Sunrise in Hong Kong

What it’s been? A couple of months?

I’m back. Sort of.

Where have I been? Here and there. Everywhere and nowhere.

After 3.5 years of blogging I was a little tired. Seeing what some bloggers had done in the name of making a buck made me sad. Tired and sad, I opted for a little time away from Asian Ramblings and the travel blog scene.

That and I’ve turned a page or two in the book that is my life. A whole new chapter, you might say.

• A new job, as I mentioned previously. Out of the classroom and into the boardroom.
• We (Mrs. Stevo and I) bought a condo. I have been busy rolling in plaster dust and trying to remember the cuss words my father was fond of saying while doing DIY projects.
• Mrs. Stevo is expecting. That’s right, there’s a bun in the oven. The stork is circling. I’m happy and frightened.
• I’ve taken a shot or two since I last posted here. I’ve been playing around with black and white.
• Asian Ramblings has been nominated again for the Bloggies. Head on over and vote for your favorite blogs.

That’s all for now. I’ll be around with a story or a photo to share as time permits.

Guangxiao Si, the Bright Filial Piety Temple is one the oldest in Guangzhou, Guangdong Province’s capital. History places the first temple buildings on the site during the 4th century, before mighty Guangzhou was a city. The compound is significant because Hui Neng, of the Zen Buddhist sect, was a novice at the temple during the 7th century.

That’s what the guidebook says. Guangxiao Si has seen dynasties rise and fall, generations born, live and die, and one of the largest cities of the world spring up around its walls. Much of the temple was destroying during a 17th century fire and rebuilt. It remains timeless place of stillness and beauty.

Fragrant smoke hangs heavy over the grounds. Incense, purchased from the temple or the shops surrounding it, is placed before the Maltreya Buddha.
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Women say prayers and leave offerings at the West Iron Pagoda. The ritual continues as they walk around the four-sided iron structure, saying prayers facing north, east and south. Some circle the pagoda, fingers trailing over the cold surface, incense burning in the other.
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Chanting surrounds the Mahavira Hall. The faithful line its walls, texts in hand.
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A group gathers in front of the structure. Inside a master chants sacred words, his voice heard above the hundreds.
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Two monks retreat from the holy chaos for a moment’s respite. I watch them leave, and the assembled worshippers continue with rituals as their ancestors have for generations.
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Originally Published: November 24, 2007.

Are we ever really lost?

We know roughly where we are, be it a city, region or country. We are on the earth, from that point of view we’re not lost at all. We have a place within the cosmos. I have been lost, literally and figuratively. Much of my time is now spent trying to get lost.

But you just asked if we’re ever really lost?

Who’s that? Shut up. Don’t interrupt.

As long as I know which way is north and I have a rudimentary map I can find what I’m looking for. Eventually. Knowing the compass points is key. When I first arrived at my digs in China I was confused. I had no idea where north was. It was good my faith (or total lack there of) didn’t involve facing Mecca. After discovering north, navigating my new world became easier.

New world? Are you Columbus? North? Oliver North?

Shut up.

I was lost, really lost, only once. On a cold, rainy October afternoon some friends and I went hiking. After reaching our destination, the remains of an old uranium mine, we started back. One friend decided on a short cut. His error in judgment led to hours of walking in the rain, wading through beaver ponds, and generally being miserable. It wasn’t a bad place to be lost, it was bordered on four sides by roads and the area was about 18 square kilometers. We would have been found before DNA was needed to identify our remains.

I learned lessons that day. Most involved stupidity, listening to others, and always carrying a compass. None of those have translated into my urban, Chinese, existence.

I stray from the path. A straight line between Point A and B is boring. There are too many alleys to explore along the way. I’m never really lost, I know what city I’m in and my approximate location on a map. I’ll never have to worry about resorting to cannibalism if lost in China as I would in the Canadian wilds. Many varieties of street food are widely available.

If I hadn’t had strayed from the path I never would have found Nui Xiang (translated: cow path) and the mailbox covered wall (above). Getting lost has advantages.

originally published: November 26, 2007

For the absent Mrs. Stevo. Only a few more weeks…

I was finally able to buy some flowers to shoot. Strobist info: This was done with an “O” flash on-camera, and a YN460 behind, bouncing off a white wall.  Triggered with Phottix Tetra wireless triggers.

Chinese students run home from school on a Friday afternoon.

At 4:15 on a Friday afternoon Chinese students are like their international counterparts:  They charge head-long into the freedom the weekend has to offer.

Joe (front and center-right) was a student of mine when he was in Grade 3. He’s much bigger now. As a Grade 6 student he will write the middle school entrance exams in a few months, a lot of pressure for for an 11-year-old. He and his mates are running towards Momo Bar, a coffee and milk tea stand in an area we refer to as The Promenade.  An iced-tea, sunshine and a camera, are a good way to whittle away the remaining hours of the work week.

Caught up in my own little reality, I forgot that November 11 was Remembrance Day in Canada. The day commemorates the end of The Great War, and is used to remember Canada’s men and women that died serving their country in times of war or as part of peacekeeping operations. At 11 am, two minutes of silence are observed to commemorate those that made the ultimate sacrifice.

When I was a reporter I spent time with veterans, at the cenotaphs as they remembered their fallen comrades. Listening to The Last Post played on the bagpipes while standing under overcast skies on a cold November morning has the power to gut you. It’s haunting and visceral: Melodic sorrow that cuts right to the bone.

I was perusing the images of Randall J. van der Woning, who has has photographically documented many of the Hong Kong battlefields of World War II. On seeing his work, I realized I had forgotten Remembrance Day, something I once told myself I would never do.

Two hundred and ninety Canadians, ill-equipped and trained, their ranks marred with illness, died in December 1942, attempting to defend Hong Kong from the Japanese (a further 254 died while PoWs). The Battle of Hong Kong saw the first Canadians to fight and die in World War II. Most are buried the Sai Wan War Cemetery in Chai Wan, on Hong Kong Island.

The quote on the monument is from Ecclesiasticus: Their name liveth for evermore. Their names still live – the Sai Wan War Cemetery isn’t a place many people visit, but the visitors book lists a name or two for each day. Visitors have to be determined, the cemetery is up a twisted mountain road, accessible by minibus or foot (if you are a semi-crazy former journalist.)

As long as there are visitors, as long as someone remembers, Their name liveth for evermore.