New Beginnings

Still short of sleep from our weekend extravaganza the Pioneering Accountant and I sat up late last night to watch Barack H. Obama inaugurated as 44th President of the United States of America. I have rarely taken more than a last minute interest in the race for the White House which seems to alternate its Republican and Democratic occupants with remarkable consistency. Yet who could have failed to be inspired by the eloquence, the style, the charisma and the passion of a young African-American Senator from Illinois who brought the race for the White House alive the moment he announced his candidacy?

As Obama took his oath and made a sober speech I found myself believing, like so many others, that this man can bring change to the US and, in its wake, change to the whole world. No pressure then, Mr President.

I hadn't waited up so late to watch a politician on the box since Tony Blair and New Labour were swept to power in May 1997. And what a disappointment they turned out to be. So one can only hope that President Obama has more up his sleeve than the spin and rhetoric that have finally spun us into probably the worst recession since the end of WW2, rocketing national debt and a guarantee to bail out Britain's banks that threatens to eclipse the entire economy. Good luck Mr Obama, may things on your side of the pond go better than on ours.

**************************************************

I have been up to the school to confer with staff on our ten year old's progress. I think he's turned a corner said his teacher. Yes, but have you? I stopped myself from saying.

**************************************************

Chinese New Year is approaching and all Christmas decorations have morphed seamlessly into New Year decorations. Red lanterns hang in the garage and the gates and walls are adorned with red and gold paper decorations marked with messages of good fortune. The poinsettia have been replaced by potted yellow and red chrysanthemums and cylindrical mandarin bushes loaded with fruit and decorated with red 'pockets' now stand outside the entrances. In ox shaped pots clusters of smooth Chinese lemons, symbols of good fortune, are on sale. The country is gearing up for a big holiday and on January 26th we will welcome in the Year of the Ox.

Anxious to avoid a faux pas I went to my neighbour for hints and tips. At Chinese New Year and for ten days thereafter, the onus is on anyone with employer status to hand out cash-filled red pockets to everyone who works for you in some capacity. For me this means the amahs, the porters, the gardener, the repair man and everyone down the line from my hairdresser and the boy at the backwash, the dry cleaner who collects our stuff and the pest control men who keep us cockroach free. It can also include waiters and kitchen staff in favourite restaurants if one is going there any time over New Year. For the Pioneering Accountant it includes just about everyone in the office who is either junior to him or unmarried right down to the tea-lady and the cleaners. He has heard said that queues form outside offices when word goes around that one of the partners is giving out red pockets.

The money that goes into the red pockets must be brand new notes representing new fortune for the New Year . The newness of the note is seemingly more important than the actual amount though I can't quite believe the gardener would be happier to get 10 new Hong Kong dollars than 100 old ones. If one doesn't see ones hairdresser, dry cleaner, pest control people etc etc then it's tough luck and they miss out. My husband believes there will be a sudden rush of calls from suppliers in the ten days after New Year 'just checking' we have all we need. I have visions of whole families turning out the lights and hiding behind the sofa when they hear the doorbell ring for fear of being discovered without enough new notes. We are going away. Kung Hei Fat Choi!

**************************************************

I am touched and rather surprised to find I have been given a blogging award by my cyberspace alter-ego Nappy Valley Girl. I was trying to remember the last time I received an award and I can think only of a very dull anthology of German poetry I was given as second prize in a German public speaking contest when I was 16 so this is an honour indeed and gives me much encouragement to carry on with this blogging malarkey. I am required to print the accompanying text and to pass on the award which I do, not to eight fellow bloggers as I don't know that many but to my first true cyberspace friends at Not Wrong Just Different and Paradise Lost In Translation.

"Blogs who receive this award are "exceedingly charming," says its authors. This award is a fine one because it focuses not on the glory and fanfare of blogging, but in the PROXIMITY to one another through this online-world. This blog invests and believes in the PROXIMITY--nearness in space, time and relationships. These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement! Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this clever-written text into the body of their award."

