The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 17.

The Long Way Home.

While attempting to revive my soggy head under a hot shower the next morning, I had drawn a few conclusions. That not all the film had been exposed to light. And that it was not my fucking fault Duncan had not done the sensible thing and invested in a light tent. He'd shot some 35mm film. That definitely was not fogged, and anyway shooting a boat on water with 4x5 film seemed to me like overkill. We were on a flight back to London after lunch, in less than 24 hours I would know my destiny. Dead or alive. Worst case scenario I concluded is I would be out of a job.

I sat down to the breakfast table. Lara and Duncan looked disheveled. I presumed they had been up all night. They hadn’t been dating long. Duncan had his right hand cupped around a black coffee with a camel filter smoldering in his left. Between him and Lara lay some 5x4 colour polaroids of the previous day’s shoot.

“All ok Rick”, he shot me a question that cut to the bone, and followed it up with a look that I had seen before. A quizzical, probing stare that his clear green blue eyes made all the more unsettling. It was the furrowed brow and the way his nostrils would flare as he exhaled smoke that was the coup de grace in exacting absolute collateral panic. I almost blurted out “no Dunc all is not fucking ok at all” but caught myself before my thoughts could register in my eyes and give the game away. “Yes brilliant” I lied.

Lara wobbled in her chair, sucked on her Virginia slim, blew smoke all over the table and then in her posh aristocratic accent said, “Rick, Duncs decided to take a leisurely drive back to Madrid. We’re going to hire a car and shoot some personal pics for a week. Isn’t that soooooch fabulous news Reeeeck"!

Duncan took a swig of coffee, rocked back on his chair and then cracked up with laughter. I think he must have found something highly amusing about the expression on my face. A look he had interpreted as ‘oh no, you gotta be kidding me, you mean I have to hang out with you two love birds for another 7 days’.

Seven fucking days. What I had just heard sank in and I suddenly needed to excuse myself, dash to the toilet, and throw up.

We set off that afternoon on Dunc’s picture outing, heading towards a place I didn’t know much about and didn’t care much about either. I just wanted to slide into a coma or even better, die.

After what seemed like an eternity we arrived back in London, and the following day I was asked to be in the studio early to prep the film for Duncan to take to the lab. He was very hands on, and preferred to be close to the processing himself. My job after he had left us both back at the house, was to unpack and clean the gear.

Lara flaked out on the couch to wait for Duncs news on the film. She would be the first person he would call. They had a habit of talking about new images excitedly and bestowing them with a sort of sexual reverence. Adjectives like ‘orgasmic’ or phrases like ‘fuck me, get into that’ used very liberally. Meanwhile in the equipment room next door, out of sight of Lara, I felt faint and wanted to flake out too. With every passing minute I was feeling increasingly unwell. After seven days of anxiety and worry, I had reached my limit of mental anguish and just wanted a release. I wanted the waiting to be over.

There was a clap of thunder, the sound of rain and then the telephone rang. I froze. I heard Lara roll off the couch, light a cig, walk a few steps and then flop on the floor. She lifted the receiver. The ringing stopped. “Duncan Sim studio” Lara blurted out. Then there was silence. And more silence. She was listening. And listening. And listening. And I almost broke cover to begin screaming the house down. She slammed down the phone.

“Hey Rick, Dunc says the film is fucking amazing” !!

The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking Part 18.

The Road Runner. (Part 1)

Early 1988, Michael Ash, Duncan’s New York agent got him a champion job. It was for Champion spark plugs. The agency wanted a ‘diner in the desert’ sort of vibe, could we say with a hint of Norman Rockwell. You know the diner all lit up, some hint of folks inside bathed in sodium, and out front a couple of classic cars. Say a Buick, or a Desoto. Splashed by a peach sunset. They wanted the Sim mood, oozing Americana. Mood and Americana was Duncan’s forte. Nobody did it better. Except maybe John Claridge, but Duncan would have disagreed.

After a lot of yankee talk with Mr Ash, Duncan’s next job was to hunt down a US based location scout, to find that ‘diner in the desert’. He signed up a certain Larry Selmes. Larry was briefed. We packed. Or rather I did, and within a week we were all aboard a Pan Am 747 bound for New York. We all chose smoking seats and lolled about at the back sucking on fags, swilling Budweiser. It felt like rock and roll!

This was my first trip to America and I was excited. I thought Dunc was the right person to introduce me to the States. While he wasn’t into all the cowboy and red neck nonsense he did borrow elements of dress from the rawhide brigade. He loved his bolo ties, and leather boots. And he was never in anything else but denim. Usually faded black! Add the incessant Camel smoking and his habit of quoting lines from Jack Kerouac’s ‘on the road’, he was closest thing to a beatnik as I was ever going to get. America with him would be an adventure.

JFK was not the best introduction to the States. Our connecting flight to Phoenix meant clearing his mountain of gear through customs. Confronted by Michelin-man sized arrivals hall attendants, when I asked one in blue where to get some trollies, he drawled, “over there, yoo gotta have some dimes”. “But I don’t have any dimes", I retorted, "I’ve just got off a flight from London and I’m in transit”! “Ya gotta go down to the buroooo da change, 3 floors down” he said with his sloppy mouth.

Now I gotta make point of mentioning Duncan didn’t travel light. While Lara would ensure he got his large Filofax aboard, the rest was pretty much up to me!

On this particular trip the customs carnet was almost 3 pages long and included; his piece de resistance, a beautiful dark rosewood 4x5 deardorff plate camera. A flight case with 8 Schneider lenses, ranging from a 65mm through to a stonking 300mm. Then there was the Nikons embedded in another large flight case. Two F2’s with motor-drives and an array of lenses, his favourite 20mmm through to the 500mm mirror. A lens he learned to love while assisting the legendary John Claridge.

Duncan liked shooting film. He carried a minimum of 100 dark slides and maybe 1000 sheets of 4x5 film, added to that another 100 rolls of 35mm film. Boxes and boxes of the stuff. Making sure the x-ray machines didn’t fry it all was one of the many less appealing duties.

He adored his filters and we had one giant domke bag that included a custom made mattbox and a plethora of diffusions, enhancers, polarizers, fogs, nets, colour correction, neutral densities, plum grads, peach grads, violet grads you named it, Dunc had a grad for it. There was also his giant gitzo tripod and for reasons that were beyond me he usually lugged two industrial foggers around the world with him. He liked smoking stuff up.

Larry was waiting for us at PHX. He was standing at the arrivals meet n greet section, wearing a crumpled brown suit and dog eared looking hush puppies. He was clutching a newspaper and when he saw the Duncan Sim road show emerge though the melee of people, he waved the newspaper at us. He had a very wide face, and a mouth that reminded me of a letter box slot, above which sprouted a bushy mustache.

He looked rather startled by the amount of equipment we were carrying. I have absolutely no memory of how we got it all into his car, but I do remember Larry’s rather beat looking Valiant. Tan coloured. Perfect I thought, given how dusty Arizona was.

Only when we had cleared the airport and were heading to our pre-booked Best Western Hotel, did I finally wake up to the fact that I was in America. Big cars, big people, and big signs. Signs everywhere. There seemed to be a Dunkin Donuts or Wendy’s down every 300 yards of highway. Larry chatted away, rattling of pleasantries, glancing back at Duncan and Lara who were nodding off in the back. He told us he would be at the hotel first thing in the morning with all the recce pictures he’d taken. He’d found some amazing locations he boasted. Once at the hotel he said, “get some sleep” and waved goodnight.

