01.7.14 - Guest editor from 1949: RN Telegraphist George Flanigan

This picture dropped out of a big envelope of snaps from my granddad’s time in the navy, when we were going through his and my nanny’s things earlier this month. After squinting at it a while, I realised this was no random exotic skyline. The shape of the Peak struck me first…many fewer lights than today yes, but this had to be HK.

So here was the surprise I mentioned in the last post – my granddad’s naval career at the height of post-war Empire had taken him to HK. The more photos we sifted, the more HK scenes popped out.

This was fascinating, but I thought ultimately frustrating – no labels on the pictures, so I thought we’d be doomed never to know what took him there or for how long. Or so I thought.

After more digging, we found a yellowed typewritten script which explained all. Not only had he been to HK, but he’d lived there for a year. It was very emotional to read a familiar voice talking of a place I know so well now. It was, frankly, spooky when the account showed he lived in and took pictures around HMS Tamar (now the PLA barracks) a stone’s throw from where I work, and that even his passtimes and mine - including the photos and writing - overlap entirely.

Anyway, enough of me. Let’s hear from George Flanigan, RN Telegraphist, writing about his service in HK in 1949.

The outline of Hong Kong. As we drew closer, we could discern the Lyemun Pass and the waterway which leads directly into Victoria harbour…We glided into the harbour proper, with a mighty blast of the Tairea’s siren [the ship he travelled in]. Looking from left to right was the great hill looming over the city of Victoria, crowned by the white building of the Combined HQ British Forces Hong Kong. Directly in front, junks of every size both sail and motor propelled, and ships of the Far East fleet dominated by the bulk of the cruiser Belfast.

Off watch, we soon settled into the sybaritic life of a British Serviceman on foreign service.

We had the full gamut of sporting life, but in much more exotic surroundings. As we found our feet we’d change into civvies (white shirt, grey trousers, blue socks, with sandals in summer and black leather shoes in winter) and we might go to the Fleet Club, a mini-skyscraper overlooking the harbour, for a cool “San Mig” before maybe taking a stroll down Wanchai. Little shops crowding one another out of existence each side of the street. The smells! Joss sticks, chicken being cooked, Chinese vegetable meals, musk, sweat, jasmine. The trams whizzing to and fro, bells clanging, packed out, with people hanging onto the running board and window frames. Rickshaw boys plying their trade. And as ever, little lads touting “Master! My sister, cheap…”

Or perhaps one’s feet might take you up town to the central district, much more elegant, with the business centre forming an integral part of it. The Jardine-Mathieson building, Government House, Butterfield and Swire’s office block, air conditioned cinemas.

Or another time, a trip across the harbour on the “Star” ferry to visit Kowloon on the Chinese mainland where, looking back across the harbour in the evening, Hong Kong island would be outlined against the setting sun like a great crouching lion. As darkness fell, the jewel effect would re-appear with the neon lights of every colour and hue flashing on and off.

Sporting types might visit Happy Valley, down past Wanchai. There one could indulge in the gee gees as the colony’s long-established racecourse was there, together with a large complex of sports fields.

With this Imperial backdrop, it was hard to believe that only 4.5 years separated this time-honoured scene from the closing stages of the Japanese occupation. And only a total of eight years since the time of Hong Kong’s inevitable surrender to the invading Japanese on Christmas Day 1941. However, if one took the paths of the hills overlooking the harbour, one could find rusty guns, their concrete houses just beginning to crumble. Rifle emplacements with, scattered around in the undergrowth, old cartridge cases, bits of equipment, and various other small debris which proved it happened alright.

21.6.14 - Family history that explains a lot...

I was back in the UK last week for very sad reasons. My grandmother, Daphne Flanigan, had passed away at the age of 83; and I needed to go back for the funeral and to deliver the eulogy on behalf of my mum and aunts.

Tough stuff yes, and gruelling travel – but as discussed on here before, these are some of the things you have to accept when you move abroad.

I don’t actually want to linger on this. Suffice to say I am pleased I went; she was a wonderful old lady and, 

poring over her life for a few days, it was a privilege to pay tribute to her.

