Sideways angels on their hogs (Photo: Chris Day)

(Published by The West Australian on 3 November 2011.)

Sometimes a middle class guy just has to rip off his conformist mask to expose his inner biker.

That is exactly what I did in Shanghai, the giant city that rivals Hong Kong as the money capital of all China.

Sure there were nice and safe bus tours available, but Shanghai once had a reputation for outlandish behaviour and I wanted a taste.

Shanghai Sideways offered a four-hour experience that looked me to like an urban version of the Easy Rider movie.

It involved a ride on sidecar-motorcycles through the city streets and lanes but with half the time on foot and exploring.

They had the five bikes ready at 9am on a coldish Saturday, one machine per couple of riders. The woman sat in the sidecar, the man on the elevated pillion or vice-versa. Thankfully they provided a guide who drove.

“Want to wear a helmet?” asked Jonathan, our guide who looked like Peter Fonda to my wishful Dennis Hopper.

Up surged a feeling of rebellion, a chance to raise a digit to the nanny state. But one look at the vintage helmet and goggles and I surrendered to image. They looked good with my leather jacket. All that was absent was a tattoo, a missing molar and a long, straggly beard.

“These bikes are modern Chinese replicas of a Soviet replica of a 1930s BMW,” said a smiling Jonathan, a Frenchman who not only leads tours but manages the company’s operations.

Chinese replica of Soviet replica of 1930s BMW. (Photo: Shanghai Sideways).

With me on the pillion and the old lady (technical biker term) in the sidecar, our machine took off in the lead, followed by the four other bikes bearing couples from various Western countries.

Shanghai has the same population as Australia, yet the streets were emptyish and ripe for the taking.

Under the cover of the roar of the engines, I took the opportunity for some mobile Karaoke: “Get your motor running, out on the highway….born to be wi-i-i-ild….”

 Now I started to understand why the Hells Angels took to the road on two wheels. Not for the aggro, not for the drugs, not to annoy the cops and not for the wild women (well, maybe). The thrill of burning along a city street in a pack ignites a feeling of freedom in solidarity with the bros and sisters.

We powered along narrow boulevards where trees burst with new green life and where elegant, low-rise art deco buildings signalled we were in the French Concession.

This quarter of the city dates back to the days when foreigners lived in protected pockets as they milked profits from China. Jonathan pointed out something interesting: “Houses once inhabited by one foreign family are now packed with people—you can see that by the rows of letter boxes.”

We entered an elegant house that after the revolution in 1949 had become a home to top party officials. But China has flipped over to capitalism, and above the door to what is now a modern art gallery is faded calligraphy irrelevant to modern times: “The Spirit of Mao Zedong will live for eternity”.

We swerved at low speed through a labyrinth of walled lanes and reached another boulevard where morning strollers grinned at us and took photos. They didn’t seem to be at all intimated by this horde of faux bikers.

Downtown old Shanghai. (Photo: Michael Day).

Back on the hog, I swapped my perch on pillion for the sidecar and began to cruise the world in an armchair. It felt a mixture of the comical and imperious. My ear to ear grin lasted all the way to People’s Park where lots of older couples were milling about.

“Anybody guess what this is?” Jonathan asked our group, labelled in my mind “the Sideways Angels”. He then quickly removed our ignorance.“It’s a marriage market.”

Parents were inspecting notice boards where CVs advertised potential mates for their offspring. Photos were clearly not important but apparently every notice listed the worldly goods and potential income the young person could bring to the marriage. The oldies negotiate and then their kids meet to see if it could all work out. Harmony is important. After retirement, the parents often move in with the young couple. Not a bad idea for Australia. Look out RSVP.

Zooming past museums to the Communist era—ironically very close to giant billboards for Mercedes-Benz and Tiffany diamonds — we arrived at the famous Bund, the riverfront of Shanghai.

Bank on the Bund. (Photo: Chris Day).

In the 1930s this city was the decadence capital of the world, home to opium dens, gambling, sing-song girls and the armour-plated Chevrolets of gangsters with bodyguards riding on the running boards, toting Tommy guns.

Now it’s all peaceful. The impressive stone buildings of banks and business houses still flank the road but today the red flag of Communist China flies from each one.

