34 Province Project: Xinjiang 新疆

Xinjiang, literally “New Territory”, is the largest and westernmost of China’s provinces. A significant fraction of its inhabitants, primarily the Uyghurs who until recently made up the majority of its population, is rather unhappy with this state of affairs and would much prefer that it be called East Turkestan in recognition of its cultural and linguistic roots with fellow Turkic peoples further to the west. The Chinese Communist Party, in turn, is rather unhappy with this state of affairs and has spent the past half century trying to assimilate them by hook or crook.

I’ve dreamed of the markets of Kashgar, the oases of Turfan and the deserts of Taklamakan ever since I watched The Silk Road in the 1980s, but I’ve never actually been to Xinjiang. I first encountered their food in Australia, where some 5,000 Uyghur refugees have settled and not a few have opened restaurants, like the daggy but iconic, uncompromising and rather tasty Kiroran in the heart of Sydney’s Chinatown. Uyghur cuisine features many Central Asian staples like rice pilaf (polu, in Chinese 抓飯 zhuāfàn); mutton kebabs (羊肉串 yángròu chuàn); flat, wide handmade laghman noodles (手拉麵 shǒu lāmiàn); and nan (饢 náng) bread, the last of these not referring to the soft, pillowy nan of India, but crisp, perfectly round discs often studden with sesame seeds or spices.

Here in aggressively apolitical Singapore, no restaurant dares utter the U-word, but there are two restaurants that claim to feature Xinjiang cuisine — so of course I had to go visit both.

Aisyah (西北香 Xibeixiang “Northwest Fragrance”) is a surprisingly hip & happening pint-size joint on Telok Ayer St, right next to Thian Hock Keng temple. Figuring the CBD would be deserted on Sunday, we rocked up at lunchtime with no reservation and were lucky to snag the last table.

The menu is short, and the name of the game here is kebabs and hand-pulled noodles (laghman) served with a variety of toppings, ranging from braised mutton (黄焖羊 huángmènyáng) to the more-Sichuanese-than-Uyghur “saliva” chicken (口水鸡 kǒushuǐjī), so called because it makes your mouth water. Both kebabs and the stewed mutton were excellent, with the meat soft and falling off the bone/skewer, and you can choose to have your noodles with spicy soup, mild soup or “dry” with soup on the side.

An unexpected new acquaintance was Hankow Factory #2 (汉口二厂 Hànkǒu èrchǎng) soda, hailing from a city better known these days as Wuhan. Selling their fruity Mystery Factor X soda overseas may be a bit of branding challenge these days, so I tip my hat to their marketing team, but at least the product was good: it was probably the closest thing I’ve had to Pommac outside Finland!

Total damage for 4 people: $80. Recommended.

I had my doubts about Alijiang (阿里疆), the lavishly decorated local outpost of a Chinese chain that claims to offer “Silk Road cuisine”, perched atop Singapore’s largest shopping mall Vivocity to boot. Not only are technicolor camels outside a restaurant usually a bad sign, but the menu veers way the hell off the Silk Road and onto completely the wrong continent: lobster noodles or avocado salad with cherry tomatoes, anyone?

However, we struck to their self-proclaimed Xinjiang specialties and were pleasantly surprised. The mutton-laden polu cooked to order in a clay pot was oily and yummy, the nan was made fresh, the pickles were zingy and crunchy, and the kids devoured the kebabs and asked for more. All agreed the star of the show was the one Xinjiang dish the Uyghurs don’t usually get credit for, namely “big plate chicken” (大盘鸡 dàpánjī), a hearty stew of chicken, potatoes, and laghman noodles all slathered in oil and spicy-numbing mala sauce, reputedly invented by Sichuanese truckers to keep them going during that admittedly tedious 4,000-km drive from Beijing to Kashgar.

One dish we didn’t try was the roasted whole lamb, available for auspicious price of $888, but probably not selling that well in these COVID-constrained times of groups up to 8. I wonder if they actually dress it up with gold jewelry as shown in the brochure?

Two bonuses came at the end: the kids got free soft-serve ice cream, and I realized a bit too late that I got somebody else’s bill and consequently saved a fair chunk on what would otherwise have been a $120-ish tab. Oops: guess we’ll have to go back to atone, or check out the Gansu-style Lanzhou beef noodles at their sister outlet next door.

<<< Index

34 Province Project: Eating my way through regional China in Singapore

Coming back to Singapore after almost 10 years away, one thing that struck me is the proliferation of regional Chinese food. Mala is the most visible manifestation, but the southern Chinese dishes we all know and love have been supplemented by restaurants serving up more or less unadulterated dishes from northern, northeastern, western and central parts of China. Yet since they cater mostly to recent immigrants, many of them are nearly invisible on the English-speaking Internet: they’re rarely covered by local bloggers, mostly missing from the usual delivery services and often not even listed on Google Maps.

With my business travel plans to China scotched by COVID-19 for the foreseeable feature, I figured I’d set a goal for myself: trot out my 非常不好 Mandarin and try to explore the food of every one of China’s 34 provinces right here in Singapore. Easy enough for Shanghai or Hong Kong; a bit more challenging for Guizhou or Anhui.

Here’s my current plan of action, noting dishes & drinks to try and places to try them, and the map version of the same.  All things considered, I’d prefer to eat everyday/street/”real” food instead of fancy 5-star hotel restaurant stuff, but I’m open to everything.  If you have suggestions or would like to you’d like to offer your services as tour guide/translator/culinary consultant, please comment directly on the doc or drop me a line!

Start your journey here: Xinjiang >>>

Lady Jennifer Windsor: the hoax that fooled Singapore for over 11 years

Many Singaporeans will have heard of the tragic story of Lady Jennifer Windsor, wife of Lord Windsor. One of many British residents in the colony, she and her wealthy family lived on a huge estate in Upper Thomson in the 1920s.

Yet this idyllic existence was shattered on one cruel day in 1923.  Lady Jennifer’s three young children, Harry, Paul and little Angela, were playing at a nearby bridge when out of nowhere, a flash flood suddenly swept them all away to her deaths. The bodies of the two little boys were found downriver, but Angela’s body was never found.

Soon people started to hear what sounded like the cries of a little girl near the bridge, and the desperate Lady Jennifer went there to comfort her lost child’s soul.  She ended up spending the rest of her life in mourning near the bridge, and that is how the Singaporean neighbourhood of Ang Mo Kio, or Caucasian Bridge, got its name.

It’s a tragic tale, retold in many places like New York Times journalist Cheryl Tan’s book A Tiger in the Kitchen, a Singaporean TV documentary, the Wikipedia page for Ang Mo Kio and too many blogs and tourist guides to count. There’s only one tiny flaw in the story: it’s unadulterated horseshit.

The story seems off even on casual inspection. “Jenny from the block“, the Cornish version of Guinevere, seems an unlikely choice of name for an aristocrat born in the late 1800s. The Windsors are nothing less than the British royal family, so what happened to that estate, and why are there no other traces of them in Singapore? If they had lived here, would they really let their young children play on a road completely unsupervised? And even if they did, are flash floods large enough to wipe out bridges but not accompanied by massive storms really a thing in Singapore?

