Slow Boat to the Orient
Several years ago, we emigrated from the UK to Hong Kong. Unusual in itself, you might say, but for something completely different and certainly a little wacky, we used an ocean liner for the purpose
It would be fair to say the origin of this adventure lies, quite serendipitously, with actor Ian McShane and a TV ad for a world cruise. This is that story.
Think of a cross between Grand Tour and Relocation, Relocation, and you'll get the idea: a chaotic packing up — lugging stuff aboard a ship heading out east — the inevitable angst — passengers' reaction to our quest — the joys of cruising — delivering basic language classes — a surprise welcome in Hong Kong.
A longish read, 30–40 minutes, with, auspiciously, 8888 words — well, it was a slow boat to China, after all! So, grab a comfy chair, fave tipple to hand; imagine the sun on your face, the wind ruffling your hair, and the swell of a mighty ocean. Unless, of course, you're already on a ship, in which case there's no need to imagine. Ready? Let's go —
TO THE ORIENT!
Absurd! Yes, totally absurd. But we knew this was it; our moment had come. The absurdity lay not with the journey itself but in the timing, transport, and how a serendipitous intervention, after years of procrastination, astounded all, including ourselves.
Indeed, that procrastination — loads of ideas but never a coherent schedule — ended swiftly thanks to that well-known British film and TV actor, Ian McShane. No, not a personal acquaintance as such, but facing a cool autumn in Nottingham, we'd taken to watching his popular comedy-drama, Lovejoy, on — quite unusually for us — daytime TV.
Luckily, we did, as one episode came up trumps for reasons other than quality of acting or production. During a commercial break, an advert aired — in fact, the only time we ever saw it — for Fred Olsen Cruise Lines, who, in January, would be sailing a vessel out east under the apt moniker of Far East Explorer. The ad's exotic, sun-drenched imagery certainly piqued our curiosity, which lay in the route taken more than anything else. And, being interested in that sort of thing, we promptly checked it online. A circuitous passage for sure, but yes, there it was — the destination of our intended journey had also been included!
A divine intervention, surely? With cogs creaking, this could be opportune, we prudently reasoned. Might both be combined? Quite persuasively, the ship departed at a convenient date, in the right direction, and the fare seemed fair — but no small change all the same. It was too good a chance to miss. So, with only minor deliberation, we yielded to the joys of spontaneity and plunged in. Our UK getaway thus finally agreed, booked, and paid for that day. Impulsive, certainly, yet pleasingly reassuring — not an action born of teen spirit exactly — those years had long gone. Furthermore, our escape thus gained not only an itinerary but a mini adventure too.
We always insisted — if ever getting around to it — that such a bold move should also be fun. This mode fitted all criteria, and although we're not cruisers per se, a long voyage, traversing seas, oceans, and distant ports, appealed to the dormant explorer within. After all, why waste 12 hours on a direct flight when you can achieve much the same in 70 days? Duration, incidentally, wasn't an issue; we'd already quit work in favour of the good life and sold our house. So, quite literally, a sea change from a usual departure, and on a one-way ticket too. We had no plans to return. In fact, after casting off, there were no significant plans at all.
As to the reasons for our leaving, it remains difficult to put a finger on any one factor. We simply craved a change — a big one — the sort that demands a little excitement and daring. Years of not entirely unpleasant inertia had also elicited, despite being native, a diminishing sense of belonging. Cause and effect: it was time to go.
Emigration, by any other name then. But why the Far East, and where exactly? Well, having mulled over many an eligible location, our preference fell to a deliciously crazy city in which, for the record, we both had previous, albeit a decade before: Hong Kong.
Yes, the clamour and colour of Asia, and especially Hong Kong, could still float our boat. We'd concluded, therefore, that adopting a better-the-devil-you-know approach might work best for this type of escapade. Advantageously, moreover, we both held the emigrant’s Holy Grail, the right of abode clinched via seven years' residency during our first stint. We could sail straight in — no leaping through bureaucratic hoops to secure visas or justifying ourselves on a points-entry system. Perfect!
So, with travel sorted in a flash, the tricky bit followed. Banished instantly were dreamy visions of romantic sunsets and languorous days at sea. We had a set departure date — three months hence — to work to. It was time to shift; no more drifting — all hands on deck!
That tricky bit involved a ruthless jettison of life's deadweight. A frenetic period of batting about which they understandably fail to show on Relocation, Relocation — hopefuls would cower in terror if they did. We chose some personal effects to carry aboard or for Ballards removals to store and dispatch on receipt of an address. It felt quite bewildering, exploring new depths of doubt and anxiety while hoping all would work out for the common good. A lot to take in: were we really going to lug a pile of stuff aboard an ocean liner in what had essentially become a house-moving exercise? Seemed so.
It all merged into a tense, multi-ball juggle to sort possessions, finances, cruise connections, insurance, hotel booking, and, as route dictated, multiple-entry visas for India and China, by post. This, left as late as we dared. Mailed too early, visa 'Enter Before' dates could be compromised, too late, and passports might not be returned in time to join the ship. A nail-biting period — not for the faint-hearted. Thankfully, Advent, snow, or strikes failed to hinder, and our juggling beat held with not a single ball dropped.
At last, departure day dawned. We'd laid our luggage, pared down to 16 bags, on the front garden, as if a yard sale, before shoving all into a Southampton-bound taxi. The neighbours must have thought we were doing a flit, though it reminded more of an amusing snippet from Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals. Especially carrying an odd assortment of paraphernalia, including an overbearing teddy (Jasper, a Hong Konger who had inadvertently entered our lives — at one time believed to be a triad drop stuffed with cocaine, but that’s another story) and a dragon boat paddle, maybe useful, journey considered. It seemed more like a pantomime; did people really emigrate like this? They did now! Fortunately, being early on a Sunday, few were around to witness this bizarre spectacle.
