Puspa Spa Review

This is a complaining review. So if you don't like negative news, tune me out.

Just look at the name. I should have guessed.

Had a one and a half hour spa treatment today because I am up in Ubud scoring a workshop ticket and eating lunch at Nuri's.

I paid the usual sort of mid level spa rate... what, Rp90,000? But maybe I should have turned around and walked out the minute I saw that the massage tables don't have head support units for when the client is face down.

I did not mind the chipping paint on the ceiling, or the ubiquitous low budget tile floors. Climbing the steps to the third floor (yeah, tall palm trees), I actually sort of enjoyed the view of rooftops (and shorter palm trees) and the soccer pitch. The spa tubs looked clean enough. The toilet had been scrubbed. I was okay with all that. But when the masseusse started farting during my massage... well, there was no way the little tip tray was going to see any use.

Hey, I walked out of the joint feeling pretty relaxed. I mean, she was no pro, but it did make my muscles feel better. But, really, at my age, a gal starts to want therapy!

In my opinion, ambience is second to actual skill level in the masseusse. I used to get perfectly good 50,000 Rupiah massages from the girls at the grotty little Sanur Spa near the McDonalds. And that place looked like a low budget beauty salon, with greasy chairs in the waiting room and faded photos of 1980's big-hair do's. So, if Puspa had delivered a good product, I would have heaped the praise. Instead, I could have paid the same amount down the street at the Zen and had a similar massage (maybe even better, who knows) with a garden, flute music, mosaics, and welcome drink.

I think I ought to bring a fussbudget checklist with me, next time I want to scope out a new massage place.

Some suggested survey points:
1. Do the tables have head support?
2. Any sign that someone studied anatomy (muscle groups, etc)?
3. Do I get a private room?

Yes, this borders on one of those self-serving entries that is just a cranky ramble. Borders on it. Really, I just want to post my disappointment and suggest that massage-seekers try instead the Zen Spa or even Bodyworks.

Cape Byron

I can see why Captain Cook was pretty excited about the Easternmost part of this continent!

I just got back to Sydney after visiting Byron Bay, the Marin County of Australia. Just imagine Malibu or Stinson with a population density closer to New Zealand's south island.

It was heavenly! (photos copyright echo.net.au)




I was there to visit writer Jane Camens, who's got a house set unbelievably between a jungle thicket of rubber trees and bottle brush trees AND the vast powdery stretch of Tallow Beach!

I mean, I love my occasional dawn stroll down Seminyak's hard packed strand, but to walk with Jane and Harry and Sasha the Viszla.. in the company of -what?- twenty other people on a five mile beach... well, it was mind bending!

I will write a little more, later on...

Still in Love After 27 Years

Well, August 18 was my wedding anniversary.

The doctor who issued my blood test results for my marriage license in 1979 is probably dead, now, but I would like to give him a hearty "told ya so" for grumblingly chiding me for wanting to get married at the age of 20.

The man and I had been hosting our pals John and Lai Chee, up from Oz and down from S'pore, respectively. We were not about to let them leave us without one last snorkel. So off we went to the little cove at "Good Karma Bungalows" in Amed, where we had a greaaaat morning snorkel.

Back at the Shak we undressed like maniacs, showered quickly and took the obligatory photos of our group at the front gate. Then high tailed it to the airport for goodbyes.

It was time for lunch, so me and my husband of 27 years went to the little cafe of the Harris hotel in Tuban. Okay food, cute atmosphere, great restrooms. Then off to Uluwatu. We had not been back there since September of 1979! Some things never change: the topless girl on the beach. Some things do: concrete stairs down to the caves.

Just lovely to stand on the bukit and just watch the waves come in and watch guys catching them. We stood for a long time, just watching.

Uluwatu was a landmark. Lived here for 5 years and we still hadn't gone back there. I think we now have only three other spots in Bali to visit to completely revisit our honeymoon... the hot springs by the side of Lake Batur, Medewi beach, and the Sangeh temple full of monkeys. But Uluwatu gives you the magical feeling of being on the edge of Bali.