When I grow up....

We're sitting at supper discussing what we're going to be when we grow up. I haven't yet decided and am beginning to think it's time I set my children a better example. What about you? the boys ask their two year old sister. A lemon! she says emphatically to much hilarity. No really, what do you want to be? They try again. A boy, she says.

For One Night Only!

Late on Friday after dropping the big boys with a friend and snuggling with the little ones, having written lists of instructions and useful numbers for the amahs I creep away like a thief in the night and board a plane bound for London. I plug my ears and cover my eyes and I sleep for ten hours. I am off on a crazy venture and I'm going to need all the Zzzs I can get. When I wake it is 11am Hong Kong time and yet it is still dark outside. I am flying back though an everlasting night. I am offered breakfast.

Three hours later we are over London. Descending through the patchy cloud I see the orange lights of the city and the black serpentine of the River Thames. Somewhere beneath me is our house. I know this because it lies on the approach to Heathrow airport. How often have I cursed the long haul flights from Hong Kong that roar in to land as early as 4.30 in the morning? The newspaper I picked up at the airport last night tells me the Government is going ahead with Heathrow's third runway in spite of all opposition from local residents and environmental groups but to compensate a high speed rail hub is to be built. Why does that compensate? I wonder. More disruption, more building, more congestion.

We land at T5, all shining glass and steel. I am briefly nervous for my luggage. Signs in T5 inform me that the escalators are slow moving to save energy and that all the rainwater from the roof is recycled. It's good marketing but I don't buy into the idea that an airport can be green. On this day I am anyway too guiltily aware of my own carbon footprint. A woman who flies 5,000 miles around the globe to surprise a friend at his 40th birthday party can hardly get on her environmental high horse about anything.

For all its space and light and wonderful retail opportunities once I reach security T5 has the same long queues as its older siblings. I am stripped of my jacket, my boots and my belt and find myself out the other side hurriedly redressing with a group of strangers all equally reluctant to make eye contact on finding themselves so compromised. It is 7am but still dark. I meet my husband in the lounge. We are offered breakfast.

We board a plane to Frankfurt and we are offered breakfast again. I would welcome a different meal yet in this long day it is forever breakfast time. In Frankfurt there is snow on the ground and I grow a little anxious that my outfit for the evening involves bare shoulders and open-toed sandals.

A bus awaits passengers on the tarmac and as we are heading for the terminal building a chain of baggage-carrying trucks slips its brake and collides with the side of our bus. The driver stops the bus and gets out. A baggage handler comes to look and sucks his teeth. Mobiles are reached for and an incident report is opened. Much discussion takes place. We wait and wait. After fifteen minutes someone arrives and tries to push the baggage carts away from the side of the bus. At last, we think, we can get going. Ten minutes later a replacement bus arrives. We traipse past the scene of the crash where a minute scratch can be seen. As we depart, the airport police arrive with blue flashing lights. Only in Germany I think.

Once in Bad Homburg we take a stroll for old time's sake. It seems so empty, so different to the waves of shoppers that crowd Hong Kong's streets and malls. We bump into an acquaintance and laughingly explain why we're there. We bump into another couple who likewise quiz us on our secret arrival. We go into a shop and while my husband tries on trousers I watch a lady choose between two black frocks. After a long look at them both she says, I'll try the Dior again. It is the conservative choice but I prefer the other one.

We eat lunch in a favourite old haunt and drift back to our hotel for an afternoon nap. Just as we are sliding into sleep the phone rings. We have been spotted and it is another friend who has rung the party's hosts to find out if it really was us he saw and if so, where we are staying. Our secret is almost out but thankfully it was not the birthday boy who answered the phone. His wife who got there first has been in on our little scheme from the beginning.