Across the river are the towers of capitalism, including one of the tallest buildings in the world, the 101-storey Shanghai World Financial Centre.

Somehow a squadron of side-car machines seemed a perfect counterpoint to this buttoned-down world of finance.

The climax of the run was our arrival at the market in the old city. Our gang dismounted and plunged into the narrow, crowded lanes, gobbling up spicy shish-kebabsand delicious pancakes. We then formed a farewell circle to thank our drivers.

Pancakes for the bikers. (Photo: Chris Day).

Removing my helmet, goggles and mental mask, I morphed into Mr Respectable and returned reluctantly to civilian life.

END

Shanghai Sideways: http://www.shanghaisideways.com/

Dancing at Barunga (Photo: Peter Eve- Tourism NT)

The people are not speaking in English but rather in several languages, all Australian but incomprehensible to me.

The Barunga Festival held annually in June is a highly regarded indigenous cultural and sporting festival in the Top End.

It has historic roots as the place where a call for Aboriginal rights, the Barunga Declaration, was presented to Prime Minister Bob Hawke in 1988.

Amid the thousands of Aboriginal people camping at the Festival are a few hundred Australians of European descent many of whom are experiencing what it is like to be in a minority. For us it is fun, curious, a privilege.

Close up of Crocodiles (Photo: Peter Eve-Nt Tourism)

Excitement is mounting because tonight we are going to see and hear some of the best singers and bands in the Northern Territory.

“Give a big hand for Jessica Mauboy!” shouts the MC and the crowd cheer as the Darwin-born star bounds across the stage and launches into the songs that have confirmed the talent first seen nationally on Australian Idol in 2006.

A lantern at Barunga Festival looks ready to eat the moon (Photo: Peter Eve--Tourism NT)

Then it is the turn of Arnhem band Yilila, which turns on a performance of such energy and excitement that we rush towards the stage and dance to the pounding rhythm.

Lead singer Grant Nundhirribala dances, jokes, and sings in a superstar performance we wish the whole of Australia could see.

At the climax of one song, all lights go out except for those illuminating two giant batik-style crocodile figures that are the backdrop of the stage. It is a special moment.

The music is a culmination of a day of surprises. In contrast to the negative portrayals of indigenous life the Northern Territory, we found a green, clean and prosperous Barunga community with a “no alcohol” rule being observed for the festival.

The crowd thrilled to a spear throwing contest where a woomera-style device proved its worth by propelling the spears to their distant target without the run up associated with the javelin.

Art exhibitions, concerts, didgeridoo manufacture, story-telling and sports events are all part of a program drawing increasing numbers each year.

Spear throwing competition (Photo: Peter Eve-- Tourism NT)

http://www.jawoyn.org/barunga-festival.htm

http://www.yilila.com

http://www.jessicamauboy.com.au/

Meal time at the piranha tank in the Bali Safari and Marine Park was a confronting experience.

Prince of the predators

It was not something you could expect in the picturesque Gianyar region, just a short way from Indonesia’s famous tourist centres of Kuta and Sanur.

Everything looked perfectly normal before the food arrived.  The fish were swimming casually about in one big school, looking like cute cousins of Nemo.

Then up strode one of the attendants. He put a dead, skinless chicken on a wire hook and lowered it into the water.

The whole atmosphere suddenly changed. The little devils headed straight for their lunch, their razor-sharp teeth working overtime.

The chicken must have been fin-licking good because the mob got so excited they swarmed all over it, biting from all angles known to geometry.

After a couple of minutes, the piranhas had stripped the chicken to the bone, leaving it looking  like a skeleton of a monkey. Scary.

Somebody said what we were all thinking: “What if you put your hand in?”

“Let’s go,” I suggested, as much to myself as our group, and we wandered away, thrilled and appalled in equal measure.

It was time for a break from the predator side of life.

One of our group held a baby orang-utan and they both posed for a photo. Next was an animal show featuring elephants. Then there was a show  starring dogs, pussy cats (yes, they can be herded), free-flying birds and orang-utans.

