Authors: Martin Booth
I made friends at school but rarely visited my friends' homes or spent time with them away from the classroom or playground. My life was centred on the Fourseas and the adjacent streets and alleyways.
In one fetid passageway, I came across a family of four who lived in a large crate that had been used to ship a Heidelberg printing press from Germany. They had improved their abode by nailing a sheet of tin to it to protect against the elements, putting a plank across the entrance to stop any rubbish drifting in and standing the crate on four short blocks to keep it clear of the ground and rainwater that cascaded down the alley. Inside, some planks had been erected to pass as shelving. Otherwise it was still a packing crate. My Cantonese was insufficient for me to converse with the family, but they smiled at me when I passed and greeted them. When the hotel started to redecorate some of the public rooms, replacing the Venetian blinds with curtains, the manager agreed to give me one. I gave the blind to the family to hang over the crate entrance. They were delighted with it but, a week or so later, they had vanished. It was not just that the family had gone. So had the crate. Their departure left a hole in my life, even though I had only known them for a fortnight. I never saw them again.
My primary circle of acquaintances consisted of the shopkeepers to whom I was introduced by the fruit seller. His name, I came to discover, was Mr Tsang. It was from him that I picked up a knowledge of pidgin Cantonese – it was commonly referred to as kitchen Cantonese, because it was what the European lady of the house spoke with her domestic servants. In exchange, Mr Tsang learnt pidgin English from me.
Next door but two or three to Mr Tsang was a tiny shop squeezed into the sloping space under a staircase. It consisted of a single display counter with a pigeon-hole arrangement of shelves behind it made out of fruit boxes courtesy of Mr Tsang. Owned and operated by an elderly man and his teenage son, it sold plastic biros, ten-cent notebooks, rubbers, plastic rulers, toy guns that spat sparks, tin rocket ships with the same sparkling mechanism in them, playing cards, glass marbles, combs, nail clippers and files . . . It was Soares Avenue's equivalent of a department store. It also sold something that at first bemused me. Packed into small cardboard boxes and surrounded by fine sawdust were what appeared to be clay marbles. I picked one up and put it between my thumb and forefinger as if to flick it marble fashion. The store owner quickly cupped my hand in both of his and shook his head vigorously. Then, taking the clay ball, he waited for a break in the traffic and tossed it into the road. It exploded loudly with a drift of clay dust. He gave me another and gestured for me to throw it into the road. I did so. It too went off with a loud report. A flock of birds rose from one of the trees and a passing rickshaw coolie volubly cursed me. I returned in minutes with a dollar and bought a boxful. They were confiscated the following morning by the teacher on playground duty, who informed me they were called cherry bombs, they were illegal and if I ever brought one into school again I would be expelled. A letter was sent home to my mother and I was roundly chastised and stripped of that week's pocket money. Yet, at the same time, I felt with that innate seventh sense of childhood that my mother did not entirely disapprove. From that moment, I knew she was not unduly averse to my wandering the streets and I began ranging more widely.
Five hundred yards down Waterloo Road from the Fourseas was a railway bridge beyond which were the streets of Mong Kok. This was almost another land, the railway a national border. The streets contained few shops. Instead, there was a large hospital and a good number of factory units that turned out belt lengths, sandal parts, brightly fluorescent coloured plastic twine, plastic flowers and metal-framed hand trolleys. Other workshops manufactured metal buckles, cheap tin padlocks, trouser waist catches, metal buttons and washers. Most of these items were pressed out of sheets of metal. The air reverberated with the hiss of hydraulics, the ring of hammering and the whine of the cutting or sharpening of metal. Brilliant oxy-acetylene torches lit up the interiors and the sparks of welding guns spattered on to the pavements. On one occasion, I found a fifty cent coin on the pavement outside one of these metal workshops and, no-one looking, pocketed it. Later, Mr Tsang refused it in payment for a pomelo and showed me why. When he dropped it on the pavement it made a dull clunk: the coin was made of aluminium. There were, additionally, several car repair shops, their concrete floors thick with black oily grime, the pavements scattered with discarded ballbearings and wadges of multicoloured cotton waste. I was addicted to the smell of these garages, of warm oil, rubber, leather and newly sprayed paint: it was like none other I had ever encountered.
