The Scurvy Dog’s Logs Chapter 3

Life is so strange. We roll along oblivious to the tremors constantly shaking around the world. We ponder retirement, plan vacations and look to job future and raises, while much of the rest of the world is on the brink of some bizarre an illation. I’m not about to point fingers or get political here. We’ve made plenty of mistakes in parts of the world, and there’s some crazy hatred in other parts. Okay, Okay, I’ll throw an example at you, then we’ll get back to my romantic notions.

We just pulled into Jakarta this afternoon, some four hours behind schedule. Schedules are ridiculous on cargo ships. Nothing follows a timetable. We had diesel injector problems coming into port this morning and slowed the ship to 11.4 knots. Then when we arrived we were told to pull to a particular position that the pilot would be there on arrival. He showed up an hour later. Our estimate for departure was 24 hours, now it’s 18 or less. Believe me we want to get the fuck out of this hell hole.

Yesterday morning at four a.m. we left Singapore, a Manhattan Island of high-rise buildings and upscale shopping malls. It was a handful of degrees above the equator and we headed east for a short while then south about 500 miles to the dread Jakarta. The Captain’s wife recommended that he not go ashore. Sin Wu suggested the same. Jakarta has an ugly violent Muslim reputation. The Captain suggested that the radicals trained on small islands off the coast of Java and travel in the town shouldn’t be a problem.

He also pointed out that this small island has a population of 200 million. The US isn’t much larger than that. There are only 250 million in all of Indonesia and 200 are packed on this island about the size of just the Florida peninsula. I was astonished as we began to pull into the harbor which it was as bleak as the reputation. A gray mist hung over the port and blanketed the region with a somber air. The bay around the coast was littered with ships of all sizes and types. Many were rust buckets anchored or seemingly adrift waiting a turn at the harbor. Even two miles off the coast the water was shit-brown and full of crap, trash, oil film and black scraps of tar. As we entered the small concrete block jetty at the mouth of the Tanjung Priok Harbor we watched small ratty boats crowded with people buzz around the harbor. Then there was a smell, and suddenly I wanted to escape to my cabin. I couldn’t trace my fatigue. The air seemed to engulf me like radiation from an atomic warhead. I’m being dramatic, but the stench felt like the grayness of an industrial fire. It was too late to consider going ashore and there was nothing about the port that called to us.

In other words I had the notion that we were entering a vast island of squalor and crime, covered with a small bitter people who despised the west. Okay, that’s over the top and perhaps had something to do with the climate. We could see high-rise buildings in the mist, and from experience I have always found the Asian people as a whole to be warm and friendly. The Captain pointed out that the water could be a mess due to recent flooding from the inland. He also pointed out that when he was on a ship entering the Los Angeles Harbor that the chemical smell was so strong that he couldn’t breathe and his eyes watered. On the other hand the port agent came on board and warned us to keep our doors locked that a recent raid on a ship netted $8,000 from a crew.

I may have over estimated the evil spirit of the people of Jakarta due to the dismal climate, and I’m sure part of my impression was tainted by my recent contrasting experience in Singapore. This city is wild, it’s beautiful, and the people speak English and make every effort to be accommodating. The city is a progressive 3.4 million, 75 percent Chinese (many escaping the communist regime sweeping Hong Kong), 14 percent are Malay and 7 percent are Indian. For some it would be disappointing and intimidating due to the uptown metropolis nature. Get this, on an island that’s 26 miles long and 14 miles wide there are 15,000 air conditioned taxis and 2,800 buses, plus subways and trains. It’s unbelievable, most of the old world is gone replaced by vast slick high-rise buildings, top-of-the-line hotels and restaurants. We arrived during the Chinese New Years celebration and enjoyed the crowded streets and unique booths in one of the few old town regions left.

Prices were more than reasonable, but unless you want to get the hell out of the city and land in another, try to find somewhere else to visit. This is the independent city that fines people for spitting on the ground. There are a number of other laws that dictate consideration for others and a quality of life, although I didn’t get the sense that thousands of cops were roaming the streets in starched uniforms kicking ass. At one point, standing in line at an ATM machine at the base of a modern high-rise, an old Chinese gentleman pushing a cart full of cleaning gear passed and for some reason was deliberately spitting into an area marked off by workman as being wet and slick. He was pissed for some reason, but I didn’t see paten leather adorned guards jump and beat the pour sap into the marble deck. On the other hand in general the people had a desire to follow the rules and respect the cleanliness of their city. So how’s that for dissimilarity with Jakarta?

Alright, so tomorrow we will cut a dusty trail out of here and basically begin our trek north to Vietnam and China before we hit Japan and head home. I’ve threatened to have a box ship back to San Pedro to force the ship into Los Angeles, before it heads through the Panama Canal and the Gulf of Mexico to Houston.

So back to my heartfelt notion of life on an increasingly small planet. Maybe there is a code such as Singapore has that could spread throughout the world. Maybe people can enjoy any religion they wish and leave the past behind, to help children live better lives. Maybe, a world police is a good notion to follow and build the code. Along with the policing needed to destroy terrorism, there must be efforts by governments like ours to help people understand how the rest of the world works hand in hand for business and education.

Okay, so I’m full of shit, but the constant fighting over ancient battles and racial discrimination 100 years old won’t do their kids any good except to pass on the hatred. Let’s see if I don’t get my ass kicked in Hanoi. —Bandit

PS. Three o’clock in the morning the phone rings in my cabin. A voice attempts to tell me I must sign a document. I told them to go to hell. I’ve had enough prank calls on this ship. Another voice takes the phone and tries to explain that they don’t want money that I must sign something. I told them to see me in the morning. That wasn’t possible. They explained that the ship was finished unloading and would be leaving early.

I finally got up and opened the door. I glared at the little sonuvabitch who was holding my passport in one hand and a form in the other. Sleepy, I didn’t read the form, and signed it. He asked me if I would contact the other passengers and since he was with an officer of the ship, I indicated that he could use the services of the officer and I went back to bed. As it turned out they knew that due to a wild thunderstorm that started at midnight, all cargo works had halted and wouldn’t begin again until this morning. What bullshit. The crews’ passports have been returned but not ours.

