âHere's your stuff,' my father said, producing a wash bag from the knapsack. He rummaged further. âI can find your towel â¦' he said at length, handing it to me â ⦠but I'm damned if I can find your pyjamas. Your mother seems to have forgotten them.'
A sonorous bell, almost as deep as a bass drum, boomed in a nearby building. I went outside to discover Mr Borrie standing by the moon gate.
âExcuse me, sir,' I asked, breaking into his thoughts, âbut why are we allowed to stay here when we aren't monks?'
âGood question, young Booth,' he replied. âBuddhist monks
take a vow of hospitality. That means, they are obliged to give succour â food and shelter â for free, to anyone who demands it. But when people like us come to stay here we make an offering to the monastery and pay the cost of our food and lodging.'
âWhy?'
âBecause we are rich
gweilos
and they are poor Chinese monks,' Mr Borrie replied. âA dollar to us is a pack of cigarettes, but to them â¦' He paused then went on, âTonight, you'll live like a Buddhist monk, just as they have for a thousand years.'
âI've not got any pyjamas,' I admitted. My mother's omission was worrying me.
âDon't fret,' Mr Borrie reassured me. âNeither have any of us. Except perhaps your father.' He winked at me and went on, âWe'll be having supper soon. Don't be late.'
I left him and went into the temple. It was like all the other temples I had visited, with an ornate altar, smouldering incense, embroidered tapestries, offerings, lanterns and censers. The one difference was the statue of Buddha. In the curio shops and gold dealers of Hong Kong, Buddha was represented by a fat, grinning man with a paunch of obese proportions. This Buddha, by contrast, was a benign seated figure with a peaceful expression, its right hand raised in blessing. There were no demon warriors or guardians of heaven. I lit a joss-stick, genuflected â after checking my father was not about to enter â and placed it in the sand-filled urn. Had my father, who professed Christianity but never went to church, caught me worshipping false gods and idols, I dared not think of the consequences. He would probably have personally condemned me to eternal damnation.
Returning through the moon gate, I followed the sound of the bell and came upon a hall in which lines of monks sat at a square of low tables finishing a meal. At one end of the room, a monk stood at a simple lectern reading a collect as his brothers ate. The
only sounds were his chant-like reading and the tolling of a bronze bell which was shaped like an inverted tulip. It was rung by a log of wood suspended horizontally by two ropes from a ceiling beam.
I lingered in the doorway. The monks paid me not the slightest attention and, after a few moments, I slipped away.
âYou forgot my pyjamas,' I said to my mother as I came upon her by a small pond in which a number of red-eared terrapins floated in the water or lay on a rock in the centre.
âDo you know why they keep terrapins?' she rejoined.
âTo eat?' I ventured.
âNo,' she replied. âIt's because terrapins and turtles â especially marine turtles â are considered very lucky and stand for longevity. That means long life. The turtle supports the elephant upon whose back rests the world. A long time ago, the Chinese believed the world was a giant turtle's shell. Besides,' she finished, âwhat do you want pyjamas for? It's going to be far too cold for py-jams. When you go to bed, just take your shoes off, keep all your clothes on and wrap yourself up in the quilt.'
âBut Daddy's got his,' I argued, ignoring the homily on the universal and divine turtle which I already knew from my visits to numerous back-street temples.
âWell, he would, wouldn't he?' was my mother's response. We ate by lamplight in a large room at the other end of the monastery from the monks' hall. The food was delicious, the flavours subtle and the textures exquisite. Yet, although I was an experienced
dai pai dong
diner, I was unable to recognize many of the dishes and asked my mother what meat was in them.
âNone,' she answered.
With my chopsticks, I picked up a piece of what looked like and tasted like braised duck's breast.
âI know what you're thinking,' my mother said, âbut it's not
duck. It's against the Buddhist religion to take life. All the food is made out of
dofu,
fungi and herbs. The vegetables are grown in the plots we saw as we arrived. The monastery is virtually self-sufficient in everything except paraffin, candles and joss-sticks.'
At nine oâclock, we turned in. There were eight of us in the dormitory. My
kang
was in a cubicle on its own, my father's the far side of the screen separating my space from the others'. I removed my shoes and snuggled under the quilt fully clothed. Outside, a cold wind had sprung up, rattling the shutters of the window by my head. My father came round the end of the screen to say goodnight. He was wearing his dressing gown over the flannel pyjamas. His slippers clicked on the wooden floor.
The boards of the
kang
were hard, as was the pillow block, but I soon fell asleep, a cold draught blowing over my face.
During the night, I was woken by a strange noise. It sounded like castanets being played in slow motion or a convention of geckoes. On consideration, I knew it could not be the latter. One rarely saw geckoes in the winter: it was too cold for them. It then occurred to me that it might be the skeleton of a lonely spirit wandering the earth. If there were spirits anywhere, they would surely be in a monastery high in the mountains.
Then a muted voice said, âFor heaven's sake, Ken, put your clothes back on. Your shivering's keeping us awake.'
Around dawn, I was woken again but this time by muffled chanting. Slipping my shoes on, I tiptoed down the stairs and went outside. The sound was coming from the temple. I went to the main door and stepped inside. The monks were kneeling in front of the altar, chanting prayers. Their shaven heads shone in the lamplight. Buddha seemed to hover in mid-air in the semi-darkness, the lamps glinting off the brass cups. The joss-stick smoke hung marbled in the air, moving only when a finger of breeze blew in. It was an unearthly experience. I felt I was
wrapped in the pure essence of divinity. Somehow, I had transcended the ordinary in my life and was now in what an adult might have termed a state of grace.