Tigers

We then left the cuddly world and returned to the domain of the carnivore. It felt safe enough as we lined up for a photo patting a tranquil tiger cub but we wouldn’t have wanted to try stroking the big white tiger visible through a plate glass window. The muscled beast prowling along a river bank could be described as big and beautiful but not as cuddly and cute.

On the Safari bus trip through a mini wildlife park we were excited to come across a semi-submerged animal of the species that experts say has killed more people than any other except the mosquito. It was Harry the Hippo. No way were we going to hop out to high five him.

After passing animals like zebras and antelopes, our bus went round a corner and shuddered to a halt. A giant, grey rhino was blocking our way. In a contest between the armour-plated animal and our vehicle, I would have put my rupiah on the rhino.

Rhino has right of way

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. He eventually moved on and so did we, eventually arriving alongside oxen named after a dance, or was it the other way around. The Watusi have horns wider than — and as wicked as — the vuvuzelas at the World Cup.

As the end of our safari, we were safely inside the Tsavo restaurant, staring through its big windows at a pride of lions only a few metres away.

The restaurant’s  publicity pamphlet happily advised us that its name “relives the legendary pair of Tsavo Lions that become famous by killing and eating more than one hundred railway workers on the Kenya – Uganda Railway in 1898”.

If you can’t beat them, join them. I became a predator too. With only a passing thought for the poor old water buffalos of the world, I ordered oxtail soup.

END

www.balisafarimarinepark.com

Michael Day was a guest of the park.

Rider on a beach in Mazatlan (This and other photos by Michael Day)

(Published by The West Australian on 7 October, 2010)

“Amigo!” I called out.

I had been told that amigo (“friend” in Spanish) works like “mate” in Australian. Sure enough it worked.

The huge Mexican waiter turned around, gave me a big grin and came over to take my breakfast order (eggs).

I was in a top mood and why wouldn’t I be on a balcony restaurant of the Hotel Costa del Oro (“Gold Coast”)

The restaurant overlooked one the many perfect beaches in the historic port city of Mazatlan on Mexico’s west coast. It was ideal grandstand to watch squadrons of giant birds patrolling the glassy ocean, flying just a centimetre or two above the surface.

A few minutes later, my new-found amigo arrived with what seemed to be a kilogram of melted cheese decorated with the eggs I ordered.  My heart sank. It knew it under threat.

But with a giant amigo watching, there was no choice but to say adios to healthy eating and just tuck in.

Morning

A few minutes later another challenge to my health came from another hombre (a word I remembered from Westerns).

“Catch pneumonia,” said Poncho, who manned the travel desk in the hotel foyer

I was more confused than miffed because Poncho was an amigo who had taken to calling me “Miguelito”.

Double pulmonia

Poncho then explained that Pneumonia (“Pulominia” in Spanish) is an extra-large, golf-cart that takes tourists from the beachside hotels into the centre of Mazatlan.

The drivers of conventional taxis once gave the carts the nickname of “Pneumonia” to frighten tourists into thinking they could catch a cold or worse by travelling in the open-sided carts. But it had the opposite effect and the word is now a marketing tool.

The Pneumonia whizzed me along a boulevard runs next to the longest beachside boardwalk in Latin America. I spotted inline skaters, mums with strollers, kids dawdling to school, giant statues in a Stalinist-realism style and the elderly enjoying views.

The beaches looked like Cottesloe, Swanbourne, City Beach and Scarborough all joined up. Add Trigg as well. Plus there were a couple of islands just to make the sunsets cute. We passed a night club called “Bum Bum” but I couldn’t guess what it meant in English.

A ute of heavily armed police or soldiers was the only evidence of the drugs wars between various mafia gangs. Everything else looked extraordinarily peaceful.

Once off the bus, it was a short stroll to watch young men leap to their deaths. Well, it looked like that was sure to happen.

They climbed up a big rock and then did a swan dive towards lots of sharp baby rocks. Fortunately, a swell came in at the right moment, and they were saved. They came running up and asked for a dollar. Who could deny them? Not this amigo.

It was a far more serene experience to wander up the road into the centre of the Puebla Viejo (the old town). Think Fremantle in stone painted bright pastel.

