Dozens, if not hundreds of people have received this message from me. In this case, I am about 15 days late with a blog update. But who cares---after all, there are more important things in life than to follow my travel blog. Enjoy!
In the next postings, I plan to introduce my Sydney neighborhood (Marrickville), my workplace (the Australian Guggenheim), the magnificent Royal National Park, just south of Sydney, and to tell about my trip to the Red Centre.
Monday, March 20, 2017
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Weekend Excursion (2): Broken Bay and the Hawkesbury River Estuary
On Sunday, the weather is even better than on Saturday, and I manage to get up early (7 am). For me, this is a real sacrifice, but I want to spend the day at the Ku-Rin-Gai Chase and Brisbane Waters National Parks, which are some 50 km up the coast from Sydney, to the North and South of the Hawkesbury river estuary.
I do not want to bore you with long descriptions of what I did when, and I will just post some pictures from the trip. Basically, I took the bus up to Palm Beach (the poshiest of the posh Sydney sururbs) did a 4h ferry cruise on Broken Bay and the Hawkesbury river, and a light afternoon bushwalk from Patonga to Umina Beach. With incredible views of the river estuary and Broken Bay.
Pretty much paradise. At least with good weather.
Checking in at the Ocean Beach Hotel---not a posh resort, but a pub and gambling center with rooms on the second floor---proves to be challenging. My credit card is in Sydney (after all, the payment was pre-authorized via a booking website) and they demand a 200 AUD cash deposit which I obviously do not carry. At some point, I consider canceling my booking and returning to Sydney. But in the end, I find an ATM and everything works out.
"I should get something in return", I tell the staff, who was friendly all the time, but deferred to company policy. "A free coke or so." The response is given with an open smile and utterly baffling after the previous hazzles.
"Do you drink beer?"
"Yes..."
"Let me fix you a couple of drinks."
"One is enough, thank you."
"Do you also drink spirits?"
"..."
Probably I could have emptied the entire bar. But since I already had a glass of white wine at a pit stop in the afternoon, just before the bushwalk, I leave it with a large draft beer. Fortunately, there is no company policy on free drinks for tired guests. May this remain so.
I do not want to bore you with long descriptions of what I did when, and I will just post some pictures from the trip. Basically, I took the bus up to Palm Beach (the poshiest of the posh Sydney sururbs) did a 4h ferry cruise on Broken Bay and the Hawkesbury river, and a light afternoon bushwalk from Patonga to Umina Beach. With incredible views of the river estuary and Broken Bay.
Pretty much paradise. At least with good weather.
Below are the pictures from the bushwalk described above. It winds upwards through light forest, with several magnificient lookouts on the river estuary. Then, it descends to a beautiful sandy beach with an ocean pool (Pearl Beach). In the forest behind it, rich Sydneysiders have bought their holiday home, presumably before the real estate rush. Now, these places cannot even be bought for money. From there, I conclude the walk by walking along the trips to Umina Beach, where the evening light throws a glorious golden shade over sand and water alike.
Checking in at the Ocean Beach Hotel---not a posh resort, but a pub and gambling center with rooms on the second floor---proves to be challenging. My credit card is in Sydney (after all, the payment was pre-authorized via a booking website) and they demand a 200 AUD cash deposit which I obviously do not carry. At some point, I consider canceling my booking and returning to Sydney. But in the end, I find an ATM and everything works out.
"I should get something in return", I tell the staff, who was friendly all the time, but deferred to company policy. "A free coke or so." The response is given with an open smile and utterly baffling after the previous hazzles.
"Do you drink beer?"
"Yes..."
"Let me fix you a couple of drinks."
"One is enough, thank you."
"Do you also drink spirits?"
"..."
Probably I could have emptied the entire bar. But since I already had a glass of white wine at a pit stop in the afternoon, just before the bushwalk, I leave it with a large draft beer. Fortunately, there is no company policy on free drinks for tired guests. May this remain so.
Weekend Excursion (1): The Eastern Beaches
This Saturday, the sun was shining radiantly after a week of Dutch april weather (read: some clouds, more wind, lots of unpredictable rain, and not so much sun). I decided that this was a good moment to explore the Eastern beaches and to walk from Bondi Beach along the cliffs down to Corgee beach. Here are my impressions.
