Two days in Hong Kong
Early on August 11, I set out on foot through the streets of Kowloon, bearing south. Despite the unforgiving heat and the fact that I had little sleep in the preceding nights, I felt refreshed. This was my first trip to Hong Kong, the fabled port that unlocked the Far East to the British Empire — a legendary location for any men or women of enterprise and commerce, even more so for those that like to take lessons from the past. I had little time, loose plans, and a silly notion that the next two days would give me perspective on what’s currently going down in the South China Sea.
Here’s how it unfolded:
It took me the good part of an hour to reach the shore, then a little longer to find the ferry. I was hell bent on making do without the mobile data and GPS combo, going for the folded hotel map and pen one instead. I boarded a mostly empty Star Ferry and took a seat at the bow, by the front window.
As the ferry set out across the sea-lane, I thought of the tale of Hong Kong: how a small fishing village in a rocky island changed the course of history (it includes a whole lot of pirates, the Crown of England, the Qing Dynasty, a narco-war, and a British company that yields enormous power to this date).
It was indeed fitting (if not a little poetic) that I was to arrive at my first destination by sea: the Hong Kong Maritime Museum at Central Pier 8.
I paid the attendant and walked straight to the C Deck. Two hours later, I had reviewed two of the museums’ collections (China Trade & Sea Bandits), and had the beginnings of a story:
The Britain/China narco-war in 5 steps
1. The Western appetite for Asian goods goes back to the 16th century; traders would sail East with silver and return to Europe with tea, spices, silk, and porcelain.
2. This constant outflow of silver was a burden to the European nations. They manufactured no products that the East wanted and were bleeding bullion.
3. And so, in the 18th century, the British came up with a plan to reverse this trade imbalance (and bring their Indian colony to profitability as a bonus); they became drug traffickers — opium smugglers. The Americans joined the party soon after.
4. The Chinese were not happy. The opium trade reversed the flow of silver and brought welfare problems to China. In 1839, they seized and destroyed over 20,000 chests of opium at Humen.
5. A British expeditionary force was sent to wreck havoc along the Chinese coast. China yielded, the Treaty of Nanking was signed, and Hong Kong went from a small Chinese fishing village to a Crown’s colony.
The British empire was built on cups of tea and pipes of opium.
The coolest asset of the entire Hong Kong Maritime Museum collection is an 18 metre long scroll that is almost 200 years old; it was painted by an unknown Qing Dynasty artist and is titled “Pacifying the South China Sea.”
Pirates: vapours dispersed by the wind
Cheung Po is a key character — and an interesting one at that. The pirate was said to have over 50,000 followers and 600 ships at the height of his power. He must have been the master of the key passages of the South China Sea.
And yet, the man worried about the might of a unified China:
“We…are like vapours dispersed by the wind; we are like the waves of the sea, roused by a whirlwind; like broken bamboo sticks on the sea, we are floating and sinking alternately, without enjoying any rest. Our success in this fierce battle will, after a short while, bring the united strength of government on our neck.”
And so, instead of cannon, Cheung Po used strategy; he kowtowed to the Qing Dynasty, became a legendary officer for the Imperial Navy, and a folk hero for the Chinese people.
These two tales overlap in time.
In one there’s a great victory for China, in the other a great defeat. The story gets deeper, but it was nearing midday and I had planned to have lunch with a view.
I walked out of the sweet conditioned air of the museum and back into the muggy Hong Kong summer. A cigarette and a short walk took me to a taxi rank. A taxi, to the Peak tram lower terminus.
Hordes of tourists.
Like a snail, I inched for one half of one hour until it was my turn at the counter. I bought a one way ticket to the upper levels of Hong Kong Island.
I travelled at 6 metres per second, and before the 4.9 minutes of the ride were through, I felt the cooling change in climate.
The difference was as clear as a day with two suns.
It’s no surprise that the Peak’s temperate climate (as opposed to the sub-tropical of the rest of Hong Kong) attracted the local European elite. The pleasant environment is matched by panoramic views of the South China Sea and of mainland China, across Victoria Harbour. Together, these qualities make up for a good place of residence — not an inexpensive one.
I walked past a Sunglass Hut, an Adidas shop, and a Hard Rock Cafe on my way out of the tram station. I dodged western and eastern families alike and made my way through the plaza to Peak Road.
Soon after, I had serenity.
