Vietnam had the boat people in the 1960s and 70s. “If worse comes to worse,” went the crass joke in 1997, when thousands of rich Hongkongers were obtaining foreign passports before the handover to China, “we’ll become the yacht people.” Our fancy boat moored off the coast, near Repulse Bay and its giant Miami-looking condos. The sun was shining so brightly that we could see the islands of China out in the distance. Alongside us were two fishing trawlers. My host explained that we are in the midst of a government-mandated break in the fishing season, so that the fish can replenish themselves. Instead of equipment, these fishermen had loaded their boats with family—dozens of little children in lifejackets climbing down the rusty green ladders to the water and paddling around happily as their mothers and fathers watch from the deck. I did some paddling of my own just off the boat, unable to shake the feeling that the warm, bright water I was swimming in was of questionable cleanliness. Luckily, there was a little shower to rinse off as you reboarded. I sat for a while on top of the boat, in the sun, looking out again to China. Hong Kong's stratospheric buildings were behind me, and the quiet rocking of the water, the impossibly bright sun, the rocky islands and green cliffs combined to clear my brain of crowds, filling it instead with the incredible natural beauty of this city’s setting. Unfortunately, I must have looked a bit pale after rocking for two hours in the hot sun, for one of the women we were with offered me a little brown dried up thing. “Chinese sour plum,” she explained. “Helps with sea sickness.” I sucked on it gratefully, tongue tingling, feeling the breeze finally blow again as we turned back towards Aberdeen Marina and the Hong Kong of public transportation, people, and activity.

¶ 4:12 PM 1 comments

These days, the girls on the MTR are my primary fashion inspiration. They wear delicate, feminine skirts, or longish, ballooning, multi-pocketed shorts. They wear either strappy heels (but low ones), or a very specific type of Birkenstock. They carry big leather satchels. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine myself pulling off the outfits I think are way cool on these local girls. But the frilly shirt is an exception. Worn with skirts and jeans alike, these shirts are structural, usually cotton, and often open in the front in button-down shirt style. They are absolutely covered in frills: lace, pearly buttons, bows, collars, layers. The effect is usually beautifully feminine, and occasionally, over the top. Soon after my arrival in Hong Kong, I entered a tiny store in Tsim Sha Tsui called “In Fashion” to buy myself a frilly shirt. Racks of them before my eyes, in a very specific spectrum: white to pink. The salesgirls ignored me as I circled the store to make my decision. There was neither brand label nor size; only a hand-written price tag. I found a white model that ties in the front, with lace bottom and collar. There was no fitting room, and, besides, you can’t try on tops at most local stores here. I brought it over to the salesgirl. “Do you think this will fit me?” I asked, holding it up to my torso and gesturing. She took it from me, nodding, and stretched the waist tie (which is slightly elastic) out in front of me a few times. The lack of size labels and the meaning of her gesture hit me: I realized she was telling me this shirt, this store, and the Chinese girls I see on the MTR, were one-size-fits-all. I bought the shirt for $60 HK ($8 U.S.) and wear it proudly.

¶ 12:36 AM 1 comments

On Sunday, having boarded a bus the stops of which I vaguely recognized, I perched at the front of the air conditioned top level and watched the Hong Kong landscape unfold. From Diamond Hill in Kowloon, over to the eastern end of Hong Kong island and through Causeway Bay on to Aberdeen tunnel and finally, out the bridge to Ap Lei Chau. Here, my guidebook proclaimed, was a fascinating shipyard with all sorts of traditional crafts to observe. My bus went through various twists and turns, passing housing complexes and shopping centers before finally reaching the southern end of the island. Spread below me, no shipyard but a wide industrial street lined with warehouses, which oversaw the rocky coast and the green island of Lamma with its two infamous smoke stacks. The bus stopped, we were at the end of the line, and I stepped down to the empty sidewalk. The bus driver came over and with studied precision asked if he could help me. I had six minutes, said he, until the bus left again. The open street, lit with subtle sunlight, invited me to investigate, and I walked to the left, a concrete wall, graffiti scrawled; standing on my tip toes, I could just see over to the blue, blue water and dramatic coastline, quietly watching over the slow container ships as they traveled the channel. Beside me, an old woman sat in her lawn chair in front of the sea water-treatment building. I motioned to the building’s side, and she nodded, smiling. When I walked past her, to the water, I found a drop-off of concrete, with no railing, just steps leading down into the water and a complex maze of chain-link fences sheltering the mysterious treatment facilities. The bus had stopped at the end of the line, the end of the island, and I felt a little at the end of the world. When my six minutes were up, mysteriously, several people had appeared at the bus stop and got on board wordlessly with me, heading back towards the activity and the crowds. The woman remained in her lawn chair, watching us go.

