On Coastal Defense

As residents of a plucky little colony/administrative region, Hong Kongers do not have much to show for "military prowess," needing to latch onto the martial patriotism of the larger, more powerful nation-states of which their city has always been a part. Recent sentiments of independence aside, the SAR has always been either geo-politically British or Chinese. For instance, the South China Sea dispute has been covered objectively by the Hong Kong press, but if push came to shove, Hong Kongers would probably side with China's claim, just as Taiwanese government did. This highlights the peculiar position the PRC and its wayward "provinces" are in: Each seem proud to be Chinese, just not according to the same historical and political point-of-view. In Hong Kong's case, its colonial legacy further complicates its modern political and ethnic identity, as there will always be something distinctly "British" about the place.

The Museum of Coastal Defense is a wonderful example of this. Tucked away in the eastern corner of the Island, this lonely museum rests atop an old British fort that once defended the entrance to Victoria Harbor. It's a wonderfully-designed museum in a hilly campus which includes a number of vehicles, recovered artillery pieces and the excavated magazines of the original batteries. The main building itself is built upon the original fort, letting you walk around the original fortifications.

Perhaps most pertinent to Hong Kong's complicated national history are the exhibits of the sovereign empires and nations that have been responsible for its protection. The Ming and Qing displays were closed, but I expected these would have discussed Chinese naval power in southern Guangdong prior to Hong Kong's founding. Much of the museum is obviously dedicated to the colonial period, highlighting the difficult conditions endured by the British troops stationed there. Discomfort, disease, and mortality were startlingly high for a garrison that didn't do all that much until they had the stuffing kicked out of them by the Japanese in 1941, shortly after Pearl Harbor. The fort's guns were already obsolete by the time they were needed, though this is an irony common to warfare (Maginot Line, anyone?).

The final little exhibit is the obligatory shout-out to the People's Liberation Army garrison stationed in the city, focusing on the peaceful transition of power in 1997. Surprising, this display is tucked away in a little corner of the museum. While this is probably because the PLA and PLA Navy haven't had the chance to prove their gallantry, unlike the British in their malarial conditions, it's still a testament to just how much Hong Kong owes the British for its historical legacy and territorial contours, an inconvenient truth for those trying to make the former colony more Chinese. Had the museum been more centrally-located and more frequently-visited, I would expect the Chinese angle to more played up. However the museum's Ming and Qing exhibits are already a bit of a stretch in an attempt to reclaim HK for the China, given that these dynasties were sovereign over the area at time when Hong Kong did not actually exist. Instead Kowloon peninsula was governed by a few rural clans.  Despite any embarrassment it may cause (perhaps valid given the "unequal treaties"), the museum is a repository of the SAR's colonial history, leading to the question of how Hong Kongers can embrace their Chinese future without forgetting their non-Chinese past.

A Day At the Races

Hong Kong likes to race things, which contrasts it a bit with "Greater China," which seems more inclined toward team athletics (though every millennial Han male, wherever he is, seems predisposed toward basketball). Of particular note are the horse races, whose importance may have to do with the former colony's propensity toward British things as will as the popularity of gambling in the Pearl River Delta region (see also "Macau"). Whenever I ride the MTR on Wednesdays or Sundays I see many middle-aged males reading the horse profiles or whatever you call them on their way to the Shatin or Happy Valley racecourses, or alternately, one of the off-track betting branches of the Hong Kong Jockey Club. The HKJC is one the biggest and oldest institutions in the SAR, having taken a great deal of other peoples' money over the past century to fund important public services, such as my  cheap dormitory.

However, one thing that HK shares with the rest of the Chinese world is Dragon Boat racing, the sporting-cum-cultural event that takes place on whatever day of the Chinese calendar the Dragon Boat (duan wu) festival happens to take place, usually around the summer solstice. According to legend, the festival begin when the famous minister Qu Yuan was so depressed by the political situation in ancient China that he committed suicide (as classical bureaucrats and philosophers are wont to do, along with writing poetry). The local townsfolk were so distraught by this that they raced boats out to retrieve his drowned body.

This somber origin seems largely ignored in favor of the competitive races that pit political bodies and businesses against each other for bragging rights. It's not very different than rowing, except each person has only one paddle and the luckiest team member (in my view) gets to pace the whole effort by pounding on a giant drum. Each boat is also decorated with a dragon head and tail. There are three classes of boat (small, medium, and large), but the biggest boats are the most fun, the combined intensity of the rowers, drummers, and helmsmen evoking a Viking war party, or its hypothetical Asian equivalent.