Once this thread of suspicion had been pulled, the entire fabric of the hoax unraveled within days. A Google Books search revealed both precisely zero hits for the fair Lady before 2009, and that there were historical references to the name Ang Mo Kio as early as 1855, decades before her supposed birth.  Soon a Wikipedia sleuth tracked down the apparent original source, namely this shitpost by a “Michaelzhang68” in the Chit Chat room of the late sgforums.com on November 21, 2008. Nobody bought it there either, as the improbable tale was promptly torn to shreds and one reply even lampooned it by suggesting that Ah Hood Road was named when Robin Hood decided to swap Nottinghamshire for Singapore.

Nevertheless, the original creator seems to have persisted, since mere hours later, a verbatim copy of the post was added to Wikipedia’s “Ang Mo Kio” page by a “Paulchen68”, and that’s all it took for the legend to sprout seed. For 11 long years and 8 months until July 2020, the story sat there, occasionally embellished or reformatted, but essentially unquestioned until this ang moh happened to move next to Ang Mo Kio and started wondering where that name came from.

So where did the name come from? I subscribe to the least sexy possible theory: a bridge (桥 kio in Hokkien) was built from concrete (红毛灰 ang mo he “Western ash”), which then became Ang Mo Kio. But maybe you shouldn’t trust the claims of a random stranger on the Internet on this point either…

Picture of a suitably skeptical-looking “Lady Jennifer” from the Mardi Gras Museum at Arnaud’s, an execrable tourist trap in New Orleans.


Staycation in the time of plague: a night at Capella Singapore

After months of lockdown, Singapore opened up some hotels to staycations by local visitors in early July. It had been 6 months since we’d gotten out of the house, the kids were on school holiday, and Capella Singapore of Trump-Kim summit fame had a pretty decent deal (20% off, free breakfast, late checkout and a $100 dining credit), so we decided to try it out. Make no mistake, this was still not a cheap stay, but we did also “save” on the cost of return flights for four people, or at least that’s how we justified it to ourselves!

This is not going to be a review of Capella: the place has been around for over ten years, so that’s been done to death. Instead, I’m going to focus on what staycations in Phase 2 Singapore are like when COVID-19 still stalks the streets.


Luxury hotels put a lot of effort into making check-in as smooth as possible. COVID bureaucracy, unfortunately, does not. On arrival, every adult needs to do the SafeEntry QR scan before entering, get their temperature measured, fill out a lengthy health declaration form that requests everything from your reason of stay to your employer’s contact details, and only then to you get the to the normal hotel registration with NRICs, credit cards etc. No big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it did take a good 20 minutes and it’s always tedious to repeat the same info over and over — would it be hard to, say, extend SafeEntry to hotel stays?

In normal times, Capella serves its guests iced tea on arrival. These are not normal times, so we got sealed tetrapaks of “ecofriendly” water instead. The kids were less than impressed, and entertained themselves by watching a cockroach crawl up the wall.


Our room was otherwise refreshingly normal, and the kids were relieved to hear you don’t even need to wear masks inside. However, all in-room snacks and alcohol had disappeared. The minibar was still stocked, but only with 4 cans of Coke and some fruit juice. I’m not sure if this is because of COVID, regular Capella policy, or just some reopening glitch. A welcome gift in the form of shrink-wrapped cookies was delivered, but there was no sign of the usual fruit basket.


All pools were open, but with capacity controls: for example, 16 guests max in the family pool, with 2-hour stays. Enforcement appeared to be mostly on an honour basis, and in any case we only saw one other family using it during our stay. The gym was open, but access was gated via the (also open) spa. The business centre was unsurprisingly closed. Elevators, the front desk, and other places with even a remote possibility of crowding were annotated with big social distancing stickers on the floor.

Capella’s complimentary lounge, the Living Room, was open but again with capacity controls, so we had to call ahead to book. On arrival, heads were counted to make sure they were within limits (yes, barely), then we were guided to a table and presented with a fixed set of snacks, plus coffee/tea/soft drinks made to order.

Interestingly enough, while most guests were couples or families like us, there were a few Mandarin-speaking solo travellers in business wear. The Singapore-China Green Lane in action, perhaps?


Capella has two restaurants and a bar, all of which were open. However, since in-house dining charges like a wounded bull ($38++ for nasi goreng, anyone?), we opted to eat our meals on the Sentosa beachfront, which isn’t cheap either, but there are many 1-for-1 deals to dull the pain. (Pro tip: with the 1:1 pizzas at Trapizza Mon-Fri, you can feed a family of four for $22++.)

For the breakfast, we had to make an advance reservation for one of two time slots (7-8:30, 9-10:30 AM), which prevented table use and allowed a half-hour deep clean between guests. Instead of a regular buffet, which isn’t allowed under COVID rules, we had a choice of one of three set meals and/or a selection of “free flow” made to order items on the side, all brought to your table. The net effect was a bit like eating dim sum/yum cha, with trays of pastries and trolleys of juice floating past. At a fairly small and intimate place like Capella this worked very nicely, but I do wonder how large hotels with their massive champagne brunch spreads will convert to this new format. One more plus for Capella’s The Knolls: there’s plenty of spaced-out, airy and shady outdoor seating. Your average city hotel will struggle with this too.


Capella offers a wide-range of free “cultural” activities like Peranakan painting and brown sugar bubble tea making. These operated normally, except that everybody involved — including us — was masked up. Mmm, just look at that frothy mug of diabetes in a cup!

Crowding & staffing

We visited on a regular non-school-holiday weekday, and both the hotel and Sentosa were pretty quiet. Apparently this is set to change once the holidays start, and Capella is already booked full (!) on July 23rd, although I imagine they’re also operating at reduced capacity.

One thing which soon became clear is that the hotel appeared to be somewhat understaffed. The front desk promised to call regarding an activity booking but didn’t, it was 9 PM by the time turndown service was offered, a late night snack attack room service order never showed up, we were asked for our newspaper selection but it wasn’t delivered, etc — none of these big deals, but not what you’d expect at this price point. Did they underestimate the demand, or do they have staff stuck overseas? If it’s like this during a quiet weekday, next week is going to be a mess.

Overall verdict

Definitely worth it. Capella’s terraced pools are the closest you’re going to get to Bali in Singapore (just try to ignore the oil refinery flares in the background), and it’s closer to our home than Changi Airport. The COVID limits were reasonable and the adaptations well thought out. We also try to avoid busy indoor spaces (19x risk compared to the outdoors!), so Sentosa is definitely the place to be: it’s much nicer now without the usual crowds, and we really appreciated the chance to see some greenery, wide open beaches and lots of airy outdoor eating options.

It was not so nice to see some groups on the beach with way more than 5 people and not a mask in sight. There was enough space that we could steer clear, but here’s hoping these troglodytes don’t ruin it for everybody else again.

Jakarta by rail: Airport Rail Link and Skytrain

While it may not register very high on the radar of most worldtrotters, Jakarta’s Soekarno-Hatta Airport (CGK) overtook Singapore’s Changi as the busiest hub in South-East Asia in 2017, growing 8% to serve over 63 million passengers. Serving the 264 million people scattered over Indonesia’s 17,000 islands, 75% of these pax were domestic, and the airport has been growing furiously to meet demand.

As part of this growth, late in 2017, Jakarta rolled out both a rail link from its main airport to the city and a shuttle connecting the airport’s three terminals. I recently had the chance to try out both, so here’s the scoop.

Soekarno–Hatta Airport Skytrain (Kalayang)

The airport terminal shuttle, dubbed the Skytrain in English and the Kereta Melayang (“Floating Train”) aka Kalayang in Indonesian, opened in September 2017. The system links together the three terminals plus a station for trains to the city, about which more later.