The 180-mile drive south on that cold, sunny morning had me pondering a little conundrum: were we leaving home or going home? I wasn't sure; perhaps home is a state of mind only, and a time-dependent one at that. Despite spending a large chunk of my working life abroad, relocating on a whim would be a first, similarly to the relinquishing of a permanent bolthole in England. With the occasional sidelong glance issued nervously in my direction, I could tell the driver regarded our story as highly improbable. Possibly, he'd surmised to his eminent satisfaction that we were on the run and a crowded harbour offered the more anonymous mode of evasion. A few hours of motorway tedium can have that effect.
Although people travelled like this well before budget flights — or any flights at all, for that matter — it soon became clear at Southampton Port that things had mightily changed. No match, style-wise, for the swish £300 gliders of the cool cruisers, our baggage — the quarter-century-old, ten-quid cases from Wilko plus some tired backpacks — had nonetheless seen us through umpteen far less-desirable undertakings. And so, with the air of seasoned emigrants, the ragtag and bobtail element of the manifest entered a sequin-encrusted, parallel universe. Not an ideal fit — our shabby, well-worn traveller look. I fancy we may have been viewed as quite unseemly, or worse, dubious sods more suited to a police lineup. My imagination! Contrastingly, it seemed quite surreal. We, on a ticket of no return, the well-to-dos on the holiday of a lifetime. We couldn’t resist an empathetic nod to the likes of steerage-Jack in Titanic. We certainly looked the part.
Hours later, with a wintry dusk encroaching, the ship's horn announced that Fred’s pride had slipped her moorings on a journey, quite literally, to the other side of the world. Stood aside the ship's rail, waving bye-bye to Blighty, a feeling of angst as another phase of our lives receded slowly into the distance. A last look at England. There'll be a ground frost up there tonight, I thought as we headed south into the gloaming. With all the hectic activity of the previous weeks out of the way, the notion of moving house, country, and continent by sea had at last sunk in. How insane I wryly mused, but doing it we were, and the time for turning back, if needed, had long since passed. A faraway lighthouse flashed its warning as we turned to go indoors.
Under cover of darkness, our conveyance made her way down the River Test and into the English Channel. The day had taken its toll, and, unsurprisingly, we slept deeply that night. For those of a maritime bent, the ship in question was the MV Balmoral, a trusty seagoing vessel belonging to the old school of naval architecture. Old school in that it resembled an ocean liner, fit for purpose, handsomely discernible within a sea of brash modernity.
Easily accessible and welcoming, MV Balmoral held around 1300 passengers. Small enough to get to know fellow guests, crew, and officers. Our cabin occupied an internal location minus portholes, deep in the throbbing bowels and towards the rear. Although small, it appeared clean and comfortable, ergonomically arranged while exuding a restful tone of pastel green. Aside from two single beds, set at right angles against the far wall, were an easy chair, a desk with a chest of drawers, a coffee table, and a sizable closet. Together with under-bed storage, our clobber could be easily stowed, well out of sight. Not at all claustrophobic — better than expected — it would do nicely for the duration. Facilitating ablutions, a tiny bathroom unit ably served its purpose.
The next morning, we awoke refreshed with the realisation that we'd actually done it. Well and truly on our way, we'd launched ourselves out upon the high seas. A sense of relief flooded over us. Even if we wanted, there was nothing we could do but sit back and enjoy the ride. On the first full day aboard, we set about, after a decent breakfast, organising our temporary home. Much to everyone's relief, the Bay of Biscay presented unusually forgiving seas in place of the expected vicious swells and lashing winds.
Jasper instantly bagged the easy chair, kicking off elevenses with a fresh pack of custard creams. Although our cabin hadn't come with the requisite ocean view, regular morning visits and affectionate hugs from the young and pretty Chloe, the delightful Thai housekeeper, proved ample compensation. He is particularly partial to this sort of attention. They bonded famously, but then all the nice girls love a sailor, proffered Jasper, his maritime reputation clearly preceding him.
Mediterranean Sea: mature orange trees, fruiting and fragrant, infused a dreamy aura into the old streets of MALAGA. While people-watching — very stylish, the Spaniards — we sipped coffee at a roadside plaza before replenishing in-cabin contraband at a small tabac.
Unlike flying, ship journeys allow one to connect with fellow passengers, a prime aspect of slow travel. MV Balmoral stocked a fairly mixed bag alongside a few expected stereotypes. Lifted straight from an Agatha Christie novel came tweed and pearl-suited dames, retired naval captains, academics, and, adding traction to any such cohort, the affable ship's chaplain dispensing hope and comfort throughout.
Equally loquacious, they played their parts admirably, all endowed with an inexhaustible supply of comical, if not outrageous, anecdotes. They filled the ship with personality. Educated and cultured, warm and friendly, their wealth was not apparent. Evident only would be a determination to enjoy life to the full and a longing for the adventure that lay ahead. It is true to say then that such a voyage attracted folk like us who might be getting on a bit, those with that most valuable of currencies: time. Mainly Europeans, by the way, predominantly British and Dutch.
Mediterranean Sea: as if shadowing the Knights of St. John, the splendid baroque facades of VALLETA guided us through shaded, narrow lanes and courtyards. Fine views of the limestone cityscape, bustling port, and sea were admired from high upon Saluting Battery. Funnily enough, our destination considered, we enjoyed a brief chat with a group of Chinese students from Stockholm, of all places. Touchingly, on sailaway, a small boy held by dad waved sweetly from the quay, right at us, until losing sight.
The farther south we progressed, the hitherto crisp, cold wind, which had most folk taking refuge indoors by the hot drinks machine, gradually gave way to warm, bright days and the emergence of bodies on deck, us included. After a long winter, instantly appreciable would be the quest for beneficial sunshine and revitalising sea air.
Effectively identifying us, to the extent folks knew exactly where we'd be, a table on the starboard side marked our camp. Those enjoying a deck perambulation often stopped by, including the first officer who chatted keenly on the ways of the sea and, doing likewise, the kindly chaplain, intuiting that we might be in desperate need of salvation. Any on-board psychiatrists had yet to reach out.
