The Weekend Rambler

Muay Thai and Pol Pot in Phnom Penh

October 24, 2018

I sat in the airport, peering at a plane with dark mascara-like lines running down the windows of an old Airbus A-whatever. “Should I even be going here?” No one I’d talked to really liked Phnom Penh. They all went there because they had a flight out on their way to see Angkor Wat. Phnom Penh was a stopping point, never the end goal on travelers’ lists. It was described to me as a sad, dirty city with not much charm. I looked on my phone, reading about the former Khmer Rouge agent, current Prime Minister who is one of the longest reigning world leaders, pinching my eyebrows together until they turned into a uno-brow. I considered getting up and stepping on a bus back to Lingnan, but something drove me onto that old plane.

And of course, I had an amazing time.

I arrive late to Phnom Penh Airport, well designed and modern, covered in a torrential downpour raining sheets and shooting bolts of lightning. “Excuse me, where does the bus leave to go downtown?” I asked the tourist information desk.

“Um…I think you shouldn’t take the bus. It’s rain too much.”

“Yes but where does it leave from?”

“JUST…Please take taxi, sir.”

With that, I hopped in a taxi and waited in the rain through an hour or more of traffic. The taxi dropped me off at Pu Rock Hostel, just two blocks from Tuol Sleng Prison Museum and only $3 a night. I walked in through the dark rain and dropped off my things in the twenty-person dorm room. I made eye contact with a guy across the room, sent him a “Hey, what’s up?” and quickly added “Let’s go get dinner” after a few minutes of introduction.

So Nils and I made our way through the rain to a little restaurant around the corner. Instantly, I’m not wowed by Cambodian food, especially compared to the perfection of Vietnamese food I ate everywhere last week. But I suppose its also my fear of Cambodian food, after getting a pretty nasty case of food poisoning on a trip to Angkor Wat six years ago. As with any food poisoning case, I now questioned the sanitary value of everything I put near me, which probably led to a pretty boring plate (but a pretty stagnant stomach). Dinner was fried rice or something else equally forgettable.

I was planning on meeting up with some couchsurfer’s downtown, so Nils came along. He’s a German engineering student who just finished his undergraduate degree and decided to go on a trip around Asia. I always envy these amazing people a little bit, the ones who don’t know where they will be in three days. But I guess that’s only because I know exactly where I’ll be in three days. We hopped in a rickshaw and headed to a restaurant along the river, which seemed to either be under construction or spend it morning hours as a furniture store. Half of the store was filled with plastic wrapped couches, while the other half had wires and broken walls. Regardless, the room was packed with expats and foreigners eating and drinking happily to loud music. One of the French couchsurfer’s said he was wearing a white shirt, so I walked up to the first table with a white-shirted white guy and asked “Hey! Are you guys the couchsurfer’s?”

“No…what makes you say that…” A drunk Brit hissed back at me through thick makeup.

“Ah sorry, okay, it’s crowded in here.” I apologized and kept looking before finally finding the right table. Down we sat, with two locals, the white-shirted Frenchman, a German, and a Malaysian who bought all our drinks. It was a cool vibe, but too noisy so one of the local women, a writer and all around awesome person, suggested we go to a live music fundraising show nearby. We hopped up, and I went to the bathroom where I met the same drunk thick make upped Brit waiting in line.

“So, why did you think we were couchsurfer’s? Did you think we looked homeless like you, like we couldn’t afford a place of our own?”

“Aw naw naw, I thought you guys looked like openminded, cool people. But I guess I was wrong.”

“Pffffffff” she fuffed through tequila breath and went back to talking to her friend.

We arrived soon after, at a little local bar where a German man in tight jeans and a lovely, Werner Herzog voice stood talking about his NGO that helps local children. He showed how metal music is helping give children in poverty an outlet for their creativity and aggression, showing videos of Cambodian kids screaming into a microphone and thrashing around. Afterward, they had a concert with some of the kids. I can approve of anyone learning music, especially when it gives people an outlet to find happiness.

The show soon ended, and we sat outside with our beers chatting. Our group had picked up a Berliner living in Hong-Kong and an Italian Hardcore singer (check his band out here). The Berliner was here on a little trip like me before going back to his exchange semester. The Italian was here to learn traditional tattoo techniques from Buddhist monks (badass, right?). Obviously, I gravitated towards the Hardcore singer, and we were soon talking about obscure Finnish punk bands and Italian Hardcore and all of those great unknown screamer musicians out there. The German NGO headman soon came out and invited us to another show, which I and the Italian guy easily agreed with. We were whisked away in a rickshaw to LF Social Club filled with expats, where cheap beer flowed and heavy live rap was dealt out by two Americans. It was a surreal setting, sitting in a Cambodian bar surrounded by expats listening to Americans rap. But this is somehow the essence of Phnom Penh, finding beauty in the weird and unexpected.

The next morning was a bit hazy, and I ended up waking far later than I had hoped. But Nils was just as sleepy as I, and we made it out for a late breakfast.

Yes, Phnom Penh is pretty dirty. But not in a bad way. Yes, we almost stepped on smooshed rat brains on our way to breakfast. But that’s always interesting, right? Definitely. Cambodia is a scrappy kind of place, where people make ends meet any way they can. I’ve seen men eat bat heads, and seen ant and bee larvae served next to chicken breasts on a menu. I’ve moved plates of brains out of the way in a restaurant refrigerator so I could get to the beers. I like that scrappiness, and I guess with the past Cambodia has had it’s the only way they can be.