The party is in Frankfurt. As we enter our host catches sight of us and does a double take. His jaw hits the floor and his astonished face is a picture I shall never forget. 'For one night only!' we shout and bounce down the stairs to be greeted and hugged. Many old friends are there and the evening passes in a blur of laughter, conversation and happy reunions. We eat a fabulous dinner in elegant surroundings. There are witty speeches and a live band and we dance into the early hours. I see the lady in the black frock and I am amazed at the cool way she bought a Dior dress in the afternoon for a party that night. Perhaps she would be amazed at the cool way we have flown overnight from Hong Kong to a party in Frankfurt.

Having been in this day for some 32 hours, I am starting to fade. Reluctantly we take our leave and catch a lift with others heading in our direction. My head is full of the evening's excitement and the success of our surprise. I am now wide awake and manage only an hour's sleep.

The following day we see as many friends as we can. It is another day of multiple breakfasts, brunch at the home of last night's hosts, an unexpected lunch and finally ‘Kaffee und Kuchen’ at the home of the lovely neighbours whom our eldest son first befriended through the hedge over eight years ago. We sit at big tables in warm houses and catch up on all that has happened in the months or years since we last met.

In the early evening we climb aboard our flight to London. Unable to keep my eyes open a moment longer I am asleep before take off. We land at Heathrow, call home to hear the children at breakfast and tell them we'll be home by bedtime. They have a day at school ahead of them. We have 13 hours on a plane. The day is almost through as we wake to yet another breakfast. Back in Hong Kong we put the children to bed, unpack and are quickly ready for bed ourselves. The time spent away has been too short for us to be suffering from jet lag. So short in fact that our memories of the weekend have a dream-like quality. Were we really in Germany just yesterday or did we dream it all?

One in a Dillion

I collected our four year old from nursery school early today and took him to his big brothers’ school for his Y01 entry assessment. The assessment of six four year olds took an hour and a half and I began to wonder if my bouncy lad would grow short of blood sugar as it got closer to lunch time. He emerged looking cheerful, told me he couldn’t remember what he’d been asked and we went home.

Barely two hours later I got a call from the school Admissions Secretary. She informed me that our son had not been successful in the assessment and listed the reasons why; he hadn’t been able to give the names of the letters and only knew 17 out of 26 of his letter sounds. That many? Good boy! He had not been able to count backwards from 10 to 0 and was uncertain of the higher numbers. I can relate to that. What had counted against him most, however, was that when asked to name the number zero my son took one look at it and said with conviction, a dillion. Laughter (mine).

The teacher had asked him again and our son repeated his answer, a dillion. The Admissions Secretary explained patiently to me that the teacher who had been assessing our son was not familiar with the word a dillion. She began to sound quite put out, whether this was due to my guffaws or because an assessment of our son had been a complete waste of the school’s time, I’ll never know.

One thing, however, is clear. I need to find a school that does know what a dillion is and that appreciates a boy who, when in a tight spot, is able to think on his feet.

Just a spoonful of sugar......

I am not a fan of theme parks. We live opposite one and I will go to some lengths to avoid actually going there myself. In London we lived close enough to Windsor for Legoland to be a day of annual sufferance in my calendar. Here, each time we drive to the airport the familiar outline of Mickey Mouse's head looks down at us from the motorway signage so it was only a matter of time before the subject of Hong Kong's Disneyland was raised in our household.

Our seven year old has recently turned eight. Rather than have a party organised by his embarrassing parents he asked if we might go to Disneyland instead. As the appointed day came closer, I began to grit my teeth in anticipation.

Reality was suspended the moment we drove through the gates. With no prior warning we had entered a vast landscaped world of manicured grass and monumentally straight palm trees which lined our route to the car park, a space so curiously empty of cars that we began to wonder if Disneyland was in fact closed for renovation. A few others arrived so we followed them to the main gate along the neat brick paths, with wrought iron railings, fountains, topiary and quaint buildings lining the way.

Tunes from Mary Poppins were playing and the children began to sing and skip along to the music. I looked around, half expecting Dick Van Dyke to come and shake my hand as the whole place started to look more and more like Cherry Tree Lane. The noise and dirt and skyscrapers of Hong Kong were a million miles away and we had been magically and inexplicably transported to a fantasy place like, well like Disneyland, I suppose.