Mediterranean Sea: PORT SAID stood a little scruffy in an edgy, almost charming sort of way; people thronged the pavements, and slow-moving traffic hogged the roads. Rudyard Kipling suggested that if you want to find someone you know who might also be a traveller, then London docks and Port Said are the two places to sit and wait; 'sooner or later, your man will come there'. Some time passed, but nobody turned up, and so, indifferent, we meandered unhurriedly back to the quay.
For the explorer, Port Said occupies a significant convergence: Europe meets Africa meets Arabia. Evidenced on embarkation, as we motioned past the city's historic lighthouse, the dishevelled verandahs and shutters of colonial tenements, and the majestic domes and pinnacles of Islam. To safely attain the other side, small vehicle ferries aimed daringly and with precision timing for the gaps between passing behemoths such as ours. Thus, MV Balmoral continued carefully down this watery slip lane to merge with the Suez Canal and the overnight convoy south.
Red Sea: to connect with an inland tour, SAFAGA itself offered very little. A brief port walk to stretch legs, though broken-up hardstanding, construction traffic and other vehicles deterred further exploration.
Given the dangerous waters into which the ship had encroached, the now fatigue-clad crew had dutifully sited anti-pirate water cannons and lethal razor wire at strategic locations. Additionally, passengers were obliged to perform safe-haven drills alongside the regular muster versions. All well and good, however, intrigue ratcheted up a few notches when, James Bond-style, a high-speed Royal Navy launch appeared from nowhere, drawing alongside to transfer arms and security agents under a rapidly falling dusk. Job done; it shot off with equal haste into the half-light.
Redolent of the old Cadbury adverts in which a similar agent delivers, with exceptional derring-do, confectionery to a mystery recipient, seldom seen: 'And all because the Lady loves Milk Tray,' the velvety voiceover assured us. We checked the cabin afterwards, but no delivery. Just as well, perhaps, not to our taste, a Melton Mowbray pork pie, on the other hand, wouldn't have gone amiss — Royal Navy commandos, please take note.
Red Sea: SHARM EL-SHEIKH seemed a busy resort popular with beachgoers. Buoyed by a potent Arabic coffee, a brisk amble along the sunny, crescent-shaped bay followed.
Once known, interest in our sojourn gathered pace. The fact that some interviewers were visibly awestruck by this audacious manoeuvre felt quite humbling. So much more than a standard cruise, they surmised, when there's no homeward-bound conclusion. Explaining how we came to be doing this presented some difficulty; we were moving in a direction to which most could never quite relate, a true test of nerve and resolution. Somewhere, at the end of all this water, a new life awaited. To most, the idea of trying something offbeat and seeing where it led seemed entirely alien. 'Plucky,' opined some, 'intrepid,' suggested others. Only one or two inferred we were more than a little cracked. We couldn't blame them; even to us, the tale's absurdity mushroomed with each successive telling.
Red Sea: cast sharp and ragged against the bright morning sky, the hills of AQABA certainly offered credence to the heroic exploits of TE Lawrence. An attractive harbour, easy to stroll, and, located at the crossroads of Africa and Asia, geographically significant.
As human nature dictates, passengers soon divided into kindred groups. The keen cruisers often heard comparing preferred lines and routes, extolling the joys of Thomson's Med sailings or P&O's fabulous fjords. Who knew? Then came the more restless types, who combined to suffer, with limitless enthusiasm, every game and activity listed on the daily agenda. Good for them! In contrast, came the more solitary figures and couples, mostly convalescent, who generally kept themselves to themselves.
As I think we occupied a sort of neutral ground, they may have revealed — heart and soul — a little more to us than might be needed. Perhaps confiding in strangers is easier to do. Facing life's inevitabilities, they related chronic illness, past and present personal scars, and now this, alluding to their final prospect for such a prolonged and far-flung peregrination. Some heartbreaking conversations, for which consoling words seemed wholly inadequate. Sadly, even with a chest full of pharmaceuticals, not all these people would make it home. Worse things really do happen at sea.
Arabian Sea: an unplanned call at SALALAH to deposit three very ill passengers. Highly dramatic, especially after another had been helicoptered off by the Royal Air Force of Oman earlier that day. As a result, a scheduled call at the Emirate of Fujairah was cancelled. To compound the situation, the King of Saudi Arabia had passed away, necessitating a respectful pause to our departure.
Bobbing about the oceans, it struck us that in this admittedly placid situation, we were entirely homeless, having neither a place we could return to nor one to which we could feasibly move. We had achieved, for the first time, the status of no-fixed-abode. The only trace of our existence lay strewn around a small cabin several decks below. A peculiar sensation. Behind us, a churning white wake trailed back towards our past, memories gradually dissipating like vapour with every nautical mile sailed. Ahead lay a nebulous haze of what might be, still undefined, as if staring into thick sea mist. Lost in space. Caught somewhat captively in a curious limbo, previous and future anxieties lay elsewhere. Out of sight, out of mind. Living in the now, they call it; a strange kind of peace, carefree spirits connecting only with our surroundings of sea and ship.
Gulf of Oman: crenulated crags towering over idling dhows defined our approach to the port of MUSCAT, pleasingly set with a scenic corniche extending from the commercial waterfront way up to a clifftop park. Anchored in the bay, a pair of Royal Yachts provided a showy touch of opulence.
Ship lounging, I must admit, constitutes an entirely gratifying pursuit — the art of doing nothing. An art in which we found ourselves to be remarkably adept. Looking out upon a splendid undulating sea, it's easy to lose touch with reality as the mind drifts off. Feeling small and inconsequential, one's gaze is drawn hypnotically into an azure deep, and cloudless sky. Most of the time, that's all there is, save for the odd vessel or dolphin. The effect is mildly intoxicating, a sensation of calm and floating, of being uplifted in a space where the principles of time do not apply. The next morning, greeting the blue as if an old pal, one contentedly does it all again. Throw in a good book and bliss, such leisurely pursuits disrupted only for sustenance, and the Master's Report: nautical and weather information relayed via the Bridge at noon.