I spoke to the captain this morning and he pointed to a list of bribes he was forced to endure to see that the ship keeps moving without undo hardship. There was the agent for a cartoon of Marlboro; the customs guys for more Marlboros and a bottle of Whiskey, the Immigration folks for more cigarettes and a bottle of Chevas, and the Security inspector took smokes and a final bottle of booze. When I met with the Captain this morning he laughed and pointed at the empty case of Marlboros. He pointed out that if you don’t play the game they will inspect the levels of paint in the paint locker and fine you, or make you jump through bureaucratic hoops and delay departure. In addition a group came on board and collected the same loot as the others, plus a fee to give the captain a Deratting Certificate to certify that the ship was clear of rats. I reviewed the certificate that indicated that there are no passenger accommodations on this ship and no cargo(?). Oops.

We are scheduled to leave at noon. Wanna bet?

I’m going to begin this with a complaint and a recommendation to anyone who plans to travel in the future. I’ll get it off my chest then tell you about the wild experiences we had in Vietnam. First tear up your American Express card and throw it away. Visa and Master cards are useful everywhere unless yours is stolen. We had one stolen. The people at the bank knew this was a 5 month trip around the world and we would be using this card on a regular basis. Generally that means profits for them. Did they bend over backwards to ship us another card? No way. Bottom line no business for them for five months. I’d call that down right stupid.

So we’re relying on American Express and American Express Travelers checks which are useless. You can spend all your precious travel time standing in a bank for an hour only to be turned down when you want to cash a traveler’s check. Again, that’s time that you could be spending money. In addition the American Express card is rarely accepted.

Now, get this. The card is not even accepted at an American Express bank. That’s right. We could not get cash using an American Express card at an American Express Bank. Okay, so the clerks kindly explained that if we wanted to take a cab across town to the only American Express ATM in all of Singapore we could get a small amount of cash. Again shopping/spending time lost. Their profit loss and your time loss.

Enough of that shit. It’s 2000 hours and we just started pulling out of the Hon Gai harbor in Vietnam. Its located almost dead center of the infamous Tonkin Gulf. We were anchored 35 miles from our true destination of Haiphong. I’m going to run down some stories about the area and the people, but first I’m a three time ship- bound Vietnam veteran. I never had a member of this race stick a gun in my face. With that as a background there was some hesitation to arriving to Vietnam. I know that many veterans have returned here to help sort out their own feelings. I wanted to come back for a simple reason. I wanted to see the people and the land I bombed for three years straight. I was curious about this land and the people I had never seen up close. I had a gut feeling that I would like it here and I did.

I’m sure for some WWII and Vietnam veterans there’s a wonderful sense of the untamed and natural beauty of these lands like the Philippines and Vietnam. There’s the notion of grass shacks and people who can live their lives barefoot near pristine beaches without the consumption of asphalt and concrete, bushels of laws and government. I loved the Philippines for those reasons. Tahiti is much the same.

Yesterday we crossed the Tonkin Gulf and met our pilot off the coast of Haiphong past several island separating us from the coast. The jade green seawater in this region is shallow to 6 and 7 meters and we could not enter the area since we draft 9 meters. Take into consideration rocks and tides and we were stuck waiting outside for the pilot.

I stood on the bridge when the pilot was delivered. As usual the time announced from the harbor and the actual time of pilot arrival was an hour different. The captain was frustrated setting dangerously close to the bottom (less than one meter of space between the sea floor and the hull) waiting. The pilot’s boat, a tug like craft motored in our direction at a slow six knots, but finally arrived.

This was our first greeting from the Vietnamese and unlike most ports in Europe three gentlemen boarded the Leon when usually it’s just the pilot. The pilot was a small native wearing a navy blue uniform suit, shirt and an odd paisley tie. He was wearing a ball cap with scrambled eggs on the brim and a pilot sticker on the front. With him was an associate who also wore the scrambled eggs on his white brim and some sort of black industrial company nylon parka. It had the name of a company silk-screened on the back. The other gentleman was a tall military man wearing an olive drab dress uniform and pink socks. He was crisply dress except for the socks and wore an officer’s hat that was tall in the front like you would imagine a Russian officer. It had a wide red band and a yellow star in the center. It was an impressive uniform.

It’s a strange sensation to be standing somewhere foreign to you and be confronted by a strong imposing uniform on a man nearly my size. I found myself somewhat apprehensive, flicking my knife in my pocket. I left the bridge and returned to my cabin. An hour later I discovered that we were entering a series of small rock-like islands. I grabbed my camera and dashed back to the bridge. As I started to take some shot of these beautiful rocks jetting from water as smoothed as polished jade the tall young office approached me and said in very broken English. “Free, take pictures, or video camera.” At the moment I didn’t really understand was he was trying to say and continued to be mesmerized by the beauty of the light green sea and the group of islands. Unfortunately a gray mist hung over us the entire time we were in port.

I immediately felt that if I was a kid and had a small boat or even a kayak I would be in seventh heaven.

Off to the starboard we could see a series of barges, tugs and small boats lined up against one of these islands. As we neared they seemed to be headed in our direction and as we discovered they were. The local Rickmers’ agent had cut a deal with the stevedores. It seems that we were arriving in the late afternoon on the 10th and the 11th was the last day before the Tet festival, which I believe is the lunar New Year. It seems that we celebrate the Sun’s New Year and much of Asia celebrates the Moon’s. I believe it was mentioned that China parties for both.

At the same time that the captain, who intended to become an astronomer, explained the difference in New Year’s celebrations he mention that when he sailed into Casablanca he discovered that the stevedores take Fridays off for the Muslim religion, Saturdays for Jewish and Sundays for Christian. Perhaps we need to add that element to the code of the west.

The Tet Festival begins the 12th of February and runs through the 15th. If we were not unloaded by the middle of the 11th we would be stuck a serious distance from land for three days, perhaps unable to get ashore. I was hoping to take a bus to Hanoi. The Cargo Superintendent told me that the city is large but safe. The agent had cut a deal with the stevedores to work all night and try to get us unloaded before the holiday. We were stuck in-between land and holidays, and we had just arrived were anchoring and testing the waters.

Within a half hour we were surrounded with ratty looking boats, large steel barges and in the distance a tug was coming flying its little communist red flag with the yellow star in the center pulling an out-of-commission ferry. As it turns out this ferry, that had seen better days, was the barracks for the stevedores, a bar and party pad complete with whores and music.

Suddenly our little calm hole in the world came alive. The ship was crawling with Vietnamese people while women cooked and set up shop on the tugs that pulled the barges. We could see high rise buildings in the distance on the shore we would never reach, but we were surrounded by grass shacks on the water. Each vessel had a pot of sorts somewhere on the ship that became alive with burning embers for cooking.

