Read: Via Ports, From Hong Kong to Hong Kong

I chanced upon Via Ports during an afternoon in the library, struggling through another day of battle with my thesis. It was originally published in 1965, reprinted in 2012 by the Hong Kong University Press under their 'Echoes' series. 

The book is written as a chronological narrative, following the experiences and observations of Alexander Grantham, Governor in Hong Kong from 1947-1958. These were vital years; a time where the city was trying to rebuild and cope with the consequences of war and occupation, deal with massive population growth and the subsequent pressures this has had on local infrastructure and resources, (re)establish some degree of socio-political order in the region, and transform the city into one that meets the requirements of a rapidly changing world. The Hong Kong we see today still contains echoes from this time period... 

It starts with the author's arrival to Hong Kong in 1922, with the following chapters detailing his subsequent departure to Bermuda, Jamaica, Nigeria, and the Fiji region, before returning to Hong Kong after WWII. This book could arguably be described as a travel journal; the author describes the people he meets (mostly others under the British colonial service), the activities and events that took place at various localities, and even the 'beauty spots' he visited. Yet the writing goes beyond the stylistic confines of the 'travel writing' genre, and it never feels as though one is reading a purely descriptive account. It helps that the author truly has had first-hand experiences (and an interest) with what he was writing about, and rather than discuss these topics from a narrative distance, he incorporates them into his recollections of everyday life. His descriptions are so vivid and so colourful (in describing Sir Alexander, then known as Bustamane, Grantham recalls the "aquiline features and thick greying hair brushed back...he could harangue and sway a crowd like no one else..." p.34) that you can envision what he was referring to in your mind. 

I particularly enjoyed the human element embedded within the text. Oftentimes, in our attempts to compose a piece of reflexive writing, we find ourselves uncomfortable with putting our own thoughts on paper to be publicly scrutinized, and default to reciting clinical facts (e.g. "I was born during...I went to school at...I did this during...etc.) Here the author does examine the socio-political developments of the places he has been to (e.g. structures of government, local communities and politics, schooling and university systems, corruption), but he also injects milestones from his personal life. One example of this can be found in the first chapter, where the author talks about how his marriage came from his Mandarin lessons during his time in Peking (Beijing): "I made good progress but as time went on my enthusiasm for mandarin gave place to enthusiasm to Maurine Samson..." (p.12). In other instances, he recalls humourous anecdotes with his dogs in Bermuda (p.27), Christmas in Nigeria in 1942 spent engaging in recreational activities with his wife and friends (p.59), and a nostalgic and 'sentimental' return to Peking after the death of his stepfather and the departure of his mother to England (p.134). 

But what was even more surprising was how easy it is to understand the author's thought processes and motivations, even if he was from a different era surrounded by a different world. The author admits that his junior standing in the Secretariat (his title at the time? Extra Assistant Colonial Secretary) during the 1920s rendered him disinterested in wider politics, such that the anti-colonial Seamen's Strike of 1925 warranted only a brief mention in the book; his primary concern was about how the strike could postpone his marriage. His migrations to other localities were driven by his calculations for promotional opportunities. This is not a cynical representation of the persistence of self-interest through time; rather, we can find comfort in knowing that what was of concern and important to him is also what is of concern and important to many of us today.The Governor may be at the apex of the colonial power hierarchy, but he is also human driven by individualistic wants. He enjoys train rides, swimming, walking in the hills, and seeing beautiful sights; he sympathizes with his wife when they have to leave their house and garden behind in Jamaica for Nigeria. There is a subtle emotive quality that many contemporary memoirs lack. 

There were parts of the book that resonates with the sentiments of the current generation of youth in the city; especially with his description of Hong Kong as his 'first love', and with how the book ends with his sailing out of Hong Kong asking the question "[w]ere we going home or were we leaving home?" 

Missing from the book are in-depth examinations about the poverty that was experienced by much of the population in Hong Kong; such as life in the emerging and increasingly crowded squatter settlements, the difficulties in trying to eke a living in an economy that has yet to take-off, and the lack of political inclusion stemming from linguistic boundaries.The author did have encounters with ethnic Chinese during his time in the city, but these were the 'Westernised elites' (a term I am borrowing from another document) and those who served the colonial circles; the head of domestic staff Ah Yau; the diplomatic representative of the communist Chinese government Special Commissioner T.W. Kwok, educated in Harvard and Cambridge; former Magistracy interpreter Chan Kok Wing who later contributed towards anti-corruption efforts; and one of the kaifong (neighbourhood association) leaders called Parkin Wong, educated at Columbia University. Although this sole exposure to the upper strata of Hong Kong society can be uncomfortable for readers, and be indicative of the distance between the colonists with the majority of the population, but perhaps this is an accurate reflection on the reality of life as a Governor. 

