Fortress Hill

I catch my foot at the last minute as it is about to descend onto the white and black asphalt. The winking green man is now red, so no jay-walking for me, unless I feel like taking my chances with the traffic. I glance to my left at the grumbling blue truck jolting forward and decide that maybe I should just wait for the light to change like a good citizen. I perch on the curb, next to a blue-green front-end loader that is surrounded by neon orange tape. It stands frozen, a rusted maw gaping at the soil below as if waiting to take another chomp. A greasy orange vest hangs from one of its teeth. Maybe you should floss, buddy. When the green man appears again, I cross and leave the loader to its daydreams.

Across the street, catty-corner to be exact, a riot of green beckons. Really, one of the curling fronds reaches out to me like a gesticulating finger. Come. I slowly walk towards the green, an anomaly in this city long conquered by concrete. I have found it. One last bastion of the fragrant jungle. A survivor of the raze. Walls of gray buildings shoot skyward to imprison the green on all sides. Not a seedling can escape. The plants stretch up toward the blue sky and shifting clouds but are twenty-eight stories too short. Never mind that, they rustle, reach the blue or wither trying.

The green pulls me. Past the cars--don’t get hit. Ignore the Java Maid shop. Try to disregard the 15-min haircut place but can’t help marveling at its efficiency claim. Just a few steps further and I’m in the wild patch itself. My eyes are pulled to a hibiscus blossom, bravely showing off its red petals in a world of green. I blink and am six again, leaning out our front door to gaze at the pretty flower faces nodding down at me. I shuffle around, scuffing my bare, brown feet in dirt, examining each blossom to find the queen. Finally satisfied, I pluck a bloom and tuck it into my hair. I am a jungle princess, a wanderer, a tamer of lizards.

I blink again. Instead of sea of hibiscus sisters crowding out from the leaves, in front of me only hangs a trio. One bold, one nagging, one demure. All doing their best to fill the tree and trying to ignore their failure. I sigh. To pluck one here would be a crime.

My gaze travels down. Gone are the the dust-coated feet of the Laura-child. In their place, red sneakers. At least the white rubber is somewhat scuffed, I console myself.

Head up, I walk further, hesitantly, as if my presence would break the fragile silence of this place. To my left, an old man is stretched out on a pebble-lined bench. One of his tan arms is thrown carelessly over his face. The bottom buttons of his gray shirt have resigned. Further on, I come across a color-patch purse relaxing on a stoop. Oh wait, there is a human there as well, swaying in the breeze and texting on a ruby phone.

A waterfall sound draws me around a corner, but when I burst around the bend, no glorious cascade or swirling rapid. Just a brown fountain, gurgling dismally. A giant brass dolphin, or maybe a fish, tries to leap out of the murky deep. Not a good sign, methinks.

And when I look around with a less romantic eye, my visions of jungle fades. Trees are imprisoned in boxes of cement and metal cages hold up the boisterous creeping branches. The plants here are no more free than the potted plants on the Central walkways. Wilderness is  an illusion. But as I turn to go, shoes dragging on the pebbled path, I see a crack. A break in the structure, a chip in the cement. One unrepentant weed is breaking through the path to forge its own trail to the sun. I smile at its shining leaves. Resistance is never truly dead.

Fortress Hill

Fortress Hill  (12 Oil Street)

I worked in Fortress Hill for a year. It felt bizarre working amongst so many residential buildings and factories. But I would always walk past this building on the way to work. It wasn't till I changed workplaces (to Wong Chuk Hang) that I purposely came here to take a look. I later discovered it's yet another one of those "artsy" buildings.  According to their website their job is to provide spaces for art projects. (To give a chance to experiment in creativity/ creative programmes). I've still yet to actually explore the insides as it's always "closing" when I go. 

If you're interested in visiting, their website is: 

https://www.lcsd.gov.hk/CE/Museum/APO/en_US/web/apo/about_oi.html

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.