getusoutofhere.net (for the burmese refugees)

China

With five thousand years of civilization in its wake and 20% of the world's population China is now emerging fast from 200 years of self induced isolation. Entrepreneurs and businesses from all corners of the globe are moving in on China; setting up factories and boutiques and showrooms primarily in the cities lining the East coast.

The changes that have occurred in the large cities are vast and rapid. Shop fronts aglow in brand names such as Nike, Rolex, Prada and Diesel have sprung up like mushrooms over the past few years. On the outskirts of the first city I cycle through I overtake an elderly lady transporting scrap metal on a donkey and cart while chatting on a state of the art mobile phone. In newly built steel and glass shopping centers the expressions on old people's faces speak a thousand words when young people put on dancing displays to promote anything that glitters. Many of the onlookers are old enough to have experienced the Cultural Revolution but with factual, let alone negative reflections of China's past banned in history classes, TV and publications many of the young people will fail to see the irony. 

Not all the changes can be good but amongst the several people I talk to I meet few who have any complaints. This may be because only a very small percentage of Chinese people speak English and those that do are generally the ones reaping the benefits of the current boom.

China 's previous premier Dau Xipping famously proclaimed, "To get rich is a glorious thing." A small but growing minority has done exactly that and China now boasts the widest division between rich and poor in the world. In China the GDP per head is $1,700, in the US its $42,000. Despite the fabulous new shopping centers and the 10% growth rate China is still a very poor country whose vast majority lives off less than $3 day and have yet to even picture the concept of a pension scheme. Money's like manure; spread it out and it does a great deal of good. Pile it up in one place and it stinks like shit.

My first encounter with a native is life saving. Bursting for the toilet I mimic the motions of a desperate man to a startled shopkeeper. Immediately he instructs his wife to take over the shop, climbs onto his steel get up and beg bike and leads me to the nearest public toilet. Overwhelmed with gratitude I have little time to thank the shopkeeper before plunging into a scatological hell that only India could compete with. The economic boom hasn't rippled down into its public toilets yet, or perhaps it has, a little too quickly. 

Historically China is a nation of great inventors. They invented paper, gun powder, the compass and the kite. They were also the first country to invent the flushing toilet; unfortunately they appear to be the last country to learn how to use it. Tip toeing between dollops of human feces I slip and…………………… okay, okay, I'll spare you the details. 

My mind may be in the gutter but my next destination is to be a weekend in one of Asia's posh-est hotels, The Grand Hyatt Hong Kong. Always on the lookout for a freebie a proposal to write up a review of the aforementioned was accepted, in two days time I'll be elevated from this Chinese shit house onto the 25 ^th floor of The Grand Hyatt in Hong Kong. As the crow flies Hong Kong is a good five hundred km's north of this border town, when it doesn't fly it's a good weeks cycling so with no time to lose I whip out my wheels and load my bike into the luggage compartment to enjoy what turns out to be the most luxurious bus journey of my life. 

There are no seats on this bus, only soft beds with clean linen. En route the bus stops at a restaurant where we're served a complementary meal. The food is excellent. My second impression of China is floating skyward with every mouth-full. Like in most South East Asian countries there are several selections of food placed in the middle of the table which everyone shares. A kind old man smiles and fills my bowl with delicious fish. 

The bus glides through the night. A couple of swigs of impossibly cheap Chinese liquor rips the lining of my esophagus before lulling me to sleep.

My girlfriend Liz has managed to catch a flight from Malaysia and is awaiting my arrival in the Grand Hyatt. After cycling a lap of Hong Kong I enter my room on the 25^th floor and immediately begin hollering a stream of profanities. The view of Victoria Harbor (as instantly recognizable to any British native who looks beyond David and Victoria Beckham's wardrobe for their cultural identity) is simply stunning. If were to take a running leap through the ceiling high windows of this room I could almost land in the shipping lane adjoining Hong Kong Island to the mainland. Sky scrapers pierce the sky like silver blades while the falling sun begins to bleed its rusty hue.

Liz urges me to stop swearing so I pour the lady a nice G 'n' T from the in house cabinet, temper my excitement with a large Cognac and fall back on a sofa chair to ponder what came before. 

On a wet and rainy day ten years ago the sun well and truly set on the British Empire as we returned control of Hong Kong to the Chinese. Much to the amusement of the mainlanders the Queen (God bless her) slipped and fell on that fateful day as if to mark the end of an era that began with the first Opium War in 1841. Understandably furious at the volume of opium being pushed onto their people and keen to stem the flow the Chinese confiscated and set fire to a huge shipment of ' foreign muck' giving the British the pretext they needed for military action. Two British gun boats promptly destroyed a Chinese fleet of 29 ships and the Union Jack was hoisted. 