After a lousy sleep deprived night, I was at the breakfast table first. Larry arrived shortly after. He had a great big bundle of bulging envelops and dumped them onto the table. Duncan and Lara sauntered in, and I deduced they were suffering the effects of jet lag too. I thought we all looked rather shagged, except Larry. He was very perky indeed. While he began to unfurl the envelopes we took solace in great Yankee beakers of piping hot bottomless coffee. He handed the first stack to Duncan.

Duncan sucked on his camel and began flicking through the fan of prints in his hand. His expression was blank.

“Next” he said in a voice which had a gravely resonance. Larry passed him another deck. The big D drew another heavy toke on his cigarette and began thumbing through them, but instead of retaining the integrity of the pack he peeled each one off and threw it over his shoulder. I glanced at Larry. As Duncan continued to flick cards around the room, I watched Larry’s face drain of blood. Duncan nonchalantly, without either an expression of ire or mirth, calmly catapulted prints to all points of the compass.

Larry sort of gurgled out a question? “Hmm so you don’t think I have found what you were looking for?”.

Duncan said nothing at first. His eyes retreated under a deep furrowed brow. His nostrils flared and with the streams of smoke that billowed from them, he reminded me of an angry bull. “No we haven’t found what we are looking for”, he said finally, and took a long slug of coffee.

“My suggestion therefore”, he continued, “is this. We go looking, and we keep looking until we have found we are looking for. We go and find that damned diner in the desert”.

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 19

The Road Runner (Part 2).

We left Phoneix for Flagstaff the next morning, in two cars, Larry and I as recce team 1. Dunc and Lara, recce team 2. We headed for the snow covered high ground, that comprised the Coconino National Forest. I recall been blown away by the severe change of landscape that America offered. From the flat dry saguaro cactus clad desert landscapes that surrounded Phoenix, within less than 100 miles we were up in the clutches of massive snow covered granite mountains. The air well below frigid and the roads so thickly covered in great banks of snow, that ploughs were hard at work clearing the stuff. All the while Larry seemed reasonably relaxed. He was chatty, and very American I thought. He told me about his rather troubled past, but very soon I had decided I liked him a lot. I think we both felt relieved to have Lara and Duncan in another car. We could relax a little.

From Flagstaff we drove west along highway 40 which comprised part of the old route 66. Back down into the stark Arizona desert landscapes and it felt bloody marvelous to be travelling this famed bit of tarmacadam in a beat up Valiant with a tubby gregarious American as company. I remember the Wendy’s ketchup dribbled down his front, splashed across a shirt that missed a few buttons, his hairy pot belly threatening to burst out from beneath the crumpled jacket. His thick black hair blowing in the open window, and his words been drowned out by the sound of the noisy V8 motor. With our discarded burger boxes, paper coffee and soda cups piled around us I thought this was all so ‘on the road’ Americana.

At the end of a long hot afternoon we called it a day in Kingman.

Over dinner sat in a classic American diner, replete with shiny red upholstery seats, and a waitress in apron, checkered dress, white collar and a little hat, who chewed gum and refilled our bottomless coffee cups, Duncan announced, “right tomorrow we’re going to split up. You and Larry take the road to LA, Lara and I will head for Vagas. And we’ll rendezvous back here in 2 days.

The following day our luck changed. Substantially! Larry and I, somewhere on the old route 66 between Bagdad and Siberia cleared the brow of a long incline and as we rolled over and into the decline, something up ahead on the left caught both our attention, almost simultaneously.

I can still remember Larry’s broad grin and the whoop he gave as the sign up above snapped into focus. Road Runner Diner. What we had found was beyond our wildest dreams. It was a diner in the desert alright. Tumble weed blew across the empty car park as we stopped adding the cinematic signature ruse for abandonment. It was the embodiment of what we were looking for. Looking like it had been closed for some time. all it needed was a good dusting off and that sign lighting up. Duncan we decided would be over the moon with joy.

Back at Kingman we developed the pics we had taken, and waited for Duncan and Lara to return. Sure enough, this time Duncan didn’t chuck any of the prints over his shoulder. Instead he gave out a giddy laugh and acknowledged they had found nothing, and we had found something beyond his wildest dreams. Larry got his redemption and a big bear hug from Duncan.

Hollywood special effects guys came up from LA to rewire the signage and refurbish, repaint. The classic cars arrived on a trailer. The agency AD’s arrived. Shoot day dawned. Final preparations were carried out. Duncan worked out his plate camera angles. The models took their stations. And then we waited for dusk. The Arizona sky went electric. The Road Runner sign glowed in front of Duncan’s Deardorff and Schneider glass. Lenses heavily diffused with his signature filters. The Desoto and Buick headlights were turned on for optimum effect. The whole scene looked bloody amazing. And the art director cooed with every colour 4x5 polaroid Duncan pulled. 50 sheets of film later and Duncan was calling it a wrap.

I still have one of the colour polaroids from this day, and I still love looking at it. Wonderful memories indeed.

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 20.

Tobacco you can taste in a Force 10. SHOOTING WITH DUNCAN Duncan Sim

This is a rather long story. It’s my attempt at creative memoir writing, or rather an entertaining personal take of an event that I’ve entertained many of my photo assistants verbally over the years, but never written about it. Yes an event I was privy to, working for one of the most celebrated photographers of his age, Duncan Sim, as he shot one of the most celebrated advertising campaigns of the times. Namely Van Nelle ‘Tobacco you can taste in a Force 10”. Dunc I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am going to enjoy writing it ☺ and remember while its largely based on a true story, I might be inclined to prefabricate some of the finer details…just for entertainments sake. Here goes reliving a journey that by all accounts must rate as one of the craziest and memorable trips of my life ☺

Here goes…..

I remember the day well. It was an unusually idle one at the Duncan Sim studio, due in part to the stifling heat. We were in the grip of a rare London heat wave and the muggy air, sweetened by copious quanties of vehicle emissions was wafting in through the wide open sash lounge window of Mr Sim’s South Kensington semi. It was the summer of 1988.

Strewn across the large living room floor, was an assortment of unwashed coffee cups, two filo faxes, one his, one hers, a green & grey hefty BT telecom phone, a fax machine, a couple of Nikon primes and a classic Nikon F2 titanium body with a 500mm mirror lens attached. A number of ashtrays over flowing with cigarette stubs complimented perfectly the ash grey daubs and intermittent orange stub burns that dotted the cream plush pile carpet. Sprawled across the couch to one side of the room, was Lady Lara, smoking a drum rollie, flicking her ash and flicking through a Cosmo, while opposite on a single seater was Duncan. He sat massaging his temple with his left hand, (as he was prone to do) head down, deep in thought while pulling heavily on more loosely rolled drum baccy. The room was imbued with a bluish bohemian haze. We were just back from shooting a campaign in the USA, Dunc and his girlfriend Lara were in a very laxadasical mood indeed.

Then the fax machine buzzed into life!!!!

I dutifully crossed the room to wait until the transmission had ended. What emerged from the little teleprinter was a line of grainy pictures of North Atlantic fishermen in sowesters on boats, riding storm thrashed seas…water sloshing across boughs, and at the bottom of the page a hand written scribble, “Tobacco you can taste in a force 10” campaign. Can you shoot it? Creative Director. TBWA Amsterdam.

I handed Dunc the long ream of paper. He studied it for approx 25 seconds, motionless and then like a startled goliath (he had the physique and presence of a grizzly bear) leapt out of his chair, grabbed the phone, punched some numbers, and asked for a name I cant remember!!!

From that point on the solitude ended and the madness began!

