Dave the Nomad

I was fortunate enough to get a double entry visa into China, which meant I was able to visit Hong Kong whenever I wanted, as it requires its own visa entry, although considered a part of China. I took a flight from Hanoi to Guangzhou, which is a few hours outside of Hong Kong, and took a series of taxis and buses to Hong Kong, where I planned to stay with one of my good friends Kristin. Kristin and I went to high school together, and shortly after getting married, Kristin left with her husband Grant to live in Hong Kong.

I was excited to catch up on life, and talk to friends from the states. Before I could do that I had a small run in with the authorities while leaving Vietnam. I approached the immigration desk at the airport like so many times before, expecting a wave of the hand. There was no queue, and I walked up to the smiling officials who stared at my passport and then at my face for quite a while. Then they pointed at my ear, and asked me if I had surgery on it. I was completely taken back by the question and said no. One of the officers left to get a second opinion, and after a few moments a three star official was brought over, who kindly ushered me into a back room. The whole time the officers seemed to be suppressing a certain level of smiling and laughing, but were stoic enough for me to be concerned.

Once I was in the small sparsely filled office I was asked to produce as many pieces of identification and photos possible for comparison. They then asked me to turn my head in various odd contortions which reminded me of the awkward positions the photographer seemed to love for school portraits while growing up. After 15-20 minutes of indecisive examination of my ear, they asked me to reproduce my signature a half dozen times, and than started going through the pages of my passport. They asked me to recite when and for how long I was in each country… I chuckled a bit to myself, and then started racing through any benchmark dates on my trip. Thankfully, they were happy with my answers and I was finally allowed to proceed to my plane.

I found my friend’s apartment without any difficulty, and after a brief 2 am conversation I got to sleep in a real bed without a check-out time, figuring out what I was going to eat for breakfast, or what to do / see all day. Since Grant and Kristin had to work all-day, I occupied myself with sight-seeing around the island group, until they were free in the evening. The spectacular sky-scrapers hugging the coasts of the hilly islands are great to marvel at, but otherwise this hub of commerce isn’t much else than a cosmopolitan city. There were a couple morsels worth seeing, including taking the tram to the top of Hong Kong Island, and hiking around the beautiful pathways, and my favorite the free open-air aviary in Hong Kong Park. Probably the most impressive aspect of Hong Kong is its versatile, efficient, and widespread transportation system, and its oh-so-easy Octopus Card. The Octopus Card not only lets you breeze through ticket queues, but you can use it similar to university cards at participating stores as cash!

My visit to Hong Kong was quite unique for two reasons: Grant and Kristin. Grant and Kristin play on an ultimate frisbee league, and they have traveled extensively to other asian countries for tournaments in their spare time. They happened to be having an inter-league game my second night there, and asked if I would like to play. Now, my experience playing frisbee has been limited to pick-up games in university, and out-of-season with my swim team which usually turned into muddy tackling sessions by the end. The least to say, I was a bit nervous, but happy to give it a shot. Even if they pulled me off the field after a few minutes.

The Hong Kong league was divided into four teams, and Grant and Kristin’s team was aptly called ‘the Smurfs.’ We went out for some cheap and delicious sushi in Causeway Bay before the game, and I got to meet some of the other players. Everyone was really nice, and very helpful in explaining the rules while we warmed up. The explained their strategies and lingo, and before long we were starting the game against the black team. The humble smurfs were hesitant to tell me, but this was the best team in the league, and they were hoping to not get too squashed.

The smurfs put me in as what they called deep-deep position, which meant I basically tried to stay open and wait for the Hail Mary pass. I ended up scoring twice! It was a good moral boost, and I was happy to be running around doing some physical exercise again. The smurfs played really well, and managed to beat the black team with a considerable lead. Grant and Kristin were both superbly better than I, and were very good team players. I was proud of my friends, their abilities, and the traveling they got to do because of it. After the match, we went out for a few celebratory drinks, and left to get some much needed rest.

