Hong Kong

Saturday 9^th August

   It’s sunny, and according to the pilot, 30 degrees in Hong Kong, as we approach over the scattering of mountainous islands, dotted with clusters of tall apartment buildings.  Hong Kong International Airport lies off the north coast of one of them – Lantau, on its own, largely artificial island, called Chek Lap Kok. The airport itself is only ten years old, and is still satisfyingly efficient; landing and formalities are brief and painless.  I’m bound for Kowloon, on the mainland, and so choose the bus, which is the cheapest option for onward transport.  As I stroll out of the air conditioned terminal building, and down to the bus stands, I’m struck by two things. The first is the climate; it is, to all intents and purposes, tropical.  The second is the happy reality of the fact that I have just arrived in Hong Kong.  Double-decker buses, perhaps a legacy of Hong Kong’s British ties, shuttle in and out of the two long lanes that form the terminal, and I wait, full of expectation of the next few days, with twenty or so people, of whom I am the only westerner, for the A21 to Tsim Sha Tsui.

   Once aboard, I settle in and prepare to enjoy the view, and the journey to this new and unknown city.  Regrettably, seated a few rows in front of me, is a collection of almost unfeasibly noisy children, accompanied by a woman who either doesn’t care, or simply doesn’t realise, that her charges are making the sort of racket that would be entirely acceptable in an amusement park on the first day of the summer holidays, but is perhaps pushing the envelope for an airport transit bus.  Try as I might to zone them out, it is an impossible feat, and thus my journey to Kowloon, while visually a feast of new sights, is audibly rather a pain in the arse.  We pass forests of apartment buildings, some of which are over forty storeys high, nestled into the hillsides, and then are soon crossing the Tsing Ma suspension bridge (one of the world’s longest) to the mainland. Here we skirt the port, absolutely the largest and busiest I have ever seen.  Thousands of containers lie stacked over a huge area, while enormous cranes and heavy lifting gear tower above them. It’s a scene of energy and success that is perhaps an accurate pre-cursor to the city itself. Indeed it isn’t long before urban Hong Kong takes over, and once we join the traffic of Kowloon, the images I had conjured in my mind start to appear before my eyes. Crumbling, or at the least, gently dilapidated tenement buildings, many draped with laundry, hug the elevated highways beneath which the streets are hung with countless signs and advertising hoardings. Unlike many other cities, where advertising runs parallel to the pavements, in Hong Kong most of it is perpendicular, and stretches across the carriageways themselves, forming the impression of a gaudy, patchwork roof. Beneath this dense tapestry of advertisements for hotels, jewellers, massage parlours, electrical stores, tailors, and much else besides, can be found the people of Kowloon themselves, and from the look of the crowded pavements, it seems that all of them are on the streets this afternoon.

   I disembark along Nathan Road in Tsim Sha Tsui, and fielding the approaches of a thousand tailors and sellers of knock-off watches, go in search of my accommodation.  I have arranged a hostel in the deceptively named Mirador Mansions, which transpires to be a huge, sprawling, mildly tatty, somewhat grimey, ever so slightly mouldy, and in places suspiciously ripe, seventeen floor labyrinth, housing hostels, laundry services, yet more tailors, and I suspect numerous other commercial enterprises, not all of which would stand up to rigorous moral scrutiny.  The email I’d received as confirmation from the Kowloon New Hostel, gave their address as the 16^th floor.  I eventually locate them on the 13^th, under a different name. My room turns out to be on the 7^th.  Such is the delay in getting there, on account of the interminably slow lifts, which also seem to trip their overload alarms if any more than about three people try to enter them, that I determine to establish the location of the stairwell at the earliest opportunity, not least because in the event of a fire, ‘critical’ would be sadly understating the usefulness of that information.  When finally we do reach the 7^th floor, I’m shown to an anonymous door, in a tucked-away corner. Within, lie a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small scattering of bedrooms, numbered 1, 3, 8, and 60. I’m in number 60.  I attempt to open the door, but find that this is only possible if one first lifts the corner of the mattress up and out of the way. This perhaps gives the first hint of the room’s limitations. Once inside, I find a TV, air-conditioning, and a bed, but sadly a distinct lack of space in which to swing a cat.  I would venture in fact that swinging a mammal of any kind would be largely impossible in room no.60, which would in any other city, probably be used as a cupboard. Space is clearly at a premium in Hong Kong, and I can only assume that the premium in question is not to be found in the Mirador Mansions.