Colonialism is a word that has birthed and permeated into a broad array of academic disciplines, not to mention generated a large body of research. In everyday conversations, colonialism is a word that carries negative connotations, used in criticisms towards power-imbalances and the subordination of certain socio-political groups. But trying to apply moral judgments of right and wrong seems irrelevant in this context; this book does not attempt to present itself as a comprehensive historical textbook. It does not criticize nor celebrate colonialism, it treats colonialism as the given state-of-being, because it was such during his time. Ultimately, it is best to see this book as being about a man (albeit a very privileged man) recounting and sharing his unique life experiences, in a lighthearted and eloquent manner, with an emotive touch. 

(205 pages. I borrowed this book from the library, so have no clue how much it will cost. But it should be available on Amazon and the bookshop at the University of Hong Kong.)

Read: 推土機前種花

Yesterday was hot, yesterday was full of sunshine, yesterday was a sweat-fest. And finding myself in the area of Yau Ma Tei didn't help (urban heat island effect! Geography 101.) Thankfully Kubrick was nearby, providing air-con, a cafe with plenty of nice beverages, and a bookshop. Needless to say, where there are books, my wallet opens. 

So say hello to 推土機前種花 by 周綺薇 (Maggie Chow.) The book revolves around the neighbourhood of Sham Shui Po, with the introduction taking the reader back to a 2007 meeting at the Sham Shui Po District Council between government representatives and the residents affected by a 2004 government initiative to redevelop the area. The meeting degenerated into confrontation when the government accused the residents of 'illegally using government property'. Further exchanges between government workers and the affected locals resulted with the questions of the latter being met with obtuse non-answers and threats of police action from the former. Nothing shockingly novel about that scenario, since it is a widespread problem in current Hong Kong and is often reported in the media. 

But by introducing Sham Shui Po to the reader through the context of a conflict allows us to see that it is precisely these conflicts that emphasize, and render visible, the strong community ties that exist. The structure of the book is divided into six sections titled; the district and I; following the path of the neighbourhood locals; telling our story; love letter to the community; the flower gives fruit, the flattened land; and Postscript. 

The first section examines the nature of a neighbourhood, and the author makes such a narrative coherent by weaving her own background and experiences into the text. Instead of presenting her Sham Shui Po neighbours as 'faceless entities', she includes the names and backgrounds of those in her building, and show the linkages between them. By 'linkages', it refers to how they are situated within the physical space (e.g. Old Man 雷 lives in the flat under Uncle 李, Old Man and Old Lady 高 lives upstairs from the author on the fourth floor, etc.); or their role in the community (e.g. Old Man 雷 uses his medical training from his youth to give advice to neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. 馮 run a stationary shop that serves as a centre for news to spread around the locals, Limbu is from Nepal and runs a little corner store.) The best thing about these character introductions is that they are highly personalized, containing the little mundane details that are important to the author herself. 

The other sections takes the reader away from the seeming timelessness of the author's immediate social surroundings, and back to the the problematic world outside. The text then provides a chronological description of the major events that happened, detailing the neighbourhood's progression from voicing their ideas out in public, refusing to play the role of the victims, envisioning their ideal Sham Shui Po through the help of a Dutch activist by the name of Elena, and more. The book does a good job documenting the different events and discussions that take place at different moments in time. One event of particular interest would be the 2007 'Story Telling Gala' on Hing Wah Street, where the author helped erect huge posters formatted to look like the shop fronts of local business owners. People were allowed to interact with the store keepers depicted in the posters, and to leave write comments to stick onto the images. Another event infused with humour includes creating a series of worksheets for Carrie Lam Cheng Yuet-ngor (Permanent Secretary for Housing, Planning, and Lands in 2003/2004 and later the Secretary for Development) including lessons asking Lam to think about what it means for the government development office to put 'people' first (and who these 'people' are interpreted to be), what directions development should take, and the way of life in Hong Kong. 