At Terminal 3, the newest of the lot and the one used by all Garuda flights, the Skytrain station is outside the terminal, connected by an elevated walkway to Departures and by an escalator to Arrivals. At T1 & T2, which date from the 1980s, the Skytrain stations are across the street and require crossing a road — not great.

The Skytrain itself, built by obscure Korean company Woojin Industrial, feels mildly buggy and wildly overengineered. The stations are bulky & enormous (much more so that the Jakarta MRT itself), and while capable of automatic operation, they’re manually driven by not one but two staff. The lady in the photo above, who’s responsible solely for the “Doors are closing” type announcements, is not hiding her face from my camera, but the sun! The ride is slow (max speed 30km/h) and somewhat bumpy. And all this just to provide trains every 10-15 minutes, back and forth between 4 stations, meaning it can easily take up to 30 minutes from T3 to the train station: 5 min walking, up to 15 min to wait, then 10 minutes on the shuttle.

Soekarno–Hatta Airport Railink (KA Bandara)

Opened 26 December 2017, the “Railink(sic) offers a 46-minute ride from Soekarno-Hatta Airport (CGK) to BNI City (Sudirman Baru) in the city center, with two stops along the way at Batu Ceper and Duri. In Indonesian, it’s mostly signposted as KA Bandara, KA being Kereta Api (“fire cart” aka train) and Bandara being “airport”. Travel times between central Jakarta and the airport by car are notoriously variable, taking an hour on a good day but 2-3 or more on bad days, so this should be wildly popular. Was it?

In a nutshell, no, not really. In addition to the mandatory Skytrain rumba described above, the system appears to go out of its way to discourage non-Indonesian riders. Tickets can only be purchased from ticket machines, which summarily reject most but not all non-Indonesian credit cards. The information counter staff tried to help by using their own, only for the reader to fail repeatedly with not one but two local Indonesian cards. One of them tried again at the ticket machine with their card, managing to get it to spit out a 70,000 IDR ticket (US$5, around half the price of a taxi), but when I tried to repay them with 100,000 IDR cash they didn’t have any change. They now suggested breaking a bill at the convenience store next door, but we were now approaching departure time, so I gave them a rather generous 30,000 IDR tip and hotfooted onto the train.

Incidentally, there are two other ways to short-circuit this mess:

  1. You can buy tickets online at railink.co.id, which apparently does accept foreign credit cards. However, you need to either buy your ticket for a specific time slot (plane late? too bad) or pay extra for a “Flexi” ticket that can be used for any train, and the web shop is beyond terrible: for example, you need to enter an Indonesian phone number (no country codes allowed), and if you make any mistake in filling out the form it’s cleared out completely!
  2. There’s currently a payment card war raging into Indonesia (Brizzi, Flazz, Blink, etc), and you can use some but not all of these to pay for your tickets on the spot, including the Brizzi cards sold at the convenience store.

Payments sorted, I got on the train, which was rattlingly empty. with six carriages containing perhaps 20 or so passengers. This wasn’t the train’s fault, as the Bombardier EA203 trainset was rather modern and pleasant, with air-con, comfy seating, USB power in the seats and even luggage racks by the doors. It was just rather odd having an entire carriage to myself!

The train left precisely on time and started its trundle toward the city. The initial 12 km of track are new, while the remaining 24 km of the route is on existing track shared with regular commuter trains and hence offering ground-level views of the “real” Jakarta. Jakarta’s commuter rolling stock is almost entirely secondhand from Japan, like the refurbished Tokyo Metro 6000 series train pictured above at Duri station, which I used to ride on my Chiyoda Line commute in my student days. The condition of the track is generally not great, with the train click-clacking along loudly and reversing direction at Duri for the final stretch into current terminus Sudirman Baru (“New Sudirman”), currently branded as BNI City after a sponsoring bank.

This shiny new station is rather slick and well laid out, with platforms underneath a concourse level that has shops in the middle and waiting taxis at one end. There are also a few signs vaguely pointing in the direction of MRT Dukuh Atas and the old Sudirman commuter station, both a few hundred meters away, but there’s no “proper” tunnel or bridge between the three. (July 2019 update: A connecting tunnel between the three is now open!)

At present, almost all trains terminate at BNI City, with only around 3 trains a day continuing all the way to Bekasi in eastern Jakarta. However, the plan is to run all trains to Manggarai in south Jakarta, the busiest train station in the city, where additional platforms are under construction. Once complete around April 2019, this should provide easy interchange to three of Jakarta’s commuter lines and boost ridership nicely.

I took the train back as well, and it worked fine, running exactly on schedule to boot. All in all, the link is surprisingly respectable and I intend to make the most of it when I visit, but there are a number of design flaws that make it much less useful than it could be.

  1. The biggest issue is the clunky forced Skytrain transfer, which could have been avoided entirely if the train line had been extended by an extra kilometer or two to connect directly with Terminal 3. Yes, this would have required either elevating the line or putting some of it in a tunnel, which would have been expensive, but then the extra Skytrain station would not have been necessary either.
  2. Sharing track with existing lines is a sensible cost-cutting measure, but having minimal to no provisions for regular and express trains to pass each other is not. This forces the train to slow down to the same speed as regular all-stops commuters, so it averages only 50km/h. If that speed could pushed up to just 72 km/h, the journey to the airport would take only 30 minutes.
  3. The payment mess is just inexcusable and gives a terrible first impression. I presume the insistence on cashless is a combination of wanting to be modern and making sure all money is accounted for, but since they’re already paying for several people to staff the counter, might as well take cash, no?

Next time, I’ll try out the rail link to MRT transfer, and I’m looking forward to seeing how the Greater Jakarta (Jabodebek) LRT fits in if/when completed around 2021.

More train adventures in Jakarta: MRT opening week

Jakarta by rail: MRT opening week

After a 13-year absence, I had the chance to visit the Indonesian capital Jakarta again, and as luck would have it I landed on the 2nd operating day of the long-awaited Jakarta MRT. So of course I went to check it out: I rode the MRT from end to end at Bundaran HI to Lebak Bulus, covering 15.7 km in 30 min, then backtracked to my office in the Sudirman CBD business district near Istora station.

Underground stations: Bundaran HI and Istora

The MRT’s 6 underground stations all look pretty much identical. 4 sloped, not terribly distinctive entrances from the ground, ticketing concourse underground, another escalator down to an island platform with trains running on the right side (although Indonesia drives on the left). Decoration is sparse to non-existent, with grey walls, a few orange highlights and occasional signage in the MRT’s distinctive shade of dark blue.

Since this was the first week of operation, tickets were not on sale yet and in fact the ticketing offices looked very unready to start operating next Monday, not least because fares were only decided this week. Also, is a single ticket machine really going to be handle the load?

That said, while rides are free this week, it wasn’t quite a free for all either, as you were supposed to have a barcoded ticket you can get online. Fortunately, as a bule gila (crazy foreigner) I was waved through anyway and even handed a printed barcode by friendly staff. Indonesian hospitality for the win!

Elevated station: Lebak Bulus

The 7 stations at the south end are all elevated and once again cast from an identical mold repeating the same pattern: ground, ticketing concourse, escalators up to side platforms. The design is sparse but elegant, with large white sails providing shelter while allowing breezes and half-height platform doors stopping passengers from falling onto the tracks.

