A sort of shopping fever accompanied the sticky summer heat. I had caught the malady when I realised how many shops Hong Kong had to offer. It was hard to stop turning corners, hurrying with the crowds, window shopping.

The condensed lifestyle was contrasted with life back in my homeland of New Zealand. The speed and colour of the street life stimulated my senses and the insanity of dawn to dark buying and the inability to deny my own part in it. Everyone was doing it. Here was a highly developed consumer culture, wealth evident everywhere. Poverty, squeezed into the cracks, like a grime in an aging skin.

My hotel was in the Mong Kok area, a part of Hong Kong that was less westernised and a lot of the old culture still remained. I decided that it was probably a little less prestigious than staying nearer to the waterfront, whether on the Kowloon side or on Hong Kong Island. But the package holiday had been a bit cheaper staying in this hotel, and it was a superb hotel nevertheless. Inside was quiet and spacious. Outside, a mere step away from the foyer, humanity seethed along the footpaths jostling together tightly on the pavement.

At night it was no different, until about ten o'clock when the markets had finished and people had more or less stopped eating. Right outside the hotel, food hawkers sold everything from tiny, fried frogs to chicken's feet and sweet pastries.

The sounds of the city erupted as the hotel lift doors glided open with car engines and voices. Along with this were the high-pitched tones of traders summoning customers and the collections of electronic gadgets emanating bleeps and pips. Alarm clocks seemed to be a popular item and every one of them was set to demonstrate the shrill wake up call.

As soon as the rain started, umbrella sellers appeared from nowhere on every spare space shouting and bartering with buyers. Shops competed with each other providing upbeat music to entice frantic shoppers into buying faster and to convince their prey that this store had the most up to date equipment. Sight and sound exploded. The buying traps were set.

Restaurants came in all forms, from rather shabby little kitchens, busy with men in grubby aprons, laughing through toothless mouths. Everywhere there were busy men, working over hot steaming pans. And there were huge multi-storied buildings proclaiming 'seafood specialties'. The blazing neon and fluorescent painted messages came in Cantonese and English. Often the messages were in Cantonese only and these restaurants were the ones I would have liked to have visited most. I wasn’t sure though, if I would be able to communicate enough to know what to order.

I visited on of these restaurants with a Chinese friend. It had been easy that night because my friend interpreted for me and ordered all the dishes. Just as I had guessed, the food was a far cry from any 'Chinese' food I had sampled at home. Delicious morsels of foreign looking ingredients were served before me, each an adventure of delicacy and delight.

I would have tried more of these local places but it was often hard to tell which was best. I did try the authentic local 'dia pai dong' food outlets. They were jumbles of tables out in the open air, with plastic table cloths and makeshift kitchens turning out all sorts of delicacies.

At home I would never have suffered a cockroach competing for my dinner but here it was something to try to ignore, for the sake of the experience. The food was the best to be tasted anywhere in Hong Kong. It was harder to disregard some of the other patrons. Two old men were talking and pushing food into their mouths at a rapid pace. They stopped only long enough to spit the bones onto the floor at their feet. Something was biting at my leg.

I chose from the English menus. 'Fried cows organs with noddles' or 'three treasures with long pork insides'. Dishes which conjured up strange pictures in my mind, but the food I chose and ate was delicious.

It was hard to believe that in a fewshort days I had walked as much as I had. The heat had been almost unbearable but I discovered that I could drift into a department store or a hotel to cool down for a while before my next onslaught. I'd used up three underground passes racing into the main shopping area and then across to the Island. Every corner had to be explored.

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.

It began to create in my mind a desire to understand the man. Once, when I saw him, I was transported into a deep empathy with his circumstance. I could feel in the space of seconds that he was far beyond despondency. He was in total resignation. Perhaps he had been rejected? Maybe he was a drug user or had become involved in criminal activity only to be discarded by those who had used him.

It felt to me that he had probably never had any expectations beyond living a day at a time. It was his fate to live like this. He'd never had a phase of bitterness or self pity because he'd never had any right to either of these. Life wasn't that luxurious.

Today he was lying by this wall and there was no tomorrow. But tomorrow he would lie by the wall as well. The hope of anyone helping him had never occurred to him. Hope was also the luxury of other people, something he had never known.

The days had become wetter and wetter, culminating in torrential downpours. Water flooded along the main street and the black dust became pools of oily water. Thunder cracked with shuddering peals of sound across the tops of the high-rise buildings. Flashes of sheet lightening lit up the sky. The neon lights had turned on at three o'clock when the light was so dark it must have triggered an automatic night switch. Shoppers strained to keep from the rivers widening on the road and to keep their purchases from damage from rain.

Down in the tunnel the pink eiderdown soaked up the moisture from hundreds of splashing passers by. The cardboard pillow was sodden. The man seemed not to notice. I wished I could do something for this man but I was only a temporary visitor to his city. I didn't know who could be called on and doubted, as my friend had explained, there were enough agencies to care or to help all the vagrants that lived in this place. It was hard to block out his condition.

The impressions of the holiday were mixed. I felt the rising nervousness of the people as the deadline for China's takeover was coming closer. Yet there was still a strong optimism that permeated the city and kept the life blood flowing. It was a vivacious and intriguing place.

The bus that was to transport me to the airport arrived and a straggle of hotel guests dragging weighty suitcases, slowly lined their luggage beside the vehicle and had climbed on board. The holiday had been almost more exhausting than staying at home but I didn't regret any of it. I had at least twenty five cheap tea shirts to give away and a new suitcase that I had needed to buy to fit in all the other spoils of shopping.

The local guide had finished explaining about the procedures at the airport and it was time to look out for the last time on the city. Judging by the accents, most of the others on board were New Zealanders or Australians.

I sat on one of the front seats.

To the side of me and one row back a woman was talking loudly to her neighbour on the opposite side of the aisle. The loud New Zealand accent drifted across to the local Chinese guide and to me as the woman shared her impressions of Hong Kong.

"Can't say I like the Chinese much. Too pushy......yeah, and did y' try the underground? Yeah I did a couple of times. It was horrible, so many people and they don't get out of your way either. I think there were some shops on the island side but I didn't go across there, couldn't see much point.

Hotel was nice though. Didn't eat out much, except of course we did find a McDonalds. Some of the stuff we saw them cooking in the Chinese places looked revolting!"

I glanced behind me to see the speaker. She was a largish woman with her mid length curly hair pinned back tight from her forehead. Her make-up was heavy and the words were tumbling from wide candy-pink, painted lips. I couldn't hear the neighbour's responses.

"Did y' see that man in the tunnel?"

I took a little more interest.

"He was disgusting! Y'd think someone would move him on! I was appalled to see he was allowed to stay there. He was so repulsive to look at!"

I turned to watch the Chinese guide. She was keeping a calm expression on her face. With embarrassment, I realised she had probably heard similar almost every day. I wanted to apologise, to say to her. "Please don't judge us all the same. Oh, and thank you for your graciousness."

Instead all I could do was give what I hoped was an apologetic shrug. The guide smiled back and I was grateful for her understanding. The fellow Kiwi woman chattered on obliviously.

Her Hong Kong slice of memory would remain as a place where you could buy cheap electronic devices and find a hamburger. I would remember the placid resignation of a man without hope and a city that I would one day return to as the city itself could not lie down with placid resignation and would not cease to throb with life and activity.