As the weeks passed, I grew bolder and – more confident in facing traffic – I traversed Nathan Road, the main artery running up the spine of Kowloon, to enter the district of Yau Ma Tei, an area that was more residential than Mong Kok. Many of the three- or four-storey buildings were old, with arcades, their balconies lined with green-glazed railings patterned to look like bamboo. The roofs of some were covered in green-glazed tiles and curved upwards at the eaves. A few bore ceramic ridge tiles of dragons and lions in faded blue, red or gold. I felt an added excitement coming upon old rusty signs at the entrance to some side streets declaring
Out of Bounds to Troops
. It was as if I was the first explorer of my race to tread these urban jungle paths. Even soldiers had not come this way before.
The shops here were more traditional than those in Soares Avenue. A bakery sold soft bread buns with red writing stamped on them. Dried fish shops displayed desiccated shrimps, squid, cuttlefish, scallops, mussels, sharks' fins (hanging from the ceiling like triangles of light grey leather) and other unidentifiable seafood. Butchers offered raw meat hanging from hooks under 100-watt bulbs beneath red plastic shades. Poultry shops sold chickens, ducks, quail, exquisitely plumaged pheasants and geese but, whereas the butchers' fare was slaughtered, the live poultry was crammed into bamboo cages. No self-esteeming Chinese housewife bought fowl that was not still breathing and it was commonplace to see someone walking down a street with two trussed hens clucking with avian irritation.
One afternoon I wandered into a back-street butchery thinking that I might watch the meat being portioned. Unlike British butchers who carefully shaped specific cuts, Chinese butchers merely chopped the carcass up with razor-sharp cleavers. Turning a corner in the shop, out of sight of the street, I was suddenly confronted by the corpse of a black chow dog hanging by a hook that had been thrust through the tendons of a hind leg. Its black tongue hung down from its mouth. There was a massive wound on the back of its head.
No sooner had I seen it than the butcher arrived, grabbed me by the neck and, swearing volubly, turfed me out into the street. Subsequent questioning of Ching ascertained that the Chinese ate dogs – black ones, preferably – and they killed them by pole-axing them. However, he added, dog-eating was illegal in Hong Kong because the
gweilos
liked dogs as pets and that was why I had been given the bum's rush out of the shop.
Rice vendors were also prevalent in Yau Ma Tei, displaying different types of rice in open sacks or, if they were of especial quality, in dark polished barrels with brass hoops. The variety and price were displayed on a tablet of dark wood with the information painted on them in red calligraphy. To me, one rice grain looked much like the next but there were several dozen strains, types and grades available. The tops of the unopened rice sacks were invariably the resting place of sleeping cats which doubtless earned their place keeping vermin down in the early hours.
I was fascinated by the egg shops too, where fresh duck and chicken eggs were on offer alongside dried egg yolks and 100- (or 1000-) year-old eggs. These preserved duck eggs were prepared by soaking them in strong tea then rolling them in a coating of wood ash, salt and lime. They were then stored in a huge earthenware jar and surrounded by fine soil rich in humus. In this state, they were left for just over three months during which time the yolk hardened and turned grey-green, the white of the egg turning into a semi-transparent black jelly that looked like onyx. Another preserved egg was made by coating it with red earth and ash, salt and lime bound together with tea and rolled in rice husks. They were then stored in an airtight jar sealed with candle or beeswax. When consumed, they were not cooked and were usually taken raw as an hors-d'oeuvre.
Several streets were lined by food stalls known as
dai pai dongs
from which exotic and enticing aromas wafted. One evening, much to the consternation of the stallholder-cum-chef who was cooking over a charcoal brazier, I hoisted myself on to a stool, passing cars inches from my back and, ordering by pointing, asked for one of the preserved eggs. It was served sliced on a plate with a small bowl of pickled sweet vegetables and a dipping bowl of Chinese vinegar, rice wine, soy sauce and thinly sliced ginger. I picked up the chopsticks. A crowd gathered. The spectacle of a blond European boy sitting at a
dai pai dong
alone of an evening was more than most could resist. The traffic slowed. Then stopped. A jam began to form.