Max, the white shirt Frenchman and I met up after breakfast at Tuol Sleng: The infamous location of one of Pol Pot’s darkest prisons during his reign of genocide and terror. From 1976 to 1979, thousands, roughly 20,000 or more, spent years here being tortured on the grounds of nothing more than having received an education. Culture and education were seen as detrimental to the utopian self-sufficient peasant economy of Pol Pot’s dreams, so anyone who could speak French or wore glasses spent a while here.

Like many sites of devastation, Tuol Sleng is now quiet and serene, with roosters walking around and only the sound of coconut palms rustling in the background. Nothing is “Disneyfied” or overdone, as the floors are still stained and dusty, as they must have been long before the barbed wire surrounding the building began to rust. It’s a place of thought and respect, and not for the faint of heart.

Quietly, Max and I grabbed a rickshaw to our next stop on our tough day: to Choeung Ek, otherwise known as The Killing Fields.

TRIGGER WARNING: I talk a bit about the Cambodian genocide and it’s horrors here. If you don’t wish to read, please continue on to the section after the photo of the skulls.

It’s unknown how many people died here, but this site, like many others across the country, served as a site of execution. No one spent more than a few nights here, and if they did it was likely tied down in a hut listening to the screams of other people being executed. The audio guide made a representation of Cambodian propoganda music blasting loudly, with a diesel motor humming in the background. This under the screams of others would have created a terrifying last moment for anyone. Over 8,000 bodies have been excavated, but more bodies are regularly discovered, and a lake near the site is left preserved with thousands of bodies lying underneath. A fourth of the country’s population was slaughtered in those few years, and many are buried here, or housed in this pagoda on the site.

Now, it’s serene and calm, but it used to be the site of unmentionable horrors. Babies were thrashed against tree stumps, and people were killed with anything blunt or sharp enough to end a life since bullets were too expensive. With the rain, scraps of clothes and bone still pop up in the dirt from time to time.

A cat sits underneath a fruit tree, chewing on a little bone he found in a mound. It’s all a sobering experience, one that leaves me silent for a while. But one that I will remember for the rest of my life.

Max and I spent the whole time walking quietly, listening to the perfectly designed audio guide, that when we took our headphones off to speak we didn’t quite know what to say. All I could think of was “…I need a beer”.

We went out, waving at some smiling local children, holding our beers before getting into our rickshaw back to the hostel to pick up Nils. Our next stop on the violence tour: a free Muay Thai tournament up town. Our rickshaw driver wanted to watch with us, so he just parked and said he’d drive us back into town. Walking into the crowd was a sight, as I was the tallest person for miles. Some random people smiled and waved at me as we found our seats before the fighting began.

It wasn’t as violent as I was expecting, but watching some actual Muay Thai fights was a treat. Especially for free. The best fight was the last one, between a short Thai veteran covered in back tattoos and a tall Cambodian. The Cambodian looked like he had the fight the first two rounds, but the veteran pulled through finally taking the win in the last round, his little fists bobbing up and down like a cobra. The rickshaw driver took us back downtown for a stop at the night market for some dinner, where I didn’t fit in at all.

At least the food was decent.

Nils had to head out early the next morning, but Max and I met up at the Russian market for a wander through the hot and hectic market the next morning. The Russian Market is a site worth seeing, just in its eclectic display of everything and anything from car parts to chicken organs to glitters of all colors.

After some lunch and a coffee, we took a rickshaw over to Wat Phnom, a huge beautiful temple that was also the first time a family has asked to take a photo with me since I’ve been in Asia. But aside from that, the temple was gorgeous.

Phnom Penh is an interesting city. From here, we walked through the garbage laid streets to the central market. Phnom Penh doesn’t have a great smell, most often it smells of rotten garbage. But occasionally, you get the smell of cooking meat or sweet fruit.

But most often, a smile from a local makes all the smells worth it. We made it to the Central Market, covered in tourists but still offering a huge array of goods to purchase at great prices.

After this, I felt as though I had seen all of Phnom Penh’s main sites. So we went for a wander, stopping into a restaurant for some great stir-fried noodles and just wandering around to see who we could meet. Phnom Penh is a city of constantly smiling locals, so anyone traveling here should be quick to smile back.

We walked along the riverfront, grabbing some beer and enjoying the “chilly” weather. Everyone seemed to be out on the calm Sunday afternoon, giving us a chance to see locals at play.

Phnom Penh isn’t the prettiest city, but it is one of the most lovely and calm cities I’ve been to. So laid back, and enjoyable in so many different ways. Yes, it’s dirty. Yes, the government is questionable. Yes, the food is a bit iffy. But if you look past these things, you’ll have an amazing time, as I most certainly did. As I sat on the plane back, most likely the same plane I took out there, I felt a strong feeling of calm. Moreover, happiness for even coming on the plane in the first place. I figure, if I want to continue living this vagabond travel and photograph lifestyle, I’ll have to wade through more dirt, dine with worse dictators, and fly more rickety planes. Cambodia is a smiling country, and for that, I thank it. Though it’s lived a sad past, Cambodia is looking up, and as long as it keeps smiling we will always cherish it.
Hop Over to Hanoi

October 19, 2018

Hanoi is little over an hour and a half flight from Hong-Kong: making me ponder why I don’t make the journey every weekend.