At the end of the rather long international call, he chuckled and told me to get packing. We were going to Holland. The agency wanted him to shoot in his distinctive moody style a series of compelling colour images of fishermen on boats, in storms, getting very wet and cold and toking on Van Nelle rolling tobacco, (the direct competition to more universally know Drum, of which Dunc, Lara and myself were loyal patrons).

The dilemma Duncan was having with the agency was they wanted this shooting on the Zuider Zee in Holland in mid Summer, and he quite rightly thought this a ludicrous idea stating his case that the only place for force 10 in July was the South Atlantic. Chile, South Africa or New Zealand. Initially the agency got their way, he agreed on us going to Holland, but I knew Dunc been Dunc, had bigger plans and would wait for his moment to unleash PLAN B.

I have to mention that a few weeks before Lady Lara, Duncan and I boarded our flight to Schipol, he in his infinite wisdom and foresight had a top London camera technician design and build a rain deflector contraption. Basically a hexagonal frame enclosing a spinning clear resin screen, powered by batteries, his Nikon F2 butted up against the sealed aperture on two rails with a waterproof cape that once over his head and acting like a ships bridge window, was his first line of defense against highly corrosive and destructive sea spray. Cameras and salt water go together like errr hummm oil and water! He knew too the quality of the imagery was reliant on the camera lenses remaining rain water and salt residue free.

As part of the testing procedure I was ordered to throw a bucket of water as hard as I could at him, cape and camera. Feeling rather queezy since I knew if this experiment backfired I would be the first to take the brunt of Dunc’s disappointment. And I must reiterate. Duncan was a very large and intimidating human being! Barrel chested with Garry Glitter levels of chest hair, replete with a long main of disheveled head hair that got combed every so often, deep set piercing blue eyes, a large furrowed brow, and to cap it all a deep baritone voice which when giving orders or venting rage made the very earth shake. Yes Dunc scared the living _ _ _ _ out of me!

Dry mouthed I did as ordered, and to all of our amazement, the water just atomized off the screen! Wow. The test shots revealed perfect pictures, not a smear or blob of water on any of the Fujichrome frames.

So a few days later with 4 Nikon F2 cameras, a plethora of lenses, packed in two aluminium flight cases, a duffel bag load of Tiffen movie filters, 300 rolls of Fujichrome and the most cherished rain deflector in its very own brand spanking and glittering steel flight case, 5 suitcases of clothes (1 mine, 1 Duncan’s and 3 Lara’s) ☺ loaded aboard the plane we took off from London Heathrow for Amsterdam Schipol airport.

Our first port of call the was the agency to have a production meeting, to discuss the shoot, collect our 100 pouches of “product”, (we were all toking on Van Nelle for the next 6 weeks ) and 2 cartons of an anti seasickness drug called Scopaderm. A ‘behind the ear’ plastic patch that came with a 15 column list of side effects. The most noticeable been, it made us all so stoned and squiffy eyed that we didn’t actually care if we got sea sick or not. We just puked overboard as and when we felt the urge and giggled deliriously.

The puking began however only after we left Holland, for the sea for now was as flat as a millpond. Yes there in the torpid mid July Dutch summer heat we floated on the Zuider Zee, aboard a gorgeous old wooden trading barge, smoked lots of reefer, toked on pouch loads of Van Nelle, and got seriously sun burned. With not a cloud in the sky, not a ripple on the water, by all accounts we were having a wonderful holiday at the expense of TBWA Amsterdam. But by day 4 Duncan’s love for reefer and swimming was waning and I sensed a storm brewing….not around us but inside Dunc’s head. He was not by nature a lay about!!!!

When he finally called the agency from a seaside phone booth he chose his words carefully and succinctly. I remember them well. Duncan: “you are wasting my fucking time and your fucking money”. Art Director. Silence. Duncan: “We need to go to New Zealand and we need to go now”. Art Director. Very long silence. Art Director. “well we can’t send an agency rep with you”. Duncan. “That’s fine. I’ll take a producer and we go it alone”. Art Director. Silence. Silence. More silence. Art Director. “OK you have the go ahead”.

Dunc put the phone on the cradle. “New Zealand here we go” he exclaimed and beamed!!

We met our producer flown in from London the next day at the agency. Duncan reassured the very nervous agency crew we would shoot an award winning campaign without their help!! They produced a shiny black briefcase, and when opened was stuffed with 100 dollar bills. David then dutifully transferred the money into his well thumbed brown case. He was charged with the unenviable task of keeping Duncan in check with regards to how and how quickly the production budget was spent. The TBWA Creative director shook our hands, and wished us luck with a very pained and nervous look in his eyes. The agency would not be seeing one single image until we returned. Whenever that was to be!!! The four of us then proceeded to head for Schipol airport and the long haul, courtesy of TWA to LAX and Air New Zealand to Auckland.

Duncan dressed in his usual big brass buckle denims, pointed cowboy boots and Texan style outdoorsman shirt, Lara in knee high leather boots and twiggy mini (she had the same model-esque skinny frame, and Kate Moss looks and intensity), David the producer in green Burberry parker and worn briefcase, and I dressed in Oxfam hand me downs (Dunc’s assistant wages were marginal to say the least ☺) we must have looked like a renegade pop group staking out our smoking seats at the back of the 747. Yes in those days smoking on board was a God given right, and we were all intent on puffing our way through a few more pouches of Van Nelle, all the while supping free beers and flicking ash on the carpet…..We got drunk on buds, high on scopoderm and giggled our way across the USA and the Pacific Ocean.

We arrived very bleary eyed to drizzle in the NZ capital. The signs were good. Rain. Bad weather! Perfect. Our next leg was a flight further south to Invercargill. A one-horse town imbued with a very wind blown appearance and host to drunken Maori harbor hands and craggy whiskey swilling oyster fishermen. Across the grey choppy waters was Stewart Island, the 50km wide channel, separating the two islands was Favaux straight, regarded by many a mariner as one of the most dangerous stretches of bad ass waters in the world. Duncan had brought us all the way to Hell’s Teeth. He was giddy with excitement. Laura cuddled up to him and cooed like a pussycat, David looked worried and I was positively smitten with fear. If any of the cameras or rain deflector failed, I’d would be getting my ass kicked.

We hunkered down in a bland 3 bedroom family house that smelled dank and looked unloved (owners gone north to find work). Now all we had to do was wait for a force 10, find fishermen willing to risk their boats and head to sea in a force 10, and most importantly find a helicopter pilot willing to fly us at less than wave height, backwards, into the wind and rain with doors open so Dunc could sit sheltered just inside the doorway with one foot on the skids shooting with his rain defector armed Nikons, all the while in a force 10.

We heard of a big storm brewing far off the coast and hurriedly recruited our bad ass subjects offering crates of whiskey in exchange for boats and bravery.

Then we found chopper pilot Bill Black. His forte was swilling Jack Daniels, puffing cheroots (while flying) and regarded by many in New Zeland to be the best pilot money could buy. A veteran of Vietnam he had further honed his flying skills air lifting carcasses out of deep ravines and dangerous crevasses during the massive deer culling operations endorsed by the government in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. What he didn’t know about flying was not worth knowing we were told. And he looked positively happy when asked if he could take us flying in a force 10.

Alas came our first 10. Abruptly. Aggressively. Forcefully. The seas swelled to 8 meter troughs. The sky blackened to the colour of jet, rain lashed the gunwales, and wind tore at our faces. We decided to try some onboard boat shooting first. Our small oyster boat with cramped bridge and slippery decks was no refuge for landlubbers like us. Before boarding I slapped on three extra scopoderms, trebled my hallucination capabilities, all the while taking safety harnesses, Duncs camera cases and rain deflector onto the rocking pitching tub of a boat.