We have our own little tanjung at the Shak, but it is a different feeling. You feel like you are at the end of the world in Uluwatu. At our humble digs, the nearby islands and breaking waves across the land spit make you think that you are at a crossroads of forces, of sea routes, and winds. A convergence. Uluwatu is to surrender. TS is to participate. Both places magic, both held dear in our hearts.

Dinner at Hu'u, which would have been perfect if the bartender could fix me an "Angel Falls" at our table, and if the same jazz vocal CD wasn't playing over and over... But it was a good celebratory dinner. Great atmosphere, even with the odd jet airplane zooming overhead. Actually, that was pretty cool. I'd say it was an awesome day.

North Capitol

Beijing, baby! Smog, massive buildings, ring roads, pepper trees, everything grey dust gloriously interrupted by Yves Klein blue in a worker's uniform.

Just got back from the 798 Artists Space, which has expanded into a small city. Drooled over Hao Guang's stacks of old found pots, enjoyed his 799 Gallery, but best of all got to meet the man at work in his studio on an image of himself with a dog. He spoke to me in French, I spoke back in English.

Coup of the day was picking up a signed copy of Sheng Qi's Madness Appropriation. I mean, unfortunately, the whole area is overrun with cultural revolution imagery. When will this crap stop being chic? Sheng Qi, at least, is dealing with truth and pain. I loved that his gallery had not a closed or open sign, but a censored sign.

Typhoon Prapiroon Skims Hong Kong

... and don't we just love the clean air!

Wandering out this morning inadvertantly was a nostalgic trip down memory lane. The aftermath of any storm is always interesting, but a typhoon is almost a kind of ecstasy.

Ah, that was why I loved Hong Kong... the gardeners walking around in coolie hats and rubber boots... and a wife beater shirt and striped shorts... straight outta Lily Wong comics.

Thankfully no torrential rain like yesterday, but I suffered from out-of-shape legs... Jeeeez, did I really do that much walking when I lived here? Well, yes, I did. Bali life is so tame compared to all this. You know what they say about Bali Belly? The gastrointestinal ailment, usually a kind of food poisoning? Well, the real Bali Belly is the two or five or ten extra inches that the expat gets when he or she moves to the easy life of Bali. No exertion, no walking, and all the drinking, eating, and smoking that you can handle.

So I went to apply for the India visa (Mrs Gupta told me to get there to apply at 9 am, but those of us queuing at the Visa window were treated to a procession of Consular staff who began trickling in at 9:12 and were still sauntering in, in dribs and drabs, by 9:43, when I was handed my claim slip). Gupta herself didn't get there until 9:20, and I assumed she was needed in the back for pre-work chanting or to hear the "bureaocratic boost of the day." But when she emerged at 9:32, she began paper shuffling operations. Woops, forgot the receipt book. Back in three minutes. Maddening stuff.

Back in the hotel, my man says we can stay another night, that going to Macau is not really necessary, that he can make it a day trip. My dogs (Yankee slang) say, "yes, yes, stay Hong Kong." Here in our aerie above the harbor, all is wonderful.

The shopping list dwindles as I pick up Cuprinol, progest cream, all those amazing things not available in the land of begging to the Gods.

Seraya Fast Lane

Sometimes I miss Hong Kong. The buzz, the cool stuff to see and do, the nearly year-round hiking, finding old pots in village rubbish heaps, swimming laps in the big pool, walking, walking, cheongsams, tailors, ferries, friends, exhibitions at John Batten gallery, basso profundo frog talk on rainy nights, Singapore noodles, ten dollar wonton soup, Freddy, big rocks sticking out of hillsides, dancing to a good band at the Wanch, the skyline, grabbing a drink with friends before heading out to a movie or concert.