As I walk from the plane to Vietnamese immigration, I notice that this whole place smells like my favorite pho place back in Denver. Either they use the same floor cleaner, or the whole country is saturated with centuries of Thai basil and floral steaming bowls of soup. I think I’ll enjoy Hanoi.

Especially when great hostels are $6 a night, bowls of the most flavorful pho are $1, and crisp ice cold beer is $.60. Vietnam, you are a treasure.

My flight was easy going and, dare I say, relaxing. Hanoi, in general relaxing. This is something not a lot of people would agree with, but the rice paddies and little homes laying in front of a misty mountain backdrop on the bus ride into central Hanoi felt like true rural life compared to the constant high-rise and overpopulation of Hong-Kong. When I hopped off the bus, I instantly had a smile on my face. The sheer magnitude of chaos from all the buzzing motorbikes, honking away for no reason can do nothing but leave a silly smile as I walk across the street determined to make it to the other side in one piece. The bus drops me right near Hoan Kiem Lake, a hangout for locals and vacationers alike. Since it’s weekend, the roads are blocked off to allow pedestrians to take over the streets encompassing the lake, and people are gathering to watch street performers or playing with Chinese hacky-sacks in the dusk light. I walk around quietly and head into the Old Quarter towards my hostel.

I’m staying at D’annam Hostel, just a few blocks away from the lake and right in the central part of the Old Quarter. For $6 a night, I got a non-party hostel in a good location with free breakfast. That’s my kind of place.

Hungry from the flight, I schlepped off my bag and went in search of one thing: pho. One of my favorite dishes, each bowl of pho is like a little bowl of love. Tender rice noodles, melt in your mouth chunks of beef, fresh green Thai basil, spicy green onions, and mouthwatering peppers. Every bowl of pho replenishes my soul a bit, making me feel happy and healthy for whatever comes next. I’ve eaten pho across the US and Eastern Europe, and now it was time for the real deal. And I was in for a treat.

My first stop was Pho 10, just a few blocks from my hostel. This was sort of ‘fancy’ pho, with waiters dressed in matching shirts and $2 bowls of beefy goodness. But it certainly did not disappoint.

I never really have a plan when visiting a city. I merely wander and see what I stumble upon, and usually find something interesting. While walking down the street, a man sitting on the side of the road looked at me and shouted “Stop!” putting me in my place to look around. With me confused, he squirted super glue into the holes of my shoe lining, “There you go, I fix” he said behind a crooked smile.

“God dammit…” I muttered under my breath. I’ve encounters a lot of scammers, but this one was pretty clever…and I suppose helpful. At this point, he was too far in for me to escape now. He ripped my shoe off to finish the job, gluing up all the patches in my road worn Vans. I made him stop, and put my shoe back on, to which he asked for $5, which I refused to give him. He got upset and begged for $1, which I would have given him had I not been so confused by the money. I ended up giving him about 15,000 Dong, about $.50. But now, one of my shoes was fixed to continue walking (update: the glue has split and my shoes are back to normal). Soon, I came upon a moisture darkened French cathedral.

St. Joseph’s is gorgeous right? The French occupation of Indo-China was rife with the horrendous consequences of European colonialism, but the French did certainly leave behind some beautiful works of architecture. Out front, new brides stood to take photos with their hubbies in the soft light. This seemed like a moment to enjoy, so I walked to a little coffee shop with locals squatting with juice, shelling and munching on sunflower seeds. I wanted to join the locals on the pavement, but the shop owners made me sit away from the storefront in a chair. I’m not sure if it was to keep me comfortable or away from the locals, but I can’t really complain when they can make a coffee as deliciously viscous and creamy as they did.

Thick, sugary Vietnamese coffee is all I needed to get enough start back in me to go the rest of the day. On couchsurfing, I started messaging with a Berliner, who said he’d come to meet me where I was getting coffee. About thirty minutes later, Nikitas showed up with a couchsurfer from France, Pamela, and another from Turkey (whose name I forgot, as always). Nikitas and Pamela hadn’t eaten yet, so we stopped by a little noodle shop on the side of the road for gorgeous glass noodles in broth. Some of the best restaurants in Asia are the simplest, and this was no different. It was only a woman on a little stool sitting next to a bubbling cauldron and a cabinet full of meat, noodles, and veggies. Nothing more is necessary.

The Turkish woman, a fashion designer, told rumors of a bar that supposedly had “Free Beers”. I was suspicious, but of course, had to investigate. Along the way, Nikitas and I ponder whether or not to invest in Snake Vodka. Maybe it’ll give me more vitality, or something.

I’m suspicious of anything free. Especially free alcohol. We arrived at a completely empty bar and asked “Where’s the free beer?” to which they seemed to suddenly remember, and between three bartenders hoisted a gigantic keg onto the bar. We sit for a while, drinking free beers, talking and dancing as the only people in the bar aside from a few more couchsurfers that show up later. Why is the beer free? Had it gone bad? Is this feeling I’m having the alcohol, or rats decomposing in the keg? All in all, I drank eight beers without paying a dime. I soon left, a little tipsy, expecting someone to run after me expecting for me to pay for the air. No one came.