Tentatively, not because I was suspicious of the egg but because I was aware that I was the centre of attention and not yet fully proficient at using chopsticks, I picked up a piece of yolk, dipped it in the sauce and ate it, following it down with a nibble of ginger. The taste was unique, savoury and rich and not at all egg-like. I ate a piece of pickled cabbage. The stallholder put a bowl of steaming green tea before me. I held it up as if giving a toast. The crowd applauded, laughed and gradually dispersed, not a few of them touching my head in passing. I then tackled the problem of eating egg jelly with chopsticks. When I was done, the stallholder refused payment. I tried to press him. He refused again. I then saw why. I had brought him good luck. He had not a vacant stool.
My excursions into what my mother referred to her friends as Darkest Kowloon were, during term time, limited to the late afternoon and early evening. This was an exciting time of metamorphosis. Pawnshops vied for electric space with restaurants and shops. The
dai pai dongs
commenced a vibrant trade, steam or charcoal smoke redolent with the odours of frying rising from them to glimmer in the neon above. Stalls appeared selling clothes – anything from children's vests to ladies' frilly knickers, all piled haphazardly under canvas awnings – or shoes, kitchenware or bolts of cloth, or offering services such as grinding knives or cutting keys. The streets, busy in the day with people going about their work, now filled with shoppers or those merely out for a stroll. Men walked by promenading their birds in cages. In a few places, people gathered to read the daily papers pasted to a wall or congregated at a street library where they could read books for a minimal charge but not take them away.
Just off Nathan Road, there stood a large temple dedicated to the deity Tin Hau, also known as the Queen of Heaven and the protectress of seafarers. Next to it in the same complex of buildings were smaller temples to To Tai, the earth god, Shing Wong, the city god, and She Tan, a local god without, it seemed, a celestial portfolio.
Tin Hau was a major goddess of the first league: this I learnt from a book in the minute hotel library – contained within one glass-fronted case in the first-floor residents' lounge – called
Chinese Creeds and Customs
. I frequently consulted it.
According to legend, Tin Hau was born in Fukien province in the eleventh century. One day, her father and brothers went out to sea to fish. She fell asleep and dreamt their junk was foundering in a typhoon so she flew to their aid on the clouds and rescued them from drowning. It is also said she could predict rough weather and was deified on her death at the age of twenty.
In keeping with her position in the heavenly pantheon, her temple was ornate. The roof ridge was lined with glazed china figurines and all the interior woodwork painted deep red. A little way in front of the altar stood four very tall effigies. They represented the goddess's bookkeeper who tallied up mankind's sins and virtues, the keeper of her seal and two generals of yore called Favourable Wind Ear and Thousand Li Eye who could help to foretell the weather for those going to sea. Elsewhere in the temple were the goddess of mercy, a small altar to Shing Wong whose role it was to intercede with Tin Hau on behalf of the dead, a green-glazed china horse god, a tiger, several deities of prosperity, a god of beauty, a heavenly dog and the effigy of Tong Sam Chong, of whom I had heard at school. He was a Buddhist monk who had brought the Buddhist scriptures from India to China in a sort of Chinese odyssey which had become a famous fairy tale.
Tin Hau's idol sat on her altar wearing a Ming dynasty headdress hung with pearls. The effigy's face was expressionless, painted a garish flesh pink, the same colour as prosthetic limbs, her own appendages out of sight under a red cloak embroidered with gold dragons. Before her were brass candlesticks, offerings of oranges, small china effigies and a brass bowl of sand for worshippers to stand their joss-sticks in. Every so often, a drum or bell sounded, the former so resounding it caused sound waves that were visible in the joss-stick smoke.
In the evenings, the area in front of the temple attracted me as a magnet does iron filings. Crowds flocked there to consult fortune-tellers, necromancers and phrenologists who had their charts of the human head spread out on the ground.
The fortune-tellers would invite their customers to cast small elliptical pieces of wood or shake numbered bamboo splints out of a bamboo cup, which they would then interpret according to the way they fell or the number written on them. One had a tortoise with a highly polished shell which seemed to possess the powers of divination. In their midst, an old man, a four-inch-long wisp of grey hair sprouting from a mole on his cheek, sat at a small lectern writing letters for illiterate coolies at five cents a time. A black silk skullcap that had seen better days, topped off with a red soapstone finial, lent him the air of an imperial scholar down on his luck.