The second night, Grant and Kristin brought me to the horse race track. Several other frisbee players had never been, so we all went off to the races! We met at a restaurant / bar called ‘the Chapel,’ and had some spicy Indian food before walking a short distance over to the track. I’d never been to the races before, and found it to be quite an experience. We bought the non-tourist tickets for 10 HKD (~1.50 USD), and spent a little money placing bets based on stats, funny names, or pure chance. As a group we faired… poorly. I managed to only loose a few dollars a race, while others like Grant who would bet all-or-nothing on one horse were charitable causes to the track owners. We took an inconspicuous elevator to an upper level filled with race junkies gripping their stat sheets and smoking through a flurry of cigarettes.

Nonetheless, we had a good time filling in punch cards (unlike standardized testing), and watching the race. The next day, I said goodbye to my friends, and more importantly fantastic hosts, and headed off to Shanghai. Its always hard to leave friends, even harder to leave a home, and yet I am off again.

After our short but fast-lived stop in Mumbai, Sam and I took another overnight train. We headed south to the beaches of Goa to decompress. Goa is a small beach-side state filled with a variety of beaches from deserted and tranquil, to hippie haven, and of course party central. We met a few travelers in Rajasthan who suggested we visit Arambol in the north, and Palolem in the south. Since we were limited on time we decided to check out Arambol for a day or two, then take a bus to Hampi for a few days, and then return to visit Palolem in the south.

Arambol is a bizarre little town of chilled out locals, gracefully aging hippies, and a smattering of tourists. We took a scenic two hour bus ride on back roads to reach the town. Everyone seemed to be very happy with a quiet scene and a healthy choice of beach-side restaurants. People were friendly, but tended to stick to their social circles and stay unimpressed with the two day tourists. We managed to hear some mediocre live music, and find some excellent food in between diving into the ocean and watching the locals use surf nets to catch fish. This was my first time in the Indian Ocean, and it was bathwater warm. I wish it was a bit cooler, as to be refreshing, but once you were in it was hard to get out. Happy with our short time in Arambol we boarded a night bus from Mapusa to Hampi.

There was a magic bus to India from London, but don’t fall into the disillusioned thought that buses in India are happy times. India’s past-time of installing speed bumps and growing potholes has left a symphony of oscillations ready to make souls dance as they sleep. The compartments on the bus would have been spacious if made for one person, but they were actually for two people. Sam and I crammed into our assigned sleeper compartment on the upper level, and mentally prepared for our next transportation saga.

Throughout the next twelve hours, we managed to attempt many things. Our sleeper flat was in the very back of the bus, when sitting up there were only a few inches of clearance. The catapulting bus managed to foil card playing, reading, typing, and steady eye contact. It succeeded in consistent head banging, sleeplessness, and aerial awakenings in which our bodies would be completely air borne from the constant bumps as we were on the brink of sleep. We laid down most of the trip out of sheer comfort, and on average were thrust into the air at least once every ten minutes.

As dawn brought scenery into view, we were graced by a playground of giant boulders and rice fields, occasionally passing an ancient ruin or tractor filled with locals. Our bus drove right into the ancient bazaar and unceremoniously left us there before taking off. We took a small ferry across the river to our hotel with breathtaking views of the rice paddies, river, and ever-present giant boulders.

We had two full days to explore Hampi, and immediately decided to rent bicycles to pedal around the ruins. There was little wildlife, but some great views of the countryside. We spent the day riding around the ancient and royal centers, exploring temples, walking through giant crevices in the boulders to nondescript temples, and fording the river with the help of some locals. Around sunset we visited the main temple, and I splurged on buying a 20 Rs armful of bananas to feed the temple elephant. Apparently he had eaten too many bananas by the time I was done, and left, so we hiked up to the flat rock to watch the sunset with a small family langurs in the trees below us.

At first we though it was a coincidence there were a lot of Israelis on our bus to Hampi, but after biking around, wading by the river, and hanging out on the patio of our hotel soon realized this was a hotspot for Israelis. Unfortunately, many were silent, elusive of meaningful conversation with non-Hebrew speakers, and overall protectors of their svelt club. We did manage to hear about a nice reservoir around the us.

