Hope and the Hurricane

Official weather predictions in Hong Kong are eerily accurate, so even though the usual typhoon season had passed, when the issued forecast called for heavy rain, gusty winds, a T3 later in the evening, perhaps even a T8 overnight, you could hear the clanging alarm bells going off in every Hong Konger’s head. Immediately, grandmothers, housewives and helpers descended on supermarkets to panic buy rice, bread, and instant noodles (the Asian triumvirate of apocalyptic rations), fresh fruit and vegetables (heaven forbid if natural ruffage was missed for even a single day) and toilet paper (clean arses being of equal importance to full bellies). Security guards at buildings, armed with rolls of masking tape, began sticking oversized X’s on the glass panes of large windows. Salaried workers started backing up documents on their laptops in readiness for a day out of the office. Children suppressed bubbling excitement at the prospect of a day off school. Me? Since I’d started work at the crack of dawn, I decided to knock off a little earlier. On a whim (as I’m accustomed to do), and unwilling to face the frenzied, marching masses on public transportation, I thought: why not stick a middle finger at the weather gods and get my daily 10,000 steps in at the same time?

I’d walk home.

I threaded my way from my office in Wanchai, past 7 Elevens, chain restaurants and pop-up dollar stores, to the promenade snaking along Victoria Harbour. It was almost deserted by the time I got there. Snack wrappers and other city debris skittered across the pavement. A translucent plastic bag swirled round and round like a carousel before the wind tossed it high into the air, thrusting the billowing bag in the direction of the harbour’s choppy waters. There was definitely a storm brewing. A glutton for punishment, I soldiered on, my eyes smarting from the dust, my shoulders rounded against the light sprinklings of pre-rain. I silently chastised myself for choosing a walk, exposed to the elements, over a shorter, infinitely more comfortable, air-conditioned train ride home.

I knew I was nearing Central as the giant AIA ferris wheel and the towering IFC skyscraper came into view. I was debating giving up on my self-inflicted outdoor hike and making a run for the closest MTR station when I spotted a group of local school boys, ten of them, standing in a row against the metal railing of the promenade. They seemed as young as my own son, perhaps 12, 13 years old, dressed in white school uniforms with dark green accents. After school most likely, on their way home or to some organized event. Kids in Hong Kong lived extremely scheduled lives, bouncing from long hours of formal learning to any extra-curricular activity that could conceivably help them get ahead of the pack: KUMON, tuba lessons, fencing classes. It was unusual to see school children just hanging out and doing nothing, especially as they entered their critical middle school years.

The boys’ Cantonese chatter faded in and out of hearing, their words intermittently snatched by the wind. They stood shoulder to shoulder - relaxed, talking, laughing, and occasionally jostling one another good humouredly - as they gazed across the harbour at the all too-familiar skyline of Kowloon, bookended by the 108-storied ICC (International Commerce Centre) on the one side, and the luxury development, K11 Atelier, on the other. Wonder of wonders, not one of the boys was staring into a screen of a handheld device. Darkened clouds gathered and hung ominously in the sky, as if plotting the best time to unload their rainy burdens and to wreak the most havoc on hapless city dwellers below. This did nothing to dispel the schoolboys’ enjoyment of the moment. They were oblivious to the skies’ machinations, wilfully so, as they leaned their bodies against the metal railing and raised their youthful faces defiantly towards the incoming storm. What did they see, what were they thinking, I wondered, bemused, as my own two feet stopped in their tracks. As I watched and waited, for what I wasn’t entirely sure, the surliness and anxiety that I’d felt just seconds earlier melted away.

I concluded that the young had much to teach me, and I, middle-aged, cynical and surly, still had a lot to learn from the young. I would not give in. A smiled played on my lips as I resumed my trek home. I turned around a few times to look at the boys as they continued to stand on the promenade. They eventually became a speck in the distance behind me. Next time, I’d invite a friend or two to walk with me, and we too, would look out at our island city together in wonderment, with joy, and with courage.

Even in a hurricane, there was always, always, hope.