What I do want to share, is that I discovered some amazing things in the house she lived in since 1975 that explain a great deal of where I get the urge to blog, photograph and document from.

My grandfather, George, passed away in 1999. A fantastic storyteller and military enthusiast, I was his biggest fan as a little boy and teenager. But it turns out, he did more than tell stories to me. He had a miniature typewriter – still in the cupboard with lots of spare paper, ribbons and carbon sheets, waiting to be 

used – and wasn’t afraid to use it. Here are some fabulous things I found:

1-      Diaries for every year from 1964 – A typical entry being “Up, wash and shower. Breakfast. Work. Terrible weather. Home. Beer. Scrabble. Bed”.

2-      Sheaves of short stories about his life, some of which he’d had published – his upbringing as the child of an RAF engineer; his service in the navy; his service as part of the Queen’s honour guard at the coronation; his time as a prison officer; a dreadful tale about a murder in a pub that he tried to prevent (and failed) at great personal risk.

3-      Draw upon drawer of photos – including literally hundreds in black and white from his service in the navy.

4-      A huge folder of his correspondence from 1980s on – He kept a carbon copy of every letter he ever  sent [who does this and why?!], ranging from writing to television presenters he disagreed with on historical minutiae, the Daily Mail editor (many times) and his friends about his family. 7-year-old me is recorded as “a card” in front of whom he cannot swear or I repeat it immediately.

5-      Lists and records that had

a.       Multiple sub headings

b.      Little to no discernible purpose

c.       An unbelievable level of detail.

My favourite being a book of all the social engagements he and my grandmother went to between 1968 and 1998…so now I can pointlessly tell you that they went to the pub or the British legion 990 times in this period, apart from in 1985 when, recorded in block capital red letters, they inexplicably did NO PUBBING.

Clearly, this explains a great deal. Keptman is genetic. 

I should probably write a letter about it to someone. Then keep a copy of said letter. And store it with all my other letters. Then write a story about it.

But there was one last discovery that really blew me away…which deserves a whole extra blog of its own. Watch this space. 

04.6.14 - Kung Fu Pandas cause Pandamonium with a Gung Ho display of pa(n)d(a)dling

Claire and I jostled along Stanley beach amongst a mass of people dressed in Panda hats, processing behind a blow up panda the size of a small car that was held aloft like some kind of pagan idol. The panda magically parted the sea of people -  3500 competitors, triple that number of supporters and onlookers -squeezed into a usually sleepy seafront.

We set the panda down in front of a line of 12 long, thin boats dressed up to look like roaring dragons that were drawn up on the beach. Each one held 18 paddlers, seated in 2 rows, wielding canoe-like wooden oars. The occupants all had matching outfits – ranging from the sprayed on sponsored lyrca of serious sports, to workplace sides in corporate tops to boats dressed as punks, Red Indians and superheroes.

We and our giant panda awaited our turn to swarm into the boats in our turn while a noisy ceremony to paint on the dragons’ eyes (as old as the 2500-year old sport itself) took place to the soundtrack of each boat’s drummer hammering away.

And under a sweltering sun. In 33 degree heat. 80% humidity. Anarchic, colourful chaos.

Welcome to the annual Stanley Dragon Boat festival – but not sozzled on a junk this year. We’d got into the thick of it and were about to paddle with our team, the Panda Paddlers.

We were keyed up. I ran over in my head the ideal paddling motion. It looks much like a piston action, with much of the effort coming from twisting as you reach forward and pulling your whole frame into the stroke, rather than brute arm strength.

As we saw the latest batch race back to the beach, I was reminded that this is a sport where it’s not necessarily the born sportsman/woman or musclebound chap(esse)s who will win. A single excellent paddler cannot carry a team, nor can one individual win the day with a singular bit of dash. It’s about the teams which can do the strokes together, with the best technique; act as one, listening to the captain’s voice.

As was evidenced by the race unfolding in front us. A common sight all day was a boat full of shouting determined paddlers, gunning away at a frenzied pace, with their blades all over the place, pulling so hard they look like they’ll bust…being serenely overtaken by a boat paddling together, piston-like at half the rate.