Though Shatin district has its own races, a friend invited me to out to Tuen Mun, way out in the western corner of the SAR, to see theirs. Lining the town's harbor were freighters and junks displaying vibrant red and yellow flags and, presumably, the names of the various corporate entities and public utilities sponsoring each boating team. I was lucky enough to get into the staging area where most of the teams prepared, hydrated and rested. Each group had a tent as well as access to a cohort of young men that risked tetanus infections while swimming out to secure and retrieve their boats. The more well-funded teams and their posses had their own ships in the harbor from which to shove off. I was told to dislike them.

Unfortunately the team my friend and I cheered for did not make the finals, outclassed by EVIL SEAFOOD CONGLOMERATE and their crew of highly-paid and possibly steroidal jocks. It was comforting to find out even those sports with ancient cultural significance are dominated by money and shady tactics.

Much Ado About Political Nothing in Hong Kong

Last Saturday was the annual Tiananmen Vigil in Victoria Park, remembering the massacre of protesting students 17 years ago, but I did not attend. Part of this was laziness, but I also wanted to check out the competing event “On Hong Kong’s future through the meaning of June 4th” held at my school. This rival forum was put on by the Hong Kong Federation of Students, a collection of the student unions from the major Hong Kong universities. As you may note above, I was relegated to the English-interpretation room. 

Why was there a rival forum, you ask? Basically, the HKFS pulled out of the Vigil due to the rise of apathy (and antipathy) toward Mainland democratic reform in favor of Hong Kong independence. "Localism" has been on the rise since the end of the Umbrella protests over a year ago, part of the rising disillusionment over ever being able to negotiate with the central government. For some localists, Chinese democracy is irrelevant because Hong Kong isn't China. 

Its likely impossibility aside, I sympathize with the cause of Hong Kong independence, but not like this. There are valid reasons for greater autonomy, but this should not require rejecting solidarity with other Chinese who want the same. Hong Kong is inevitably tied to "Greater China" politically, economically, and historically, and any fight for greater freedom is going to be part of a greater struggle. Even if Mainland Chinese have largely forgotten June 4th, Taiwan, Singapore and the rest of the world have not. If Hong Kongers want greater control of their destinies, they must find it in a more sympathetic way. Dreams of independence should come from hope for greater freedom, not hardhearted resentment. Nationalism is a battle Hong Kong cannot hope to win against the Party-state, and one Taiwan has know well-enough to avoid (so far). As a U.S. southerner, I know all to well the problem of seeking independence for the wrong reasons. Sure, the symbolism of not going to the park makes a statement, but it is a statement one that is outrageously cynical.

Worse, all such an ideology like this does is divide the democratic front of Hong Kong even further. With so many factions wanting concessions from Beijing, it doesn't help to fight over minutiae like attending a remembrance service. The factionalism in Hong Kong is astounding, and it must warm the hearts of the cadres to the north.

Are Your Slopes Well-Managed?

 

Hong Kong is built on and around mountainous terrain and suffers the occassional typhoon, thus there is the constant threat of LANDSLIP. Land-slippage is a serious problem in this part of the world, but fortunately the city has mastered slope maintanence, an underappreciated field of geoengineering. Each individual slope in Hong Kong is identified and given its own unique number, then reinforced with hardened walls of confortable, flexible material that conform to its curves. A system of steps and ladders give slope managers easy access; therefore, when monsoon season arrives, each slope may get the immediate care it needs. I have a slope just outside my window. Each morning I greet it and wish it a good day. It's important to keep your slope happy, or else it could turn on you.

A Walk in the Country Park

Despite packing over seven million people into a mere thousand or so square kilometers, Hong Kong is a surprisingly-green Chinese* city. The main reason the metropolis, which is about the size of NYC, is the fourth-most densely-populated place on the planet is because its denizens are neatly stacked wherever the land is somewhat somewhat horizontal, which is almost nowhere. The majority of the SAR is rugged and mountainous and prone to LANDSLIP, forcing the human beings to be containerized in towering Mega-Blocks (called "Estates"), while mother nature continues to have free reign in the city's many country parks.