I decide to head straight for Victoria Harbour to take in the view of one of the world’s most spectacular skylines, that of Hong Kong Island, which lies across the water from Kowloon.  On the way I pass the Peninsula Hotel, built in 1928.  This was Hong Kong’s first hotel, and is regarded as one of the finest in the world. I guess they just haven’t seen Mirador Mansions. It’s only a short stroll from there, to the harbour, where spectacular things await.  It usually takes natural wonders to make me beam with delight, but the view across Victoria Harbour does the job in fine style.  Hong Kong Island’s skyline is quite simply awesome, as evidenced by the hundreds of people, who line every inch of the waterfront for about a kilometre, simply gazing at it. The approaching sunset illuminates the almost unbelievable array or skyscrapers, some of which, like the Bank of China tower, look like they belong in science fiction. On the Kowloon side, there is an almost festive atmosphere among the crowds of tourists and locals, taking in the view and enjoying the beautiful sub-tropical evening. I like Hong Kong already, and I’ve only been here for an hour and a half.  Just along the waterfront to the east, is the Avenue of the Stars, designed to celebrate Hong Kong’s film and TV industry. Here, a host of actors and entertainers have put hand prints in the concrete. By far the most photographed of these impressions this evening, are those of Jackie Chan, who even has people queuing up to put their hands where his once were.

 With the onset of dusk, the skyline begins to illuminate itself, and I elect to find refreshment before returning to see it after dark.  I repair to an Irish pub I saw earlier, and nurse a beer that is costly, despite this apparently being happy hour.  Contenting myself with one, I then head back to the harbour, where a dazzling display of pulsing, shifting, and flashing light is now adorning almost every building Hong Kong side. The lure of this glittering metropolis is such that I decide to head straight over there, in search of an evening of fun.  This is after all, my only Saturday night in Hong Kong, and it would be a shame to waste it.

The MTR, or subway system, does cross the harbour from Kowloon to Hong Kong island, but there is another more appealing way to get to the bright lights. The Star Ferries are a Hong Kong institution that have been providing a regular passenger service since the 1870s, and still carry about 70,000 passengers a day, cheaply, quickly, and efficiently. From the pier in Tsim Sha Tsui, a ferry makes the crossing to Central, on Hong Kong Island, once every seven minutes or so.  I board the next available, and am soon cruising the calm waters of the harbour, bound for Lang Kwai Fong, one of the areas renowned for its nightlife.

The streets of Central strike me immediately as more modern, more westernised, and more affluent than those of Kowloon.  If the skyscrapers weren’t evidence enough, there is obviously a lot more money on Hong Kong Island. It doesn’t take long to find a street lined with brightly lit bars and pubs, most of which contain a mixture of locals and ex-pats. I choose one largely at random, order myself a beer, and then Saturday night begins in earnest, with numerous friendly people, good conversation, and quite a few drinks.  Many of the people I meet are actually British, and they seem for the most part to work either in banking, finance, advertising or publicity.  It’s a welcoming, cosmopolitan crowd, and I always enjoy random nights out in random cities with random people. At one stage, I’m bought a drink which looks like a bottle of beer, but turns out to be a fierce mixture of beer and tequila. Still buzzing happily from this, I am forced to retreat, so as not to miss the last MTR back to Kowloon.  Once there, and not yet ready for bed, I return to the Irish pub, and spend a few more hours hanging out with an Irishman and a Welsh Australian.  The evening ends in a falafel take away just round the corner from Mirador, at about 3am.  A grand Saturday in Hong Kong.