I just had a lengthy couple of conversations with HKU prof Paul Smethurst. I took two of his courses at HKU, and, although I hate postmodernism, he made me really understand it. In fact, we probably don't even see eye to eye on any number of scholarly topics, but he never gave me a bad grade. A prof who's a teacher, not a politician. And that's pretty cool!

Paul gives me props for telling him, "you're not getting any younger" back in 2000, when I first bought the Bali land. This made some impact on him, for he followed on down to Bali and got himself a nice little villa north of Seminyak. He's got something going up in the mountains, now, too. Wow! Dude loves his real estate!

So it got me thinking, as I'm telling Paul all about how I miss HK. But I have to admit that Bali has its own buzz. It's just a mellower buzz.

I certainly do my share of entertaining, here in the Shack. I had a few good friends down to celebrate the fact that it's a short snort to points west and south, now, thanks to the new bypass. What was going to be my big blowout party ended up being a little dinner. Big party must come later, when my friends are not suffering from Morning Sickness, broken cars, and other regrets.

But, yeah, I give a party here and the band plays or the girls dance, or both. Sure as hell didn't do that in either of our tiny apartments in Hongkers.

While I miss some of the really good rock bands of the bars of HK, I do get to got to the Denpasar arts festival and hear fusion bands (what that means is a synth, guitar, and drum set backing gong kebyar... but it can be very cool). I may not be able to strut around in a form fitted cheongsam here in Bali, but I do get to wear some nice Javanese sarongs. Laps in the pool... hell yeah, and the pool is all to myself now. Okay, the walking and hiking... there's the rub. Near equatorial sun makes hiking difficult. Here in Bali, you pretty much have to choose a mountain area, dawn hours, or (rare) shaded paths. The Bugbug hill is suitable for afternoon hiking because of the shade, but I do neighborhood walks in the dawn.

Okay, now my life has all this new stuff in it: teaching my cook new dishes, recipes, menus; doing Buteyko breathing exercises to minimize my sinus problems, yelling at the TV news (Israeli army & politicians get my loudest insults), working on my novel (which will undoubtedly make me a small fortune in royalties), and cleaning up the clippings and piles of crap. Bonus time is devoted to helping the schools around here (latest project is getting Pusat Pendidikan Lingkunan Hidup out here to teach the kids the basics of environmental health). We gotta get in the basics, like trash management, English, and reading. So libraries are my other favorite project. I am also working on the girls in the village, one at a time, to stay in school and not just get pregnant at age 15. It is all slow going, but Seraya will benefit. I help the Ubud Writers Festival with promotional materials. That is great fun for readers here, when all of our writers come and dazzle us each October, but the not-so-hidden agenda is the Saraswati Foundation, which helps kids learn, and they benefit from the festival.

Basically I've moved on from getting my kids through school to getting other kids through school. The world is a delicate place and it's wonderful to see how working delicately moves mountains. Too many people are overwhelmed by poverty and cruelty, and they won't do even one thing.

More on that in a moment.

So nice to sit here on the computer and listen to my husband mix the tracks of the traditional and not-so-traditional music and chanting of Dewa Balian. It will be a lovely CD when it's done.

Happy Birthday, David M!

Okay, so this is my bro's 50th birthday. Leo Monkey... hmmm.

Davy is 50 and will be having a big party. Sorry to be missing it. We are on an austerity program and I won't be taking any extraneous trips for a while.

Davy has a BS from UC Santa Cruz in Natural History, one of the most time-consuming undergrad degrees around! He is a contractor in Oakland, CA, Master Builders. Save your jokes. We've already heard it.

I will next see my bro in New Delhi in October. Actually, I will see him on the flight from Singapore to Delhi. We will be met by The Original Binski, who is there learning Hindi and salting leeches from off of friends' legs. Check out her blog for more on that.

