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.