Sunday 10^th August

I don’t surface this morning until about midday, which on the one hand, is a deplorable waste of a morning, but on the other, is a factor of both a good Saturday night out, and of having crossed seven time zones yesterday, so is probably not to be argued with. I decide to head up into the depths of Kowloon, in search of the Yuen Po Street Bird Garden, and Flower Market.  This involves a long walk up Nathan Road, and the traversing of a number of Kowloon’s neighbourhoods, so should be an interesting way to blow away any of last night’s lingering cobwebs. Before that though, I have to get out of Mirador Mansions. It’s while I’m descending a particularly pungent stretch of the lower stairwell, that I come across two small signs on the wall. One requests us to, “Prohibit using the cargo handling apparatus…” because, “…If has any accident to occur, totally has nothing related with the incorporated owners.” The other, instructs people to refrain from various activities on the stairs, including “Playing, Boiling the food, sending leaflet…” and perhaps somewhat more bizarrely, “Clamouring.”  I take heed, and merely walk quietly.

There are various points of merit along the way to the bird garden, one of which is a huge and quite unashamed sign for the Virginia Hourly Hotel, which advertises, “Luxurious hotel facilities by the hour.” It’s only a short distance after this that I come to an impasse. Nathan Road is cordoned off, and a large crowd has assembled, all of whom are craning their necks up the street.  Following their gaze, I see a large number of fire engines, and smoke billowing from a building on the left. Clearly the most useful thing I can do, is get out of the way and find another route, so I head to the street running parallel, and there find the same scene being broadcast on a huge TV screen, to another crowd of onlookers.  I later discover that this fire in Mong Kok district, is the worst in Hong Kong for a decade, and as well as injuring fifty five people, it also claims the lives of four, two of whom are firefighters.

Having skirted the unfolding drama in Mong Kok, I find myself eventually at Yuen Po street, where the flower market, though modest, blesses the entire neighbourhood with a wonderful fragrance, and every conceivable kind of flower is available, including some amazingly exotic orchids, which look like pure white oriental dragons. At the north east corner of the market is a small gateway, leading to a tree-lined path, which ascends into the bird garden.  A sign on the gate reads, “No Dogs,” and almost as if in consideration of this, a stray is lingering just outside the gate. It’s clearly no respecter of authority however, as after a few seconds pause, it strolls in regardless, and I follow.

Yuen Po Street Bird Garden is a feast for the eyes and ears. Tiny birds in cages hang from the branches of the trees, and others are carried around by their owners, almost as people might walk dogs. Small outlets purvey every necessity for the bird keeper, and also a great many of the birds themselves.  The whole place swims in a delightful chorus of birdsong, with parrots, minas, finches, cockatoos, and various others each contributing their own distinctive melodies. It’s a world away from the bustle of Nathan Road, or the sleek modernity of Central, and I like to think that scenes largely unchanged could’ve been witnessed here a century ago.

Back in Tsim Sha Tsui, I board another Star Ferry to Hong Kong Island, determined to have a wonder around Central by daylight. Having found my way to street level from the complex network of elevated walkways that stretch off in every direction from Central Pier, the first thing I notice is what can only be described as the Hong Kong Sunday Philippina Phenomenon. Thousands of Philippino women work in Hong Kong as housemaids, and generally their only day off is Sunday. They therefore leap on this opportunity to meet up, wind down, and chill out. This they do in any and it would seem every available public space, to the effect that it is impossible to walk anywhere, without passing huge groups of them, assembled in mirth and merriment with picnics, a few drinks, or merely each other’s company. Street corners, parks, wide spaces, narrow spaces; all are given over to this one day of relaxation. Even those that don’t gather in groups are walking around in pairs shopping or otherwise enjoying their free time. It almost seems like most of the population of the city harkens from the Philippines on a Sunday afternoon in Hong Kong. It’s an interesting aside, that I have never been given the eye as much in one day in all my life, as I am amongst the housemaids of Hong Kong.  I appear to have Philippina appeal.

Turning attention to the city itself, I find Central to be a fascinating blend of the small and pokey, along with the grand and soaring.  From beneath their mighty heights, the skyscrapers dominate the view, and everywhere one looks, they can be seen rising imposingly on all sides.  At the same time, ground level is still, in many places, just as crooked, winding, and human in scale as anywhere in Kowloon. Dark alleys lead away up uneven staircases towards the Mid-Levels, and it’s not uncommon to find small, cluttered markets, where between the vegetables or cooking implements, there is barely space for two people to pass. It’s almost as if the international wealth and power in Hong Kong has gone skywards with the construction, while the real soul of the city has remained on the ground, unchanged.

