Archive for the 'Travel' Category

Poo and Literature

You know I’m not squeamish (because I’ve said so many times) but when the woman in the photo started stirring a cauldron full of intestines, holding them up and letting them drop back down, while the unmistakable smell of POO started wafting through the restaurant - well, I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and take a photo, but sort of quick-snapped it backwards over my shoulder.

I think I’ve only really seen nice, orderly fish intestines up close before, because these (pigs’?) intestines, brown, snarly, irregular and with lots of stuff sticking out, weren’t my idea of good intestine action. I’m glad the only contact I have with food is all broken after I’ve swallowed it.

Talking of poo, this morning there was a bit of a to-doggie-do in sleepy backwater Pui O. In my village there’s a dog rescue centre/vet, and at all times they have about 20 dogs living there, with more coming in every week.

The dog walker is a middle-aged Chinese woman who doesn’t seem to like dogs, but then neither would I if I had to take six or seven of them for walks at a time. She lets the dogs poo everywhere; on the footpath and on the beach, without even sometimes carrying newspapers around for show, unlike many domestic helpers in the village.

The first time I saw her let three dogs shit right in the middle of the beach, I asked her in a nice way and in her own language if she wouldn’t mind picking it up, as children play there. (they do.) All I got was a torrent of “English”: “Where is your plastic bag! Where is your plastic bag!” When I showed her the not inconsiderable amount of plastic bags I carry with me every day for the very purpose of being my dogs’ lavatory assistant, she sniffed and walked away, muttering loudly to “herself” about how dirty I was.

The second time I saw her, the same thing happened. This time it was me asking her where her plastic bag was, knowing well she didn’t have any. Oh yes, I can be cunning and evil! I got some vicious stares and mumbles but not much abuse - and of course she didn’t pick up the rather large and steaming mounds. You can say what you want about the dog shelter in Pui O, but they don’t let their dogs starve.

This morning she had seven dogs, four of which, upon hitting the beach, immediately set about defecating like they had been promised a nice side of beef for producing the largest mound. There are only so many ways to say “pick up your dog poo” in a diplomatic manner, I find. “Pick up your fucking dog poo” is one of them. This time she took action - by shoving a few grains of sand on top of the quivering heaps.

Nice! Now people who might have spotted them out in the open before, wouldn’t know they were there before they lay down in the fragrant knolls. When I pointed this out, not declining to mention that this sort of behaviour carries a $1,500 fine, (yes! I’m truly sick of stepping in crap and will resort to anything!) the true nature of her dog poo picking resistance manifested itself. In Cantonese this time. She let loose a stream of invective which I, not a mean invective-ist, couldn’t have done better myself.

It was all about me fucking off back to Central, it was after 1997 so i should shut up, who did I think I was, go home, dirty whore who not only lets her dogs shit everywhere but probably does it herself and, most importantly: I didn’t know how to teach Cantonese. This went on for about ten minutes, for she made many of the points again and again in case I missed them. There was no mention of the Opium Wars but then she may not have heard about those. And here I was, really only interested in discussing dog poo and the removal thereof!

I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t control myself but had a right giggle and some spurts of heartfelt laughter. This didn’t make things any better but - did I give a shit?

So! Scratch the surface and the whole stinking history of … the British? comes out. Oh those British. So much to answer for. How was she to know I’ve never lived in Central? After all, those fastidious notions of mine about not enjoying wading around in dog shit and about the beach not being a gigantic dustbin - that kind of thing just reeks of stuck-up Central-dom, doesn’t it.

So now you’re probably asking: Where does literature come into this? Mark Twain, innit! East is east and west is west, and you’ll never meet the Twain.

But the intestine photo, taken blind - not bad, eh?

Monastery Madness

If I could understand my friend P’s fascination with monasteries? I mean, he’s a heterosexual male. The one outside Xining, capital of Qinghai (green sea) province, would be the third one he visited in as many days. The second, tucked away in the mountains outside Xiahe, was mercifully closed to women (another proof that although they’re buddhists and very good looking, Tibetan monks are still religious freaks) but at the third one I thought I’d toddle along.