Gulf of Oman: ABU DHABI, our first emirate call, then DUBAI. Both, fabled swathes of curtain-walled commerce — but no Shahrazad, djinns, or magic carpets, sadly. Nonetheless, we marvelled at the towering Burj Khalif gleaming in the sunshine and, further down port, the much-loved QE2, awaiting hotel conversion.
The deck was often commandeered, under the guise of exercise, by those wishing to tackle several brisk laps of the vessel — four laps equalled one mile. Belting round in close communion, groups comprised several in this habit; a task approached with the subtlety of a runaway train. Trooping the deck with a thunderous boom must have convinced those occupying the cabins beneath of a significant meteorological event.
Every minute, they'd reappear with the monotony of a kid's toy set, minus the charm. Admirable restraint that no limbs were accidentally extended — the devil lurks within — to derail the odd passing wagon. Funnily enough, the practice reduced markedly following disembarkation of the Egyptologists and Arabists. Lapping with far less gusto, those heading to the Orient had evidently embraced Buddha's serenity.
Laccadive Sea: outside Ballard Dock in MUMBAI, children played cricket in the street, the wicket sacrosanct regardless of irate, honking motorists who simply had to wait until the end of each over. A well-attended classic car rally fascinated, and later, at the Gateway of India, we mingled with Indian families keenly snapping photos, colourful saris superb against a backdrop of yellow basalt. As the heat began to tell, a blast of much-needed aircon at the iconic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel restored our equanimity.
As the days rolled on, a carefree mood enveloped the vessel. Time passed easily. Filtered by the lifeboats, sunshine splashed a dappled glow across the deck as floppy straw hats shaded avid readers, iced Pimm's clinked, and the scent of sunscreen carried on a salty sea breeze. Imagine the setting, as if captured on a vintage travel poster. Ageless glamour and understated elegance — selling the dream in vivid, happy colours. I could see us similarly framed: a 1950s cruise slogan, GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN, in Art Deco typeface emblazoned above; GRACIOUS LIVING AT ITS BEST, squeezed in below. Picture perfect!
Laccadive Sea: at KOCHI, the fabulously named Willingdon Island afforded an interesting potter between British-era port buildings, while the lavish Taj Hotel provided refreshments at a picturesque waterside location.
As the sun crept slowly over the yardarm, or ship's antenna, it signalled time to begin that most sublime of crepuscular activities: sundowners. Could there be a more magical way to usher in the evening than imbibing a few rejuvenating G&Ts and watching a twilit world glide slowly past? Nope. It's so easy to give oneself over to this delight. With an end-of-day iridescence and the shifting hues of the sea, the ocean vista would steadily darken to set us up for a fine and balmy evening.
We elected to partake in dinner at the Palms Café, a casual, anytime buffet of excellent quality. Not for us the starchy à la carte alternative, an eventuality for which we hadn't even packed. Funnily enough, fine dining might be pleasing to the eye, but, proving a little too fine for some, à la carte frequenters were often clocked creeping furtively into the Palms later for much-needed, top-up portions. Meanwhile, nicely sated, we forwent evening entertainment and returned deckside for quietude and another slug of wine. Romantically, our communion with the sea continued. Ships passed silently in the night as moonlight cast silvery ribbons over a gentle swell. The knowing maître d' had our measure and kept us well oiled, but if only a few sheets to the wind, then, well, best uncork another, chat, and scan the never-ending dark some more.
Laccadive Sea: despite a patient wait, swells scuppered our visit to GALLE, we could only content ourselves with distant views of the iconic lighthouse and mosque. Disappointment for all, but what can you do?
While riding the waves, onboard activities continued relentlessly. We attended the odd murder mystery play, cultural lecture, and informative port talk. Interestingly, however, we couldn't help but detect another type of cruiser, one afflicted by a certain restlessness that appeared to proliferate in proportion to the number of days at sea. For them, beset by monotony, maintaining sanity may have proved dauntingly touch-and-go. With the ship tightly moored, this passenger seemed happier only with backside planted firmly on chosen excursion coach, hurtling off to an overcrowded tourist hotspot. To this end, Fred supplied numerous enticing trips in all shapes and sizes.
Although yearned for by many, we, having other fish to fry, refrained and amused ourselves with either a nose around the port city, if possible, or remaining aboard to feast upon a cornucopia of quayside activity. With most bodies absent, a quiet and unhurried mood stole instantly over the ship, not unlike the stillness resulting from the departure of overstaying party guests on a Sunday afternoon. An emptiness evocative of the Mary Celeste, blissful silence, a delightfully vacant peace worn gracefully and gratefully by the skeleton crew, serving staff, and us.
Bay of Bengal: PORT BLAIR is not a well-known city, nor is it easily reached. The inclusion, therefore, of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands on the itinerary proved beneficial. My only knowledge came via a mention in Conan Doyle's The Sign of the Four: Holmes having to dodge the odd poison arrow or two. Aside from a prominent gold statue of Gandhi, the place appeared colourful, hot, smelly, chaotic — a mini-India of sorts — and, thereby, instantly likeable. But no lethal projectiles — more chance of being zonked by a leather-faced sphere issuing from a kids' cricket match held on a plateau overlooking the port, the lanky one at the crease slogging the odd, magnificent sixer. Also, upliftingly to us at least, dockside warehouses bore the word GODOWN above each entrance, a Malay term soon familiar when journeying across Southeast Asia.
That day in Port Blair, day 35, to be exact, logged the midpoint of our journey, timewise. Interestingly, had we adopted more conventional travel, then our destination would have been achieved 34 days earlier. For us, then, another 35 to go. Much longer for those doing it all — 85 for them. Enamoured, some passengers openly professed they'd be thrilled if the cruise never ended. And we could see the attraction with every little thing provided, albeit at a cost. Tranquillity is effortlessly embraced, while those dastardly niggles arising in the parallel real world, a world in flux, slowly dissolve with the splashing of every wave. And why not? It can be done, Mrs. Muller on the QE2 springs to mind. Hard to say if we'd ever warm to the cruise concept, though we still had time in which to do so.