Beyond the protection of the harbour wall the sea became remarkably rougher. Duncan and I stepped out of the relative comfort of the cramped captains bridge into a raging gale and lunging foredeck. Dunc clipped himself to some part of the anchor winch, and then wrestled with the deflector cape. Once ensconced inside he asked for his first camera. I loaded an F2, with film and then began to wretch. I passed the camera. Wretched again. Dunc began shooting and his concentration on getting the shot kept his mind of our circumstances and puke inducing roller coaster ride. I on the other hand charged with reloading cameras, marking rolls, trying to keep equipment dry head down and trying to balance and load, just puked in ever increasing frequency. Our sailor subject hung onto a buoy chain and feigned winching duties as gallons of salt water crashed all around him. Dunc got into his stride and bagged some great first shots.

The weather calmed, the sun came out, and Duncan and Lara decided to fly to Sydney for a few days to test process the first rolls of film (there were no reliable E6 processing in NZ in those days) and see the first pics. I got a call later from Dunc ecstatic “the pics are FCUK-ing amazing Rick”. He and Laura would hang a few days in Oz. With producer David up in Wellington visiting relatives, I had a few days reprieve to rest, clean and maintain gear, and fret about what lay ahead.

Next came the flying pontoon saga. Dunc and Lara wanted to shoot a racing yacht at full tilt, and so an idea was hatched that he would be strapped to the rear right bough of the double-hulled rubber duck while we chased and revved the Southern Oceans racer up and down the south island. Now under cape, tied bondage style to the rubber rear, incarcerated such that so he could not actually move, I envisaged a dunking of Dunc about to take place.

Dutifully I kneeled in the tossing and jostling pontoon, loaded cameras, passed them to him under his cape, and all the while he clicked away, I threw up!!!!

Then the pontoon skipper braked. He had to. We almost ran up and onto the deck of the speeding yacht, chasing in close proximity, at high speeds, with a sudden water surge pushing us dangerously close. Inertia upon slowing abruptly dunked the heavy twin 80 horsepower motors, and yes dunked Dunc with them. He was swallowed up in a great tide of incoming blue black Favauz straight sea water. I could hear loud expletives gurgling out of him as the water drained off. With his F2 camera waterlogged and his film ruined he was unbound and enraged. Back at the hotel, he cooked up an idea to attempt to dry out his cameras in the hotel oven. And at the end of it we had one cooked Nikon that was well errr hummm baked & destined for the O file. Or bin as its called in England. 1 Nikon down and 3 to go. Duncan consoled himself by rolling the biggest Van Nelle doubie he could muster.

Then came the chopper saga. Dunc requested he be winched out of a double door huey down towards if my memory serves me correctly a boat on the water. I think he envisaged some sort of flying superman stunt. I had a feeling something bad was going to happen. The entire team hitched a ride, for Huey’s are great fun. Lara sat upfront with the pilots. David sat rear clutching his briefcase. I kneeled mid cabin, loading cameras, while Duncan buckled into his safety harness and clamped himself to the side of the chopper. I handed him his Nikon F2, with his favourite 20mm lens and lens matt box with a Tiffen polarizer and two neutral density grad filters slotted affront. An expensive collection of specialized glass add-ons. He then disappeared overboard into the rotor wash and down out of sight. I prepped his second camera. Moments later I heard his roar!!!! A roar so loud that it momentarily drowned out the heavy beating and thump of the huey blades.

Seconds later his hair emerged doing a frenetic dance in the motor wash. Then a furrowed brow, followed by glazed and maddened eyes, and a wide open mouth, tinged with saliva and foaming words that could be discerned over the din, and interpreted very clearly as “you fucking prick I’m gonna.........."

I almost blacked out as I saw his hand arise with his Nikon gripped between large clenched fingers, the neck strap loosely flapping above his head. Christ! One strap cleat had come lose, and had he not been holding the camera at the time it would have gone tumbling down into the Pacific Ocean. His rage was such that I was convinced he was going to grab me by the scruff of my neck, drag me out of the door to greet him. And then..........let go!!!!

Alas, Dunc sucked on a Van Nelle, and eventually calmed down. The show had to go on, and with one drowned assistant, who was going to make cups of coffee, and ham sandwiches? Certsinly rated as the most awful moment of my entire assisting tenure I continue to contemplate today how that cleat could have come lose.

Meanwhile in forgiveness of one misdemeanor we commenced to criss-cross the islands of New Zealand for a further 2 weeks. Chasing storms, contour flying terrain and scaring sheep, all the while our voices getting courser as the effect of chain smoking Van Nelle took its toll. Our dependence and addiction to Scopoderm blossomed, we got cold, wet, and increased our intake of hearty Kiwi clam chowder and scotch. I had heart palpitations, Dunc was down to just 2 Nikons. David missed England. Lara was showing signs of a Van Nelle’s overdose too. Her voice a few octaves lower, her once English rose pale slender fingers tinged a lurid orange. But hell the pictures just got better and better…and I post a few here. Yes Dunc’s campaign won numerous awards. It was a trip I will never forget.

Ends.

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 21

A Burnt out Case

By late 1988, I looked and felt like Duncan’s previous assistant Neil. Rather undernourished, frazzled, worn out. To borrow from the title of one of my favourite Graham Greene books, I was a burnt out case!

Working with Duncan had taught me a lot, and I would say that while we all have a different way of viewing the world, and therefore develop our own way of shooting, it was Duncan’s attitude, his intensity of character, the way he always pushed through to another level of production. Ultimately he strived for images that grabbed you by the balls, and that ethos he whacked into me. I still carry the echoes of his gravely voiced mantras about with me today. But by late ’88 I wanted to step out from under his heavy presence and go do my own thing. At least go do some traveling of my own.

For the last three months of 1988 and first three months of 1989 I assisted my former boss Kelvin Murray, who by now had left Tony and was a successful photographer in his own right. I took a short trip back home to South Africa for Xmas to see my family after a four year absence, and by March I was ready to set off for the Far East.

I had decided it was time to abscond from dreary London and go have an adventure. A big adventure. One with no set time frame. I had poured over maps of the world, and while my end goal was to visit a South African friend, Jeremy Pearce, who lived permanently in Hong Kong, I was considering Nepal, India, Thailand. Then one day I read about red steam locomotives that worked the sugar cane plantations of Negros Island in the Philippines. The more I read about this nation archipelago of some 10,000 islands the more it fascinated me. It was regarded certainly in those days as ‘off the beaten track’.

Yes the ‘Plips’ I thought as I sat in my rather gloomy bedroom, in a council flat in Stepney Green. A rather drab place I shared with Eric Paul A Lawson, a school chum from my previous life back in England before we emigrated to South Africa. Eric and I had been to Christ Church primary school together. As I sat and gazed through my rain splashed bedroom window, out into the dim half light of a February morning, I imagined the brilliant red loco’s chugging about in verdant green sugar cane fields, dark scrawny Filipino fork hands working the stacks of hewn cane, under a deep blue tropical sky. After lunch I headed into central London to buy my ticket to Manila.

That afternoon while taking a leisurely wander along the South Bank I witnessed something that to my mind signaled the end. The end of England as a place of abode. A sort of grim omen that my life had to play out in sunnier climes.