Southern terminal Lebak Bulus is next to a depot of the same name, guarded by one of the countless mosques that dot the city.


The MRT uses modern rolling stock built by Japanese manufacturer Nippon Sharyo. The insides of the 6-car trainsets are spacious and built to handle crowds. Announcements are made in Indonesian and English at every station, with the station names jarringly read by a different voice from the rest and repeated to boot: “Stasiun berakhir <pause> LEBAK BULUS GRAB. LEBAK BULUS GRAB.” These announcements also include the stations’ commercial sponsors. Electronic signage is limited to small displays above the doors, which use illegibly small fonts to boot — a general theme for the system. Regular visitors to Japan will recognize the door opening and chimes, which are identical to those used in Tokyo.


Given that this is a brand new system built by the Japanese, who are generally masters of this stuff, signage in the system is really quite astonishingly bad. Not only is there very little of it, but font sizes are tiny, meaning you really need to squint, particularly for the line strip maps (top right) that are drawn in thin white on reflective black. The system also lacks a strong logo, with the “MJ” squiggle above used on occasion, but there’s nothing to distinguish MRT station entrances from random underpasses unless you’re close enough to read the signs.

Station maps are not much better: the ones on the platform show exit letters, but give no clue about what’s nearby. Only at Istora station tucked away in a corner outside the paid area was I able to find a proper vicinity map.


From a technological point of view, the MRT is a marvel and the first modern and efficient mode of public transport this megacity, soon set to be the world’s biggest, has ever seen.

My biggest surprise with the MRT, though, was its lack of popularity: the trains were rattlingly empty at 8-9 AM, which should be peak hour, and many of my fellow passengers were clearly tourists like me. Doubtless newness and the complicated free-but-book-in-advance ticket system are tamping down demand, but the limited route may also be somewhat to blame. The Bundaran HI to Blok M stretch of the route runs along Jakarta’s main drag Jalan Sudirman and parallels a highly successful Transjakarta busway line, so you’d expect this to be popular, but the final stretch to Lebak Bulus doesn’t really connect to anywhere: I suspect this was mostly chosen because there was free space for the depot.

Poor integration to other transport is also a major issue. The north end of the line has two sensible interchanges, one to the busway at Bundaran Hi and one at Dukuh Atas to the commuter rail network at Sudirman, but the south end has nothing. Work on a northern extension towards Kota and the old city officially started only last weekend with a target of 2024, while a east-west line remains on the drawing board and no southern extensions are even planned. The Jakarta LRT still has not opened and will not be anywhere near the MRT when it does, although there are vague plans for extensions. The only real hope is the 43 km Jabodebek (Greater Jakarta) LRT, which will connect a swathe of southeastern Jakarta to the MRT at Dukuh Atas. It’s around half complete as I type and might be open around 2021 if all goes well, although it’s already two years late.

On a more local level, Jakarta remains an extraordinarily pedestrian-hostile city and there appear to be precisely zero direct entrances from the MRT into the countless shopping malls and office buildings along the route — again a great contrast to Japan, where this is done as a matter of course.

All that said, it’s a good start, and at least it’s built and open — which is more than can be said for the twice-cancelled Jakarta Monorail. Here’s hoping it will take less than 13 years for the next line to come along.

Manufacturing Bula: Mass Tourism in Fiji

The first bula came at the airport check-in counter in Sydney.  The frequency picked up on board Fiji Airways, where every announcement was prefixed with a bula, and reached a feverish crescendo on arrival at Nadi, where every airport worker seemed oddly insistent on bula-ing every arriving tourist.  Only at the Immigration counter did the puzzle pieces fall into place: there was a HappyOrNot® Smiley Terminal™ enquiring whether you had been sufficiently enthusiastically bula-ed on your arrival, so there were clearly staff bonuses on the line.

Bula is the Fijian word for “life” and an all-purpose greeting much like its Hawaiian cognate aloha, but it’s also the centerpiece of a very successful Saatchi & Saatchi -crafted branding campaign that ensures it’s the first and often last word of the local language firmly imprinted on local tourists.  (It’s actually pronounced m-BU-la, but tourists and locals alike seem to delight in hamming it up as BOO-LAH.)   Hence you can ride a Bula Bus or a Bula Bike to the Big Bula waterpark, have a drink and a Bula Burger at the Bula Bar and then go island hopping with a Bula Pass.

Bula 1: Denarau

All these Bulas and more can be found on Denarau Island, which juts out of a peninsula near Nadi like an angry pimple.  The island was molded into its present form in the 1980s by rapacious Japanese developer Harunori Takahashi, who bulldozed its 850 acres of swamps and mangroves and replaced them with high-end resorts, golf courses, marinas and gated housing.  The only mosquito in the ointment is that mangroves grow in mud, meaning that despite decades of landscaping, including a few truckloads of imported white sand in strategic spots, both the beaches around Denarau and the water lapping at them are expanses of impenetrable slate grey muck.

The resorts thus expend much effort to distract tourists from this rather basic failing.  They’re all suspended well above the surf on concrete plates, angled so that you can Instagram the infinity edge pool and have it blend seamlessly into the palm-fringed Mamanuca Islands in the background, conveniently ignoring all that squelchy mud in the middle.  And if you’re shooting advertising for the Sofitel Denarau, as shown below, you can use a wide-angle lens to make the pool look like it’s actually the ocean and add in a young, nubile woman as a tantalizing hint of what awaits you.

home_waitui-beach-club1Of course, the young woman, too, is a lie: if anything, this is the one demographic striking in its absence at Denarau’s resorts.  (There’s a backpacker scene on Fiji too, but Denarau is firmly off that trail.)  Instead the pools are sardine-packed with tattooed middle-aged yobbos in wifebeaters, their morbidly obese offspring, the odd honeymoon or wedding anniversary couple regretting their choice, and one older lady whose coiffure and countenance bore a truly remarkable resemblance to Donald Trump in hot pink lipstick.

As a rule, tourists in Denarau are there to Get Away From It All™, including their kids, whom many parents opt to dump in Kids Clubs like the Sheraton’s Lai Lai Club, where Recreation Associates will watch your offspring from 8:30 in the morning until 8:30 at night.    The Lai Lai Club is a concrete cellblock with handpainted Nemos and Ariels on sweaty blue walls, giving it the general atmosphere of a children’s cancer ward.  While incarcerated, kids are explicitly not allowed in the pool, even the shallow one right next to the Club; instead, they are treated to amusements like Fish Feeding, which we attended early one morning out of curiosity.  The tots were lined up and marched off in formation down past the concrete to the mudflats, given slices of Wonderbread, and instructed to take exactly five steps forward and throw the bread into the ocean.  Nothing happened, unless you count the waves bringing the bread back to the shore and one of the kids asking: “Isn’t this littering?”  A Recreation Associate took some soggy returned pieces and flung them further out, where the water roiled a bit and rubbery lips attached to invisible sea monsters devoured the bread.  Fish fed!  11 hours to go.

So what do parents do?  Fear not, there’s plenty of activities for them as well.  One fine morning, a fit young Recreation Associate bounced into the Sheraton’s pool, declared himself to be DJ Bobo, and started leading aquafit exercises to the accompaniment of a tinny boombox.  I initially suspected the playlist had to have been selected with tongue firmly in cheek, kicking off with Avicii’s Wake Me Up (“…when it’s all over, and I lose myself”) and continuing with South African anthem Gimme Hope Jo’anna (“She’s got a system they call apartheid / It keeps a brother in a subjection”), but this theory was quickly quashed when it was followed by a techno remix of La Bamba.  The name of the game is maximal demographic appeal: take famous old tune, slap a techno beat on top, and now everybody from 20 to 50 can wobble their flabby arms in tune.