The population of guys who came aboard the ship was generally friendly and all were well dressed in a range from stevedores to businessmen to women in sampans selling trinkets. The girls weren’t bad looking and it dawned on me what the officer was saying on the bridge. He was inviting me to take pictures without the influence of government.

I’m not sure if I already told you this story: The captain told me that the US fought so hard against communism unsuccessfully, but in the end, it died its own sorrowful death. Most communist countries have not been able to succeed and now welcome the ways of the west or starve to death. The officer was opening his arms to me and the west, since Vietnam has discovered that without business with the world, it will starve, its people will never have decent educations, or access to a world that is flowering around them. No matter how hard a government wants to put its thumb on its people it cannot completely hide the rest of the world from them. Sure the notion is simplistic, but I thought also fascinating. We didn’t need to fight communism, which in most cases was not true communism but dictatorships. We could just sit back and build what we have while they fell so far behind by preventing freedom that sooner or later they had to throw up their hands and open their door to progress.

Okay, so the afternoon turned into evening and maze of activity. Discharging cargo began immediately and continued all night. The party fired up on the Haiphong ferry and the girls were brought aboard the Leon. According to the Romanian sandblaster the whores knew how to take care of a man unlike the stuck-up broads in Hamburg. He told me stories that I won’t repeat, but he had a helluva time. He’s the guy in the shot getting tattooed from the artist in Jakarta, who set up his shop on the main deck and gave him two shoulder tats for $30. The guy wasn’t half bad.

So the evening started calm enough with cute girls slithering around the decks under the guards noses. There were a number of military men on board in their olive drab uniforms. As the night engulfed the ship, the guards were invited to drink on the ferry. Either through the drinking or bribes the ship was left without security and a mafia gang slipped aboard the ship and began to raid it of lashing materials and tools left all around the deck for cargo off-loading and containment. Some of the crew spotted this activity and an alarm was sounded. Many of the crew fought with the gang for their tools, some chickened out, and headed the other direction because the mafia was armed. The bottom line was that we chased them off and told the guard to get back to their posts.

Later in the evening another ship our size pulled into the channel and dropped anchor. It was another Rickmers rust bucket and they were waiting for us to depart before they could commence off-loading. The next morning went as is common in the shipping trade. The morning departure turned into 3:00 p.m. for pilot arrival which generally indicates up-anchor. Three turned to five, and it was 8:00 before the last plates of steel were removed from the hull and loaded on barges.

That’s it. We came close to a boat trip around the bay, but couldn’t put it together because of the erratic departure times. We’re now headed out of the Gulf into the South China Sea for the 1.5 day voyage to Hong Kong. The first of three maybe four visits to China, then Korea. I’m still hoping for a box to be loaded for shipment to San Pedro post haste.

–Sailor Ball

Someone recently asked if I’m having a good time? I thought it was an odd question. Yeah, I’m having the time of my life, but it made me wonder what the hell I was saying might be throwing readers off course. On the other hand, I’m not a paid-to-tell-you-wonderful-shit, travel writer. I enjoy pointing out the madcap foibles at each port and send up flags to be recognized and avoided by travelers. I also find this shipping industry fraught with odd equations to profits, strange traditions and a wild deck of cards to be dealt in each dank harbor. I also have found that each seaside haven is a mess, yet the most precious land in the community. I believe in my heart that something could be done about this errant condition that would help and entertain all involved. Traveling, unless under specific conditions, has its share of dark alleys and risks. If you want to travel in specific tour groups your conditions can be monitored to a certain extent. If you’ve got money to burn you can duck some of the slums, much of the world has to trounce through, to get to the Jade Garden of Luxury.

Traveling on a Tramp freighter has neither of the above accouterments. There are risks and the unknown at each port. In general the shipping folks don’t want to have anything to do with their passengers. In some respects you can’t blame them. They’re not set up for passengers, they don’t have the time or the money to go ashore in most ports, and they have hundreds of strange unknown stevedores, agents, gangs and officials running around each ship, who they can’t communicate with, and constantly break cranes and equipment. I feel for these bastards. They work their asses off and the only fun they look forward to are cheap whores in some ports, maybe a tattoo from a kid with dirty needles and warm beer once in a while. It’s not bad, it’s just a tough existence.

Well Hong Kong was no different, in fact, for the crew it wasn’t much fun, for us another wild encounter. We pulled into the port again in the middle of the night. I discovered that Hong Kong is noted for the Hong Kong Island, but it reality Hong Kong is made up of four different and distinct departments. There’s this small island slightly larger than Singapore with much less build able land due to the steep hills. Next is the Koloon Peninsula which is a sizeable chunk of property across from the island. Then there is the large mainland area that has a border with mainland China. This portion of Hong Kong is called the new territories and is substantially agricultural. Finally there’s a smattering of 235 surrounding islands that make up the rest of the Hong Kong State. Altogether, it’s probably the size of New Jersey surrounding one of the largest ports in the world in Victoria Bay. We rolled in through the East Lamma Channel during the middle of the night as usual so we couldn’t see shit, course it didn’t matter because we were quarantined due to our Vietnam excursion. So we were told to anchor out of the harbor by about a mile. Now, get this. The captain asked the harbor pilot what the requirements we were subject to under the quarantined conditions, since he had never encountered the Vietnam rule. The pilot told him that ships from Vietnam, Russia or Cuba had to endure quarantine regulations. Immediately the captain asked, “Oh, so it’s political?” “No, no,” the pilot said with emphasis. “Well, then what is required?” the captained continued to question. “Is there a health inspection?” “No,” the pilot said, “I will call the officials when you lay anchor. He will come to the ship but not board. You take him your ship’s paper and he will review, then we can move into the harbor.” That was it and a half hour later we pulled anchor and moved a mile closer in the harbor and dropped the sonuvabitch again. We were still five miles off the coast of the Kowloon Peninsula and five from the Hong Kong Island. We were in the middle of no place, the coastline off in the distance. Next we had to find out how the hell to get to shore. The agent showed up and reported that it would cost us 120 bucks (US) to get a lift to shore. That didn’t cut it and our dubious report was that were only scheduled to be in port for 24 hours. That sucked as the barges began to pull along side in the choppy currents and the crew began to prepare for offloading. The next morning after very little sleep I drug my ass to breakfast to check the situation. I was beginning to think that we wouldn’t be able to afford the trip to the coast due to the high costs and the fact that boats weren’t available and we might be leaving in the evening. Doesn’t make too much sense to pay $250 to get into town to have lunch and leave. Ah, but there are always alternatives. The Cargo Superintendent came on board and shrugged his shoulders with a lack of solutions to the problems afoot, but the Chinese Agent, Henry Cheung from the Gulf Agency Company, showed up and volunteered to take us to Kowloon on his dime on the harbor skiff, a 40-ft, high-powered launch.