Bay of Bengal: having visited YANGON previously, a lively hawker area and railway line outside the Thilawa Port proved a fitting alternative on this occasion.
For days we ploughed through nothingness, a reminder of how remote our passage lay from the outside world. No mileage markers, obviously, but well-sailed routes to which centuries of mariners could attest. On a deck promenade, only the gentle swish of movement disrupted reverie, the sun's rays flickering invitingly across the waves as flying fish and dolphins kept pace alongside — enchanting and therapeutic. The effect was mildly narcotic, a natural high that could lure one happily over the edge to join in. I didn't, of course, consoling myself instead, as if on a dinghy, with a palm skimmed figuratively across the surface, appreciative of the life that thrived below — or what was left of it.
That sunny ambiance would persist until rounding the prow, which, by contrast, unfailingly attracted sharp, ceaseless winds. Curiously, in a forward-facing, superstructure recess, a pair of twitchers had nested. A pleasant couple, fervently enthusiastic, would remain encamped there for much of the day. We were never too sure if they met with any great sightings, apart from the occasional booby. Amusingly, by donning extra windcheaters over several weeks, they seemingly transmogrified, uncannily, into avian form. The long, sheening dark attire, peaked hats, and hoods provided the perfect embodiment. At last, we rejoiced — a real onboard murder — two lustred crows. Almost expected would be the flapping of wings and ear-piercing caws. We wished them well on their seasonal southerly migration.
Strait of Malacca: The PORT KLANG terminal building enthralled, fittingly created in a vernacular, Malay-style gambrel roof with observation turrets. Wisely, however, traditional bamboo and thatch had given way to more contemporary materials. Congratulations to the architects; their design intent clearly achieved. At first sight, travellers can rest easy knowing that this is indeed the start of their Malaysian venture.
It might have been a snatched view of the Senoko Power Station, where I'd worked briefly long ago, or the sight of the Fullerton Hotel, where we'd stayed a few times, also long ago; possibly an upsurge in thermal haze or an increase in light intensity; but, entry into the Singapore Strait produced the strongest inkling yet that we were almost home. Journeying back in time, you could say. This was our territory. In anticipation, our excitement grew. The strait is particularly narrow at this point, teeming with all manner of maritime traffic. To the portside, a cargo ship sailing parallel caught our eye. Glory Hong Kong was her name, and it couldn't get any more prescient than that.
Java Sea: SEMARANG, on the Java coast, offers, as the location might suggest, a decent cup of coffee, and that's what we had. The café staff wore 'free smile' badges, and indeed, they smiled openly and freely. Many years in Britain, I thus realised, had dulled us to the infectious beam and captivating demeanour of these people. This alone should quell any doubts in those who might embark upon a similar endeavour one day. To bolster supplies, we also made good use of the time for a spot of shopping, especially rubber flip-flops, the footwear of choice in these parts.
Before leaving England, I'd approached Fred with a proposal to offer informal language classes to fellow passengers. They happily agreed — somebody would contact me when aboard. We'd begin with Japanese, then progress to Mandarin, and finally Cantonese, the idea being to introduce a few simple expressions to help outings ashore. Nothing complicated. Some folks may have enjoyed schooling in French or Spanish, but, unlike today, few Asian languages will have figured. I would gladly take up the baton. In Japan and China, the smallest attempt at communication — as experience informed me — could instil genuine delight and warmth in one's hosts, exactly the sentiment I wished to convey.
Flores Sea: as it all sounded a bit tawdry, we decided against visiting KOMODO ISLAND. Sorry, dragons; our introductions would simply have to wait. The island's bombardment, by shuttle runs, started early. As a result, we were left to our own devices on an almost deserted ship. In such calm, the beauty of the jagged emerald mountains enclosing the pretty bay could be admired. On exit, contrasting patches of water surface, sometimes smooth, sometimes boiling, intrigued us, presumably the effect of shallow reefs invisible from above. We'd never seen that before.
'What do you see?' asked the first officer as I peered through binoculars, trying, in the declining light, to make out the name of a small CMA CGA cargo ship south of our position. Such a personable officer, he never failed to stop and engage. Consequently, and with boundless curiosity, he listened agog to our recounting of a journey we'd once undertaken aboard a similar vessel. This surprised him no end; it was clearly the last thing he'd expected from cruisers. As an ardent man of the sea, he understood our positive views of the experience and found our subsequent regard of anything CMA CGM as a positive augury to be quaintly amusing. Among the ship's hierachy, I fear this oddity may have confirmed us to be even pottier than first imagined.
Makassar Strait: MAKASSAR, another of those places we grew up knowing by name but never quite knowing where, lies on the island of Sulawesi. Busily before us on the wharf, the labour-intensive loading of boxes, nets, and crates onto an adjacent cargo vessel captivated. Of more interest, however, as our ship threaded carefully in between, were the many coral reef islands of the adjacent Spermonde Archipelago. No larger than a football pitch or a large traffic island, and equally flat, they were packed with bamboo houses, cheek-by-jowl, barely a foot or two above sea level. It seemed that a medium wave could swamp the lot, let alone the modern-day spectre of rising seas.
Pushing on across the Java Sea, Makassar faded slowly into the distance under portentously leaden skies; a storm was brewing. Around us lay the islands of Borneo, Celebes, and Flores. Evocative names awash with the literary romance of a Conrad novel. As the downpour chewed a placid sea, steamy afternoon heat left the air stagnant and heavy. It suited perfectly Conrad's alluring prose; I could sense the brooding tropical pungency, alive with mangroves, praus, and pirates. Having read the author's books several times, this part of our voyage held its own poignancy. As if navigating across the printed pages of Almayer's Folly, inherent lost souls and Tales of Unrest came to mind.