We were greeted by helpful attendants who smiled so much that the pain of parting with vast amounts of cash was forgotten. Ahead of us was a flower bed reproduction of The Mouse's head on a grassy bank which rose to a picture perfect railway station. And blow me down if a huge, new, shiny red steam engine didn't pull up with perfect timing and whistle at us to clamber aboard.

In a state of disbelief we wandered down Main Street USA looking at the small-town white clapboard shops full of Disney merchandise, cotton candy and apple pies. The air was full of the sugary smell of toffee flavoured popcorn and Donald Duck waved to passers by from the porch of a house. I was prepared to laugh, think How cheesy! and endure, and yet to my amazement I found myself admitting it was rather well done, not in the least bit tacky, clean, shiny and well-organised and all presented in surprisingly good taste.

Agog we headed for Cinderella's Castle, rode on her fantasy carousel with crowds of giggling Chinese men, flew with Dumbo and in Adventureland took a river cruise on a steamer through the jungle where we were sprayed by elephants, frightened by piranhas, shot at through blow pipes and roared at by the Fire God. Then we climbed up to visit Tarzan's house which I was convinced was built in a real tree. Duh! Nothing here is real, Mummy! Cynic that I am, I was beginning to enjoy myself and was wowed by the special effects. The animals were life-like and all was completed with astonishing attention to detail.

We had our photos taken with Mickey and friends, were charmed by Minnie's antics and hugged by Pluto, spun in cups at the Mad Hatter's tea party and saw the most incredible 3-D film of Donald which had us all ducking (ha, ha) to avoid the objects that flew out of the screen at us at high speed. We moved on into Tomorrowland and went on a space mission instructed by Buzz Lightyear to shoot down space robots. It was such a blast that the six of us ran back round to the entrance to do it all again. The cold had kept the masses away so there were no queues and we were able to climb straight back in to our space cars and ride once more.

As the fireworks lit the skies above Cinderella's Castle and we walked back down Cherry Tree Lane to soothing farewell Disney tunes I found myself wondering if an annual pass might not be a sound investment. The children were wide-eyed with wonder, tired and happy with all they'd seen. And I, having expected the worst could only admit that I had had the most brilliant time.

If the shoe fits....

Despite Hong Kong’s vast array of shopping opportunities I have struggled to find children’s shoes, or at least anything resembling the sort of children’s shoes I can relate to. Think flimsy, think shiny, think odd colour combinations and adornments on the other hand and the choice is huge.

Brought up on a strict diet of sensible shoes by my own conscientious mother due to the combined evils of wide feet and high arches I have a clear idea of the sort of thing I want my daughter to wear. Fortunately the clever people in the footwear marketing department back home have now worked out ways to keep both mothers and daughters happy, which was not the case when I was small and yet the sort of shoes I have in mind are proving some what illusive. Take note: there is a gap in the market here just waiting to be filled.

Having outgrown the sandals and Mary-Janes she arrived with from UK, our daughter owns nothing but a pair of trainers and some rubber beach shoes which are not ideal as local temperatures plummet to a hitherto unimaginable 15 degrees.

Yesterday I found a Start Rite shop listed in a useful book called Everything Hong Kong but we arrived only to be told by the building’s lift attendant that it had closed down six months previously.

We identified a second shop which, the book informed me, was a good source of well-made imported shoes for children and made our way there. It was a relief to find that the sales assistants were prepared to measure my daughter's feet, or their length at least. On a previous excursion with the boys when I asked to have their feet measured the assistant looked at me in astonishment and said, we don’t do that. So how do we know what size to buy? I asked. He shrugged. We left. Another note: providing a measuring service might sell more shoes.