One problem, though. Henry was peeling out as we spoke. I had to hit the showers and head to the gangplank. I spent the night in town without so much as a tooth brush, so some shopping had to take place and as usual, few shops accepted American Express and if you wanted cash from American Express you had to walk miles to the one Amex ATM in downtown Kowloon, only to find out it was out of order. We were told that another Chinese bank would accept it. That alternative was tried and a passenger had her card sucked by the machine, leaving her cardless. She had to spend the afternoon waiting around the office for a temporary card. There was nothing wrong with her balance. She swore that when she returned to the states she would use up her miles and burn the card. Such fools. Instead of assisting cardholders they put as many obstacles in the way of using the card as possible.

The last time I was in Hong Kong was during my stint in the Vietnam War. I sailed into the Hong Kong harbor three times. During the late ’60s the harbor was packed with a myriad of Chinese Junks, but this time as I looked out over the vast harbor, I didn’t see a one. I wasn’t reminded much of the old Hong Kong and wasn’t sure I would be startled by remembering something. The city has grown to a population of 6.9 million. It’s a madhouse metropolis teaming with shopping and high rise buildings. There something odd about it though. From the harbor or any distance the city reflects a massive sizzling beautiful metropolitan area, but when you get close in the daylight and look up, most of the buildings are apartments where people live. They are not luxury apartments but grubby stained buildings with air conditioners hanging out of window and clothes hanging on anything outside to dry.

More importantly, I exposed the fact that it is actually a downright expensive place to live. Apartments range from 20-40 grand a year to rent. That’s for the low rent districts and low on the elevator check list. As you move from floor to floor the rent increases until you’re facing 65-100,000 a year to be less than street people. No wonder the population clamors to gamble and there are only two types of gaming allowed. There is one race track on the island which produces 74 horse races a year and the crowds Annie up 81 Billion a year on the races. The only other legal gambling fare was to roll the dice on the Hong Kong lottery.

Hell, a burial site on the island costs $200,000 since land is so precious. Someone told me that you are buried sitting on a chair to conserve landI can’t confirm that gossip. There are several hospitals in town but only one government joint right across the street from a hilly cemetery. Rumor has it that if you end up in the hospital, it’s likely that the only way out is the rocky road to a plot across the street. Yipes.

I took a ride through a tunnel from Kowloon to the island. The tunnel costs 320 million to build, but it’s only 2 kilometer long and 24 meters below the surface of Victoria Bay. Keep in mind as I babble that the rate of exchange was 7.2 to one US dollar. Okay, so I’m blasting around the island looking at the sites and I cruised over a very tight winding road to the south side of the island to the small Aberdeen Harbor and when we pulled up to the dock leading to the popular floating restaurant in the middle of the bay I was taken back. A lump formed in my throat as I looked out at the odd looking floating Chinese River Boat still swaying in the calm waters 36 years later. It’s now called the Jumbo and is covered in neon and glittering lights like a Las Vegas gambling boat. It’s now owned by a gentleman who owns casinos in Macao and all over Indonesia.

I suddenly remembered the night I drug one of my buddies off the St. Paul and we grabbed a cab for the floating restaurants. We were 19 and 21 years old and concerned that the cabbie was taking us for a treacherous ride until he pulled into this small parking lot on the coast in front of a short pier some 20 feet long surrounded by little 5- foot sampans. We had hit the whores in strange tall buildings that were full of long halls without lights and dank rooms with little or no appliances. I remember the guy who lured us inside, gave us beers and showed us grotesque dirty movies before selling us on young girls. The girls were cute and in some cases not in a brothel ambiance. It was as if someone invited you into their home and offered you a drink, a daughter to fuck and dinner later. It was odd and somewhat uncomfortable. It was like going to see your girlfriend, fucking her in the room next to the dining room packed with relatives. Then dusting yourself off and saying goodbye.

If I’m not mistaken, my buddy, Outlaw (no shit, that was his last name) copped out when he saw the sampans and got back in the cab and headed back to the ship. I remember stepping into a wobbling sampan by myself. An old woman pushed off from the dock. She didn’t say much, just rowed quietly to the glittering floating River Boat type craft in the harbor. Half way out she stopped the dinky vessel and I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. It was dark on the water except for the reflection of the lights of the restaurant. She turned and picked up a bundle off the wooden deck that turned out to be a baby and held it up to me. I could see that the infant wrapped in the dirty blanket was sleeping soundly. She showed me the child then held out her hand. I don’t remember anything about the money then, but I handed her a couple of bucks and she grinned a toothless smile, bowed and kept rowing.

I still remember that night. There were two restaurants at the time and one of the two allowed you to pick your fish from an adjoining tank and they would cook it up for you. I wasn’t in the mood for that fare and went to the next boat for a real life Chinese dinner which was tremendous and the atmosphere eerie. The two restaurants are now one and they server 3,000 people a night.

It was out of a dream and we jumped aboard a large motorized sampan for a tour of the area which is packed with luxury yachts, the restaurants and rows of boats that people still live on. They were tied next to professional wooden fishing boats. This was the only area left where people can still live on boats and they must buy a license each year to remain there. Between the rotting boats, the cost of the licenses and a thinning ceiling on the number of live-aboards allowed the traditional live aboard situation is quickly diminishing. There were once six million live-aboard boats in the Victoria Channel and now there are only 11,000 and that number is fading fast. It was sad to look at the boats and wonder about their future. I asked the woman in the motorized sampan behind the long wooden rudder, who looked and was dressed like a bank teller, “What happened to Chinese Junks?” When I was a youngster my old man took the family down to Wilmington Harbor to look at some new imported Chinese Junks for sale. They were as cool as pirate ships. Unfortunately my folks were trying to decide whether to buy one of them or a cabin in the hills and decided on the cabin.

