My trip to Hong KongBy LINDSAY TUFFINIt is 4am in The Bridge and the debate is as fierce as the late summer heat in the Fragrant City... We are in the Journalists' Agora: The Pub. The worldwide location for generations of debate about all-that-is-wrong-with-journalism and grand, grandiose, passionate, world-changing-ideas ... profound-plans-pissed-up-against-the wall ... On this morning we are on the blood-pressure raising, slight-slurring 10th shout and the ale-fuelled passion is reaching its climax. The Bridge is a significant debating location. It is rowdy, pours a vast range of beer and sits opposite the winking red lights of temptation ... where the lithe fishnets offer their ancient, enticing dance. The sap rises ... briefly ... to be extinguished by the next round in this, Hong Kong's 24-hour pub favoured by the night shift of The South China Morning Post and The Standard. As well as the lesser mortals of electronic media ... Michael is asserting the primacy of the old-fashioned journalism. He is young, rising rapidly as a senior copy-editor; news editor his next appointment. But he wants to exchange copy editing for the frontline. He seeks a war. His aim is not to climb the slippery pole of backbench journalism or to become a techno journo producing sweet looking things for marketing-platform bosses. He will never enter PR; he will never become a spin-doctor, he says. Robert, a 26-year veteran of stints throughout Asia and Australia, is convinced that newspapers are going to be around for another century as I argue with a revolutionary zeal for the subversive possibilities of the Internet. Bill the Pom says that his life as a working journo in Hong Kong has been characterised by the inordinate number of Tasmanian journos who have crossed his path ... most from The Advocate. I hear the profession-age-old debates about journalism increasingly less frequently. Generally, it is ageing, wizened old hacks who say these things, a fading glow of memories of past ambition, sometimes achievement. Just a few days before, the conversation was not unlike this one: That time it was the New Sydney in Hobart ... the hacks around the table representative of the grumpy old men's club ... veterans who briefly glimpsed the golden age of newspaper journalism before technology stole its primacy. It's remarkable however, how similar are the discussions ... and reassuring to see the debate is still happening in at least two different ampitheatres around the world. It ends for me three hours later, when the capacity for commonsense, well, any form of sense, and the ability to negotiate the seething mass of humanity at the bar has diminished to reflexive motions, the erratic waving arms, glazed stare and involuntary motions having little impact on the barmaid ... or was that barman? I meander back to the hotel as the sun struggles through the smoky overcast and rocket up to the 28th floor of the Renaissance Harbour View (4-and-a-half star) where the welcome is not in the least strident ... though the breakfast-time arrival to re-unite with The Loved One has set back the sightseeing by half a day. We had managed a little the day before however; struggling through fierce 30 degree-heat and high humidity to take in a multi-level shopping centre, just four hours after booking in. The early morning arrival had Sue and I as two of three passengers on a bus into Hong Kong from the airport, the street comparatively deserted, the other buses full of commuters, heads lolled against the window, asleep. The visual shock of the city is unforgettable. The expanse of Victoria Harbour the only relief from the dozens of spectacular high-rise crammed to the waterline and rising impossibly up the flanks of the hillsides to the green Peak. The Renaissance sits in the middle of it all ... just behind the comparatively new Convention Centre with its wavy curves reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House. And the view from the 28th floor is pretty damn good - from Hong Kong Island over to Kowloon on the mainland. There is one way to discover any city, I reckon ... go for a run, detox from the farewell beer and reactivate the muscles made inert by eight hours aboard Qantas QF from Melbourne. I attempt 10ks along the waterfront and start the return journey after three. The sweat is pouring, the eyes are stinging, throat and nose passages closing down. This is not the pristine air of the Pipeline Track on Mt Wellington. This is Hong Kong with smoky air, mixed with high humidity pouring down from mainland China. Water, shower, 50 Hong Kong dollars for a litre in the hotel room and a semblance of normalcy returns. Not yet au-fait with city navigation, we struggle to the Pacific Place shopping centre and wander up and down the levels from Versace to Marks and Spencer. Then the weary stagger home, and dinner inlcuding spring rolls in the hotel; not bad. Day 2 and the waterfront run is forsaken in favour of a dash around the outdoor fitness track - on the 11th floor. I kid you not: the 11th floor. There's also a gym, two tennis courts and a swimming pool. I feel vastly superior sweating in the open air (8ks) while the well-tailored execs and holiday-makers treadmill in the air-conditioned gym. Wankers. Then it's brekky in the Black and White Cafe near the hotel where Hong Kong's most helpful cafe owner sets out a five-day itinerary for the discerning tourist. I won't bore you with a travelogue. But it included: * A trip to the far extremities of Hong Kong Island on the century-old tram route. Two-deckers, $2 each time you jump aboard for unlimited distance. $2 HK, that is (think $1 Aussie for each $5 HK. That's cheap. Oh, god, if only we could be this clever in Hobart ... * Star ferry to Kowloon (again $2 HK). * Ladies Market ... sensational, including great value Cosmic Boys that hang from the ceiling and hurtle around (remember AstroBoy?). * Temples ... enormous coils of incense snaking to the ceiling and wondrously-created deities. * The Hong Kong History Museum ... simply sensational, take a day to take in this complex story ... and Pom-bash at the horror of the 10 million addicts created by the colonial superpower (Opium Wars). * The Peak ... up on the Peak tram for a meander around the Peak track with spectacular views of the city, then down on the bus, then a ride on the world's longest escalator up 500m in the middle of the city ... then a meander down through the zoological gardens where many monkeys and the odd jaguar can be met ... amazing: in the middle of the city. (On this journey we are adopted by a retired Hong Kong gentleman who guides us through the gardens. Thank you, kind sir: you were respresentative of a city in which personal injury threat levels even at 4am are far less than walking through the Hobart Mall at midday). * The shopping ... stock up on cash, head for Ladder Street and buy the loveliest things for comparitively little. Then there were the few things we managed ourselves ...
Visiting old-mate Angie, and learning about her passion for saving the exploited Asian bears,
forced to dance for a living or subjected to ghastly iron cages, iron rods rammed into
their stomachs to extract bile for claimed medicinal purposes, Speaking of the Handlebar. This is where Robert and I met Marilyn during our great carouse. Clad in most fetching leather with leather vest, Marilyn was the ultimate host as Robert and I devoured our ice-cold margaritas. Handlebar bills itself as Hong Kong's only biker bar. I showed Marilyn my genuine biker chain bracelet. She appeared to be impressed ... Then, it was all over ... Just the flight back to Oz. We were in Qantas' new Airbus. I've got long legs and the cattle class was OK with the little screen and choice of movies (don't miss Joe Simpson) ... But, I've got long legs ... And, for one brief, compromised moment - and as winner of an award sponsored by Qantas - I toyed with an idea first espoused by ex-Gov Richard Butler ... But, simply, didn't have the .... to carry it off. Damn!
Lindsay Tuffin did not stay in Hong Kong courtesy of anyone, so he doesn't necessarily have to be positive. PS: The only glitch/inadequacy/impoliteness on this little trip was at Hobart Airport where a line of 20-30 highly-disgruntled travellers stood in the pouring rain next to a half-dug trench to pay their parking fees to an harassed worker in a shed - who copped heaps of abuse. No brollies, no shelter, just appallingly inadequate stop-gap measures. And the only bad tummies from all that consumption of the past two weeks: yesterday at a Tasmanian pub not far from the clean-green sea where the tired, ancient fish served as fresh seafood provided a night of deep discontent for the two guests who unfortunately chose it ...
RAPID RESPONSE EMAIL: What do you think? Friday, September 17, 2004 |