Cebu Strait: although home to some fabulous beaches, CEBU CITY itself seemed typically Asian: loud and proud. As kids learning of Ferdinand Magellan's worldly exploits, we might not recall that here in Cebu, the great man met his grisly end under the leadership of local hero Lapu-Lapu. Though not entirely for that reason, presumably, a celebratory atmosphere prevailed among the ship's largely Filipino staff, in this case explained by a significant crew change and the prospect of rejoining loved ones after an arduous stint at sea. Dockside, as with many ports visited, the familiar, blue-painted seaman's mission stood sentry, a timely reminder of the lives and loneliness of the mariners we all rely on so heavily.
'Ohayo gozaimasu' — good morning — seemed like a good start to a Nihon-go starter class. Thus, off I spouted on lesson one, nerves jangling in the wake of two panics. Incidentally, I'd almost given up on it going ahead until, out of the blue, the cruise director called only a few days before entering Japan. We subsequently met and concocted plans for it to proceed. Cue some hastily scribbled notes. The venue would be the capacious Observatory Lounge, which reeked of overkill to me. I'd envisaged a low-key affair comprising a few enthusiasts around a table. But, less modesty, he urged, it will surely be popular. He was right too; expanding to an audience of 60-odd shocked me into my first panic.
I realised that a mic, whiteboard, preferably a double whisky (it can never be too early), and even a stretcher might be needed should another shock follow. It did; the second came when I noticed renowned Japanese pianist Yukiko Shinohara attending 'out of curiosity', as she rather sweetly put it. A sledgehammer blow, for sure. Looking diffidently down at my crude notes, I knew straight away that this would have to be good — very good. No longer a simple lesson, it had instantly transitioned to a performance. No hiding place on a cruise ship. Keep calm and carry on, they say. Well, this was meant to be a personal challenge, so I couldn't really complain. Surprisingly, however, by rising to the occasion, initial wobbles fizzled out, and it progressed well, a bit of humour and ad-lib helping me to the finish line one hour later.
Happening with unnerving regularity, that evening saw yet another ill passenger whisked off by helicopter to the nearest hospital, some distance away.
East China Sea: International Street, a delightful assemblage of gaudy bars, restaurants, cafés, and souvenir shops, forms the heart of NAHA on Okinawa Island. It was heartening to catch up with a few Japanese lesson participants keenly wielding, with confidence, some well-known phrases — polite ones, I hasten to add.
I was thrilled when the cruise director mentioned that passenger feedback rated the Japanese class excellent, and more had been requested. They couldn't get enough, he added. Unbelievable. I never expected such a reaction. An even greater thrill came when Yukiko approached me at dinner to say how impressed she was with the content — high praise indeed from a native speaker. It couldn't get any better, surely. But it did! A delightful British woman, probably the youngest passenger, told me afterwards that, based on my humble offerings, she'd commit to more formal study once back in the UK. Shocks and panics had all been worthwhile then, if only to hear that.
Furthermore, a lovely English chap, who'd recently appeared from nowhere, collared me for help in translating the names of Japanese vessels, of which there were many plying the waters outside. He even produced photos as reinforcement. Incredible! Trainspotting at Crewe or Reading, yes, but shipspotting? I didn't even know it existed as a pastime. So, when someone comes all that way from the UK to shipspot over Japanese waters, well, attention is galvanized. We probably covered the entire merchant fleet before, totally ravenous, I was released in time for lunch.
With first-night nerves banished, the second and final Japanese lesson went well. Because of this, passengers regarded me, quite wrongly, as the go-to person for translation. During their time ashore, a few had even purchased drugs, possibly out of desperation, for which no English instructions had been affixed. And this is where I came in. In the first place, I couldn't quite fathom why anybody would buy such items when ingredients and dosage could not be ascertained. Nevertheless, I did my best to help. Dosage could be worked, though not being a chemist or physician, efficacy remained a mystery. Amazingly, and to the best of my knowledge, these people are still alive. Or at least they were the last time I saw them.
That evening, another helicopter evacuation occurred of an ill passenger to the nearest hospital — nothing to do with me, hopefully!
North Pacific Ocean: dismal conditions welcomed MV Balmoral to TOKYO. Having dodged drizzle on a lengthy poke around Ginza, a tiny, unpretentious eatery served an excellent and well-deserved kare-raisu lunch.
We departed the next morning under contrastingly bright conditions. Much to the chagrin of those who took the previous murky day's Mt. Fuji viewing — or non-viewing — tour, she thus stood tauntingly to the southwest, a brilliant white snow cap against a sharp, postcard-blue sky. This was typical; countless times had I been an anguished victim of her mischievous nature. Perhaps, I fancifully ruminated, feeling a little guilty, she intended this majestic apparition to wish us well on our quest. No hard feelings.
Also, on exit — another thrill, for I'm easily pleased — we passed an unusual object, which surely meant absolutely nothing to anyone else aboard. This was a small concrete island upon which stood the Tower of Wind, a blue and white structure resembling a pair of billowing sails. You see, while working in Japan in the ‘90s, I'd visited the construction site of the Trans-Tokyo Bay Highway subsea tunnel, of which this curious sculpture graced the top of the midway ventilation shaft. Having seen the job deep below, I thus grew somewhat rapturous, to the concern of those nearby, at the sight of the finished article visible above water and in daylight too. As I said: easily pleased.
Seto Inland Sea: an intricate steel tower and several transport bridges introduced the port city of KOBE. As a structural engineer, I felt right at home. We browsed a market and, under a scarlet canopy of New Year banners, sampled street food in Chinatown.
Before our Kobe departure, a wadaiko drum group delivered a top-notch performance. The thunderous rhythms reverberated throughout the Neptune Lounge and along the confined corridors of Deck 7 — the musicians hell-bent on our not only hearing those pounding vibes but feeling them too. We did!
Having ventured farther into the northern hemisphere, temperatures had cooled significantly. It was quite pleasant during the day but cooled rapidly after the sun had dropped away. That night, MV Balmoral bore the brunt of a sharp, force 7 gale stoically with only minimal discomfort to passengers. It was probably the roughest stretch of water we'd encountered thus far, though it didn't impact us too heavily. Less sway, no retching — one advantage of kipping deep down in the bilges.
