1. A secluded paradise with sand flies

Pauly invited me to spend some time with him in Hong Kong on my way to mainland China, and was happy to play host for a weekend. I jumped off the extremely efficient Airport Express at the central train station on Hong Kong Island, where we were to meet, and was instantly lost.

I couldn’t find our meeting spot, the international landmark that is Starbucks, and had a pang of fear through my entire being that Pauly wouldn’t find me and I’d be left to my own device in a foreign city. This was a situation I wanted to avoid, and with each passing second I wondered what the hell I would do without him. Having decided looking confident was the first step to being confident, I strode over to the glass elevators, shot to the top floor, keeping an eye out for Starbucks, and heard a yell from a floor below.

“Stand still, Chris.”

Pauly had seen me on my way up, and jumped on the next available elevator. My nerves instantly eased and I breathed a massive sigh of relief.

My hair was in a blonde Mohawk footballer fashion, which I’d done specially for my graduation a couple of weeks earlier. When Pauly spotted this, he had a good laugh.

Having not seen Pauly for a few years, I wasn’t completely sure what to expect, but we hugged hello, he took my pack off me, and we headed for the escalators which run up the covered outdoor pedestrian access-way from sea-level to the mid-levels, where his apartment was. Pauly, an Australian from Adelaide, who worked in Hong Kong, was the chairperson for a student conference I’d attended five years earlier, and we’d kept in touch all that time. The dutiful tour guide, he explained much of the city to me.

It was late evening by the time he took me for a trolley car tour of the central city, and explained the corporate structure, locals feverish work habits, and pointed out the important buildings the trolley cars cornered past, flinging us from side to side, as we repetitively suffered whiplash at each bend. His favourite edifice was the Australian building with the glass koalas climbing up the side, which I agreed looked pretty cool. It was quite late when we got back to his apartment, and after a drink on the roof surrounded by high-rises and skyscrapers, he suggested we get some sleep. We were invited to a beach party situated on the Sai Kung peninsula in the New Territories the next night and would need our rest.

Along from Pauly’s apartment building the next morning, I walked through Gage St, which had transformed from a deserted back alley the night before, to a vibrant market place swarming with people crowding up to butchers, vegetable and seafood stalls, restaurants, plus clothing and novelty stalls. It was an eclectic hundred metre stroll, with skinned animal carcasses hanging in the open air, shellfish struggling for freedom, trucks and vans fighting their way through the masses of shoppers and stall workers, and a beautiful smell of food.

A few cats and dogs also strolled, masterless, through the market, both flaunting their freedoms and showing an understated nervousness that the next flensing knife could be directed at them.

After meeting some of Pauly’s friends, we got to Diamond Hill via the sparkling MTR subway system, and from there caught a bus to Sai Kung. As we left the Hill, I was mesmerised by the high-rise buildings. I’m unsure if Hong Kong public housing has the same negative stigma as New Zealand’s, but the high-rise buildings are all basically identical in height, shape, colour, and design. Row after row of identical buildings rose up to the sky overhead. There would have been more than thirty or forty of these mirror image towers, side by side. It was like a scene out of a crap, B-grade futuristic surrealist prison movie, with a mixed sense of danger, sterility and the death of uniqueness. Whether caused by socialist town planning, or simply housing demands, or both, it was a spine-chilling scene for this suburbanite kid.

A couple of bus rides later, on the way to the ferry pier from the township of Sai Kung, we passed two random cows standing unattended by a sign saying “Keep your dog on a leash”.

The ferry ride was great, gliding on the calm waters of the inlets of Long Harbour under the warm afternoon sun and we enjoyed a quiet beer sitting out on the deck. The boat docked at a little place called Chek Keng, and we walked up a valley and into the hills. The destination beach lay on the other side of the hills forty-five minutes walk away, and I decided wearing jandals was not a good idea. My feet were sweat-laden and grimy, like the rest of me, and I slipped more and more with each step, as I failed to find any grip with the cheap plastic flip-flops. But up the valley we went, through the jungle which had a man-made concrete path most of the way. There wasn’t any birdsong to be heard, and not much to see in the way of wildlife, but maybe I wasn’t listening hard enough. I did see one dog lying by a house, unleashed.