I took an outside table at the edge of a weathered wooden deck. I was sitting by what looked like an old English country cottage… except for the asian tiles.
It was quiet.
It was also cool. This was not only due to the onshore breeze that flowed freely atop the Peak, but also of the luscious green shade that protected me from the Hong Kong sun.
One hundred and twenty one Peak Road has seen many uses since it was first built. It once was a resting place for engineers, then a pit stop for coollies; briefly, it was a Japanese police station, later a cafe. Today, the place is a restaurant, so I ordered Prosecco and a club sandwich.
I drank and I ate and I thought of not one but two long dead Scotsmen. The first was a chap called Adam Smith, the father of modern economics. The second was William Jardine, one of two founders of Jardine Matheson & Co, the very next piece of our puzzle.
If Adam Smith wrote the gospel of free trade, William Jardine was the missionary that took it to Asia.
It took me the rest of the afternoon, pen, paper, and Wikipedia by my fingertips to get to the story of William Jardine. (This, along with gin sours, olives, and Marlboro Golds.) It’s almost a knight’s tale… but not quite:
The Princely Hong
Once upon a time, there lived a young man who lacked no wit nor courage. He came from no prominent family, and had but one precious thing to his name: a diploma from the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. At 18, this young man whose name was William Jardine entered his majesty’s service, aboard the Brunswick, an East Indiaman headed… East.
As an officer, it was William’s privilege to have two chests from which to conduct his own trade and affairs. The medical doctor dealt in medicine — his preference, opium.
Years later, William felt the winds of free trade that swept England. He was a man of the sea living in the land of typhoons, he took heed and brought all hands to canvas.
Like a heron, he was patient.
He knew it was only a matter of time until the monopoly of the British East India Company was no more. He waited and readied. When it was done, he came up on top. As James Clavell would later write, William Jardine became the Tai Pan of the Noble House, the most powerful private person in Asia.
And no. This was not enough for young William.
He wanted a legacy. He wanted his family name written in the books of history and a fortune to last forever. He committed; he peddled his influence, he spent his wealth, he shook hands, he bowed, and then, finally… he was at the table.
When William Jardine faced the Qing Dynasty, he did so with the blessing of the British Crown. His proposal was simple: to use private fleets to flood China with cheap Indian Opium and reap profits along the way. He was there to cut the Chinese in.
The Chinese Viceroy, however, was a man of higher morals and could not be bought so cheaply. The opium trade was exhausting his nation’s silver and bringing an evil into Chinese homes — and this barbarian wanted more! No, he would not have it!
The Chinese blockaded the foreigners in Canton, holding them hostage. All Europeans saw this as a great defeat; one that for all intents and purposes had ended William’s ambition — it became public knowledge that he was to retire.
A legendary farewell party was thrown in his honour, no expense was spared. Notable among the attendees were the Forbes brothers and a grandfather of US President Franklin D Roosevelt. Days later, William departed for England.
“The Iron-headed Old Rat, the sly and cunning ring-leader of the opium smugglers has left for The Land of Mist, of fear from the Middle Kingdom’s wrath.”
Chinese Viceroy Lin Zexu
While the Chinese burned opium in Humen, William followed through with his feint and played statesman in London. He crafted the fabled Jardine Papers:
“My advice is to send a naval force to blockade the coast of China from the Tartar wall to Tienpack or from 40 to 20 degrees north; the force to consist of two ships of the line, two frigates and two flat-bottomed steamers for river service, with a sufficient number of transports to carry…six or seven thousand men. The force to proceed to the vicinity of Pekin, and apply directly to the Emperor for an apology for the insult…payment for the opium given up, an equitable commercial treaty, and liberty to trade with northern ports…say, Amoy, Foochow, Ningpo, Shanghai and also Kiaochow, if we can get it.”
The advice was followed with precision, and the once young surgeon that started with nothing but a diploma, caused for a war to be fought and won.
The Scotsman with three hearts returned to Hong Kong.
William Jardine took his seat as the Tai Pan of the noblest house of the rocky island; he was the sly old rat of the Princely Hong of Hong Kong.
His legacy lives to this date — Jardine Matheson Holdings (JARD.SI), trading on the Singapore Exchange, incorporated in the Bermudas, still controlled by the family.
With most of the history out of the way, I settled my bill and descended from the Peak. I had specific instructions: 6:30 meet at the Sheung Wan MTR exit A2 on Wing Lok Street.