After some happy explorations, I decide that, like the many office buildings, skywards is where I must also be headed, and thus I join a queue for The Peak Tram, which will take me to the highest part of Hong Kong Island, once the domain solely of the wealthy western Taipans, and now a vantage point of unparalleled splendour, from which the steel and concrete towers will be stretched out far below me, across to Kowloon and beyond. It’s obviously very popular if the length of the queue is anything to go by. I join it as the sun lies lazily in the late afternoon sky, but by the time I am in a position to board, darkness is but minutes away. I miss an important point when entering the Peak Tram; its angle. Such is the inclination of the track, and therefore the tram itself, that unless one is seated, or able to lean against something, the ten minute ascent feels rather like being stuck on the side of a mountain, which in essence, is exactly what it is. I’m forced, if I don’t want to tumble violently towards the back of the vehicle, to stand with one leg locked straight behind me, and one bent almost to ninety degrees in front, while clinging to a hand rail for dear life. If nothing else I suppose this gives me an appreciation of where I’m going, although as I soon discover, to get to the view, one must first negotiate a seven-level labyrinth of escalators, and opportunities to part with one’s cash.  I suppose in the one hundred and twenty years that trams have been shuttling folk up and down The Peak, the local economy has had plenty of time to work out how to fleece them as efficiently as possible.

I succeed in avoiding the postcards, computer games, American Grill, oriental fans, lacquer boxes, and a Chinese restaurant which looks out on all of Hong Kong, and has a menu that includes no prices (if you have to ask…), but am unable to avoid paying the additional fee of HK$20 to get onto the rooftop. I do have to go right to the top of the building before I even discover there is a fee though, and then am further perturbed to find that I have to go back down to the third floor to pay it, but I assure myself that it’ll all be worth it.  I continue to assure myself of this when I finally get out onto the roof, and behold half of Hong Kong’s population between me and any kind of view. Fortunately, having eventually elbowed my way to the edge of the balcony, all my assurances were correct; the vista laid out below me is a truly spectacular one. Hong Kong is once again illuminated with a thousand colours of laser and neon, and such is the clarity of the sky, that this glowing, flashing, pulsating sea of light, stretches far beyond the bounds of Victoria Harbour, and into the very far reaches of Kowloon and beyond. I have never seen a cityscape so breathtaking or impressive. It is, as much as it pains me to say this about steel and concrete, quite magical. In the foreground stands a cluster of impossibly dense apartment blocks, which give way to the commercial giants such as the Bank of China, and the International Finance Centre. All of these glitter in reflection upon the waters of Victoria Harbour, before the more modest skyline of Kowloon takes over to stretch off into the distance. There are simply lights as far as the eye can see.

Once I’m done with the view, which takes no short amount of time, I descend to the ground floor, and seek out the line for the return tram. It isn’t hard to find, in the same way that Mt. Everest wouldn’t be. If I wait for the tram, I’ll clearly be here all night. I decide therefore to make my way round the corner to the bus station, which is cleverly placed so as to be convenient, but at the same time utterly hidden from anyone who might want to utilize it. This is illustrated by the fact that I am one of only three westerners on the bus; the other seven hundred being still in the queue for the tram. Our own descent is delayed considerably by the oncoming presence of an articulated lorry, which meets us head on in the narrowest part of the road. Only skilful manoeuvring and a fair amount of time extricate us from this seemingly impossible stalemate. By the time we get back down to sea level, I’m in need of stretching my legs, crammed as they have been into a space that I suspect a toddler would’ve found confining. I therefore get off before Central, in an unspecified location.  After not inconsiderable wondering, I discover that I am in Wan Chai, an area that someone on Saturday night informed me was Hong Kong’s red light district. If this is true, there is certainly no evidence of any such thing in plain sight, and indeed many of the streets are devoid of anything much at all. I succeed finally in locating an MTR station, and getting back to Tsim Sha Tsui, at which point I buy a couple of cans, before returning to the spacious opulence of the Mirador Mansions, where I get an early night in the company of the Olympic Games.