The one thing you’re not going to find in Denarau is, well, Fiji.  The island is separated from the mainland by a short bridge, with Denarau Security (a unit of Denarau Corp Ltd) supplying a small army of husky Fijian rugby player types in wraparound shades to man the gates 24/7 and drive around SUVs to keep the riffraff out.  The roads and gardens are manicured, the fancy housing complexes with names like Paradise Point and Sovereign Quays are behind tall, sturdy fences with more security out front, and the Port Denarau shopping mall has a Hard Rock Cafe, duty free retailers and a shoppe (sic) dedicated to Fiji Bitter couture.  (Local brew Fiji Bitter is, inevitably, owned by Coca-Cola.)

Bula 2: Nadi

The one cheap thing in Denarau is the $1 Westbus (note lack of cutesy name), which exists primarily to shuttle workers between the resorts and the nearby city of Nadi.  The air inside these no-frills buses is conditioned only by the open windows and most riders paid the driver in cash, ignoring the electronic card reader with its “PAYING BY CASH IS ILLEGAL” sign.  One other valagi (foreigner) family clambered on board with us, only to have a limpet-like Fijian attach himself to them, proffering his services as tour guide, inflater of shop prices and general fixer.

Nadi is not an attractive town.  A slice of the subcontinent in the Pacific, it manages to be simultaneously poky and congested, with main drag Queens Road snarled in a permanent traffic jam.  Indians and Chinese manned most shops, most of which had iron bars on the windows (never a good sign) and sold dollar store junk at high street prices.  Every block had a glassy-eyed Fijian sprawled quietly on the uneven pavement: it was unclear if they were begging, drunk, zonked out on yaqona (kava) or some combination of these.  Yaqona was definitely big business though, with fully half the shoddy but sizeable Nadi market devoted to selling the muddy, mildly narcotic roots.

His previous victims having managed to peel him off, our bus friend Mr Limpet now made a beeline for us and immediately started pitching the wonders of various souvenir shops, but slunk off after a couple of determined thank yous.  Next was our turn, as the Sri Siva Subramaniya Temple was celebrating Thaipusam and hence closed to meat-eating infidels, but the priest was so nice about it that I (almost) didn’t mind schlepping back across town in the sweltering midday heat.

On the upside, Nadi did have some of the best food we ate in Fiji, namely the $10 vegetarian thali at Mumbai Dhaba, served with a side dish of blessed air-conditioning too.  And the kids got some nice bula shirts without being subjected to a single bula while shopping!

Bula 3: Navini

The next day we hopped on a boat and continued to the Navini Island Resort, which makes a big deal of being not just a small family-owned operation, but inviting even their guests to join the big happy family.

What makes Navini unique? One answer is that our guests overwhelmingly remark on the friendliness and attentiveness of our staff.   Personal touches that surprise many include […] being known by name by everyone on the island.  We invite you to share the naturalness of Navini, Fiji and its people.

Like so many hotels and resorts in Fiji, Navini is owned by Australians, but day to day, this natural attentiveness is enforced by a formidable Fijian matron, who runs the family with a velvet-gloved iron fist.   In addition to the inevitable bula-ing, the staff indeed call you by name on every conceivable occasion, sweat over proper fork placement during the Western-style three course meals, and will drop whatever they’re doing if they have reason to suspect a guest wants anything.  For example, the island offers a “coconut service”: just ask, and one of the “boys” — their term, not mine, for adult Fijian male staff — will be positively delighted to shimmy up a tree to grab one for you.

Now even a salty cynic like me will readily acknowledge that the island is gorgeous, the bures (villas) are stylish and well equipped, and the combination of being almost entirely disconnected from the world with nothing to do but snorkel, read, and shovel food, booze and/or yaqona into your face is rather addictive.  What I found creepy, though, were the faint cultlike overtones of it all, this odd pretension of everybody being equal when there really is a massive power imbalance between the staff, paid to uproot themselves from their homes and actual families to live in dormitories on this tiny speck of sand, and us, the pampered resort guests paying close to $1000/night so we could send them climbing trees on demand.   Yes, it was heartwarming to watch Thomas, a two-meter gentle giant of a boy man, staying up late to teach my kids to play vidi-vidi with infinite patience, but while he may not have been a Sheraton Recreation Associate, this was his job too.

It’s tempting to ascribe this pretension of equality to be a purely Western phenomenon.  Observe Americans at a nice restaurant sometime: staff will make folksy smalltalk with customers, often reciprocated, only for the customers to then place ridiculous demands on staff and grade their performance with tips.   By comparison, if you go to a good hotel in Japan or Singapore, the service is phenomenal, but it’s at all times very clear who is a guest and who is staff: you will not be invited to join the doormen at the Raffles for a game of pool or tipple some shochu after dinner with the sushi chefs at the Park Hyatt Tokyo.

All that said, in much of Asia it’s considered perfectly normal to go to hostess clubs and pay by the hour to have attractive people sit next to you, laugh at your jokes, pour your drinks and generally pretend they enjoy your company, while in the West this is considered intolerably fake and the people who visit them sad and pathetic.  So who am I to judge?

In a final whiff of artifice, Navini has an eco-friendly veneer, with no air-conditioning or TVs, yet power is supplied by a diesel generator chugging away 24/7, which also runs the water desalination plant.  (Some of the resort’s more scurrilous TripAdvisor reviews allege either this or the sewage treatment plant is also responsible for killing off virtually all the coral around the island.)  This in turn is necessary because the island lacks any sources of potable water, which is why the island was uninhabited and, minus a few palm trees, essentially barren until it was developed into a resort in the 1970s.

Final thoughts

Fiji does not lend itself to snappy summaries.  It’s surprisingly complicated and quietly troubled, with iTaukei (Fijians), Fijian Indians, foreign tourists and increasing numbers of Chinese, all existing uneasily side by side but very much apart.  Our week in and around Nadi barely scratched the surface of these 330 islands scattered over 1.3 million km², and I’d like to poke around Suva, the Mamanucas, the much less visited other big island of Vanua Levu…   but all things considered, I enjoyed my previous visits to New Caledonia and the Cook Islands more.  Sure, French waiters are surly and Rarotongan bus drivers less than punctual, but perhaps being treated the same way locals are, without obsequious bowing and scraping or obnoxious touting and gouging, is the greatest luxury a tourist can have.

A Noob’s Guide to a Soggy Spring Cycle in Sydney

The best-known cycling event in Australia is the Gong Ride, a rollicking 82-km ride from Sydney to Wollongong passing through Royal National Park and some impressive coastal scenery.  This has been on my bucket list for a while, but 1,000 meters of ascent and tales of horrendous bicycle pileups on the downhill stretches scared me enough that this year, I settled for the 2nd-most famous option, the mildly less ambitious Spring Cycle.

The Spring Cycle’s primary selling point is that it’s the only event where the Harbour Bridge and a large chunk of nearby freeways are opened up to cyclists, offering a great opportunity to take in the views without being on the receiving end of vehicular homicide.  The course comes in 10, 15, 50 and 105 km variants, but to scare off the Lance Armstrong wannabes, there’s no timing, winners or prizes, just finishers.