It was described even on Chinese tourism websites as a tourist hellhole according to P, so we both had relatively low hopes.
It had been such a great trip from Xiahe through a stunning landscape

so it was quite a downer to find Xining, which I had loved for its small town charm and advanced hovelage only two years ago, turned into a screaming construction-filled megapolis where every bloody hotel was full of beardies attending a halal festival. Or was it conference? I forget which. Why do they even need it? “Kill the animal with the ultimate pain and mental torture” - isn’t that pretty much it?

Or was it “halal” as in “things that are allowed according to sharia law”? That would have been a short conference.

Anyway - after all those beards it was visually very relaxing to be surrounded by Tibetan monks after we finally found a hotel and could escape to the countryside where the famous Tan’er monastery was. Tibetan monks … and about 20 000 Chinese tourists in cowboy hats and baseball caps, and the inevitable guides.

Stopping under a tree, I said to P that although I have no respect for any religions, I don’t like taking photos of for example people doing the prayer wheel thing. I would hate it if, every time I took Piles for a walk in the morning, 200 Chinese tourists took photos of me.
“Don’t worry,” P said. “They have no interest in the Tibetan monks. All they photograph is themselves.” I looked again. It was true. But still!

That’s when two Tibetan monks started talking to us and invited us to their gaff. Or humble abode or whatever. We drank tea and chatted. One had been helping out during the earthquake in Qinghai, 800 kilometres from where we were, earlier this year. He pulled out his laptop and showed us some photos that hadn’t quite made it to the front page of the South China Morning Post. It was basically earthquake-corpses in all possible shapes and forms, with a National Geographic-like quality and colour.

We were lucky to catch the monastery while it still had some old buildings, because the bulldozers were hard at work modernising the place by tearing down everything. What was being built in its place was a monastery in the Chinese Tibetan style. Just like … oh, the old city of Kashgar, which is now probably complete - a gigantic shopping mall but with mosaic. And low to zero visibility because of cement dust.

In the year 2000, the Chinese government started an enormous campaign to modernise the western provinces. It’s really working! Now you can go deep into the mountains, grasslands or countryside of any western province and still feel, with every breath, that you’re in the most polluted country on earth. If that’s not progress I don’t know what is.

The Tibetan Plateau

Tibet!!!!! For make no mistake; the little town of Xiahe in Qinghai province isn’t Xiahe in Qingdai province at all, but Sangchu in Amdo, Tibet. The beauty of the place elicited constant “waaaah”s from us, even while doing mundane things like being overcharged for inedible grapes. This was the view from my window, for example:

This was probably 5.45 in the morning, but the Tibetans were already at it, walking around the Labrang Monastery while turning the prayer wheels. My friend P and I also walked around the whole monastery

and although we did stop to take a couple of photographs, it took us a good two hours to get around the wondrous thing. So imagine the grannies, 80 something years old and walking with sticks, dragging themselves around the monastery, each day, every day. It must take them all day, only to get up the next morning (probably around 4) and start all over again. One must admire their devotion. And no doubt the Chinese must have banned monastery-circling at some stage, losing valuable walking years for the buddhists there.

But guess what: Black pigs wag their tails when they poo! I bet you didn’t know that.

On the bus to Xiahe I sat next to a monk in full maroon get-up and with one arm sticking out. We got talking (in Mandarin, unfortunately, as my abilities in Tibetan are, so far: Hello, goodbye, and thank you.) and he expressed a keen interest in the outside world. Well he would, having gone into the monastery when he was four! What a waste. Young, beautiful man looking really great in red, locked up like that. Unfortunately he couldn’t read and write Chinese, so it was difficult to have a conversation about the riots in Lhasa and stuff, with the Chinese guy in the seat behind obviously listening eagerly.

They didn’t have internet connection in the monastery which I thought was strange; those monks are so teched-up these days. But maybe someone who’s not them, has decided that the monks in the second biggest monastery in “China” aren’t allowed to have too much contact with the outside world. Whatever it was, every monk we met seemed very eager to talk.

Yes, Xiahe was wonderful in every way except one: The main street, think Nathan Road from Tsim Sha Tsui to well past Jordan, had been dug up completely. There was so much dust that we couldn’t be even in the side streets near it and walking along or across it was completely unbearable. Give them two months I say.