Monday 11^th August

   I awake at 7am, and hit the streets in search of the internet. Unlikely as it may seem, there appears to be a total lack of cyber cafes in Hong Kong. The two that are mentioned in the Lonely Planet prove to be either demolished, relocated, or figments of the authors’ imaginations. Having assured her I would, and now finding myself unable to send email, I decide to call home from a payphone, just to let my significant other know that I am alive and well.  It’s not cheap, but it’s lovely to speak to her, and the knowledge that all is sorted sets me up nicely for breakfast, which I procure at an establishment called, ‘Big John’s.’ Unless he’s prone to audacious overstatement, I can only assume that the diminutive man behind the counter is not in fact Big John himself.  Nonetheless, he serves me a hearty and filling English veggie fry-up, in surroundings which while pleasant, do cause me to wonder whether the elusive Big John is afflicted with an obsession for Yorkshire Terriers and other dogs of the small, yapping variety.  Every inch of wall is covered with photos of pint-sized canine atrocities in bow ties, ribbons, and ruffs. There are also a number of ceramics on the tables. It’s very nearly enough to put one off one’s breakfast.

Leaving the bizarre cynophilic world of Big John’s behind me, I make for the ferry terminal, through weather that would be entirely at home in the North West of England. There’s a short delay, but I am soon aboard a boat bound for the town of Mui Wo, on Lantau Island, about thirty minutes away.  I’m heading here to see one of Asia’s, if not the world’s great spectacles – the Tian Tan Buddha, apparently the largest seated, outdoor, bronze Buddha in the world. Whether it still retains a superlative if any one of those adjectives is removed, I am unable to say. The short but choppy journey passes the smaller islands of Cha Kung To and Hei Ling Chau, before it finds us docking in a light drizzle at Mui Wo.  Here I’m able to board a bus bound directly for the Po Lin Monastery, which lies next to the Buddha itself. 

The journey is pleasant, if a little damp and precipitous. For much of the way, all that can be seen is a dense covering of trees, dripping gently in the rain, however once we gain some height, the views start to open up a little, and soon I am able to gaze down at the low-lying coast of Lantau Island, as we climb up into its mountainous interior.  As we approach the village of Ngong Ping, home to the monastery, I happen to look up to my right, and there, gazing down from the hilltop, is the serenely peaceful face of the Tian Tan Buddha. This marvel of bronze, seated on a lotus throne atop a three tier platform, is thirty four metres tall, and weighs two hundred and two tonnes.  It dominates Ngong Ping with its benign presence, and intangibly beckons the visitor to surmount the two hundred and sixty eight steps which lie before it. Despite the rain and wind, this call is undampened, however I resolve to save the best until last, and instead elect to explore the monastery itself, prior to making Sakyamuni’s acquaintance.

The Po Lin (or Precious Lotus) Monastery is accessed via a large, ornamental, stone gate, which forms a perfect foreground to the green, cloud-swathed hills that rise behind it. The scene is rather like peering into a Taoist painting, where the detail is clear at first, but becomes obscured by mist in the background, so that one is forced to form one’s own picture in order to fill in the gaps.  After the stark concrete, bustling crowds, and enclosed views of Kowloon and Hong Kong Island, this is literally and figuratively a breath of fresh air. The outer courtyard holds lines of neatly trimmed bushes, amongst which are positioned various altars or differing size and design. Some resemble giant pots, while others have sloping, tiled roofs like traditional oriental houses.  In all of them however, there burns large quantities of incense; so much so that the air all over the courtyard is perfumed with it. At one altar in particular, are three of the largest incense sticks I have ever seen.  Each one is at least 12 inches in diameter, and they cast a veritable pall of fragrant smoke high into the air, as their centres glow a rich, warm red.