She looked at me as if I was a voice from the past bringing up a legend she would just as soon forget. I imagined the harbor in the ’60s with thousands of these sailboats that looked like butterflies on the water flittering from harbor to harbor. Then she looked at me and I detected sadness in her broken English. “All the masts are gone. We have only motors now. Only one left with a sail for charter. The rest are either fishing sampans or live-aboard.” I could tell as she finished explaining that the story would only end when all the old line of wooden hulls were gone, replaced with fiberglass high-dollar yachts. How times change.

I found it interesting that Hong Kong is noted for its jewelry deals and spent some time at the Dynasty Jewelry mart, yet almost none of the raw materials come from China. Diamonds and gold come from South Africa, Opals from Australia and Jade and Rubies come from Burma.

As a closing thought I would like to mention a bit of advice for those who are interested in living in the hills. According to Chinese legend, dragons live in the hills. Chinese lore has dragons built into their yearly schedules as if it was a true animal. For instance last year was the year of the snake and this the year of the horse. Since the dragon is the symbol of China it is to be respected and cared for so people who build homes in the hills make sure that each structure has a center courtyard to nurture dragons and let them breathe.

So if someone was to ask me if I had a good time in Hong Kong I would answer the same as all the ports I’ve entered: Each port has it challenges and adventures. Hell, yes I had a good time. I had a steak at the Morton’s Steak House at the Sheraton over-looking the Victoria Bay and the brightly decorated high-rise buildings for the New Year Holiday. I walked along the edge of the channel surrounded by the Las Vegas like night lights incredible. There was a Ferry Boat ride to the Hong Kong Island and back. Indians attacked me on every corner with brochures about hand tailoring clothing for my lanky self. The city is just as mysterious as during the Vietnam era.-Bandit

Everyday we receive the briefest of news reports that come via Telex and contain a series of four-line paragraphs about world topics. There are usually 13 segments, and 11 of them contain reports of violence somewhere in the world. I don’t want to walk on anyone’s politics, but doesn’t anyone in this world do something because it’s the right fuckin’ thing to do? The attacks are generally based on religion, politics or greed.

I’m rapidly discovering that if any country looks at the realities of their past they can be pissed off enough to go to war with almost anyone. Some of the shit the white race did to China over the years, for instance, would curl your toes. There wouldn’t be opium in China if the British hadn’t brought it to keep the little people in line and make a few bucks on the side. There were several opium wars; in most cases the Chinese people lost and were forced to let Europeans distribute drugs and other profitable substances in ports like Hong Kong and Shanghai.

I don’t want to jump into a bag of generalizations, but you can imagine why the people turned to communism for protection from the white vultures. They thought that communism was the answer when in most cases it became a highly controlled dictatorship that raped the people and the land. It backfired here too, like it did in Russia. The Chinese people endured revolutions and corrupt government. At one point, people with educations were forced into the fields and all books were burned. One of the last emperors ultimately became a gardener. The wife of Chiang Kai Shek sucked as much wealth as she could out of the country and ended up living in Washington, D.C. In the meantime, while the people were trying desperately to find a way, the rest of the free world was progressing. Sooner or later everyone wants an air conditioner. People aren’t blind. They can see when they have nothing and the rest of the world is driving cool cars and listening to rock ‘n’ roll.

So we steamed into Shanghai, (originally two words that mean “on the sea”) which is an example of a new China. Keep in mind that China is about the size of the continental United States yet has 900 million more people. Believe it or not, the birthrate is down. If you think that every family should have a bushel of kids, come to Shanghai and get a lesson in wild population growth and what it does for the quality of life. The reason that I’ve tossed in all this background is that it gives you a basis for what I will try to explain.

The population of Shanghai was 10 million in 1975. It’s the largest industrial city in China. There are 200 agricultural communities surrounding the city to supply food. There are 98 berths for large cargo ships and container vessels. There are 25 more for ships in the 10,000-ton range and 28 more for ships in the range of 4,500 metric tons. It took us 4 1/2 hours to motor up the Beicao Shuidao River from the Yellow Sea, before we grabbed another pilot for an hour and half ride down the Huangpu Jiang River to the port. The river continues past Shanghai, the sprawling city of high rise buildings. At night it’s impressive beyond belief.

I believe from the people I met that the residents of Shanghai are generally happy campers. They dress well, have good attitudes, are making livings like never before and are experiencing much of what the world has to offer. Perhaps they’re like kids in a city of candy stores. My perspective was entirely different. Not bad, but cautious.

Let’s have some fun first. The day we arrived I met with the captain to get some travel guidance. He had been up all night rumbling from one river to the next, one pilot to the next and, once we arrived, from one administration to the next. Our meat locker was immediately sealed. We were not allowed to eat meats from anywhere except the United States. Unfortunately, the Leon stocked up in Europe. It meant business for local merchants since we had to buy additional stores. In addition to the usual forms, we had to put in for a permit for naked light operation so that our fitter could continue to weld on the main deck during the day. Our sandblaster came down with a terrible tooth infection and was hauled off to a dentist who didn’t have modern tools. He finally received some antibiotics and pain killers. At first he told the dentist that the pain was so bad that he couldn’t sleep so the doctor gave him sleeping pills. I was told that the doctor’s drilling machine was powered by pedals. I was also told that some Chinese dentists are taught to do all their work by hand. They can pull a tooth with their muscular fingers. They train by pulling nails out of wood with only two digits. I started brushing my teeth several times a day.

We discovered quickly that it’s no problem to catch a cab. But unless you speak the language, you can’t go anywhere without a card with the address written on it in Chinese symbols. That includes the return cab drive back to the ship. It was critical here due to the hour-long ride to and from the ship. For the three-day stay, we all had to carry cards with our info so we could find our way back. We discovered that the best bet for getting to know an area is to take a cab to a fine hotel. The concierge will always assist (in most cases) with tour packages, or anything else you may need. Generally they speak English. I try to spend a couple of bucks in the hotel of my choice to show my appreciation. If we didn’t spend the night there, we ate dinner or bought souvenirs. In this case, we were recommended to check the brand new Grand Hyatt, located in an 88-story building, the largest building on the Pu Dong side of the river. I fortunately made contact with Butch, the founder of the Red Devils underground Motorcycle Club in Shanghai, who was a true brother and helped with travel pointers and some of the best chow we had. Another recommendation was the Peace Hotel. It’s an older, classic high-rise, built in 1906. It became our home base since the harbor was a good hour away over rough streets in cabs driven like they were in training for New York City status.