Ultimately, the efforts of the residents did not stop the Urban Renewal Authorities from tearing down the affected areas, displacing the community and severing the complex network of ties that were there. But the author concludes the book on an optimistic note, as from this episode there sprang a new empowering consciousness within the local population, manifesting as The Sham Shui Po Renewal Concern Group. I for one, am curious to know 'what is next?' and to see what sort of strategies the Group will employ in the face of future government development.      Other questions include; what does the author see as 'ideal development'? In the author's view, what is the degree of effectiveness in the strategies used? And while there are lessons learnt by the local residents, what can the government take away from all of this? How does development practices in Hong Kong compare to those abroad, and is there a model from abroad to learn and copy from? The book manages to force the reader to look with a critical eye at the term '活化' , and to rethink what 'urban renewal' really means (to replace or to rejuvenate?) 

On an unrelated note, is it hard not to notice the plethora of lovely illustrations and photographs in the book, rendering it almost into a graphic novel. 

Book retails for 110HKD at Kubrick (99HKD for Kubrick members). It is 148 pages long, published by MCMM Creations in 2011. Mostly written in Chinese, with a few pages of English translation in the back (though I must say that the English does not fully cover everything mentioned in the Chinese sections.) 

Musings: The ID Card

For long-time Hongkongers* above the age of 11, having an I.D. card is a part of life. One can obtain it through being born in this city, by parentage, or by residing here for 7 years. The full details of this is listed on the government webpage, though even with all their fancy wording, the defining parameters for who exactly constitutes a permanent Hong Kong resident is still a mess. There is a lot of controversy regarding these criteria, and rather than delve into those matters (one can hear about it in the news, which consists of emotive and sensationalized statements from both sides of the argument. And given what C.Y. Leung, the Chief Exec-elect is saying in his press statements, the first criteria looks as though it will be challenged.) I'm more interested in considering the nature of an I.D. card itself.

For starters, the card is a means to identify ourselves, to delineate our individual statuses in this populous society. Many parts of our social lives depend on it; from the overt purposes of voting, seeking employment, attaining medical care, or having a bank account; to the more discreet need for an I.D. number to apply for memberships in clubs, getting a phone subscription, and whatnot. My I.D. number was needed for bike rentals (see post about cycling to Tai Mei Tuk.) With the card having such a wide range of applications in our daily lives, it is possible that a phenomenon called 'function creep' has come into play. The most basic meaning of 'function creep' is where some form of item gradually infiltrates our daily lives to fulfil different domains of needs. We become over-reliant on this item, treating it akin to a limb. 

While these cards fulfil our personal daily needs, it also serves the needs of the governing body. It might seem as though having this I.D. card benefits the holder by allowing them to glide through Hong Kong immigration controls with ease (and who hasn't done this while smugly looking at the immigration queues for visitors), but it also helps the government departments keep track of who is going where and when. The holder can apply for welfare with the card, but it also lets the governing body know what you are up to, and what your finances are like.  I.D. cards facilitate the surveillance needs of a governing body. Surveillance often has negative connotations within the media and common imagination, but can have positive applications especially in the context of crime. The reason why the positive is often overshadowed by the negative is because surveillance technology is easily abused, or has the potential to be abused, by the people who employ it. Surveillance is a huge topic of discussion and broaches on many social issues, especially in helping the formation of a 'police state', invasion of personal privacy, and the erosion of civil liberties, just to name a few...


(And just wondering; do we ever question why police seemingly pulls people aside on the streets for an I.D. check? What sort of criteria do they use to select these people?)

These identity documents can also be socially segregating, denoting different degrees of rights received by segments of the population. Having a card confers certain rights to the holder, allowing access to medical, education, welfare, and other government-provided benefits. But at the same time, it also denies certain rights to those residing and working in the city without a permanent I.D. card. I'm specifically referring to the different identity documents held by Filipino domestic helpers, emphasizing their temporary statuses in Hong Kong, that can lead to differential (dare I say, discriminatory?) treatment towards them by the government and by the wider population. (On another tangent, do check out the 2011 Filipino residency bid in Hong Kong. It touches upon just whom the Hong Kong government wants to give a permanent I.D. card to, alluding to notions of 'desirable' and 'undesirable' citizens. Google 'Vallejos v. Commissioner of Registration'.) 

