HONG KONG 2023

My Story 

During the 1967 anti-colonial government riot, my family left our one and a half units in the resettlement tenements of Li Cheng Uk 李鄭屋邨徙置區 to emigrate to America. 

The 7-story tenement was genius. There were 19 stacks in our “estate.” And there were more such estates in Kowloon. The British were top notch at reorganizing chaotic populations. They had to deal with the influx from Mainland, and displaced squatters from encampments that were destroyed by fire, etc. In the end, they housed everyone, albeit, into 120 square feet concrete cells that came with just a wooden window and a wooden door, and no built-in electricity, gas, or water. It was up to the occupants to cope and alter any way they must. There was no code or occupancy limit to slow anything down. Each floor had a men and a women toilet-rooms, and a men and a women bring-your-own-bucket bathing-rooms with stalls but no doors, which were near the faucet-room for easy water access. I dreaded dim and sweaty floors, with unsanitary edges, corners, and occasional flying or crawling bugs. Unlike other kids, I could never be barefooted in these rooms. My mother bought me wooden clogs to wear.  Kindergarten was on the top floor. Again, a perfect designation, as kids could not be lost coming and going.  Alas, climbing the steps to and from 7 stories was obligatory exercise.  Street level units, taking advantage of walking traffic, were generally home shops.  Street level had the additional perk of having a foot-wide drainage gutter that ran the length of all four sides around the building, where dumping liquid, including peeing was convenient.  Inevitably the gutter had clutters of wastes too, but somehow a flow was maintained. My mother placed a board in front of our unit, for me and our cat to cross. During rain or typhoons, children made paper boats to float down the gutter.  Our “kitchen,” like every neighbor’s, made use of the threshold just outside our unit.  My mother cooked on a portable kerosene stove, had a few utensils and pots, and a big tank that held water fetched from the faucet room.  There was no storage, so my mother bought groceries every day from street vendors.  Bargaining dimes and nickels was customary and sociable that all parties enjoyed.  Vendors efficiently tied up fish, meat, or vegetables for carry away with salt-water grass strings. No bags.  Unfortunately this no cost and eco-friendly practice had vanished from the world.  Between tenement buildings was pedestrian open space for activities such as laying out food items to dry, traveling performances, peddling goods, children running amuck, and in most evenings, residents relaxing. 

My two older brothers slept in the half unit on the 5th floor in another building, where despite being only 120 square feet, the unit was 2 separate dwellings by a dividing wall. An adult lady, who worked as a maid for foreigners, occupied the other half. When she was gone, she had temporarily sublet her side.  Once, it was to a man, who piled mounds of quail size chocolate Easter eggs against the dividing wall, such that the presence of a hole tempted us children to dig through it.  Chocolate was a rare treat.  The lady had taken me to see American movies, because a child could share a seat without paying.  I saw many western sagas, including Clint Eastwood's.  I loved the gunfights and horses without any need to know the plots. 

My father made use of his street level 120 square feet as our home and metal workshop.  He built a ceiling loft, accessed by steps from the shop, where my mother and I slept.  At night after the shop tidied up, my father slept in a portable canvas cot.  

Our shop first produced painted silver hooks that anchored Venetian blind strings.  My father self-taught tool die and mode casting for chopping sheet metal into hook shape.  We had other mechanical machines to bend pieces and drill holes.  Somehow electricity was connected.  It was dirty hard work.  My oldest brother started working full time along with my parents; he barely finished elementary school.  Child labor was common.  My father’s business took off when his sturdy metal knitting stands became known to new textile factories.  A metal “business card” was secured onto every stand, like an artist’s signature, to facilitate new orders.  Men in suits had visited our little shop for orders of over 100 stands.  Everyone worked; I held metal beams while my brother drilled. My mother and other brother painted the frames in oil based battleship gray.  When necessary, we hired neighbors to get the orders done. 

