no hair to dry. Once you are satisfied with your appearance, or at least manage to delude yourself that you are in fact highly attractive, you discard your towel and dress in the super sexy robes provided by the hotel, and lounge around for the rest of the night.

With every selfie, the eye bags get a little bigger.

The Japanese, of course, take all this nudity in their stride. It’s part of their culture, and I suspect they think no more about it than I do when getting changed at gyms. They don’t exactly strut around, but act as if its the most normal thing to be naked, which of course it would be if we didn’t get screwed over by a snake.

Numerous times in my five-night stay, I used this shared space every night, and every night I noticed a new resident walk in, look confused, look for the shower stalls they were expecting, before trying to look nonchalant and getting on with it. Most notably was a six foot six African gentleman, who had more muscle mass in his neck than I can claim all over, looking around bashfully, trying to wrap the towel around himself modestly (they seem to be made so you cannot quite do this) before getting on with it like everyone else. This was in constrast to the fact that he had nothing to be bashful about, having a body that most of us are envious of.

At first I was also awkward, but after the second night, I got used to it and enjoyed the process. Then it got routine, then tedious. By the last night, I was wishing I could just have a quick shower without getting involved in a ritual. I was also thinking that at some point I was going to get up arse up, slipping on the slippery tiles-Who thought that was a good idea? I’ll tell you one thing about bathing in company, it does wonders for your willingness to take your time washing everywhere when you are surrounded by men doing the same.

A Coffee Tour of Tokyo

Having managed to escape the airport and get the Limo Bus to Shinjuku, I promptly got lost and ended up in the heart of Kabukicho, which at least let me take a photo of one of the prominent landmarks.

I was very glad I knew about this, and was entirely sober.

Once I got myself geographically sorted, I arrived at my capsule hotel. Predictably, they were in the process of kicking people out rather than letting people in, so I dumped my bag with the big pile of other luggage at reception. I had barely slept on the plane, and my central nervous system was making unreasonable demands for sleep, intimacy, and stimulants. Only one of those things was practical and readily available for purchase. It was time for coffee, and what better way to start getting my head around the place than a coffee tour?

Lawsons, Shinjuku.

My first caffeine hit needed to be convenient, immediate, and no-nonsense. I managed to find a Lawsons just around the corner from the hotel. It tasted like you would expect coffee in a can to taste, overly sweet, a little metallic, but had the intended effect. Mostly, I choose it because Suntory makes some excellent whiskey. While I was there, I also managed to withdraw some cash from their ATM. 6\10, iced coffee might be the only thing Australia does better than Japan.

Tomato Cafe, Shinjuku

A short walk from my hotel towards Kabukicho, this place reminded me of Dome back home, only with Italian pretensions. The place was showing a lot of wear and tear, but the cappuccino was quite decent, and by now I was feeling human enough to read my Kindle. 7\10, loses points for the chipped furniture.

Maid Dreamin, Shinjuku

I should stop being in selfies with people cuter than me.

Maid Cafes are common, with various franchisees and concepts, Maid Dreamin being a more generic form as far as I can tell. For a considerable sum, I enjoyed a fairly bland coffee, which featured a magical incantation, and from a distance (courtesy of a group of Americans) a dance performance. I felt ludicrous, but did enjoy the attention, specifically non-sexual, as it was supposed to be from my maid. While I am certainly not immune to kawaii, the whole experience was a little too close to some boundaries I have. 7\10, a fun but one-time-only thing.

Warhammer Cafe, Akihabara

I am a big Warhammer 40K nerd, I read a lot of the books but don’t play the game, as soon as I discovered they had this in Tokyo, I knew I had to have a look. The cafe was really just a counter, and I had to take a seat at a bench set up for painting miniatures, and it did take quite a long time to get my latte. While I waited, the manager sat next to me and had a chat, mostly about the hobby and maid cafes, which he informed me about a cyberpunk-themed maid cafe around the corner, which sounded interesting, but I never ended up visiting. I enjoyed some people watching, noting with interest that quite a few couples were walking in and having a look around- proving that indeed some 40K fans have known the touch of a woman. But after a quick look at the displays, there was nothing to keep me here, and I departed. 6/10, would not go out of my way to have coffee here again.

Glitch Coffee, Ginza

“Staff will wear black, customers white, no exceptions”

Down a side road just off from the main shopping area, my Google searches often resulted in mentioning this place as the best coffee in Tokyo. I had to line up for half an hour outside the shop. At first, I enjoyed the wait, listening to the Russian spoken by the couple in line in front of me, and trying to start a conversation with a Japanese man wearing a vintage Nick Cave shirt walking past with his friends. This turned to frustration when it became obvious that the Russian couple gave every indication that this was their first outing without supervision, having a lengthy and ultimately one-sided argument with the staff about their payment policy ( I thought everyone knew by now that having both card and cash is always a good idea when travelling?). Then I was allowed in and able to sniff some beans before ordering. I ordered a short machhiato and selected Catubba Bourbon beans from Colombia. Rather than be seated near the Russians, I sat at the bar and within a few minutes had my drink in front of me.

The average person has between two thousand and ten thousand tastebuds, I now know I have six thousand, six hundred and three. Each tastebud in my mouth started singing Accidentally Kelly Street by Frente! as soon as the crema hit them. When I finished my coffee, they started sulking, knowing that they would never be so happy again. I didn’t linger after my drink and headed back to the train station. When I checked my banking app I realised that while that drink was pricy, it was still cheaper than what I paid for Maid Dreamin, so I felt further justified in going out of my way for this experience.

Home/Post Mortem

When the plane turned inland, and I saw amongst the green vegetation the bright orange of the Western Australian Christmas Trees, I sighed contentedly. I was home.