I arrived early.
I had met Will over a decade ago at Eynesbury College, in Adelaide — he was a good mate. Like his namesake, William, he had moved East straight from University with nothing but a degree to his name. He had worked for a manufacturing agency, learned the language, and launched a tech hardware venture from the Middle Kingdom.
Until recently, he lived in Huizhou; he was new to Hong Kong, and I was interested on his first impressions. We had a banquet and a fair session in the Mid Levels, mostly in the SoHo bars.
I told him how convinced I was, that the search for what the VCs call an unicorn, is a distraction to the current generation of entrepreneurs.
The global marketplace is not the only marketplace. We must not try and compete with the whole of the world, all of the time — he replied.
Hyper-locality?
Something like that. But a lot more real.
The night went on and, by the time I left, I had new names and addresses in my notebook — someone in fintech, someone in media, the guys at the local coworking spaces. I would hit them up tomorrow.
I jumped into the MTR and, after a short while, exited in Kowloon. My mind raced like a hare about to get fucked by a lurcher (a dog, before you ask).
I walked the Hong Kong night.
I slept then I woke up.
Little did I know what lurched behind the door.
It was about 9am. I had left the blinds up and could see the sun, already relentless. I opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle of cold cha I had bought the night before. It was gone too quickly.
I had a shower, packed my bag, and got ready to walk out. I had a lot of places to see and was hungry for dim sums and barbecue pork buns — breakfast of champions. I opened the door:
Devaluation sparks fear of currency war.
I read the headline again. Then again. Then again for good measure.
I picked up the copy of the South China Morning Post, dropped my bag, shut the door, and turned the kettle on.
This is where it gets tricky.
The board
There’s a game, as old as empire — open ended, mostly bound by the laws of physics… though there are other rules that players may or may not observe (such as the Geneva conventions).
The objective is threefold:
1. to win the hearts and minds of the people,
2. to control the resources that allow them to thrive,
3. to control the land (for the people or the resources).
It takes a deep breath to see it for what it is.
China has been busy on the land front:
“Like in a game of go, China slowly but surely put pieces in key positions on the board. Over several decades, China has invested heavily in modernizing its navy and developing a formidable flotilla of maritime enforcement vessels, big fishing fleets, and mobile drilling platforms to assert administrative control. Beijing has also built artificial islands and set up airfields, logistic facilities, and surveillance centers in the Paracels and the Spratly areas, which enable it to extend its reach and project power.” — Do Thanh Hai (Centre for Strategic and International Studies)
By devaluing the Yuan, China was yet again on the offensive.
China played for position on the second front —resources. They chased their Mao given right of global economic leadership. This was a clear message to an all powerful organisation, one that had been born in the twilight of the Second World War, at Bretton Woods; the International Monetary Fund was on notice.
I emptied the remaining quarter of my cup and considered where it all stood; I was at a crossroads of sorts, and not yet ready to choose which path to take.
I folded the broadsheet into my bag and, for the second time in two days, set out on foot through the streets of Kowloon, bearing south.
As I walked to the MTR station, I thought of Buenos Aires in January 2002.
Two months shy of my seventeenth birthday, I travelled with no parents for the first time. I was with Martin, an old friend from BC who would later become famous for a well publicised affair he had with Sharon Stone — true story.
We were packing enough US dollars for a comfortable week in Argentina. But shortly after we arrived, the Peso was floated.
And we… well… we ended up with enough US dollars for four comfortable weeks and only one week to spend it.
The Argentinian crisis had little to do with what was going down in China. I just felt a little spooky that for the second time in my short life, I had been a witness to foreign monetary history in the making.
The board changed before my eyes.
The crossroads remained. One road led to the startup scene: to the local founders and hustlers. I had names and addresses penned in my notebook, spots marked down on the hotel map — this was the original plan.
The other road was a gambit.
It was a fair Hong Kong morning, so I took my time en route to Tsim Sha Tsui Station. I banked right from Nathan Road, then left into a backstreet, still heading South.