As I drew up parallel with the Royal Festival hall, I noticed an Indian man probably in his late 50’s casually stroll across the mud towards the river Thames. The day was dark, cold, grey, miserable. He waded into the freezing oily water. I stopped to watch him. I thought it mighty strange he was going paddling on a day like it was that day.

The next moment he was waist deep. And then he just dunked himself down into the water. And never resurfaced. I stood there numbed by what I had just witnessed. This man, incognito, knowing the strong currents of the river, had vanished. Silently. Sucked down into raw black oblivion. As I gazed at the slow undulating waters, and watched the traffic trundle along the opposite bank there was no hint of what had happened. Life just carried on as usual in the big grim! Myself prone to bouts of melancholy, and one who had grown up under an African sun, I realized then there was no future for me in England. That the weather would kill me too.

A week later, on another wet dark Tuesday morning, I rode the Jubilee line with my purple backpack strapped on, heading for Heathrow. I observed the commuters around me, dressed in damp black anoraks, their heads buried in a newspaper, and the same sense of elation I had felt flying out of England to South Africa in 1975 swept over me. A giddy relief that this was not my reality, the lousy London commute. I was heading for sunnier climes. For big adventures. I was heading to the tropics. And I probably would not be coming back. Certainly not to live here ever again.
 

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 23.

Coconut Trees & The journey to Matabas

Sitting in the obligatory window seat of the ATR turbo-prop, I had the quintessential view of emerald green islands dotted about in azure blue seas. I thought. I’m floating through Tropicana.

With the sound of the turbo prop I imagined Iwo Gima, and the battle of Guadacanal. I conjoured up images of Japanese Zero’s doing barrel rolls out of the sun. I thought about a postage stamp that my Grandma had in her collection that depicted the bust of a beautiful dusky tropical maiden, with an orchid set in her glistening black hair, set against a tropical sky and coconut trees. Ah coconut trees. There would be more of those where I was going. As we bobbed and bounced through clumps of tropical cloud I thought about the coconut trees I had seen along Manila bay. My first ever encounter with coconut trees. An important milestone in my life. Yip. A date with coconut trees. I saw them as an effigy to the good life. A symbol that life was sweet and warm and a fucking long way away from cold miserable England. And as we clipped the tops of coconut trees on our final approach into Bacolod city airport I thought, ‘welcome to Coconutville’.

Bacolod felt provincial after Manila. It was provincial. It was a bunch of streets surrounded by sugar cane fields and yes, coconut trees. I found a cheap pensione with a rooftop bar that looked across the piazza to a Spanish built church. It was where I sat at dusk, sucked on very chilled San Migules and watched the fruit bats flutter around the sugar palms. It was at the rooftop bar that I met Eric and Danny. Two fellas that sauntered over and introduced themselves. I told them I was looking for Red Steam locomotives. They informed me many of them had been decommissioned. Scrapped for a better word. I remember feeling a bit crestfallen upon hearing the news. I mentioned to them I had read about the practice of using dynamite to catch fish, an article that had caught my attention in the Bacolod Gazette. They mentioned Matabas island and that the inhabitants used dynamite. I asked if they could take me there. They said yes. I asked how much for their leadership. They said 100 pesos each. I said, “OK, let’s go”!

The next day we were at Bacolod bus station and aboard a 1960’s classic Mitsubishi, replete with open windows and wooden floor boards, the kind that are still the regular commute in Bangkok. In the Thai capital it would be golden Buddhas swinging from the driver’s rear view mirror, but in the Philippines it was Mother Mary. After a pleasant two-hour drive along winding country roads, rimmed by fields of sugar cane, we came to another provincial town. Smaller than Bacolod. 4 streets and a church. Here we flagged down three motorcycle trishaws. This time we set off along muddy roads that cut through the sugar cane. Breezes rustled the cane, and the sharp fronds made a cracking sound as the wind whipped into them. The sun beat down. I was enjoying the journey into the unknown. By late afternoon we had arrived at a small coastal town called Vito. Two streets and a church. The locals were very curious. It seemed they hadn’t seen any white folks in this neck of the coconut trees.

Eric negotiated our sea passage. It was aboard what is called a Banca in the Philippines. A boat with an oversized canoe shaped hull, supported with outriggers. The bamboo trestle system used left and right of the bough on the bigger craft or just on one side for a single person banca. The horizontal bamboo poles acted as buoyancy stabilizers skipping on the water as the boat rocked from side to side. Eric told me we would be departing for Matabas after dark.

Vito was the staging point for many of the outlying islands it seemed. There was a jetty lined with bancas stretching out into what could only be described as picture postcard crystal clear waters. I thought. ‘Bloody ‘ell. This really is Tropicana! I felt like Robinson Crusoe about to head off to his own version of ‘marooned on a desert island’.

They loaded lit oil lamps onto the banca, and other supplies. There were two other folks joining us, so I guessed this was sort of a scheduled departure. An inter-island commute. It beat the rain plastered 159 red routemaster from West Hampstead to Oxford street any day!

We chugged away under power from the big truck engine outboard welded to the back of the boat. The couple on board stared at me. I smiled back at them. Eric and Danny dozed off stretched across aft deck plates. The oil lamps were doused to encourage us all to sleep I guessed. I turned my attention to the star studded night. Before long the lights of Veto were distant, star-like, twinkling on the horizon. I watched enchanted as bioluminescent plankton flashed in the water as our boat jiggled forwards. This magical stuff, called sea sparkle, gave me a sense of just how clear the water was, for I could see pricks of light deep down. It reminded me of stars suspended in space. I dipped my hand over board and it was like holding sparklers on bonfire night. There was no toffee but the air smelled sweet. I felt suspended between the glittery heavens above and glittery depths below. ‘Dreams are made of this’ I thought.

Approximately 2 hours later I noticed a few distant lights ahead. I wasn’t sure if it was land or a boat. I was aware of movement behind me. Eric came over and told me we were closing in on Matabas. By this time the moon had risen and I could then begin to make out shapes on the horizon. Blobs of black lying flat against a pale, translucent undulating sea. As we closed in on the islands, I was aware that the sea floor was not far below us. The water was gin clear. I could see the coral beds in the moonlight. This was paradise found.

We simply ran aground on pearly white sand. I remember the bark of dogs. It must have been about 10pm. Set back behind the sand was a row of houses partly concealed by breadfruit trees. Breeze block, wood and tin structures. The couple stayed onboard. The boat was going on to another island.

Eric, Danny and myself walked the soft sand up to a blue door. The island was asleep. Danny knocked. There was a cough. I heard a child’s voice. Then the front door opened. A man in his late 50’s craggy looking and greying at the temples but possessing a kind welcoming face, smiled and beckoned us inside.

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 24.

Matabas. An introduction to Paradise.

I was first introduced to More Alegre, pronounced Moray Alegray. Then to his wife Inday who emerged from behind a door cut into a wood veneer partition with 8 of his 10 children. They all stepped down from the adjoining room that I later noticed stood on stilts. The whites of their eyes and brilliant teeth flashed against their sun dark skin in our lamplight. I guessed they slept together on the bamboo lattice floor I could see just ever so faintly in the darkness beyond the door. I had been told on the boat ride out by Eric that More had lost one child at birth and had two older sons living on the island, both married.

The welcome I received from the family was timid. I don’t think they knew how to react to this strange, tall, pink person standing before them barefoot with ginger facial hair and wispy golden stuff atop a beetroot red face. The youngest boy looked positively terrified. It was obvious to me that they hadn’t had someone as ‘weird’ looking as I in their midst. Ever.

