Leaving the Fragrant Harbour Behind

by Kayla Hill (Canada)

Making a local connection Hong Kong

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The looming, glistening skyscrapers were both intimidating and intriguing. “Asia’s World City” they called it. I knew next to nothing about this city where I had decided to stay for a short time. My only references were Jackie Chan, the odd meal at a Cantonese restaurant back home, and my Lonely Planet guide to Hong Kong, which was gripped firmly in my sweaty hand at all times. Being fully immersed in my first Asian experience was exciting and overwhelming – a complete assault on the senses. The pungent, gut-wrenching smell of “stinky tofu” on the street corner, so strong that you stop breathing for at least ten seconds. Elderly men reading newspapers on the curb at the crack of dawn, whilst simultaneously clipping their toenails. Walking in a zig zag to avoid the cockroaches that could miraculously scuttle under the tiniest of cracks in the sidewalk. I took all of these things in stride, with my naïve and young optimism. I tried my hardest to clench my bottom whilst sitting on the subway, hoping the fat wouldn’t spill over into the hard metal seat next to me, clearly made for small bodies. I avoided catching a glimpse of strung up chickens and geese hanging from restaurant windows – a harrowing sight for a long-time vegetarian. I shrugged off being jostled, pushed, and nudged in what Guinness World Records calls the busiest neighbourhood in the world. Most locals couldn’t pronounce my name, Kayla. The best way to explain was to say “okay-la” with no “o” – something they instantly understood, which would crack a smile on even the sourest face. I tried learning Cantonese, one of the most difficult languages in the world, but most I could muster was "ligo" (“this one”), "ngoi" (“thank you”), and of course "bai bai" (“bye bye”). When my time came to leave Hong Kong, I was relieved in a way. Although I had enjoyed the glamourous skyline from The Peak; drinking cocktails in the iconic Lan Kwai Fong district; and mastering my chopsticks skills, I knew this was a city I felt I didn’t belong in forever. I felt a lack of human connection. The eerie feeling of being on a crowded train in silence, with every set of eyes glued to a mobile phone, equated to sheer loneliness. There was despair of having a bird poop directly in my eye yet nobody stopping to help me, an annoying "gweilo" shrieking and waving her arms around madly. As I’m rolling up my clothes and carefully placing them in my suitcase, I think about what I’ll miss. My local friends, each thrilled to take me to a quaint tea house to share their local culture. Weekends drinking, dancing, and jumping off a boat in Victoria Harbour. Joining neighbourhood walks to give out oranges and shampoo to needy elderly “aunties”, who push rickety trolleys full of cardboard to earn mere cents for a hard day’s work. I look out my window and hear the distant clashes of protesters and police below, the faint stinging sensation of tear gas seeping into the kitchen. I was so excited to leave – but now? What would happen to my friends fighting for freedom and democracy on the front lines? What would happen to my favourite coffeeshops, forced to declare a side in this political turmoil, to avoid going bankrupt? What would happen to the homeless, the street cleaners, and the young people I had taught English to – who all feared for their futures? For a city I had such mixed feelings about, I now realized what made Hong Kong worth fighting for. For all the strong smells, tremendous crowds, and jarring sights – this city has own uniqueness, charm, and spirit. The more I travel, the more I realize I’ve never visited a place like it at all. And when I hear someone in the distance speaking Cantonese, my eyes light up and I rush over, exclaiming “Heung Gong Yan!” These days I long for silent subway rides. I miss the vibrancy of crowded city hubs. And apparently getting pooped in the eye from a bird is good luck.