East China Sea: you know what it's like when you visit somewhere both enchanting and fascinating, in equal measure, that you promise to return one day but never do. Well, we woke to a lovely crisp morning, this time in NAGASAKI, only to find, even lovelier, that we were moored adjacent to exactly such a place: Glover Garden, the home of a 19th-century Scottish merchant who made it big in Japan. A reacquaintance enjoyably enhanced by a roam around the koi pond and period buildings of his one-time home. Apologies, Mr. Glover; it might have taken me 30-odd years, but at least I kept my promise.
Quite splendidly, a 40-strong orchestra from a local girls' school played MV Balmoral out from the quayside with a nautical-themed set, culminating in the unfurling of a lengthy banner reading SEE YOU AGAIN IN NAGASAKI. Let's hope so. Such a fitting end, we all agreed, to our Japanese sector.
Korea Strait: under louring skies, we arrived at the tiny island of JEJU. It wasn't a nice day for exploration, so limited ourselves to a short walk around town, which proved inviting and easily navigable. Would like to have gone further, but the gloomy weather dampened spirits; cue a hasty retreat to the welcoming glow of the ship.
The wintry chill had driven all but the ultra-hardy inside to seek refuge, once again, by the hot drinks machine. Buffeting winds, fresh off the sea, like a salty slap on the cheeks, whipped up white-capped waves that roared and crashed around us. Listening to the gusts from inside seemed wise; the ship's pitch and roll were not too disconcerting if comfortably distracted by a good conversation and steaming coffee. Hopefully, the tempest would not portend turbulent seas ahead, metaphorically speaking, as our new life drew ever closer.
Yellow Sea: the more robust among us had assembled early on deck to witness entry into the port of INCHEON. Our main interest lay in the huge locks that could thwart the bay's immense tidal range while allowing safe passage for shipping. Temperatures had plummeted even further overnight, treacherous ice had formed on deck, and the still, frosty air bit hard. Clouds formed from breath and numbness of the nose and ears soon set in. But we stuck it out admirably until MV Balmoral had made it safely through with inches to spare. Scouting the city's old quarter and the Art Platform, based in renovated industrial buildings, occupied the rest of the day.
'Ni Hao' — hello — kicked off the only Mandarin lesson to be held. It too went well, with the same attendees paying close attention and asking intelligent questions along the way. With confidence building, I could feel myself growing into the role. Also, demystified passengers' passport visa stamps and disembarkation forms written in Chinese — at last, a use!
Bohai Sea: At the expansive TIANJIN port, the modern terminal architecture impressed, as did the number of stacked containers as far as the eye could see. In the Xingang region, we enjoyed coffee and biscuits under a café's incongruous mural of York, UK, while later sharing banter outside with several Xian-food hawkers and a gregarious trader of Great Wall souvenir pictures. A bright, bone-freezing day in which the resulting dryness had us sparking off any metal surface as if a Van de Graaff generator.
Back on board, a quartet of local jugglers provided the visit highlight, one stage set requiring the transfer of hats speedily from one head to another with un-spottable sleight of hand. A stunning display of precision and panache. Mesmerised, we couldn't help but watch. It was a joy to observe, though we never quite worked out how they did it.
Korea Bay: one soon spots the foreign influence in DALIAN; a verdant circle lined by the imposing facades of Russo-European grandeur marks the city centre. Busy roads spoke outward, some resounding with the pleasing dings of quaint old trams and the enticing whiffs billowing from the sweet potato vendors. It's a conurbation that retains quite attractively the atmosphere of an old treaty port. Indeed, it is a beautiful city and, more importantly, easily walkable from the dock.
Proving that the tentacles of Western capitalism spread far and wide, we came across a Costa Coffee on the main drag and were not too surprised to discover fellow passengers within, nursing hot cuppas and practising their recently learnt Mandarin. How lovely! Later, at the dockside, I asked a sullen, young army guard, who looked the part in pine-green trench coat, fur hat, and rifle, if I could snap his photo. Sadly, the miserable git refused. Not the done thing in these parts, presumably. Though with furry ear flaps down and tightly knotted, he may not have heard, or simply assumed, with some acuity, that I was a raving western looney best ignored. Never mind; forgiving is a gracious act.
In Herge's The Blue Lotus, Tintin and Snowy arrived in Shanghai by ship from Bombay, jauntily descending the gangway on a cool, rainy day, only to become embroiled with various baddies later. Minus the rain and baddies, we disembarked similarly, though a little more cautiously.
East China Sea: Shanghaied in SHANGHAI? Not these days, 'me hearties!' A gleaming, high-rise city now welcomes the modern traveller, though fascinating pockets of history survive. We opted for a turn along The Bund, an architectural treasure and one-time heady domain of bankers and merchants. Costa Coffee again provided the ideal location for refreshments, sitting outside people-watching — very cosmopolitan, the Shanghainese — in the mild spring sunshine.
That evening, bathed in the garish flash and glow of a spectacular laser light show — as if a gigantic outdoor disco — we bade farewell to the Bund and edged our way down the Huangpu River and out to sea.
Heading south, we made steady progress along the coast. Closer to the Tropic of Cancer, the reassuringly calm conditions turned the air muggy and stale as a pale, wispy fog closed in around us — a silent swirling greyness in which it was difficult to make out other vessels nearby. Even the sea had turned dull and featureless, like tarnished silver. Our journey had taken on an eerie dimension, though foghorns remained mute. Tropical humidity had returned — springtime once again.
'Jou sahn' — good morning — ushered in a hastily arranged Cantonese lesson, taking place in between packing bags in readiness for disembarkation next morning. Realising I wouldn't meet the class again or enjoy their feedback, a slightly sad feeling pervaded. Also, apprehension as the imminent finale to our journey began to affect concentration. Nonetheless, a wave of applause aptly closed the last session. I couldn't have been more grateful; the participants had been congenial throughout. A profoundly enjoyable experience, and yes, Fred, I'd gladly do it all again should you ever read this one day.
