Sheung Wan

Sheung Wan

The Banyan trees in Sheung Wan near PMQ. 

Some of my earliest memories in HK have been walking underneath the branches and leaves hanging down from the trees. Saying goodbye to the trees in Sai Ying Pun off centre street/Bonham was more of a shock than I thought it would be, but I hope that these will remain here forever. 

Sheung Wan

Out the way, exit A, 2 I believe

A garden of nodding cigarette butts

And puddles of water and grime

There’s no white rabbit to lead the way down the twisty, tricky rabbit hole

A white puff of a dog will have to do

Though cradled by a hard-eyed elder

Who shuffles too much to be a guide

Further in, up the stairs that find being level an offense,

Gray cement sometimes carpeted in green.

Mao smiles on my descent, his cig swirling purply-pink fumes

Atop the slopes, a temple looms

Prayers and incense rise from bobbing mouths,

Doors to some, black against white cheek walls

Nearby the tree and broom stand guard,

The straw beginning where the vine ends

The years dissolving the differences like sugar in hot tea.

Now it’s down the fern-lined crack between the buildings,

Stars and moss and a green lion’s mane.

Fronds brush fingers, feet tread velvet,

Many strangers to meet besides the rainbow Mao.

A blue bomb grins morbidly, waiting for the tail of fire

To hit his head, bringing the end.

A teal teacup with a toothless grin,

Holding a presumably bare man bathing in tea,

Nonchalant, mumbling into a banana-brown flip phone.

White aircon squares, under which hang by tatty nooses

A stuffed pup and a hapless strawberry.

What treason warranted such a death,

To hang, mildewing in the wet and the wind?

A silver mirror stand sits silent in a wavy park

The glass long gone, no faces at which to peer,

No beauty to glimpse or forms to distort.

Potential is silenced by a rubbish collector’s judgment:

permanent exile to the bin.

The sighting of a red crown ends the fun.

For the love of my head,

I shadow my steps back to A2,

Away from the magic of concrete friends,

Back to the world where rabbits are mute and queens are in England.

HKU

HKU

Originally, I had intended to draw the gates to HKU (a set of gates which I used to walk by a lot). But after actually walking around the area in HKU station it felt so freeing to just sit on one of the cement blocks under the bridge. Surrounded by Coffee shops/local eateries/ homes there was something strangely relaxing about the area. 

HKU

There is sweat in the air, collecting on foreheads and backs, a sign of the imminent summer months. Sandy toes, muggy dance-feet nights in the halos of streetlights, mojitos sipped through gleaming smiles, and the grime of mountain hikes in the warm rain. Monkey gangs and tourist swarms. A thousand sweating mugs of icy milk tea, condensation ringing tabletops across the city. The question on every snot-nosed child’s lips:

“Ocean Park or Disneyland?”

Amusement parks, the kingdom of liberated children, parents chasing their offspring with water bottles and bug spray, and grandparents armed with canes and cameras. But the choice, oh the choice. Which one to choose?

Ocean Park with its slick, black penguins, dolphin-shaped rubbish bins, rides that cause parents and children alike to grasp at the rails, slamming their eyelids shut. On the other hand, Disneyland has a castle, twirling teacups, and a river ride. And hordes of singing, dancing princesses. Can anything really beat a princess?

The only problem these parks of joy bring is a heart-stopping price-tag. Of course children don’t care, but it might lead several parents into heart attacks and leave them wondering if they might need to pawn their youngest child just to pay the entrance fee. And that’s not even counting the snacks. Do you know how much those grilled squid bits cost?  

For parents who are teetering on the edge of collapse, there is another way. Shek Tong Shui, near Hong Kong University, is home to a more egalitarian theme park. No need to shell out cash and tears, to open your veins to satisfy thrill-seeking offspring.

There may be no cutesy country town or vicious sharks to inspire shivers and squeals, but the bucking asphalt needs no such frivolous additions to the heart-dropping ride of death. Well, I guess there are a few decorations that have their own charm. Down the block, a flashing rainbow blinks atop a green storefront. The flags lining the streets may be for a cha chaan teng, not a castle, but they still flap cunningly in the wind, showing off their green and orange stripes.

