Philly Part I

The Jeepney

If you like standard out of the box Kraft macaroni and cheese, this blog entry may not be for you much like if prefer to get off the plane and step onto your resort, our most recent vacation to Palawan Island, The Philippines is likely not your idea of a vacation. Like a homemade casserole of Mac and Cheese which takes a lot longer and tastes different, but somehow better, traveling the Philippines was time consuming, hard work, yet in the end entirely rewarding, leaving a good taste in our mouths and the desire for a second helping.

Our journey began with a few suggestions from Fanny who spent over 2 months in the Philippines in ‘02 (“Ahhh Palawan, so beautiful. Eat the dried Mango, it is delicious!”) and a night in Manila which doesn’t really bear mention since our time there was so short except to say that Will was amazed by its size. It is a city of 11 million people, with an impressive skyline reflecting the size of its population. A quick hop, skip and jump over the South China Sea landed us in Puerto Princessa, the capital of Palawan Island, an overgrown town or burgeoning city, depending how you look at it. Nearly busting at the seams it’s a place on the rise; a mixture of dirt and paved roads, motorized bikes and cars, shoeless children and footloose and fancy free roosters roaming the streets, and one Dunkin Donuts shop. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re somewhere as a visitor but probably like you’re from nowhere if you’re a native.

With an airport building nary a coconut hair larger than the plane in which we arrived, we excitedly headed off for the bus station with the Lonely Planet book our trusty guide (Mistake #1) in search of the Jeepney to Port Barton, our intended destination. Rushing to make it in time for the Jeepney’s 11:00am departure we arrived to find no one, except ourselves, in any particular hurry. The bus driver was taking a nap and various others were slowly packing up the vehicle - one…..item…..at……..a…….time…… tying each to the roof with old rope and a chain of knots. An hour later, we departed, stuffed into the back of the Jeepney with two dozen locals and several kilos of hard rice which served as an unforgiving cushion. Perhaps to make up for lost time, or perhaps due to a lack of any limitations on driving speed and the thrill of newly paved roads, we forged ahead at break-neck speed in a 30 year old extended Jeep with no windows and several hundred pounds of cargo stuffed, tied and packed inside. What could be made out of the scenery was breathtaking: sweeping views of a pristine coastline bordered by jungle clad mountains and miles of rice paddies with a thatched cottage or two sprinkled in every now and again. I snapped a picture of a particularly scenic field and a guy sitting across from us snapped a picture of me with his camera phone when he thought I wasn’t looking. “Maybe he thinks we’re famous,” I whispered to Will who gave a snide laugh. “Famous people don’t take these…buses…”

(Packing up the Jeepney)

Despite being cramped in an upright fetal-like position atop a hard sack of rice, his back leaning against a poorly padded metal grate of an open window, Will started to doze off, his head violently bobbing with the bouncing of the Jeepney. My watch informed me we were a good two hours into our journey; it seemed to be going fairly quickly. Then…a thick cloud of smoke, people screaming, lots of scurrying, satchels being tossed over our heads, fellow passengers pushing us out the back door: a busted Jeepney. The thought had entered my head as we raced along Palawan’s only paved road but I didn’t dare say it out loud. Will confessed his mind was reeling with the same thought. It was 2:00 pm and we were stranded alongside a rice paddy, in 95 degree heat, with 20 non-English speaking natives, a surprise considering the Philippines has the highest English literacy rate of any Asian nation. A thick stretch of oil inked the pavement like an artist’s heavy brushstroke on canvas and hot coals dropped from the engine. Smoke billowed from the hood. The bus driver made a phone call and a stream of the passengers headed into an adjacent field seeking shade under a tree. Moments later a motorized bike arrived with a covered sidecar and scooped up the bus driver. His image faded into the horizon. Where was he going and when would he return? Just how long would we be here? Could we call our resort and have them pick us up? Maybe. But we didn’t even know where we were. I tried using my cell phone which my Mom insisted I take along. I couldn’t get it to work. Son of a bitch.

(Scenic rice paddy and man urinating)

(Stranded...Busted Jeepney)

Greenviews

Fast forward several hours and a private van ride later and we arrive at our hotel – Greenviews Resort. Greenviews is a lovely place, though the word ‘resort’ is definitely used liberally by the cranky British owner whose preference for UK imported orange marmalade has him believing he owns a place worthy of being called a resort. Simple and rustic with a feeling similar to camp, Greenviews offers ten cottages set on the far end of a long sandy beach in the tiny village of Port Barton, a town with no electricity or running water. A generator pampered us with lights and home cooked meals from 6-11 pm and made us the envy of town. For $16 USD a night with a side of .30 cent beers, we couldn’t complain. I dare say the accommodations were better than those offered by some electrically clad hotels in the US.