To accommodate tourism the whole town had in fact been torn down and rebuilt, in a style probably known as “tourist Tibetan with varying degrees of Chinese characteristics.” But I had to admire the restraint: There were very few tiles, no blue windows and only a small open, shadeless square with the normal green lights shaped like palm trees and a huge granite statue of an elephant. So all in all, when the dust settles, Xiahe may very well turn into one of the most beautiful new old towns in the country. But then, it is really Tibet …

The next day a taxi driver said: I’ll take you to three beautiful places for 200 kuai! This turned out to be an excellent idea. 200 kuai for five hours of more or less constant driving: Oh yeah. And the scenery outside Xiahe is just …

These are yaks, a cousin of whom we had eaten the night before. No it doesn’t taste like chicken and it’s excellent. Half reindeer, half horse?

This is the fourth or fifth year in a row that I spend the summer in the north of China. Why? Because I need a dose of big landscape every so often. It’s so soothing.

Here is a Han dynasty village that people still live in. It seems they have no TV. Is it possible? Yes we saw many villages on this trip without a single tv antenna. Nor satellite dish. They probably used the satellite dishes to boil water by solar power

while watching hard core porn online inside their gaffs…

On a grassy knoll in the distance we saw some motorbikes and some Tibetans. Then we saw a tripod. Oh no, another tour group taking photos of the colourful, dancing and devout locals.

Was it hell? It was four Tibetans having a party with biscuits, soft drinks and some singing and playing of eight string guitar. They called us over

and a good cultural exchange time was had by all. The three guys hardly spoke any Chinese, which was pretty cool I thought, as well as not very practical when it came to communication. But the girl did, altough the mobile seldom left her ear. All that Mando I suppose.

Yes, would you know? It was they who wanted to film and take photos of us! Not the other way around. Well, I snapped a few, but they?

They were veritable Tibetan anthropologists. And thus endeth another day in beautiful Amdo. The next morning we left at 06.10 very much against our will, only to be told that the water supply for the whole town had been shut down for three days just after we left. That dust and no shower? A lucky escape.

Becoming Addicted

Ahhrghh, three days without internet access! Well, there was an internet cafe in the little town of Xiahe (summer river) but I just didn’t have time to go there. The day after we left I was told that the water supply had been cut off, also for three days as it happened, so I’m glad we could escape to this, what used to be quiet backwater of Xining (western peace) in Qinghai province. The room has internet BUT no air conditioning. That’s probably why it was the only hotel in town with vacancies; the place is crawling with skull caps and beards because of a halal conference.

So I don’t want to talk about that. Instead let me show you some pictures from wonderful Lanzhou, the first stop on this journey to the west after taking the overnight train from Xian (which also, incredibly, means western peace!)

Lanzhou is the relaxation capital of the north, possibly the earth. Although it’s a normal Wednesday afternoon, people do nothing but sitting around, shooting the breeze. Of course, that it’s almost 40 degrees may have something to do with it. All along the Yellow River (for it is he!) little pleasure barges full of people drinking tea and beer, are trying to tear themselves off their moorings. Yes that river is swift.

The best time to see, probably any city, is just after dawn. Here is a market before even all the marketeers have got up:

I love the morning. Get up before 6 and stroll like mad; that’s my definition of a good morning. Everything’s more beautiful then.


By the way, if you are planning on going to Lanzhou and you like good hovelage and quirky little back streets, excellent markets and everything happening on street level, I should go now. NOW. What even last year was all of the above, is now being obliterated to make way for soulless high-rises and sixty thousand lane highways.

The area just behind the train station is best:

Lanzhou also has excellent doggage. What’s not to love?

But it’s time to go, and the next day we’re on a bus hurtling through this kind of landscape:

So yeah, life is pretty damned great.

Caving

Although I am a tourist, I, like all other tourists, hate other tourists. That’s why I’ve managed to visit Xian probably six times, without having been to see the Terracotta Army. Why should I? I’ve seen it a million times in pictures and on film, and, most importantly; like all other famous tourist spots in China, it’s bound to be a screaming hell hole of guides and what not.

But this time, seeing I went with somebody who actually wanted to go there, I thought: Well, there have been a couple of times in my life when I have gone somewhere against my will or instinct, only to find that I didn’t regret going. Maybe this would be one of those times. Maybe I would stand in awe in front of the warriors, being transported back to the year 240BC.

