Day One ..... And to the Waterfall.........

So here we are with mum-in-law, taking photos of the beach on the first leg of our walk.........




And then, we are looking for villages......Which way to go??

Of course, there are always signs to point us in the right direction? Oh, hum, which way?

So, let us dally for a while in the local temple until we decide.........

Good job I knew the way, so, we made it to the waterfall.....eventually!

And then Greybeard arrived on the ferry to meet us in the evening.




See you tomorrow. Missing my reading, but, lovely to have time with the family.

It's a Family Affair - Dreams From My Father

I have to say from the outset that I have been fan of Barack Obama, since he first appeared on mine and most other people’s radar during the 2004 Democratic Convention when he made his career enhancing pivotal speech. I cheered him along the 2008 election campaign trail which eventually lead him to the White House. So, when I saw this book, I thought it would be worth a read.

Dreams From My Father is an account of Obama’s search for his own identity as he struggles to understand his position in the world as a black man, coming from a white family. He lives, during his early life in the villages of Indonesia where all the kids look more or less like him, so his place in life isn’t in question at that time. Then his mother, who has ambition for her son, decides he would do much better in life with a good education and so he successfully applies for a place at a private college in Hawaii and is sent to live with his grandparents, so he can attend school. It is during this time that his questions begin to surface and he realises he belongs to a minority. Although his white grandmother and grandfather play pivotal roles in his life, he is driven by an enormous curiosity about his father and his paternal family in Kenya, wondering all the time that if he knew them he would better understand his black heritage and be able to find his place in life. He slowly develops into an angry young man, although he does not reach the heights of anger that some of his friends attain.

Eventually, after learning of his fathers death an opportunity finally arises for him to visit his family in Kenya. The contrast of life there in comparison to his earlier days in Hawaii and then at college in Los Angeles, New York City and Chicago, could not have been more distinct. Although he is adored by his mother and grandparents, his father’s family absorb him into their ranks as if by osmosis and this state of kinship is clearly described and obviously enjoyed by Obama. He paints a wonderfully bold portrait of his grandmother, aunties, uncles, half siblings and cousins.

It is an honest account of a child turning into a man who is torn between two worlds and feels that he does not belong entirely to one or the other. He talks about his anger at discrimination against him personally and as he bears witness of it against others’, he recalls smoking pot with his mates and his dabbling in under-age drinking. From a political perspective, I couldn’t help but wonder if some of the clearly racist comments he makes would come back to haunt him in the future. Then I realised that Barack, the man, had played a master stroke by owning the book and the young Obama entirely, racist comments, misspent youth and all, thus, taking any potential ammunition out of the rifles of any future opponents. Smart, smart man!

Have you read this book? What did you think?

Speaking of family - my mother-in-law is visiting and we are off to see our local waterfall today. I'll post some more photos tomorrow, but here is one from last week.

It may be quiet for a little while

It may be difficult for me to write book reviews over the next two weeks as we are having a guest stay with us at Chez Kimlette for the next two weeks and it would be terribly rude of me to abandon my mother-in-law to write a blog, especially as she has come so far to visit!

Do keep your comments coming and I will post photos of our excursions as we go.

At least the weather has improved and it has stopped raining!

Let us hope it stays this way........

Are taxi's the same everywhere?

What is it about taxi’s that conjures up memories in my mind of speeding around bends, vying for too small a space in traffic jams ahead and exposing white knuckles whilst holding on for dear life to the handle on the seat back in front of me? Why do taxi drivers throughout the world feel compelled to challenge and change the rules of the road in every city I have ever travelled to? I can give you some examples:

My top 5 scariest taxi rides:
1. Indonesia - Jakarta – Airport to JI. Raya Cilandak KKO (about one and half hours).
2. India – Bombay – Taj Hotel to Airport (three and a half hours)
3. China - Shanghai – Airport to Pudong (one hour )
4. USA - New York – JFK Airport to Central Park ( 50 very long minutes)
5. Malaysia - Johor Bahru – Causeway to Pasir Gudang ( 40 minutes)

Granted, the number one scariest ride on my list, took place in Indonesia and was somewhat enhanced by the fact that it happened during a local uprising against the military. Foreigners were being hijacked along the airport road, so the taxi driver felt compelled to drive along it at the speed of light and when he asked me to lie down on the back seat for the duration of the journey, so I could not be seen through the window, it dawned on me that perhaps I should have made a will. It is amazing how hearing these instructions sharpened my senses and increased the amount of adrenalin coursing through my veins, so much so, that my heart felt as if it was about to make its own way to our destination, bouncing along without me! That very day a warning was issued to travellers by the UK government, advising all UK nationals to consider postponing any travel plans to Jakarta. Why didn’t they tell me earlier?