(Greenviews Resort)

Life in Port Barton is slow and easy. The local roosters start their crowing before day break and ensured we were up and at ‘em far earlier than usual. My book was my best friend, second to Willy of course, who even acquiesced to a game of Scrabble one night after realizing there wasn’t much else to do. Local activities included island hopping on the sandy beaches of the area’s numerous untouched islands (supposedly a steal for those of you looking to pick up some real estate); hiking in the jungle; and watching butterflies (get in line, butterfly enthusiasts are abound in Palawan and the Greenviews proprietor informed us he is the only white man alive who knows what trees to plant in order to breed these beautiful creatures.)

The fairy tale ended abruptly when Will casually enquired about credit card payment. We retrieved our wallets and realized our time had come. Our freedom to enjoy this beautiful place was shriveling up before our eyes thanks to our culturally induced reliance on plastic rectangles and in hindsight the mistake of withdrawing far too little cash at the ATM in Manila (Mistake #2 for which I damned the Lonely Planet and Will damned me.) A run through our small stockpile of cash sent us back into ‘town’ to resell the only expensive item we purchased the whole trip – an 8oz container of Coppertone 24 (Mistake #3) which cost the equivalent of $12 USD. We could have dined like kings or drank ourselves silly on this sum but instead it was to be smeared all over our bodies in advance of inevitable sun damage. The woman who had given us a friendly grin when we made the purchase a day earlier shook her head defiantly and refused to take back the lotion. Humiliated, we returned to the resort, checked out of our cottage and chartered a boat south for what was to be another great adventure.

More to come. . .

(Above: Beach, Port Barton)

(Below: 'Excuse me, you sell sunblock?)


(Below: Island Hopping)

(Miles of untouched, pristine beaches)

(Typical boat - a cross between a canoe and a sea plane)

(5:45 am departure from Port Barton via boat)

(Views during boat ride south to Sabang and the subterranean river)

Shek O

The highlight of this past weekend was a Pigeon dining excursion with some locals on the nearby island of Lamma. Fortunately for you, we forgot our camera and are thus unable to share images of the crispy fried pigies which were served up split in two, in half-dozen stacks, on a platter garnished with nothing other than their severed little heads. The three year old daughter of a fellow diner took to shoving the pigeon heads onto her chop stick, prancing the marionette around like a barbie with which she would engage in simple conversation before suddenly and unexpectedly biting off the head for a good, crunchy snack. Mmmmm.

After Lamma, a trip back to Hong Kong's Southside to check out Shek O beach.

Shek O, translating to Rocky Bay, is the nicest seaside retreat we've found to date offering Hong Kongers a wide sandy stretch on the Southside and relatively unpolluted waters.

A cool 20 degrees (celcius that is) had us bundled up. Brrrr.

Feeling a bit under the weather, Will kept horizontal.

Sign pointing to a local store in Shek O - not sure if Mr. Lee's parents had really good or really poor command of the English language...

An unlikely pair - this canine couple, a chihuahua and great dane, dined at the table next to ours in one of Shek O' s bohemian eateries.

A construction crew dismantling bamboo scaffolding.

Pork

I make no claim to be a bonafide globe trotting ex-pat, but I've done a few things, and seen a few places outside the U.S. If someone asked me what, if any, similarities I could describe between say Peru, Spain, Greece, and Hong Kong, I would say, "simple", they all love pork. It has always seemed to me that we as Americans are somehow trying to distance ourselves from the "other white meat" while everyone else embraces it. You hear about the Chicago stockyards like they were the 9th level of Dante's Inferno, and how we are all in a better place now that we're eating organic Arugula, and leaving the evil days of pork consumption to the Joads (I know Ma, pig is making a big comeback, but still). The contrast is striking when you go to a place like Segovia, Spain where the Suckling Pig is a centerpiece of their marketing campaign; the reason you want to go there!! Or Hong Kong, where if you've been brainwashed into thinking that all the chicken have bird flu, you eat pig.

Well, Heather and I decided to embrace this phenomenon, and to see what all the fuss was about. Hitching a ride on the MTR (HK parlance for the subway) we "crossed the bay" into Mong Kok section of Kowloon. This is somewhat akin to New Yorkers crossing over in Jersey, or DC folks venturing into Northern Virginia. Kowloon is Hong Kong, but generally speaking less affluent, and has definitely more local flavor....especially in their food. Mong Kok is one of the most densely populated places on earth, home of electronic knock-offs, and a 10 ft statue of Bruce Lee. You go there for bargains, and to experience it once. You don't go there to eat. And that is why we knew it was here that we had to come to test our epicurean fortunes. Many of the eating venues here tend to be open air markets along the sidewalk - known as dai pai dongs. Generally they consist of a table of raw ingredients surrounding a cauldron of hot oil being cooked over an open gas flame.