By the time the prayer session ended, it was fully daylight. I left the temple to find the men from my dormitory sluicing their faces at a water trough fed by a small stone-lined gully. A few had loosened their shirts and were rubbing their armpits. I followed their example. The water was only a few degrees above freezing and tightened my skin the moment it touched it, stealing my breath. The cold breeze chilled my wet skin until it hurt.
I was pondering on whether or not to fetch my towel when my father appeared, fully dressed but dishevelled, his towel around his neck. Not greeting me, he balanced his wash bag on the edge of the trough and removed from it a razor, shaving brush and a bowl of shaving soap. He wet his face with a flannel, soaped himself without being able to build up much of a lather, and started shaving. Several of the other men gave each other knowing glances.
It must have been hell. Over the sound of the wind, I could hear the blade of his safety razor rasping at his stubble. More than once, he winced but kept his jaw set and his razor hand firm. He had just finished his chin when the towel slipped from his neck, caught his wash bag and the two of them fell into the water. His shaving brush followed, the weight of its ivory handle sinking it to the bottom of the trough. My father had no alternative but to strip to the waist and immerse himself to the shoulder to retrieve it.
An hour later, warmed by a bowl of tea and a serving of
congee
, we bade the guest master farewell by bowing to him and left the monastery. We headed for Mui Wo, otherwise known as Silvermine Bay, seven and a half miles away over the mountains. It was quite heavy going in places but, by mid-morning, the sky was cloudless and blue, the sunlight sharp and warm on the skin.
As on the day before, I forged ahead of the party and thought over my brief stay in the monastery. I could never, I decided, adapt to the life of a monk, yet it certainly held a distinct attraction. The monastery had been so peaceful, my father's chattering teeth apart, and the chanting had somehow lifted my soul. I knew, there and then, that I would return to the monastery one day.
Â
Â
On Hong Kong-side, in addition to rickshaws, taxis and buses, there was a double-decker tram system that ran from Kennedy Town in the west to Shau Kei Wan at the eastern extremity of the city. A branch line veered off to Happy Valley where it went in a circuit round the racecourse and was diverted to the tram depot. The newer trams were made of metal panelling on a steel chassis, the seats were wooden slats and the windows went up and down on a sash. Power was supplied by overhead poles connecting to wires, the trams driven by electric motors. On those that were older, the front and rear upper decks were open whilst one or two very old models had upper decks that were completely open to the sky.
The trams were slow and noisy as they rattled and ground their way along tracks set in the metalled surface of the streets, yet they were also almost romantic, a means of locomotion from another age. Furthermore, they were cheap. The fare was ten cents, no matter how far one travelled. This was ideal for me. I would walk towards Kennedy Town and mount a tram heading east. If I got on near the start of the journey I was assured a top-deck front seat.
The vehicle seemed to clatter and clank its way through a history of urban Hong Kong. From Western District with its
narrow nineteenth-century streets lined with traditional Chinese buildings as old as the colony itself, the tram tracks entered Central District, swaying by the plush prestige stores such as the Dragon Seed Company. Running down the centre of Des Voeux Road, it went along the edge of Statue Square, by the façades of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank and the Bank of China â under the impassive bronze gaze of Stephen and Stitt â before skirting the Hong Kong Cricket Club pitch.
From my vantage point on the top deck I could look down on the pedestrians, coolies and rickshaws, old crones pushing wheeled trolleys piled with bags of laundry, Chinese school children in pristine uniforms, amahs immaculate in black and white, policemen in their khaki uniforms, with their black Sam Browne belts and revolvers in holsters, directing the traffic from their pagoda-like platforms. Conservative-looking British and brash American cars drove by. Cyclists wove in and out of the traffic.
Next, the tram would enter Wanchai, sliding past bars, tea houses, mahjong schools and restaurants. Passengers boarded or alighted at tram stops on small traffic islands, getting on the tram at the front and off at the rear. Onwards then along the edge of the Causeway Bay typhoon shelter, North Point, Quarry Bay and Sai Wan Ho. Eventually, after more than an hour, the tram would reach Shau Kei Wan where, turning in a circle by a junk-building yard, it would set off on the return journey. I would break my journey here, sit on the sea wall over which I knew the invading Japanese Imperial Army had swarmed in 1941, drink a Green Spot and watch the carpenters shaping planks to make a junk before me, the keel laid and the air scented with the perfume of teakwood shavings.
One summer's afternoon, I was sitting on the upper deck of an eastbound tram when an elderly European woman carrying a
silver-topped walking cane and a bunch of yellow roses wrapped in cellophane sat next to me.
âExcuse me, young man,' she said, âbut can you tell me if this tram is for Happy Valley?'
âNo,' I replied, âthis tram goes to North Point.'
âOh, dear!' she exclaimed, suddenly clearly distressed. âI need to get to Happy Valley. It's all most confusing.'
I realized then that she was not a
gweipor
and offered to take her there. She readily accepted and, after changing trams at the Percival Street switch-over, we proceeded around the race course perimeter.
âWhere exactly are you going?' I enquired.
âTo the cemetery,' was her answer.
The Happy Valley cemetery was the second oldest in Hong Kong, the earliest graves dating to the foundation of the colony.
As we approached the tram stop by the cemetery entrance, she asked, âYou wouldn't help me, would you, young man? I'm afraid my legs aren't what they used to be.'
I helped her down the stairs and across the road into the cemetery. The graves were arranged on a series of stepped terraces running up the side of the valley.
âI need to find a grave,' she said as we entered the cemetery.
I looked in dismay at the serried ranks of perhaps a thousand tombstones. Those higher up the cemetery were overgrown with creepers. Ideal snake terrain, I thought. And I was wearing shorts, short socks and sandals.
âCould you help me find it?'
I was beginning to think I had been suckered by this sweet old lady but decided to assist her nevertheless.