They have snacks there too, although no fried squid or buns in the shape of pandas. Probably more along the lines of fried rice and French toast. In my book, French toast, fried golden and adorned with a melting pat of yellow butter, is much better than over-priced buns.  The cooked food center is only some stairs and a wheel-chair ramp away. Around the bend lies a hipster coffee joint, complete with flower bottles and romping elephants.

On the brown wall across the way hangs a string of silver CDs. Hard to say what music they hold, but as they spin and rock in the wind, it doesn’t matter anymore. Giant shuttlecocks and volleyballs have been painted on the feet of the highway columns, although the shaky painting gradually fades to yellow and gray as it goes up the leg. Potted trees line the walk below the overpass. They look like they have wandered out of a Dr. Seuss universe, forgetting they are supposed to be pink but not neglecting to twist and bend into impossible shapes.

Families wander by with their children, encouraging the small ones to walk up the hill, sometimes employing coercion, other times bribes. There are no princesses there, although the trash uncle is wearing white and blue. And is that an orange trash can? If one squints it almost becomes a pumpkin. Maybe if Cinderella were raised in the 852 she too would have emptied rubbish bins and pushed greasy hand-carts.

Then there’s the ride itself, the curved overpass with buses making up the unlinked rollercoaster cars. No screams can be heard except the growling roar of engines and occasional shrills from the market. But don’t be fooled. The bus won’t slow. The curves are deep, the incline steep. As each yellow and blue bus whizzes along the road, for sure the riders get a thrill. At the speed they are going, will they make the turn or will they crash over the edge, soaring through the air, and smashing into somebody’s kitchen? Oh, the delicious unknown.

So, if amusement is needed, a diversion from endless hours of sweat, head up the hill. Hop a bus and sit in the front. Don’t forget to strap yourself in, if you can find seatbelts that is, and grip the well-worn, yellow handrails. Keep your limbs inside the bus. Please do scream as the bus leans, whipping around the curves. The bus driver won’t mind, I’m sure.

Causeway Bay

“Dark places are what they look for.” My Cantonese teacher pushed his glasses up his nose and gazed solemnly about the small, airless classroom. “If you want to curse people, it needs to be a place there is never any sunshine. So under Ngo Geng Kiu, Goose Neck Bridge, is perfect. Even on the brightest summer day there will be shadows there.”

The bridge looms up over the street, not beautiful, a massive concrete structure built so that multiple lanes of cars could whizz past high over the heads of passerbyers. It’s a landmark in its own right, almost equal to Times Square in the taxi driver’s eyes. To Ngo Geng Kiu, the mouth of Causeway Bay. The bridge is tall, something like a mix of a cavern and a cathedral. Its wide underbelly of white cement stretches nearly the length of two buses. White pillars, also cement but shoddily tiled in some places, tower over pedestrians, holding the bridge aloft. They are also rather ugly, but someone has attempted to beautify them with posters in cheery blues, yellows and pinks. They do nothing but stand out from the dinginess around, a clean bandage slapped on an unwashed knee.

People flow under the bridge, an endless stream of faces. It’s a blur of suits and stilettos, tattoos and flip-flops. A gray-headed man shuffles past pushing a rusted hand-cart loaded down with boxes and bags. He searches face after face with the same suspicious droop of his lips, going from one to the next, never satisfied. His stares go unheeded by others in the crowd, and finally he and his cart squeak away. A few pieces of white ash float in his wake, catching at his silver flyaways, before being carried away on the wind.

Back a few cart-lengths, right in the center of the median, is the ash’s source. Shoebeaters, the queens of the underpass. Four grizzled grandmothers perch on plastic stools surrounded by altars, statues, and paper tigers. In the gray of the dusk, their court is just a blur of red with spots of fire marking candles, incense and burning paper. One of the ladies waves a huge flame, possibly a burning tiger, several times around the head of a young man in a gray overcoat. He hunches forward, listening. On the end, a grandmother in a gray shirt and a slouched maroon vest sits with her hands clasped in front of her. Her round eyes have settled back comfortably into her face; her mouth is unsmiling. Every now and then, she waves her right arm spastically. She calls out to customers, beckoning them to come, try out her services. Whether selling candles or curry or curses, it’s all the same sales technique.