As we clambered aboard and settled in, Claire my (much more competent) paddling partner, the captain ran over our drills, rhythms and calls as we gently stroked to the start. Energy saving was key – we’d been stuck on the sapping beach for ages, and had been up since the team’s open-topped buses had picked us up at 7am. The final races would end in the gloom around 630.

Our local steerer heaved us into place into the starting line, and we assessed the competition. The Kung Fu boat, without us due to an overly large squad, had topped its heat, which put us in a daunting line up. Some would vie for the top 12 overall, and some were likely international standard. They had trained multiple times weekly for months, not 10 tens times at weekends like us. And I doubt their training involved beer afterwards. Anything over 6^th would be an achievement.

The start, with a boom of a gun, was sudden. But we swung into practiced, synchronised motion…

5 deep strokes; 5 fast; 5 very fast; slow into the ‘chug’, the bulk of the race where he/she who keeps in time and digging deep into the water prevail. Halfway there, lungs, arms and core burning. Older hands said later we were losing timing by this stage, but compared to the other races in scratch boats we did that day, it felt great.

Last 20 strokes. A call for deeper, harder strokes to finish. The boat lifted as one, and stayed in time. The surge forward was palpable. We held off a coupling of challenging boats at the death, and sucked in the stifling air as we crossed the line.

In 4^th. Which meant the boat would be tussling for 13-24^th out of 200 places in the second top final.

Sadly, as the squad size had swelled on the day, Claire and I did not make the cut for the top 18 for that race. But that didn’t stop us cheering the guys on as they stormed to 5^th, 17^th for the day and a record for the team in its 7-year history. And, given we’d played at least some part, that didn’t stop us showboating with the trophy when it arrived.

Addictive stuff. We’ll be back for more next year.

25.3.14 - (Porcu)Pinewood Battery

Just as I’m winding the blog down because new stuff is not happening any more, Hong Kong jumps out to surprise me. Apologies for the picture. It will become clear.

This week I went out running with a new (rather senior) colleague from work. I had taken her out to run over some mountains in her first week, as I’d heard she was a keen runner…and let’s be honest.

I was trying to show off a bit.

I wanted to share with another runner how awesome it is to run here, the trails I’ve found hashing etc. It didn’t go to plan. We took one wrong turn halfway up a mountain, and when we reached the top after some steep, rough-pathed climbing, the trail we were on stopped. As we turned to look whence we had come, it looked a lot steeper, the path much less clear and fog was visibly rolling in off the sea.

Via some scrambling, severe scratches, jumping into storm drains and her casually asking if I “had any family who would miss when you fall off a cliff one night”, we made it back in one piece.

So this week, I wanted to get it right.

We took a trail I have done tens of times, yomping up to the Peak Tram, along the flat path there and then headtorches on for a dash through Pinewood Battery.

I love running though Pinewood Battery. It’s a maze of trails and stairs on the Peak that fit around what was originally constructed in the 1800s as part of HK’s artillery sea defences. It cracks me up as a piece of incompetent planning. Its history goes like this:

1880s – someone has an idea to build a battery there. A review is made to look into it.

Late 1880s – they decide to build it

Early 1890s – building finally begins

1901 – it opens, big shiny guns and all

1902 – it’s declared obsolete

1920s – it’s half-arsedly turned into aircraft defences

1941 – it has the hell bombed out of it by the Japanese.

Bugger.

The run this time is going great guns. All gone to plan, views great, and I’m wittering on about Pinewood’s history as approach it. Having spotted my first snake recently (they’re waking up…), I was scanning ahead for beasties, and just as we hit the battery saw two eyes gleaming back near the picnic tables.

Immediately thinking SNAKE, I drew to an abrupt halt and squinted to where the eyes had been.

And could not believe what I saw – a porcupine! A real, actual, like a massive hedgehog porcu-bloody-pine!  I’d heard HK had some, but couldn’t quite believe it. He looked unimpressed at our intrusion, which he showed by rattling his huge spines and ambling behind the picnic bench to hide. Very cutely, he peeked out a few seconds later, and when we were still there, shambled a bit further away behind a chair, all the while with us cautiously following him to get pictures.

As you can see from the photo, the pictures didn’t work and eventually, he lummoxed off into the undergrowth.