A lot of the couchsurfers wanted to go clubbing, but Nikitas and I wanted sandwiches (Nikitas is 2 meters tall, and I’m 197, so we need a constant food supply). We stop a few doors down to engorge on Banh Mi, a French baguette spread with butter and pate, filled with fresh veggies and fried pork. Yes, it’s every bit as delicious as it sounds. Nikitas and I sat in a post-eight-beer stuppor, giggling our butts off at how unbelievably delicious this $1 sandwich was. So we bought another. And I would have bought a third, had the others not been tired of watching me stuff my face.

But after two sandwiches and eight beers, I was pretty tired. Nikitas was pretty dead too, so we walked back through the old quarter to our hostels, weaving through hoards of local and tourist partygoers enjoying the cool night air and delicious food and beer. It was eclectic but harmonious, insane, but organized. Perfect Chaos.

The next morning, I wake up for my free scrambled eggs and toast, enjoyed on the hostels’ rooftop patio with some other interesting travelers and backpackers. One man reminded me of Paul Theroux, although long-haired and British and far more hippy. But he was doing a massive train tour through the world, detailing his trips through India in the 1960’s and his adventures on the Trans-Siberian through his quivering Bristol accent. Travel is about meeting people, and I’m always amazed by those that I encounter in every part of the globe.

After breakfast, I need to get out and explore. I walk for hours, in no direction, perhaps even in circles, just enjoying the beeping bikes and harmony in absurdity.

I alight on a stool for a sweet creamy coffee, one of many, and people watch for a while.

I’m amazed at how relaxed I feel in this city, especially compared to Hong-Kong. Hanoi is hot, humid, terribly polluted, and forever filled with the noise of a million bikes. Yet it feels calmer than the constant rush of Hong-Kong. I figure it must be the architecture, as no building is more than a few stories high, providing a far less looming atmosphere to the entire city. As well, for the fact that one can sit outside in Hanoi. In Hong-Kong, I don’t know of many places to sit outside with a coffee to people watch. In Hanoi, everywhere feels like a place to sit and drink a coffee to people watch.

My only plan for the day is to meet Pamela and Nikitas for a food tour. Pamela is studying here for a year, and a friend at her school does free food tours of the city. I meet with Nikitas at St. Joseph Cathedral, and soon a smiling Vietnamese guy not much older than 25 shows up with some other locals. We soon learn that our guide, Harry, is also an English teacher and these are some of the students he’s taken out for a Sunday English lesson and lunch. I can think of no greater way to connect than to share food, and this is no exception.

Soon, we’re in a dark alleyway being transported to who knows where. Sweet marinades fill the air as locals eating noodles from stools stare up at me. A man is barbecuing meat on a little fire held between to bricks while a woman cuts green onions next to him.

It’s an array of beautiful smells and sights, and it all instantly opens on to a little house, with only a few tables and a menu for the drinks only. Soon, vermicelli noodles show up along with a plate of dewy greens, and then the main attraction: Bun Cha.

A bowl of marinated pork, grilled to charcoaled perfection and served in a bowl of fish sauce and other magic juices. Raw garlic and chili peppers are added at will, and vermicelli noodles are dipped and enjoyed. Every bite is equally delicious, and equally palette covering. I’m getting a meaty saltiness, a fishy brininess, spicy pepper, and sweet crunchy carrots to create a little bit of harmony. The chaos exists in food here as well, from the fire and drama of the barbecue to the craziness of wet noodles sloshing fish sauce everywhere. But in your mouth, all is harmonious and easy, just like Hanoi.

It’s perfect. Always trust locals. I would never have found this place, and I will never find it again. We’re back on the street, chatting about life in Vietnam while Harry live streams everything for his facebook. Vietnamese are extraordinarily welcoming and friendly. These kids want nothing from us, other than to learn about our lives and practice their English. Getting some food helps too, of course.

Next, we head to a cafe built in the colonial period. This is another hole in the wall, but it opens up into a cafe with old Chinese decorations and tilings, and a pet rooster (The Third Worlds sign of hospitality).

We go to the rooftop bar, overlooking Hoan Kiem Lake, for an egg coffee. I’m still not sure how it’s made, but what comes out is a hot espresso mixed with a bit of milk and raw egg. It’s strangely delicious and creamy. We linger a while enjoying our coffees and chatting longer. Soon though, Harry has to go teach a class, and his pupils have other places to be. So we part ways, thanking them profusely for their insights, guidance, and time. Back to wandering we go.

Nikitas and I are soon hungry, so we stop at another roadside stall of pho. Happy tummies make happy faces.

We wander quite far, to the Western lake, where we stop for a while at a little touristy temple.

I know it seems like all I did was eat…and you’d be right. When food is as delicious and cheap as it is here, it’s impossible not to eat more.

Next, we went to dinner. We headed to the bar streets in the Old Quarter, stopping at a bar on the second floor with locals eating chicken feet and playing cards. Nikitas and Pamela split a cheap bottle of vodka, and I stick to beers which I paid for. Incredible.

We have a little plan of doing Karaoke, so we go for a long walk to a different side of town. Here, there were no tourists, no English signs, no signs of life other than locals eating on the street. It was a little bit sketchy, but I stopped for a sandwich beforehand.

Karaoke’s a bit different here, and a group has to rent out a room and do it all privately. So no one really wanted to rent a room out for three people, and we experience a bit of difficulting finding anyone to consider our plea to sing off key. We can’t find a place with songs we like, or good prices. That’s life, sometimes.

It’s the final day of my Hanoi long weekend adventure, and I have a few stops in mind. But first: coffee and people watching time.