My children all have wide feet. G fittings are standard for us but a width fitting for my little girl was not on offer. Having established the length of her feet I eyed the narrow buckle shoes with scepticism. It is the end of the winter season here and the sales are on which left us with a selection of some inappropriate designs in fairly extraordinary colours. Our final choice was between a shiny pink pair that my daughter said hurt her feet and a heavy black pair which I struggled to reconcile with the whimsical pastel dresses she selects from her wardrobe each morning. Then I saw the price, $HK 704, on sale, which at today’s badly depleted (for us) exchange rate is not far off £70. I looked at the pink ones again, $HK1409 or £130. For shoes for a two year old? That’s more than I pay for my shoes (or that’s what I told my husband when I rang him to protest). I left the shop, justifying my decision to put the two year old back in her trainers by saying they hadn’t been wide enough anyway. Her little feet had looked so squashed. Images of tiny bound Chinese feet were by this time flashing before my eyes and I decided we’d better go home.

Today we were back on the warpath. I rang an English friend to find out where she’d got shoes for her two year old and she gave me the name of a shop, adding by way of warning that she hadn’t dared admit to her husband what she’d paid when she’d finally tracked down a wider than average Italian make. I was by this time not surprised to learn that the shop didn’t measure but I seized on the sensible sort of shoe one might find in the Putney Exchange, paid twice what you’d think of as reasonable there and went home making a mental note to buy in bulk when we finally go home to UK on leave.

Good Morning Vietnam

After a happy Christmas and numerous walks down memory lane and elsewhere, Grandpa returned to the UK while our eldest son was able to enjoy Grandma’s undivided attention on an action packed three day trip to Shanghai. They returned bubbling with enthusiasm at all they had seen.

Grandma stayed on for the final days of the school holidays to give us the gift of a child-free weekend in Hanoi. We were like children let out of school early and our eyes were as big as saucers as we took in the vast range of impressions that make up Hanoi’s varied, jumbled and bustling cityscape.

Arriving in Vietnam for the first time, one can not fail to be amazed by the traffic chaos. As we approached the capital through a flat, wet landscape of paddy fields, maize and small plots I was struck by the numbers of mopeds, some piled high with live chickens, eggs or fruit and grew concerned for those that hurtled towards us on the wrong side of the dual carriageway.

As we approached the city the madness increased along with the density of buildings; traffic poured in all directions at junctions and intersections, road signs an irrelevance, thousand upon thousand of mopeds, bikes too, tourist cyclos, the odd motorised three wheeler, some busses and a number of cars and small taxis, all flowing like a wide, slow river which can’t or won’t stop, paying no heed to the considerable potential for accidents.

The noise of horns and bells, all sounding at once and combined with the constant roar of hundreds of engines was deafening. Crossing roads was a challenge we didn’t undertake lightly. The green and red pedestrian signs at zebra crossings mean little to the traffic which bears down on one from all directions should one dare to leave the safety of the pavement. And as one does, the vehicles neither slow nor stop but fan out, aiming for a space either in front or behind the reckless pedestrian, parting like the Red Sea as Moses makes his way across.

Narrow town houses, some with fantasy turrets, balustrades and pinnacles, up to five storeys high and several rooms deep but sometimes no wider than six foot, line the roads in uneven rows or stand further back in unregulated jumbles. Business is often conducted from the ground floor room. We grew accustomed to the sight of a moped parked inside a jeweller’s or a dress shop where space outside was short. In the old quarter the pavements are packed so tightly with the two-wheelers that pedestrians have little choice but to walk in the road which in turn contributes to the noise of horns and the general levels of road chaos.

Telephone wires loop loosely between the telegraph poles in their masses, close enough to reach up and touch. In the French quarter the streets are wide and tree lined with generous pavements and large old houses, cool and quiet behind their louvre shutters. It is a buzzy place, vibrant, colourful, smokey and chaotic and we were charmed by its odd mixture of faded French colonial grandeur, ancient pagodas and temples, the so called Vietnamese tube houses and a dollop of Soviet architecture around the military parade ground where Ho Chi Minh’s ponderous grey mausoleum stands.