Now I ride to work a couple of times a week, but my commute clocks in at under 8 km and it’s been years since I last rode over 20 km, so I picked the 50.  As “training”, I tried adding a couple of extra laps around the Bay Run to my commute on a few days, the longest of which clocked in at 24 km in just over an hour.  (I was planning to train a bit more, maybe on the M7 cycleway, but travel coupled with a major bout of food poisoning put paid to that.)  Conclusion: a bit tough on the butt, but otherwise eminently survivable.

However, as the date approached, Sydney was swamped with unseasonal heavy rains and the forecast for the day was looking miserable, with 100% precipitation predicted throughout the morning.   What’s more, since my starting time was at 7 AM sharp, I had to leave home before 6 AM and ride 7 km just to catch the nearest train going to the starting point at North Sydney.  Was this worth the effort?  And would anybody else be crazy to show up?

The Big Event


On Sunday morning, my alarm rang at 5:30 AM.  It was cold and pitch dark outside and pissing down with rain.  Why, exactly, was I paying good money to do this?  (Observe my selfie of delight as I contemplated this.)  But there was no backing down now, so I pulled on my gear and set off.

The ride to the station was eerie: I had never seen Sydney this quiet, and I could just fly along the deserted roads, an incredible feeling despite the driving rain.  As I rode, the sky slowly lightened up, the sun finally peeping over the horizon when I got to Summer Hill station. My train to Central had a smattering of other Spring Cyclists mixed with bemused early risers, but in Central it was pretty much all cyclists and from North Sydney you could simply follow the crowd to the starting line.

The website said you should get there 30 minutes early, but I arrived at pretty much 7:00 AM on the dot and that was plenty.   I was surprised to find thousands of others raring to go, but there was no registration or ID checking or any other hoo-ha, just line up in the funnel along and wait, with the starting pistol firing a few minutes past 7.

img_20181014_070025The first leg downhill was painfully slow, with everybody squeezed into a few lanes of road.  I tried to find a middle ground between the slow Sunday cyclists and the lycra brigade, but for most part this just led to various kamikaze idiots passing on both sides.  Riding in a dense crowd like this took some getting used to: any sudden changes in speed or direction, on your part or others’, could easily lead to a crash.

By the time we got to the on-ramp to the Harbour Bridge, though, the crowd had opened up and there were some nice views — with, once again, more driving rain.  The bridge was windy and the stretch of Cahill Expressway over Circular Quay (ooh, Opera House!) to the Botanic Gardens was directly into the wind, in retrospect the only bit of the entire journey where the rain was distinctly unpleasant.  The course does a tight U-turn here and heads back through a tunnel towards Millers Point, and with the wind now at my back and a nice downhill slope it was downright exhilarating.  You couldn’t help but think: “Look at all this incredible infrastructure we dedicate solely to cars!  What if just one lane of this was freed up for bicycles, not once a year for a few hours, but every day?”

At Millers Point the route had one gnarly stretch with cobblestone on a turn off a downhill slope, and one lycra champion going too fast did a painful-looking wipeout.  Soon enough we were back on the Western Distributor (whee!) and before I knew we had hit the 10 km mark in Pyrmont, where the City Ride ends.

Much of the rest of the journey was on shared roads, but bicyclists still dominated and there were a few amusing moments where a lone car found themselves trapped in a swarm of bikes at traffic lights, as opposed to the usual commute scenario where it’s the other way around.  The next 20 km were mostly on the back streets of the Inner West, with frequent turns and the odd hill.  However, the route is well signposted and there were volunteers posted at virtually every corner, plus police stopping traffic at every crossing of larger road, so the route felt quite safe and there was zero chance of getting lost.  Somewhat to my own surprise I found myself powering past almost everybody else on the ascents, but falling behind on the descents, where I seemed to be the only person using the brakes. Intellectually, I know it’s safer to go fast to try to match the speeds of cars in traffic, but I’m still freaked out by the idea of hitting a bump in the road or having to brake for a car pulling out at speed…

img_20181014_095418By this time the rain had slowed down from a urinous torrent to an incontinent dribble. After a very short break at the official 20 km rest area at Greenway in Haberfield (water available, none of the rumoured bananas in sight though) I plowed on, past my family who’s gotten out of a bed at 8 in the morning on a Sunday to cheer me on (thanks!), finally escaping the maze of minor roads at Sydney Olympic Park.  The final 20 km was almost entirely on dedicated bike trails and seemed to just fly by, although there were a number of spots where you had to slow down for massive puddles covering the entire road.  A final break in Meadowbank Park, where I finally peeled off my rain gear, then a madcap dash through a near-deserted Olympic Park, and before I knew it I was at the finish line.  Surprisingly painless and fun!

The Gear

Here’s what I used on the day:

  • s-l300Bike: Avanti Inc 1.  Flat bar “urban” commuter bike, cost me $700 new four years ago and pretty beat-up looking after near-daily use since then, but still ticking away nicely.  Professionally serviced about a month before.
  • Lights: Some random “8000 lumen” $10 flashlight off Aliexpress.  The lumen count is a blatant lie, but when paired with a genuine (non-Aliexpress) 18650 battery, it gave off plenty of light even for the pre-dawn stretch.
  • Other accessories: rear mudguard (mandatory unless you want a mud stripe to your neck) and bottle holder.
  • Rain gear: Altura Night Vision Hood ($10 on Wiggle) and the dhb Waterproof Jacket ($50 on sale at Wiggle).  These were perfect, the hood fit nicely under my helmet and the visor kept the rain off my face.
  • Clothing: Regular (non-bike) mesh sports T-shirt & shorts, both 100% polyester.  Kept me cool & dry.
  • Underwear: Pair of cheap-ass, ridiculous-looking “3D gel” padded cycling shorts (see pic) off Aliexpress.  Marginally better than nothing, but not by much.
  • Shoes: No cleats or clips here, I used regular sneakers worn with two layers: regular socks and — pro tip approaching — a disposable Coles garbage bag wrapped around each sock and cut to size.  Not perfect, but kept my feet nice and dry for the first 40 km or so.
  • Bag: A random Reebok fanny pack/bum bag borrowed from my wife, just large enough to hold my rolled-up rain gear, my phone in a ziploc bag and a few snacks.

That’s it!   You’ll notice that precisely none of this is high-end or features lycra.  The only thing that didn’t work very well was the combo of Avanti’s default rock-hard, near-unpadded seat and the crappy no-brand cycling shorts; I plan to investigate upgrading both before the next long ride.  (Screw you, Rule #61.)

Two extra tips gleaned from advice on the Internets about prolonged cycling in the rain:

  1. I use contact lenses and was very happy I did, since an earlier test ride had demonstrated that glasses and rain are not just a bad combo, but actively dangerous.
  2. To prevent chafing, I liberally slathered my inner thighs and groin with a combo of Vaseline & moisturising lotion.  Dunno if it was necessary, since the polyester shorts did an astonishingly good job of keeping my undies dry, but it certainly didn’t seem to hurt.

The Fuel

img_20181014_100042My thoroughly unscientific diet on the day:

  • Breakfast: One of those disgusting Up and Go “liquid breakfast” packs that taste like thick, oily, lukewarm cocoa, plus an oatmeal bar, both consumed on the train.
  • First break snack: Googy protein bar.  Has the taste, texture and general sex appeal of a slab of compressed coffee grounds, only minus the good part (caffeine).  Good thing I had plenty of water to choke it down.
  • Second break snack: A few pieces of good old trusty milk chocolate.
  • Celebratory arrival brunch: $10 spinach & cheese zleme, served up at the rather sad arrival village.  It tasted like salt, grease, and victory.