I wander around Hoan Kiem Lake again, enjoying the breeze and happy atmosphere of people taking breaks from their morning routines, getting ready for a long day of work.

The first must-visit stop for me was Hoa Lo Prison, more famously known as the “Hanoi Hilton”.

Right in the downtown area, this prison served as the main prison for political prisoners during the Colonial era.

Prisoners were held here for their communist beliefs, with their feet chained to the floors. But that did not stop their spirit, as it served as the teaching room for the communist ideals and philosophy lessons. The prisoners kept their spirits high through the socialist dream, fueling their desire for a free Vietnam. A perfect example of the will and victory of the Communist ideology.

Yes, it was extraordinarily one-sided and biased, but I’m sure the French certainly were not easy on the Vietnamese. The portion on the American Prisoners of War was surprisingly short, as the prison has such a reputation in the US. But from what existed, the prison was made to look like a resort for American pilots. Photos displayed pilots decorating Christmas trees, feasting on ducks, and shooting hoops in the courtyard to keep up their physical strength. The exhibit proudly boasted on the medical treatments available for prisoners, and how, dare I say, luxurious the lives of the American soldiers were here. I’m sure the prisoners would have a different version of the story. But I suppose the victor also gets to tell the history, especially in a place like Vietnam.

After the heavy exhibit, I needed some more pho. This was followed by a wander around the Temple of Literature, the oldest University in Vietnam.

The day is hot, but something keeps driving my feet forward. I wander further, stopping only occasionally in the shade to fan myself with my sweaty hands.

Eventually, I make it to Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum and sit in the shade for a while watching the white-suited guards parade on the perimeter.

Now, the rest of the night went as any night in Hanoi. All I wanted was to eat. I met up with Andrian, a Filipino staying in the dorm for some pho. This is his first time alone outside of the Philippines, and his first big trip alone. I love his lighthearted view on life, and he can’t believe I’ve been so lucky to have traveled as much as I have. Honestly, I can’t either sometimes, but I’m so glad to keep going.

I told him to eat his soup more seriously for the photo so he became stoic with his noodles.

Mine was nowhere near serious.

But his is certainly more beautiful.

We walk around to the Dong Xuan market, a huge marketplace selling whatever one may desire. It has that thick smell of plastic and mothballs like every market in the Third World.

We meet up with Nikitas, Pamela, and her friend from university. We enjoy one last night of sandwiches and beers together for the last time. Nikitas has bought an awesome retro motorbike today, which he plans on taking up North into the mountains and then down South for as long as his visa will permit. Pamela and her friend are going South to Ha Long Bay, a beautiful looking mountainous area. Andrian is only on the first day of a week-long Vietnamese adventure, and what comes next only the universe knows. I, on the other hand, have a Japanese exam tomorrow and must go back to Hong-Kong.

I wish I could continue, into the beautiful chaos of Vietnam. I feel bad as well, for only coming for a weekend. But I know for sure that I will be back one day, and I can spend even more time in the country now that I’ve seen Hanoi so thoroughly. The beauty, warmth of its people, and flavor of all of its food will drive me back someday. Every time I have a bowl of pho, in Prague or Denver or wherever else, I will think and imagine myself on the Hanoi streets, eating $1 pho as motorbikes drive by honking relentlessly at nothing.
How to Find Underground Music in Hong Kong

October 10, 2018

So you’ve come to Hong-Kong for business or pleasure, and need to let your hair down. Or maybe you’ve moved here chasing a Cantonese bride and decided to start teaching English at a local school to pay the bills and need a way to relieve that stress. Maybe you’re an exchange student who works at a punk bar back home and needs to listen to raunchy, scream-your-face off underground music once a week to make your time in this humid, messy, and overpopulated city bearable.

Baby, I’ve been there.

For 7.6 million people, I’m a little disappointed with the underground music scene in this city. Especially with all the expats from Europe, Australia, and America, where there are plenty of badass music venues supporting local music. But if you look hard enough, there are a couple of places to catch a badass show to headbang to. For all the metalheads, hardcore fans, scream-o’s, punks, and anyone else that loves to circle-mosh and thrash, I hope this helps.

Step One: Check out The Wanch (at least just as a stepping stone)

If you’re staying on Hong-Kong Island, this is the best place to start your hunt for local music. This place hosts live music every night. Yes, every night. This can range from acoustic and relaxed, to Irish folk, to Filipino Punk. The vibe is different every night, with a different crowd each time. So if you’re in town for a few nights and want to see what’s up, this is a good place to start. Cover charge is free, and beer is decently priced for central HK.

This is also an extraordinarily friendly crowd, so popping outside to talk to the musicians or make new friends is extremely easy. The music here can be pretty tame, but you may be able to find out where the next underground music venue will be by talking to the bartenders and musicians. If not:

Step Two: Check out The Underground

Rumor says this used to be the most thrashy punk bar in HK until it got shut down a few years ago. Now, the devoted crew at The Underground maintain a twitter account detailing the daily live music events throughout the city. This can be jazz nights in Wan Chai, some classical music, or the awesome events I visited last weekend. Friday night was Punktober at the Wanch, and Saturday night was the HARD as FXXK Hardcore festival held at Hong Kong Baptist University.

(Sorry, I didn’t bring my camera so my photos are a bit rushed)

I also found the Lionrocks Underground Music Festival, which turned into my post here (spoiler alert, it was awesome). So if you’ve got some time to research, The Underground will lead you exactly where you need to go.

