by Oliver Clasper 

Kennedy Town, 8am. Only the rustle of light rain disturbs the fog outside my window. Last week’s weather was seasonally in form and out of sorts; frigidly on schedule some might say. How strange that only a few days ago I was sitting in the park opposite the apartment, stripped to the waist. The thermometer bellowed twenty-five and this fair-skinned man of Celtic origin burnt his neck even under the cool of a reclaimed palm tree. Typical. It may be winter here, but that doesn't stop the sun and humidity making a sudden appearance without having the courtesy to callahead first. Heard the dial tone and thought twice, I suspect. Northern Europe miserable it certainly is not,but the cold here still grates my achingly young bones, and seeps under my skin and into my very existence.

Hoping to find some semblance of sunshine on the outer islands, and wanting to wave away the pervading gloom and gust, I ventured out to Lamma for lunch. A short ferry journey later and I had landed ashore, with the sounds of Amos Milburn still jiving through my ears. I jumped onto the pier, and was immediately picked up in the stampede of feet that had shuffled off the ferry for the day. I was swept down the winding harbour-side high street, past over-priced seafood joints and quaint organic cafes(selling, I must admit, delicious homemade cheesecake). I took it all in sight-by-sight, sound-by-sound, and smell-by-smell. But what stood out, amongst the movement and din of the market traders, was a small bookstall with just twenty tatty titles from airport favourite Karin Slaughter to colonialists’ darling Rudyard Kipling. The books were stacked in no particular order,and were adorned above by a disused polystyrene cup and a faded map of Mandalay.

The proprietor, the Bookman, was sitting to one side with head slumped forward, either half asleep or entranced by the pattern his shoelaces made on the concrete. One book in particular caught my eye: a collection of short stories by the late American writer Saul Bellow. Wiping the dust off the jacket and inspecting the insides for any nefarious photos or cryptic messages, I turned round to see the Bookman had vanished. Just like that. I thought better than to be caught red-handed pilfering from this humble collection, especially as I am in a slightly precarious visa-less state and had noticed an immigration gun-ship moored ominously in the harbour. Scanning the street for any sign of him came to no avail, so I popped my head into the adjacent shop. I presumed he worked out of the place or failing that, they knew of him. Finally noticing a short middle-aged woman at the back by the till I held the book up high, and inquired graciously whether I could purchase it. The stranger, not wanting to be disturbed from daydreaming told me ‘the young man’ had gone for a walk.

With that uncanny conclusion I put the book back in its place below the map, and decided that my efforts were bearing no fruit. Within a minute I had lost interest as I had more than enough books at home with which to pass a rainy day. But before I knew it I spotted the Bookman some twenty metres away, bumbling along in somewhat of a daze with a blue plastic bag in his hand that contained what looked like to be two carrots, a bag of ice and a carton of milk. After mumbled pleasantries and introductions I ushered him back to the stall. We duly arrived and he slumped back into his favourite plastic chair and exhaled what sounded like his last breath. Fortunately, it was not.

The Bookman was, it turned out, a likeably grizzlyman in his early 70s. All dirty fingernails and lanky, matted hair and a beard like a Manson Family reject who was just too darn nice for any of that murderin’ back in ‘69. Although his eyes darted to and fro he appeared of sound mind and genial spirits. Some money and the book changed hands, and all was well with the world.

A little while later and my need to consume short stories about a inquisitive Jew growing in postwar America was superseded by a ravenous hunger and desire to try the fresh seafood – of which I had heard only glowing reports. I was to be duly disappointed, and shall spend little time describing my culinary experience. Needless to say, the somewhat slimy prawns, tasteless vegetables and near emptying of the wallet put me in a less than agreeable mood. I decided to wash it down with a cigarette (one of life's dying pleasures) before I strolled back up through the town to gain a better understanding of what it must be like to live here (or at least muster a first impression). Past the hubbub of Main, round a corner and up a steep incline three-storey faded white houses came into view. With un-ironed clothes hanging on racks to dry, crooked television aerials poking this way and that, and a smell of raw sewage trickling by, it didn’t seem all that different to the centre of a major city – with its rundown and dilapidated tenement blocks and eerie non-action. Only here there was more tired shrubbery and slightly less people. In truth, it seemed to me like a very odd place to reside.

The people I had spoken to, friends who claim to love it here, say it’s nice to get away from the city and live amongst nature. But unless you live in the interior say, well away from anyone else, then it’s not a whole lot different to being in the urban centre of the major metropolis. The main thoroughfare here is packed with people; the same shops and restaurants selling the same fare exist, the same pushers and peddlers and grafters and charmers. A constructed community has emerged, with places of worship, sports fields, a police station and a post office. A huge power station looms ugly over the fanfare-filled central beach, a beach that has certainly seen better days. There’s graffiti on the walls of the main harbour(albeit positive counter-culture messages of ‘One Love’ and ‘Peace’ scrawled in garish multi-colour) and a lot of grey. I just didn’t see the attraction. Rent is undeniably cheaper, and the crime may be lower (but than again, petty crime on Hong Kong island itself is remarkably low as it is), but that’s pure numbers. I see the sense of being so near and yet so far from the hustle and bustle of the city, but it’s not quite the Eden people have made out.

Perhaps I saw it on a bad day with the dark skies, the biting wind, the ash-coloured sand and the shabby looking houses in some sort of faded glory. Or perhaps I’m just a die-hard cynic on a mission to deconstruct. But in truth I’m not, because I also love the city and I love what it stands for. I love the buzz and the atmosphere and the creative madness and the countless opportunity. It’s vibrant and energetic and happening - right under you feet, around and above your head. Unless I moved to the deep countryside, to a farm with no other dwelling in sight, with the rolling hills stretching as far as the eye can see and surrounded by a stillness and pure tranquility, then I wouldn’t leave the city. And so I thought this: Lamma’s Main Street is pretty much like any other city – just on a smaller scale. So fuck it, I’m staying in the city, and I’ll see you on Lamma on the weekends for a hike and a slice of that cheesecake before getting back on the boat to sail home.