The most surreal taxi ride I have ever taken was in India and happened one evening when I was on my way from the hotel, to the airport. I ordered the car to pick me up four hours ahead of the scheduled departure time of my flight, which should have been more than enough to make the journey and a timely check-in. What I hadn’t bargained on was that the first rain of the Monsoon had arrived in Bombay, just one hour before I was to set off! If you have been in any Indian city when the monsoon rains arrive, you will understand why this posed a potential threat to my travel plans. At the first drop of monsoon rain people dance and celebrate outside, in the rain. Everybody celebrates! There are 19.5 million people living in Bombay, it has the highest population of any Indian city and possibly the most domesticated cows, which are revered by Indian’s country-wide. The holy cows and all the people take to the streets to welcome the monsoon and they were all out that night, all 19.5 million of them, plus cows, I swear!
My driver was heroic. He swerved and stopped, spotted any opportunity to move forward and, all the time, kept his hand firmly planted on the horn of the car, which, in an odd way, added to the chaos and revelry. I was horrified at first and then realised that I was in the hands of the Gods and this taxi driver. So, I sat back, relaxed and soaked in the scene around me and I am so glad I did. I have never seen such unadulterated joy written on so many people’s faces, in one place, at one time. It was contagious and gave me such a happy feeling, which stayed with me long afterwards. When we finally arrived at the airport, my driver abandoned his car about 300 yards from the departure lounge, grabbed my suitcase out of the boot and held it above his head. He urged me to follow him as he pushed and jostled his way through the saturated crowds, as I held on to the back of his jacket. I made the flight with half an hour to spare, and couldn’t thank him enough for all the effort he had put into getting me on that plane. Then I gave him a huge tip for his trouble and I will never forget what he said to me “Please come back soon to my beautiful India, Ma’am”. Life is good!


My first trip to Shanghai happened many years ago and I was stunned by the swerving capabilities, frequent lane swapping and the uncanny ability of my taxi driver to cut up every other vehicle on the road ahead and at the side of him. A friend told me later that the lower the registration number on the licence certificate, which must be clearly displayed on the front dashboard of each taxi, the more experienced the driver is – mine, on this occasion, was licence number 212,076, not so encouraging when the licence numbers start at 100!! I am glad I didn’t know this at the time. I have since refused taxi’s with high registration numbers because the suggestion that lower numbers means a better driver, seems to hold true and I have also been known to get out of a cab when the driving has been too reckless – only in Shanghai!


In New York I felt as if I was on some horrid fairground ride which stopped and started, constantly. Why do the cabbie’s stop as if they are about to dive off a cliff and then start again as if they are in pole position on a Formula One racetrack? I recall that we hardly moved 10 yards during each of these spurts of movement and I felt horribly nauseous by the time stumbled into my hotel. And how do some taxi’s drivers judge the distance between the front fender of their car and the back of another, to within 3 millimetres? I had to close my eyes. Welcome to New York!


The first Malaysian taxi experience I had helped me understand some different driving methods and how traffic “merges” rather than flows. It became apparent very quickly that perhaps I was going to be in for a treat of unusual driving skills as I noticed that the traffic along side my taxi was five abreast on a three lane highway. Ah! Somebody later explained to me that there is an unspoken rule to driving in JB that is called “pick your spot” and this is the one and only rule; pick a spot you wish to be in on the road ahead and head for it, regardless of what any other vehicle on the road is doing. Everybody was driving this way and by some uncanny miracle, it worked, but, I quickly found that it was a completely terrifying experience to anybody not used to it. Add to this the fact that there are not only cars picking spots, but, trucks, motorbikes and bicycles of all shapes and sizes, each needing various sized spaces to fit into, but that seems not to matter at all and on this day it seemed to work. I did not see one collision during that ride. Perhaps that was an exceptional day!