Then we catch up with Jim and Jay and all head for West Bengal and Darjeeling. I plan to toss the last little bits of my mom's ashes over along Observatory Hill, looking at Kanchenjunga. I am going to be glad to be rid of her ashes, because as long as they are in my possession, I am not letting her be her own being, on her own, a spirit and not a body. So there is a closure in going to Darj, a release of my mom's carnate self.

What I wrote about William Dalrymple for the Bali Advertiser:

Imagine this. Pursuing a career abroad, an Englishman comes to an Asian kingdom and is changed forever. The lifestyle, the warm weather, the color, the food, the unexpected delights win him over. He falls in love with a dark-tressed woman of graceful beauty. He changes his religion. He dresses like a native and adopts their manners and customs. He swears he’ll never go back.

Sounds like someone you know?

Not just another expat saga, it’s also the framework of a fascinating, true story of love, betrayal, and intrigue in colonial India: White Mughals by William Dalrymple, one of the writers par excellence who will grace Ubud at festival time.

Dalrymple first earned international accolades at the age of 22 with his richly evocative In Xanadu. His City of Jinns won him the 1994 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award, and he wrote and presented two documentary series for the BBC, Stones of the Raj and Indian Journeys.

The writer’s meticulous research and passionate feelings for India meld perfectly to bring readers into realms hitherto buried and forgotten. For White Mughals, Dalrymple drew from collections of correspondence (some in cypher) and massive piles of colonial records to synthesize history into a well-paced and nicely illustrated narrative novel. Set in a seductive world of mango orchards, carrot halwa, medicinal opium, remote forts, and boy servants, the intrigue and adversities of 18th century colonial India come alive in the hands of the reader.

White Mughals satisfies the interest of anyone who seeks to learn something of the era of Colonial Residents, cantonments, and Anglo-Indian gentleman poets. The level of detail in Dalrymple’s writing never mires the pace and flow of the book. Even his footnotes are fascinating and quite colorful, whether it is a two hundred year old description of mosquitos torturing the legs of guests under a dinner table, or accurate definitions of erotic yakshis and apsaras.

William Dalrymple will bring to the festival his rich knowledge of India’s past and present. His concentration on the country’s history and culture will nicely augment the words and views of our many invited writers from the subcontinent. Look for lively discussions, colorful readings, and the kind of magical serendipity for which the Ubud Writers Festival is becoming known.

Dalrymple enjoys his travels in India with a passion, lauding a street cook (whose simmering biryani is purportedly the best in Hydrabad) alongside his publishers’ names in the book’s acknowledgements. (Note to Festival Founder, gourmet restaurateur Janet deNeefe: so that’s why you love this chap)!

Also by William Dalrymple: From the Holy Mountain: A Journey in the Shadow of Byzantium and The Age of Kali: Indian Travels and Encounters.

Anita Desai

Here's what I've written and submitted to the Bali Adverstiser, in the regular column on the Ubud Writers Festival 2006:

Acclaimed author Anita Desai is guaranteed to add fuel to our theme Desa-Kala-Patra. Throughout her novels, short stories and children’s literature, Desai often focuses on the dilemma of identity and family relationships often in context with India’s recent social changes. Desai has received numerous literary awards and her work is touted by English professors from Princeton to the University of Hong Kong.

A sensitive heart and a bold hand synchronize in Desai’s work, giving the reader immensely rich reading experiences. Her created characters linger on in the mind, sculpted with substance, even in her shortest short stories. To read Desai is not to be overwhelmed in flowery descriptions, but to be allowed to observe salient moments of revelation and transformation. Preferring to reveal truth over sentimentality, Desai isolates the details that matter, with critics and admirers comparing her to some of the best modernist writers, including Virginia Woolf and T. S. Eliot.

Desai’s subjects are often seen captive in the walls of the home, or in a confining social convention, but she lets the reader see their hopes, pleasures, and compassions. Never claustrophobic, Desai’s characters’ domains and inner selves are given distinction and quiet dignity amidst an unyielding world. A tale about a going-away party, in her delightful Games at Twilight and Other Stories, to which many an expat can relate, is full of water metaphors to show a queasy sense of instability.