I took step after step after step and for each new face that crossed my path, I imagined a new story. What would it be like to live in Kowloon and own a food stall in a busy street, cooking and peddling, day after day? What tales hid behind their callused hands and their wrinkled faces? What would it be like to have been born under British rule, and to now live under the red flag? Did it matter? What did they want? Did they think of the board? Did they look at my face and imagine my life, like I did to them? Did they ponder what my heart’s secret might be?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
I reached the northern boundary of Kowloon Park and walked through its gardens. I got to the park’s southeast corner, and walked by the mosque back to Nathan Road. I was close to the station now; it was time to commit.
I took a train to Admiralty, then another to the westernmost MTR station in Hong Kong Island, Kennedy Town. I would be a gambler; I just needed a little more time to get ready.
By the station’s exit there was a bakery. It was way past eleven, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, so I ordered an ice cold matcha latte. I sat, I sipped, and I thought.
Yesterday was a distant memory. Today would make a man out of me.
It was simple; I would walk to a members-only club and try to talk my way in.
As far as I knew, the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, Hong Kong, was a haven for the media and diplomatic communities. It certainly is one of the most famous press clubs in the world. If a deeper truth hovered somewhere under the surface, there would be no better place to cast a net. I just needed to get in.
How hard could it be?
I sat by the bakery a little longer.
I brought my breath under control, reducing my heart beat, slowly. I don’t know if I could actually hear my wristwatch or if I imagined the sound, but with each click of a second, I felt more tension escape my body. I was perfectly still, my gaze fixed at a nondescript stretch of a Hong Kong street; I saw cars and trucks go by; people walking, loitering, talking. I felt the air go in and out of my nostrils, expanding and collapsing my lungs, a familiar cycle. I fought the natural inclination of my mind to manipulate the data it acquires into its own model of the world — I wanted to see things for what they were: reality, if there is such a thing.
I emptied my mind and the Hong Kong sun was fine.
As my watch struck midday, I got up and left. I took the double decker tram to Central, glided along 800 metres of escalators to the Mid Levels, walked the botanic gardens, and had a long lunch at 32 Wyndham Street. Three hours later, I arrived at the club.
During the journey, my mind drifted. I thought of young William and how his story went down in the books of history. I must have been a little bored of reality, for I wandered through an alternate history line — one in which Colombia had a mighty military:
The Princely Hong of Medellin
There once came a man to Washington. His name was Carlos Lehder and his proposal was simple: to use private fleets to flood the US with cheap Colombian cocaine and reap profits along the way. He was there to cut the federal government in.
But the DEA could not be bought so cheaply. They sent Carlitos to a supermax and confiscated the Cartel’s forward operation base, a private island in the Bahamas called Norman’s Cay.
While the DEA destroyed metric tons of white powder, Carlos’ associate, Pablo, played the statesman in Bogota; he crafted the fabled Escobar papers.
A war was fought and won, and the US submitted to Colombia.
Pablito took his seat as El Patron of the noblest cartel of the Andes and Amazon.
His legacy lives to this date: Escobar, Lehder, Ochoa & Partners, trading in the Panama Exchange, incorporated in the Bermudas.
It would have been not so different after all.
Admittance to the club was like a Hattori Hanzo’s blade through a baseball — just a matter of having the right vector.
As it turned out, there was an exhibition open to the public: Lee Fook Chee’s Hong Kong photographs from the 1950s. I registered and got the visitor’s sticker, then took it straight off as I walked in.
Paradise Lost
At first I stuck to the outer edges, along the walls, following Lee Fook Chee’s black and white photographs. I did a slow circuit around the imposing central bar, surveyed the room, moved inwards, and took stock of the people present. There was a man on Facebook, a woman reading a novel, two men talking a property deal, and two others sitting by the bar with blank expressions over brown liquor. The servants stood at attention.
I lingered and I listened and I found nothing.
Maybe I was impatient — not there for long enough. Maybe the Main Bar wasn’t the right place; maybe I only had to venture a little deeper into the club and talk to the right people.
Maybe I had been too late for the party. Maybe, in this age of Buzzfeed, thinly veiled advertorials, declining publishers’ profits, and shorter attention spans, a press club was no more than a dated concept.
But no, that wasn’t it. The truth, I felt, was a much simpler thing.
Once again, I had been tricked by my imagination.
The club was no setting for a John le Carré novel; there were no secrets whispered, no files exchanged. This was no more than a real bar, filled with real people doing boring things.
Yes. I was the fool.
I left the club and walked downhill, lost in thought.