Not wanting to waste time, or perhaps just trying to get the whole thing over with, we sidled up to the first one we came across. Immediately Heather became gun shy, and backed out. I can't say this surprised me, or even that I could blame her. The ordering process alone was enough to scare any Gweillo off. But then again, I'm not just ANY Gweillo am I? I came here to eat, and I was hungry. Re-focused, I pushed my way to the front through the hesitant oglers (even the locals were scared), and started pointing at a couple of things. No response, so I broke out the fail proof Chinese translator, otherwise known as my wallet, and instantly had two old crusty women trying to sell me meatballs. Not so fast. My rule was I was going to try something new, and even though I'm quite certain whatever meat was in those balls likely came from a being I heretofore had never considered edible, I wanted to go deeper. With a shaking finger betraying me with fear, I pointed at something that was being cut up in the corner by some lady whose face was obscured by the steam from the oil cauldron. It looked like sausage, but its contents I did NOT recognize. Just to be safe I ordered some octopus as well. You know its going to be a long day when octopus is your "safe" bet. To my utter horror she dropped both into the oil. Not only could this meal potentially be really bad, it now was going to be really unhealthy. Arugula never sounded sound so good. She handed the oily, stinking mess to me on two long toothpicks stuck in a brown paper bag. I thought for a second she was going to stab me with it. If I had known what was to come next, I would have wished it. Within seconds the oil was seeping through the bag so I had to be quick. I ate the octopus first, and it was pretty good. Maybe I was going to emerge unscathed after all, just another notch in my palette. My spirits brightened, and through the steam I remember making out a smile from behind the cauldron. That smiling witch, with her toothless smile of deceit. What happened next is still a mystery to me. We have photographic proof that I retained consciousness, and remained standing, but I really don't recall. I vaguely remember feeling like I was in the "Great Ape House" at the National Zoo in Washington DC., and that I had to get out because the smell of day old dung and animal dander was making me gag. Then suddenly emerging back into the daytime din of Kowloon, I realized that this was no nightmare, but the sensation being created by what was in my mouth. So simply, if you ask me how it tasted, it tasted like the Great Ape House at the National Zoo. It was the most vile morsel of any kind to ever cross the threshold of my oral cavity. I later learned it was pig intestine, but that doesn't sound bad enough. That witch was cooking up a batch of pure hell, and even gave me her pitchfork to eat it on. I have not come close to touching Chinese food since this incident, but am hoping for a full recovery by weeks end. More on this later.

Innocently excited

Street-fried pig intestines

The taste of day-old zoo

A moderately crowded sidewalk in Mong Kok, Kowloon

The Quiet Side

In a previous post, Will mentioned the striking contradiction between Hong Kong island's two sides: the frenetic city abuzz with millions of people, and the quiet Southside, a resplendent composition of green hills, unspoilt park reserves and tiny towns. Adding to the undeveloped magic is a system of well laid hiking trails that crisscross much of the island. With a hiking guide strapped around Will’s neck, we set off for one of the islands most difficult and acclaimed trails which afforded a much needed escape from the madness of the city and breathtaking views as captured in the pics below. You'll note the hazy effect which is, in fact, haze - the unfortunate ring that always sits around Hong Kong's collar.

View of the city

One island, two sides: To the right, Hong Kong City and to the left, the quieter, serene Southside.Looking out over one of Hong Kong's reservoirs (and wondering if the water is safe to drink...) Will steps aside to admire the breathtaking vista and let through another hiker. As if walking the trail isn't enough, this crazy fellow felt the need to carry along his bicycle.
From whence we came. And more to go - an intimidating climb up to the top of Twin Peak

Almost there...the view of Stanley Beach, one of the Southside's 'small towns.'
Our prize: a relaxing post-hike afternoon in Stanley!

108 Hollywood Road, Hong Kong

We moved into our apartment this week and what an upgrade. Originally a three bedroom 850 square foot unit seemed small compared to our comfortably spread out two bedroom in DC. But after spending two weeks in a teeny, tiny hotel room, largely occupied by our luggage, the new apartment is huge! And even though the view isn’t an upgrade (we’re only on the 12th out of 43 floors – see below) the rest of the place is certainly an improvement.

The ‘house hunting’ began in earnest our third day in Hong Kong. As suggested by several people in Will’s office we popped into one of the many residential brokerage houses in our ‘neighborhood,’ avoiding the ever so frequent Century 21 outlets. We’re in Hong Kong – going to Century 21 seemed like going to Starbuck’s – an inauthentic experience (even if I do like being able to get a skim latte sprinkled with a dash of nutmeg, just the way I like it, which is consumed while dotting over the latest US magazine detailing Brit’s new love interest.)

