The excitement of the neon at night and the wafts of aromas all added to the experience. It was just as interesting to me if the smell was something pungently fetid or if it was the delectable traces of Chinese food sizzling in a wok somewhere. Incense from miniature shrines filtered into the air to blend with spices and then, rotten fish waste washing into a drain.
The odour of the durian fruit almost put me off trying the sweet custard like internals. My Chinese friend had selected a good ripe one and for a true Hong Kong adventure, We consumed the offending fruit while sitting upstairs travelling on a traditional old tram.
The mangle of narrow alleys around the hotel had been thoroughly investigated, partly by accident, after many hours trying to find a tiny artery called 'Bird Street', where cages and song birds and singing crickets were sold. Eventually I found it and walked its length diving for shelter under the shop awnings, through pouring rain.
Almost every day I crossed the road through the underground tunnel, or used it to go down to catch a train. I loved jostling along with the locals, feeling a part of the thriving vibrant life of the city. Most of the inhabitants seemed to exist to either shop or eat. Well dressed women scurried in and out of the fashionable boutiques chattering to their friends and wheeling and dealing for their bargains. Everyone surged along the shopping trails, the old and the young, the aloof expatriate Westerners and tourists like me, eyes wide, absorbing everything.
Every day, almost without thinking about it at first, I had seen the man lying in the subway tunnel. At first he was just part of the scenery. I couldn't help noticing how prone the man lay, yet he must be alive. Each day he was in a different position. He was stretched against the wall and despite the unbearable heat, he was covered by a tattered pink eiderdown. Above the man's head was a string bag full of aluminium tins, no doubt collected for some kind of income. There was little else for a derelict human to live off here, and from what I had learned from my friend who lived here; there were very few places for such a man to go.
Yes, there were a few agencies, mostly missionary based ones, who went about visiting those that they called the 'street sleepers' but the ‘doss’ houses were often worse than the conditions on the street. There was little funding to cope with the numbers homeless and destitute.
More desperate people were pouring into Hong Kong from the mainland of China, hopeful of sharing some of the wealth before China absorbed it. Hoping to steal jewellery or money before it was drained out of the colony by those leaving. The swarms of newcomers were more than the police could contain or repatriate.
Crime was increasing, especially violent crime. Jewellers had gunmen stationed at their doors. The flashy displays of gold that so enticed the locals, were also the bait for quick gun bearing robbers. Hong Kong in this period, was not the law abiding city it had been in the past.
Right behind the hotel, during the time that I was staying, there had been a gun battle in a mah-jong parlour. People had been killed and grenades used.
There were bigger problems to worry about for this outgoing government than a few low-life people who had found themselves on the bottom of the social rung. There had always been the poor. Hong Kong could be proud that the standard of living was generally high. The man in the underground was only one of many and it surprised me that he had made such an impression on me. Something drew my eyes to him each time I walked past.
I now noticed many others but this one was so young and so clearly removed from life around him. His limp form was disregarded by the throngs rushing past. His bare feet were black with the dust of the streets and once, I caught sight of his long slim hand. The skin was pale like his face and the nails were long and filthy.
His eyes were always shut and sometimes I noted his face, deathlike and gaunt. He had a beard that was a long black tuft on his chin and long straggly hair. His head lay on a pillow of two sheets of cardboard.
As I hurried past this man, my thoughts grew from a casual noting of him, to trying to understand why he was there. I hadn't expected to see him there for so long, so much a part of the underground scene. I'd imagined his sort would be more transient. Maybe he foraged for his tins at night then slept here, living in the tunnel by day. But the tins never changed. He hadn't moved. He must get up to drink or to eat something, I reasoned.
