since acquired two invaluable assistants, Thousand-Mile Eyes and
Fair-Wind Ears. Her principal temple is at Joss House Bay on Tung Lung
Island, about two miles east of Hong Kong Island. On her birthday, an
all-day ferry service brings her worshippers from the main island, and
the boat people arrive in sea-trains of junks towed by a launch, flying
dozens of flags and Happy-Birthday banners. Every boat is packed to the
gunwales with men, women and children jostling one another as they reach
for sweet cakes, tea and soft drinks. At Joss House Bay, the passengers
swarm ashore as if the boats were about to sink and climb a wide granite
stairway to the temple. Incense sticks are lighted, roasted animals and
red eggs are placed before the Goddess and a small contribution is handed
to the temple attendant.
Bursting firecrackers, lion dances and processions enliven the
celebration until the men of the various fishing guilds wind it up with
a hot scramble for “the luck,” a bamboo projectile with a number inside.
It drops into the crowd like a bride’s bouquet, but the free-for-all that
follows is no place for a bridesmaid. The winning team makes the year’s
luck and gets possession of an elaborate portable shrine to the Queen of
Heaven. Rich and poor, humble and great join without class distinction in
having a gossipy, boisterous holiday.
The people of Cheung Chau feel obliged to say a kind word for all the
animals and fish who were executed to feed mankind during the past
year, and this debt is squared by the four-day Bun Festival on their
dumbbell-shaped island. Its date is set by lot, and usually falls in the
last few days of the Third Moon or the first ten days of the Fourth Moon.
No animals are killed and no fish are caught during the festival. Troupes
of actors are imported to perform in an enormous temporary theater, with
its roof of coarse matting supported on a bamboo framework tied together
with rattan strips. Daily and nightly presentations of Cantonese Opera
are put on with the performers in elaborate costumes, shrilling their
lines above the tireless clamor of cymbals.
The festival centerpiece consists of a triple-peaked bun mountain,
or conical framework covered with varicolored buns from its base to
its 60-foot summit. As soon as it is completed, it is covered with a
tarpaulin to protect the buns until the climactic ceremony on the final
day of the festival.
The various guilds on the islands compete in a long procession which
passes under floral arches on the village streets. The perennial
feature of the procession is a series of tableaux enacted by children
on platforms borne on the shoulders of several men. The subjects are
mythological, and by the ingenious use of a well-concealed steel
framework, make a mere toddler appear to be dancing nimbly on the tip
of a fiddle held by a child standing beneath the dancer. It’s all an
amiable fake, understood as such by the crowd, but executed with such
aplomb by the children that it never fails to delight the spectators.
Images of Gods and Goddesses are also carried in the line of march,
with lion dancers and clowns to add further excitement. A mass for the
recently departed fish and animals is celebrated on the final night, and
their hungry souls are permitted to take a few ghostly nips at the bun
mountain. An officiating priest decides when they’ve had enough, takes a
careful look around to see that no latecomers from the Great Beyond have
been neglected, and signals the slavering bystanders to pitch in. The
young men of the island scramble up the bunny slopes in a mad dash for
the topmost bun, but there are thousands of edibles at all levels, so no
climber need go hungry.
The Dragon Boat Festival, coming on the fifth day of the Fifth Moon (late
May to late June), probably attracts more attention from the foreign
population than any other Chinese celebration. It is hotly competitive,
pitting large teams of rowers against each other in all-day races at
Aberdeen, Kennedy Town, Tai Po and elsewhere. The individual heats are
short, close together and accompanied by loud cheers and the booming of
the pace-setting drums in every boat. A carved dragon’s head ornaments
the bow and the stern is a simulated dragon’s tail; in between lies 80 to
100 feet of low, fairly narrow hull, with the rowers flailing away in a
fast circular stroke. The crews, who train for three or four weeks before
the annual races, also keep the boats in shape, and one European crew
that includes a number of government employees competes at Tai Po.