Eric introduce me to each of them by name. Then three mats were thrown on the floor. It was bed time. I had brought an old army surplus store sleeping bag, designed for European winters, useless in the tropics, other than to be used as a portable mattress. I curled up on the bag, pulled the loose sheet I’d been given over me and fell asleep, to the sound of the sea washing up on the beach just outside the door.

I awoke to cocks crowing and the titter of children’s laughter. I was aware of eyes peeping through the petal shaped holes of the breeze block walls that surrounded me. It seemed word had travelled fast that an alien had arrived on the island. I stood up and the little eyes melted away. The family had slipped out very early I found out, on the water fishing, tending nets that sort of thing. Eric pushed open the front door and I stepped outside onto a path of compressed sand. It was then that I saw the crowd of kids. The entire island of youngsters had waited for my appearance. I thought this was what celebrity felt like!

Eric proceeded to take me around the island. I guessed no larger than 2 hectares. He told me that approximately 30 families lived on Matabas. Most of them sustenance fishermen. The main village was sort of L-shaped along one corner of the island. Nipa huts. Wooden structures with nipa leaf rooves. Where the nipa had been blown off by tropical storms, tin had replaced it. There was a small alter, an alabaster figure of Mother Mary and wooden benches. The village church, in village central. The islanders stopped what they were doing as my entourage strolled by. I waved. They waved back. I saw lots of pointing and the sound of Visayan been spoken. Tugalog was the national language of the Phillipines but in the Visyas, the geographic centre of the island nation, Visayan was the local dialect.

We passed beyond the village, and walked across a basket ball court. An open area of soft sand, with two nets on poles either end. Beyond that we came to a short avenue of coconut trees. While we made our way across the island, I would turn to look at my entourage. As soon as I made eye contact with the line of kids following me, they would giggle and all run off the path and back into the grass. I turned away. I could hear them creep back up behind me again. I whipped around. They shrieked and scarpered. This game went on for the first two or three days. I’d walk about like the Messiah with his line of devout followers. Disciples that ran away whenever Pink Jesus turned to talk with them.

Along the left flank of the island was mangrove and at the opposite end of Matabas, the furthest point from the village was a black rocky headland made of what looked like volcanic rock. And then there was the sea surrounding us. It had the colour of white wine in places, a pale tan hue where it lay shallow across open stretches of sandy areas. It turned light greeny blue over coral beds and where the terrain fell away sharply into deep water, the sea became a rich midnight blue. It was crystal clear. It looked enticing. I wanted a swim.

Back at the house to collect my swimming goggles, I was introduced to each of More’s kids again. Their names for the most have slipped my mind. But there was Dugong, the eldest son, a blast fisherman so more about him later. I remember Johnny his youngest child. Nunoy his 16 yr old boy, More’s regular companion on fishing trips. And I will never forget Maria- Fe Alegre his 15 year old daughter, who much later wrote me a letter after I had departed the island for Hong Kong. The airmail envelope arrived about 3 months into my new life. A few paragraphs written on a pink paper. Words that still choke me up a little. Lovely poetic scribbles that I will share later.

Regardless of their names this fisherman, his wife and 10 kids welcomed me into their world, and it was not long before I felt genuinely part of the family. The community. For they too slowly ingratiated me into their presence. Looking back on this experience, the two months I spent on Matabas, I don’t think there has been or ever will be a space in my life to allow me to equal the experience. It was also before mass tourism and how the digital era has made almost everywhere accessible. Probably by now the islands have tourist boats gate crashing in on them, but in those days I was genuinely a stranger in their midst. Older folks on the islands later told me, white people on these islands before me were US marines during WW2.

At 26 I was wide eyed and bushy tailed and on an open ended adventure. I had all the time in the world with nothing or no one beckoning me to move on. I was there, open to just parking off, and allowing their island existence to rub off on me. There were no phones on the island. News and information just travelled by word of mouth. Usually when the next banca arrived. The community was close. They sang together at night around open fires, the kids played games, made things. How it was before the internet and smart phones came along and fucked it all up! I enjoy delving back into these memories, because as far as I’m concerned they were better times.

I said to Eric. “Right can we go swim”?

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking Part 25.

Deaf & Dynamite

We swam out to some nearby moored bancas. It was midday and the sun was intense. A gaggle of kids stood on the shoreline and watched our progress out into deeper water. I had been given a pair of hand made wood and glass swimming goggles. They fit tightly around my eyes and while rudimentary in design they actually worked well. The clarity of the water was unlike anything I had encountered before. We frolicked about and intermittently climbed into one of the bancas. We lay in the sun, and when almost at boiling point, we just hopped back in the beautiful cool blue waters again.

I took a long deep dive down, to see how far I could go, and just as I resurfaced gasping for air, there was a sharp cracking sound and a shock wave in the water whipped at my legs. It was a sensation similar to been struck by a cane, a memory still vivid from school days. “Dynamite fishermen” Eric said. Thankfully, all of us, our heads above the water line had been spared burst eardrums. I was convinced the pressure shock would have injured us all. I felt both relieved and unnerved about just how lucky we had been. The thought of dealing with bleeding ears and searing pain, in this far flung place didn’t bear thinking about. I shrugged, thanked my guardian angel, the late great WF Dobson, and said to Eric, “we have been spared a lot of pain Eric, do they do this sort of thing regularly’? “Yes” he replied. I thought that was possibly why the kids had not bothered to come in after us. They knew what was going on out there in water that looked idyllic but harboured a menacing presence. Not sharks. But other humans. Eric, Danny and I were city folks and not fully aware of the risks we took. Our little sea outing had taught us a few things, and it was my introduction to the perils of dynamite fishing.

I began to investigate the connection the Matabas community had to blast fishing. Talking to elders I was told it was the left over ordnance and munitions from WW2 that spurned the idea. Far easier to lob a bottle full of dynamite at a shoal of fish that to lay nets and line. Especially in these clear tropical waters. Fish could be seen many meters below the surface. Huge shoals of mackerel and tuna.

The early experiments with powder mixtures and depth charges had devastating consequences. Death and maiming common place. The ingredients slowly evolved to a more readily available chemical. Ammonium nitrate, or common fertilizers, mixed with sawdust was compacted down into 1 litre glass soft drink bottles. By the time I reached Matabas, this was the mainstay arsenal with their war on fish.

The community was divided over it’s use. More Alegre disdained it entirely. He was fully aware of the devastating environmental impact it was having. Destroying coral beds at an alarming rate and with it fish breeding habitats. Catches were declining. He lamented the sorry state of affairs, but was powerless to stop the distribution of a commodity tightly controlled by corrupt local officials, police and gangsters. His eldest Son Dugong was an avid user, and his attempts to encourage him to return to the line and nets used for millennia were in vain. Dugong was not interested. He wanted a quick fix solution.

More would employ what was called the Kitang. A wicker basket that contained many meters of filament and baited hooks clipped into the lip of the basket. Once at sea the long line would be set from the boat. Traditional techniques were in decline. Blast fishing was on the increase.

I ventured out on a number of blast fishing sorties. Usually aboard one of the bigger bancas that was more suited to longer range missions and to work deeper water. There would be a spotter on the prow of the boat. His trained eye could see shoals way down. Flashes of silver fish below sun sparkled waters. It was a skill that took some time to learn. Once a shoal had been spotted the ‘bomber’ would join the spotter…the boat captain would gun the engines up to full speed. The banca would chase down the shoal. The ‘bomb’ fuse lit, the bottle tossed overboard.