There is little I remember of my walk to the tram, and I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for writing notes. I did, however, think of the two days in this rocky island and tried to give them meaning. Hong Kong was only a stopover en route to a long waited two weeks in Japan. What had just happened? Nothing. That was the reality of it.
I felt alone… lost in the woods.
I thought of a nameless tourist, and imagined his return home. He would work for a salary, day after day, only concerning himself with what was put in front of him. He would marry a girl he half liked and have a baby girl he loved. He would struggle to make his mortgage payments and give his family the life he thought they deserved. He would cheer his team through the seasons, year after year; he would play a game of poker with his buddies every Sunday, and drink cheap bourbon (but not too much because there was work in the morning). He would binge on Netflix, as often as he could, and patiently wait for each new season of Game of Thrones to come out. He would wait for his next promotion, wait to buy a bigger house, wait to get a new car, wait to take his next holiday, and, finally, wait for his retirement.
He would grow old and die a nameless man. But maybe a happy one.
Was there any more to it?
Eventually, I was aboard a tram. Later, I arrived at the Percival Street Station in Causeway Bay. I rushed to make my 6:30pm rendez-vous, at Jardine’s Crescent.
I had one more person to meet in Hong Kong.
The descent from the club was still raw in my heart, but in my mind it was already locked away — something to be dealt with later. I found the spot and waited.
Terence saw me before I saw him. It had been twelve years since we had first met in Australia; we had been two international students fresh off the boat.
Hot pot? — he asked.
Lead the way, buddy.
Unlike me, Terence had eventually found his way back home, to the rocky island of Hong Kong. He was still in finance, in funds management — the guy that designs the securities and sets up the investment vehicles.
The metal pot simmered; we filled it up and we emptied it out.
We recounted the old Eynesbury tales and shared news from the UAE, Japan, China, Korea, Indonesia, Turkey, Singapore, The Saudi Kingdom, Brazil, Peru, Timor Leste— the homes of our old classmates. Two thousand and three had been an interesting year; we had all been in the cusp of adulthood, alone in a new country, struggling with the English language, searching for our place under the sun.
By the time we had dessert, the conversation had finally turned to the Yuan, economics, and politics. It didn’t last long though; it was too boring, too meaningless when compared to all else that had been said between us, during that warm Hong Kong night.
We said our goodbyes, not knowing when we would meet next.
I took the MTR across the harbour and left Hong Kong Island; I did not know when I would be back.
I walked the Kowloon streets one last time, bearing north. I thought of the day I just had, then of the preceding one, then of all of the ones that came before that.
Then, I thought of the days that were still to come.
I thought of Cheung Po leading his band of pirates on a raid, of Pablo Escobar striking deals with the Sandinistas from Nicaragua, of William Jardine studying for his medical exams, of Chinese Viceroy Lin Zexu in exile after the Opium War. I thought of the Kowloon food stall owners, of the nameless tourist returning home, and of my friends in this rocky island — Will and Terence.
I did gain perspective. This was not nothing.
And that was the reality of it.
Epilogue
I am in bed — luggage ready, alarm set. The light is off but there is incandescence in the air; a neon sign glows outside my window, not quite muted by the blinds.
My eyes are heavy but I keep them open. They fix on the expanse of the white ceiling and witness a battle; shadow and light and the passage of time.
There’s the Chinese princelings, the ones descendent from the powerful eight men that came with Mao. There was the House of Bo, with the Chongqing model and its push for red culture, but a battle was lost and a prince was exiled. There’s the two Koreas — where are their submarine fleets? There is the island formerly known as Formosa, which China calls the illegitimate government of Taiwan, and which is in turn supported by the US. Ah — there’s the US, the British, the EU, Australia — the West, and the band of private and public interest cadres that calls the shots; there are also the media Czars that help them. There’s Japan, terrorised by two A-bombs barely a lifetime ago, now allied to the guys that dropped them. There’s the old KGB spy — old mate Putin — who once, as the Deputy Mayor of St Petersburg, may or may not have had a connection with the Cali Cartel. There’s the Saudi royals, the Caliph of the Islamic State, the Emirati sheiks, and many many more…
There are currencies and commodities, oil fields and satellites, agreements and alliances. There are books and films and music, and the whole of the world wide web.
There’s a board, no doubt.
My eyes are heavy now. I dream of the land of the rising sun — where I will be tomorrow.
Hong Kong will be a distant memory.