So when I hear people say that they have had a terrifying taxi experience, I smile to myself and wonder “Compared to what?”

Speaking of taxi’s, my review for today is of a wonderfully funny and well written travel book I re-read recently by Annie Caulfield called Show Me the Magic – Travels Round Benin in a Taxi. Annie sets off to travel around Benin looking for magic and stories of the past. Her luggage does not arrive with her at the airport and so she checks into the hotel and can do no more than wait for news of its arrival. Whilst sitting in the hotel lobby, she is approached by Isidore the taxi driver, who convinces her that he should be her taxi driver of choice. She eventually hires him, along with his battered Peugeot, and the following day the journey and his stories begin. It soon becomes apparent who is the boss and who needs to do as they are told as they travel. The history and magic of Benin unfolds under the expert eye and guidance of Isidore and an unexpected story of Isidore’s own comes to light. Annie Caulfield does a superb job of transporting the reader around Benin with her and Isidore and she offers more than a just a commentary on Benin, its people and its past, as we accompany her to many meetings with local shaman’s and visits to festivals, shows and parties, which she describes with her trademark humour and wit. It is a lovely book and I would recommend it to everybody, whether they intend to travel to Benin or not.

So here is one of our local Taxis in Hong Kong. Can’t say I’ve had too many bad experiences with these, so far – but then I have to ask, compared to what?

Hey Jude, meet Stephen Hui

One of my favourite books by Thomas Hardy is Jude The Obscure. This book was first published in 1895 and was Hardy’s last novel. It caused such an outrage at the time of publication that it was burned in the street by the Bishop of Wakefield only days after it came out. In Hardy’s own words in a postscript to the 1912 edition he says:

“So much for the unhappy beginning of Jude’s career as a book. After these verdicts from the press its next misfortune was to be burned by a bishop – probably in his despair at not being able to burn me.”

Hardy received much personal condemnation from several quarters following publication of Jude. Although Jude was a commercial success and very popular with the public, this outcry had such a profound effect on Hardy that he vowed never to write a novel again. He kept his word and produced only poetry and drama for the rest of his life.

Jude Fawley is a lower class stone mason who dreams of becoming an eminent scholar and of going to Christminster, (which is a city modelled on Oxford). He teaches himself Greek and Latin in order to be able to apply to the university. Through a series of misfortunes his life takes elaborate and unforeseen twists and turns and he struggles to realise his dream. Trickery, tragedy and traditional moral attitudes of the time rule his life and he is forced to travel down a different path from the one he had in mind.

I loved this book and wanted so much for Jude to succeed in fulfilling his dream. The pages flew by as I walked with him on his journey and comforted him through his disappointments. Everyone loves an underdog, I know, but, Jude is so naive that I felt like sitting him down and speaking sternly to him, on more than one occasion. "Wake up Jude, young man. Smell the roses!!"

The book also paints an excellent picture of life in England at the turn of the century and examines moral attitudes, education and class differences. It is a gem of a book and I often wonder what else Hardy would have written had he not been so disillusioned by the reception of Jude. I suppose we will never know but I am certain it would have been superb!

Speaking of educational institutions (sorry this link is so tenuous today, but, I thought the stone mason and university connection might just work!!), the Earth Science department at Hong Kong University recently opened the Stephen Hui Geological Museum which is the first and only geological museum in Hong Kong. It opened its doors to the public on January 16, 2009.

It is the most wonderful museum and one the university and Hong Kong should be proud of. One of our neighbours in the village is a lecturer there and played a significant role in preparing some of the museum displays. Of course, being a girl who loves shiny and sparkly things, I just had to go and visit to look at the collection which our neighbour had said was a stunning.

As well as the glittering displays, and informative , logical explanations, one of the things that really fascinated me about this museum was the story of man the museum was named after. Dr Stephen Hui was a philanthropist to many local organizations including the University of Hong Kong. Apart from constructing the Hui Oi Chow Science Building, which was named in honor of his father, Mr Hui Oi Chow, Dr Hui had also generously donated his extensive mineral collection, forming the core of the Geological Museum's permanent Earth Material display. After Dr Hui passed away in 1989, his wife Madam Anna Hui, and sons, Richard and William, have continued to support the advancement of Earth Sciences in Hong Kong, and have set up the Dr Stephen S F Hui Trust Fund and the establishment of the Stephen Hui Geological Museum.

