Sample:
After arriving in Hong Kong, I quickly realised that I must be one of the tallest people in the world: not one of the locals could beat me, not even with headgear. There seemed to be a low ethnic mix. I counted very few white people, virtually no none-oriental Asians and the only Africans were the looky-looky men in Kowloon. When I did see a western face I felt compelled to give a little nod and smile, a sad attempt to latch onto anything that might give me a feeling of familiarity. However, I was happy to note that many of the women of Hong Kong could make a claim to count themselves among the best looking in the world.
Amid the swarms of people, I happened upon an upsetting scene where a street beggar lay morbidly in the middle of the street. His selling point was to put on display his left leg that seemed to be covered in a combination of gangrene and leprosy topped off with a gaping wound. He was the only beggar that I encountered I considered that maybe I was wrong and he was actually some sort of street performer, though I doubted he would have stood up to do a little dance had I given him some money.
I was taking my first ventures around the city, delirious from the jetlag and the excitement of being in a strange place. I’d dumped my bags at the guesthouse where I was staying in Mong-Kok and headed straight out into the crowds, walking toward the waterfront to the south.
The busy streets with huge signs in Cantonese running along them endlessly were familiar from pictures and television images of Hong Kong but it was still disorientating being there. Scaffolding made from bamboo climbed the sides of buildings and the smells of cooking were unavoidable and not always pleasant.
It amazed me to see the local people’s reluctance to cross any road without the green man flashing even when the road was so obviously clear. Patience must be built into the psyche when living in one of the most densely populated places on Earth.
I quickly ran into a bit of a language barrier, a problem I hadn’t fully anticipated with Hong Kong being a former British colony. I caught the eye of a cute young looking girl who smiled at me. Being male and heterosexual, I smiled back. This seemed to be enough to invite her to walk in a direction that crossed my path. We were in Kowloon near to the infamous Chungking Mansions and I was well aware of the place’s reputation. The large building resembles any other downtrodden high rise from the outside and the surrounding area is safe enough with just the irritation of those looky-looky men trying to sell tourists fake watches. But to venture inside Chungking Mansions would be to run the gauntlet of drug dealers and prostitutes that lurk in the shadows, eager to accost those unfortunates staying in one of the buildings budget guesthouses.
"Pasha!" the girl said as she drew up closer to me. I guessed she was saying either passion though she looked too cute to be a prostitute - or hash - though she looked too cute to be a drug dealer. She must have seen my western face coming over the tops of the heads of the crowd and thought it was worth a try venturing out onto the street to intercept me.
"Er what?" I replied, slowing my stride.
"Pasha!" she repeated, a little more loudly.
"Sorry, I don't understand you," I said.
She tried once more, even more loudly. PASHA!! I couldn’t offer her an oral response, instead giving her a lost, baffled look. She quickly came to the conclusion that she was wasting her time and walked off with a huff.
I was staying in the Budget Hostel on the 15th floor in one of the many nondescript towering buildings that have entrances that were very hard to find. I’d made the selection simply for the fact it was run by one Jackie Chan. It had been disappointing to be greeted by a very young, slight man who I reckoned even I could have beaten up in a fight. But the main thing was that I had managed to find somewhere cheap that wasn’t in Chungking Mansions. I even had my own room, Jackie upgrading me to a double, from the single I’d booked over the internet as he juggled with the fluctuating demand. Though, how more then one person could manage to live in the cramped room without tearing each other’s eyes out was beyond me. The proverbial cat would have had to stay outside; there wouldn’t even be the consideration of an attempt at a swinging inside the room. An adjoining bathroom consisted of a toilet cubicle with a showerhead attachment that ran into the plumbing along lines that were worryingly close to those of the toilet. When a shower was to be had, the little room would simply be flooded. There really would be nowhere for that cat to hide. There were no windows in the whole of the place and so lights were needed during all hours of the day.
I went to bed, exhaustion over-riding my excitement, sleeping for what felt like for far too long as I was eager not to waste the new day. I jumped out of bed and switched on the light in a state of wakefulness, my stomach more then ready for breakfast. I checked my travel clock. 03:23, it read. Could I have really slept that late into the afternoon? I knew I had set the clock to local time and so I began getting myself together for what was left of the day, cursing my laziness. But something in my subconscious nagged at me, I looked at the travel clock once more. It was set to display in 24hour mode, it was actually the early hours and I’d been asleep for just four hours. I settled back into a broken, fitful sleep.
After breakfasting on some delights from a bakery I found around the corner from the guesthouse in the morning, I decided to visit the tourist information centre to help with my orientation. I was met by a stern looking fellow as I arrived at the first floor of the building where it was situated.
"Ping-pong ga ga ladida la," he said (or something similar).
"Erm...sorry, do you speak English?" I asked. He repeated himself, a little louder.
"Oh right," I said, pretending to understand. I figured out that you collect a ticket and wait to be called like when buying something from Argos.
"Do-do, nick nack paddy wak" (or something like that) said the woman when it was my turn.
"Sorry, do you speak English?" I asked.
She repeated herself a little louder. I looked at her blankly. Was she taking the piss? She passed me on to one of her colleagues who spoke some English, though didn't seem to be particularly interested in the finer details of the sentences I was saying to him.
“You want visa? Fill in this form.”
“No wait, I want to know if you can help organise a trip into China.”
“You need to fill in form for visa.”
“Yes, I know I need a visa. But listen, before I apply, I want to know about trips into China.”
He hesitated a moment. “You want visa or not?” I didn't seem to be getting anywhere and so took my leave.
Later, I took the MTR, the city’s underground train system, for the first time. I was pleasantly surprised with the ease of use, the trains, running frequently and fast had announcements of stops in both Chinese and English. I headed over to Hong Kong Island with the idea of taking the tram up to Victoria Peak, the highest point on the island.
It didn't take long but I encountered the first rude place name on what was only my first full day in Hong Kong. Wanko stood proudly near to where I exited the subway amongst the other retail outlets. Maybe the name is an indication of the type of people who buy their clothes from there...
