G’day Tripper

Paying $46 for a latte and a bottle of water at Hong Kong airport seems steep to me. They’re also selling croissants for HK$60. For that much, it had better have some chocolate in it. It seems bizarre to pay these vast numbers for such a necessary item as breakfast. Not that plane food hasn’t improved. Cathay Pacific are the region’s native airline, complete with a soothing panpipe soundtrack and smiling air hostesses with chopsticks in their hair (I may have imagined this. I am very tired). But check this for a menu: orecchiette pasta and hot smoked salmon, pork provencale, sautéed beef. Sounds like a meal fit for the French, and we all know how fussy they can be. Of course, when it arrives, it’s difficult to tell the various components apart, as the beef seems to share the same consistency as the rice, and a yellowish vegetable which (I can only imagine) started life as a swede, but lost its sense of purpose long ago.

Edible, though, which is all you can ask for during such an excruciating long haul flight, although even the fixed pleasantries of the amiable cabin crew did start to fray at one point. Come breakfast time (a formality when you’re tripping through time zones), one young lady explains the menu to me over the buzz of a jet engine which has already been airborne for about nine hours. When I ask her to clarify, her response is prompt: “Look, do you want Chinese or western food?” The façade had crumbled slightly, and I can’t say I blame her.

Before I move on, a word regarding Hong Kong, of which I appear to have gleamed all of my knowledge from watching Jackie Chan films. Upon landing, you observe dozens of junks and ferries traversing through the South China Sea on their way to the various mountainous islands which look spectacular amongst the deep blue of the ocean - this tiny, bustling metropolis seems to be so overcome with activity that the airport (many will tell you) appears to be planted so close to the sea that there is a brief moment of panic as the plane descends and threatens to take the head off one of the boat’s captains, or at least blow their hat off. The terminal is vast even compared to most shopping malls, as the Chinese queue for bowls of congee and fried rice (you probably need to re-mortgage the house to cover that lot). I’ve just spotted the actor Andy Lau on the cover of this month’s Hong Kong Esquire, and I also recognise actresses like Karen Mok and Gigi Leung advertising various brands and charities (Donnie Yen is the current face of Head & Shoulders), which makes me feel a little bit closer to a culture which has long since fascinated me. Spotting the skyscrapers from the Starbucks in the departure lounge, I know that I will need to come back here, and maybe even leave the airport.

And so on to Brisbane, the expansive capital of the so-called Sunshine State of Queensland. Contrary to this, it rains when I arrive; that's the thanks I get for putting up with a flight which by any one’s standards is an extravagant price to pay for torture. The jetlag plays havoc with both sleeping and eating patterns, and because of the time distance, practically half a day vanishes as you cross the breadth of eastern Europe, China, the Philippines and arrive on the other side of the Pacific. Just think what you could do whith that missing half day. You could watch 12 episodes of ‘The Sopranos’ in that time. Just think about that for a moment. Yes, Australia is very, very far away.

In contrast, the chummy immigration staff make it suspiciously pleasant on arrival, and seem more paranoid about a fellow passenger’s packet of Chewits than anything else that may pass as particularly suspicious - in fact, you could probably try your luck with a giant shisha pipe and a travel chemistry set complete with miniature collection of toxic liquids and test tubes only to be refused entry when a member of the border police spot the contents of your back pocket: “wait a minute, mate, is that an apple you got there?”

It may be too early to clock anything other than subtle differences between the two cultures but, at a glance, it seems that everything, from the music to the way people drive to the fashions and tastes in takeaway food are all quintessentially the same. The main task for any Brit staying for a long time here is to find a way to settle in with the locals, which I’m guessing happens more in gradients rather than as at an exponential rate: I’ve clocked the boys in basic three quarter lengths, flip-flops (or ‘thongs’ to the Australians, although some of the more confident boys seem to have abandoned footwear altogether), Ts and sunglasses, just like the English in Ibiza. Shorts have never been a staple of my wardrobe, but we all have to make sacrifices. Plus it was 21 degrees yesterday, and it’s nearly winter over here for Christ’s sake.

A quick word about the wildlife. Australians seem to have developed a particularly cavalier attitude, I believe, as a direct result of the waiting numbers of deadly creatures which seem to sit, quite literally, on their doorstep. Like the tree spider, which cuts a scary image to anyone who has only ever seen something similar in glass boxes. I can see three of their intimidating webs from where I’m typing this, as they loiter ominously between the trees and telegraph polls. I’m told they’ll “give you a nasty nip”, but if you sit and think about these things then you would never leave the house. So the prime learning curve at this juncture is one of resilience.

I loved the sight of the Rainbow Lorikeet (pictured), who cause quite a stir amongst the fruit trees with their rather distinctive chirp. They’re strikingly beautiful parrot-like birds who feed on the honeysuckle and (allegedly) become so intoxicated by the nectar that they lose their flight perception and have been known to collide into the passing traffic. The galah is similar, of the cockatoo family, and just as clueless (hence the phrase "flaming galah" to describe someone of a slightly idiotic persuasion). I’ve not seen this myself, although I like the thought of them as being a slightly rebellious scourge on society, particularly against the Noisy Miner, of which there are many, and not half as exciting.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Spicks and Specks’ (ABC1)

A music quiz panel show with surprisingly straight questions which delivers a light premise of wholesome banter, the like of which you would find on ‘A Question of Sport’. Hosted by comedian Adam Hills, rounds range from quick fire pop knowledge to a singing game where contestants have to guess popular melodies in which the lyrics have been replaced with selected readings from hilariously unrelated literature. I remember seeing a show similar to this in the early 90s, presented by Radio 1’s Mike Smith and called ‘That’s Showbusiness’, until ‘Never Mind the Buzzcocks’ arrived and both saved and ruined the TV music quiz. The panel seem to know their music more than their jokes, although I’m told that one of the team captains, Myf Warhurst, is one of the country’s premier figures in the music press, akin to someone like Jo Whiley, who has done sterling work on the government-funded Triple J alternative music station (which thankfully has no adverts). I’ve listened to it and it’s really quite good, playing Fucked Up, Mos Def and Sarah Blasko all in quick succession, which is anything if not diverse.