Once arriving at Ham Tin, the golden sandy shoreline, with the ocean dishing up breakers, enticed us all into the water. The hills surrounded the beach and the sand stretched for maybe a kilometre, the beautiful sound of the ocean drowning out any thought of hunger, thirst, fatigue, and home.

Tents had been set up near where the track emerged, circling a stack of wood, which would later become a bonfire. We dumped our stuff with the others at the tents, stripped off and ran into the waves, leaving the others to continue gathering dry sticks while we splashed ourselves silly.

When Pauly was near enough, I swam over to him.

“Dude,” I said, offering my hand, “I gotta thank you for bringing me here man. This place is magic. I want to take it with me.” He grabbed my hand, shaking it warmly, and smiled.

“Anything for you, my man,” he said. “It’s a beautiful spot.”

We spent the better part of an hour putting our own tents up in the dark, trying to sort out the poles, pegs and everything else, serving as entertainment for the other party-people. Later, we joined the others at the bonfire and barbeque. There were a few Germans, Brits, Aussies, and Americans, along with a couple of Hong Kong residents, and other random nationalities represented.

After a few beers, and chatting randomly with whomever I sat beside, I found myself looking out at the horizon coloured with light pollution bouncing off the numerous clouds. Uncountable blinking light gave sign of ships in the dark. And I felt free of my life in New Zealand. And I felt like I was running, and wondering if it wasn’t so bad to. There were a few things to avoid at home, such as work responsibilities and women.

After leaving university, many of my friends had gone into professional work, whereas I’d pottered around delivering alcohol and avoided anything particularly responsible. I put this down to knowing I’d be travelling once I had the money and didn’t want to disappoint any employers looking for long-term staff. That said, there may have been more to it.

Women were another good reason to travel. New Zealand didn’t seem to be a happy hunting ground for this hunter and gatherer. Each relationship I’d had ended swiftly, and each relationship I’d wanted to have that never eventuated despite my interest consumed a lot of my lifetime. Travel gave me a good excuse to not worry about either of these things.

In the early morning, I gave up thinking about women and work, and crawled into one of our tents and fell asleep, managing only a little snooze before morning sun began to light the day.

Discovering more than a few friends had joined us in the tent, I woke up with both ankles and wrists covered in sand fly and mosquito bites. I wanted to find salvation from the bugs, like a real bed and a shower, but settled for a swim instead. It was around 6AM, and straight away I fell in love with the place again. Swimming in the warmish water first thing in the morning then watching the sunrise on the horizon, I felt as if I’d left my old life behind and that this was a new start.

Other partygoers dispersed during the morning while we stuck around, taking shade under the tents and braving the burning hot sand to go for uncountable swimming ventures throughout the rest of the morning. Finally we could take no more boiling sunlight and headed to the nearby ferries. This way would take us back to the ferry wharf and the Sai Kung bus, bypassing the forty-five minute walk by going via the open seas.

Our group all jumped on a small boat in rolling waves, with the man at the helm seeming on the right side of my intrinsic sanity ledger. I soon found out that looks can be deceiving. The boat took off quietly and comfortably enough, but then he cranked up the speed, rocking and rolling us on our way through massive swells between small gaps of rocks at the tips of capes and slamming us through a white knuckle ride for twenty minutes or more.

While we bounced from wave to wave, between rock outcroppings and peninsulas caught up in wakes from larger boats, I wondered what was so wrong with my old life that made this place feel good for being so removed from it. I suppose it was close to my version of paradise, at least for a limited time.

The group dispersed during the plethora of bus and train trips back to Hong Kong Island and Pauly and I went to Tsim Sha Tsui, on the Kowloon peninsula, via the MTR.

“Now Chris,” Pauly said, while the underground train came to a stop, “I can guarantee that between the MTR station and the ferry terminal you will be offered at least one of three things: a suit, a watch, or a girl. This is the Triad business centre of Hong Kong so get ready for some dodgy dealings being thrown your way.”

Outside the station, we walked towards the sea via Nathan Road and I was missed by the businessmen standing in the shade of the buildings and by doorways giving out faint doses of conditioned air from inside. No one approached me at all until we turned right, heading towards the Star Ferry terminal.

