Hong Kong

Up until now things have followed a nice, easy linear kind of pattern. One port, one blog post. It may be familiar and comfortable but I'm afraid things are about to change, and not entirely out of laziness on my part. We will, for a little while at least, be adopting a one-to-many model popularised by relational database methods pioneered in the 1970s. Or, to put it another way, there are a lot of ports coming up in quick succession, so I am being lazy, and hiding behind a convenient comparison.

It's five long days at sea since we left Australia, five sea days which have borne mostly good weather and so it's with a spring on our step that we bound down the gangway at Kota Kinabulu, on the island of Borneo, though part of Malaysia in the Sabah province. Got all that? Thankfully known as KK, Kota Kinabulu is the main port and resort town of Malaysian Borneo, although quite honestly it's got a little bit of work to do before it impresses the formidable Yorkshire army onboard who grew up with Cleethorpes as a yardstick. Nevertheless Borneo has an exotic ring that, alongside Timbuktu and Outer Mongolia, bring back childhood memories of faraway lands that I never imagined I'd see. We travel into town early and it soon transpires that nothing really wakes up until about 10ish. It's only about 8.30 so we have a walk around to see what's what. It's already very hot, definitely not trekking weather and a contributory factor to what happens next. We round a corner towards the harbour and are hit by a quite unbelievable stench, a fragrance I never wish to experience again (although I did a few days later). I don't want to be the one perpetuating myths of primitive practices in tropical lands - for example Malaysia has seemingly ubiquitous free wireless internet that shames the UK - but it wasn't hard to see where the smell came from. Running alongside the road was a trench around three feet deep and half as wide, an open sewer. In itself maybe not too much of an issue for the broad-minded, but a few yards from us were a group of men literally shovelling shit out of it onto plastic sheets on the road that some poor bugger was tying up to be transported to God knows where. I can only guess that the job of Sanitation Maintenance Operative must be pretty far down the scale in Malaysia.

The sight would be enough to make anyone run for the hills. In our case we made a run for the Shangri La, a resort just along the coast that I had been hoping to avoid resorting to. Four of us hailed a cab and were transported to a world of yacht clubs and air conditioning. The Shangri La chain is an upmarket one with resorts all over south east Asia and beyond, and it was the refuge we needed until KK opened for business (and also dispensed all its effluent). After few hours in the sun and a quite fantastic Malaysian lunch we headed back to town where the markets had opened and things were a lot livelier. For all that, KK is, I'm afraid, a bit shabby looking without managing to look charming with it, quite a notable feat. However, as with most places in that part of the world, your money goes a long way and the people are exceptionally friendly to the point where your Western cynicism kicks in and you suspect it's a ruse. I did talk to a few passengers who ventured on excursions into the hills beyond and they reported it was quite beautiful. Some went to see Orang Utans, which I now regret not doing, as it would have been easy to spin a catchy headline out of monkeys.

So KK was OK, but everyone already had one eye on the next stop, Hong Kong. After the dramatic setting of our Sydney stop we were equally excited about docking in the shadow of the famous HK skyline. Imagine, then, the sinking feeling we got when the captain's opening gambit on an unscheduled tannoy announcement concerned the fluid nature of port arrangements. We all knew what was coming. Yep, we had been relegated to the container port, a thirty minute bus ride from the Ocean terminal advertised on the brochure, apparently because the Ocean terminal is owned by Star Ferries, whose own vessels take precedence. I'm sure it is indeed the case, but no-one cared why, and the rumour mill was soon at full tilt, causing murmurs of discontent to reach fever pitch within hours. A haggard-looking front of house manager who we have grown to know pleasantly told me where to go when I innocently enquired how his day had been. Reception, it seems, had taken the brunt of passenger wrath.