Yes that could have happened if it hadn’t been for the “hell is other people” people. Or actually, the whole set-up. When we finally got there and managed through some trying and failing to get a ticket (90 yuan), we found that the terracotta warriors were just an excuse to build the largest, most pompous and grandiose tourist trap ever.

It took so long to walk from the bus to the actual warrior pit that we had nearly fainted when we got to the building. It was mile after mile of trinket stalls spread over a huge, gently escalating staircase; all without a shadow of shade. Then there was a gigantic open space with the inevitable fascisticly trimmed flower beds and grass that was forbidden to even look at - again miles on a shiny white granite surface without even a willow tree for shade, all to better set off the building where the soldiers are.

Finally I would see what “everybody” had been talking about. I expected a kind of hush, maybe some oohs and aaaahs and possibly “waaaaah…” But nothing. People were talking loudly, laughing and acting like they were taking photos outside 7 eleven or something. This is supposed to be a grave chamber really, isn’t it? But the guides led the visitors in a cacophony of screams and shrieks.

And although it said “no flash” on the poster, there were more flashes continuously going off than at a pop concert. It seemed some of the poor terracotta geezers hadn’t been able to stand all the voices, camera flashes and laughter, for they had collapsed in heaps of dust with only the heads left, staring emptily into times gone by.

In another building, a huge replica was hanging from the ceiling, inexplicably holding a girl’s hand:

For some reason this depressed me more than all the Germans and Koreans acting as if they were at some school party in a hangar with some rocks.

When I came out after having looked at this odd display, I glanced at some books in English and Chinese, about the T. Army, the Silk Road and of course about Mao (who identified so closely with Qin Shi huang, the first emperor who had commissioned the stone army for his protection.) After three seconds of glancing, the shop woman came up to me: “These are books.”

So yeah, I get a bit depressed at these tourism places. And if the actual pit of soldiers, officers, horses and chariots is the size of a matchbox, then the stuff around; tourist trinket stalls, coffee shops and emptinesses of lawn is bigger than Tiananmen Square. Such a build-up, such a come-down.

The Terracotta Warriors are clearly among the things that I don’t need to physically see to know what they look like. But that night I had a great stroll around the city walls of Xian and a perfectly divine meal of Fish fragrant Aubergines and Dry-fried Potato Sticks. For up here in the north, the Sichuan restaurants get better the farther west you get! And now I’m in Lanzhou and life is great.

No, give me living people and history I can see all around me! No need to go to museums. I hate shards. No matter how old they are.

Hinterland, Ahoy!

Xian, former capital of China and one of the most pleasant, relaxed cities in the mainland.

I saw the people in the photo above inside a courtyard as we staggered back to the hotel after an excellent Sichuan meal, and it was such a beautiful tableau: - like something by a Dutch … if not master, so at least apprentice. When they saw me taking the photo, they started shouting something. Oh no, privacy laws. I went up to them, and what they were saying was: Don’t take the picture from so far away! Come closer!

Then I saw they were playing cards for money. Gambling, as it’s called. What’s going on? First the demonstration that wasn’t bashed down by police, now open gambling with photographers present - things are changing in China.

We had been planning to go to Lanzhou by train of course, but due to floods, the south-north trainline was down. Again. Flying wasn’t too bad but it’s just too fast! When I go to the north, I want to savour every moment, and eat good food. The plane food was a bred roll (stale) and a piece of cake. So modern.

But here we are in Xian, and it’s as lovely as I remembered it although the quite young geezers sitting around the pavements on little stools seem to have gained a lot of weight.

Xian is one of the few if not the only city in China with its entire city wall intact. That gives the place such a lovely, semi paranoid feeling, I think. Especially at night.

Walking along the north wall, we heard a strange, cracking sound, like shots. It was three geezers practising a new (?) sport: Whip cracking. No, I know whip cracking has been around for quite some time. But as a night sport?
The whips are heavy and really long, like three meters. I had never seen this sport exercised on the mainland before, until this morning when I found a lot of it going on in a nearby park

You know, all I need to be happy in China is just to walk around. Just inside this tiny park and between 7.30 and 9 in the morning, I saw more stuff than in a year in Hong Kong.