Bondi Beach is the biggest of all Sydney beaches. It is situated in a beautiful bay which is spoilt by drunken backpackers and people with too many tattoos, too many muscles, and a deeply proletarian take on life. And I don't mean the surfers: they are serious in what they are doing and have my respect. "Was wäre Wien schön ohne Wiener", Georg Kreisler once sung. Yes, this is also true of the most iconic Sydney Beach.
After walking along the cliffs, the next beach, some 2 km further, is Tamarama Beach. Small and secluded, it has a much nicer atmosphere. And impressive 2 vs. 2 footvolley action on a regular beach volleyball field. More than amazing what these guys (and one girl) do with their heads, breasts, and feet. A nice place to rest.
Then, one arrives at Bronte Beach, which is again one of the major bays. But it is much nicer than Bondi. There is a green park in the middle of the bay, with real trees, and at the southern end, there is one of the many Sydney ocean pools. A small saltwater swimming pool where you can swim when currents and wind make it impossible to swim in the sea. It is big fun. You get a fair share of the waves and they fizz on the surface like champagne bubbles. People scream like in Rocco Siffredi movies. And it's free.
Finally, you pass by the Waverley graveyard, which is directly on top of the coast, and make it down to Corgee Beach. And there, it is time for fries and a beer. Cheers!
Bondi Beach is the biggest of all Sydney beaches. It is situated in a beautiful bay which is spoilt by drunken backpackers and people with too many tattoos, too many muscles, and a deeply proletarian take on life. And I don't mean the surfers: they are serious in what they are doing and have my respect. "Was wäre Wien schön ohne Wiener", Georg Kreisler once sung. Yes, this is also true of the most iconic Sydney Beach.
After walking along the cliffs, the next beach, some 2 km further, is Tamarama Beach. Small and secluded, it has a much nicer atmosphere. And impressive 2 vs. 2 footvolley action on a regular beach volleyball field. More than amazing what these guys (and one girl) do with their heads, breasts, and feet. A nice place to rest.
Then, one arrives at Bronte Beach, which is again one of the major bays. But it is much nicer than Bondi. There is a green park in the middle of the bay, with real trees, and at the southern end, there is one of the many Sydney ocean pools. A small saltwater swimming pool where you can swim when currents and wind make it impossible to swim in the sea. It is big fun. You get a fair share of the waves and they fizz on the surface like champagne bubbles. People scream like in Rocco Siffredi movies. And it's free.
Finally, you pass by the Waverley graveyard, which is directly on top of the coast, and make it down to Corgee Beach. And there, it is time for fries and a beer. Cheers!
The Art of Surviving
I have been silent for quite some time. Two weeks full of conferencing, teaching and a weekend of canyoning. This latter experience proved to be quite strenous and above all, nerve-wrecking.
It was a post-conference weekend in the blue mountains with some 10-15 people, organized by the Distinguished Professor Paul Griffiths, my host at the University of Sydney. Paul is not only a terrific philosopher of biology, but also an enthusiastic sportsman who likes bushwalking, climbing, canyoning/abseiling, surfing, and all the other outdoor stuff. Some weeks before, Paul suggested that I join him for canyoning. One of his first emails regarding the weekend read as follows:
They didn't make this up.
Still, I thought that it would not be very manly to chicken out at this point. So I got up on Saturday morning at 6:15 in my tent at Newnes in the Blue Mountains. A pleasant environment in a valley where they used to do extract shale oil before it got too expensive. This was in the 1910s and -20s, by the way.
We walked up the ridge and did the safety drill on a gorgeous lookout point with some rocks. If you have never done abseiling before, it feels quite strange to trust your life to a rope and a single metal carabiner. Also, my moves at the beginner's rock were far from convincing. My trip mates, however, were not only experienced canyoners, but also seasoned liars. "Great, Jan!" "Like a pro!" Well, you do need confidence for abseiling, if not much else.
We walked down on the ridge and worked our way through the scrubs into the canyon (entrance on the picture below). My nose spectacularly hit the ground when I leaned on a dead tree while moving downwards. Ouch. At this point I felt that I should perhaps just walk back and just realize that I was not made for extreme challenges. But then, we were at the top of the gorge and it was too late to turn back. On the wetsuit, the harness, and the helmet.
And then the first abseil of your life is 25 meters down into a dark waterhole that you can't even see.
(Not my picture, of course, but that's the spot.)