We got up early to visit the mausoleum. Unfortunately our arrival there coincided with that of 1,000 high school pupils all dressed in identical blue and white cagoules. Some way along the queue we were spotted by an official who pulled us out of line and quizzed us about cameras and mobile phones. We had both about our person and assumed he was going to remove them. He didn’t. His intervention was more to do with the exercise of power for power’s sake. He made us stand to one side and let about 400 of the said school children pass before letting us proceed. I couldn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt for wanting to separate us from the mass of school children as there were still another 400 or so behind us when he allowed us to rejoin the queue.

The line moved quickly despite our set back. Cameras were taken away from us at a security check further along, but surprisingly we were allowed to retain our mobile phones. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to inform the custodians of Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum that mobile phones can now also be used to take pictures.

As we got nearer the entrance the babble of the school children simmered into quieter, more respectful whispers. I on the other hand was told by a guard to take my hands out of my pockets and the Pioneering Accountant was instructed to hush. We were not, it seemed, treating the visit with due respect and attention. We entered a dimly lit room where Ho Chi Minh has lain in his embalmed state since his death in 1969. Poor Uncle Ho. In his will he declared his wish to be cremated and have his ashes strewn in the north, the south and the central region of Vietnam as a symbol of the country’s unity he so desired. His wish was overruled by his successors who had the Father of the Nation embalmed for all to see.

I couldn’t help thinking that Ho, a man who eschewed the trappings of power and chose a simple two roomed house on stilts over Hanoi’s grandiose presidential palace, might even have detested his final resting place and all it represented. Half way round I wanted a closer look. Was there a trace of a grimace in that peaceful old face? I reached into my bag to rummage for my glasses. The Pioneering Accountant stifled a squawk of alarm and, assuming I was about to grab a quick snap with my phone, put a hand on my arm. I’d already had a premonition that I might be shot for reaching for my glasses but decided I must stand up for my right to see clearly. We emerged blinking into the daylight and struggling to hide our laughter from the disapproving guards.

The sights of Hanoi are many and varied. The increasing liberalisation of the country which has enabled individuals to pursue their own business interests is in evidence all around. Women with flat woven baskets suspended from a yolk across one shoulder carry with them the means to set up a small street restaurant complete with stove, cups, bowls, chopsticks, ingredients and even tiny plastic stools for customers. Fruit vendors sell their harvest in baskets from a wooden platform on the back of a moped, a cyclist pedals by with a popcorn machine and a saucepan on the back of the bike, another with wire baskets holding heavy fuel pellets which are sold to the street kitchens. A barber hangs a mirror on a tree trunk, unfolds a chair and touts for custom. A lottery ticket vendor puts up a folding table and is open for business. Between us we must have had declined hundreds of offers to clean our rather dusty shoes. There is a different attitude to the use of public space and tiny businesses thrive wherever they are able.

We avoided the street vendors, not out of concern for hygiene but simply because my very tall and not very bendy husband could not have sat comfortably on seats made for small two year olds. We ate like kings and amused ourselves by reading the menus which offer such tempting dishes as boiled dog meat, pig's solid small intestine and fried tortoise. The food was delicious but one can't help feeling that something gets lost in translation.

Returning to Hong Kong with mixed emotions I reassess my feelings on the city we now call home. Despite my eagerness to be reunited with the children I am not particularly thrilled to be back. Hong Kong has none of Hanoi’s charm and leads me to conclude, albeit not very originally, that the place is unashamedly and solely dedicated to the pursuit of money. Whilst it has its own unique character and is constantly renewing itself in pursuit of its goal the side effects are an undeniable harshness and a soullessness I have not encountered elsewhere.

As someone who has never been much good at making money it strikes me how unsuited I am to settling here and that without goals of my own I could sink without trace and be deemed an abject failure in Hong Kong’s eyes. Yet I am pursued by a nagging feeling that I owe it to my husband as well as myself to do better than that. So how shall I use my time in Hong Kong? Perhaps it’s time to make some New Year’s resolutions.