That chapter concluded with farewells to the people we'd met. Despite a few misgivings at the start, a closer anthropological study of the World Cruiser revealed an amiable bunch, not at all fazed by our ambivalence, despite numerous perennials among them. Perhaps that had more to do with ship size and route attracting like-minded individuals. We knew after only a short while that friendships forged would be lasting, going well beyond the usual holiday rapport. Then, down below, for final unpacking and repacking, return upstairs to attend the Captain's Farewell Cocktail Party, and come nighttime, the closing activity, pile bags outside the cabin for collection by porters later. Meanwhile, with his little case packed, Jasper sat contemplatively by the cabin door, awaiting Chloe's final morning hug.
With our Fantastic Voyage almost at an end, it was a good time for reflection. I must admit that cruising is a strange animal. The appeal, however, is patent; one can sample many exceptional sights and cultures in a relatively short time, and it's nice to wake in different places without having to stress over transport logistics. One gains an immediate appreciation of distance travelled, and huge advantages lie in its gentle, unhurried pace — slow travel for sure — and no jet lag either. Forsaking, therefore, the cramped, germ-laden environs of a long-haul flight for ten entirely sumptuous weeks of slothful repose, first-class dining, and invigorating sea air could not be faulted.
Absolutely not. Only bemusement that we'd transcended humble beginnings to be there at all. A situation our younger selves could never have foreseen, especially when viewed — as I do — through the eyes of a naive youth from a close-knit mining community in Nottingham. Our parents would have loved it too — but, sadly, an opportunity denied. Still, I sensed their support as we crisscrossed our way over thirteen longitudes of time.
Yet our older, more discerning selves would decry the greed and waste such an operation inevitably produces. Also, sticking out, sore-thumb fashion, the crew ironically hailed from the more poverty-stricken lands, typically Africa and Southeast Asia. People who form the backbone of the modern industry, though a practice not restricted to cruising, but that's another issue and not for this account.
Nevertheless, hats off to crew and officers who worked tirelessly to make the experience pleasurable and worthwhile for all. In 70 days, we had safely navigated 13 countries and 31 ports, celebrated Burns Night, Valentine's Day, and Lunar New Year in style, and sampled a delicious array of themed cuisine, be it Iberian, Arabic, Indian, Chinese, Burmese, Japanese, or Asian Marketplace, prepared to the highest standards. One would never go short; one could never complain. Also, as an advocate of STEM and WISE, I offer a huge shout-out to Fred for inducting two youngsters into an officer cadetship. In conversation, the girls came across as genuinely enthusiastic and keen to learn. Very commendable!
From our angle, then, the Fred choice had been a masterstroke and, despite a few anxieties en route, possibly the most stylish method to not only move house but country too. It certainly worked for us, not so much as a cruise, which we savoured, but as a madcap shift from A to B.
And that was that. The past really is another country. Like a creature sloughing skin, the trip had seen our old identity gradually slip away. Very soon we'd face the world anew; a fresh start beckoned, a return to reality.
South China Sea: a foggy HONG KONG marked the end of the line. We docked, 10 weeks after departing Southampton, at Kai Tak, a busy airport on our first arrival in the ‘90s but reinvented as a cruise terminal in 2013. Can't be too many places where that has happened.
After breakfast, as the fog slowly burnt off, a motley assemblage of baggage, a bear, plus two persons veered towards the residents-only channel, signalling an absence from the onward leg to Vietnam. The cruise staff were disappointed, but immigration proved delightfully welcoming, possibly more to do with finally having someone to process than anything else. Theirs is a lonely posting, a service seldom required by passengers on a world cruise.
Although the expected formalities were efficiently expedited, Jasper instantly drew the attention of the chief immigration officer re. passport status. Obviously, being a Hong Konger through and through secured him the essential VIBear treatment. Comically, duty staff joined in the fun — gleeful applause all around. Plainly, few distinguished bears pass this way. My paddle also received keen scrutiny from some of the Immigration Department dragon boat team, of which there seemed, curiously, to be a considerable number present. Had they been tipped off? Either way, we'd never had a reception quite like it.
As affable repartee faded, we entered the home straight and, with chequered flag in sight, commandeered two taxis to convey our entourage north from wharf to hotel. Some familiar sights in passing. Oblivious to this momentous day, Kowloon revelled in its own frenzy as we sped on to a new future — traffic lights all turned green. We’d booked a month's stay at the Regal Riverside, reckoning the time should be ample to sort ourselves out. 'Welcome home,' warmly greeted Alan, the venerable concierge. He always knew best; he knew we'd make it!
South China Sea: MV Balmoral docks in CHÂN MÂY, minus two persons, 16 bags, and an overjoyed bear.
EPILOGUE: The hotel stay worked well. Only three weeks after disembarking, we’d visited an estate agent, negotiated a flat rental, and moved in. Amazingly, Shirley, the agent’s rep, was the very one who helped us back in the 90s. Proof that even in a fast-paced city, some things can remain the same, reassuringly. Our preference lay in the top floor and roof terrace of a rural village house. Good feng shui too: the sea nearby and hills to the north. The villagers were generous in their welcome, and we settled in grandly. As if to complete the process, our UK boxes arrived four months later, thanks to Vanpac Group Asia and George, an Axl Rose lookalike. Nine years on, and we still can't get our heads around the unlikely events that set this all in motion: an autumn afternoon, Lovejoy, Ian McShane, and Fred's enticing TV ad. It seems fate nudged us hugely that day. Absurd! Yes, totally absurd.
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Wonderful story, I'd love to take a cruise around the Baltic, maybe in a cabin in some container freighter, failing that the ferry from Aberdeen to Orkney so I can indulge my Conradian fantasies. I'm off to Hong Kong next year, can't wait!
That's great Simon, many thanks for posting!!