I did better than expected. The worst moment is when you are attached to the rope and you have to lean into it, to trust it. Once you are descending without doing something stupid, things work pretty much automatically and I could actually apply the techniques I had learned before. And the canyon itself was, of course, amazing---a deep gorge, 1-2 meters broad with 20-30 m high walls. Or even more. I did not make photos, but more than enough impressive images can be found here. I have copied one of them into the blog.
I also learned that the length of an abseil is not always a good predictor for its difficulty. The next one was shorter (15 meters), but everything was wet and I slipped while moving down the edge where the rope was anchored. I fell with my bums on the rock and was pretty uncoordinated. For a split second, I saw the horror in Paul's eyes. "Don't you ever let go of that rope!!!" Then, I slowly got on my feet and started descending again. I made it to the bottom, albeit in a somewhat clumsy way.
More dangerous than the abseiling were actually some rock scrambling passages in the canyon. If you blow it there, then you do not fall 20m into a deep constriction, but you will definitely break some bones and earn a helicopter ride. Thanks to the excellent advice and assistance from my teammates, this was not necessary. And I was not unhappy that time forbade us to do a third and fourth abseil. Down a slippery waterfall, with double belay and other stuff that sounded intimidating. At least to a novice like me.
It was quite a walk back along the river, but we were back in time for dinner. Self-made pizza from the wood oven. And on the next day, when we were driving back, we stopped at the Pierce's Pass lookout. I had survived the canyoning trip, and now it actually started to feel like holiday.
It was a post-conference weekend in the blue mountains with some 10-15 people, organized by the Distinguished Professor Paul Griffiths, my host at the University of Sydney. Paul is not only a terrific philosopher of biology, but also an enthusiastic sportsman who likes bushwalking, climbing, canyoning/abseiling, surfing, and all the other outdoor stuff. Some weeks before, Paul suggested that I join him for canyoning. One of his first emails regarding the weekend read as follows:
This scared the hell out of me, but Paul was quick to calm me down. "You will be fine." When I asked his colleagues, and they started laughing. "ABC almost died on one of Paul's bushwalks. DEF bruised her ribs, GHI sprained his ankle, ...The helicopter had to come a couple of times.""Elena and I want to do Devil’s Pinch canyon on Saturday. Jan and Brett have expressed an interest in joining us. I can take a couple more people, but this is not something to be taken lightly. It takes all day and begins with a steep, 400m ascent to the top of the cliffs followed by descending a deep, narrow slot in the cliffs using ropes and swimming through pools which are pretty cold even in summer, as they never see the sun. The longest abseil is 26m into a dark slot where you can’t see the bottom!"
They didn't make this up.
Still, I thought that it would not be very manly to chicken out at this point. So I got up on Saturday morning at 6:15 in my tent at Newnes in the Blue Mountains. A pleasant environment in a valley where they used to do extract shale oil before it got too expensive. This was in the 1910s and -20s, by the way.
We walked up the ridge and did the safety drill on a gorgeous lookout point with some rocks. If you have never done abseiling before, it feels quite strange to trust your life to a rope and a single metal carabiner. Also, my moves at the beginner's rock were far from convincing. My trip mates, however, were not only experienced canyoners, but also seasoned liars. "Great, Jan!" "Like a pro!" Well, you do need confidence for abseiling, if not much else.
We walked down on the ridge and worked our way through the scrubs into the canyon (entrance on the picture below). My nose spectacularly hit the ground when I leaned on a dead tree while moving downwards. Ouch. At this point I felt that I should perhaps just walk back and just realize that I was not made for extreme challenges. But then, we were at the top of the gorge and it was too late to turn back. On the wetsuit, the harness, and the helmet.
And then the first abseil of your life is 25 meters down into a dark waterhole that you can't even see.
(Not my picture, of course, but that's the spot.)
I did better than expected. The worst moment is when you are attached to the rope and you have to lean into it, to trust it. Once you are descending without doing something stupid, things work pretty much automatically and I could actually apply the techniques I had learned before. And the canyon itself was, of course, amazing---a deep gorge, 1-2 meters broad with 20-30 m high walls. Or even more. I did not make photos, but more than enough impressive images can be found here. I have copied one of them into the blog.