People are so active; doing tai chi, disco, ballroom dancing and all sorts of balancing balls on rackets, balancing balls on threads between sticks and playing ping-pong, badminton, hackey-sack and all sorts of ball games, as well as singing and playing all sorts of traditional instruments. I especially like the fan dancing:

One woman had parked her mother under a tree while exercising. But don’t you think the wily old bird sneaked some arm exercises too?

Another wonderful day in the wonderful motherland - and it’s not even noon! This is my seventh time here. I wonder if this is the time I’ll see the terracotta warriors …

Chanting For Canto

If I told you I’d been to a demonstration in the mainland with thousands of people but all the police did was put up some barriers and stand around holding hands, would you believe me?

No? I wouldn’t have believed it either. but that’s what happened today in Guangzhou, in a joyous, raucous salute to Cantonese language and culture, screamed out by thousands and thousands of young, (I’d say average age 23, and would have been 20 if I and my two friends hadn’t been there) iPhone waving groovers sick and tired of being dictated to by Beijing.

If I’d been two or three meters tall, I would have been able to capture this scene, unheard of since June 4th, 1989, of young people in peaceful protest against, or rather peaceful fight for, that wondrous entity that is Cantonese. As it was, and despite standing on tiptoe and holding the camera high over my head, I only got other people doing the same. But downtown Guangzhou outside Gong Lam Sai metro station, was just a sea of people. And more and more came pouring in every minute.

The police just didn’t know what to do, but in the end resorted to just saying “This way, please” and stuff. Some of them smiled and laughed. Is this the beginning of something new? But as I said to the journalist: Cantonese makes people more lively. It’s its nature.

Being Canto speakers, we of course joined in the chorus of: Support Cantonese! and: Guangzhou people should speak Guangzhou language! Being the only foreigners there, we were immediately mobbed

swamped, photographed and filmed. And interviewed.

A historic moment and a triumph. I’m telling you now: You haven’t heard the last from the youthful Cantonese movement! It will spread to Hong Kong. Fast.

Another Nail in the Canto Coffin

Ahhrghhhh … When I set out to make Cantonese a world language, I was mostly concerned with Hong Kong and its people - the way they look down on Cantonese (their own language!!!) calling it a “street language” a “dialect” and advising foreigners to “learn Mandarin instead.”

After the handover in 1997 though, I’ve noticed that the written Cantonese has been gaining ground, being increasingly used in adverts, as captions and headlines in newspaper and magazine articles, and when quoting interview objects.

What I didn’t realise - or rather, not didn’t realise but didn’t see as quite so urgent, was that the central government has been working steadily, openly as well as behind the scene, to eradicate Cantonese completely.

I got my first inkling of this a few years ago when I walked into my local branch of HSBC and was greeted by a bint whose job it was to stand at the entrance going “Ni hao ma!” to everyone who entered and sporting a big badge saying “Promote the usage of Putonghua!” Here I was in Hong Kong, whose official language is Cantonese, being talked to in a different language by a local person with whom I had been communicating in Cantonese for years, just because an edict had come from on high that everyone in the bank should be quacking in awful Mando for the whole month.

That’s when I opened an online HSBC account.

A month or so ago I mentioned here how the authorities have been destroying the older areas of Guangzhou to “celebrate” (or whatever) yet another grandiose sports event on the mainland: The Guangzhou Asian Games. That’s only to be expected; after all there’s nothing like a sports event to spur the mainland government on to undertake city destruction on an enormous scale.

But now it gets worse. Much worse. Last week I was interviewed on the phone by Ming Pao, a Chinese language newspaper in Hong Kong, about my views on the eradication of the Cantonese language. For behold: To “enhance” “national” “harmony” etc. (I’m running out of inverted commas) - the government has decided to close down Cantonese language TV and radio stations. I was too shocked to speak coherently to the poor journalist; I think the gist of what I managed to gurgle forth was “Kill them all!!!”

Yesterday this monumental piece of news finally found its way into English language stalwart the South China Morning Post.

I quote the article in its entirety:

“Cantonese is in trouble in its birthplace.