Privacy was unusual.  One neighbor on our street level managed to never socialize with anyone. She was a “Susie Wong.” Her little girl was always home alone with the door closed.  The shop to our right was 余九記; this metal workshop had several live-in hired men.  Once they stole my brother’s dog and cooked it.  My brother cursed them into the night.  The shop to our left was a man who sold aquarium fish.  He had basins and buckets spread out beyond his shop everyday to entice passersby.  Clusters of tiny red worms in plastic water filled bags were a hot sell.  The first shop at the corner was a cheong-saam tailor. His wife was always pregnant; they had 5,6, or 7 kids. Their very old grandma still helped out, and could thread through a needle at night under minimal light without eyeglasses.  I remember one of their children was my friend, but suddenly she was gone.  Sometimes I got a dime to go across for snacks from 潘齒香 .  Across too was my favorite shop 黃興記, a stationery store that also made ritual products for burning to the underworld.  Colored tissues covering bamboo stick frames made into cars, and mansions with furniture (much like a doll's house).  I had two friends my age that lived on the second floor (aka US first floor).  They started working in factories at age 14.  Everyone loved playing mahjong. My friends and I learned how to play before attending kindergarten.  My other friend lived across, next to the snack shop. She married at 15 to get away from her stepmother, who was in fact a quiet and kind woman, and who occasionally got beaten by her father.  Somehow we lived thriving lives with almost nothing left to lose.  Thanks to Stephen Chow’s movie “Kung Fu Hustle,” for bringing the old neighborhood back to life. 

2023 

Like sandcastles on the beach, wiped out by the tides, all of the above was gone without a hint left.  I located our tenement based on 中聖學校 a nearby elementary school. The Han Tomb 李鄭屋古墓 entrance with two stone lions, where I used to hang out wondering what was inside, had been completely remodeled since my prior visits.  Unfortunately the grander newer look only made this ancient tomb look anonymous and bland. To replace 7-story with 27-story housing was justifiable, but not all renovation for the sake of renovation was good. 

On this visit I also ventured out to Kowloon Walled City 九龍寨城. This 6.5 acre (0.01 square mile) of housing jungle that had housed 50,000 people was wiped out too. Dedicated to its memory was a beautiful and serene Han garden. 

Housing the Hong Kong growing population has historically been a primary worry. Land owners have little incentive to develop more residences to compete with their existing real estates. The government and people are on their knees needing more land to develop. Already residential highrises had blocked the horizon. My friend lives on the 32nd floor. 

Am I now a stranger in my motherland? I visited Macau, Wanchai, Aberdeen, Hong Kong Central, Sham Shui Po. I recognized the same never-say-die people focusing on making a living like my father did, and the same cut to the chase attitude that made them brilliant in survival. Beyond memories, the only connection I now hold on to was friends I met on this and prior times. Through them, I saw myself in a parallel universe, growing up with Hong Kong. 

SPECIAL THANKS to Winnie and 阿景, Candy, 阿忠 and Feddy, Winnie and Sam, Ivy and Ming, and Leo. 

IN MEMORIAM: 李俊國

TRANS CANADA 2023

PASSPORT  What may be the worst thing that could happen on an international trip, besides illness or injury?  During my Toronto Pearson Airport's connecting flight to Halifax, I forgot my US passport at the Canadian Customs and Border Control scanner!  Having exited that room, there was no going back.  No amount of pleading to Information, Air Canada, and Airport Police helped.  I could only complete a Lost Report on Pearson's Lost and Found website.  

Being already in Canada, my California Real ID was good for their domestic flights and trains.  I continued to Halifax.  According to US Consulate websites, Emergency Passport was by appointment only.  Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver were fully booked for over a month.  Scouring the internet, my 2 dozen calls got only useless recordings and endless music on hold.  Canadian public employees on strike was the excuse.  Dead ends everywhere.  What else to do?  I prayed for a Miracle.  Just then, at 2am, the "Emergency Abroad" phone number caught my attention.  