The farthest edge of the outer courtyard is not, in contrast to the altars and incense, full of eastern promise.  What it does share with a bar of Turkish Delight however is tacky wrapping, and the feeling that what you’re getting is neither high quality, nor authentic.  A line of gaudy souvenir shops purvey all manner of oriental bric-a-brac, and very nearly succeed in robbing the monastery of all its integrity as a place of religious worship.  The atmosphere is only saved, and saved admirably I might add, from this commercial nonsense, by the inner courtyard, which is accessed through another beautiful ornamental gate, itself framed on each side by lush trees, presently dripping gently from the rain.  Within the gate stand six gold statues of Buddhist deities, glaring with ferocious intensity from behind their long, flowing black beards. Emerging on the other side, one turns to see two narrow and almost obscenely quaint symmetrical stone staircases ascending to the apex of the gate. Here within the courtyard, all is suddenly more verdant, quiet, and spiritual.  The main temple building is a simple, yet undeniably beautiful example of oriental architecture.  Framing each of its large window panels, are stone columns, intricately carved with the long, winding bodies, and extravagantly fiery heads of dragons, which curl around, and up, and down, and seem so possessed of life that I quite expect them to peel away and take to the skies at any moment.  Inside the temple are three large representations of the Buddha.  They sit behind a veritable wall of flowers and other offerings, and beneath a ceiling painted in minute detail with yet more dragons.  The exterior walls, not to be outdone, bear bass reliefs of notable moments from the Buddha’s life.  The entire building is, to put it simply, a work of art, and one that serves perfectly to whet the appetite for what awaits, at the top of two hundred and sixty eight steps, just outside.

I am full of expectation as I leave the confines of the monastery, and make my way across Ngong Ping. At the base of the grandiose yet uncomplicated stone steps that lead up to the statue, is a small kiosk at which I purchase, for the sum of HK$60, a meal ticket entitling me to lunch at the monastery’s own vegetarian restaurant. The menu is set, but involves generous amounts of tofu, mushrooms, rice, and a variety of vegetables, so should certainly suffice to satisfy my needs.  I begin my ascent along with a generous number of other people, all of whom are now braving a determined rain shower, and blustery wind that is rather more enthusiastic than I suspect most of us would like. As I ascend, the view opens out, and Lantau is revealed as a mountainous, forested island, with a scattering of tiny islets leading away to the horizon in a disorganized chain.  On a clear day it’s possible, by all accounts, to see as far as Macau from just beneath the Buddha’s lotus throne, but then today is not a clear day, and I think we’ve as much chance of seeing the Serengeti Plain, as we have of glimpsing Macau.  Then again, who needs Macau when there’s a thirty four metre statue of Buddha sitting behind you?

Up close, the Tian Tan Buddha is certainly imposing.  His right hand is raised, palm forwards, and I think his middle finger is only fractionally shorter than I am.  So large does he loom in the camera lens at these close quarters, that it’s quite impossible to achieve anything other than an extreme close-up, without first retreating some distance back down the steps.  Despite his considerable, and dominating presence, the Buddha is not alone on his mountain.  Around him is a ring of statues, themselves eight or nine feet tall, of worshippers kneeling with arms outstretched, offerings in hand.  Above and beyond the obvious religious imagery, there is something very spiritual about this mountain top.  It may be the fact that one can look down upon the monastery, nestled peacefully amidst the swathe of thick forest that seems to cover the whole island. It may be the mist that gently cloaks the mountainsides in mystery, or it may just be that after two days of traffic, crowds, concrete, and neon, the scent of clean air, the sound of birdsong, and the touch of a fresh wind, seem almost to transcend everyday reality.  It’s fitting I think, that from his lotus throne on this mountain overlooking the green of Lantau, the Tian Tan Buddha is blessed to gaze eternally upon a scene of natural beauty and spiritual tranquillity.  I’d love to join him for longer, but earthly human concerns lure me elsewhere.  I have a lunch appointment in the monastery.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from a monastic vegetarian restaurant, but it certainly wasn’t the cavernous banquet hall into which I find myself walking, meal ticket in hand, some minutes later.  I’m quickly seated at a circular table that would happily accommodate ten people, although the waiting staff do remove all the other settings, which, while I’m sure it wasn’t the intention, really serves only to highlight the fact that I am dining alone.  Moments later I’m presented with a small bowl, a tea cup, a kettle, and a ceramic spoon.  My soup follows soon afterwards, in a bowl large enough to serve punch in.  I ladle some of it into my small bowl, pour myself a cup of tea, and begin.  The soup really defies any clear description, above and beyond the fact that it is clear, thin, and contains large chunks of white…something.  I would venture that it’s some kind of root, but it would be pure speculation.  That said, it’s quite tasty in its own way.  The tea on the other hand is spectacular.  I’ve dabbled in Chinese teas, and while I don’t claim to be an expert, I am fairly confident that this is either Tikuanyin, or a mild Pu Erh.  I’m already on my third cup when the waiter returns with an enormous lidded pot full of rice, and the rest of my lunch.  There are three dishes; spring rolls, tofu with mixed vegetables, and stir-fried Chinese cabbage with mushrooms.  It’s all absolutely magnificent, and is indeed the greatest meal I have eaten in recent memory.  There is an almost sensual pleasure in the food, which is perhaps somewhat inappropriate in a monastery.  The mushrooms in particular are without doubt the most delicious I have ever tasted. There is therefore, unsurprisingly, neither a morsel of food nor a drop of tea remaining as I finally lay down my chopsticks, sit back, and realise that I have just eaten half my body weight.   I rise (slowly) with a feeling of total satiated satisfaction, and begin to make my way back to Ngong Ping’s modest bus stand, for the return to Mui Wo, and thereafter Hong Kong itself.