When you see the collection of minerals on display you will understand why this little piece of information is so interesting - I have visited many similar museums around the world and have never seen such and extensive and unusual collection of minerals and gems - and to think, most of the exhibits came from one private collection, is truly amazing.

Anyway, the reason for me telling you about this is that I would urge you to go see it; take the kids, it is a very child friendly museum with dinosaur stories and exhibits too. Perhaps if you are visiting Hong Kong on holiday you might consider putting the museum on your itinerary - it is worth the trip. Here is some information which may help you:

Opening Hours: Mo-Fri 1-6pm (mornings are reserved for organized group visits).
Contacts: Curator: Dr. Petra Bach Museum Assistant: Ms. Angel Chan or visit http://www3.hku.hk/earthsci/index.php/site/museum/

Have fun and let me know what you think if you do manage to get there.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon

I love Sunday afternoons these days, living here in this lovely place. After pottering around in the morning, catching up with emails and blogs (these days) and sorting out files and photos, Greybeard usually watches the football match from Saturday night, our time, which is recorded from the live match that is usually aired too late here because of the time difference. This is my time to read, unless of course, it happens to be a Man U game and then I might watch if I can stand to.

This Sunday it was time for me to read and so I finally turned the last page of Stella Duffy’s The Room of Lost Things, which I have been mentioning for weeks now, or so it seems.
Robert Sutton runs a dry cleaning shop which he took over from his mother when she retired from the business over forty years ago. The shop is located in Loughborough Junction, London and Robert knows his customers and the neighbourhood intimately. When Robert plans to sell the business he is approached by Akeel who is a British Muslim from east London. So that Akeel can transition smoothly into the business and Robert can teach him all he needs to know, the men work together for over a year. An unlikely but solid friendship results from their time together and so much more than the tricks of the trade are revealed about both men as the story unfolds.

Stella Duffy sensitively allows her characters to develop and with a keen eye for small details, paints a clear picture of life in a bustling London community. It took me a little while to get into this book at first because I felt as if there were too many stories going on, but then, the lives of the locals begin to intertwine and as this happen the past was revealed with unforeseeable results. I loved the book by the time I had finished it and was so pleased I had read through the agitation I felt at the beginning.

Read it for yourself and let me know what you think. I am now on the lookout for more Stella Duffy books so will keep you posted.

So, after I had finished the book, and the football was over, Greybeard and I trotted off to one of our local eateries for a late lunch-with-a-view. Perched right on by the ferry pier, almost on the water’s edge we sat and ordered lunch which we ate whilst we peered out to Honk Kong Island across the South China Sea.

Now you know why we are lazy on Sunday afternoon...........we stayed a while.........

.....................And then came the rain!

And, I wished I had been as smart as this lady and remembered my umbrella!!

From Union Jack to Bauhinia Flower

A great thing about living in Hong Kong is that it is easy to learn the history of the place. I have found some wonderful books, fact and fiction, that would not be so readily available elsewhere. Add to that the many various stories from local china hands and a rich tapestry of Hong Kong and its history starts to take shape.

Very briefly, Hong Kong was claimed by the British after they planted the Union Jack in what is now called Possession Street, on Hong Kong Island, in 1841. After an array of political twists and turns and wars with the Chinese, it was finally agreed with the signing of the Treaty on Nanking in 1842, that Hong Kong would be handed over to the British government in perpetuity thereafter. Thus ended the first of the Opium Wars!

By 1898 the relationship between the British rulers in Hong Kong and London and the Chinese government in Beijing was still very wobbly, mutual suspicion abounded. In that year the two nervous neighbours signed an agreement which allowed the British to lease the island of Kowloon for 99 years, up to 1997. This lease did not affect the ownership of Hong Kong Island itself. With the extra land, the strategically vital free port of Hong Kong had a buffer from the Chinese mainland. When the take-over of Kowloon was complete, the newly leased area became known as the New Territories, with Kowloon keeping its name in the southern peninsula which faced off across Victoria Harbour and looked out at Hong Kong Island itself. This is just as it is today.