It was a government employee who gave rise to the festival in the fourth
century, B.C. He was the honest Chu Yuan, an official who tried to
persuade the Chinese Emperor to correct the corruption of his court;
when his pleas were ignored, he drowned himself by leaping into the
Nih Loh River. A group of sympathetic villagers rowed out to the site
and cast silk-wrapped dumplings into the water, hoping to attract his
wandering spirit, or in another version of the legend, to lure the fish
away and protect his body from their attack. The bow man of today’s
Dragon Boats preserves the tradition by casting rice cakes or dumplings
wrapped with bamboo leaves from his craft. The principles of cleanliness
exemplified by Chu Yuan are practiced a few days in advance of the races,
when every family cleans house and sets off firecrackers to stampede
lurking cockroaches into panicky flight. The races themselves exercise a
purifying influence, for most of the rowers are thoroughly drenched by
the splashing paddles.
The Mid-Autumn Festival, celebrated on the 15th day of the Eighth Moon,
belongs entirely to women, and is marked by them in the privacy of the
home. The feminine principle in nature is in the ascendant and the moon,
which is considered a female deity, is at the apogee. A table is set
in the courtyard, and the moon is offered gifts of tea, food, burning
incense and the seed of the water calthrop. The service takes place at
night, illuminated by lanterns and moonlight, and includes a prayer
to the honored satellite, who is also quizzed about the matrimonial
prospects of her devotees. Fruit and moon cakes are essential to the
feast that follows, and as always, firecrackers are exploded. Wealthier
households may set up a midnight moon-viewing party, with a banquet
and a group of blind musicians singing an ode to the moon. These blind
musicians, numbering about 100 in all, have their own colony at the west
end of Hong Kong Island and earn about $12 for a party booking. Recorders
and lutes are their usual instruments, giving their music a quaint
Elizabethan flavor.
Ancestral graves are visited for the second time each year on the ninth
day of the Ninth Moon; summer weeds and grass are cleared away and
sacrifices of money and clothing are offered to keep the deceased wealthy
and warm through the coming winter. The date coincides with that of the
Cheung Yung Festival, when it is said to be lucky to climb to a high
place. Burial urns rest fairly high on the hillsides, so it is easy to
combine both celebrations and top them off with a picnic in the open.
On Cheung Yung, thousands of Chinese ride up Victoria Peak on the tram,
buying toys and other presents for the children at improvised stalls
along the way. Picnickers cover the top of every hill in the colony.
Kite-flyers observe the day by the curious sport of kite-fighting, which
involves manipulating one kite so that it knocks another out of the sky
or snaps its string. The hill-climbing custom supposedly began when a
Chinese father of long ago saved his family from a plague by taking them
into the mountains.
A veritable regiment of gods, ghosts and spirits—some beneficent, some
wicked—have their special observances during the year. Buddhist and
Taoist deities have a tendency to overlap, just as followers of Taoism
may be equally ardent Buddhists. Once the two religions battled and
persecuted each other like the religions of the West, but they have long
since settled down to peaceful coexistence. There is no reliable count
of their membership in Hong Kong, though the Buddhists claim around
500,000 adherents. An unspecified, but probably small number of Chinese
are Buddhists, Taoists and Christians simultaneously, or at least they
consider themselves so.
Confucianism also has its following in the colony, but its places of
worship are generally merged with Buddhist and Taoist temples.
Roman Catholic and Protestant missionaries have been at work in Hong Kong
from its beginning as a colony, founding schools and caring for the poor.
Neither group made much headway in attracting converts until the late
1940s, perhaps because of the ironbound Chinese resistance to every form
of foreign influence. But the Communist regime on the mainland has proved
a stimulant to Christianity in Hong Kong.
The well-financed and highly effective work of Protestant churches,
particularly among refugees from Red China, has won them many converts,
and the number of Protestant parishes has greatly increased in the last
few years. Anglicans, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, Lutherans and
other denominations have made substantial gains.
The number of Roman Catholics, who are equally active in educational and
welfare fields, has grown from 43,000 in 1951 to 180,000 in 1962. They
are currently making about 15,000 converts a year, and 12,000 of these
are adults. Some of their mission priests, who have found conversions
much more difficult to achieve in Japan, believe that the terror and
hopelessness of life under the Chinese Communists have turned many
Chinese refugees to Christianity. Enrollment in Catholic schools of
the colony is well over 100,000, and two-thirds of their enrollment
is non-Catholic. Like every other Christian group in the colony, the
Catholics have given help without drawing denominational lines.