Already threatened by the influx of migrant workers to Guangdong and unfavourable government policies, the ancient dialect is the target of a recent proposal to switch the language of prime-time TV programmes in Guangzhou to Putonghua as November’s Asian Games approach.

This has triggered a new round of the debate in the province about “cultural strife”: just how much must local ways of life be given up in the name of national unity?

Guangzhou’s People’s Political Consultative Conference submitted a proposal to the local government on Monday urging the city’s main television station, Guangzhou Television (GZTV), to stop broadcasting in Cantonese and switch to Putonghua in prime time on its main channels, the Nanfang Daily reported yesterday.

GZTV has nine channels, and most of its programmes are broadcast in Cantonese - spoken primarily by people in Guangdong, Hong Kong, Macau and some parts of the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region . It is also widely spoken by overseas Chinese around the world.

The proposal says GZTV should use only Putonghua on its two main channels, to cater for Putonghua-speaking visitors and athletes at the Asian Games. (My italics, as are those below) The idea met with strong opposition from Guangzhou residents. But GZTV has decided to go ahead.

Mainland media quoted an unidentified GZTV executive as saying that although some concessions would be made to Putonghua on the two main channels, not much would change overall, as the idea was not popular in the areas to which GZTV broadcasts most.

The Guangzhou PPCC’s own survey last month shows more than 80 per cent of the 30,000 respondents - two-thirds Cantonese-speaking and one-third Putonghua-speaking - opposed the official plan to switch to Putonghua in TV programmes.

When GZTV previously switched some programmes to Putonghua, ratings dropped and it was forced to switch back to Cantonese.

Still, the proposal called for more Putonghua programmes.

With 110 million people, Guangdong has rapidly become the most populous province. But most of the recent increase has been migrant job-seekers, and now half its residents do not speak Cantonese.

Guangzhou, the provincial capital, once spearheaded the mainland’s economic reform. But rivals such as Shanghai and Beijing have caught up and even surpassed it. The dialect seems strange to outsiders.

So local authorities see the Asian Games as a chance to remake Guangzhou’s image and reaffirm its status as one of the mainland’s key cities.

But the cultural preservationists have a voice - a loud one. Some have called for the protection of the dialect, in thousands of online posts against the proposal. They say regional dialects are being swamped by the relentless tide of Putonghua.

There is a two-pronged attack on Cantonese - internal migration on the one hand, and the government policy of a “common language for a unified country and harmonious society” on the other, says Jiang Wenxian , a Chinese-language specialist at Sun Yat-sen University.

The 1982 constitution enshrined Putonghua as the official language. Beijing’s resolve to ensure all Chinese speak it has led to bans on dialects at many radio and television stations. Television stations in Guangdong are allowed to broadcast in Cantonese only because of the proximity of the province to Hong Kong.

“It is national policy to promote Putonghua,” Jiang said. “The government will not stop us from promoting local culture, but it is not going to support us. Guangzhou now boasts 14 million residents, and half of them are new settlers and do not speak any Cantonese.”

But the city’s residents who do, such as clerk Luo Bihua , advocate peaceful coexistence.

“All young people in Guangzhou can speak Putonghua. But the dialect presents the Canton culture. We have to support and use it in daily life,” she said. “There are already dozens of television stations broadcasting in Putonghua on the mainland.

“Please let us enjoy our culture in our hometown.” “

Bastards! But this is not unexpected. While hiding under a cloak of “openness” (reporting outbreaks of deadly diseases only a few months after it became clear they couldn’t be hidden) and a new-found kindness (premier Wen Jiabao patting children on the head and shedding tears during the Sichuan earthquake in 2008) the communist party has never stopped consolidating its grip on power. Many say it has never been more powerful and had more deep-reaching control of what’s going on in the mainland than now.

So it must irk them no end that there are millions of people who, right under their noses, keep speaking a language unintelligible for the dyed-hair, black-suited brigade in Zhongnanhai. Yes of course, many Cantonese speakers are communist party members. But Guangdong has always been a rebellious province going its own way. And that’s dangerous in China.

Now, if everyone were to speak Mandarin and only that, think how much easier it would be to keep them in check?

And so, armed with the excuse of “national harmony” the government has continued its relentless drive to bring everybody to heel. Inner Mongolia, Xinjiang and Tibet, wherever there are Han Chinese, the local people have been forced to learn Mandarin or else.

