With global gallivanting our therapy for the season-of-soak stepping all over our Zen, this year’s attempt to mitigate the chills of February takes us back to South East Asia. However, much to our chagrin, our arrival in Hong Kong turns out to be an example of expectations clashing with reality as we’re deflated to learn that this is the city’s coldest winter in 23 years, and for us, about as appealing as a big bag of toenails!
As the city snores Christine and I travel to the New Territories to visit one of the most sacred sites in all of Hong Kong; the Monastery of Ten Thousand Buddhas. The entire 430 step pathway snaking up the hill to the monastery is a lesson in Buddha diversity with an assemblage of life-sized golden statues in poses ranging from the serene to the outrageous.
Silently observed by the traffic jam of shoeless Buddhas we ascend a lengthy stairway to an iron entry gate sealing off the monastery tighter than a crab’s buttocks. Sitting down waiting for it to open we are trembling as if in an advance stage Parkinson’s.
When one of the workers finally arrives we point through the gate gesturing we would like to enter, and with a nod of his head the old fellow kindly opens up the gate. We have the monastery all to ourselves as dawn’s blushing light breaks over a central courtyard featuring a beautiful nine story red pagoda, an array of impressive statues, and a Buddha-full temple with 12,800 Buddha statues barnacled to its walls!
Finally having had way more than our daily quota of enlightenment we head for Sha Tin Park on the Shing Mun River. The peace and quiet of the green space is a delightful contrast to Kowloon where the streets are awash in a sea of endless neon signs about as subtle as a bagpiper at a yoga retreat!
Numbed by a frigid face-flinching wind we ferry to Macau and search out the island’s famous landmark of St. Paul’s Church. Or at least what’s left of it. The once magnificent church burned to the ground during a typhoon in 1835 and left behind only the towering façade and its grand stone staircase.
The weather is colder than a brass toilet seat on the shady side of an iceberg, and not wanting to dawdle we bus to the 16th century A-Ma Temple honoring a sacred sea goddess protecting fishermen. A haze of smoke wafts out from countless coils of smoldering incense hanging in every nook and cranny, and after a quick look we zealously move on to keep our blood from solidifying. Ferrying back to Kowloon we’re huddled together with teeth ferociously jackhammering together in the polar conditions.
Waiting for a bus in the bullying cold again today I scoot off to order a hot bowl of soup that comes in a container accompanied by chopsticks! Pondering the ‘nincomsoup’ who combined soup and sticks, we’re not exactly ingratiating ourselves to locals beside us. They appear totally aghast when my numb-fingered fumbling of the skinny wooden utensils accidentally splashes soup on them and leaves a goatee of noodles stuck to my chin!
On Lantau Island we watch the breath leaving our mouth while huffing up 268 steps to the impressive 112’ high Big Buddha Statue calmly seated in the lotus position amidst a ghostly swirl of fog. There is also a Wisdom Path that’s meant to be slowly strolled while pondering wise words and prayers carved into tall perpendicular wood slabs, but with the fierce wind and weather cold enough to have Shackleton shivering, we dash down the path with the speed of a plummeting peregrine falcon!
Bone-chilled and a shiver away from hypothermic hallucinations awaiting a bus back, the almost always unflappable Christine is near tears, telling me this is the coldest she has ever been in her life. Quite the declaration coming from a lady who grew up in Labrador!
With the iconic ‘Duk Ling’ the only original Chinese junk remaining in Hong Kong, we hop aboard for a brief sail then cap off the day with a wander along a waterfront promenade, enjoying the ‘Symphony of Lights’ splashing laser beams across the skyscrapers jostling for space along the harbor.
According to the Chinese calendar, 2008 is the Year of the Rat, and the city seems plagued with an infestation of rat sculptures posed in every imaginable position. Likely ratified by some irrational bureaucrat, the rodent impostors look rather cheesy, but a decade after our first visit, we credit Hong Kong with a slightly more sophisticated vibe. In fact, sort of like a rat with a gold tooth!
Mongkok translates to ‘flourishing corner’, which is somewhat of an understatement given the madness on the streets. According to Guinness World Records it boasts the highest population density in the world with 130,000 peeps per sq km. This we soon find out translates to 260,000 elbows, many of which happen to introduce themselves! So if you’re on the prowl for quietude, the hum of humans and claustrophobic state of squeeze in Mongkok is clearly not your best bet!