But if we are going to criticize the I.D. card, why shouldn't we extend the same points towards the Octopus card? The only difference between the I.D. card and the Octopus is that one is explicitly stated as being mandatory by the government, the other advertised by a corporation as a convenience for our daily lives. (And like the I.D. card conferring rights to its holder and denying it to those without, those with Octopus cards also pay a little less for their train fares in comparison to those who buy tickets for each individual trip.) We don't perceive the same qualms with Octopus cards which exhibit the same 'function creep' traits as the I.D. card. The Octopus was first introduced for use on all modes of transportation, and is now a mode of payment for supermarkets, fast-food restaurants, convenience stores, and other retail services. The amount of personal information submitted to obtain an Octopus card transformed it into something of a secondary I.D. document (check out the 2010 Ming Pao article for more details.) The personalized Octopus knows your I.D. card number, your bank account details (for automatic refill when credit is low on the card), and all of your contact details. 


With all that personal data floating around the information banks of a single corporation, just how can we guarantee that it is treated in a suitable manner? The 2010 article from Techwire mentions how personal information of some Octopus users were sold to other business groups, for the sake of profit. It is worrying that despite an apology being issued by the Octopus group, and that this transaction of personal data did not result with any major consequence asides from an irritating ad here and there, this giant ethical question mark remains unresolved. But what is even more worrying is that the Hong Kong population did not display any large outcry from this abuse of trust, and simply got on with everyday life. 


And, if the Octopus card can abuse personal information for its own benefit, how could we be sure that personal information from our I.D. cards won't be/hasn't been used for the interest of a select few? 

There is a bundle of unanswered questions in my head. Why is an I.D. card mandatory for Hong Kong, when there are other countries that do not use it, or just makes obtaining it an optional endeavor? (For example, I chose to get an I.D. card from the California DMV because I needed to prove I was over 21 to enter Dave and Buster's for a social night. Noble, so noble.) Other countries such as the UK and Australia don't require I.D. cards at all, have clear reluctance towards implementing an obvious national identification system, and yet manage to harbour functioning societies that do not delve into chaos and anarchy. Why do we need to carry these I.D. cards with us all the time, and why must we present them to government bodies on the streets if requested? 

I think this entire rant was derived from my finding I.D. cards to be rather strange. My concerns are not only based on privacy issues (well, seeing how I have facebook, twitter, and a blog. And growing up in a city filled with CCTVs tends to desensitize one from such matters), but more to do with people in this city becoming accustomed towards having our entire lives being compressed into a series of numbers and data fragments on a microchip. It is indeed a unique sensation to have one's entire being and self being summed up by a material item a fraction of our physical weight. I'm neither against or for having an I.D. card, seeing how I grew up within this reality of enumerating my personal bio (heck, even the Chinese characters of my name are coded, which is awfully Borg-like), but it is important to ask questions... 


[This post will continuously be updated.]

*one of my postgraduate friends in the UK, upon hearing that I was from Hong Kong, jokingly referred to me as a 'Honkie'. Politely put, this is NOT the preferred term to use. Because it is unknown if my friend used the word with its associated negative connotations (it is often the case that people who make such gaffs are those who do not thoroughly examine the meaning of words), it wasn't worth getting offended or angry. 


It should also be said that whom term 'Hong Konger' encompasses is not very well defined. I've been asking around, but no one can give me a direct answer. Based on what I've seen and heard, there seems to be a  combination of linguistic, residency, ethnic, education, I.D. card, and birth-place component at play...

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For more information on this topic:

-Greenleaf, G. (2012). 'Hong Kong's 'Smart' Id Card: Designed to be Out of Control'. in Bennet, C. and D. Lyon (eds.) 'Playing the Identity Card', Routledge (Online version as PDF file.) (This author also has other articles pertaining to the Australian response towards a national identification system, a good read.) 

-Lyon, David. (2008). 'Surveillance Society'. Talk for the Festival del Diritto, Piacenza, Italia. (Online version as PDF file.)  

Read: Hong Kong Corner Houses

I was strolling across the Chinese University Bookshop when the book 'Hong Kong Corner Houses' (街頭街尾) caught my eye. (What also caught my eye was the sign next to the book saying 'discount!') The photography is by Michael Wolf, with an essay inside written by Dr. Lynne DiStefano and Dr. Lee Ho Yin, academics knowledgeable about older Hong Kong architecture. 

Niceeeeee. 