If you’ve been thinking about Spring Cycle but aren’t sure you can/want to/is it worth it, the answer is yes, you can and should.  For me, A+ would do again and I’m planning to, although next time I’ll probably drag along the kids and do the 10 km version.










El Gringo Máximo en México

I’ve been lucky enough to explore much of the world, but the Americas south of the United States have long remained a blank for me. I’ve nibbled at the edges — Bermuda, the Bahamas, a long-ago day trip to Tijuana — but until recently the closest I’d been to Latin America was a week in Puerto Rico, a not-quite-country which oscillates between being a Spanish-flavored piece of the US and and a US-flavored piece of Latin America.

But recently I finally had the chance to pay a quick visit on the company time to the real Mexico, namely Mexico City (Ciudad de México, aka CDMX; formerly known as the Distrito Federal or D.F.). Here are a few impressions from a maximal gringo.


Quick, imagine what Mexico looks like. Odds are you’re thinking a stretch of broiling sandy desert, where the inhabitants spend most of their time in hammocks suspended between two saguaro cacti, taking siestas with oversized sombreros covering their faces.

Well, turns out Mexico City is completely unlike this. It’s located high up in the altiplano in the mountains of Central Mexico, so I knew it was going to be cooler than, say, Texas, but being more accustomed the bone-dry highlands of Australia, I did not expect it to be soggy, wet and humid. So much so that, when the departure of my incoming flight from Houston was delayed, it arrived smack in the middle of a rollicking thunderstorm and we ended up having to divert to Veracruz on the hot, muggy, tropical coast instead. I soon found out that at least this time of year, these evening thunderstorms were a daily event and not a day of my visit passed without rain.

The result is that the city is lush and green, with large trees, green grass and moss creeping up stones. Mornings were cool (15 C), afternoons warm (25 C), although the 2,250m altitude amps up the strength of the sunshine.  I kept having unexpected flashbacks of Bangkok: in addition to being distinctly humid, both cities have pockets of wealth and quite a lot of poverty, but also a healthy, growing middle class, supporting a lively mix of street vendors, markets, hip little cafes and boutiques.  The World Bank agrees, as on a GDP (PPP) per capita basis, the two countries are almost at par.

Getting Around

Mexico City is enormous and lacks an identifiable downtown: being highly earthquake-prone, skyscrapers are few and far between.  I was staying the leafy but untouristy residential neighborhood of Anzures, which was convenient to the office, but nowhere near a metro station.  Ubers in CDMX are easy to catch and cheap, but they’re a pretty crappy way to experience a city.   ¿Qué hacer?

An easy orange answer was parked right outside my hotel: Mobike!  Turns out everybody’s favorite Chinese bike share company had just launched in CDMX, and while the allowed usage zone was limited to a few posh districts, my hotel, the office and many sights were in it.   While my monthly Sydney pass was no good, single rides were just 10 pesos a pop; pricy by local standards, particularly compared to the 50 peso monthly pass, but still a steal at around 70 Aussie cents each.  The city being by and large flat as a pancake, bikes are a very popular way to get around, with copious bike lanes and, much to my pleasant surprise, a large chunk of the Paseo de la Reforma was cordoned off for bikes & pedestrians only on Sundays.  ¡Perfecto!

To get to the Centro Historico, though, I ditched the bike and tried out the Mexico City Metro.  Still using very distinctive signage and coloring developed in the 1960s, when 40% of Mexicans were illiterate, the subway has a very retro feel to it, with paper boletos purchased from humans behind taquilla counters, although there is now a smart card option.  The trains are also best described as functional, with tunnel fumes gusting in through the open windows (there’s no aircon) and a whole lotta shaking going on despite the rubber tyres, with drivers accelerating and braking hard at every station.  Still, while it may not be luxurious, it’s a vital service and second only to New York in size in the Americas, with 12 lines criss-crossing the city and more passengers than London or Paris.

The Metro has a bit of a sketchy reputation, and I can see why.  Station entrances were often hard to spot, there were often dimly lit inside, and the trains themselves had endless processions of merchants, entertainers and beggars squeezing through the crowds, hawking everything from Silly Putty to mobile accessories and slips with Bible quotations.  But there also were plenty of whimsical touches, with staircases turned into piano keys and rather brutalist artworks here and there, and I can’t say I ever felt threatened — either in the Metro or anywhere else in CDMX, for that matter.

My biggest regret of this trip: not having the time to visit the Metro Museum in Mixcoac.  Have a read of Craig Moore’s trip report if you’re keen to learn more about this underappreciated system.


My rusty high school español got a pretty good workout on this trip, and I was glad I had hit the Duolingo pretty hard for the previous three months or so.  Fortunately, while full-on Mexican Spanish is famously fast and slurred even Spanish standards, everybody I met was quite willing to switch to speed-limited Gringo Spanish for my benefit.

I was also a little surprised that virtually everybody assumed I could speak Spanish, despite being a two-meter-tall blond quite clearly outside the generally rather broad spectrum of Mexican appearances; quite the contrast to most of Asia, where nobody even tries to speak the local lingo with me.  What’s more, quite a few people actually had more than passable English, although I’ll admit my sample set was rather biased towards the leafy neighborhoods where I was staying.


I had one free day in CDMX before getting down to work, so I started it with a visit to the National Museum of Anthropology, which must surely rank among the greatest museums in the world. An average gringo like me has learned in history class about Mexico’s pre-Columbian rulers the Aztecs and the Maya (although they’re likely to mix them up with the Incas of Peru), but this single large building covers not just the big two, but the Olmecs, the Toltecs, the Mixtecs and many more. Nevertheless, there’s a clear thread connecting them all: blood. Or, rather, unfathomable amounts of hardcore gore of the kind that would be rejected as a horror movie plot for being too gruesome and implausible.

Consider this: the Great Temple (Templo Mayor) of Tenochtitlan, the capital of the Mexica tribe of Aztecs that is the predecessor to today’s Mexico City, was consecrated with the ritual sacrifice of several thousand captives every time it was expanded when a new king took power, or when there was a festival, or when a war was won, or whenever any other convenient excuse presented itself. And by ritual sacrifice, I mean strapping the victim down to an chac-mool altar, carving their still-beating hearts out with an obsidian knife, smearing the blood on the statues of the gods, then throwing the corpse down the stairs to be eaten. Meanwhile, the victim’s head would be skillfully flayed and mounted on the skull rack (tzompantli), with the main one (there were several) in Tenochtitlan (only one of many cities) having the capacity for 36,000 skulls. This was just temporary storage, mind you, once they had dried out properly the skulls were removed, decorated and passed around as handy decorative knick-knacks.

The museum consists basically of variations on this theme. Here’s Coatlicue, who wears a dress of live serpents and necklace of human hearts, hands, and skulls. Here’s a ball court where teams played pelota maya, which was kind of like volleyball, only you can’t use your hands and the losing team is sacrificed to the gods. Here’s the rain god Tlaloc, who was worshipped by sacrificing children, who first had to endure torture so their tears would moisten the earth.  And on and on, for thousands of years!