Boom. A huge mushroom of water would erupt from the surface. The ‘collectors’ would don goggles, grab their nets and plug a length of flexible hose into their mouths that was connected to an air compressor. A rudimentary scuba regulator to say the least. Down they would go to collect the dead fish. A highly effective killing spree I thought. Nothing was spared. Literally anything within the blast radius was blitzed. Corals, sea ferns, turtles. A shameful practice. And one that in those days the government seemed powerless to stamp out.

I left the island in mid 1989. It was an emotional goodbye. I had grown very fond of the Alegre’s and the people of Matabas. I left More and his family feeling genuinely concerned about their future given the ongoing environmental calamity been metered out by the short sighted folly of blast fishing.

Alas I haven’t yet returned. I think there might be some semblance of a film concept. Going back some 30 years later. Taking with me the pictures I made of them all at that juncture of their lives. Certainly identifying the kids who by now are middle aged. That should bring squeals of laughter to those that still remain on the island. More and Inday could well be dead. Maria Fe, then 15, will now be 43. The thought seems almost uncanny. Her own kids will be in their teens and even early 20’s. Another sobering thought.

I will leave you with the words Maria-Fe penned to me in a letter that arrived some months later at the Lamma island post office, Hong Kong. I had sent a short letter back to Matabas, thanking them all for their wonderful hospitality. I didn’t expect a reply. By the time Maria’s letter arrived I was busy with my new life in one of the world’s most dynamic cities. Swept up in the hectic pace of life in the big city. To receive this letter from Maria and what she wrote, choked me up. I guessed then she might have fallen a little for the Pink Jesus.

I do want to go back. Find out what happened to Maria Fe Alegre. Her life, her destiny. How it has panned out!

17-8-1989

Dearest Richard,

The sun no longer gives it’s brilliant rays when I began to recall a letter from abroad reaches in our lonely and deserted place.

Hello! How is life getting along? Is it fine? I hope so. As for me by the aid of our heavenly father, I’m alright the same as usual. I received your letter and I feel very happy. How I miss you so much. You know we are always longing and yearning for your return here in the island.

Love always
Maria Fe Alegre & Family

The Pros & Cons of Hitchhiking  Part 26.

Hong Kong (chapter 1) - Hold on here comes Kai Tak.

Nothing quite prepares you for Hong Kong! No matter how many picture books you see, or how many Jean Paul Van Damme, Bruce Lee or Jacky Chan movies you watch. You have to be there, in it, to fully understand what Hong Kong does to your senses.

To my mind only one other city, New York, equals in the ‘buzzed’ stakes. Both share a high-rise hegemony. Both are unashamedly welded to the pursuit of money. While Hong Kong might not be imbued with a skyscraper architecture and design legacy to equal the Big Apple, it certainly beats it hands down in terms of geographical splendor. For Hong Kong is built on mountains and sea and is in fact a vast islands archipelago. The Chinese worship money like no other, so while New York does sleep, Hong Kong doesn’t. It vibrates 24/7 from the rattle of cash registers. Both cities have an intense energy about them. But I would say Hong Kong takes the number one spot in terms of sheer dynamic energy flow.

What I knew about Hong Kong and particularly China prior to my arrival could be summed up as such. Hong Kong: The place where they made the little cheap tin and enamel painted dinky cars that I bought as a kid in England, and which had ‘made in Hong Kong’ stamped on the bottom. China: Mao Zedong. I knew that he was a funny looking fella, with bad teeth and a silly haircut, wore rather drab suits and was responsible for the calamitous ‘Great Leap Forward’ and the ‘Cultural Revolution. Beyond that I hadn’t the foggiest about either. And Tiananmen Where? Oh Tiananmen Square. Where is Tiananmen Square? It’s in Peking! Where is Peking? And so the story goes.

My arrival into Hong Kong airport was a white knuckle affair. All of us on the plane I think were convinced we were about to crash into lots of buildings. I certainly was contemplating adopting the brace position. Nobody had told us about Kai Tak. In summary. A very very busy international airport sandwiched on a tiny spit of land between Victoria harbor and Kowloon, one of the most densely populated precincts on earth. Added to the pilots list of many things to avoid while on finals to the single runway jutting into the jade green waters of Kowloon bay, was Lion Rock. A line of towering craggy granite that rimmed the Kowloon peninsular and almost bumped up against the perimeter fence on the airport’s left flank. As a result, planes had to approach at 90 degrees to the run-way, parallel to the mountains and then literally at the last minute, above the rooftops of Kowloon, do a fierce right turn.

Our 747 wing dipped at an angle that would suggest to most passengers on all other airport approaches that, ‘aaarrgg we’re crashing’!!!!! I gripped the hand rest convinced we were actually now flying between the buildings and not over them. This has always been regarded as an exaggeration by most folks hearing about landings at Kai Tak. But honestly! As I squinted down the wing tip it seemed inches from the apartment windows and I could actually see people inside eating bowls of noodles. Welcome to Hong Kong Kai Tak style!

I was met by my South African friend Jeremy Pearce and his Chinese fiancée Monica and they immediately took me from the airport for a meal in Tsim Sha Tsui. I was flabbergasted. After walking through the entrance of a rather innocuous building, and into an elevator with dull grey doors, 9 floors up, we stepped out into a cavernous room full of people. Rows of circular tables covered in dim sum baskets and plates, cups, bowls, and teapots. The place was like a mad house. Women with trolleys, served stuff, throwing stuff onto tables. Waiters refilled teapots. The gabble of Cantonese at fever pitch. Lines of folks waited for tables. We were ushered down to the far end of what I would describe as a gigantic dining hall. There were golden dragon motifs on the walls. Some strange big fish swimming about in tanks. Were they to eat or for display I wondered?

Our table had been pre-booked. At once, waiters appeared from 4 quadrants. All tasked with different duties. They brought menus, placed peanuts in a bowl, washed the eating utensils in hot tea, cracked open the wet wipes packet. Threw live prawns into a pot of boiling water on a strange spinning glass disk thing at the centre our table. They slopped crab soup into our bowls. Poured tea into cups and made sure it splashed and dribbled all over the nice white table cloth.

Once we had begun eating I enjoyed watching my hosts spitting little chicken feet bones onto the table cloth. Pulling fine fish bones out from between their teeth and dropping those on the table cloth too. In fact everything went onto the table cloth. Something Mum had drilled into me from an early age. “don’t make a mess on the table cloth Richard’. I thought this was great. And before long I was enjoying spitting the half chewed contents of my mouth onto the white linen. Say morning glory fibers that I could not chew fine enough. There was also the fun of spreading cartilage around a bit. Like crab bones, prawns skins, bits of pigs ear, maybe a parsons nose or two. Heck I was even allowed to gob a big goobie, into a silver bucket on the floor, under the table mid meal if wanted to. Wonderful I thought. I could now abandon all the silly table manners drummed into me as a kid, make a complete and utter pig of myself and everyone would be all smiles. Welcome to Hong Kong.

We drove from Kowloon to Central by the ubiquitous Toyota Crown taxi. There are black London cabs. Yellow New York taxis. Well Hong Kong has red Crowns. It took me a while to get used to the lie of the land and to understand that Hong Kong was actually an island facing Kowloon. To get to Hong Kong from Kowloon you either crossed the harbor by the Star Ferry or if driving you took one of the two tunnels. (now there are 3 cross harbor tunnels). We arrived at the central ferry terminal. Jeremy explained that Lamma Island where he and Monica lived was a 45 minute ride from Central. “Don’t miss the last ferry back at 11:20pm” Jeremy warned me. “otherwise you have a long wait for the first one out in the morning”. (I would miss countless evening ferries over the years from drunken shenanigans in Wan Chai bars and discos, sleeping under tables until daybreak, but that’s another story).