Miracle began:  At that wee hour of the morning, someone answered!  The sympathetic agent advised me to send an email to American Citizen Services.  I emailed the one in Toronto.  An auto rejection email came quickly. Amazingly the fine prints explained that other proof of citizenship could be used for border crossing by land, and explained how to word the Subject Line for urgent cases.   I re-worded my email and made a backup Amtrak reservation.  Instant relief, Hallelujah!  Next morning I awoke rested and happy.

Amtrak out of Canada was good enough, but my Miracle continued.  Toronto's US Consulate emailed me an appointment on the exact date I requested.  On the day, the process only took minutes.  An officer accepted my documents, told me to return at 2pm.  I got my Emergency Passport.  Thanks to the US Consulate.  Praise God.

HALIFAX  Express Bus 320 from the airport to downtown stopped right across The Barrington Hotel.  Walking around to a ferry crossing, I rode to Dartmouth, and then rode right back, as there wasn’t much to see.  Downtown was pleasant, but beyond 6pm, even on a Friday night, shops on the streets and in the Scotia Square mall were mostly closed.  At 45° F the Waterfront was deserted.  Fortunately the Bluenose II restaurant, a down slope block from the hotel, was warm and homey for dinner. 

The Maritime Museum was an eye opener.  There were two major events on this eastern coast:  In 1917, French SS Mont-Blanc carrying WWI high explosive was T-boned by Norwegian SS Imo carrying relief cargo.  Mont-Blanc then veered into the Halifax Harbor, wiping out 1.6 mile radius of people and structures in an instant.  Five years earlier in 1912, Halifax dropped 119 Titanic victims back into the sea when embalming supplies ran out. They buried 150.

The Titanic tragedy displayed raw human flaws:  1) VANITY:  White Star Line decided on only 20 lifeboats, which could only accommodate 1178 of 2,240 (if full 3,320) passengers.  The idiot captain skipped the emergency drill.  Therefore chaos, including losing two boats, 472 seats were unused.  Trusting that the Titanic was “unsinkable,” 1st and 2nd class gentlemen played up the decorum of ladies and children first.  This blindness was hailed as gallantry, especially by White Star Line, to deflect their faults and to deter lawsuits.  2) CLASSISM:  While the first boat only had 5 1st class passengers (3 men, 2 women) and 7 crew members, the 3rd class steerage was always locked to prevent passengers from “spreading diseases” to upper levels, but in this tragedy, from escaping sooner.  Not giving up the chance to survive was not cowardice.  57 1st class men were saved, while 146 3rd class women and children died. The difference was that 1st class had a choice to leave sooner.  3) RACISM:  Were there Asians on the Titanic?  6 of 8 Chinamen on board in 3rd class and the only Japanese man on board in 2nd class survived. In the era of Chinese Exclusion, aside from immediate suspicion and ridicule of these 7 paid passengers, their survival feat was not deemed worthy of Titanic history, not until Director Arthur Jones’ 2020 documentary, "The Six" (watch here). The Japanese man, upon returning to Japan, got fired from his government job and ostracized by his people for not dying.  They blamed him for not abiding by the white gentleman’s way of women and children first.  Men first was the norm in 1912 Meiji Japan.  4) JUDGMENT DAY:  Was a mother or a daughter more worthy than a father or a son?  Was a child with a longer future more worthy than an elder with life experience?  Staring at imminent death or life, who played God to decide anyone's fate?  1st class first? WTF!

TRAINS  Riding on slow old trains clinking and clanking, jerking and tossing for miles and miles was oddly therapeutic to me.  Why not go faster by plane, faster by car, cheaper by bus?  Train passengers are a strange lot.  I revered old rail tracks too, for they were laid with blood and guts.  I had to go before they were gone.

