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.