Most hurry past their court without a glance, some pulling their coats about them. A man and woman, both thin and tall, approach slowly, uncertainly. Their heads tilt in question. As soon as the lady’s twitching fingers swing in their direction, they jerk back and shake their heads, eyes wide. But when a middle-aged lady pushes past them to sink onto a stool and demand service, cameras emerge. The shoebeater grandmother ignores the cameras and hands a glossy flyer to the woman who grips the brochure tightly, studying each page.

Soon, the customer is gone. The couple too. The paper tiger has been burned, the shoes whacked on the cold cement, the curse set. The shoebeater sits on her red stool, hands resting on her knees, watching humanity flow past her. The shoe sits ready. Dusk has faded into night leaving behind even deeper shadows. She waits with her paper tigers, waiting for others to come with a heart for cursing.

Causeway Bay

Causeway BayGoose Neck BridgeI've always been interested in why these ladies sit under the bridge "hitting" photos in the middle of Causeway Bay. It was amazing to watch how many couples/single people/ elderly people come to seek advice from the women sitting under the bridge

Tin Hau

In this concrete jungle

Cement pillars, rusted metal bars, crumbling stairs,

some still long for trees.

A miniature forest grows

in Tin Hau

crammed between a metal-shuttered alley and a slick boutique.

It’s a shop itself, Forest, albeit a small forest.

One lonely tree in the front window

A small family of plants nestled round its roots.

It’s good to have something to live for.

Warm wooden panels line the window

Yellow twinkle lights and green leaves

Peep at passersby who don’t peep back.

One side of the tree,

Rows of heels bathed in stark warehouse light.

A gloom-leaking alley lurks on the other.

Inside the Forest

a solid wooden desk

a bespectacled, shave-headed man.

He watches shopping bags and canes and gray pant-legs hurry past.

The people stream by but the door stays shut.

The man glances. The lights shine. The tree grows.

Time moves on.

Tin Hau

Hipsterville (quirky coffee shops) meets local area 

(temples, local food and apartment blocks). 

Central

The busy intersection (D'Aguilar Street and Queen's Road Central)

 leading towards Lan Kwai Fong. 

Central

I step out of the Maritime Museum as if emerging from the heart of the sea. Actually, just jet blue carpet, dim lighting and my vivid imagination, but the effect was nonetheless enjoyable. The boat replicas and informative videos were all absorbing, but my mind is stuck on one thing.

A world map painted by an Italian Jesuit priest in China for Chinese elite. The map itself wasn’t that impressive, although I did like the blobby red bits and the squiggly continents. It was the information plaque, placed there for extra curious museum patrons like myself.

“These maps allowed Chinese intellectuals to have a first glimpse of the concept of the world being round...Some of the Chinese educated elite were shocked since the map did not depict the Ming Empire at its centre….the map’s orientation did not alter the Emperor’s belief that China was the centre of the universe.”

I smile and shake my head slightly, rolling the words around in my mind again. Center of the universe. How many people thought that, back in the day, that their country was the middle of the world, that the earth was the center of the universe, that their people group should be called “The People.” Everyone else was just “Other”, I guess.

My feet fly down the windy metal stairs to get to the bottom, the entrance, or maybe exit, of ferry number eight. I shiver and pull my coat more firmly about me. There was coffee somewhere. I think down at pier three.

I pause at the bottom of the paint-chipped step. Wave after wave of endless faces roll in front of me. Work is over, the tide comes in. I swallow and dive in, fighting my way across the current to reach the far side of the walkway, the flow going the direction I need.

Quite a few people push past me, clutching bags, coats flapping. They pay no mind to whose faces get slapped by errant scarves. A short, spiky-haired woman jostles her way around me. Her mouth is a grim line, and she has a death-grip on her suitcase-sized handbag. She flits this way and that, skooting past the few meandering pedestrians who in turn pretend she is invisible.