It’s still raining in that, “I’m going to do this all day long,” kind of way, as I locate bus stand number 2, empty and deserted.  There’s a good twenty five minutes to kill before the next departure, so I distract myself by perusing the nearby gift shops.  There is a predictable abundance of miniature giant Buddhas, postcards of giant Buddhas, giant Buddha key rings, and even giant Buddha coaster sets.  As well as this, can be found the usual assortment of lacquer boxes, conical straw hats, calligraphy prints, and fans.  Since my mother is a fan (excuse me) of the latter, I select a suitably tasteful example as a gift, then return to wait in the drizzle.

The bus, having arrived, takes about forty minutes to return us to Mui Wo, where the rain has decided to up the ante, and is now falling in almost monsoonal proportions.  Fortunately, the ferry port has an area covered over, for the purpose of storing bicycles (of which there appear to be thousands) and it is here therefore that the waiting passengers also congregate, attempting not to become entangled in the forest of handlebars, or maimed by the innumerable pedals, which protrude like spikes on a chariot wheel, from every direction.  There’s quiet relief from all when the ferry finally docks some forty minutes later.

The journey back to Hong Kong is unremarkable, although as we draw into Victoria Harbour, I’m pleased to see that the rain is easing off, and a beautiful Chinese junk, at full sail, is easing out into the channel.  I have no doubt that it is probably brand new, with computerised navigation, and a deck full of tourists, but from this distance, it at least looks authentic.  Juxtaposed as it is against Central’s bristling office towers, this boat provides an image that really seems to encapsulate everything this territory is; ancient Chinese culture and tradition, beside the face of modern financial and commercial success.  In that regard Hong Kong could be justifiably compared to Seoul, where temples stand in the shadow of skyscrapers, and huge video screens cast eclectic light on sloping, tiled roofs and winding alleyways.  There is an undeniable charm to cities with two faces, and Hong Kong has one evening left in which to work its charms on me.

Back at the Mansions, I decide, in a moment of rashness, to remove the month of carefully styled facial hair I’ve been cultivating since my summer break began.  I regret it immediately, and vow to grow it all back as soon as possible. After all the day’s busyness, I need to catch up on the journal, and since a wee tipple generally tempts the muse, I repair to the Irish pub once more, feeling facially naked.