I also learned that the length of an abseil is not always a good predictor for its difficulty. The next one was shorter (15 meters), but everything was wet and I slipped while moving down the edge where the rope was anchored. I fell with my bums on the rock and was pretty uncoordinated. For a split second, I saw the horror in Paul's eyes. "Don't you ever let go of that rope!!!" Then, I slowly got on my feet and started descending again. I made it to the bottom, albeit in a somewhat clumsy way.
More dangerous than the abseiling were actually some rock scrambling passages in the canyon. If you blow it there, then you do not fall 20m into a deep constriction, but you will definitely break some bones and earn a helicopter ride. Thanks to the excellent advice and assistance from my teammates, this was not necessary. And I was not unhappy that time forbade us to do a third and fourth abseil. Down a slippery waterfall, with double belay and other stuff that sounded intimidating. At least to a novice like me.
It was quite a walk back along the river, but we were back in time for dinner. Self-made pizza from the wood oven. And on the next day, when we were driving back, we stopped at the Pierce's Pass lookout. I had survived the canyoning trip, and now it actually started to feel like holiday.
Friday, February 24, 2017
Shit is happening
The weather on Sunday is as friendly as on Saturday, and I go for another outdoor excursion. Combining a metro and bus ride, I end up, together with lots of Hong Kongers, at the beginning of a walking trail which is as busy as a shopping mall at the rush hour. Yes, Hong Kong has lots of unspoilt and beautiful nature, but when millions of locals are getting out of their homes in the weekend, even those places get a distinctively urban flair.
Speeding up my pace, I manage to escape the main crowd and soon, I am on the top of Dragon's Back, in the Southeastern corner of Hong Kong Island, close to Shek O. The views over the coast and the sea are amazing. If it were not for the skyrocketing apartment buildings here and there, I would believe myself at a pristine, peaceful island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
Also, you will now understand why this post has such a strange title. You may have to zoom in.
I continue my walk via an easy track on the hills and make it soon back to the bus and the city. I plan to travel back with the tram instead of the metro, but it gets stuck in the abominable traffic. When I notice, after one hour on the tram, that I have not yet made significant progress versus the center, I leave it and change to the MTR. Ten minutes later, I am within walking distance of my hotel.
Foodwise, I stick to the sea and enjoy some Taiwanese street food in the suburbs (fried dumplings, delicious) before I meet some fellow philosophers for drinks dinner. Mariangela, a PhD student at HKU whom I have met in Groningen in summer, is in charge. We meet down in Central and take the famous Central--Mid-Levels escalators to an expat bar with happy hour. This quirky form of transport---an 800m long sequence of escalators between the CBD and the nightlife area---avoids zigzagging roads and shortens travel time considerably. You may describe it as Hong Kong's response to the elevator system that links hills and valleys in Lisbon.
While Aberdeen and Ap Lai Chau yesterday felt like mainland China, the streets and bars in our destination neighborhood are mainly populated with tourists and Westerners who live in Hong Kong. Also, there are no traditional Chinese places, but lots of hip bars and cafés.
Later on, we have a dim sum dinner at a Michelin-star decorated restaurant in Causeway Bay, a bit east of the center. The food is excellent---the refined version of the popular food that I had on the first day, with diligent and balanced use of spices. Moreover, the bill is not as huge as I feared. Probably it helps that we stick to tradition and drink tea instead of alcoholic drinks.
This night, I don't make it late. 1. FC Köln have their three points and do not play. Also, the next day, I have to give a talk and to conduct an experiment at Lingnan University. The time of leisurely explorations is over, the real work begins.
Speeding up my pace, I manage to escape the main crowd and soon, I am on the top of Dragon's Back, in the Southeastern corner of Hong Kong Island, close to Shek O. The views over the coast and the sea are amazing. If it were not for the skyrocketing apartment buildings here and there, I would believe myself at a pristine, peaceful island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
Also, you will now understand why this post has such a strange title. You may have to zoom in.
I continue my walk via an easy track on the hills and make it soon back to the bus and the city. I plan to travel back with the tram instead of the metro, but it gets stuck in the abominable traffic. When I notice, after one hour on the tram, that I have not yet made significant progress versus the center, I leave it and change to the MTR. Ten minutes later, I am within walking distance of my hotel.