It was crowded everywhere, but the people were friendly and excited to try their English on us. People of all ages said hello when they saw us. There were a few Anglos about, but very few. I looked like a freak of nature, but the blonde was admired everywhere. Traffic was wall-to-wall mixed with trucks, constant construction equipment, buses, subways, trains and those buses that run on electrical lines. In addition to the four wheelers, the motorcycle traffic is immense, mostly scooters zipping between cars, and on the wrong side of the street, anywhere, to get where they were going. Then there were bicycles all over the goddamn place. Like the scooters, they were nothing fancy, just inexpensive, utilitarian motorcycles and three-speed bicycles by the millions. Most of them had faded paint and were spotted with rust. The streets are jungles of telephone poles, electrical wires, you name it. The face of this city has completely changed in the last 10 years. Wherever possible, someone is mowing down the older two-story homes and building grand high-rise apartments. But old traditions die hard. On a cab drive, we passed a sprawling old stucco housing track with gray plastered walls and pointed tile roofs.

The homes looked more like a ghetto of wire, filth and clothes hanging from windows. Next door was a new building but already air conditioners were hanging outside windows along with the laundry. On so many city street corners there were trees surrounded by concrete and asphalt. It’s wintertime so there were no leaves on the trees, which only added to the desolate look. Even in the midst of the city there was laundry hanging on the tree limbs next to a sprawling intersection. Behind the tree would be a vast ghetto of crumbling, two-story buildings built close together. Across the street could be a new high-rise office building as slick as New York. It was a strange juxtaposition. It sounds grim, I know, but the people dressed very well, smiled, got along and were pleasant. There was no vast difference in groups of people. They were all well dressed and on the move. I saw hardly any denims or T-shirts. Guy all wear slacks, pressed shirts and some sort of jacket. So it could have been that what looked like a ghetto to me was just another old apartment complex to them. Perhaps some were just older and more hammered than others.

Again, we were faced with every imaginable type of retail store. I was astonished by the number. On occasion we were told to go to Nanjing Road or Huahai Road for outstanding shopping, but I found shopping on every street in every direction. Butch also explained that the prices in Shanghai were the highest in the country, even higher than Hong Kong. Sharp-looking franchise shopping malls were perched next to rundown streets with stall-type shops faced with roll-up garage doors in front that housed hardware stores or scooter repair businesses. Everything was piled on everything else, and damnit if everything wasn’t packed with people.

To be perfectly honest, this type of lifestyle doesn’t do a damn thing for me. From what I’ve heard, this is happening all over China. Cities are expanding like crazy. In 1978, a law was passed that couples could only have one child. Since then it has been modified to allow couples made up of single children to bear two. I was recently told that if you have enough coin, you can buy a license to have another child.

It’s so odd that if you discuss the history with Europeans you get so many different slants and explanations. You would think that perhaps the citizens of Shanghai would like to put the European influence behind them and build anew. Where the Peace Hotel is, there are a series of high-rise buildings built from the late 1800s to 1927. The architecture of these buildings is common in Europe and the United States. They all were planted on Zhonghan Road, considered the Bund (water front), which borders the river. This is considered by the Chinese to be the street that represents Shanghai.

On the other side of the river is Pu Dong or the new neighborhood where the Grand Hyatt is and the Oriental Pearl TV Tower. It is 468 meters high. It is the highest TV tower of its kind in Asia and the third highest in the world. You can blast up into it for a price and see the city from the top. Until recently there was only one way to get across the river to Pu Dong and that was by ferry. Now there are bridges, ferries, tunnels and the Bund Sightseeing underground tunnel. It is the first passenger tunnel in China and takes riders on a psychedelic light show to the TV tower on the other side. The Grand Hyatt turned out to be inserted into the tallest high rise in the country called the Jin Mao building, named after Mao’s wife. It’s the third tallest building in the world.

So on one hand, the Anglos treated the Chinese poorly at times but never as poorly as the Japanese or some of the dictators who ran the country. So for some, the English and Europeans protected them from attacks, freed them from the Japanese during World War II and now they honor that heritage. Who the fuck knows from one moment to the next.

We finally got the hell out of Shanghai and arrived in Qingdao at 4 a.m. the next day. This is the city where the Chinese beer is produced. It is a half million strong and built up from a village in 10 years. We were docked and ready to go ashore at 9 a.m., but were not allowed. We didn’t receive our passports back until 4 p.m. It may have been that we were docked in a military portion of the port since destroyers surrounded us and there were eight submarines moored across the harbor. Originally, in the morning, the captain had told me that we only were off loading 14 items, two with the 250-metric ton Stuelcken crane and 12 out of the forward hold with the 20-ton cranes. As it turned out, the stevedores delayed work until all the paperwork formalities were handled. The captain had 70 forms to produce in the morning. The two large pieces were finally unloaded in the morning, then union lunch break was taken until 1 p.m. Then, after chow, five crates were moved. There was some discussion about the seven final crates. Some shifting was needed to reach some of the crates. Again, the stevedores shut down until they were assured that payment would be received for extra work.

Ultimately the projected three hour off-loading exercise turned into eight hours. The job was completed at 4 p.m. and a pilot was scheduled. He did not arrive and the time was switched to 4:30, then at 4:45, we were told that he would be aboard in five minutes. At 5:30 p.m. we were still waiting. We finally pulled out of the harbor at about 6 p.m. A soldier stood at the bottom of the gang plank all day. At one point there was a watch relief, but they had to exchange coats. There was only one between them.

Bund Tunnel

We usually steam into port, pass many waiting vessels and go immediately to a dock ready with stevedores. That is handled by the agent who gets to know the authorities, then greases their palms. It also has to do with the captain giving gifts to the administrators who come aboard. He explained that for every $100 spent on gifts and dinner, the ship saves as much as $6,000 for the expenses of anchoring outside the dock for one day waiting for a space. Since we were not allowed ashore, a couple of passengers were hopping mad and complained that we have been denied access to Berlin when we had the time to make the trip. We weren’t allowed off the ship in Newport News, Vietnam or now QingDao. Oops, I forgot to mention lovely Jakarta. I’m beginning to see a tradition of high rise cities that don’t do a damn thing for me. I suppose it’s not the cities but the crowds.

I appreciate the growth and progress for the people who live here, but frankly I want to see the traditions and the landscape. I would like to have dinner with a Chinese family, or get my ass home and ride over a lonely road in the desert, look at the latest American Indian jewelry and have a cold beer. Can’t wait.