All is forgiven today, after all Hong Kong, with a population of 7 million went on to become one the world's great financial centre's and is today one of the world's most vibrant and eclectic cities. 

Writing hotel reviews is all about piling superlatives onto superlatives until you're left with a big mushy mash of sweetness. It's not very interesting so I'll spare you the superlatives for now, only to say one would have to be a one eyed planarian not to be impressed with the interior of The Grand Hyatt. Even the toilets compare favorably with the kind of rooms I've made my home over the years. 

Sipping Champaign with Liz in the hotels top floor lounge my attention is caught by a group of guys talking about football and gambling. Two of them have strong cockney accents. 

"No, listen 'arry, you wouldn't believe these new slot machines, nothing like wot we used to 'ave." 

Glancing to my right I catch the sunken eye of none other than Harry Rednapp, the manager of Portsmouth sipping red wine and chatting with the manager of Fulham. 

The entire squads of Liverpool, Portsmouth and Fulham are in Hong Kong for a weeklong pre-season tournament. Rumors had abounded that all three squads were to be using the Grand Hyatt as their base so I don't exactly fall off my chair in shock, but almost. This is, after all, Harry Rednapp, a house hold name for any normal person living in England and a one time manager of probably the best football team in the world, West Ham United, and he's sitting less than two meters away from me. 

I have few fears when bombing down mountains at 80 km's per hour, or racing from rabid dogs, or wandering alone through strange cities at three in the morning but for the first time on this tour I'm gripped by a strange type of fear. The palms of my hands turn sweaty. One gulp empties my Champaign glass. Looking over at Harry I know I have to say something. A thousand opening lines rush through my mind in the space of a minute but they all sound ridiculous. For a moment I feel like a 16 year old kid at the school disco staring at the girl he's crazy about while fighting a horribly cruel inward battle against his inhibitions. But I'm middle aged and Harry's not even a bird, just a sunken eyed gambler so why should I care. 

Eventually I blurt it out (for some inexplicable reason) in a cockney accent. 

"Thanks for wot you did at West Ham 'arry." 

Immediately I feel like thumping myself in the face. If I'd spent the whole night thinking of a more inane opening line I'd have failed. 

Harry's eye sees through the fake cockney demeanor and wobbles as he shuffles in his chair and replies, "Aw, that's awright." 

Luckily Liz is far more graced in social etiquette and strikes up a relaxed conversation with Portsmouth's PR manager. They share a joke that even sets Harry chuckling but I don't get it because I don't hear it. Finally Liz tells Harry I'm doing an overland bike, bus and train journey from Bangkok to Birmingham. Harry's impressed. His sunken eye sparkles as he looks at me and chuckles. 

"Bangkok to Birmingham, that's some journey, must be pretty tough." 

This time I keep my cool, look him in the eye and reply: 

"Yeah, yeah, pretty tough." 

This is a seminal moment. I'm in there with Harry and for some absurd reason this is the highlight of my Hyatt stay (Liz not withstanding). 

Football can have a powerful grip on people. You can change your name, country, wife, job, your kidneys and even your sex but I've never met a true football fan change their team. I even have a friend who's stuck with Swindon FC for 35 years. If his kidneys performed so dire the doctor would have changed them years ago. 

I don't see Harry for the rest of my stay in the Hyatt but when I see him smile on TV then I know he's thinking of me. 

If Hong Kong were to be compared to a person she'd be difficult to understand. She'd be constantly changing without losing touch of her heritage. She'd be superstitious but scientific when she wanted to be. She'd love dim sum and pizza too. She'd be exotic but familiar, a gambler but she'd always know the odds. She'd be all this, a contradiction and a conundrum, but more than anything she'd be a lot of fun to be around. She'd also be bloody expensive so seeing as the Hyatt is free and provides all the entertainment one could hope for we spend most of our stay there.

The clientele are mostly businessmen but you get the odd pop star. On my final evening I enter the wine bar for a kind of farewell drink. A singer croons his way waywardly through My Way while I begin sketching some Champagne Charlie's who are celebrating being rich. A short and hairy American dude wanders up and offers me a cigar. 

He tells me he's a musician. 

To be staying here at $450 a night he must have met with some success so I ask him whom he plays for. 

"Oh, I work in Hollywood; I do film scores and advertising compositions." 

His girlfriend, a tall Ukrainian blond, bedecked in gold with legs that reach up to his chest studies her manicure and yawns. 

We're joined by a strikingly handsome and debonair Saudi Arabian who sinks the Jack Daniels like a whisky priest and hands me his card and tells me I'm welcome to visit him if I ever cycle through Saudi Arabia. It seems you make friends quickly in the Hyatt. His girlfriend looks like a replica of the Ukrainian only she's Russian and seems to be having a great time. I ask the Saudi Arabian what he does and he replies, "I'm an ambassador." I keep hold of his card; you also make useful contacts in the Grand Hyatt. 