Move forward 99 years and the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong was handed back to the Chinese in 1997. British rule was over after decades of controversial dialogue between the two nations which saw the Treaty of Nanking rescinded and Hong Kong (proper) handed back to China, although it had never been leased in the first place and was officially still a British colony (there was much anguish and debate about this). The flag was changed and the new one carried an image of a Bauhinia flower which could be found flapping from flagpoles everywhere.

The years between 1841 and 1997 were colourful, painful, squalid, heroic and brave. Pirates ruled over the seas and, by all accounts, in the boardrooms of banks and the hong trading giants of this now powerful nation. Many testimonies to this period in history exist and are worth reading (details in another blog). I have read several of them, all of which are as delightfully swashbuckling and tragic, as were the lives of the people themselves. Living on this group of small islands at the time meant suffering from epidemic and famine, war and destruction, occupation and liberation, overcrowding and disease, floods and landslides, poverty and abundant wealth, and all the time businessmen, politicians, triads, spies and soldiers traded goods, people and secrets. It is said that you could buy just about anything in Hong Kong in those days and perhaps that is true, somewhere in my mind’s eye I can see it all unfolding.

Today in the towns and villages on our island there are many restaurants and bars which seem to attract a mixture of newly settled residents, like us, and the old china hands who have lived here all their lives or at least most of it. Stories of the history of Hong Kong when the British ruled flow thick and fast after several gigantic scotch and soda’s and one such place is not so far away from where we live.

Every village needs an historian of some sort, and in our village there are many, but, one old china hand stands out. She is an ex- journalist who, according to her own account, was on first name terms with the last Governor and is unafraid of local triads or the Chinese mafia - and the police have been known to be her friend once or twice, at least! She was born and raised in Hong Kong. Her mother and father were British and came to the islands in the 1950’s before having children. They became so wealthy and powerful working for one of the hong companies, that they never left. Her parents belonged to the higher echelons of the business community and were very well connected, definitely on the A list of the time. As she grew her childhood was peppered with regular visits to the family home of politicians, hongs, police and pirates and she was always intrigued by a good story. Journalism seemed the obvious career and off she popped to London to get her respectable degree and she returned in the late 1970’s when talk about democracy and the 1997 handover was just taking off. Over the next decade Basic Law was hashed out and democratic politicians and those opposed to the return of Hong Kong Island to the Chinese were complaining bitterly. Bankers, smugglers, commies and spies abounded and our friend was never without something to report. Looking like an unwashed Kate Adie, without any of the blond hair, glamour or make-up, she lives here still and freelances, generally snooping around asking lots of personal questions – not that she stands out at all in the villages because everybody does that here! In those trade mark Kate Adie fatigues, she cuts a dashing figure – minus the helmet, of course. She frequents various watering holes around the town and is good friends with the team at our local where she can often be found propping up the bar with one hand, stroking one of her three dogs with the other and recounting a ripping yarn or two.

All this brings me to my book for today. Whilst our journalist friend was growing up in the streets of Hong Kong in the mid 1950’s, so too, was Martin Booth. In his wonderful memoir of a Hong Kong childhood, Gweilo, he calls to mind, with razor sharp focus the sights, smells, society and life of that time. (Gweilo is the Chinese slang word for ‘white man’, but in real terms it means white ghost or devil and is a derogatory term). There is something so endearing about this book, not least of all because it was to become Martin Booth’s epitaph, as he died a shortly after writing it. A career journalist, Booth was diagnosed with a nasty incurable brain tumor in 2002. His grown up daughters urged him to write down his life story before his memory slipped away from him. He did and the result is magnificent. The descriptions he provides are so convincing and the images so carefully crafted that I was transported into the back streets and alleyways of Kowloon in 1955, out on a fearless mission of discovery and friend making with this seven year old Luke Skywalker of the day. As we climbed the outcrops of The Peak a year later, our view of Victoria Harbour was crystal clear. The book is also a moving tribute to the memory of the love he had for his mother and a testimony to the smoldering hatred he had for his father. It is very near the top of my favourite book list.