Shanghai Sidebar:
Religion still wreaks havoc the world over. I found myself surrounded by relics of Buddhism. Some 60 percent of the Chinese population is Buddhist. The rest of the population is split between Christianity and Muslim. Here are just a couple of items I picked up on my hunt to find nirvana in a world at each others’ throats:

There are four states to Buddha: First is Buddha herself. Second is the many disciples. Laughing Buddha is the esteemed predecessor. He represents all things happy and the bright future. He is already set to fill the main man’s shoes at some point, but there are several others including the Goddess of Mercy who is always there to assist. There is Madison Buddha who represents everything healthy, Ameda Buddha who is the Happy Buddha and represents the future and Canodi Buddha who represents all that is current. There’s a third level, and I confirmed it, but goddamnit I can’t find it in my notes. The last is the people who are monks and nuns. The religion is set up so that anyone can become a Buddha.

A few notions of the Buddhist religion are that fish are highly regarded as the wisest being on earth, because fish never sleep or close their eyes. We should all have jade in our homes because it is full of energy that rubs off on all inhabitants. The years are based on 11 animals and the dragon. The dragon is the symbol of China. For instance, last year was the year of the snake, not a good year. This is the year of the horse, a very good year. I toured the Jade Temple that was built in 1882 and houses several vast jade carvings of Buddha from when she was 35 and before her death. That’s all I know or was taught as hundreds of people surrounded me to bow to their Buddhas with smoking incense clutched in their hands as I looked on and compared their temples to the ornate Christian and Catholic cathedrals in Europe. Similar in some respects and vastly different in others, but always impressive and foreboding.

Yesterday we pulled out of China for the last time. Next stop Masan, Korea. It’s another country that’s terribly over-populated, but I’ll report from there. Rumor has it that they don’t like Americans and we may be forced to stay on board the ship, but we’ll get to that later.

Two rules of thumb when making a trip like this. Don’t do it in the dead of winter. Not only is it so fucking cold it would freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but the vegetation is bleak and the grass looks as brown as desert sand. I’m sure some of the areas I report on would look much better with a taste of greenery. Second rule, make sure that the cabins on the ship have heaters. I’m discovering that I’m a person who likes the warmth and prefers heat over cold. Goddamnit, I’ll bundle up for anything, but when I return to my cabin I want the comfort of warmth and a woman. Is that too fuckin’ much to ask?

By the 24th of March I will have been bobbing from port to port for four months. I’m still bugging the captain about picking up a crate bound for San Pedro. Here’s the schedule as it stands: We’re a day from Korea. We’ll off load there for three days then steam for 18 hours to Yokohama, Japan for 24 hours of loading cargo bound for the U.S. Then after six hours of sailing to Hitachi for another 24 hours of loading and we’re bound for 17 days in calm seas to the Panama Canal. We’ll burn a day due to dealing with agents and inspectors trying to roll through the locks and into Lake Gatume, and out the locks and into the Caribbean bound for Houston another six days away.

Enough dreaming about being home and in the arms of my babe, let’s get to the China report. At last report, I mentioned the town of Qingdao, then 17 hours after departure we arrive at the peninsula that contains the port of Dalian.

This is the Zhong Shan Square in Dalian. Check out the buildings in the background.

By now I’m a blur of big cities all trying to over-rate the next one with the highest high-rise building or TV tower. This was the first city that contained no tours and after walking for a bit we discovered there was no need for a tour. It was a mess, but don’t get me wrong. Again the people seem pleased with the progress.

I’m reading a book about the history of Hong Kong as part of my research for my book project. In this book, “Hong Kong Remembers” it is explained that until 1980 there were no labor unions in Hong Kong. The book says that the labor unions in mainland China are run by the government, so not really unions at all. It’s only been in the last twenty years that the working man has enjoyed any rights or benefits. Think about it. If five years ago you still worked in a sweat shop 14 hours a day, 7 days a week without any benefits, you’d be mighty happy now if progress was afoot. So you wouldn’t be too concerned if you still worked in a building without air conditioning and the air quality stunk. The same philosophy applies to living conditions. These people are moving fast and ten years from now, they will be light years ahead of the curve and I’m sure making corrections that we are now facing in some of our over-built cities.

Dalian was again a city of transformation, but not a handsome joint in the winter, although prices were very reasonable and taxis cheap. It is based near the Gulf of Liaudong which was once controlled by the Russians until the Japanese took over in the ’30s. We visited an old street of Russian buildings. The classic ornate structures were being refurbished and turned into shops.

While roaming from shop to shop we met a young man who spoke English very well. He took us to a small restaurant where we ordered two dishes and they delivered enough food for a half dozen people, plus we had hot tea. The bill was slightly over two bucks US. So we went to the ultra luxurious Furama Hotel and had cappuccino and desert for $15.

A light desert at the Furama Hotel in Dalian

Once more, Dalian was very European with all the retail outlets we’ve seen in a number of countries, but the side streets are really where it’s at. The ship’s catastrophe afforded us in Dalian was the discovery that a 38 tons of sheet metal was buried deep in the hull under another level of cargo bound for other ports. It was the mistake of our planning superintendent in Europe. It took the stevedores eight hours to shift the cargo to reach the slabs of steel, and another eight hours of delay to unload the cargo, held us up for a day. The word on the ship is that Rickmers is a shifting company, not shipping. In the superintendent’s defense, it was the holiday season and all his comrades took the time off saddling him with over eight ships to manage and all the cargo. No an easy task.

The rusting Leon at the dock between stevedore shifts.

Our next port was again only a handful of hours away. Tianjin is located on the coast of the Gulf of Chihli or Bo Hai. The fog was unbelievable. For two days we couldn’t see a dam thing. Concerned that we were facing yet an additional Chinese port I pointed to a crate 80 feet long and asked the captain about the destination printed on the side which said Xingang. The captain in his usual humorous demeanor laughed, “That’s the port, Tianjin is just nearby.” Actually Tianjin was over an hour away. It’s confusing as hell. The port is called the Port of Tianjin, but is actually in Xingang and the nearest town is Tanggu. Tianjin might as well be on the other side of the world.

The Fog created a mysterious haze without color. Only the bleak shapes of ships could be seen.

The first day we took a cab to Tianjin. The roads were rough and all the cabs needed new shocks. The highways were well planned and under each interchange there was a park and some kind of sculptured art. Unfortunately due to the season the grass was far less than brilliant green and the trees stark wooden skeletons. Along the roads were building projects next to hovels surrounded by trash and dirt, next to abandoned industrial buildings, next to flea markets, next to older industrial buildings being torn down, next to strips of retail shops and lastly next to partially constructed industrial projects that looked deserted. There were people everywhere crossing the highway, on foot (brave souls) on bicycles, and motorcycles.