Step Three: This Town Needs

This is a better indie music venue, with bigger name indie bands (and asking for a lot more on ticket prices). Snail Mail is playing here this week, and Unknown Mortal Orchestra was here a little while ago. If you’re into the indie vibes, check out their line-up and see if anything catches your eye.

Other than that, this is the only advice I can give so far. As all underground music goes, a lot of the news spreads by word of mouth. So go to The Wanch, head to a show that you read on The Underground, and start talking to anyone that looks like they know good music. Odds are, they’ll give you their whatsapp numbers and will text you next time there’s a show. A lot of underground shows are improvised, and in an unconventional venue like a University building. So it can be tough to get all of this out on social media.

Hong-Kong needs a lot of work in the Underground scene, but the current community is a tight-knit and supporting group of creative, awesome people. If you have the chance to go out and see a show, please do, and support the musicians in this city that just need to blow off some steam.

As well, if I missed anything please comment! I’d love to discover some new venues around the town, and I’m sure anyone reading would as well. Thanks!
The Fire Dragon

September 26, 2018

After my journey around Macau, I finally reach home at around 3:30 in the morning. That gave me just a few hours of sleep, having to wake up at 9 am to rush down south to catch my pottery class on Hong Kong Island. I didn’t even wake my roommate up when coming or going, which I’m pretty proud of. Today we learn how to throw, which was far more difficult than I had anticipated. My first piece was messed up and broken beyond repair, as I couldn’t quite center the clay on the wheel. On the second go, I do a pretty decent job and make a little bowl that I’ll put something in, I don’t know yet. The third piece went pretty crazy too, but I was able to turn its wobbly walls into a natural handle for an interesting pitcher. Even though it was difficult, it was an excellent way to spend a Sunday, even if my eyes were tired enough to fall out of their sockets.

Next, I head down to central Hong-Kong to do some exploring. I walk around Causeway Bay and wander into…of all places…IKEA. This one was odd though. It was too claustrophobic, and people seemed to just be inhabiting their Sunday’s here. The couch room was filled with people just relaxing, taking selfies and eating. I guess they come here to relax rather than stay at home. It wasn’t so nice of an experience, but I did finally find a succulent to liven up my dorm for HK$7 (about US$1). Afterward, I wandered around Victoria Park before getting a call from Charlotte. She and a colleague of hers invited me to watch the Fire Dragon festival with them, and I can’t turn down an opportunity like that.

The Fire Dragon festival started in the Tai Hang neighborhood in the 19th century to celebrate the Mid-Autumn festival (which I still don’t understand yet). From what I can gather, the festival is to meant bring about a good harvest year which you do by looking at the full moon while drinking tea and eating moon cakes (starch on starch: sticky cake filled with rice paste or bean curds). But this neighborhood has a pretty extravagant way of celebrating.

I meet up with Charlotte and another ecologist, Nico from Florence, and we head to a restaurant nearby with a photo of the owner with Anthony Bourdain. Must be good.

As soon as you get a photo with Anthony Bourdain, you can charge what you want I suppose. The food was okay, just too expensive. It certainly felt like a little local shop though. Maybe he went here a decade or so ago, but I trust that man’s palette more than anyone else’s (may he rest in peace).

We head out and stroll around Victoria Park, where there are little art installations and craft stands to celebrate the holiday.

Now, my journalism professor Michael is meeting us nearby. I’m excited to see him working in the field. We wait around for a while, just enjoying the slowly cooling night air.

Michael shows up, and we head on over. The fire dragon won’t be lit for a little while, but Michael makes conversation with some police officers to get a better idea of the event. He says that’s the best way to find out what’s going on, and for them to recognize your face and hopefully let you in for photos. He keeps note of their names, and regularly thanks them and shakes their hands. I’m taking mental notes the whole time.

We’ve got an hour or so until the dragon lights up, so we head back to Victoria Park to see the lanterns at night.

We even get to catch a miniature fire dragon!

We’ve spent an hour looking around, and listening to a local high school orchestra. Now: we want some fire dragon.

We head back, weeding our way through the crowds trying to find a good viewpoint. We get right in front of the fireballs, the breath of the dragon, heating up.

In the distance, we can see the dragon getting ready. It’s an immense line of rope with bamboo poles for dragon trainers to hold on to. The scales are made of countless sticks of incense, giving the entire street a plume of smoke with little ashen raindrops. Finally, with a thunderous explosion of drums and cymbals, the dragon is lit and makes its move.

But we’re too far away to catch anything, so we head back and talk to the policeman for a while. They tell us where to stand, so we sit a while hoping to see the dragon.

But the policemen were wrong. We make our move back, pushing our way in and finally getting a proper viewpoint. Along the way, I see the prize of the night: suckling pig.

We get a spot right next to the action, just in time to watch the dragon molt a new skin of incense.

Just in an instant, the drums erupt again in an explosion of cheers from the crowd. A cloud of sweet incense rises, making it almost impossible to breathe, as the dragon swims through the air towards us.

Shooting off breaths of fire and smoke, the dragon and its many handlers dance as one down the crowded street.

The dragon reminds me of the giant monster mouse from the movie American Tail. I hadn’t thought about that movie in years until I saw this thing and got a horrible flashback to that terrifying creation.