Foodwise, I stick to the sea and enjoy some Taiwanese street food in the suburbs (fried dumplings, delicious) before I meet some fellow philosophers for drinks dinner. Mariangela, a PhD student at HKU whom I have met in Groningen in summer, is in charge. We meet down in Central and take the famous Central--Mid-Levels escalators to an expat bar with happy hour. This quirky form of transport---an 800m long sequence of escalators between the CBD and the nightlife area---avoids zigzagging roads and shortens travel time considerably. You may describe it as Hong Kong's response to the elevator system that links hills and valleys in Lisbon.
While Aberdeen and Ap Lai Chau yesterday felt like mainland China, the streets and bars in our destination neighborhood are mainly populated with tourists and Westerners who live in Hong Kong. Also, there are no traditional Chinese places, but lots of hip bars and cafés.
Later on, we have a dim sum dinner at a Michelin-star decorated restaurant in Causeway Bay, a bit east of the center. The food is excellent---the refined version of the popular food that I had on the first day, with diligent and balanced use of spices. Moreover, the bill is not as huge as I feared. Probably it helps that we stick to tradition and drink tea instead of alcoholic drinks.
This night, I don't make it late. 1. FC Köln have their three points and do not play. Also, the next day, I have to give a talk and to conduct an experiment at Lingnan University. The time of leisurely explorations is over, the real work begins.
In Australia (Intermezzo)
Philosophers and logicians like to joke about the truth conditions
of sentences of the form "In Australia, ...".
Famous examples include:
I would like to add an example of my own: In Australia, bars are open from 4:00 to 16:00.
Spotted five minutes away from my place in Marrickville. The cafe/bar is next to a 24/7 fitness studio. I have been told that the average sporty Australian gets up at some point between 5:00 and 6:00 (=in the middle of the night), does his running, surfing, weightlifting or whatever, takes a shower and then heads on to work. Where he leaves at 17:00 at the latest in order to have drinks at a hotel (the traditional Australian word for a pub) until the sun sets. This has a very important social function. I have even spotted a fully dressed bridal pair in such a pub. In the weekend, drinks start earlier, of course, and can take up the entire afternoon.
Then, around 19:00, it is time for dinner. By 21:00, restaurants and bars get empty and the cleaning brigades start to do their work, by 22:00, the liquor store is closed, and by 23:00, you cannot even get a fucking French fries.
For years, I have been complaining about the Dutch office and meal hours, but I am ready to offer my apologies. These Australians make them look like bloody novices.
I have started with an intellectual joke about Australia, and so I will conclude this posting with a flat one. Just because I genuinely like it. "Which music do Kangaroos listen to?" --- "Hip Hop."
Famous examples include:
- In Australia, the most dangerous animals live in the water (e.g., crocodiles, sharks, and above all jellyfish).
- In Australia, the Sun stands in the North at noon.
- In Australia, low pressure systems spin clockwise.
I would like to add an example of my own: In Australia, bars are open from 4:00 to 16:00.
Spotted five minutes away from my place in Marrickville. The cafe/bar is next to a 24/7 fitness studio. I have been told that the average sporty Australian gets up at some point between 5:00 and 6:00 (=in the middle of the night), does his running, surfing, weightlifting or whatever, takes a shower and then heads on to work. Where he leaves at 17:00 at the latest in order to have drinks at a hotel (the traditional Australian word for a pub) until the sun sets. This has a very important social function. I have even spotted a fully dressed bridal pair in such a pub. In the weekend, drinks start earlier, of course, and can take up the entire afternoon.
Then, around 19:00, it is time for dinner. By 21:00, restaurants and bars get empty and the cleaning brigades start to do their work, by 22:00, the liquor store is closed, and by 23:00, you cannot even get a fucking French fries.
For years, I have been complaining about the Dutch office and meal hours, but I am ready to offer my apologies. These Australians make them look like bloody novices.
I have started with an intellectual joke about Australia, and so I will conclude this posting with a flat one. Just because I genuinely like it. "Which music do Kangaroos listen to?" --- "Hip Hop."
Monday, February 20, 2017
Climbing the Peak
I fall nearly dead into my bed and do not set the alarm clock. When I wake up, it is almost 11 o'clock in the morning. A blue sky is smiling into my hotel room. I realize that I should use this opportunity, get dressed and leave. The plan is to climb the Victoria Peak, 550 meters above sea level, and to enjoy the view over Hong Kong Island.
The first couple of roads, however, keep me caught in the urban jungle of Hong Kong where hyper-modern capitalist structures seamlessly give way to lowly built, slightly run-down dwellings, and vice versa.
