My arrival in Hong Kong was through Macau on Sunday the 20th January 08. One of the first surprises this trip dealt me was the difficulty of communication for the Englishman in the Hong Kong belt. I’d formed the impression, after a couple of short business trips here a few years ago, that there existed some basic spoken English ability amongst the Chinese population. That appears to have become less the case.
Over the recent months I had become rather b l a z e h about moving from country to country in South East Asia and preparation for this short visit to friends in Hong Kong had received little attention; Hence the thoughts in my mind as I collected my bag from the conveyor at the Macau airport were attaching themselves to the quest of transit from Macau to Hong Kong. A user friendly ATM in the Macau airport arrivals concourse armed me with some local currency. The successful withdrawal of Macau dollars triggered the realization that I was not yet in Hong Kong territory and had still to negotiate two border crossings. Yet that realization sat at mere irritation level compared to the horror that swept across me like a rash as I noticed that only two of the three bank cards that I carry in my wallet were visible. Several mindless but panic flushed tours of the airport concourse followed. My head was more busy than the firework display of New Years eve. It was an MBNA mastercard that was missing. Jeeeeez. I’d better phone the bank. No wait, I’d better check my clothes and bags in case it dropped out. It shouldn’t matter anyway because most if not all outlets now require a pin. How could it have left my wallet? When did I last see it? That doesn’t matter; is it really missing? Stop, Stop, Stop, Stop!!! Sit down! Think clearly, logically and rationally. Is it really missing? The open bags, unzipped pouch and inverted pants pockets adorning the concourse seats hit me with the answer like a drunk and angry girlfriend (They are evil, ugh?). Yes, it is really missing you careless dope. So MBNA need to be informed P D Q. I therefore have a choice..call now from a phone booth (MBNA accept reverse charge calls), call now from my mobile, or call from skype after I have met my friends who I know have an internet connection in their apartment.
That was when I could have done without the language difficulty. The lady at the information desk had a good command of the English required to send me to the bus stop or the taxi rank and she could write the number of the only bus that came by the airport in English characters for me but that was where it ended. Encouraging some conversation around the subject of a public telephone, the number of the operator and the procedure for making a reverse charge call to my bank left me standing in a forlorn state of hope and her with nothing but a ‘you’re from the moon’ smile across her Red Revlon lips.
Decision made. The task of getting to Hong Kong looked as though it was going to be challenge enough. I would have to make the call after I had met my friends, hopefully with their help. The AP1 bus would take me to the ferry terminal and so on it I hopped, several times. Each with an additional piece of my increasingly lenghty luggage train. This appeared to irritate the older passengers and amuse the younger ones. The driver was older. He blasted what appeared to be a few Cantonese proverbs across my bows. I paid some money and sat down. The raucous quieted. The frumpy bespectacled man at my side seemed occupied with events outside of the bus. He apparently did not want to be disturbed as I discovered when I meekly enquired of the distance to the ferry terminal. NO ENGLISH he growled amongst rolling jowels a bulldog would have been proud of. I looked around and saw most of the heads throughout the bus turn away from me in unison.
Within minutes the bus was circling what was clearly the ferry terminal on an elevated piece of road. I looked around and a character sat behind me raised his eyebrows and pointed down at the boats in the water. I smiled and mouthed a thankyou. My God, a human!
Inside the terminal I was faced with an unexpected choice – ferries were leaving to either Hong Kong Centre or Kowloon. I didn’t know where my hosts were meeting me. Attempted conversations with various officials around the building produced little warmth but further alarming uncertainty. Finally, after several sms’ and haphazard reselections of service providers to receive replies I ascertained it to be Hong Kong Centre.
The steps into the arrival hall at the Hong Kong side were blessed ones.Yati sprang on me with the yelp and glee of a young puppy. Bjorn’s robust hand shake and composed welcome assured me that I was in good company here. We taxied to their apartment as I relayed the horror over the lost credit card. In their compact but comfortable abode I was directed to the lap top and pointed at skype whilst tea was made. They were great hosts throughout the short trip.
That was when I could have done without the language difficulty. The lady at the information desk had a good command of the English required to send me to the bus stop or the taxi rank and she could write the number of the only bus that came by the airport in English characters for me but that was where it ended. Encouraging some conversation around the subject of a public telephone, the number of the operator and the procedure for making a reverse charge call to my bank left me standing in a forlorn state of hope and her with nothing but a ‘you’re from the moon’ smile across her Red Revlon lips.
Decision made. The task of getting to Hong Kong looked as though it was going to be challenge enough. I would have to make the call after I had met my friends, hopefully with their help. The AP1 bus would take me to the ferry terminal and so on it I hopped, several times. Each with an additional piece of my increasingly lenghty luggage train. This appeared to irritate the older passengers and amuse the younger ones. The driver was older. He blasted what appeared to be a few Cantonese proverbs across my bows. I paid some money and sat down. The raucous quieted. The frumpy bespectacled man at my side seemed occupied with events outside of the bus. He apparently did not want to be disturbed as I discovered when I meekly enquired of the distance to the ferry terminal. NO ENGLISH he growled amongst rolling jowels a bulldog would have been proud of. I looked around and saw most of the heads throughout the bus turn away from me in unison.
Within minutes the bus was circling what was clearly the ferry terminal on an elevated piece of road. I looked around and a character sat behind me raised his eyebrows and pointed down at the boats in the water. I smiled and mouthed a thankyou. My God, a human!
Inside the terminal I was faced with an unexpected choice – ferries were leaving to either Hong Kong Centre or Kowloon. I didn’t know where my hosts were meeting me. Attempted conversations with various officials around the building produced little warmth but further alarming uncertainty. Finally, after several sms’ and haphazard reselections of service providers to receive replies I ascertained it to be Hong Kong Centre.
The steps into the arrival hall at the Hong Kong side were blessed ones.Yati sprang on me with the yelp and glee of a young puppy. Bjorn’s robust hand shake and composed welcome assured me that I was in good company here. We taxied to their apartment as I relayed the horror over the lost credit card. In their compact but comfortable abode I was directed to the lap top and pointed at skype whilst tea was made. They were great hosts throughout the short trip.
The following few days were a mixture of accompanied and unaccompanied Hong Kong exploration. The highlight of which was my first ever visit to a horse race meeting at the ‘Happy Valley’ racetrack. It was an evening event swamped in an electric atmosphere . The floodlit 2000km turf track gazed at by apartment blocks from one side and avid form fanatics from the purpose built grandstand down the other. The array of betting options was bewildering to the uninitiated. Whether I looked at the daily press, the printed news-sheet handed me at the entry or the multicolored bus sized ‘odds’ boards facing the grandstand from the central reservation my betting preparation level fluttered around at incompetent level. Being ‘risk adverse’ as my endlessly disappointed financial advisor always described me, I picked out horses in races 2, 4, 6, and 8 based on whether name of horse, jockey or trainer had any meaning for me in my hitherto non horseracing life. I remember one jockey with the name of Coetzee, a favorite author of mine, that was picked out for my money in one race and another horse with the name of Joy Up, bringing to mind a distant girlfriend, that was picked for my money in another race. My intention was to place a 10$ bet on each to make a place at the finish. I lost money in race 2 and chickened out on races 4, 6 and 8. Ironically the horse I chose in race 8 won at odds that would have left me 10$ up on the night.
The other fascination that this brief trip to Hong Kong inspired in me was for tram watching. The tall thin shape, that bold single headlight and the brave new world advertisements they carried produced a somewhat surreal image that I was persistently intrigued by.
Example in the header photo.
Example in the header photo.
Down The Road 