Having an affinity for both India and the west, Desai has a true familiarity with marginalization and dual ethnicity. Her mother was German, but adapted easily to life in India. The biggest difference between Desai’s parents and those in her neighborhood is that she and her sisters were encouraged to read the best English literature. Even as a 6 year old, she knew she would become a writer. Today, when she teaches creative writing, whether it be in New York or Cambridge, Desai emphasizes practice, in the same way that a musician must practice. But she also encourages reading itself.

Indian society is a popular subject matter today, and there are seemingly countless hot subcontinental writers. What really sets Desai apart is her deft use of language and ease with creating characters which ring true. Her writing is a popular scholarly subject, with just as many books about her work as books authored by her.

We’ll never see her work distinguished in the UK’s annual “bad sex in fiction” literary stakes (Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy have had that dubious honor). Desai has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize three times and can count Rushdie himself amongst her many fans.

Suggested pre-Festival reading from Desai: Games at Twilight and Other Stories, Clear Light of Day, Baumgartner’s Bombay, and Fasting, Feasting. Desai adapted her novel In Custody for the screen in the Merchant-Ivory production of Hifazaat; possibly can be found on DVD, but don’t bring a pirate copy to the book signing! A Festival lunch with Desai will be a sure sellout this October.

What Joe Lavin Wrote, December 30, 2003

I just love to read bad sex scenes. The Brits have a great award for it, not that there's a prize or anything. Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy have been chosen in past years... what's the deal with Indian writers and bad love scenes???

I quote from Lavin's website:

At any rate, 'tis the season for wacky end-of-the-year awards. One of the most famous, the Bad Sex in Literature Award, was recently presented in London. Each year, Literary Review gives this award for the worst description of sex in a novel. Aniruddha Bahal won this year's prize for his novel "Bunker 13," which featured this stunning passage:

"Your RPM is hitting a new high. To wait any longer would be to lose prime time... She picks up a Bugatti's momentum. You want her more at a Volkswagen's steady trot. Squeeze the maximum mileage out of your gallon of gas. But she's eating up the road with all cylinders blazing. You lift her out. You want to try different kinds of fusion."

Interestingly enough, Bahal was also a finalist for the Bad Automotive Reviews in Literature Award, an equally prestigious though oft-ignored prize. Another passage contains this bewildering line: "Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed." I don't even know what that means, but I bet it's got all those people over at yourdictionary.com really turned on.

http://joelavin.com/awards.html

Don't Know Why... There's No Sun Up in the Sky...

Don't know why
There's no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain't together
Keeps rainin' all of the time

Life is bare
Gloom and misery everywhere
Stormy weather
Just can't get my poor self together
I'm weary all the time

So weary all of the time

Since you went away
The blues stepped in and met me
If it's here to stay
Old rocking chair will get me
Every night I pray
That the Lord above will let me
Walk in the sun once more

by Ted Koehler and Harold Arlen

What the hell is going on with the weather here in Seraya!?
It is supposed to be the dry season, and instead we are getting rain, rain, rain.
It is great for my garden, but I suspect Al Gore is on to something in his global warming lecture series and popular flick.

Diana Darling: Bali's Jane Austen

Preview of upcoming Bali Advertiser article...

Is it possible that we have a Jane Austen in our midst? Believe it! Diana Darling’s The Painted Alphabet, based on a Balinese tale, reveals a similarly luscious talent and a sharp eye for human intrigue. Using graceful economy and incisive wit, Austen and Darling are master novelists, joyfully exploiting the vagaries of human relationships, in a format that ends with all loose ends ever so neatly tied up. Enak!


Ubud’s Darling was part of the influx of hippies and artists who sought in Bali not just an alternate lifestyle but an alternate universe. The mystical culture of Bali has great appeal, but to some seekers, like Diana, it held the promise of discovering the unseen.