The Portuguese, of whom there are about 2,000 in Hong Kong, are the
descendants of former Macao settlers who arrived with the first wave
of British traders, acting as their interpreters. They were adaptable,
quick with figures and gifted linguists, establishing themselves as
clerk-interpreters in business and financial houses. A few invested
wisely in land and became millionaires. In more recent years, they have
turned to professional work, becoming lawyers, doctors and engineers.
Starting with J. P. Braga in 1929, the Portuguese community has had
several representatives on the Executive and Legislative Councils. Its
present outstanding leaders, in addition to professional people, include
exchange brokers, importers and exporters and manufacturers’ agents.
A second wave of Portuguese came to the colony from Macao after World
War II, hoping to discover the business opportunities denied by the
sleepy, static little overseas province of Portugal. But they faced stiff
competition from young Chinese women who had entered office work and had
received superior English education in the colony schools. Few had been
to college and they lacked the drive demanded by the rough-and-tumble
economy of Hong Kong; before long, most of the new arrivals moved on to
Canada, Brazil or the United States.
Indians, including Parsees, Bhohras, Khwojas, Sindhis and Sikhs, came to
Hong Kong in the early days as traders, soldiers and policemen. Today
they are primarily merchants and traders, although there are still a
few Indian and Pakistani residents who preserve their uniformed role as
policemen, soldiers, or private guards for banks and financial houses.
The Indian community is about the same size as the Portuguese—between
2,000 and 3,000—and like it, has produced a few top-level government
officials, doctors and lawyers, and millionaire merchants.
Americans are still a very small minority, but they have money and a keen
appetite to make more. If they also have ability, they fit smoothly into
the competitive economy of the colony. The importance of American aid,
both private and public, in caring for the colony’s refugees is deeply
appreciated by both the government and the Chinese population, and the
effect is only slightly marred when some Yankee tourist tries to give the
impression that it all came out of his personal funds. Such tourists, it
may be noted, are exceptional.
Despite their historical background of anticolonial insurrection,
Americans have been well received in Hong Kong during most of its
existence. It was once said that a young Hong Kong Englishman could
not marry outside the charmed circle of the British Isles, Canada or
Australia unless he chose an American girl; otherwise, he would lose
his social position and probably his job. This has not been true for
some years now, but it leaves a lingering question in the minds of some
Americans: Why did they include us rebels?
Another question that occurs to almost every American who has seen the
colony is: How do 15,000 British run this place? (Actually, there are
about 33,000 people from all parts of the British Commonwealth living
in Hong Kong, but the ruling group comes from the British Isles and
barely exceeds 15,000.) It is evident from the most perfunctory glance
around the streets that the British do run Hong Kong; autocratically,
efficiently, firmly, sometimes unimaginatively, never with any pretense
of popular rule, but almost always with strict justice. There is
contained corruption, but less of it than anywhere else in the Far East.
At times an unwonted conviction of Britannic righteousness roils the
overseas visitor. This reaction is often encountered in one type of
American who insists he does not want to run the world, and means he
wants it run his way—by somebody else.
Americans are quite surprised when they strike the unexpected vein of
iron that lies under the polished surface of British manners. These
British are tough people; disciplined, well-educated, capable of decision
and resolute action. Because they possess these qualities to a degree
unexcelled and perhaps unmatched by any other country in the world, the
British in Hong Kong are a corporal’s guard commanding an army.
But one might pause here to consider the young American woman who stood
at the rail of an excursion boat in Hong Kong harbor, looking wistfully
up at Government House, the seat of majesty.
“If only they were a little more lovable!” she said.