Then I work my way upwards into the Mid-Levels, a mainly residential area populated by the happy few. On the way, I spot a tiny coffee bar, Kosyli Bakery, that looks as if they took their business seriously. And indeed, the espresso is more than decent. Actually, it is delicious. Italy first, but Hong Kong second. (Sorry, Croatia. I will reverse my judgment when I am back to your beaches.) Upon request, I learn that they blend Vietnam-grown Arabica beans with local Hong Kong beans. Never thought that you could grow coffee beans so far North, but apparently, you can.
After this delightful intermezzo, I follow roads which climb the mountain in serpentines, squeezed between huge residential buildings with names as tasteful as "Venice" and "Santa Lucia". But at least, the views get seriously nice. I am asking myself, however, how you can have kids in this area. There are enough green areas, but due to the hilly topography, there is no single place where they could play football or other games. If you live here, you are pretty much confined to your laptop and your smartphone.
I have mentioned in an earlier post that the future beginning here, in East Asia. This also benefits the traveller. My hotel has furnished me with a hypermodern gadget: a smartphone with all kinds of extra abilities. Fortunately, good old Google Maps is also installed---a feature that saves me a couple of times as I lose orientation in an illogical network of streets.
Finally, I am on the real walking track in the green, where the locals promenade their dogs, and Saturday morning tourists like me walk up the hill. Soon, I am at the summit, at the former Governor's lodge, and I enjoy the view of the Southern end of Hong Kong Island, and the outlying islands. It has become a bit cloudy, but it is still very enjoyable up here.
A fifteen minutes walk further is the mountain station of the tram that links the peak to the central district. The contrast could not be bigger. While the Governor's gardens were peaceful and quiet, they have built huge shopping malls with restaurants on this part of the peak. A terrible architectonical sin, but not without some perverse fascination.
I descend at the Southern side of the peak in order to avoid the crowds. I pass by a water reserve and end up in the village of Pok Fu Lam.
When I use the word "village", it is anything between 50,000 and 250,000 inhabitants. You never know. Even Wikipedia doesn't, in this particular case. I take the bus and leave in Aberdeen, the adjacent "village" and a traditional fishing port.
Here, I have to praise the Lonely Planet series. Often, it contains lots of suggestions that are tailored for the average 20- or 25-year-old backpacker, who is stingy, wanna-be-hipster and wants to get laid. When you follow the LP recommendations for accommodation and food, you often end up in places frequented by that kind of person. This annoying feature should not deceive you into believing that the Lonely Planet is useless. By contrast, it really contains some awesome suggestions which you are unlikely to find in vanilla guidebooks. In this particular case, the LP suggests to take the ferry to the nearby island of Ap Lai Chau (English: "duck tongue"), to walk into the fish market, to buy a fish you like, to watch it being killed by the fishmonger and to take it to the second floor, where various foodstalls will prepare it for you. I follow these instructions meticulously, and the steamed sai-lon (whatever this is) is gorgeous. A whole steamed fish, with some broth and spices (here: lemon grass, ginger) and a bowl of rice. What do you want more? My Chinese table companions tell me that this way of preparing fish is getting less popular these days. Indeed, everybody around me has soups with fish and meat balls in it. Certainly tasty, but what a shame.
I feel like at the end of the world, but fortunately, there is the MTR. A huge, hyper-efficient subterranean transport network with the train stations where atheletes can train for their next 200m run. It takes you from Ap Lai Chau to the Admiralty in Central Hong Kong in just three stops, thanks to a huge tunnel under the peak. In no time I have made it back to the center. I am charmed.
(Finding a station that is so empty was only possible in the New Territories and off peak hours. Usually, it is crowded.)
The day closes quietly. I prepare everything for a Bundesliga night with the legendary ARD radio conference and only leave my hotel for getting a quick bite. Anthony Modeste's penalty goal ten minutes before the end gives the lead to my club, the 1. FC Köln.
The final minutes of the conference are turbulent and wreck my nerves. "Goooooaaaaaalll ...in Berlin!" "Goooaaaalll... in Hoffenheim!" "Gooooaaall in Mönchengladbach!" But Cologne defends the tenuous 1-0 lead in a tense struggle. Three points in the pocket. What a wonderful day.