The people controlling the dragon are most interesting to me. There are a lot of expats, making me wonder how they got this gig. Whenever someone is tired, one of the dozens of volunteers steps in and takes their spot. It’s like clockwork, and miraculous to watch how smoothly it all runs. They’re all dripping with sweat, covered in ash and burn marks from fallen incense.

There are other dances, and school girls with little candles. Michael flashed an old journalist badge from a few years ago and got entrance into the event, and luckily got right up and personal with the dragon. I’m a little jealous, but I guess that’s one of the perks of the profession.

I’m covered in soot, but I’m happy. I feel like I’ve witnessed something truly special. The dragon makes its final dance, and recedes back to its cave. We follow it, to find a group of smiling and sweating dragon tamers, drinking beers and taking photos with the mystical head.

All that’s left to do now, is roast up that sweet little piggy.
Gambling for Panda Butts

September 25, 2018

Saturday’s are probably one of the worst days to set an alarm for 8:00, but the adventure ahead will be worth rubbing my dry eyes over.

I take the bus from Lingnan University directly to downtown Kowloon, right by the Star Ferry Port. My bare legs are covered in mosquito repellent, so the air smells of air-conditioner drippings and fresh DEET as I walk past the high-level fashion stores surrounding me. I head to a Starbucks and meet with Charlotte, an English marine biologist doing fieldwork in rural Hong-Kong for the next few months. We met at a concert at The Wanch (pretty much the only bar in HK with decent live music) a few weeks ago and instantly decided to be field trip buddies. We made tentative plans to head to Macau last weekend, but then the big bad Super Typhoon Mangkhut decided to roll through town.

So we rescheduled.

Now we found ourselves on the ferry to Macau, a little bit angry because they wouldn’t let us outside and made us buckle our seatbelts. The only joy of being on a boat is letting the salty air run through your hair, looking out at the majestic coast while dolphins swim along your seafaring vessel. Not the case, in rule-driven Hong-Kong. But we had some tea and talked for a relaxing hour or so.

We arrive in Macau, surrounded by Portuguese and a hint of diesel or boat fuel with a mix of rotting fish. It’s a lovely way to enter a new country.

(This isn’t the route our ferry took, but Google maps won’t show it so we’ll have to deal)

I’m inexplicably excited to be here. This is the only country I’ve visited with Portuguese roots, and Portuguese culture, in general, is extremely interesting to me. I like the way the language makes me smile when I attempt to speak it, and I like its adorable nasally sound. Both Portuguese and Brazilian cuisine is delicious, and Portuguese wines and cheeses could fill me for decades. Beyond that, Portuguese culture is exotic to me, which must be the biggest reason for my curiosity.

Our first encounter with a Macanese person was right outside the terminal, waiting for a bus. Charlotte saw a pretty building, so she approached a man on a smoking break and asked an innocent enough “What’s that building?” to which he freaked out and yelled at her, commanding her to stand behind an invisible line. She went to stand behind it, then repeated her question. He shouted no no no, stand behind the line, go around not here. We didn’t know what he was saying, and he clearly didn’t know what we were saying either. So we hushed our curiosity and peered through a dusty bus window going downtown.

Our first stop is A-Ma Temple, the oldest temple in Macau and apparently where the country got its name.

The Temple was small and intimate, and not too crowded. I’m already starting to sweat a bit, as the sun beats down intensely. We buy some incense packs and fake money for our ancestors, and walk around the temple praying to various deities and spirits.

The air is thick with incense, both from our sticks and these immense coils of burning fragrance hanging up everywhere. I can’t imagine how long it takes to make something like this, or how long it lasts, but I love the peaceful spirals adorning the temple.

We toss our money in the fire for our ancestors and the other ghosts that need money in the afterlife and make a little prayer.

If I’m not wrong (but please correct me if I am), it’s three bows facing the deity, three to the left, and three to the right (hopefully).

Deities and spirits happy, we head out of the Temple and walked north to the old part of town. Macau is so far less developed than Hong-Kong, but not in a bad way. If anything, I like it a bit more. Everything seems on a human scale. There aren’t skyscrapers everywhere, filled with cage houses like in Hong-Kong. Most of the buildings here are only few stories, which I much prefer.

We stop in front of a restaurant, and a voice across the street yells “That place is no good, don’t go.” We turn around and see a hip looking Macanese woman in a jumpsuit walking an adorable puppy. She recommends the place around the corner, a little hipster place called Padre. Locals know best.

I wanted to experience Macanese cuisine, but this place was a bit more Italian and a bit too expensive. Still, they make perfect homemade pasta. I go for a little snack and decide I can wait for some street food. We get out and continue our walk uptown.

The colonial vibe in Macau is far more present than in Hong-Kong. Buildings look like they popped right out of Portugal, and the locals just put Chinese signage on the front. Honestly, I really like it. It’s a perfect blend of two beautiful cultures, regardless of the run-down facades.

I’ve never been to Portugal, but I imagine the buildings to look a wee bit like these, just without the water damage and Chinese on the front. There’s an obvious presence of gambling as well. It is, more or less, the only income for the country, being Asia’s Las Vegas and Monaco all wrapped up in a little package. The Grand Lisboa looms over this side of town as an ever constant reminder to enjoy the glitz and glamor and spend a couple hundred Hong Kong dollars.