Cabbies peeled along constantly on the horn, driving on the wrong side of the street to pass a slower moving vehicle. I discovered that drivers making lefts and u-turns felt they had as much right-away as the through traffic. Being a biker I have much the same devil-may-care mentality as these drivers. You learn to dodge bullets wherever they come, much like these guys did jetting around and through traffic, bicycles and pedestrians whenever they got a shot. I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Tianjin was nothing to shout about. The food was great in the Hyatt hotel and the Astor had a Hua Fu dress I was trying to pick up for Sin Wu, but I decided to look further unsuccessfully. The streets again were jammed with bicycles and shops, but the people were comfortable and friendly, although we discovered that few knew English.

This is a common site throughout Chinese cities. A shop like this could be two doors from a new high-rise or a high fashion designer store.

The next day was a surprise. The coal dust whipped through the bumpy streets as it was being delivered to the port by trucks. We decided to hit the local town and we were picked up by a cute little female driver who was to deliver us to Tanggu. She didn’t leave the port through the gate but cut through a field of crushed buildings then across a series of old railroad tracks guarded by a small dilapidated building that was dark and crumbling. Even the post that blocked the road seemed to be on its last leg.

Perfect example of old and new mixed with a constant sprinkling of coal dust.

We were use to seeing destitute buildings parked next to new structures, but this was different. As we crossed the intersection to another gate or toll road we entered a twilight zone of sorts. The toll gate or whatever the hell it was, was state of the art. The pavement was new and wide with several lanes. Each building post and archway was high-tech and of wild design. It was as if the students at a local college were challenged to come up with eye-catching new forms for each structure. Who ever designed this stuff was no slouch. Each building we passed had a distinctly different design. Arches of stainless steel and white tile were cast over the road way as we rolled closer to town.

Each arch and building we came to was more modern, almost space aged. Someone was pouring a mint into the redevelopment and growth of the new Tanggu. It was unfortunate that it was winter and brisk. With some color, the area would have been downright impressive except for one demise. Coal dust was on everything. They needed to go back to the college with a new challenge, get this coal dust to market without killing people and making the city look like shit.

As we entered the downtown area and I was impressed beyond dreams. This portion of the city was a well-planned burgeoning area of high-rise and luxury hotels. Unfortunately, who the hell wants to travel around the globe to explore the new section of downtown Houston again? Tanggu is distant enough from tourism that few speak English and the hotel maps are only written in Chinese symbols. We were told of an area for shopping and grabbed another cab after obtaining little assistance from Hotel Tedu. The shopping area was just like a new mall in the states with marble pathways and department stores. Sure there were differences, but not the type we were looking for.

It wasn’t until the following day that we saw how the people of the city shopped. We went to a flea market of sorts in a down area of town. This time the cabbie escorted us through the crowed street and buffered us from the beggars who were plenty aggressive, pushing and shoving their empty tin cans in our direction. The swapmeet/fleamarket was a kick of wild booths containing anything from old electrical appliances and tools to ancient Chinese coins, brass dragons, knock-off watches, knives, toys, relics, carvings and bicycle parts. I scored a couple of small solid brass dragons for some kids in the states for less than four bucks apiece.

We departed there and went in search of Hua Fu dresses for Sin, after lunch in a revolving restaurant at the Tedu Hotel on the 33th floor over-looking the entire Tanggu fog soaked basin and the port. Wang our waitress was dressed in exactly the gown I was after. She was just as much of a knockout as Sin and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. The silk dress slid down her body as if it was my touch moving over her shapely hips. Unfortunately she spoke very little English, although I started asking her about the dress. She called for assistance, and no, I wasn’t asked to leave. Another cute Asian woman came to my aid. I drew a sketch of the dress I was after and we started to discuss options. Unfortunately everyone I asked told me to go back to Tianjin, but time wasn’t working in my favor. I was burning daylight.

Our devoted cabbie who was most helpful took me to several locations without a whisper of luck, then we hit on one of the myriad of bridal shops in town and scored some success, but no particular assortment and I had to purchase just the right one for Sin. I was forced to resort to plan B, of which I’m not sure of yet.

As usual, we were informed that departure would take place by noon the next day, but that wasn’t the case. We motored out of the harbor being escorted by two tug boats about 1600. A misty haze hung over the harbor again as we left and pulled out of another bleak harbor covered with coal dust. Even our Leon was coated with the black powder as we pulled away and out past the breakwater and the lighthouse. We passed 29 ships at anchor waiting for dock space, cargo and stevedore agreements to enter the port. Fortunately our Rickmers agents were doing their job again.

Lighthouse just outside the Xingang Harbor near Tanggu called Tianjin Port.

As we motored out of the harbor, I stood on the bridge with the Captain, 2nd officer and pilot. The pilot was a very well dressed agent. I generally stand off to the side to that I’m out of the way as they deal with ship traffic, navigation, small boats and communications with the port. The Captain usually comes to me with reports of hazards, administration nightmares, customs or immigration tribulations. This time he mentioned to the agent that I was a passenger from America and the agent spoke good English and approached me. Most of the time the agents are very focused on their mission and simply bark orders and leave.

This agent wearing a navy blue double-breasted blazer with gold buttons and a golden patterned tie was impressive and friendly. The agents in each port dress differently. This guy looked like an executive not a seaman. He told me he had been an agent for 20 years and had never seen an American flag ship. He also mentioned that he had never experienced a crew of American seamen or officers. We don’t build ships in the states anymore. We can’t compete with China or Japan. Americans are not hired on the ships because they’re too expensive. In fact, we noticed that few Germans are seaman for the same reason. Pilipino crews mostly man the ships and many have Polish officers.

I wish I had met this agent on the trip into port. I would have known exactly where to go and where to avoid. A critical learning process in every port is becoming acclimated. About the time you know the town or area, it’s time to split.

A scene from a street we stumbled onto since we didn’t have a guide to show us the right way.

It’s too bad that guides are not available to assist. The ports and towns could make a lot more money off passengers if they could obtain the proper information quicker. A couple of passengers wanted to go to Peking, which is now Beijing and beyond to see the great wall, but due to misinformation were never able to get away from the ship or get the information in order to make the trip. As it turned out we would have had plenty of time if the data was available.

Next report from Masan, Korea.