Now the dreary power-mongers  have cast their hungry eyes on the last outpost of non-conformity: Guangdong.

Only a naive person will believe that this shutting down of the Cantonese-speaking media is for the “benefit” of outsiders during the Asian Games. When the games are over, of course the Mandarin prime time broadcasts will stay firmly in place; then eating their way into the non- prime time slots as well, until there is no Cantonese language broadcasts in the province.

And when that is done, guess what: Hong Kong will be next.

With our dear un-elected useful idiots at the helm, don’t you think we’ll see ever more “Speak Mandarin, you know you want to” campaigns, cloaked in “useful” “good for the economy” “compete with Shanghai” “win-win” meaningless drivel.

Soon we will also, like the mainland, have trains called “Harmony” and Hong Kong government officials singing the praises of dull, un-inventive, communist speech-making, imperialist Mandarin.

Many Hong Kong people have been actively trying to get rid of Cantonese for years, without really being able to speak Mandarin. It used to be English that was top of these self-hating weaklings’ list, now it’s Putong Bloody Hua.

This kind of linguistic and cultural imperialism used to work well in the 18th and 19th centuries.
Nowadays, people know well that just because you can learn to speak one language doesn’t mean you have to ban/look down on/belittle your own.

I’m Norwegian. I learnt English, German and French at school. When I came to China, I learnt Mandarin first, and then Cantonese. Does that mean I should get rid of Norwegian???

What are these people ON?? Oh, I know what. A total power trip.

But it won’t work. Cantonese people in Guangdong will, if anything, crank up the Canto. The more stations that get shut down, the more they will speak their wonderful, ancient but always fresh, vibrant and totally cool language.

For that’s what those fuckers up north have against Cantonese, apart from the fact that it irks them so that they can’t understand it and therefore won’t know if someone is plotting against them, isn’t it.

Cantonese is cool and happening; something Mandarin hasn’t been since 1949.

News from Londonistan

A woman in London couldn’t bring her dog on the bus because “there was a muslim lady on the bus who might get upset.” The driver of the next bus was a muslim, so naturally he denied her and the dog access to the bus.

You’d think, upon reading this, that my first reaction would be: “Ha? Since when has Britain been a muslim country? The London buses since when subject to sharia law? And: If allah is so bloody almighty, why did it create so many unclean animals and people in the first place?”

But no, my first reaction was: Ha? You can bring dogs on buses in Britain? What a paradise!

Hong Kong people don’t need to use the ridiculous pretext of religion to get rid of/avoid everything they don’t like. They just come right out and say it: “We hate dogs because they are scary. They bite everybody, sometimes lick.”

I think that’s much more honest than setting up this whole prophet/jihad/take over the world thing.

Shanghai, Whore of the East

I went to Shanghai fearing the worst.

21 years ago, of course, the city was a true wonder of hovelage, of the beyond Dickensian kind. You could see the history of Shanghai etched on those buildings as clearly as if they had been showing newsreel on them.

Afterwards money happened, and now the Expo. Would there be even a tiny bit of hovelage left, I wondered, or would Shanghai have gone the way of Beijing; not a sliver of history left and what little there was, disney-fied to death?

Fortunately, things weren’t as bad as I had feared but also not as good as I had hoped. There were some old neighbourhoods scattered here and there, in which you could still feel feather-light touches of the Shanghai of yesteryear; a place of coolies, courtesans, rickshaw drivers and florid taipans. It was easy to imagine people (in black and white, naturally, they didn’t have colour in those days) hurrying to and fro while in the background could be heard the excited “Kill! Kill!” from the execution ground. Bound feet, opium, secret societies … oh yeah, baby!

Then came the Japanese and ruined everything.

Then came the communists and pulverised the rest, sodomising the corpse. Sic transit!

So I was almost glad to discover, in a wonderful hovelage visible from our hotel (never stay in the Bund Riverside! It’s overpriced, the service is terrible and not a single taxi driver knows where it is) that what I had explained to my friend was spittoons (even that word carries a whiff of debauchery I think) was in fact chamber pots which people take to the nearest public toilet in the morning. Yoo-hooooo, all is not lost.