This is what I was expecting though. Everyone I had talked to prior to coming told me it wasn’t worth the trip. “It’s no better than Las Vegas,” they’d say. But I shooed them off, knowing there had to be more to a place, more to a culture then feeding off those with a gambling problem. In this neighborhood, this is evident in the architecture surrounding every street. It feels a bit more like a colonial town in the Caribbean than anything in Asia, but that’s exactly what I wanted to experience.

Charlotte and I are on a mission to see some pandas. We hop on a bus that drives to the other island of Macau. Macau is just two main islands, and we need to head to the other one. There are pandas at a little pavilion across the water in the Coloane village, so we board a crowded bus crossing our fingers that it will be the right one.

The scale of Macau is very manageable as well. Even though Hong-Kong is small, it still takes me about 1:30 to get anywhere downtown. Macau is a lot smaller, a lot cuter. But not as cute as little red panda butts.

For 10 HKD/MOP (~US$1.27), you get to spend an hour watching pandas. That sounds like a long time, but somehow an hour watching a bunch of pandas sit on their butts and eat bamboo goes by in a flash.

We even had the chance to watch the cutest fight in the world, which was more like two pandas just flopping on top of each other like black and white bean bags.

It’s an hour I’ll never get back but it was oh so well spent. The area also has an aviary, monkeys, and a butterfly walk, offering some great nature for those who’ve been gambling all day.

We’re a bit hungry so we head back uptown to Taipa village, just a stone’s through away from the main casino row.

We got a bit lost and ended up at a horse track and outdoor work out facility, but getting lost anywhere is the best way to see a city.

This part of town was one of the most interesting. Small, colonial buildings filled with Portuguese restaurants and Macanese food stalls. There’s a market street with bubbling broths and crispy egg tarts (Macau’s answer to pastel de nata), and a Japanese culture festival going on with live music and sushi stands.

Here we got some curry tofu, and I grab Macau’s most famous street food: the pork bun.

A bit like a banh mi, it’s literally just a slab of marinated pork chop thrown on a perfectly crispy piece of bread roll. I grab a couple, and I could easily eat a couple more if I had higher expectations of my digestive track.

We stop for a beer at a local bar playing a rugby match between the South Sydney Rabbitoh’s and the Sydney Roosters. I’m a tentative bunnies fan, but they lost so I didn’t make it a bit thing. It’s a perfect little bar with micro-brews on tap, and I miraculously see some other exchange kids also on a day trip.

The clock is growing late, and we figure a casino is a perfect way to end the day. The closest and perhaps most extravagant is the Venetian, glittering with a near perfect replication of St. Mark’s square with a little lake for expensive punting trips. The gambling complex is immense. The ceiling is quite literally, one giant camera. No blind spot exists in this mess of gambling. I raise my camera to my eyes, which was a terrible decision, because a guard ran towards me shouting “That is a criminal offense, it is illegal to use photography please delete any photos immediately.” I didn’t even take any pictures but that certainly shut me up, I probably should have been a bit smarter.

We wander around a while and lose HK$10 in a slot machine. I’d rather spend another hour watching pandas, but we can say we gambled in a Macau casino. Upstairs, we grab a bite to eat in a shopping mall made to look creepily identical to Venice, with an eerily perfect sky painted ceiling. It was all a bit too much for me. We ran around in circles lost, coming to the conclusion that we’d never be able to find an exit. Every time we asked someone how to get out we got a different answer, sending us around in more circles. We finally ran downstairs back to the casino, and considered joining a roulette table but decided to just escape before we got sucked in.

The gambling aspect wasn’t so nice. Las Vegas, at least, seems to have a lot of amazing shows and concerts. It’s turning into the entertainment hub of the US. But here, it just feels like a lot of people feeding their addictive personalities. A bit more like Reno, or at least the Reno I encountered with old lady’s on slot machines all day, holding foot long cigarettes with ashes that refuse to fall.

It was all a bit too much, and we felt the need to get out. We sat outside, watching some escorts try and lure tourists. They were pretty, but I wondered what kind of a life they could live in a place like this, where the only source of income stems from a business of pleasure. The row of casinos in Macau is all a bit too much, for all of the senses. I decided it was probably best we leave, before the night gets too long. I could, and will, absolutely come back to Macau. I was expecting to be bored by mid-afternoon. But there’s so much more for me to do here. The mix of Portuguese and Chinese is so miraculous and mysterious, and I feel as though there’s so much to be discovered underneath the gambling facade. In those colonial buildings, there are some amazing stories and customs waiting to burst out. But for now, it’s time to go home.

Luckily, ferries run almost twice an hour back to Hong-Kong. We hop aboard the midnight ferry, arriving back around 1:20ish. Charlotte lives far far away, on the South side of Hong Kong Island away from any public transport or life. That’s what ecologists do, and her days are normally spent measuring snails and running little tests on their trails. We say goodbye, and I sit and wait by the bus while she hops in a cab.

A good while passes, and over the street I see my journalism professor coming towards me. He was in Macau visiting a friend from his time spent reporting in Iraq, showing just how small this world can be. I like to get dinner pretty late when the dining hall is nearly empty and I can listen to the low mumbles of a couple sleepy diners around me. Lately, he’s been eating quite late too, joining me in discussions on journalism or Argentina or one of his many out of this world stories. I figure I won’t be able to catch all of his stories in this semester, so I’ve been really lucky to take a few of them over dinner. The bus takes a while, and we spend the wee hours of the morning letting Hong-Kong’s lights pass by, reminiscing on the minuscule yet beautiful world we live in.