In case all this seems too abstract when presented in the dramatically lit but carefully cordoned off confines of the museum, or you doubt the florid accounts of the conquistadors who are our primary source of written evidence for Aztec/Mexica life, you can also go visit the actual ruins of the Templo Mayor, lurking right behind Zócalo Square in the heart of CDMX. The final incarnation of the temple was largely razed by the Spaniards, but as it was built like a Russian matryoshka doll with each version simply built on top of the other, some of the older parts remain. The chac-mool sacrifice altars, the stairs the victims were thrown down, the skull racks, it’s all there… including a particularly lovely hall where nobles practiced the art of auto-sacrifice, purposely bleeding their ears, tongues, genitals etc. This blood was collected and mixed with amaranth seeds to create an idol of Huitzilopochtli, which was ceremoniously eaten every year during the feast of Panquetzaliztli, with the accompaniment of (what else?) copious human sacrifice.  Delicious!


Congealed human blood idols aside, I have long been a huge, tragic fan of Mexican food, the tragedy being that my chosen abodes for the last 16 years (Singapore and Australia) are both laughably terrible places to find any of it. It’s saying something that the arrival of Guzman y Gomez, a semi-decent burrito chain founded by a distinctly non-Mexican former hedge fund trader from New York, was a highlight of my culinary calendar.

So I was tickled pink to get a chance to visit Mexico and eat actual Mexican food, and I did my best to devour everything in sight.  Huaraches (literally “sandals”, because that’s what they look like, smeared with beans and salsa), sopes (small, thick tacos), pozole soup (“these days we use pork, but traditionally the Aztecs used human flesh!”, a colleague informed me slightly too cheerily), sopa azteca (tortilla soup), cochinita pibil (slow-cooked pork in achiote sauce)…

Yet the culinary highlight, in fact one of the most sublime dishes I’ve had anywhere, was chile en nogada at Angelopolitano.  I had tried this before (in Singapore, unpromisingly) and been somewhat non-plussed by a squishy stuffed pepper covered in grainy, cold walnut sauce.  Originating from the nearby city of Pueblo, they’re a rare, somewhat expensive delicacy in Mexico, and Angelopolitano, a place that’s very serious about poblano food, only serves them in pomegranate season between August and September.  The walnut sauce was smooth this time, studded with pomegranate seeds and still served cold, but it was the filling that made it sing: panochera apples, pera de leche pears, criollo peaches, minced meat and a complex mix of spices, all washed down with a shot of tequila.  Incredible.

The intended highlight was scheduled for Tuesday night, when I had managed to secure a seat for the taco degustation at Pujol, which is arguably the most famous restaurant in Mexico: think el Bulli, only with Mexican ingredients.  Alas, the plan went, ahem, down the toilet when, on Monday night, I contracted violent food poisoning, aka Moctezuma’s revenge.

I’m still not entirely clear what hit me, although odds are it was something in that pretty flower-like taco platter above.   Both restaurants I went to on Monday were really popular, so the food certainly wasn’t sitting around, although tacos al pastor, the porky Mexican version of doner kebab (bottom right taco), is somewhat notorious even among Mexicans for causing attacks of la turista.   I also wasn’t as careful as I should have been about fresh herbs and vegetables, which Mexican food uses with abandon even though tap water in CDMX is not safe to drink; in retrospect, piling raw lettuce into my lunch pozole was asking for trouble.  Or maybe it was something as innocuous as the fresh salsa accompanying the tacos.

Regardless of the cause, the end effect was that I spent the next two days unable to do much more than tap away at my laptop or ingest anything more electrolyte drinks and the occasional banana.  Fortunately loperamide worked its magic and I was able to survive the 24-hour flight odyssey back to Sydney, although I had to give the rather spiffy-looking Polaris lounge restaurant in Houston a miss.

So adiós, Mexico, I hardly knew ye.  I’d like to say I’ll be back soon, but that’s pretty unlikely — however, this did definitely kick my long-incubated first visit to South America (Chile, Peru, Argentina, Brazil…!) a few notches up the bucket list.



From Siberia to Tibet: Hong Kong and Macau

Our road to Hong Kong was paved with disappointment.  We originally wanted to arrive by train, but the much-delayed Guangzhou-Hong Kong high-speed link was delayed again and the logistics of traveling from Lhasa to Guangzhou to HK without it didn’t look great, so in the end we opted to fly in directly via Chongqing.

Hong Kong 香港

It’s been 21 years since the handover, but after China, Hong Kong still felt remarkably British, with ubiquitous English, driving on the left, and (after China) remarkably polite people.  It rained pretty much non-stop for the first two days, which put a bit of a damper on tourism but did provide great soaked-neon Blade Runner streetscapes at night.

We went to Maxim’s Town Hall for the obligatory dim sum pilgrimage.  Since my last visit the place has clearly found its way into a few too many guidebooks, since it was heaving with people even on a weekday and we had to wait an hour to get in — next time I’ll need to find an alternative or at least book online.  At least egg waffles off the street were fast, cheap and cheerful.

Hong Kong is still very much a Chinese city at heart and much more that heritage seemed to remain than on the mainland.  The dull-sounding Hong Kong Museum of History was epic in size and ambition, covering the city from prehistory to today with floors of massive life-size recreations, and the temple of Wong Tai Sin showed that Taoism is alive as well.

Anorak bonus album: Transport in Hong Kong & Macau

Macau 澳門

Macau will soon be linked to Hong Kong by a shiny record-breaking bridge, which was scheduled to open two weeks before our arrival, but surprise surprise, that was delayed too.  So we ended up taking the Turbojet ferry, which plowed through the waters pretty much right next to this white elephant of a bridge for most of the way: the bridge has no provisions for trains, so the only way to use it will be buses.  Sigh.

To a first approximation, nothing had changed in Macau since I visited 10 years ago.  Senado Square was still there, looking like a chunk of Portugal airlifted into the South China Sea, as were the ruins of St. Paul’s, dense alleys much like Hong Kong’s, and tacky casinos on the outskirts.

To escape the muggy heat and sputtering rain, we followed a local tip and went for a surprisingly respectable Portuguese meal at Solmar, a restaurant too old-school to have a website.  Sopa de mariscos (seafood stew), galinha à africana (“African chicken”), bolinhos de bacalhau (cod balls), all washed down with vinho verde: not the stuff of culinary epiphany, but certainly a welcome change after a week in Tibet.  And for a snack we stopped off at Margaret’s, which as always was baking the best pasteis de nata (egg tarts) in the business by the trayload.

Lamma Island 南丫島

My personal Hong Kong highlight, though, was to an island quite unlike the rest of the ex-colony: Lamma.  Perched off the southwest coast of Hong Kong Island and only reachable by ferry, buildings taller than three stories and motorized transport (except for a few utility vehicles) are banned on the island , so the only ways to get around are bike or foot.  After a mercifully brief flirtation with the plastics industry fizzled out, plenty of hippies and other countercultural types escaping the rat race have found their way here, and the grubby village Yung Shue Wan now hides more than its fair share of organic vegetarian cafes and artisan gelato places.

Many daytrippers comes here for the beaches, which aren’t too shabby even by South-East Asian standards, but the island’s second major draw is seafood.   On local advice we parked ourselves at Andy’s Seafood, and hawt diggity dawg, everything we ate here was nothing short of incredible.   Razor clams steamed with noodles, scallops with veg, sizzling eggplant, a bottle of Yanjing Beer dripping with condensation and the sun setting over the South China Sea.  The perfect end to the trip…

And to this blog series.  Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more!

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