A Hong Kong native and likeable guy by the name of Andrew took us in as clients. He had a decent command of the English language and a seemingly better understanding of the Hong Kong housing market. We visited a number of apartments in the mid-levels (rightfully named as it’s the area half-way up the hill between the business district and The Peak) all of which fit the same description: old, smelly, and dirty…with a redeeming view. But being afraid of heights, Will and I found the views intimidating, and not worthy of increased rent (as evidenced by the pic above.) We were unimpressed and frankly, I was scared at the thought of living in an apartment where I might vomit from the smell of decade infused kimchi every time I opened the fridge. By God, there had to be something better. Something newer. We made a request to look at buildings built in the last decade.

Andrew obliged and pulled together a new list of units. Being Monday I went solo, while Will headed off for his second day of work in order to make more hard earned money for the necessary procurement of expensive leather accessories. While waiting for the broker, one of his colleagues informed me that we were going up to look at units on “Con-doo-wee Woad. Where de aih is moo fresha.” Country Road, it sounded nice – a new apartment, fresh air - I couldn’t wait. A few minutes later we headed off and arrived soon after at Conduit Road (not Country Road), one lousy street up the hill from where we started. I took a deep breath, amidst the bus exhaust and busy stream of taxis that wove by, and the air seemed exactly the same as it had 100 yards below on Robinson Road.

We walked into the first unit. It fit a similar description to the units we had visited on Saturday: old, smelly and dirty…with a great view. By Hong Kong standards it was a spacious 1,100 square feet which explained why it was $7,000 over the max price point we had given Andrew. I poked my head into the rooms, disenchanted with the city’s seeming lack of apartment offerings and noticed a box inside the shower, which I had seen in several other units. I asked Andrew what it was and how it worked. He explained that it was the hot water heater, and you had to turn it on before showering. “Very easy,” he said, so I asked him to show me, thinking ‘very easy’ was the way we did it at home, you turn on the faucet and – *tada* – that water is hot. Andrew set to work. In order to make sure we didn’t get sprayed by the shower, he moved the shower nozzle off its hanger and placed it on the floor of the tub. Quickly flicking a few buttons on the magic box Andrew had the hot water queued up and let it rip. As the water flew out of the spout, which was now lying on the tub floor, it deflected off the tub wall and sprayed all over us. We were doused and he was mortified. “I soooooh eeeg-nor-aunt,” he repeated several times. I still wasn’t sure the weird box worked.

Shaking off the water, we headed down to the building’s ‘Club House’ – a euphemism used to refer to whatever amenities a building may offer. Depending on the size, location and class of the building the Club House can include a gym, pool, steam and sauna, tennis court, function room, etc… for exclusive resident use. Perfect. Though the apartment was tired, I was attracted to the well appointed fitness center and outdoor pool. "Free, right?" I asked rhetorically. He nodded. “Ahh yes. If you no use, it’s free. But, if you use, you pay to pwaaaay.” Hmm. In the U.S. free means you get something for nothing. I realized it had a different meaning in Hong Kong.

By some stroke of luck (no thanks to Andrew), we found our current building, a new development on the western edge of Hong Kong’s SoHo district, SoHo being South of Hollywood, a beautiful street dotted with Chinese antique and curio shops in the heart of a thriving neighborhood filled with an assortment of international professionals and an equal diversification of eateries. As perhaps the newest building in Hong Kong, it’s one of the nicest developments in the city. One can stroll through the lobby any time of day to hear the sound of a grand piano – its key being stroked not by a person but instead by a strange electric box that sets the instrument a thunder. And yes, there is a Club House with a pool, gym, cigar room, i-mac lounge, etc…with the usual ‘Hong Kong Free’ system in place.

Despite all of that, our new apartment is a marvel: three bedrooms, a decently large living room and two balconies, though it does take some adjusting. The rooms are TINY. Small is the de facto standard. We have three bedrooms each barely able to fit more than a double sized bed. The entire building has no heat. None. You’re cold? Too bad. (Will’s taking full advantage of this as I cling to him every night like barnacle, syphoning all his extra body heat.) The apartment has no cabinets. None. You need to store things like food, dishes, clothes? Too bad. Buy something. And, it is super high-tech: the bathroom has a small, built-in flat screen TV perched directly across from the toilet. “You huz-ban, maybe he be in here for an oww-err!” the landlord exclaimed to me when showing the apartment, as if it was a selling point. The list goes on but you get the point. We love it and if nothing else, it gives us an appreciation for the amount of space we’re afforded back home.

That’s all for now; I’ve got to run. Will’s credit card is burning a whole in my pocket and this apartment needs some furnishings...