As the night wears on the American musician gets drunk and emotional about how much he hates pedophiles. 

He wants to know if I hate pedophiles, I tell him yes, then I tell him I've never met anyone who doesn't hate pedophiles. This seems to upset him so I drink up and leave. 

Many cycle tourists take their ventures seriously. Single mindedly focusing on the journey ahead, keeping a watchful eye on their finances, making sure every spoke is polished and every nut tightened at the end of each day. Sometimes I wish I was more like this type of traveler, they rarely fall prey to the deadly sin of sloth or screw up with their money. Unfortunately, I'm the complete opposite. When I happen upon a city as fascinating as Hong Kong the temptation to hang up the wheels for a few days, explore the streets, dip into the bars and slob out in the parks is overwhelming. 

All good things must come to an end so when they turf me out of the Grand Hyatt Liz flies back to work while I sail across the Harbor to find the cheapest room in town. 

My room is a six foot by five foot windowless cell (how the mighty fall) on the 12^th floor of the infamous Chungkin Mansions. The amicable and ever jolly Indian landlord purchased this place as a two bedroom flat two years ago and defied the laws of physics by turning it into a ten bedroom guesthouse with one shared bathroom. His nephew, equally as jolly, sleeps in the tiny corridor and smiles when I step over him on the way to the bathroom in the morning. When I ask him how business is he roles his head, laughs and hollers victoriously; "Oh, business is very good, in one years time my uncle will have paid off the flat then he will buy a new one and convert that into another guest house." Hallelujah, only there's no smoke alarms in this place, no fire escape, limited ventilation and cigarette stubs every where. 

From the top floor of Chungkin Mansions I can look across the bay and see the Grand Hyatt looking down upon me mockingly. With the scent of sewage rising from the Mansions ventilation shaft I bristle with envy at the thought of all those asset managers and stock brokers swigging back the Champagne and nibbling on canopies of caviar and smoke salmon. God-dam it if I hadn't been born a retarded donkey in the area of finance and had spent as many hours studying the stock exchange as I had learning the guitar I could be up there with them laughing at the poor people down below. 

Mike 'Portsmouth Football Club' Jones is a curious kind of fellow. His blond hair is dreaded like a mop, his arms and legs are decorated in Portsmouth tattoos, he works as an electrician and likes his beer but his real passion is football, or rather Portsmouth FC. Several years ago he changed his name legally from Mike Jones to Mike 'Football Club' Jones. I meet Mike and three of his mates on a blazingly hot afternoon in an open front bar on a steep street reminiscent of San Francisco in Hong Kong's central zone. A pigeon pecks at discarded peanut shells that cover the floor while ceiling fans twirl overhead. 

When I mention my encounter with Harry I'm immediately accepted into their circle. A large jug of ice cold Grolsh is handed around while the subject of conversation is naturally dominated by football, or, to be more precise Portsmouth FC. These are hard core Portsmouth fans; none of them live in Hong Kong, they've flown over from England to follow the team they love through a pre-season training tournament. 

These are fun and friendly guys to hang out with and on the surface they appear quite normal, if normal exists. They hold down steady jobs, two are married and send their kids through school and college. They speak plain English just like you and I, they eat when they're hungry and sleep when they're tired, from a distance you wouldn't notice anything unusual. But zoom in a little closer and you'll soon realize, when it comes to football they're completely insane. Mikes friend Dave, a bald headed geography teacher in a Portsmouth comprehensive carries a leather bound notepad with the signatures of not just every Portsmouth player but the training staff, the PR team and the clubs owners. They reminisce over games of no great significance that occurred 20 years ago and store their memory zones with enough statistical information to crash a computer. Mikes considering getting another Portsmouth FC tattoo as a reminder of their Hong Kong trip but he's barely enough space left on his arms so he wonders where else he can put it. 

"What about your dick," jokes one his mates to a chorus of laughter. The fact that Mike appears to take this suggestion seriously is cause for concern. 

By 3am we've crossed the bay and are sitting wasted in a seedy bar a stones throw from the infamous Chongking Mansions. A girl dances on stage while Mike leans over and slurs; "My girlfriend left me, said all I ever thought about is Portsmouth." Who'd believe it! 

I actually admire these guys for the simple fact that, just like train-spotters, cycling fanatics, rock climbers and musicians they understand the importance having something to be passionate about. The subject matter and rationality doesn't matter so long as it's something that can momentarily wash away the drudgery and elevate you to a higher place. The Portsmouth fans have that with football, I have it with travel.

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