“We were temple-mad… scouting the island for good temple festivals… [meaning] that it had dancing or trance; otherwise there was no point in going. …I longed to go into a trance,” Darling writes in Bali Kini, 1998.


Although she owns up to having once been “the most ridiculous, obnoxiously pedantic Baliphiliac on the island,” her explorations have rewarded her. Today she exudes an air of wisdom and good humor, in her writing and in life. She’s sensitive to village ways, more than happy to live in a Balinese household, and counts Balinese elders as some of her greatest teachers.


Her first novel, The Painted Alphabet, named a “treasure” by Periplus, and “dazzling” by The New Yorker, deserves top honors in the plethora of books penned by those smitten with the island of the gods. A thrilling story of love, loss, sorcery, and triumph, Darling gently binds the reader in a spell using precise pacing, humorous and evocative descriptions, and an assured knowledge of Balinese tradition.


A strong thread of Hindu dharma is laced through the novel, especially the formula for propriety which is this year’s festival theme: Desa, Kala, Patra, the belief that identity is informed by circumstance. Perhaps the book could be described succinctly as a lesson for accepting change.


She’s got a second novel in the works, which she calls “a fictional account dealing with the history of tourism in Bali,” and, perhaps most exciting of all, she’s writing the libretto for an opera based on The Painted Alphabet. Bali is eminently suited to multidisciplinary creations. Some of the most memorable moments of the past two Ubud Writers Festivals were performances of songs and theatre.


“I’ve always wanted to see The Painted Alphabet as an opera,” Darling wrote to this reporter. “A friend of mine recently suggested that we develop it as a theatrical piece. I saw a lot of music in it, and finally the penny dropped: make it all music. The dialogue is necessarily very concentrated. It’s reduced to its lyrical essentials, which is a way I like to work.


“I envision a musical style that is very much its own and that delivers the requirements of the story and the verse in which it’s composed. Because the setting is Bali, we want certain Balinese musical elements, but not straightforward gamelan either. It will be very eclectic.


“As for the writing process, the idea is to think in songs, not in narrative. You have to find the emotional pitch of the moment that requires that this particular dialogue MUST be sung. There is room to indicate stage directions as well, and I have quite specific ideas of things I’d like to see in the production. There will be some use of film in different styles. But all this is in a fantasy stage right now: that is, getting the fantasy down on paper.


‘My understanding is that the libretto is the architectural structure on which the composer builds the music. No, we haven’t begun looking for a composer. I want to finish the libretto first, or at least have a complete draft, before presenting it to a composer. That’s only fair. Then of course I would like us to collaborate closely.”


Not without a touch of irony, Darling says that “my only requirement of the music is that it be exactly right and very beautiful.” Her stunning prose deserves no less.


Diana Darling was born in the USA in 1947, studying acting in New York and performing Off-Off-Broadway from 1970 to 1974. She lived in Carrera, Italy, carving marble (1974-80), and studied drawing in Paris (76-78). Moving to Bali in 1980, she soon married Australian filmmaker John Darling (until 1987) and is now married to A. A. Alit Ardi of Ubud. She’s been editor-in-chief for the highly praised Latitudes magazine, and has contributed essays to many publications on Bali style and culture. Alongside her personal works in progress, Darling has a day job as a copywriter.

Back in Bali

Picked up The Man at Ngurah Rai Airport and went to ...you guessed it... Makro! The raja of grocery stores here in the isle of gods and rajas.

Just checking in. No news to report, except that I ran into friends Sue and Peta in the space of 2 minutes (outside of Dijon, how terminally EXPAT is that?). I don't see anyone outside of Amlapura postal delivery men and the boys at the pool hall across the street. So it's mind boggling to see these gals in so short a time span.

Feel pretty good about recent interview with Diana Darling. She's a wonderful writer. It could be that Bali is a damn good environment for honing one's writing skills.

