Getting the hang of Hong Kong

My last visit to Hong Kong was back in 1988. I was only nine years old then, and the one thing that has remained etched in my mind was my fear when the family took me on a ride on the cable car in Ocean Park. It was like a horror movie being in those killer heights.

Mum had her eyes closed and was probably chanting mantras the whole time, while I was clinging nervously to the handles. And in the middle of that five-minute trip (although it seemed like hours), my younger brother, who had no clue at the time how precious life was, began jumping up and down with excitement.

To say the least, my mum and I nearly had seizures.

Naturally, that traumatic incident shaped my notions of the territory’s otherwise delicious aura. Such a pity, I thought, as I hurriedly stashed pairs of underwear in the overnight bag a friend had "lent" me two years ago.

I was scheduled to depart Manila for Hong Kong last Sunday morning with Dad, though my head was still spinning because of the big-time hangover I had from my birthday party the night before.

I don’t usually accompany my father on such trips abroad because his work really bores me. But after finding out that this birthday present from him included an all-expense paid tour of Macau, I sheepishly agreed to join him.

And as I fumbled with the locks on the suitcase, I paused to look at a picture my dad had snapped 14 years ago during that dreaded cable-car experience. I was hardly smiling, and I think that my small grin was due to some uncontrollable chattering of the teeth (out of fright, of course). I laughed a little and gently placed the framed photo next to the cigarette box. "We won’t let that happen again, will we?" I assured myself.

As expected, the trip to Hong Kong was rather peaceful. Well, I say that because I slept the entire flight. My headache was reaching its peak when the plane got up to 35,000 feet and I snoozed the two hours away, snobbishly (later, regretfully) ignoring the flight attendant’s efforts to serve me food.

I awoke several minutes before we landed at Chek Lap Kok airport. By then, my hangover was already starting to wear off.

Daddy eyed me wearily and offered me a sip of his champagne, but the thought of having another gulp of alcohol wasn’t exactly my cup of tea for the moment. I figured my drool was just as refreshing.

As I stepped off the air-conditioned aerodrome, the Hong Kong weather made me feel like I was back in Quezon City. And although not as blistering hot and humid as Manila, it still made my skin break out in a sweat.

We took the train to get to the Island Shangri-La Hotel in Pacific Place along Supreme Court Road.

During the ride, I marveled at the wondrous skyscrapers the island is known for. The thousands of buildings we saw looked like colorful miniature structures framed by a sunny backdrop of sapphire sky and orange sun. It was bright and lovely, though it reminded me (again) of my cable car nightmare.

We reached the hotel at about 2 p.m. It was gorgeous — with the entire hotel perched atop Pacific Place, a huge shopping mall. I scratched my head when the concierge told us that we were booked on the 42nd floor. I shivered as the bellboys hauled our luggage to the elevator (Thank God it wasn’t a glass-lined one).

And I tell you, it was like stepping into another dimension when I walked into the room. The place was well lit, with two queen-size beds occupying the west end. The room had a spectacular view of the city below —from mountain houses to even a subway entrance.

Chinese tea, fruits, and other complimentary stuff were placed on the dining table opposite the glass window, and a complete set of helpful brochures and menus were neatly arranged on what looked like a butcher-block writing desk. The bathroom, which is usually the first thing I check out in a hotel room, had a jacuzzi, a television set, a radio and a phone in the shower! It was like a mini-apartment!

In any case, Dad decided to get some work done (he had business meetings and such). And by this time, my hunger pangs began knocking. I wanted to kick myself for missing the meal on the plane, but I never really liked airline food, anyway (same goes for hotels), so I visited the "food fair" at the mall below and feasted on braised tofu and noodles.

I then roamed the area and I couldn’t help but wonder how robust Hong Kong’s economy is. I mean, people here happily buy overpriced goods from shops. But the thing that really caught my eye is how well-dressed those folks are. You could see someone in an Armani suit or a Versace outfit strutting down the market area near the subway and nobody would give him (or her) a second glance. I guess it’s as natural as wearing your underpants in the Little Shop of Horrors.

By this time, I was already browsing through a gift shop and I found a book about some interesting historical tidbits on the island itself. I feel that Hong Kong is a little lost in the sense of tradition. Aside from the place being "truly unique and vibrant," it is a puzzling fusion of East and West culture — a confusing blend of Chinese heritage and British colonialism (the city was retuned to Chinese sovereignty in 1997 after the expiration of a 99-year lease). And while it is being labeled as Asia’s premier shopping and dining destination, the place still lacks the oomph and ethnicity to distinguish it as a truly eastern spot.

I was so engrossed in reading the darn book at the shop that salesladies began to eye me suspiciously. Feigning ignorance, I placed the hardback on the top shelf and made a hasty exit. Before I knew it, it was almost time for dinner. I had been here for less than a day and yet I already felt I understood what the city was all about. And it never occurred to me that the island was a mere two-hour flight from Manila.

It felt like I was thousands of miles away, and I completely forgot about the fact that a trip to Mindanao takes longer. In a mere eight hours, the city of Hong Kong was starting to grow on me; and at the same time it was healing my trauma from that dreaded Ocean Park incident.

At around 8 p.m., I decided I didn’t want to eat at the hotel so I prodded Daddy to accompany me to the night market in Mongkok. We took the subway this time, with my father insisting it was a lot more sensible than taking the cab. And as we reached Mongkok, I was flabbergasted when I saw tens of thousands of Chinese people walking the streets. It was unbelievable! Everywhere you looked, you would see and hear someone yakking in Cantonese. It was like a scene from Godzilla — everyone was seemingly in a panic to get out of the city.

In this case however, the people stayed because of the shops. It was a Sunday, and I figured everybody was having a final night out before they went back to work the next day. Thousands of makeshift stalls occupied the sidewalks, and they sold everything from counterfeit Lacoste T-shirts to Miss Piggy cufflinks. It was all wonderful and cheap! I mean, I bought a nice pair of shades for about US$7. And after purchasing several knockoffs, Dad and I finally had dinner at this place called the Coconut Hut (at least that’s what I think it was called).

When we got back to the hotel, I could not believe how fruitful my Hong Kong day was. I only spent several hours on the city streets, malls and shops, but it was already as fulfilling as performing every position in the Kama Sutra. I lay soundly on the soft, cushy bed while watching the telly. I then deftly wondered about my scheduled trip to Macau the next day. I could only hope it would be half as fun as the day I spent here in the island. As I assessed the first day of the trip, whatever feelings of dread and disappointment I had of Hong Kong 14 years ago, had virtually vanished — replaced with goodwill and tolerance.

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Next week, I’ll be writing about our trip to Macau. Comments about nothing can be sent to reuben_matthew@hotmail.com. Please take note, readers, that I am horribly behind in answering your mail. I am so sorry, but I promise that I’ll get to them all.