Hong Kong

We continue with the second part of our Lantau Island experience. You can find Part 1 here.

I find the work convincing M. Cardwell to take a taxi to our next stop surprisingly easy; we would have to wait almost an hour for the bus and the cost of the taxi turns out to be not actually that expensive. The ride from Ngnog Ping is thoroughly enjoyable. We zip around corners and down slopes, windows open with the cool humid air rushing past and around us. The cab is aging but capable, and we reach our destination—the village of Tai O—in about 15 minutes.

Tai O is small and remote, located on the Western edge of Lantau Island. It is a fishing village, though fewer and fewer residents make any serious kind of living by way of that industry. Technically, one must cross a pedestrian bridge to enter Tai O, but plenty of small structures have sprung up between the parking lot for visitors and the bridge, and this is considered part of the village, too. The majority of the structures of are suspended above the water of a small river that leads away towards the mountains. It is a little messy, sleepy and quiet—the tourist trade isn’t very strong at this point of the year, and the whole place feels ever so slightly melancholic.

As we step off the bus, a faded looking woman flags us down, and before we can say no and push past, she is selling us a dolphin cruise. The sun is out here, and we decide the breeze off the water might be nice. We agree and are waved towards a few old men who are almost indistinguishable behind long-worn sunglasses who are talking loudly amongst themselves. There is an umbrella to shade the queuing passengers, but the men fill the space, so we line up under the small overhang of a nearby building, and wait.

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The dolphins are elusive. The boat we take is small—only one seat on each side of a center aisle—and as we cut across the natural crests and troughs of the sea, there are moments panic balloons inside my chest. The captain is unconcerned; carting tourists out onto the water to try to catch a glimpse of the famous ‘pink’ dolphins is what he does every day, when there are tourists visiting the village of Tai O. Today there are not many of us, and his boredom is clear.

The water is beautiful beneath and around us, and the wind is indeed pleasant. There are fishing boats not far from where we begin to slow; big, serious fishing vessels, not the little two or three person dinghies we’ve seen so many of. They work loudly and without self consciousness; we are invisible to them; we are not in their way, and thus of no concern. The guide points out towards a certain area of the water, and we all dutifully turn our attentions to the spot indicated. The boat rides the waves as we continue watching. We see nothing. After a few minutes, we grow restless, and the captain starts up the engine. I wonder how they can sell a dolphin cruise if we don’t see any dolphins, but instead of heading back towards the coast, we head another twenty yards out to sea.

We settle again into the rhythm of the water, and look around the boat. In the distance, the giant construction of a roadway is in progress. I focus towards the area our captain originally indicated, and we sit, rocking and watching. It is quite nice, and I wish we could stay out on the boat for longer. Suddenly, someone gasps and everyone looks to where the gasper is pointing. There, fifteen yards away, is a small arc along the top of the water line of wet pink flesh. All eyes scan the water where the dolphin appeared; will there be more? Will they come close enough for us to touch, or snap a picture of? We wait, but there is nothing. We linger for a few more seconds until the sputter of the motor forces announces we’re heading back. The dolphins were spotted; the captain has fulfilled the promise of the tour, and now it’s time to head back.

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The trip back into Tai O is sublime. The spray is clean and gets in our faces but doesn’t soak us, and the breeze is unbeatable. Too soon we are closing in on the village. The captain takes us a little bit up the river to see the houses from the water. There is much poverty here, we see, as the houses give way to shacks and less. The beams that support the structures are covered in unorganized mosaics of shells and bits of debris. As we pull back into the dock and step off the vessel, I think about suggesting we take the tour again, but I do not, and we embark down the alleyway towards the footbridge.

The village is mostly still. We walk to where the market is held; in busier times, this must be a bustling place. Today, it is empty. Heading down the main pathway, we pass many open doors; many doors that open into the darkness of private houses, a few through which we can see the light of a patio. I catch the attention of a young woman towards the back of one such establishment, and she motions us in.

It is a lovely thing, to sit on a patio overlooking water with a beer. We talk about the boat trip, and Tian Tan, and the economy of this village. There is a little plastic sign that proudly proclaims “We don’t have wifi!” and in smaller print underneath “enjoy our patio.” I like this place, and its defiance of the pressure of technology. We finish our beers and head back out into the alley, where we then decide to duck into the establishment next door to check out the difference. This patio is nicer, and we decide on another beer. Drinks here are more expensive; apparently, though remote, the people of Tai O are not unaware of the invisible hand of the market.

I know the bus ride back to the Tung Chung station will be an experience (and in fact, I am unprepared for just how white-knuckle-thrilling the hills of the island will be as the bus we will ride takes serious grades at serious speeds), and that Hong Kong awaits our return, ready to overwhelm. I think about how far we have travelled from home, and about the people of this village, and the history of this place. The tranquility of the afternoon is only temporary, and yet as we drink our beers and watch the boats come in and out of the little village, it is enough, and we savor it.

It must be lovely to ride the gondolas out to the village of Ngong Ping, to visit the Po Lin monastery and the Tian Tan Buddha. In March, the foliage of the island is lush and full, and gliding above it must offer spectacular vantages of the dramatic landscapes that comprise the largest island of Hong Kong. The 25 minute trip takes riders directly from the terminus of the Tung Chung line directly to the entrance of the monastery. It must be nice.

Alas, as we make our way to the gondola docking station, we are informed that the gondola ride is closed. Maintenance or some such thing; regardless, no one is having a lovely gondola trip today. Three options now face us: turn around and find something else to do (unlikely, as M. Cardwell has made it explicit this is high on his list of interests); pay—and arrange—for some sort of private transportation (also unlikely, given the cost); or take the bus. We decide on the bus.

As we climb the 268 steps to the gigantic statue of the Tian Tan Buddha, it is hot. The air is lazy, unmoving as we climb. I do not understand why I thought it a good idea to wear jeans. I focus on the bronze statue in front of me. It is enormous, with the Buddha sitting serenely, gazing unblinkingly down at those who make the trek towards him. As we move closer, I realize it is best viewed from one of the two or three small landings that break the steps into (almost) manageable sections. I halt at the next landing, catching my breath and looking around.

The Grand Hall of Ten Thousand Buddhas is majestic and, in truth, slightly intimidating. The air is hushed in reverence, and in multiple places, there are signs prominently placed admonishing “No Visitors.” As non-Buddhists, I am keenly aware  our “Visitor” appearance and M. Cardwell leads me hesitatingly up steps as I crane my neck in search of signs forbidding us to come this way. I find none, but still feel that I am somehow trespassing.

 At the top of the steps, I am relieved to see other visitors and the familiar signs letting us know where we should not be; where we are, then, is acceptable. The building is massive and looks impenetrable, but then a group of monks and some people who very clearly are not Visitors emerge from a door I couldn’t see. I wonder how many people are inside; how many people I cannot see, and what they are doing. They round the building and we follow, as there are no signs shouting us away. They enter a room and as it comes into view, we stop.

Everything is glossy gold, including the floor and ceiling. There are five golden Buddhas seated before us. I cannot tell where the lighting is coming from, as the illumination in the room seems to be self perpetuating, the sheer volume of golden surfaces forever reflecting the existing light back and forth, forever. Some women who were on the bus with us, apparently believers, walk up to the railing before the statues and kneel and bend over, and then repeat the movement a handful of times. The signs were unnecessary; we know not to go further into the room. We are not Buddhists, but we can tell this is a special place, and the privilege of viewing it is more than enough. My vision begins to swim with the richness of the place, and I turn away. M. Cardwell is right behind me, and together we descend the steps.

To be continued…