The reservoir was in the hills a couple villages away, so we made a tentative plan to day-hike to it, and walk along the boulder strewn shore back to our hotel afterward. Laden only with the bare necessities in a water-proof bag, we hiked for several hours before finding the reservoir. Upon arrival we were greeted with a large sign warning us of crocodiles in the reservoir. We could see a handful of foreigners swimming and jumping from the rocks, but decided to not be as carefree. We eventually found a couple of Danish guys near the drainage point for the reservoir, along with a few locals with inner tubes. The locals told us the sign was to keep the residents from drowning since many didn’t know how to swim, and it was perfectly safe to swim around.

After cooling off, we took up the locals offer to rent the inner tubes to go down the reservoir release and pick us up with the Danes motorbikes. We proceeded to unceremoniously jump in backwards with the tubes and float through a small canyon before floating at a more relaxed “lazy river” pace for 20 minutes. We all had a blast, and decided it was time to head back to civilization.

This sounds like a normal task, but in reality it involved 6 guys, 4 inner tubes, and 2 motorbikes. The two Indian guys drove the bikes while myself and a Dane sat on the back of the bike holding an inner tube each off the side of the bike. If we were going faster than a crawl I would be worried, but as it was we had to get off the bikes each time we encountered a small uphill section, and after many laughs, were delighted to get back to our hotel.

In reality we weren’t staying at the hotel, but picking up our bags and boarding another sleeper bus back to Goa. Unexcited and hesitant we loaded onto another sleeper bus, and although we were located in the middle of the bus, the compartment managed to be a bit smaller with walls on the aisle side this time. We slept head to toe, and by 4 am I had managed to keep my eyes shut and become completely exhausted. Wondering why the bus was stopped, we found out it had broken down. We both slept in the stillness until the sun came up and started to get unbearable, at which point we flagged down a local bus with a few other passengers and managed to get to Palolem in Goa.

Thankfully, the train we were supposed to catch to Kerala stopped in Palolem, so we stowed our bags at a trustworthy looking shop, and promptly went to the beach. The warm water was delightful, and we both sat at a beach side restaurant to recover. I was nursing a bruised right side of my head from the bus ride, and it was a spectacularly lazy day. Palolem is a more party oriented town, and we managed to collect quite a few flyers about parties and silent discos. The silent discos are an innovative response to noise violations from locals and trendy club scenes. The basic premise is everyone wears headphones and listens to whatever music they want, if you take them off, its quiet. We sadly missed out on this, but were ecstatic at making our sleeper train, and getting some real rest.

Lifestyle of the rich and famous.

Home to the luxurious and lavish toys all men dream about.

This small spec of a country is amazing! I took a day trip from Nice to visit this place with some new friends from my hostel. Along the way we stopped in a small village named Eze. Eze is composed of a small old town on a hilltop with magnificent views, and small winding streets turned into cafes. The pinnacle of the old town is now an “exotic” garden. I say “exotic” because most of it are American cacti. Regardless, it was a nice stop before entering the enviously rich Monaco.

We had no chance of getting in the casino, but it is still a place to walk around, look at really nice cars, and pretend you can afford the exorbitantly priced clothing. I was very excited to see the aquarium, which I am told was made under the direction of a little known man in the aquatic world, Jacques Cousteau. The aquarium is not huge, but the displays are meant to be entire ecosystems, not just two different types of fish in a tank. The main aquarium will eventually hold an entire coral reef and boast over 2100 species.

After a couple hours looking at the fish, we headed to the port area where a fair was taking place. Most of the rides would never be allowed back in the states, my favorite was a large disc with a railing in which you sat and tried to hold on as it gyrated and turned around trying to make you fall off and slide to the other end. The event couldn’t be complete without the consumption of greasy fair food. I had a sandwich called “The Big American” which was composed of a baguette filled with rectangular beef patties, french fries, tomatoes, and several greasy sauces. I don’t think I’ve had anything this bad for me on my entire trip, and it was delicious.

The rest of the time we spent wandering around the port looking at people’s houses, I mean boats. The kind of boats I would love to retire on and carouse around on the high seas. Alas, I mustered up the strength to walk away and not leave the port a pirate. Our last stop before heading back was the S-curve on the F1 Grand Prix course. The process went something like this: three guys taking pictures of cars, two girls bored out of their mind, and the roar of Ferraris and Porsches filling the air every other minute. Needless to say it was a great visit to the playground, and I was sad to leave.