The first couple of roads, however, keep me caught in the urban jungle of Hong Kong where hyper-modern capitalist structures seamlessly give way to lowly built, slightly run-down dwellings, and vice versa.
Then I work my way upwards into the Mid-Levels, a mainly residential area populated by the happy few. On the way, I spot a tiny coffee bar, Kosyli Bakery, that looks as if they took their business seriously. And indeed, the espresso is more than decent. Actually, it is delicious. Italy first, but Hong Kong second. (Sorry, Croatia. I will reverse my judgment when I am back to your beaches.) Upon request, I learn that they blend Vietnam-grown Arabica beans with local Hong Kong beans. Never thought that you could grow coffee beans so far North, but apparently, you can.
After this delightful intermezzo, I follow roads which climb the mountain in serpentines, squeezed between huge residential buildings with names as tasteful as "Venice" and "Santa Lucia". But at least, the views get seriously nice. I am asking myself, however, how you can have kids in this area. There are enough green areas, but due to the hilly topography, there is no single place where they could play football or other games. If you live here, you are pretty much confined to your laptop and your smartphone.
I have mentioned in an earlier post that the future beginning here, in East Asia. This also benefits the traveller. My hotel has furnished me with a hypermodern gadget: a smartphone with all kinds of extra abilities. Fortunately, good old Google Maps is also installed---a feature that saves me a couple of times as I lose orientation in an illogical network of streets.
Finally, I am on the real walking track in the green, where the locals promenade their dogs, and Saturday morning tourists like me walk up the hill. Soon, I am at the summit, at the former Governor's lodge, and I enjoy the view of the Southern end of Hong Kong Island, and the outlying islands. It has become a bit cloudy, but it is still very enjoyable up here.
A fifteen minutes walk further is the mountain station of the tram that links the peak to the central district. The contrast could not be bigger. While the Governor's gardens were peaceful and quiet, they have built huge shopping malls with restaurants on this part of the peak. A terrible architectonical sin, but not without some perverse fascination.
I descend at the Southern side of the peak in order to avoid the crowds. I pass by a water reserve and end up in the village of Pok Fu Lam.
When I use the word "village", it is anything between 50,000 and 250,000 inhabitants. You never know. Even Wikipedia doesn't, in this particular case. I take the bus and leave in Aberdeen, the adjacent "village" and a traditional fishing port.
Here, I have to praise the Lonely Planet series. Often, it contains lots of suggestions that are tailored for the average 20- or 25-year-old backpacker, who is stingy, wanna-be-hipster and wants to get laid. When you follow the LP recommendations for accommodation and food, you often end up in places frequented by that kind of person. This annoying feature should not deceive you into believing that the Lonely Planet is useless. By contrast, it really contains some awesome suggestions which you are unlikely to find in vanilla guidebooks. In this particular case, the LP suggests to take the ferry to the nearby island of Ap Lai Chau (English: "duck tongue"), to walk into the fish market, to buy a fish you like, to watch it being killed by the fishmonger and to take it to the second floor, where various foodstalls will prepare it for you. I follow these instructions meticulously, and the steamed sai-lon (whatever this is) is gorgeous. A whole steamed fish, with some broth and spices (here: lemon grass, ginger) and a bowl of rice. What do you want more? My Chinese table companions tell me that this way of preparing fish is getting less popular these days. Indeed, everybody around me has soups with fish and meat balls in it. Certainly tasty, but what a shame.
I feel like at the end of the world, but fortunately, there is the MTR. A huge, hyper-efficient subterranean transport network with the train stations where atheletes can train for their next 200m run. It takes you from Ap Lai Chau to the Admiralty in Central Hong Kong in just three stops, thanks to a huge tunnel under the peak. In no time I have made it back to the center. I am charmed.
(Finding a station that is so empty was only possible in the New Territories and off peak hours. Usually, it is crowded.)
The day closes quietly. I prepare everything for a Bundesliga night with the legendary ARD radio conference and only leave my hotel for getting a quick bite. Anthony Modeste's penalty goal ten minutes before the end gives the lead to my club, the 1. FC Köln.
The final minutes of the conference are turbulent and wreck my nerves. "Goooooaaaaaalll ...in Berlin!" "Goooaaaalll... in Hoffenheim!" "Gooooaaall in Mönchengladbach!" But Cologne defends the tenuous 1-0 lead in a tense struggle. Three points in the pocket. What a wonderful day.
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