House in the old town

There were houses and shops in the Spanish style that were mainly blue but with purple around the doors and windows, or lime green with green window sills, or yellow with some kind of orange-ochre trimmings. A light blue shop looked more like a cake than a building.

It was one big architectural art gallery, and all centred around a square where boys watched the girls promenade, where the well-off walked their pedigree hounds, where the music seemed to came out of the walls, and where a bandstand, palm trees and giant plants combined to form the centre.

Siesta

Siesta time

My camera and my eyes sated, I decided that when in Mexico, do as the Mexicans do. That is, have a siesta. I went back to the hotel and lazed around the pool. I watched as refugees from the Canadian winter rode horses along the beach, swam in the surf, bought sombreros from vendors, or flew up into the blue sky attached to a parasail.

Dusk

Back I went to the old town with an Aussie amigo. Our mission was a shoe shine from one of the men who line the Main Square (Plaza Principal), which is crowned by a magnificent yellow Cathedral built in the 19th century.

I perched on my wooden throne as Manuel applied polish with a series of brushes and then used a variety of cloths to turn the dull black leather into an ebony mirror.

Manuel takes a shine to another Aussie

As he completed the final polish, the lights of Cathedral came on, illuminating the statues that occupied exterior niches. The sound of a hymn being sung by a solo soprano drifted into the warm night.

Three young men passing the entrance of the Cathedral doffed their caps. One made the sign of the cross. The reverence was poignant.

Evening

We moved on to nearby Plaza Machado and plucked up courage to enter a mysterious narrow corridor that took us to El Tunel, a restaurant specialising in authentic Mexican food.

Three elderly senoras supervised the contents of three big pots. Mazatlan is famous for marlin so that’s what I ordered. Instead of the giant steak I expected, the waiter delivered a plate of mashed up fish and sliced lemon to bring out the taste.

Three amigos arrived, one carrying a battered old guitar. Their harmonies filled the place with the sounds of old Mexico.

Colour combinations in Mazatlan

1. Emperor: An Austrian named Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph was Emperor of Mexico from 1864 until a firing squad shot him dead three years later.

2. Lost property: Mexico once owned Texas, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming but lost it all in the Mexican-American War (1846-48).

3. Food and flowers: Chocolate, avocados, tomatoes, maize, corn, vanilla, zucchini and the poinsettia originated in Mexico.

4 . Population: One million US citizens live in Mexico, and 29 million US citizens claim Mexican ancestry. With 111 million, Mexico is the 11^th most populous country in the world. It has more than twice the number of Spanish speaking people than Spain.

5. Religion: There are more Catholics in Mexico (100 million) than any other country in the world except Brazil. The Mexican Catholic church was severely persecuted  in the 20^th century,

6 . Sport: Mexicans play the oldest  ball game in the world (ulama). It which originated in 1600 BC. Soccer is now the most popular game but bullfighting is the official national sport.

7. Slim pickings: The richest man in the world is a Mexican, Carlos Slim, a telecoms magnate said to be worth US $60 billion. When his father arrived as a penniless immigrant from Lebanon, he was only 14 and unable to speak Spanish.

8. Economy: More cars are built in Mexico than in the United States and Canada. Mexico is predicted to be one of the five largest economies in the world in 40 years time (the others: United States, India, China, Brazil). Oil is its most lucrative export.

9. Tragedy: Mexico has had more than share of tragedy. Its revolution (1910-20) claimed one million lives, a war against persecution of Catholics cost 90,000 dead, thousands of students died in a protest in Tlatelolco Square before the Olympic Games in 1968. Since 2007, more than 22,000 have died in the war against drug cartels.

10. Arts: Good books by foreigners about Mexico include All the Pretty Horses (Cormac McCarthy), The Power and the Glory (Graham Greene); Mornings in Mexico by DH Lawrence

In the Mexican holiday town of Mazatlan, I had a choice of where to spend my morning: the beach or a dental surgery.

I chose the dentist’s. My problem was neither toothache nor stupidity. Rather I had a bad case of vanity and frugality.

The promise was a huge discount on what I would be charged in Australia for laser treatment on my bottom teeth. They would become white rather than what they had long been – sepia.

It wasn’t an attempt to look trendy again. I had never succumbed to growing one of those desperate grey ponytails or using a tattoo to cover any wrinkles.