Despite all this, we arrive in Hong Kong and it's great, and we're happy. The container port is the size of Brighton and is itself a perverse kind of attraction; driving through this city of container tower blocks, with enormous cranes moving like crabs between the rows is quite a sight, although one I would have foregone to be docked right in town. We are dropped off in downtown Kowloon next to the Ocean Terminal where we should have docked - kind of a Bullseye moment where you are shown the caravan you could have won if you hadn't fluffed the final dart. Kowloon is mainland China, but still remains a little fiefdom of Hong Kong. It's also next to what proves to be one of several palatial shopping malls where oceans of freshly cleaned white marble floors host every designer label under the sun. The malls are always curiously quiet, with procelain-faced assistants impassively radiating disdain at the passing customers,  who walk on by feeling unworthy and a little scared. Money talks here, and if you look like you can't afford Louis Vitton everything then you get to know about it.

The Star Ferries terminal also takes you over Victoria Harbour to Hong Kong Island. The iconic ferries ping back and forward all day for around 20 pence per journey and link into the underground and bus networks (Hong Kong is yet another major city with cheap, integrated, reliable public transport that Londoners would kill for). We hang out at the terminal as once again we are hooking up with another old friend, reinforcing the idea that we are the only ones that have not managed to make it out of the UK. Alan emerges from the ferry terminal and takes us to Nathan Road, the main drag in Kowloon where every cubic foot of space is used as billboards. Adverts fill the sky, traversing roads, adorning buildings, hovering above over the traffic, in neon, in Mandarin, in English. On the ground, your every step is dogged by enquiries about tailored suits, for which Hong Kong is justifiably famous. I'm tempted, but only wear a suit these days for the proverbial court appearance so we press on to the night markets (which are open during the day as well), starting at the disarmingly named Ladies market. It's here that I prove spectacularly dismal at haggling and Alan steps in, settling for half the original amount (I can't tell what I bought as its a surprise for someone).

The slopes of the island are crammed with office blocks and, as you progress up, apartment blocks, all packed close like penguins huddled together on an ice flow. Apartments are at a premium, rents are extortionate but the views at night over the city can be incredible, as is Alan's from his apartment on the upper slopes of the popular mid-levels district. Hong Kong is steep, and a remarkable commuter solution is a set of outdoor covered escalators that stretch over 800m all the way from town (central) up to the residential mid-levels area, breaking for streets here and there. The escalators run downhill until 10am and then change direction to save the legs of returning commuters. There are a chain of twenty in total, and as well as helping thousands get to work, they have also become a tourist attraction and are subsequently lined with bars and restaurants. Part of the lower mid-levels (I know, I know) is now known as SoHo and boasts bar after bar where ex-pat workers and tourists gather on streets for a happy hour drink. Wine and beer are pricey all over the island, although everyone runs a happy hour from 4pm until 8ish that isn't a signal for binge drinking, simply an armistice to give punters the opportunity to get a beer for less than four pounds. Despite being handed back by the Brits in 1997, it's still full of white men in either pin-stripe suits (work) or the jeans/jacket/polo shirt combo (dress down Friday or weekends) so beloved of Putney Man back in England.

A short bus ride through the skyscrapers of central, past the Happy Valley racecourse and through a mountain tunnel brings you out into a different world of untouched hillsides and neat little beach resorts. After the bus is thrown around the narrow mountain roads by a impatient driver we reach Stanley, famous for it's market, but also the perfect place to spend a sunny afternoon away from the bustle of the city. Cafes line the beach, they are showing the English Premiership highlights and the beer is cheaper, a good start. The market is a step up from the usual knock-offs and has some quality good on show. We leave with silk shirts for his lordship and a football shirt for me.

We had planned to get the tram up to Victoria Peak but mist is obscuring the top. Having taken far too much currency from the ATM in an arithmetic blip, and, as we have established, being just a little bit of a snob, we finish the day in style in the chic cocktail bars that look out over Victoria harbour. The sun goes down and the lights come on and, though I've banged on about various skylines, this one really is up there, a Bladerunner set made flesh. Also, unlike a lot of things, Hong Kong also looks good through the bottom of a glass.