Disgruntled by HK’s frostbite-like weather and unlikely to be gruntled anytime soon, a short flight catapults us out of the ice age and into Indonesia. Warding off Bali’s 80° evening chill, we’re pleased as pigs in a pumpkin patch that the only sign of ice is the cubes tinkling around in a glass!
Cycling from Ubud to the village of Tegalallang in Santa Claus mode we dole out a bag of toys to little tykes along the way. After the long ride we stop into Spa Hati and rejuvenate ourselves with a blissful hour of palm-pummeled delight at an outdoor massage; serenaded by little frogs making big noises in the rice paddies next door. With our souls soothed and ‘the hour of happy’ almost upon us we then pedal back to the bungalow to engage in a little poetry of the elbow.
Last night’s slumber was disrupted by an over enthusiastic rooster cock-a-goddamn-doodle-dooing it’s lungs out in the middle of the night. Perhaps in my younger days I may have had more appreciation for a cock that stays up all night, but for right now I am only contemplating this feathered fool as plucked, fried, and accessorized in BBQ sauce!
Drawing the attention of insatiable mosquitoes at our lodging we smear on repellant to try and prevent becoming involuntary blood donners. Bed-ridden in Martinique during a Caribbean rugby tour years ago with a crippling bout of Dengue Fever I need to stay alert as a second bout can prove even more severe.
Running through the scenic countryside we pass bent-backed farmers with shirtless shoulders pulling a living from soil devoted to their life-giving rice, and our pleasant morning greeting of ‘Selemat Pagi is usually acknowledged either in kind or with a friendly wave or lift of the chin.
On Valentine’s Day in Sanur we head tide side for a sail in a traditional Balinese jukong boat carved out of a monstrous mango tree and stabilized by large bamboo pontoons. Fanned by a caressing sea breeze makes for a splendid sail along the coral reef, and the ‘day of love’ is perfect, with Christine and me, on a romantic spree, sailing free, in a mango tree, on the Bali Sea!
After getting all spiffed up in my best set of jeans we then fold ourselves into a scuffed little bemo that will at least keep us semi-dry as we brave the elements until making our jalopy jailbreak at Village Restaurant. While it may be a devil of a night outside, the trip is worth it because the spectacular food tastes like a gift from the angels.
Accompanied by detonating thunder and a frightening lightning flaunting its fury through the sky, a dispiriting rain descending in such biblical proportions we wonder if our return mat have to be by boat! After our lovely meal the jovial Italian chef doesn’t want us to leave because of violent winds severing tree branches and hurling about anything not bolted down. Eventually however we must be on our way. Our newfound friend hails us a taxi, and bidding us farewell he presents Christine with a lovely red rose.
The last 100 meters of driveway to the hotel is now completely underwater, and huddled together under an umbrella dithering over our dilemma, a resourceful shopkeeper next door offers a solution. Christine removes her newly purchased high heels and the fellow quickly fashions a pair of booties from plastic bags.
Quite the sight is the elegant Christine, all dolled up with a rose and heels in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and the flimsy footwear taped over bare feet. She fords the driveway as daintily as a butterfly with sore feet as fat splats of kamikaze rain mercilessly slap the water around her like a Gatling gun. No doubt about it, this is a Valentine’s Day to be remembered with a smile!
On our last night in Sanur the usual air of tranquility is unexpectedly broken when walking back to our lodging arm-in-arm. Christine abruptly breaks free with a little extra hop in her step and starts squawking out noises at the top of her lungs that sound like a parrot going under the wheels of a truck.
Gyrating about with hands in the air and appearing to be engaged in either some weird Newfie jig or a demonic possession the wild woman has me wondering if I should be calling an exorcist! But as my eyes find her feet I can see, peeping out from the inside of her shoe, the bulgy eyeballs of a petite green frog that’s somehow managed to hop inside it! With the freckled little croaker ribbiting for forgiveness over the amphibious assault, I am laughing so hard that I’m afraid of suffering serious internal damage!
With exaggerated care I release young Kermit back into the billowing greenery while the ‘Queen of my Existence’ performs a forensic examination before cautiously easing her foot back into her now frog-free footwear. Ahh yes, yet another little treasure to be added to a growing mosaic of memories from a country that truly speaks to our souls!
And so, like the ice in our drinks, our travel days have melted away. Regrettably it’s time to once again bid a fond farewell to this very special place known as The Island of The Gods.
Mark Colegrave February 2008