Was I after a certain elderly elegance? No, I am not that ancient. What about an image of mature, debonair charm? Yes, that was the look I was after.

Husband and wife team: Dr Rafael and Dr Marisol

The  Orthodental Center in Mazatlan where Dr Rafael Carreno and his wife Dr Marisol Castro have their practice is clean and shiny. That dispelled some of my initial apprehensions about having dental work done overseas.

As I waited in the reception area for my mouth makeover I chatted to some patients from Canada. They had made appointments on the recommendation of friends. Those conversations  relaxed me further.

Dr Carreno later told me that about half of their clients are from Canada and the United States. They combine holidays with cheap dental treatment.

The laser treatment administered by Dr Castro didn’t hurt, one of my main criteria for successful dental work. It involved wearing a plate one night and then sitting through a couple of half hour appointments.

Once finished, she held up a mirror for me to check the results. “But I’m still bald!”, I joked. Then I remembered. Sean Connery, the sexiest man in the world, is also hair-free.

Feeling mature and debonair for the first time in my life, I flashed a gleaming ever-so-white grin and experimented with my new line: “The name’s Bond, Juan Bond”.

Mazatlan fishermen (Photo: Michael Day)

(Published by The West Australian on 7 October 2010)

In the mid-morning, a Mexican fisherman was coming home from a night working his lines.

An old outboard motor pushed his painted wooden dinghy through the glassy blue.

On the beach near the centre of the town of Mazatlan, leathery skinned men carried wooden rollers down to the water’s edge and waited for their mate to draw near.

The fisherman cut off the motor and rode a gentle ripple on to the first roller. Then it was all hands on deck. They pushed the fish-laden boat forward on to all three rollers and propelled it up the beach.

Soon the boat was safely at rest in the soft, dry sand. Nestled nearby were Charito and another boat called Gonzalito. Further along were Martha II and Cesar.

The fisherman joined others in their daily task of scaling and gutting their catch. One man whistled, then threw some fish innards high into the sky. A giant bi-tailed seabird heard the call and swept in for breakfast. Grey-brown pelicans grumped around and gobbled up spare offal.

Then the fishermen gathered around a boat which had a plank forming a table across its gunnels. The men played dominos, gambling on every throw, and they laughed and shouted in the sun.

Reggie and crew in action

Reggie didn’t look anything like Russell Crowe but he was our Master and Commander and we trusted him with our lives.

With whipcord muscles and weather-beaten skin, this Balinese helmsman controlled the rubber raft that took four or us hurtling down the Telaga Waja river.

We matelots were a rum lot—a  couple of laughing Aussie lads out for a good time, a delicate Japanese flower from a Tokyo art gallery, and me, an ancient mariner.

We listened carefully as Reggie taught us the commands he would shout to us as we took on the rapids that began near Bali’s highest peak, Mt Agung, and continued almost without a break two hours downstream.

I expected a gentle start to break us in but it was full on action from the start.

“Duck!” shouted Reggie as the first set of rapids fired us at a low slung bamboo bridge that would have put a fair dent in my helmet if I hadn’t instantly obeyed.

“Forward,” came the next command and we dug our paddles deep as we approached rapids where nature had placed giant boulders in inconvenient places.

But rubber has a way of bending around rocks, and we swept down at full pace, wondering if our paddling made any difference at all. Then Reggie yelled “Back” and we all put our paddles into reverse.

I looked to the stern and there was Reggie leaning back at 45 degrees-plus and using his paddle as a mighty rudder to steer us out of danger.

By then we were laughing and shouting with the exhilaration of it all. But things suddenly went quiet as the torrent propelled us towards a rock cliff.

“Boom, boom!” bellowed Reggie. We obeyed his call and leaned away from the wall of doom. The rubber side of the raft did its job and bounced us back into the flow.

When the pace slowed down, we had time to admire the jungle cliffs and waterfalls that ranged from plumes spouting out of holes in the rock to silvery water dropping in aprons over the green. A little coloured bird or two fluttered from shrub to tree.

At one point we passed a farmer tending his rice fields, a scene that looked somehow ancient in this place so far away from the hurly burly of touristdom.