So much better than a snake. Though it give me pause for future hashes…wouldn’t want to stumble onto one of those now I’ve seen the severity of the spines in the dark one night :s

09.3.14 - Crossing the Border with the Dragons

The old sweeping lady, bamboo brush in hand, wrinkled her nose and screwed up her eyes in confusion as the ball rolled to halt at her feet. After scrutinising it for a while, she looked up at the odd bunch of players running up and doing peculiar things with said balls. A few seconds sufficed for her to take it in, shake her head, laugh and gingerly toe punt the ball back onto the pitch before carrying on her way.

This is a fairly common reaction of the locals who swing by this particular pitch in the public Happy Valley park late on in the day of a Thursday or Sunday. It’s where the more niche gweilo sports go to practice. Aussie rules. American football.

And Gaelic football.

As some readers will know, this is a game I have a pedigree with. I discovered it at university via Irish friends. A mishmash (though pre-dating I think) of football, rugby and basketball, I think it’s a fantastic sport to play.

Plus, it’s my back door route to being able to say, “Oh yeah, I played for my uni at 3 sports”. I omit to mention that it was at 3 sports where they physically had just enough players to play at all, and I was ‘OK’ to ‘rubbish’ every one – Aussie Rules (we got stuffed by Oxford. My contribution was almost zero); hurling (a genuinely terrifying experience. I contributed nothing at all); Gaelic football (where I played a minor part in a few British Uni tournaments).

It’s an act I have reprised in Hong Kong. I discovered the HK club just 4 weeks ago from some hashers who ran wearing ‘Malaysia’ Gaelic football tops, and told me HK had a club too. And by Saturday, I found myself running out onto a rutted, bare-patch riddled pitch in China to make my international (haha) debut for the Hong Kong Gaelic Dragons against the GAA titans of Shenzhen.

A meteoric rise. How did I do it? Did I dazzle with my natural skill and ability after a 7-year career break? And they said, “Wow, that Paddy Turner, we simply must get him to pull on a jersey as soon as we can”* Nah.

Same old trick as uni. The match was almost called off due to lack of players; so I jumped at the chance. The captain was clear that literally anyone, even someone who had never seen the game before, would have got a game.

But that’s not what it’ll say on the record. To my ‘3 uni sports caps’ and ‘3 international cricket caps’ (against that renowned cricketing nation, Estonia), I can add ‘1 cap for the Hong Kong SAR’…

How did the Dragons do? Did we roast the upstarts from across the border? In a word – no. They did the slaying, and we lost narrowly. But taking the positives - I didn’t disgrace myself. I actually played all right. It could be one of my few first team caps, as it gets serious later in the year and the real players, you know, start attending games and stuff.

That won’t mean, though, that I won’t get a game for the Hong Kong 3^rd GAA side at the all Asia Championships, where I envisage our run will be ended at a disappointingly early stage in one of the minor trophies they set up for the pants teams (the bowl maybe?) to some powerhouse of the game. Like Bhutan, maybe…

*Actually, most of my first conversations with the other (great fun and welcoming) GAA lads have actually gone like this:

Them: Ah, here, so you’re Paddy then, are you?

Me: Yes, hi, good to meet you

Them: [confused that I don’t sound like a Paddy, even though I’m wearing a gaelic top] Oh! Right. So you’ve got Irish parents there have you?

Me: Er, no…

Them: Ah so, you grew up in Ireland did you? What county are you?

Me: Oh erm [conscious of how English I sound, but desperate not to start empathy-talking in a Irish accent], no county actually, didn’t grow up there…I just, erm, started playing at uni.

Them: Right, I see. [with facial expression that suggests they don’t see.  At all]

02.3.14 - keptman 'best of' montage. Imagine your own BBC-style inspirational music.

This blog has been a fairly important part of HK life for me. Above is the 'word cloud' of the blog. Some alarming regulars in there...

But on it’s birthday, I’ve decided to put the blog into semi-retirement soon. 

I don’t want it to get too narrative driven (“today I did blah, it was nice”), and now we’ve seen the whole year’s cycle I might start repeating myself. I have a couple of things I want to blog about up my sleeve, and will write about my dad’s March visit…but then posts will be rare and limited only to truly interesting stuff.