CHAPTER NINE
Rambling around the Colony
“The journey of a thousand miles commences with a single
step.”—CHINESE PROVERB
At the upper terminus of the Peak Tram, two-thirds of the way up Victoria
Peak, a narrow promenade called Lugard Road winds around the mountain
until its name changes to Harlech Road and then continues along the south
face of the mountain to return to the Peak Tram terminus. By strolling
along this route on a fine clear day, a visitor can see the whole of Hong
Kong stretching out in all directions.
Often the view is cut off by thick jungle growth, stretching over the
road like the green arches of a natural cathedral. But there are narrow
gaps and occasional wide, treeless spaces where the stroller can look up
the rocky slopes to discover the mansions of the Taipans, jutting through
the tangled trees. Rococo palaces of pink, yellow, and dazzling white
stand isolated from one another and the life of the community by the
intertwining trees that hide their approach roads. Their isolation is
fortified by barbed-wire fences, warning signs and snarling watchdogs.
The only uninvited guest that breaches these barriers is the heavy mist
that envelops the Peak above the fog line for six months of the year,
covering furniture and clothes with green mold unless drying closets and
dehumidifiers are kept in full operation.
Once the British held exclusive title to the foggy heights; in the days
before auto roads were built to the top, they chartered the Peak Tram to
carry their party guests to its upper end, where they were met by sedan
chairs which took them the rest of the way. Now Chinese millionaires
share the majesty and the mist of the Peak, and there are tall apartment
buildings for more exalted government employees and prosperous civilians.
To tourists and Taipans, the heights of Victoria Peak offer a matchless
view of the harbor. The distant deep-blue water crinkles in the wind as
the sun glints on its surface. Dozens of ferryboats point their arrowhead
wakes at Hong Kong Island and Kowloon, or head outward for the coasts and
islands of the New Territories. An American aircraft carrier rides at
anchor off Wanchai with its escort vessels near at hand.
West of Kowloon Peninsula, a triple line of cargo ships turn lazily
around their anchor buoys; each one having enough room to make a full
circle without touching another ship. Six rows of junks and sampans,
each row lashed to the sides of a freighter while they transfer its
cargo, move in unison with the freighter’s slow swing, looking like a
gargantuan, improvised raft. Unattached junks duck in and out, anywhere
and everywhere, clearly with the special blessings of T’ien Hou, for they
rarely collide.
North of the harbor, beyond the wedge-shaped outline of Kowloon, past the
Kai Tak airstrip that cuts through Kowloon Bay like the white streak of
a torpedo, is Hong Kong’s “Great Wall”—a line of hills that looms jagged
and forbidding across the southern fringe of the New Territories. These
are the “nine dragons” from which Kowloon got its name, but they are
difficult to single out, except for unmistakable ones like Lion Rock and
Kowloon Peak, because they are so tightly packed together.
Even Ti Ping, the Sung Emperor who was prodded into naming them the Nine
Dragons, complained that he could find only eight, until an obliging
courtier reminded him that the dragon is the symbol of the Emperor, thus
making him the ninth peak. Ti Ping, quite young at the time, was placated
by this rationalization.
Due west of Victoria Peak, small islands string out like steppingstones
until the eye stops at the ridge-backed mass of Lantau, largest island
in the colony and nearly twice the size of Hong Kong Island. Some of the
defeated followers of Ti Ping are reported to have settled there after
the death of their Emperor, but until a few years ago it was a barren and
remote isle, inhabited only by a few thousand farmers and fishermen and a
few monasteries.
Halfway down the western slope of Victoria Peak, a small mound of
earth thrusts itself against the mountainside. Dong Kingman, the
Chinese-American watercolorist who grew up in the crowded tenements at
the foot of the Peak, recalls that he and his young friends used to watch
that mound with considerable apprehension. From where they stood, it
looked exactly like a turtle climbing the mountain. The Chinese consider
it to be a real turtle, and believe that when the turtle reaches the
summit of the Peak, Hong Kong will sink into the sea. Dong and his
fellow-watchers made regular checks to see that the turtle hadn’t stolen
an overnight march on them.
The most beautiful side of Hong Kong Island lies to the south and east
of Victoria Peak, with forested hillsides and a green valley that
slopes down to Pok Fu Lam, the colony’s first reservoir. Lamma Island,
a favorite digging ground for colony archaeologists, looms large to the
south.
