Causeway Bay: There Was a Young Couple Who Lived in a Shoe (box)

We are laying over once again in Hong Kong, taking care of business. The business of finding a full-time teaching job for the academic year has really been what this southeast Asian foray has been about. So far we’ve ruled out the peaceful Islamic empire of Malaysia, the racist overseas Chinese in Singapore, and the military state of Thailand. All had some opportunities, but treat my wife like she’s a bar girl or house cleaner. Malaysia’s got a real problem with fair treatment of women, period. Singapore is truly more racist than the California foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Thailand is an overrated hippy hell-hole. China, despite being communist, has been a good host each time. Hong Kong would be great if we were part of the international banking elite, which we are not. Lest you think that we are rich and ambling about without a plan, read on

Cheapskate travellers in Hong Kong, whether on the Island side or the peninsula of Kowloon, know about mansion living. Mansions are huge labyrinths of tiny shoebox dwellings in high-rise roach towers, to put it mildly. For the price of a Travelodge room in the States, you get an ultra-efficient room that requires feats of contortion and acrobatics just to manage everyday business. I mean everday acts like taking a piss or a shower or even turning on the bloody television set or recharging a cellphone require planning, agility, and a tolerance for spinal compression. If I want to sit on the pot while my wife brushes her teeth, my legs will get wet because the sink is too small for her and my legs have to go somewhere. If I get up in the middle of the night, I have to be extra careful I don’t break her bones as I gingerly pass over her snoozing body. And hell if our towels or sheets ever get washed. We are constantly cooperating to keep things aired out and even have to change clothes one person at a time. If there is a fire in the building, we’re toast. God, I miss building safety codes and other things taken for granted in the good ol’ USA!

This time we chose a shoebox on the Island, so we can handle embassy business at various consulates without wearing out our heels on the MTR subway or sloshing around in ferry boats getting bumped by too many people in too much of a hurry. Causeway Bay, unfortunately, is not as economical as Mong Kok, because it is all about designer label clothing. Ack! It’s more fun to walk toward Wan Chai and imagine the old waterfront of the 1950’s, which has since expanded past Gloucester Road by development. The girly bars and neon signs and cheap eateries make this a real down-to-earth urban zone, away from the hoity-toityness of Central and the mid-Levels. It’s always the case, in my travels, that the red-light districts are where the real people hang out.

We were fortunate to have a lunch with my former Cantonese teacher, Hazel, and to say hello to Ricky, the elder tattoo master at Pinky’s Tattoo in Wan Chai. Ricky is the one who fixed my first misfit tattoo in 2005, and now he has me tempted to add a phoenix to my arm, for the price of a 10-megapixel digital camera. I told him maybe when we pass through again in the wintertime, after I earn some money teaching somewhere. We exhanged a few nice words, said “joi gin” and I know I’ll see him again. Good man, Ricky. Has decorated many a Triad in his day, and quite a few sailors and other derelict English teachers, I’m sure.

In some ways this adventure has reached it’s most stressful point. We need positive cash flow, and we need to get out of this expensive city or wind up homeless. My back is killing me from being sandwiched between two walls at a distance shorter than my frame. Janice sees homeless people on the street and worries that we’re gonna be with them soon, me playing the erhu while she passes around a coffee can for change. I tell her not to worry; I will provide. Inside I’m scared, but I can’t reveal this or she won’t sleep well. This is truly rough.

August 13, 2007