I spent the first week home getting my unit into some semblance of order. Oddly, three weeks in Hong Kong had left me paradoxically agoraphobic. Luckily I had plenty of things to do in my unit to deal with until this abated. Was I even the same person who called his girlfriend that he thought the skyscrapers were stalking him?

For the most part, things in Albany were the same. But I was different. Two tattoos, a long-distance girlfriend. A few personality traits adjusted, maybe for the better. Perhaps I was suffering from premature enlightenment, but I tried to hold on to some self-improvement regardless.

It’s a common traveller’s conceit that travel changes a person. I am certainly guilty of that as well. Keep your home tidy. Go to the gym every day. Make your lunch every day for work. Cut up your credit card and pay all your bills on time. It’s easy to promise these things to yourself while sipping a beer in Cambodia.

Written in the Field Notes notebook that went with me everywhere.

I gained strength to work on my goals due to the enticement at the end of that list- To see Arum again.

For better or worse, before I could work on that last item my relationship with Arum disintegrated. It was not just the relationship that ended, It was the last aspect of my life that had turned it from good to amazing. I found this to be devastating for the first few weeks, but help from friends, family, hindsight, and Prozac got me back to normal. Now Hong Kong is not an option for my next trip; chances are I will never return there. Too many ghosts. Maybe South America. Maybe China or India. Maybe i’ll wait until I have someone to share the road with, sunsets and potholes.

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Hong Kong and Hot Pot

Something I didn’t pay much attention to on my previous visits to Hong Kong, is the constant noise of the city. Trains moving underground, traffic backed up, the footfalls of a million pairs of feet in a desperate need to be somewhere else. Late at night, when the MTR stops, the traffic abates, and most people are safely in their homes, you can hear the city snoring, as if anything approaching silence is an anathema to the spirit of the city.

The flag of Hong Kong should be a middle-aged man, screaming into a mobile phone

I usually barely wake up when Arum gets up and ready for work. I have no job here, no obligations, nowhere to be. I sleep late, get up, shower, shave and dress, and leave the flat and not return until Arum has finished work. Without her, the flat is a cold, empty place.

The national symbol of Hong Kong should be a Rolex shop, one of three on the same city block, entirely absent of clients.

Word on the street is that due to the interchange of four MTR lines, Admiralty Station is insanely busy and chaotic. Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, I visited at 1645, and found it to be tame and uninteresting. For me, the TST/East TST is far busier and interesting, with the contrast of people moving to and from Chungking and Mirador mansions, and the upscale K11 Art Mall. I stood still for two minutes, the ultimate sin, listening to Apparet’s Goodbye , just letting the tide of humanity move around me.

Hong Kong is full of 7.4 million people who don’t know their left from their right, or know, and don’t care.

The bar is smoky, it’s dimly lit, and that’s doing more for me than the waitress, in the beer-girl dress I have seldom seen outside of Vietnam. Of course, I could not remember what brand of beer the dress was advertising, but I do remember the row of perfect roses tattooed on one perfect leg.

Hong Kong only dreams on a feather bed of late-stage capitalism.

With Arum, I attend two meetings of the Peel Street Poetry Club, high above a street side restaurant in Central. Usually poetry does not appeal to me much, but I find this gritty, raw variety more compelling. On the second meeting Arum reads a poem of her own, to much acclaim, both of the poem and her recital. Now she is one of them, while I am still an outsider, but some of that belonging does rub off on me, as a poet-consort, like Arum’s glitter on my shirt.

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Back to Bangkok

Bangkok at least felt familiar ground after Pattaya. I booked a capsule-style hostel closer to Khao San Road this time. The staff did not look like they were on day release from the nearest prison, and my fellow guests were more social than myself, and didn’t seem to be sizing up my organs for a quick sale on the black market.

On my first night I ended up on Khao San Road, drinking and watching the constant stream of tourists, taxis, and touts. The second night was Halloween, and the Thais never miss an opportunity to party, and to get tourists to party and spend their money.

One of the ladies working at the hostel made an excellent Wednesday

I promised our Wednesday that I would show up for the hostel’s rooftop party. I dutifully showed up, chatted to a few people, but declined Beer-pong. My heart was not really in it, and I slipped away.

Later I was drinking alone on Khao San Road, and things were in full swing, with both locals and Thais dressing up. Also there was a stage set up and some kind of presentation and awards, but I could not understand the broken English.

This would have been scarier if I was partaking in magic mushrooms.

On my last day in Bangkok, I took a walk to Wat Saket, ie the Golden Mount- An ancient temple based on and around Bangkok’s only hill, which is as good a reason as any to build a temple. I walked around the winding path up the hill, which gives some incredible views of the cityscape.

At the summit, there is a golden stupa, which I found fiendishly difficult to photograph.

As with most Buddhist sites, you can pay to make merit, here by buying sheets of gold leaf that you could write prayers on, and attach nearby. If I had some more money I would have considered doing the same, but in any case, I could not think of a decent prayer.

I made my way down, admiring the view, and the lotus flowers.

Continuing down, I observed a sign for Buddha’s Footprint and the Vultures of Wat Saket, which I followed. The building housing the Buddha’s footprint was unremarkable and unguarded, but the vultures proved more interesting to me.

Between 1820 and 1840, a Cholera outbreak occurred in Bangkok, and the crematorium at the wat could not keep up with the flood of bodies, leading to further outbreaks of disease, and attracted many vultures to the wat. At some point, the statues were displayed, a grim reminder of this grisly aspect of the past.

It was time to leave Bangkok. It had become impossible for me to sit down and enjoy a beer without being asked to pay up half way through, or have staff try to hurry me away, as if there was not dozens of empty tables. In addition, I had a date in Hong Kong with a South African and pancakes.

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