The ferry ride out to Lamma was magical. We chugged past countless other water craft. Small 20 seater passenger hovercraft, that skipped and bounced across the choppy waters of the Victoria harbour. I saw a great big red and white thing called a Jetfoil that sounded like a 747 taking off. It moved at speed, raised out of the water on stilts, trailing a large plume of water behind it. It looked like something ouit of ‘War of the Worlds’. It was heading for Macau I was told. We passed countless other ferry boats of various shapes and sizes. Once past the end of Hong Kong island and Kennedy Town, and the Vietnamese boat people detention centre on Green Island, we maneuvered between gargantuan cargo boats moored in the East Lamma channel. Further away I could make out an island with a rather tall looking mountain in the middle and three chimney stacks rising from a thin tapered ridge. “That’s Lamma island” Jeremy said.

I looked around me at the passengers on the ferry. There was more than a sprinkling of foreigners in amongst the Chinese. I asked why this was so, and Jes told me Lamma was a favourite residential retreat for a rather bohemian sect of westerners. “There’s a heady mix of teachers, artists, musicians, photographers, journalists, alcoholics, dope fiends, hillbillies. You will feel right at home Rich”. 3 years later I was still there

The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking 27

The Lamma island ferry was a treat. A clunker of a boat, called the How Man Tin, two decks, made of a rough cast iron. The hull painted black. And then white from there on up. Upper deck was sealed and air conditioned. Sort of. Lower deck sweaty and noisy. For at the back the engine room doors were flung open to let some of the heat and fumes out. It was a noisy ride!

A bunch of shirtless sweaty gweilos (foreigners/westerners) we're gathered aft and since they were besides the engine room they were shouting at each other over the din. In between screams and laughter they would suck on cigs, swill cans of chilled San Miguel, and flick cigarette ash into the prop wash over the low grey cast iron rim of the stern guard rail. I do seem to recall hearing over the years about more than one drunken gweilo, while sitting on the aft rail, losing his balance and disappearing into the frothy greasy harbour waters. In all honesty, after settling into Lamma life, it didn't take me long to become one of the beer swilling, cig sucking sweating gweilos down the back.

As our ferry chugged out into Victoria harbour, it belched great plumes of diesel smoke. Because of the boats rather short funnel, the soot, instead of dissipating into the hazy summer sky, whipped through the side windows and had us all feeling a little giddy. It didn't matter to me, I was just enjoying the trip (excuse the pun).

As we cleared the edge of Kennedy town and ran between the headland to our left and the Vietnamese boat people detention centre that rimmed the little green island, called Green Island, to our right, the great expanse of the jade coloured sea of the East Lamma channel stretched out before us. I marveled at the flotilla of gargantuan cargo ships moored in the deep water, and there on the horizon, replete with towering Mount Stenhouse and two large chimneys from the China Light and Power-station was the place that was to become home for the next three years. Lamma Island!

Jes, Monica and I, stepped off the ferry onto a raised concrete jetty that ran on stilts until it hit island proper some 100 yards ahead. To my left across a stretch of sea there was a rocky promitory, with a small Chinese temple. In the adjoining cove was an assortment of stilt houses and sampans. A fishing village. Tanka peoples I learned later. To my right as we wandered the pier was Yung Shue Wan bay with an assortment of leisure craft bobbing in murky brown waters. The dragon boats caught my eye as did one rather ramshackle looking wooden yacht. More akin to a Chinese junk, moored away from the rest. Later I was told, it belonged to a red haired bearded American recluse called Hunter.
As we entered the small village past a few Chinese restaurants, the 'island bar' stood out. It was full of reasonably genteel looking gweilos, quaffing litre jugs of ale. A little further into the village we passed another drinking establishment. This time 'The Corner bar', not on a corner at all but tucked off to the left, besides an abandoned old Chinese shophouse along the Yung Shue wan main street. Full of rather ungenteel hairy hippie gweilos, who besides quaffing buckets of lager, were rolling doobies. It was a raucous place and needless to say it became my place of insobriety. The corner bar was where we hippie Lamma-ites got trashed. Monday to Sunday. Repeat!

Just as the village path did an abrupt 90 degree turn to the left, there was a small butchers shop on the corner. Hanging from three hooks were ghastly chunks of ropey looking meat. The place had a rather rancid smell and it was to become a point of reference for all us gweilos on the island. We took our directional cues from the stinky butchers shop. "You know where the stinky meant shop is"? "Yes I do". "Then the Lancômbe seafood restaurant is just along the lane to the right of the stinky meat shop". "To the right of that!". "Turn left at the stinky meat shop". "Straight ahead from the stinky meat shop"......etc etc.....
Oh yes the stinky meat shop! I had not really seen anything like it before, and it was to become the precursor for many many more stinky meat shops I would see on my travels in China over the coming years. But besides slabs of greasy pork, it could be spotty pink cow tongues or worse. Fly covered dog? Meat? No surely not. "Are those gnarly hairless things hanging upside down on hooks dogs"? I would ask myself! Jesus Christ they are dogs. Bloody 'ell! Noooo. Yes. Those were early days for me in Asia. Over time one just got used to seeing things in Asian food markets that we in the West would coo over in pet shops. Heck China in the early 90's had a habit of turning my stomach. I was an Asia newbie. Lots to learn. Tiananmen where???

Another thing I had noticed about Lamma as I followed Jes and Monica up a gentle incline away from the stinky meat shop was the dearth of cars. In fact there were none. Instead there were a few lawn mower engine powered buggies. Long and slim so they could travel the narrow concrete islands pathways. Two small seats up front and an open carrying box at the back. It was with these that the locals shunted produce about the island. Car-less, Lamma beyond the main village was a heavenly peaceful place.

Jes told me we were heading to Yung Shin Yeah beach. About a 15 minute walk. Already in the humid summer heat, I was wilting. We marched and sweated profusely to the shrill of cicada beatles. Passed groves of banana and papaya trees. There was lots of jungly undergrowth. Elephants ear, clumps of bamboo. It all felt very exotic. Lamma had its own smell. That of fish paste and rotting vegetation.

Jerry's place was a neat and tidy newly built single level 2 bedroom apartment overlooking a pretty beach, and afforded great views of Mount Stenhouse off to the left. Brooding and craggy looking, Stenhouse at 350m tugged at my mountaineering spirit. It would be some monthS before I stood upon her summit. I settled in the spare bedroom for two weeks while I looked for my own place. Each morning and evening I soaked up the beauty of the surrounding area from the vantage point of Jes's outside verandah. A Chinese fishing junk would come chugging daily into the cove, dragging a big fishing net behind it from outrigger poles that stuck out like wings. The shape of the junk, the jade green sea, the palm trees and the milky skies. I loved this corner of the island, my daily swims. As fate would have it, less than a year later I would have my own apartment a little further up the hill behind Jerry with even better views.

England and South Africa seemed like a million light years away. And they were. I was fitfully aware that deepest darkest China was just over the horizon. And that made me feel giddy. China was a place with a million strong marching army I had read as a young boy in England. That was sometime way back in 1973. Mao was still alive then. I never forgot the photo. Lines of soldiers tapering off into infinity. A sea of green jackets and caps emblazoned with a red star. They looked menacing in their profusion. Scowling, slanty eyed fellas with strange looking machine guns. Goodness. China was just over them hills......i felt a twinge of apprehension every time the thought crossed my mind.