As the door of number 31 sluddered to a metallic close, its reverberations would lightly echo in the narrow expanse between the two Hong Kong Spanish villa houses. Once outside, the slippery crazy paving awaits each unguarded footfall with treacherous intent. It can only be imagined that whoever lay its impractical glassy surface thought more of saving precious dollars by using up a few old marble pieces than he did the necks of those foolish enough to live with its daily use. The landlord, a wily chain-smoking owner of a local hardware shop, could not have been more disinterested in replacing the spectacularly ugly and perfidious surface with anything more practical.
A flight of equally smooth ceramic steps descends to the road—sickly peach tiles down which copious summer storm water, and the odd unmindful, hurrying resident, will find a quick exit to the roadway. It can only be guessed how many days sick leave have been successfully administered through their misuse, how many compressed vertebrae have been taken to chiropractors and how many packets of high-dose painkillers bought from chemists: once cast, the seeds of Pandoran chaos have unlimited and very mixed effects.
The slippery surfaces would not, however, deter the diminutive local cows who would occasionally take an interest in the slopes to the rear of the properties. Unfortunately, they would also take an interest in any planted flowers, and would need to be chased away back down those steps. During late springtime, crabs would also find their way up the small estuarine river to appear in the dead of night and, like some enormous spidery beast, slowly make its way across the tiled ground floor. Frogs, large crickets, changeable lizards and vermin caught by cats released inside would also have to be dealt with. In springtime, but also at winter's approach, snakes would find their way under the front door. Usually a juvenile red-necked keelback, and sometimes a fearsome cobra, these snakes would at once be on hostile territory, particularly if the dogs and cats were awake, and would secret themselves beneath bookshelves to wait it out. At this point, the police and Dave 'the Snake' Willott would be called, the first to size up the situation, the second to successfully (and humanely) remove the poor serpent to a safe location, Dave being paid so for the privilege by the police.
Like a thousand others in the New Territories, the semi-detached three-storey village house epitomises Hong Kong’s recent past: worn and cheap. Built in a place and at a time where transience was a virtue, the structure possessed no damp-proof course and a trickle of rain successfully leaked in at every aperture. Its shallow and cracked footing may have buckled, and that lead over time to visible subsidence cracks from roof to ground. It was impossible to find one straight-laid tile amongst the dirty millions that cover its highly imperfect exterior. The brilliant white has a furze of grey patina from pollution-stained rainwater, and a living slime of green grows around each downpipe. It has taken years for the red-tiled villa to look this bad. Spanish? – a title common only in HK parlance because these structures have a ring of useless dusty maroon roof tiles that surround a flat rooftop area. But no, they're not useless because insect-hungry pipistrelles often use the secluded darkness behind them as dry, safe roosts, the concave descending tiles forming for them the most convenient launch tubes for happy hunting each evening.
These newer houses are almost all occupied by westerners who daily commute over the mountain road to jobs in the city. The village can, therefore, take on the feel of a dormitory. At weekends and holidays, however, and particularly if children are amongst the residents, then a party atmosphere can sometimes develop. Karaoke, outdoor cinema, barbecue and drinks, even maypole dancing sporadically generated into village-wide events that linger long in the memory.
The lower village that shares the Ko Tong name is set in its own valley that descends with the river to the nearby sea. The older, traditional Hakka settlement—12 little white stone-built houses in a long row that faces open fields– has at its back a protective wooded hillside. Immediately before their doors lies the low-walled outdoor work area, now used more for barbecues than the drying of rice or fish. Each diminutive house has, or rather had, a red wooden double door, some still have two small windows on either side, perhaps small enough for a child to crawl through, and maybe two more even smaller ones for the upstairs area. A continuous roof of thousands of old ceramic tiles covers the entire row’s roof trusses, themselves made from sturdy timber taken upon the building’s construction from the ever-providing vicinity. Each imperfect hand-made roof tile is laid upon the other in a heavy cascade; heavy enough to keep the roof intact during all but the most severe of typhoons. Beside the main door some houses also had a ground level dog door in the wall that allowed for the ingress and egress of the curl-tailed and twelve-toed family dogs, especially so to announce the arrival of any strangers in the neighbourhood.
There's evidence of human settlement in the valley since prehistoric times, and it’s easy to see why; it has all the right ingredients for success human life. On three sides are protective and wooded hillsides. At one time these would have teamed with game and may even have supported a tiger or two. The hundreds of native species of tree would also have provided timber for a wealth of uses and enough plant life to fill a shaman’s medicine box. Also, an abundance of year-round clear water flows through the settlements, vital arteries for ribbon field rice production—the long-established, toilsome endeavour that took up flat land wherever it could be cleared. In-shore navigation to other settlements for trade and family connectivity would also have brought news and cultural exchange.
Proximity to the sea always provided for ready protein. As well as net fishing, children and their grandmothers could daily harvest an abundance of boulder-clung limpets and mud snails to add a little extra to the pot. The one local Hakka family that still lives in the centre of the village continues the tradition, the older ladies daily in rubber booties daily wheeling back a trolley-full of buckets brimming with oysters and sand-dug molluscs.
Around each ancient settlement are mounds of midden, most lost under decaying forest residue. At the abandoned village of Cheung Sheung, high up in the hills and home now only to cows and campers, is exposed several massive piles of spectacular aquatic debris. It must be remembered that each shell will have had to be carried up the long track in baskets strung on shoulder poles.
The village is now recognised solely as a stopping point for walkers that want to take the coastal path to Hoi Ha. As such, a noisy assembly could take place at any time of day or night, causing the residents to fume in their sleep-robbed beds.
Ko Tong Ha Yeung has a mixed population. The older villagers have all died. One of the last, a wizened old dear, clearly felt so bold as to sell fruit in her dotage. Early one Sunday she came around to the wealthier gwailo (non-Chinese) residents to sell a big bin liner of star fruit that she must have tended and picked. I smiled, handing over my twenty Hong Kong dollars to which she said something indecipherable and handed over the entire bag, coming back in a few minutes with change—which I dared not refuse. It made its way into delicious star fruit and anise village jam.
Village is DEFINITELY a lot quiter these days...:-(
Posted by: Jodi | Monday, August 11, 2014 at 07:30 AM
Perhaps I should return...
Posted by: Richard Peters | Monday, August 11, 2014 at 06:17 PM