To my left, a young couple cuddles up on the cement seat in front of some scraggly bushes. The boy’s skinny arms slung around the girl’s waist, passing under her blue backpack that is adorned with miniature animals. The girl’s hands are also full, holding a white styrofoam container. Steam seeps over the brim. What is it? As if hearing my question, the girl lifts a large wooden toothpick, skewers a siu mai, shakes a few drops of brown sauce off of it, and smiles as she deposits it in her boyfriend’s gaping mouth. He smiles at her, his cheeks bulging. She smiles back and fishes for another siu mai. Down the bench, old woman’s eyes dart over to them. The corners of her mouth turn down, and her right eye twitches. The message fails though, as the young couple don’t even glance in her direction. The feeding continues.

In front of me, three Western men, three pairs of brown shoes, three blue suit coats, three plastic cups. They walk abreast, chatting and admiring the gray sea over the wall. Behind them three young Chinese guys, three pairs of running shoes, three barely-there shorts. They pause their run, bouncing in place behind the impassible wall of suits, and finally find the margin between elbows and the metal rail. They shoot ahead, their shoes chastising the slow-movers behind them.

“M goi, m goi!” A trash uncle bellows, his voice echoing under the pier 4 archway. He clutches a glowing cigarette in one hand. His lined face says it all: His pushcart heaped with reeking black bags is a clear right of way. But the way does not clear. Two mothers, strollers and babes in tow, try to stare down the interloper. Obviously their precious cargo deserves priority. When the trash uncle shows no sign of slowing, the mums shuffle over to the pier 4 ferry schedule, slowly, though, in protest. The trash uncle takes a long drag on his cigarette, and the corners of his mouth give the slightest upward jerk. He would have been a champ at chicken.

I walk up to pier 3, dodging the little boy dashing between pillars. My dodging continues unabated as I’m surrounded by waves of running adults. I glance at the sign to see that it has changed to “boarding.” Of course. Some excuse would be needed for suited bankers and executives to race each other down the pier, occasionally slamming into another runner as they misread the lane changes. Muffled cursing and the sound of scuffling of feet echo off the concrete ceiling. It’s every banker for himself.

I shuffle inside to the coffee shop and bump into a fleeing customer, coffee in hand and panic in her eyes. I jump back, letting her charge past and lumber towards the ferry entrance. The plaque from the museum pops into my head. The center of the universe. A bark of laughter escapes my lips. I guess it’s believable after all.

Why We Are Following the Lines

It all started one day when I was telling Jackie that I'd like to visit every MTR station in Hong Kong.

For those of you who don't call the Fragrant Harbour your home, the MTR is Hong Kong's fairly well-connected and efficient metro system. While I actually dislike it for commuting purposes (who really likes to be crammed into a tin box next to hundreds of groggy strangers every morning), I have to admit that it makes exploring the far reaches much easier.

Anyway, I had been telling Jackie that I really wanted to get to know Hong Kong better. Of course, I have lived here for years and I like exploring, but there are still places my feet have never trod. That is how I decided I wanted to visit every MTR station. And not just the station, because how interesting is an MTR station anyway? No, I wanted to walk around the district of each station, to taste the atmosphere, sample the milk tea, dodge the traffic.

I don't really remember the evolution of that conversation except that, by the end of it, Jackie was on board, and my idea had morphed into this new, more creatively-driven project.

Instead of just exploration, this project will push us to develop our artistic skills. Practice makes better, right? Right? At least I hope so.

The idea is that we will visit the area of every MTR station, walk around, and soak it in. Jackie will sketch something, and I will write something. While we may use the same subjects, most pieces will probably be on different things, especially since we won't be able to work together most of the time (let's hear it for busy city life). When we find the time, we'll just wander the streets and choose whatever snags our imagination.

We're starting with the Blue Line, spine of Hong Kong Island. Since I live here, and both of us spend extensive amounts of time here, it seems natural to start by chasing the blue.

So if you feel like seeing Hong Kong through our eyes (and pens), join us as we Follow the Lines.