The book provides a great introduction about Corner Houses, a good foundation for one to conduct further research into the topic if necessary. 


I mentioned in a previous post (see 'Trivia: Plug-in Baby') that my hipster ambitions was to live in either a Tang Lau (唐樓) or a Corner House (街角樓). It wasn't elaborated there, but whilst these terms tend to be used interchangeably amongst a lot of people to refer to old flats in the city, they are not the same thing. The essay sets the lay-person straight by highlighting the differences between the two.

A Corner House found on Tonkin Street in Cheung Sha Wan

The lower floor of a Tang Lau, somewhere in Sham Shui Po. Spot the difference?

Both types of old buildings do have commonalities, such as the mixing of commercial and residential purposes within the same structure. But the essay elaborates on how Tang Laus served as a 'prototype' for the later-emerging Corner Houses (1950s/1960s), and details the historical context for the prominence of the latter; factoring in social issues such as rapid population growth and the changing economic production needs. Other more notable differences would be that Corner Houses, in general, appear much taller and larger than Tang Laus. 

The essay is fairly comprehensive, touching upon topics such as the illegal structures in Corner Houses, the pressures of finding space in an increasingly dense city, and the decline of these Corner Houses in later decades. There is also a nifty section about the architects of these Corner Houses, though not a lot of detail is offered. It could be because of a lack of historical documentation*, but it would have been nice to know a little bit more about the backgrounds of those who designed and created these buildings. What sort of thought processes led to the individualistic forms and shapes that is seen? What sort of influences did they have, and what inspired the use of certain motifs?  

The photography is beautiful in its simplicity. Don't expect any historical photos, the images are all based on the recent and the present. I'm not much of a photography critic/expert, but can still appreciate the way the images are composed and the lack of 'twiddling' done. By 'twiddling', I mean the way some photographers use too many filters and impose layers of stylized effects onto the original photo. Not that these techniques don't have merit, but if applied overwhelmingly to architecture photos such as these, it could remove the feeling of 'reality' and 'relatability' from the shots. These photos let the buildings 'speak for itself' (cliche! Cliche phrase!), and lets the reader see that there is beauty in the mundane sights of the everyday. Maybe the hipster in me is naturally attracted to sights of 'urban decay' and perceive laundry hung out onto the streets as a sign of 'character'. 

But the thing that worked against the book, and this may have been the entire point of the book, was its seeming 'timelessness'. Hong Kong is a city that continuously morphs and changes; whilst it is reassuring to have these Corner Houses portrayed as ubiquitous and ever-present, the reader may miss out on a holistic image of what the city is like, and what the city will become. The photos are accompanied by captions stating the technical details of the buildings (such as name, year of first occupation, address, number of floors, architect, and whether it is still standing or demolished), which feels rather cold and mechanical as a means of documenting such buildings. It would be nice to have the human narrative play a bigger role in the writing, such as accounts of what it was like to live in these houses, who lived there, and whatnot. I am inclined to think that because buildings are made by people, and for people, the 'person' should not be omitted from such accounts. 

Whatever my take is on the book, it is ultimately a beautiful volume, and definitely worth checking out. 

Book details: 'Hong Kong Corner Houses', by Michael Wolf. Published by the Hong Kong University Press, 2011. Hardcover. Priced at around 295 HKD (though with the Chinese University Bookshop discount I paid 250 HKD.) 

*historical documentation is generally a rather a shoddy practice in Hong Kong, and this is especially true for blueprints kept by the government. Not only are they sometimes missing, the copies you find might not be entirely accurate. One of my family members was asked to inspect a water main for an institution, and used the official blueprints dating back decades ago for reference on how to find it. Unfortunately, the blueprint was inaccurate; the builders at the time saw fit to move the water main 50m away from the intended spot, but no one updated the schematics for future generations. Even today, there are a lot of piping underground of Hong Kong that may not be in the place it is supposed to be....a surprise for future diggers. 

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Extra Notes:

Another spot of information of interest; many of these Tang Laus and Corner Houses are often limited in height. This could be because they are situated in the old Kai Tak airport flight zone, or it could also be a money-saving practice. The government has a policy saying that if the building is 10 floors or more, the installation of an elevator is required. Therefore, many building owners would choose to have their properties only reach the 9th floor as a means to reduce construction costs (escalators aren't cheap, especially with annual maintenance.) Though this rule is followed rather inconsistently around town...