On one dramatic occasion, we got wedged on a rock. One of the lads stood up and bounced on one corner of the raft. Dislodged, we flew off again downstream.

Hard rock cafe

Half way down, we stopped at a stony beach, nestled against a cliff. It was nature’s hard rock café. Soft drinks were the go—we were all designated drivers—but we could equally have dunked our heads in the pure water and had our fill.

Reggie then told me he used to be a cashier for Sobek Adventure Tours, and was now one of their full-time raftsmen. I couldn’t imagine him behind a desk.  He chatted in English to we Australians and then switched automatically to Japanese for the little dynamo from Tokyo.

We paddled off again. Experts now, we showed no fear as we approached a point where the river split in two. Reggie steered us in the right direction.

A raft of scoundrels tried to pass us, and we flicked water at them and they returned fire. I thought they were from Taiwan but their Aussie accents just demonstrated the multicultural nature of the wide brown land many kilometers to the south.

We turned a bend and saw a weir ahead. More like a dam with drop that was closer to vertical than 45 degrees. Reggie gave us the command to stop paddling. We grabbed the ropes and headed for the big plunge. We dropped into the watery mayhem. There was shouting, screaming and laughing. It was us in raft heaven.

Just before the end, Reggie pulled us up next to a set of rapids feeding a deep pool. He climbed a steep rock bank, grabbed a vine, swung out and dropped in. One of the lads did the same, but the rest of us were happy enough leaping into the rapids and getting swept into the pool.

The expedition over, we walked up a hill to a restaurant devoted to hungry rafters.

As we scoffed the scrumptious food, Reggie paid us a complement: “You were a good crew”. But as far as we were concerned, it was our Master and Commander who deserved all the tributes.

END

http://www.balisobek.com/

Michael Day paid for the lads but was a guest of Sobek.

Your scribe going full tilt downhill

(Published in The West Australian,  21 August 2010)

Cycling down from a volcano in Bali may not be the Tour de France but as a bike ride it must rate as one of the best activities for any amateur on two wheels.

You don’t have to expose your dieting crimes by wearing bulge-hugging lycra, and it’s nearly all downhill, a mix of freewheeling and pedalling along the flat.

Not convinced? How about this: as you go through some of the loveliest scenery in the world you encounter the cutest of kids who smile a big “hello” as their playful older siblings extend a hand for a high five.

We found all this out in stages but to start off some hidden fears had to be expressed.

As we donned the bike helmets and the complimentary cycling gloves ,  a member of our group spoke up, voicing the apprehensions of one or two others. “I might be a bit wobbly because I haven’t ridden a bike for years,” she said.

But as we  set off from Mt Batur towards the pleasant town of Ubud, even those who hadn’t biked for ages found all the old skills came back  with ease.

At the suggestion of our Balinese guide, Made, we dismounted amid  a grove of towering bamboo that was so bushy the temperature dropped a  delightful degree or two.

After  detouring along some earthen tracks to a little roadside farm, Made pointed out papaya, cocoa and orange trees. Then we cycled on to a moss-covered temple and gazed into a courtyard that had been devoted to prayer and meditation for 1000 years.

We left that holy spot in  silent, single file, passing a  giant banyan tree said to be the place of spirits. They must have been kindly souls because we felt blessed by the experiences that were to follow.

As we peddled down little lanes through a sea of  green paddies, there was plenty of time to absorb the sights, sounds and smells of farming life..

“Very agricultural,”  said one city-slicker  experiencing a whiff of cow poo. It was an odour that strangely reinforced our joy at  being away from  busy towns with their petrol fumes.

As if in a dream, we drifted  along village avenues  decorated with yellow ceremonial umbrellas and high, looping bamboo poles. On some parts of the road, women were spreading  rice  on colourful sarongs to dry in the sun.

Just when our bottoms were signaling it was time to dismount for the day, we arrived at our destination near Ubud.

We celebrated the completion of our  Tour de Bali, not with champagne and a victory speech, but with chicken sate, delicious mixed fruit drinks and a feeling of deep satisfaction.

END

http://www.balisobek.com/

Michael Day was a guest of Sobek but paid for a couple of the peloton.