When visitors grow squint-eyed from the panoramic view, they often wind
up their excursion by stopping at the little restaurant near the Peak
Tram terminus to eat a sandwich or some Chinese small cakes. Spirits
revived, they linger on the breezy terrace to watch the sun go down
beyond Lantau.
The Peak Tram is almost as famous as Victoria Peak, and needs no
endorsement except to note that its fares are very low and that it hasn’t
had an accident since 1888. In eight minutes, the tram carries its
passengers down to the edge of the Central District, where they may catch
a bus or a taxi.
Government House and the Botanic Garden are just across Garden Road
from the lower end of the Peak Tram. Looking like a Franciscan Mission
of early California with its white walls and square tower, Government
House is the private residence of the colony governor. The sightseer
may look around the outside, and with luck, see all hands snap to when
the governor’s black sedan enters or leaves the circular driveway,
displaying red crowns at front and rear instead of license plates. The
English manage their official exits and entrances with great style, and
everything moves precisely on time.
The Botanic Garden is a land of split-level Eden planted with thousands
of subtropical plants and flowers. Its small zoo and aviary are popular
with children, and the bird collection is a bright splash of brilliant
colors. Small signs in English and Chinese identify the plants and
animals. A good deal of family snapshot-taking goes on around the
fountain at the lower end of the garden. It might be a scene in New
York’s Central Park, except that Chinese children are better behaved.
Albert Path, a serpentine walk shaded by tropical shrubbery, winds down
from the Botanic Garden past Government House to Ice House Street and the
rear of the First National City Bank. Ice House Street continues downward
a couple of blocks to the West Wing of the Central Government offices at
Queen’s Road Central.
On Battery Path, directly in front of the West Wing, a lampshade stand
operates on what is obviously government property. It’s all quite
official; the owner has a permit from the Department of Public Works. Sin
Hoi, late father of the present owner, Sin Hung, had sold lampshades on
the site for thirteen years before the West Wing was built in 1954. Lady
Maurine Grantham, wife of the former governor, was a frequent shopper
at the stand, and when she saw it threatened with displacement by the
government offices, she put in a word for Sin Hoi. His son now runs it
under the grand name of The Magnific Company, selling lampshades and
small china animals.
One block north on Ice House Street and a block east on Des Voeux
Road is Statue Square, where parked cars outnumber the statues 200
to 1. This area is more than the center of the colony’s financial
institutions; it is an ideal cross-section of colony architecture. The
honeycomb-and-gingerbread design of the Hong Kong Club is typical of what
most of the colony’s buildings looked like in 1890, as is the Prince’s
Building on the opposite side of the square.
Post-World War II buildings like Union House, two blocks west along the
waterfront, represent a kind of “no nonsense modern”—big, plain and
blocky. The tower of the Bank of China, just east of the Hongkong and
Shanghai Bank, rises massively above its old established neighbor. The
Red Chinese operate it now and many of its upper offices are vacant; the
bank itself is a quiet institution with fewer guards than most local
banks have. The Chartered Bank, on the other side of the Hongkong and
Shanghai Bank, is the newest, tallest and most curious of the three
moneyed giants, with a fortresslike tower and a green façade that
resembles a vast electronic switchboard.
The Hongkong and Shanghai building, older than either of the banks beside
it, surpasses them in architectural distinction, with its bold vertical
lines and its solid central tower surrounded by lower wrap-around
structures and crowned by a ziggurat roof that tapers upward like a
truncated pyramid. It looks like a building that nothing could push over,
which seems the right emphasis for a bank.
Directly south of the Hong Kong Club lie three and a half acres of the
most valuable land in the colony, all of it laid out in cricket fields
except for a small corner occupied by the building of the Hong Kong
Cricket Club. If the land were for sale, bidding would start at about
$175 a square foot; but the British would as soon sell the playing fields
of Eton. Cricket is an integral part of life under the Union Jack. Most
Americans find it too strenuous, even as a spectator sport; they often
become exhausted by the effort of trying to figure it out.