As I write this, Hong Kong is in the news. There have been massive protests on the streets — by some accounts, the largest the world has ever seen. Since Britain returned Hong Kong to China in 1997, there has been significant change there, no doubt. However, Hong Kong has its own set of rules, allowing the people to enjoy some freedoms those in mainland China do not. The center of the June 2019 protests is a fight against extradition to mainland China of Hong Kongers suspected of crimes. For the people of Hong Kong, the prospect of facing China’s system is enough for great numbers of them to take to the streets.

 

I was fortunate to visit Hong Kong in a different era. It was 1991 and Hong Kong was still ruled by the British. It felt very much un-British-colony-like and very much like free Hong Kong. Indications of the British were noticeable in the form of high tea at the hotels and bi-lingual signs. (We did not see those on our visit to mainland China that year.)

In my grainy photo from 1991, note Pizza Hut at the left of the photo and a blurry “Shamrock Restaurant” sign to its right.

In 1984, seven years before my visit, Britain had agreed to return Hong Kong to China, so everyone knew it would be going back in 1997. Back then, China was mostly a mystery to those of us in “the West” — still quite closed and with its industrial revolution just beginning. In connection with the transfer of Hong Kong, China agreed to a “one country, two systems” policy. But Hong Kongers and the rest of the world were still waiting to see what would happen. There was a good deal of anxiety.

 

On Christmas Day, 1991, we flew into Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport. Kai Tak was closed later to make way for a larger airport, but to my eyes, it was completely modern. My partner’s parents were living in Japan at the time, so, along with his younger brother and girlfriend, we all met in Tokyo the night before to partake in a hazy, jetlagged Christmas Eve dinner at the reasonably-priced, but very Western New Sanno Hotel. (The New Sanno is for U.S. military travelers so for everyone else, no dice).

The next morning, we took a shuttle bus to Narita Airport. As we were bound for Hong Kong, I was practically bouncing off my seat, annoying everyone else, who wanted to sleep.

Kai Tak Airport was known to be one of the most challenging landings in the world for pilots. On the approach, planes had to fly very low over the skyscrapers on the Kowloon side of Hong Kong. We made it fine. Hong Kong immigration officials placed a royal-looking stamp in our passports (the seventh one in my collection) and we were greeted by this sign:

In advance of the trip, I had read my guidebook cover to cover, dog-earing pages and highlighting sights, markets, and shrines I wanted to visit. The guidebook had informed me that the period around Christmas and the New Year is a festive time in Hong Kong. Only a small percentage of the population was Christian, and it was my first Christmas party in an Asian country, but not my last.

By the time we arrived at the Park Hotel, one of the many sky-high buildings that cluster on the Kowloon side of Victoria Harbor, it was dark. I could feel the electricity in the air as we alighted from the airport taxi.

Everyone in my group was tired, but I was pumped with adrenaline. When everyone retired to their rooms, I was taken aback that no one wanted to join me. I could not even imagine sleeping. Why sleep? We were in Hong Kong before it was China and there was a party outside.

I left my suitcase and purse in the hotel room, stuck the room key in my bra, and went out into the strange, new city alone. At 22, I had already acquired the habit from college in Washington DC of not carrying a purse on city streets. But at that age, it was uncharacteristic of me to do anything alone.

Hong Kong! Bright, loud, and too tantalizing to miss. At that hour of the night — whatever it was: 10, 11, 12 midnight — it seemed the entire population of 5+ million was out on the streets. People of all ages gathered in small parks, strolling, talking, and laughing. Toddlers careened around the city sidewalks littered with confetti and spent party favors. Fireworks exploded in the night sky while kids waved sparklers, lighting up each other’s grins. Senior citizens sat chatting on city benches as small firework fountains danced near their feet. Strangers smiled at me.

I had left my camera in my room as a safety precaution — one that was unneeded. But I knew that photos wouldn’t capture the nighttime festival, especially on my instant camera. A camera still can’t show joyful chit-chat, faces lit in a split-second of fireworks, smells of burnt toast and scorched marshmallows, and easy laughter.

I don’t know how long I wandered around the streets in a daze, marinating in the scene. No one seemed to be going home anytime soon. Eventually, I had to surrender to the jetlag. Back at the hotel, I descended into a deep restful sleep until my body allowed me to wake again. I missed the breakfast buffet the next morning.

View from our harbor cruise on the Pearl of the Orient

We spent a week in Hong Kong. It was was an amazing riot of Asian and British cultures. Lanterns and streamers festooned the streets. Charcoal grey worsted wool adorned Asian and English businessmen. English was spoken freely in the broad avenues, shops, and restaurants. Among modern, grid-like neighborhoods, pockets of narrow, jumbled market streets cropped up, offering colorful craft shops, steaming drums of soup, and seafood laid out in icy sidewalk bins.

The shellfish was so freshly harvested from Victoria Harbour, it still pulsed. I stopped eating it.

When I got home and sent in my film cartridge to be developed, the developer lost it. I was very upset, as it was still early in my travel “career”. So I have very few pictures of Hong Kong and it is mostly left to my memories. In them, it is always nighttime and there are bright lights and fireworks. It’s fine with me.

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Note: while researching this piece, I found this interesting story about Kowloon’s former lawless squatters’ city within a city. This place was not mentioned in my guidebook from 1991. The squatters’ city was demolished in 1993, but it is the type of site I would visit today. I wrote about a small squatters’ community in Addis Ababa here.