Juanjo and I got a chance to actually meet up on Sunday and went to a bull fight at Las Ventas. Las Ventas is the largest bull fighting ring in the world. If you get the chance I highly suggest going to a fight. During the high season in the summer and the Feria, bull fights are held everyday. Earlier and later in the season fights are held weekly. As this was the second to last fight of the year, the crowd was small and the matadores novices.

Before I go into the best translation of a bull fight possible thanks to the great commentary by Juanjo, I would like to warn those faint of heart, queasy at bloody images, or PETA lovers to skip over this entry and not look at the pictures. You may have your personal opinions on the treatment of animals, but I will try my best to present the fight as it is done in the hopes you will become more aware of its complexities and nuances….and not ramble too much.

Almost all fights involve 6 bulls, and will last at least a couple hours. There are can be anywhere from 1-3 matadores who will fight 6 – 2 bulls each respectively. The fight I went to also had picadores, who are horsemen who aid in the fight and three matadores. The event is started by a procession of all the men involved from the horsemen to the clean-up crew. They will walk over to the president’s box and ask for permission to start the event. There are numerous matadores in the ring at the beginning. Some of them will be trying to help the bull, while others will not. For the first few minutes they will be running the bull around the ring to tire him out for the safety of both the bull and matadore.

After a few trumpets blasts two picadores enter the ring. They have to stay outside the white ring on the ground. During this time the silver colored men (helping the bull) will try to lure the bull into the middle of the ring, and the gold men (against) will try to lure him towards the picadores at the edge. Eventually, the bull is allowed to charge the picadores and the heavily armoured horse and near sumo like picadore will spear the bull in the high shoulder area. Their main goal is to tire the bull out by bleeding him.

After several minutes of this, the picadores must leave the stadium. At this time, the silver colored men will “energize” the bull by placing small spears in the middle of the back. These are used to release endorphins and adrenaline. They will try to place these along the spine. There is a rule in place that they can take as long as needed to place no more than six of these on the bull. The men will do this by standing in front of the bull with two spears and jump to the side at the last second while placing them as close to the spine as possible. In some cases, an older experienced matador will come out to test the bull and see how he will behave.

At this point the matadore will enter the ring and ask the president for permission to fight the bull. In a good fight, the matadore will go to the center of the ring to celebrate the killing of the bull with the entire audience. Sometimes they will then throw their hat over their shoulder. If it lands top down its good luck, and if it lands top up its bad luck. Other times they will hand their hat to a friend or loved one. By doing this, they are saying they are dedicating the death of the bull to that person.

At this time, all other men leave the arena and the matadore and bull will begin their dance. There are many different styles of fighting. In one, the matadore will stay in place and wave the pennant over the top of the bull as he charges without moving his lower body. Other styles involve moving around the bull and having it run around him. This style can be done naturally, or with the use of the sword to extend the pennant farther away from the fighter.

This dance will continue with some help from the audience. One section of the stadium always cheers for the bull. Everyone else will cheer for the matadore primarily. A good fight involves a slow dance where the bull is still dangerous and powerful but is lead slowly around by the red pennant. The fighter is trying to make the bull look graceful, and keep his pennant as close to the bull’s horns without letting it touch. After each successful pass, the crowd shouts “Ole!” This is the highlight of the fight, and is the best known part. When the fighter is done with his dance, and everyone is satisfied that both the fighter and bull have danced to the best of their ability the matadore will hopefully complete his last act correctly: the kill.

The matadore will set the bull up so that he charges with his head low. He is aiming for a very small hole in the bull’s back. When done correctly, the sword will go into the bull down to the hilt and pierce the heart. The bull lies down very soon, and the men will use a dagger to cut the brain stem immediately afterwards. Once the bull is dead, a triad of ornate horses are rushed out, and the bull is dragged out within seconds. The ground crew will then rake the sand out and cover up the blood.