And so, in a horrible display of self-indulgence, I thought the year milestone and imminent retirement merited a blog…about the blog.

So below (with hyperlinks if you want to see the full thing!) are snippets of the blogs that are mine and Claire’s favourites or the most viewed this year...

02.3.13 – business. But no class.
I kicked off expat life by being a bit star struck in the Virgin business lounge. One of the top 3 read.

“Most occupants looked bored or nonchalant, as if this were totally normal. I make no judgements – for many of them I’m sure it’s a humdrum means to an end. I’d love to say we played it equally cool…alas, we sampled every service with childish glee, rushing about in fits of giggles. I had this nagging feeling someone would shortly collar me, crying, “You are an imposter, sir! Nobody comports themselves thus in business class, particularly not in a…football shirt!”

In this photo, I find myself swinging in a wicker seat suspended from the ceiling supping my third glass of bottomless champagne, trying not to wallop the businessman behind me toiling at his laptop…”

04.3.13 – Hong Kong housewife.
A comedic low for me as genuine kept man. Most viewed blog – driven by google searches. Shudder.

“Claire and I went to the main HSBC building…to set up our HK bank account. The forms to sign up for anything are comprehensive here…

The worst was the section on employment. In HK, there is almost 100% employment for those who wish or are able to work. ‘Unemployment’ is not something people here comprehend…Here, you work; you are retired; or you choose to be a home maker. And that is clearly not considered a man’s role by HK Chinese.

Hence, today, I had no choice but to circle the box for occupation as ‘Housewife’.”

06.3.13 – IDiot abroad
One of a few blogs I did in the style of a play, when we went to get ID cards.Top 5 finisher on reads.

“Official: OK, now put your thumb on the reader.

PT:          Where? Here? OK

PT places thumb on scanner. Askew.

Official: Straighter. Lift up. Down. Down again...Up...Down...Left. Not that far!

Official sighs, putting on a black glove. She reaches through the Perspex, physically placing PT’s thumb.

PT:          Oh, ah, gosh, sorry, haha!

Awkward silence. PT is manhandled.

Official: Sit on that chair. Look at red dot. Not camera, red dot…red dot.

PT:          [desperately] I am looking at it!

PT looks confuesdly at the official. The camera goes off. PT’s face freezes. The official looks unimpressed.

Official: Red. Dot. Please. Sir.

PT:          Sorry.

The photo takes. The results flashes up. PT looks like a simpleton.”

08.6.13 – Patrick speaks Cantonese – a play in 400 words
My favourite post. Relays conversation I had on a tiny non-English speaking island in a resto-cum-shed.

ME: Er…I speak a little Cantonese…er…I am English person

WOMAN: Ooooh, blahdiblahdiblah English blahdiblah, waaaah!

WOMAN: [suddenly inexplicably animated, she spots my iPhone and points at it and then into the nearby undergrowth repeatedly] blahdiblahdiblahdiblaaaaaah!

ME: [having not caught even one word, I am stuffed] Erm…er…I…

MAN: [follows his wife’s example, pointing and very excited] Blahdiblahdiblahdiblah cow blahdiblah!

ME: Cow?

MAN+WOMAN TOGETHER: Cow! [man pushes the point home by miming horns on his head and snorting]

ME: Er…[looks where they are pointing. No sign of a cow. Or beef?]…Where cow? Why cow? No cow!

WOMAN: [flapping her arm now and nodding] There is cow, blahdiblahdiblah [points at my phone]

ME: [desperate now] Don’t know, er, understand, er, I…[trying to change the subject I sip my coke] Ah, is very cold!

WOMAN: Hmph.

14.6.13 – What links Queen Victoria and spicy fingers?
Second most reads…again, what are people googling out there?!

We guided Jed through the beartraps and into what is essentially our local – the Queen Vic. It's a British pub but more importantly, it's the hashing pub. So it's the closest I've had to a Queen Vic experience in the soaps - every time I've been, I've met several people we know. 

…Jed began to tire. So we whisked them off to the night's main event - Spicy Fingers. 