¶ 4:22 PM 2 comments

One of the first things I noticed about Hong Kong, on my first day riding the MTR and getting acquainted with the city, was the way every stop opened up into a mall. Example: at Kowloon Tong, where I usually switch between the KCR and the MTR, there is a celebrated center called Festival Walk. Its logo is an enormous red ribbon, twined around its name, a gift to all suburban Hongkongers. Up a short escalator from the trains, and in fact between the KCR and MTR stations, are no less than seven stories of stores, natural light glittering on no less than five (and maybe more) different sets of silver escalators carrying people up and down. Welcoming all MTR passengers as they first enter is a grocery store called TASTE, whose produce aisle is (unlike the more urban foodstores here) respectably sized and whose dairy aisle sports six types of tofu. Bypass Taste (although I do my grocery shopping there); do not be intimidated by Anna Sui, Vuitton, and Prada on the lower levels; simply begin your ascent to the top. Pass the shoe level, keep up. Pass the make-up level, keep up. Pass the full size skating rink, full to the brim with children in winter coats, and the Kentucky Fried Chicken tables that overlook it. The food court, called “Food Fest,” offers Thai, Japanese, Cantonese food. At all hours it is lively, and open til 11. On Sunday I got a high-quality haircut at Festival Walk; ate sushi off a conveyor belt at Hollywood Plaza and took the bus from its bottom level; recharged my SIM card at Citylink; had a bubble tea in Windsor House. Though it may seem to some of you that I make it a pastime to defend ugly horrible soulless suburban things, there has always been little love lost between me and Mall as a theoretical object. Yet all over the city, I lived my Sunday in malls—and, after four weeks, barely noticed until I sat to tally for this entry.

¶ 4:19 PM 0 comments

At the Sai Kung public pier, small fishing dinghies line up daily, packed with plastic bins full of fish that flap their fins futilely as they lie in their water in the hot sun, waiting to be sold. Small guppies, big black fish, flat flounders, mussels, nondescript sea creatures, and long, sleek leopard-print eels mingle by type and size in the bins. I stood on the pier on Sunday, when the dinghies arrived around noon from their morning’s catch. Several people watched from ten feet above the boats; tourists and interested buyers alike stood captivated by the process and the sights. A woman, between tasks of splashing fresh water into her squirming bins, saw me staring down at her octopus, which was packaged neatly in a white net and unceremoniously floating in its bound condition. She called to me loudly in Cantonese. I shook my head and moved on. A man at the end of the pier was garnering business from an older woman. His skin was dark brown from the sun, though he wore a traditional straw hat, and he scampered barefoot among his wares. The customer spoke authoritatively down to him, choosing with points and nods a group of three small black fish. One by one he dumped them on his round board, squatting easily, and whacked their heads with a wooden stick until their flapping ceased, or had at least slowed. With practiced hands he held their faces tightly, and scraped their scales off with a large cleaver before slicing their necks and bellies and forcing the bones out onto the board. The bloody discards were thrown towards a floating trash box by the side of the boat. Some water from the irrigated bins to rinse his board and the fish, and they were ready to be set in a clear plastic bag, tied off tightly. His long-handled net went up to the customer, laden with fish, and came back with some bills inside. Another purchase complete, he gazed up at us with what looked to me like desperately sad eyes, gesturing questioningly. I realized at last that he was mute, or couldn’t speak Cantonese. He tossed a flawless, two-metres-long eel into the water in the bow of the boat, as if its impossibly graceful slithering (despite its tragic condition) would command us to buy.

(See pictures here.)

¶ 3:56 PM 0 comments

Life in Hong Kong is not all roses; it is often said that the city is stressed, crowded, and fast paced beyond other Asian cities. I have in vain tried to find a quiet place to sit and people-watch near my office. All but the most expensive Chinese restaurants are crowded, loud, and somewhat uncomfortable, with stools or plastic chairs and—typically—flourescent lighting. Eating, or drinking, is not a leisurely experience; it is considered odd to linger over the menu, or to sit alone pondering the complexities of life while observing urban life outside. Since such a pastime is my favorite way to spend an afternoon, I miss it tangibly. (I sometimes give in and visit Starbucks, or its Hong Kong equivalent, Pacific Coffee Company, although I hate to do it.) As we walked out of work on Friday, I asked my friend Darren, who is from here, if such a peaceful place existed, and if we could go there. He thought a while as we walked west, for a long while. Finally he had an inspiration. The place was in Shueng Wan, next to the water. Darren explained that it was one of just a few remaining tea houses from the 1940s-50s; most are still owned by the original family, and just holding on until the now-elderly owners pass away. The place was very quiet inside, with no overhead lights but just the sun coming in through the beads of condensing water on the refrigerated glass cases that made up the front wall. Inside one case were cans of Coke, Sprite, and tea, with a frosty coil running along the side. The other held egg custard tarts and other common pastries. The white tile floor was worn down to red in parts, and there was an altar on one wall, above the register. We sat in a small booth for a while, attended by the wizened and patient owner. Darren said that often you can see long-time patrons, who have become wealthy or prominent since the war, come to these humble old places for lunch and leave hundred dollar bills as generous, grateful payment. A group of laborers paid for their meal and left; I finished my red bean ice with delicious unhurriedness before walking out again to the busy street.

¶ 3:09 PM 0 comments