Unfortunately, it is a small hole, and I only saw it happen correctly once. If the matadore misses the first time, he has 15 minutes to kill the bull. If that is not done, the bull will be ushered out to be killed. Usually what happens is the sword will stick just off and about halfway in. The other men will come out and help distract the bull as the matadore is not allowed to use another sword. Once he has extracted the sword, he will try again. During this time, or after a miss, the crowd will start cheering for the bull. Most commonly, this is done by whistling. After a few minutes pass, trumpets will sound. This is the matador’s first of three warnings and lets him know he now has 12 minutes. Thankfully, I never heard the six minute trumpet warning.

If a matadore does everything correctly, he has the opportunity to win a piece of the bull. After the kill, the audience will petition the president by waving white hankerchiefs in the air. If he agrees, he will allow the matadore to receive an ear of the bull. If he does and extremely good job, the crowd will continue to cheer, and he can get another ear. After a great fight, the tail is then also given. When you look at the records of matadores, they will say how many ears and tails they have received and a total number of fights.

The bull also has the chance to live. If a particular bull has shown great elegance, power, and strength. The crowd will wave a non-white hankerchief before the matadore’s final stroke. If the president approves, the bull is allowed to live, and the matadore will just simulate the kill. This enables good bulls to procreate, and they are allowed to lives their days in verdant pastures.

As I reflect on the closest live event I will hopefully ever see to a gladiator fight. I have come away, not signing up for PETA protests, but with great respect for the matadores and this tradition. Although the bull is killed in a not so efficient and humane way, there is a chance the matadore can be killed in the ring. I was talking to some other travelers who watched one matadore get a crushed skull, and another lose his testicles.

The dance between the bull and matadore seemed to be more a display of the talent and beauty of the bull before being killed. The purpose of the matadore is to lead the bull, and guide it. So I find myself appreciating the talent of a good matadore to be able to read a bull, and know how to bring out his best characteristics, be it by a different style, or subtle changes in movement. Yes, the bull may suffer more before being killed, but unlike the endless number of animals which are killed for our consumption out of sight, the people have the chance to more fully appreciate and know this animal. So many of us have never seen or truly understand the life we are ending before selfishly indulging.

I’ve been doing some reading along the way, and this short bit seemed aptly related. If you have any suggested reading for me along the way, please feel free to pass on the info.

Related Reading: Jack Keraouc “Lonesome Traveler” – Bullfight in Mexico while high on Opium.

Videos Posted from the Bullfight.

Its very refreshing to understand the native language again. I’m nowhere close to fluent, but I can manage to hold short conversations and understand directions and most conversations I hear. I’m not staying too long in Madrid, but I wanted to make sure to indulge in some quality cultural events. I met Juanjo in Amsterdam, and he told me to make sure to contact him when I came to Madrid.

Unfortunately, I called Juanjo on Saturday only to find out he had tickets to the largest futbol (aka soccer) game of the year in Madrid. Real Madrid vs. Atletico Madrid. He told me I could try to get an outrageously priced ticket or find a jam packed bar by the stadium. Budget traveling helped me make my decision not to buy a 120 euro ticket.

The game was home for Atletico, and as such the bar was filled almost entirely by Atletico fanatics. I promised Juanjo I would cheer for Atletico. American fans of any sport will be hard pressed to beat the frenzy of true futbol fans. The chanting and cheering in the bar was ear-numbing, I stepped outside during half time for some fresh air and a little more space. By the final few minutes of the game Real Madrid was winning 1-0, and Atletico had a foul shot. The crowd became silent waiting not for the TV, but the roar of the crowd inside the stadium. The suspense in the bar electrified as the stadium exploded with sound. The three seconds it took for the images of the goal to be transferred to the TV inside the bar would make any movie producer lustful with envy in trying to emulate. The cheering of not just a goal, but of hope as the game was now tied was overwhelming. Fair weather fans who were leaving the stadium in shame of the ensuing loss ran to the bar. You could feel the wave of people pushing to get a glimpse of the goal on the TV..

Sadly, this fairy tale story stops short. In the stoppage minutes following the goal, Real Madrid scored again and many a fan left for home quietly.