Canada's VIA "The Ocean" was 22 hours from Halifax to Montreal.  Coach was spacious and comfortable, until a big burly guy sat next to me for several hours with his elbow halfway into my space.  My other complaint was the ceiling lights were lit all night; I lowered my hoodie and wore sunglasses. "The Corridor" was only 5 hours from Montreal to Toronto.  Montreal VIA station had good food stalls. I especially liked the beautiful French pastries.  The highlight of the VIA was “The Canadian,” 4 nights from Toronto to Vancouver.  “Sleeper Plus” lower berth included a big window turned out to be the best choice.   On the first night, the attendant made up the bunks after dinner. She was supposed to transform the bunks back into 2 facing couches each morning, but everyone preferred the bunks left as beds through all 4 nights.  Once the drapery was drawn, my cubbyhole with changing window view was a private oasis.  Car 113 had 3 sets of upper/lower bunks for a total of 6 passengers.  The car had a drinking water dispenser, and separate boy's and girl's toilet rooms.  A farther shower room was shared with other cars.  Electric outlets for charging were inside the toilet rooms.  Both upper/lower bunk passengers could stow luggage and shoes, with a 9 inch height limit, on the floor under the lower bunk.  Sleepers included meals.  My choice was eggs, hash brown, bacon, toast, coffee and juice every morning.  Filet mignon, pork tenderloin, prime rib, and rack of lamb were my 4 dinner entrees.  Ontario was still a snow and ice winter wonderland in April.  Manitoba was flat and golden like the old west.  Saskatchewan was flat too, but greener.  Alberta and British Columbia were the showstoppers with majestic and tranquil rocky mountains, waterfalls, lakes, vegetation, animals, and birds.  At the bunks and during meals, fellow passengers naturally developed rapport.  Pia, a girl from Germany, got off at Saskatoon to volunteer at a farm.  Simon, a boy from Switzerland, my upper bunk mate, will drive around Canada for 3 more weeks after Vancouver. I met Libretta, who studied Theology and Siyeon, who was deciding career and boyfriend, both from Korea but were students in Toronto, and Kuniko, a girl from Japan.  Emil, a small child, who knew a lot about trains, was traveling with his Hong Kong Chinese mother and Montreal French father.  As meal tables were unassigned, I sat with different people and exchanged usual introductions each time. 

MONTREAL TORONTO VANCOUVER  Landscape and climate may vary at different latitudes, but most metropolises in the developed world are similar now.  Familiar franchises, recognizable transportation modes, universal social practices, each Canadian town felt like home to me in just 2 or 3 days.  I visited museums and must’ve seen every Monet and Picasso distributed all over the world.  A culture shock was the combination of 2 taxes on every bill that amounted to 11%.  Tag on a minimum of 15% tip, be prepared to pay a lot for a restaurant meal.  I loved ethnic neighborhoods, but neither Montreal nor Vancouver's Little Italy could I find spaghetti and meatballs for lunch.  Besides pizza, real Italian restaurants were closed until 5pm.  I ventured further out to Vancouver’s Little India, which turned out to be a good hub of Indian shops, restaurants, and a market.  I had authentic Punjabi chicken masala.  It was delicious, but so spicy that I had to toss the leftover.  

A special thanks to Sammy (2018 trans-Siberian) for a whole rainy day of driving and hosting me from Toronto Chinatown to Markham’s Pacific Mall, to Vaughan Mills, to lunch at The Red Sichuan, and to meet his daughter Wendy’s lovely family.  Sammy is a kindred spirit in world exploration.

INCIDENT  I was on the SkyTrain heading back to downtown from Little India. It was an hour-long ride when I spotted a chubby white dude, about 30, with his pants down, baring and exposing his privates from waist down to his ankles.  For many stops, no one reacted.  Finally, I Skype called the transit police. Officers came on 2 stops later. The dude quickly pulled up his pants, but too late; officers saw him.  An officer copied my photo evidence.  The train was safe again.  Glad to help, Vancouver!