Also feel pretty good about short story sent to Nury of the Asian Literary Review (née Dimsum).

Watch the Bali Advertiser for the DD interview.

666

666

I wish I had some checks to sign, or more letters to write. I am unwilling to waste this amazing date!

I am stuck at the internet cafe in Amlapura, sharing a dialup line with three other people, trying to get in this blog before it's time to go home to lunch.

Ariel and Kim and I arrived in Bali late last night. A successful operation all around, with no confiscated items by homeland security airport thugs.

Bali had the cutest black lab sniffer dog give all my bags a big wagging once-over, and it's a good thing they train those doggies to detect cocaine and marijuana, because if they ever get one of those guys to sniff out furniture polish, I'm dead.

Odd weather lately in East Bali, with rain clouds whirling overhead, patches of intense blue in between. I mean, is this June or January? Wet deck in the morning tells me our global weather is messed up this year.

Okay, eager to plan the next few days with the girls. I'll make the suggestions and they'll have to decide when to do what. On their list: rafting, surfing, and a visit to M Bar Go because Georgina Barnett is the PR girl there.

Spotted a very cool deal from the Hyatt here, where two nights cost only 988,000 Rupiah. Ariel and Kim are considering taking that on.

Horrid dialup situation keeps me disjointed and boring. Sorry. On 6/6/6, I am boring.

Tienanmen Square 06

Without benefit of Cantonese ability, I can report only that the candlelight vigil was unreasonably short tonight. In previous years, I have left Victoria Park long before the commemoration was over.

Yet, it was still moving, with thousands of Hong Kong people, from all walks of life, humbly sitting on asphalt with their candles held high, singing songs of their passionate remembrance for the democracy demonstrators.

In the end, a Falun Dafa adherant spoke with me and my daughter and her friend, as hordes of people filed out of the park, telling us that HK people are under constant surveilance by the government in Beijing. Was this the reason the event broke up at 10 pm? I don't know.

More later. Must sleep.

Tien An Men Square Commemorative Guilt

Aiya!

Yesterday from 8 to 10 I was online doing a United Airlines survey while a number of artists were at ParaSite in an art performance in remembrance of the massacre at Tienanmen Square.

The extenuating circumstance was that I'd failed to read HK Magazine's calendar. Naturally, I read it this morning over a cup of Java.

Okay, today I vow to get to exit D of the Causeway Bay MTR station to see another perf on the streets. Will bring camera.

HK Live 2006

Got back just now from the Fringe... HK LIVE event, Channel V showcasing 3 local talents.

Fun pop band "Maladjusted" at first, 5 Chinese youngsters that sound like Oasis without attitude. Actually pretty enjoyable. Next band "Vibration" funkier and dancier and canto popier (rhymes with copier) with girl singer (singing spotty but stage presence cute & cheerful) and plenty of sampling & effects.

Final band "Robot," tonight encarnated as a quintet of cool nerds, mostly white, including two intense bald guy types, with a couple of tables of mixed electronics. Worth the price of admission was their 5 part film on evolution, filmed in HK and definitely inspired by bellbottom science (Open Learning, for readers who are not members of my family).

Robot would screen a part of the video and then pause it and play a tune (that electronic dance stuff for which boomers like me haven't quite developed a taste) and then go back to another section of the movie... hilarious sequence of cave men days filmed atop a typical hk rock outcropping, with massive HK urban highrise background.

Came home smelling like an ashtray (HK lags behind Oklahoma City and New Jersey, do you believe it?) and curious to know if I can fall asleep.

The Forgotten Language

I emailed this to my son, who's fluent in Putonghua and can hold his own in hockey rink Cantonese:

Humbled in Honkers:

I flag a taxi, I jump in, expelling "Tai Hang Douh" as quickly as possible, for it's usually when ya go too slow that expat Cantonese doesn't cut it. I follow with "Wong Fung Toi", simply because Wong Fung Terrace is the little private road that I really mean, but I want him to get to Tai Hang Douh first.