“Excuse me sir, I have the perfect suit for you waiting in my store.”

“No thanks,” I replied. And that was the opening of the floodgates; they came from everywhere.

“May I interest you in this beautiful watch sir?”

“No thanks.”

“You would look fantastic in a suit made especially by me, sir.”

“No thanks.”

“A well tailored suit is what you need, sir.”

“A Rolex, sir? Or maybe an Omega?”

“A suit?”

“A watch?”

“Do you want a girl tonight?”

Walking through Tsim Sha Tsui for the first time is an event I would expect many would remember especially if they appear to be affluent and European. Offers came thick and fast, and there was always someone else waiting just around the corner offering the same thing. It became very irritating very quickly.

“Now, I’m told this is a pretty good photo opportunity,” Pauly told me, as we came up to the Kowloon public pier. He wasn’t wrong. The central city of Hong Kong was laid out across the harbour from us. It was the first moment I was able to take in the magnitude and expanse of the city, with the tall buildings spreading around the base of the island from Central all the way around to Causeway Bay and beyond. The constructions seemed to surround the forest-laden hills with large buildings sitting on top, like a congregation of worshippers surrounding an idol on the centre alter.

The tallest building in Hong Kong, Pauly related, was recently built as a conduit of China’s power. Phallic symbols knowing no bounds, it was even shaped like a giant penis. Nearby, a shorter, identically shaped building could be seen from across the harbour. Pauly couldn’t tell me of whose power this was a conduit.

We jumped on the famous Star Ferry and travelled across to the island, Pauly telling me that the choppy waters were not a natural occurrence.

“They’ve reclaimed so much land, and poured so much concrete into the channel between Kowloon Peninsula and Hong Kong Island, that the waters coming through have become a heck of a lot more treacherous. The gap is narrower, but nature still wants to push the same volume of water through, resulting in the waves we get today. It used to be really calm, before they started building the piers and outcropping from the land, so they can fit more buildings there.”

On Sundays, major sections of the centre of Hong Kong are shut down and the home-help of the rich and famous get time off to meet, relax, and chat the afternoon away. This phenomenon is called the Maids’ Picnic. Exiting the Star Ferry terminal on the Island we were walked through the middle of this gathering as Pauly explained more.

The maids are all women, and all seem to be Filipino. According to Pauly, the women send much of their earnings back to family in the Philippines, which is one of the main influxes of money into the economy of that country. Walking amongst the women as they plaited and combed one another’s hair, or chatted and ate, I tried to look relaxed, but strained to not cry at just how sad and deprived their lives seemed. The entire scene was the single saddest thing I had ever witnessed, the wealthy infrastructure put into perspective by the people who struggled within its boundaries. The women are not treated well by their employers in Hong Kong, Pauly told me, with abuses including assault and rape, not to mention the near slave labour wages they endure.

“How does it feel to know that 95% of the women within one square kilometre of here would willingly sleep with you?” Pauly asked.

I couldn’t reply. The answer would’ve fallen somewhere between fantastic to horrible.

That night I jumped on the bus to Victoria Peak, the highest point of Hong Kong Island. One needs exact change to use city buses, which I learned the hard way when the driver screamed at me in Cantonese. I had to walk away, buy a drink of water and a chocolate bar and wait for the next bus going up the hill. Once there, I couldn’t see much. Low cloud cover made things very misty, and the crowds took up all the decent vantage points for photos. All there was to see was lights and darkness. The peak was commercialised, with restaurants and hotels taking up all the land, spoiling any chance of all-round panoramic views. Still, over-commercialism is probably not conceivable in Hong Kong.

Having returned to Pauly’s central apartment, I met another Australian who was staying there, and we sat on the roof well into the night with a few San Miguel beers chatting about women and politics as I ignored the fact I know little about either.

I didn’t know how or what to prepare for my arrival in China. I didn’t know anything about the place or the people, other than the place is huge and there are lots of people. I was armed with a year of university beginner-level Mandarin classes, a phrase book, English-Chinese dictionary, and a guidebook. Luck and courage, I figured, would not be surplus to requirement.

“So, why China?” Pauly asked me.

“I don’t really know,” I said honestly. “Seemed like the natural place to go.”