This is one of the prime venues for Hong Kong's cover bands…the quality of musicianship is excellent. So good in fact that I often feel a bit embarrassed that they are arguably wasted on the motley crew of sozzled middle aged expats and gyrating younger women (and then us) that surround them [as they  play] covers of songs from Erasure to Jessie J.

Sounds embarrassing to read this back...but I promise you it's genuinely a great laugh.

3.7.13 – Why?!
Claire’s favourite. Paddy rescues a lost local on the darkening trails. Bizzare conversations ensue.

Doris has come up to the hills to get “some outdoor activities”. And is lost. Even though she’s lived within 5km of that spot all her life. And she has no phone, no torch, no money.

 “I very scare of dark. You go this way? You take me?” Well, who can resist the knight in shining armour routine? She even rather sickly sweetly said, in deadly seriousness, as I helped her over the umpteenth puddle – “You’re my hero!”

But! The funniest thing was the awkward conversation.

Like: 

Doris: So, you like live in Hong Kong?

Me: Oh yes, very much.

Doris [harshly]: You not scare of thiefs?!

Me: Thieves? Well, no, Hong Kong’s much safer than London.

Doris [dismissively]: Huh! No, is wrong, is many thief in Hong Kong.

And…

Doris: So – new English baby! You happy?! [Prince George had just been born]

Me: Oh yes, everyone in England is very happy!

Doris [shocked]: But why?!

Me: ….Wh…Why? Well, it’s, you know, nice…?

Doris: But you pay for them, for their feeding, for their cloth…is like they are children! So why you happy, woh?

Me: Er, well, they only cost each Briton about 6 Hong Kong dollars a year you know. [jokey] Good value, hey?

Doris: Hm. Don’t know.

02.3.14 - Hong Kong one year on...

Today is our HK anniversary. Exactly one year ago right to this minute, we were in flight, en route to HK. The whole year that has just passed was stretching unknowably ahead of the couple pictured here, just days after the move.

It feels both like yesterday and an age away all at once. And so today seems a good time to take stock.

There have been highlights aplenty. The lifestyle: from practical things like the ease of getting around and quality of life; to immersing ourselves in local cultural events like the Fire Dragon; to submitting to expat decadence, be it the occasional champagne brunch, to junks to nights out that wouldn’t look out of place for a first year undergraduate’s scrap book.

There have been excursions galore – gambling in Macau, shopping in Shenzen, cocktail slinging in Singapore, sunny indulgence in Indonesia, a treat in a Thailand and beachy fun in the Philllipinnes.

We have discovered heaps of new things too numerous to mention here, but include hashing for both us, foot massages for Claire on tap from our local masseuse Thai Retreat, and for me having “ones own tailor” (he’s called Kenny. He’s very nice).

We’ve made tens of amazing friends since we got here, who have made all of these experiences better many times over. A heartfelt thanks to them. You know who you are. Equally, we’ve felt incredibly lucky that family and friends from home have dropped in to sample this life with us. We look forward to hosting many more.

But there have been downsides. The first few months were hard as I looked for work and Claire took the burden of work and bringing in the money. Our first flat was a challenge – holes in roofs, chaos on the terrace, cockroaches in every nook and cranny. But toughest of all has been the distance from close friends and family. Skype has made staying in touch much easier than we thought, but when life events come and go that we have no choice but to miss and family crises strike that we are powerless to help with, HK does feel very far away.

Nonetheless, it’s fantastic to think how far we have come. For me, I emerge from HK Year One about a stone lighter, two 50km races under my belt and having secured a job that (whilst embargoed on this blog!) I enjoy, feel challenged by and get a lot out of. You couldn’t ask for more.

But Claire’s year has been even better. She adapted so well to a new and entirely alien work environment that when her area was restructured just months in, she emerged with a weighty promotion. And at the same time as grappling with more responsibility, she has in the last 2 months joined a crazy fitness group that works out 6 mornings out of 7 at 630am. The weight is falling off and she looks fantastic. Oh, and the Claire at the top of this post was fringeless - unimaginable now!

Year two has a lot to live up to. But I suspect it may be up to the task.