"Wong Fung Toi?" driver intones back at me, genuinely puzzled, tapping the break in the middle of Lower Albert Road. He makes as if to go down Ice House Street, a true disaster.

"Wong Fung Toi, yes," I say. He's said it just like I did, and I am pretty darn sure I said it right.

Back and forth we verify and confirm and act like parrots, and I desperately add, So Kon Po, and he's all ahhhh! So Kon Po! and I think s**t, no, I don't want him to take me to So Kon Po... what the hell is Cantonese for "above?" And my mind spits out beautiful Indonesian sentences for perfectly explaining what he's gotta do.

"M'hai So Kon Po," I tsk, exasperatedly. I hope to God that I look like I am searching for a better way to explain myself, but how do you say in Cantonese, "I beg your pardon, but it seems to me that my Cantonese, formerly quite adequate for giving a taxi driver directions, is now virtually forgotten, replaced instead by halfway decent Indonesian?"

I sputter and pray he doesn't turn up towards Midlevels, as we are now racing along the underside of Government House towards Cotton Tree Drive.

He goes to his cell phone and speaks to dispatcher/wife/gambling buddy/random number: "gonggingjungmanggongwongdong Wong Fung Toi, ah?"

pause.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh! WONG FUNG TOI !!!!" What's Eureka! in Chinese?

He hangs up with a smile and says to me, and I swear to God there is no difference between the two pronounciations, "M'hai Wong Fung Toi. WONG FUNG TOI ahhh" in a helpful, not at all insulting voice. Although I proffer a sincere, "duih m'jih", I'm thinking what the Sam Hill am I going to do next time I'm in a taxi and I want to get to Quentin's house? Taxi driver is chuckling to himself in that head shaking manner of "now I've heard everything! Wait'll the wife/drinking buddy/guys at the shop/ kids/dog hears THIS one!"

Readers, please do NOT tell me that wong fung toi, if intoned in a certain way, means "s**t my pants" or "swim with donkey" or worse. Then again, tell me how that would be pronounced so that I will never make that mistake again!

Hong Kong: a stranger again

Well, it had to happen. I have been out of Honkers so long that I perceive all the things a stranger notices:

the dense crowds (and is EVERYONE 19 years old?)
the air conditioned interiors
the air
the gaga, overwhelmed faces of backpackers
the lack of good street signage
the relatively dressed-up appearance of young expats
the wrought iron bars on everyone's windows
concrete retaining walls with mortar blackened by mold and humidity

I checked into Susan and Q's nice trad HK flat (you know, one apartment per floor, no amenities, tiny kitchen, large lounge-dining area, surprisingly sizeable balcony). Hacked into the network (I think I'm not the only person on Q's line, it's a bit slow), and planned my stay. Had a couple hours in Causeway Bay, in search of a good adaptor (forgetting to pack one is another sign of a clueless stranger). Of course, along the way I bought eye makeup and yogurt. Tried to figure out the green minibus number that runs up along Tai Hang Road.

Got in, my calves aching from the walk! What walking I did, when I lived here.

Ashes and Snow

Man, could some clever individual ever make a great parody of Gregory Colbert's Ashes and Snow.

Saw it on its last day at the Santa Monica Pier, as part of mega festivities for Grinch Girlfriend's Graduation.

I will suffer the slings and arrows of having an unpopular opinion, but I didn't really like the famous exhibition of beautiful native gals and kids cavorting with animals (most of them tamed).

Short critique: gorgeous cinematography elevates genre of pinup art.

Politically chic critique: 19th century glorification of the exotic "other" is alive and well in elephant-dung filled ponds where cafe-au-lait-skinned females cavort in exquisite slo-mo alongside gentle beasts.

Sorry... it was like visiting clown paintings on velvet, painted by David, where I would surely opine, "I bow to the grandmaster of schlock!"