Markets
and Plants
On
the way to Sheko we would pass the village of Stanley, little more than
a fishing village when I was a child, but now hosting a wonderful market,
which is similar to the Ladies Night Market in Kowloon, except that it concentrates
more on clothing and the air is much fresher.
Kowloon is on the densely-packed waterfront of main land China. I used to
love crossing the harbour on the Star Ferry. The name Hong Kong means ‘fragrant
harbour’. But as you approach the Ladies Night Market, which seems
to go on all the time although I suppose the stall-holders must sleep at
some stage - they probably operate a shift system with friends; I recall
the fetid smell which hits you like a solid wall. It is a mixture of crowds
of people, rotting meat, refuse, scent, joss sticks, hot oil, pets ripe
fruit, cooked foods, cleaning fluid, sandalwood, camphor, the effluent from
air-conditioning vents, plastic, rubber, new leather and clothes, and, almost
imperceptibly in the background the smell of salty sea, dirty with rubbish
floating in it - the most extraordinary things get thrown away, for example,
one shoe. What happened to the other?
I
suppose the market was always there, though we usually did our shopping
on ‘Hong Kong-side’, where you could find a pair of sharp
folding nail scissors, for example, and men |
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sitting over a sewing machine who could make anything to order. And
the traditional medicine shops, often consisting of only one small
room with an incredible amount of ‘strange’ ingredients
taken from dead or living animals, fish and birds, which were meant
to impart the properties of their former owner, all cleverly and neatly
stacked away. There were ingredients like ‘dried sea-slugs’
or ’powder ground from the horn of an ibis’. |
I
loved crossing the harbour on the Star Ferry. Occasionally at weekends
we used to go to Fanling Golf Club, which was at the far end of the
New Territories, practically in China! |
On the way we would pass paddy-fields where, ankle-deep in muddy water,
peasant women were planting rice, their legs planted wide apart for
balance as they bent over, planting the handfuls of bright, green
grass, wearing the coolie hat with a circular hole for their head,
and a broad strip of black cloth all around, flapping gently to their
movements to keep the flies away. I was an object of amazement, with
my red hair - “Ai-yah!”.
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Other
familiar sights were coolie-women walking or trotting along, a bamboo
pole across their shoulders, carrying huge burdens of produce.
And the traffic lights at road works! |
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My
parents would play golf, while I played with the other children, or lay
in the hot, dry, brown-coloured grass, listening to the incessant grasshoppers
chirping, or going to the army barracks to say hello to some of the men
there.
We would pass the small hill covered with pots, each containing the ashes
of a dead person, and from many would come the sweet/pungent scent of joss
sticks being burned to placate the demons that lie in wait for our ancestors.
Rickshaws were still quite common, I think I might have had a ride in one
when I was very young, but the older I got the less I liked the idea of
someone else having to run in the wet – to keep me dry!
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The Chinese loved flowers and plants, there were some roadside stalls
with assorted greenery, with a friendly, smiling assistant.
Where
the sides of roads met the hills, the banks were encased in concrete,
to try to shore up the hills and prevent land-slides in the rainy
season. Banyan trees grew everywhere, and the tangle of thin roots
would cover the concrete-cased banks.
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There was a rare plant growing in our garden, the night-flowering cerius.
It only flowered about once a year, but it was so beautiful that when it
bloomed we would throw an impromptu party!
I returned to Hong Kong recently, staying out at Sha Tin, in the New Territories.
There have been a lot of changes. For example, the moving stairway which
goes half-way up the Peak, which is such a boon to commuters and others
– it only goes up, you either walk down or, for a thrill, take a bus
– their safety record is quite good, but it is an exciting experience,
with the bus tearing down steep hillsides. The bus stops do not seem to
be posted, not everywhere, but I always seemed to be in the right place,
for the bus stopped. And their underground system, which is clean, fast,
cheap, reliable and efficient. One thing that does not seem to have changed
much is the flight path, which still flies right past the windows strung
with washing lines; although I think I can remember coming in just near
the harbour and landing on that tiny finger of land.
Over the intervening years new skyscrapers have sprouted up everywhere,
but nestling behind the hotel was a tiny one-storey stone temple with a
green tiled roof, and a notice on the door prohibiting the use of the building
for any religious meetings - the chilling influence of Communist China?