It’s relatively quiet in Murphy’s this evening.  There is a pair of Russian girls nearby, and a table of Englishmen to my left, but few others.  I’m on my second Carlsberg, when I notice that a bag, belonging to one of my aforementioned countrymen, has fallen on the floor.  I retrieve it, and hand it back to him, before returning to my table.  I’m once again happily ensconced in my journal, when one of the waitresses appears, unprompted, with a shot glass full of something jet black and dangerous looking.  “I didn’t order this,” I point out, but she replies swiftly, “Don’t ask, just drink.”  I notice that the English table also has a round of the same thing, and that they’re holding them up to toast, while looking across at me.  Having downed it, I’m still no closer to knowing what on earth it contained, although I am definitely at least one step further away from sobriety.  Curious, I approach my benefactors to establish exactly what I have just imbibed. I’m informed that it goes by the soubriquet ‘Black Hawk Down’, and consists of white Sambuca, black Sambuca, Vodka, Tequila, and Tabasco sauce.  It was apparently invented by one of their number some years ago, in an effort to produce something vile, but to everyone’s surprise, transpired to be eminently drinkable, a fact to which I can personally attest. I express my gratitude for the experience, and return to my table.  However, once I’m done with the journal, I find myself in desire of conversation, so make once more for the home of the Black Hawk Down, to ask if I could join them.  They agree with immediate welcoming friendliness, and it’s not long before a round of Jack Daniels and Coke has appeared on the table.  Introductions soon follow, and our company is thus – Ray, who hails from Manchester and is in Hong Kong to learn martial arts; Martin, an American with a similar mission; Andy, a local who used to work as a bodyguard; and Mark, an Englishman who has lived in Hong Kong for over twenty years, and is a martial arts master, a sometime film actor, as well and a technical diving instructor, as well as being fluent in Cantonese.  I have clearly chosen interesting drinking companions.

Over the next few hours, all manner of conversational ground is covered, including, predictably, martial arts (I learn that Ray and I shared the same Jeet Kune Do instructor in Manchester) and diving, but additionally spanning philosophy, eastern religion, science, evolutionary sexual theory, and life in Hong Kong, amongst a great many other things.  There is also a wealth of fascinating accounts of dramatic, bizarre, or otherwise noteworthy personal experiences, a field in which I am happy to report, I more than measure up to my companions. I should though, point out that Mark probably wins with the story (and the scar to prove it) of the time when he almost got his arm cut off.

Throughout the evening, Mark is extraordinarily generous with drinks, and I am forced to point out that my finances simply will not stretch to reciprocation.  He responds, in as friendly a way as the following could possibly be delivered, “Oh shut up!” and insists that my point is irrelevant. As far as he’s concerned, I went above and beyond normal kindness by picking up Ray’s bag earlier, and he’s merely returning the favour.  The Jack and Cokes continue unabated.

We’re joined, at an hour I am frankly unable to recall with any accuracy, and by means which are equally mysterious, by two Hong Kong girls – Keyman and Tess. The former has just returned from six weeks in Seoul, and speaks very highly of Korea. Their presence enlivens things still further, so that we are still going strong as late evening becomes night, and night becomes late night. Just as late night is on the cusp of becoming early morning, I bump into Patrick, the Irishman I met on Saturday, and so spend a while chatting to him, before finally, and somewhat unsteadily, calling it a night. Having skipped dinner, I am in desperate need of sustenance, and so determine to find the falafel takeaway I was shown two nights ago. I manage to locate it fairly easily, but then for some reason (which may or may not be connected to Jack Daniels and Black Hawk Downs) have enormous problems finding my way back to Nathan Road. It can only be a matter of yards away, but seems to elude me completely.  I am even driven to asking a few people on the street, but they don’t seem to know where it is either. It’s only Kowloon’s major thoroughfare for goodness’ sake! Happily, some time later, when my falafel take-away is cold, and I’m on the verge of concluding that it has been physically removed from the face of the earth, Nathan Road suddenly appears before me, as nonchalant as if it had never been away. Cheeky blighter.

Tuesday 12^th August

 

  Last night was quite interesting enough to have produced a considerable hangover, but I’m happy to report a near total absence of any such thing. Some mild grogginess is soon swept away by another mighty breakfast at Big John’s, and then all that remains is to pack up, and say farewell to the palatial majesty of the Mirador Mansions. Irritatingly in light of yesterday’s inclemency, the weather today is magnificent, and it’s a hot, sunny wait for the A21 back to the airport. The journey itself is a pleasure, and serves as the perfect way to say goodbye to the city. We pass first through the bustle of Kowloon, where I’ve slept, wandered, and made friends. From there the view widens, so that one can look back and make out the steel and concrete forest that is Central.  We then pass the port once again, before crossing to Lantau, where at one point I am just able to see, far in the distance, a giant Buddha, perched atop a green mountain.