The view from Terabithia

On weekends the citizenry enjoys hiking and picnicking in their park of choice, which is normally not to far away from their Mega-Block. My local preserve, the vast Lion Rock Country Park, is obscure enough to avoid an infestation of the foreign joggers (usually balding British men) or Mainland noveau riche with their Nikons. These types tend to clog the trails on HK Island. Lion Rock is the place for Hong Kong residents to escape the confines of their cellular flats for a pleasant afternoon under the subtropical flora and fau-

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MONKEYS! Goddamn MONKEYS everywhere! Monkeys...monkeys...monkeys...MONKEYS! Monkeys can be found all over Hong Kong, not just in the IKEAs. And they are wonderful; they are like the squirrels of Southeast Asia but infinitely more fun because they are so intelligent. However most Hong Kongers seem to consider them pests (where is their sense of joy?!) due to their kleptomania. I've seen them thwart the defenses of many an irate Cantonese aunt in their perpetual quest for people food. Feeding them is discouraged, but it matters not. They have tasted our prawn-flavored chips and will not return to stupid bugs and berries! And they know where the gettin's good. You can walk through most of a park and not see one dang macaque, only to be swarmed by a tribe of them at the BBQ area. What's that rummaging in the trash bin? A monkey. Who's that glaring at your sweet bun from the roof? Monkey, that's who. Their ninjitsu is so refined, so quick, that all a picnicker can do is yell and flail and throw things at them, which they will deftly catch and try to eat. I love monkeys.

The Case for Photobombing, and Other Acts of Photographic Jihad

If there is one stereotype that I am convinced is true, it's that the modern Chinese takes pictures like a shark needs to swim. Without photography, life would likely hold significantly-less meaning for both photographer and photographee. I don't believe the selfie craze refuted this; If American girls and boys now record an unseemly amount of facial and/or other mundane photography thanks to convenient technology—unwittingly documenting their descent into inevitable old-age and death—Chinese youth probably do so at an even higher rate. Each new flower or plate of food demands a place on the Facebook or the Instagram.

Selfies aside, picture-taking is a harmless, occasionally-adorable habit that brings family and friends together, and I should probably be less crabby about it. It really only gets annoying when they all do it at the same damn time and place, like the pond on campus. Every weekend usually brings a gaggle of the elderly, newly-engaged, and cosplaying. Thus my favorite bench is frequently occupied by a bride, groom, or Naruto. Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but like any commodity their value decreases the more you take.

"Ok, let's take one with the katana pointed 5 degrees lower."  

                       

Welcome to Lamma. Here's Your Beer.

About two clicks southwest of Hong Kong Island is Lamma, a quiet isle largely-untouched by the hustle and bustle of the SAR, It can only be reached by ferry, as is free of motorized vehicles save ambulances and the carts needed to move freight around. Aside from an oddly-placed power-plant, Lamma offers an resolute patch of Ferngully standing against the Hexus of South China industry. I had the pleasure of house-sitting for a friend, a former missionary named Bud who had decided to retire there, and I grew quite fond of the place. Bud was lucky enough to live in apartment on the water, fifty feet from a ferry pier with a bright orange light that beckoned across the water to the massive concrete towers on the south side of HK island. In my more tender moments, I would wonder if someone was looking my way, thinking I was their Daisy.

Populated by a mix of locals and expatriates, Lamma Island offers a rare bit of agrarian solitude with its village life, natural beauty, and lack of apartment blocks. It's a haven for those less-active foreigners who would rather not live too close to the constant excitement of Central or Wan Chai, preferring instead the sleepy bars and cafes of Yuen Shue Wan, which are free of hawkers and more unsavory solicitations. The largest foreign demographic, it seemed to me, is older British males, probably driven from their usual watering holes by the influx of millenials and Mainlanders following the handover.

A common means of transport for a large portion of the community.

But Lamma is far from a sleepy retirement community. It's apparently a great place to raise a family, with clean(er) air and only a 25-minute ferry ride away from the good schools. There are certainly more eateries than in my bare patch of town, which a greater selection of cuisines. My visit also happened to coincide with the off-season, when the island's good-not-great beaches are less attractive to the Young Turks. The weekends, however, saw a steady influx of visitors—seemingly Hong Kong natives—probably seeking sanctuary from the legions of Mainland shoppers on their weekend hajj across the border. In fact, Lamma is probably one of the few districts of Hong Kong without a mall, and therefore offers no temptation for those buying vitamins and face creams in bulk. Its economy, more or less, is simple, non-commercialized leisure, its "resorts" no more than mom-and-pop inns which I can only imagine are run by Cantonese-speaking Basil Fawltys.

My temporary backyard.

Lamma is probably the chillest place in Hong Kong, where the expectation is you drink just enough, but never too much. The city's lax open-container laws—though profoundly more moral than the puritanical impositions of my homeland— are egregiously abused in areas with high-concentrations of financial bros. On the ferry ride to Lamma, it's basically expected that you at least consider sipping a cheap beer as ritual of transition, but it's free from the social pressures of rich expatria.