Hong Kong Travels: Lo Wai Monasteries

Wherever you go in Hong Kong, you will see shrines. Small, squeezed into corners of the city of tucked against walls so people don’t trip over them; in shops and backrooms, in the houses of particularly pious people. The dedicated monasteries and temples of course require more space than retrofitting will allow, and so you must make a greater effort to visit places further afield. Up near Tsuen Wan, tucked away in a valley at the foothills of Tai Mo Shan, the tallest mountain in Hong Kong, are the temples and monasteries of Lo Wai. 

Truthfully, there were so many temples to see that my first stop wasn’t even in the valley. Next door in Fu Yung Shan – still part of Lo Wai – is the Chuk Lam Sim Monastery. Strangely blocky from the outside, the interior is similar to other Buddhist monasteries. Gold buddhas sit serenely in gilded glass, gold dragons wrap around red pillars, fruits stacked on plates and in bowls as offerings. Luckily for me, this time I actually managed to witness what had been missing from other monasteries: people practicing Buddhism. 

Laypersons and monks knelt to begin with, as the leader of the chant lead a call and response through a clip-on microphone. This later turned into singing, while everyone stood up and began walking steadily clockwise around the room. I noticed that they were all wearing trainers, which seemed incongruous with the image I had in my head of Buddhists. Paired with the microphone, it was a slightly awkward evolution of conduct and dressage. Then again, I think it’s fine that reality doesn’t affect my expectations. I think, as with the mix of societal levels here, I’ve overcome my judgement based on assumptions about what should be normal. I hope. We’ll see. 

One of the laypeople gestured to some of the other people watching the activity, inviting them to join in with the chant and walk, which some did. They already knew the song and the motions required, which was unexpected. As the scene ended, and the monks retreated, the additional ambience vanished, and those of us present were left in quiet contemplation. 

Behind the central shrine is another, larger shrine, still with glass-encased gold buddhas, but also blue-painted walls that were peeling greatly due to the climate. Several colourful figures from the canon decorated the walls too, including a lion with eyes so bulbous it looked alarmed to even be there. A painted wooden pillar in the middle of the room is filled with many small statues, forming a model pagoda. 

A great jade chandelier makes it one of the more colourful interiors I have seen. To the sides of this central room are two others filled with plaques inscribed with the names of those who have passed away. The uniformity of design makes both rooms feel almost decorative, despite the sombre purpose. Some of the plaques have pictures of the deceased attached, allowing you to see past the names and into different periods of the past. While some headshots could pass for passport photos, others are full body shots in an early 20^th century style severity. It’s a particularly fascinating artifact, a visual dialogue of Hong Kong’s past. It also finally confirmed to me that the plaques I had speculated about in Ngong Ping were indeed memorials.

I know this because a friendly attendant, Jan Mei (if my spelling is correct) and I had a conversation in a mix of English and Cantonese. Clearly, the expectation is very low for any foreigner to speak Cantonese, as she almost immediately offered me an orange and an apple, which after checking she really meant for me to eat them rather than offer them, I accepted graciously. She told me she had visited London once, 70 years ago. I had to check she meant 70 and that I wasn’t getting my numbers mixed up with 17, but it was true. My grandparents would have been about her age, were they still around. I wonder if they would have reacted to Hong Kong in the 50s as she had to London. 

Once you leave Chuk Lam Sim Monastery, the opposite side of the road has another monastery, this time called Tung Lam. When I visited, it was under fresh maintenance. Everything about the site – from the brightness of the white stone balustrade to the incredibly vibrant paint on the roof, to the fresh-looking terracotta tiles looked immaculate in the afternoon sunshine. The mixed textiles and intricate patterning on the roof both inside and out made for a very, very pretty building. 

But this was only the first stop, of course. If you want to walk from Chuk Lam Sim Monastery to Lo Wai, one possible route is to walk through the botanical garden and squatters’ residences along an, at times, unclear path. A resident kindly showed me the right path after I almost walked into his garden, and again I proved my Cantonese classes have not gone to waste. If you are ever confused about what marks a public path, check if it has green railings running along it. Anywhere you see them, you can be confident you will not follow my mistakes. But, if you do choose alternative routes, you will see quiet communities that appear to be almost self-sustaining with the number of vegetables they are growing on the valley side. 

Tung Kau Shek village won’t be found on any list of places to go, but that makes it an even more interesting place to visit. It appears to be far away, even though you can still see the skyscrapers of Tsuen Wan in the distance. The familiar corrugated iron and metal rods of any good self-starter's Hong Kong home are there. I have no idea where so much corrugated iron is being sold, and whether its main market is prospective home builders. 

If you keep following the path up and up, past the myriad housing, and up a final set of stairs, you come to another Buddhist temple which I could not see an English name for. Traditional Chinese is hard to write out, so I’ll try my best here and ask someone to translate for me later: 

紫竹林 (Tsz Chuk Lam! Thank you Eugenia.) 

The remote shrine overlooks the valley, all the way down to Tsuen wan. Looking up, you can see the observatory at the top of Tai Mo Shan, and in between, the Yuen Yuen Institute’s massive pagoda. The flags of Hong Kong and China rippled in the light breeze outside; flags I’d noticed at other temples too. Nationalism attached to spiritualism, perhaps. The temple attendant seemed surprised to see me, but otherwise unconcerned. Around the corner is a space which, though cluttered, has several chairs around a large table. I imagine communal dinners must be nice up there, in the quiet and clean air. 

Despite it being a public space, the contents of the shrine make it seem more private. Drapery stained black by years of burning incense hang over the gold buddhas and red banners. Plenty of smaller statues are dotted around, surrounded by plenty of oranges. A few cabinets are packed with dusty books, though I couldn’t read the spines to tell their contents, and on top, even smaller buddhas in glass cases. It's almost like an antique shop, with items presented as ‘serving suggestions.’ The collection of tiny elephants outside is an unexpected treat, however, and worth the extra steps if you happen, by some obscene coincidence, to be in the area. 

If you manage to resist the urge to stick to the established paths and push through to the main road that arcs around the mountainside, you can walk back down towards the huge pagoda and the Yuen Yuen Institute. But, if your knees still have some life left in them, you can turn uphill again and visit Lung Mo Temple. If I wanted to show off I would say that the English translation is “Dragon Mother Tempe,” since those are the words I recognised on the sign. Even if you don’t spot the name, the awkwardly placed statue of a lying dragon gives it away. 

It was the busiest of all the temple I visited that day. Deceptively large, it could easily double as a community space, which it might. I had to jostle past other visitors who were busy preparing offerings or creating paper (or felt) designs. Stacks and stacks of boxes were a constant presence, and indeed some people took entire boxes in order to offer them up. The amount of burning incense and smoke from the furnaces irritated my eyes and throat, and I had to leave the active heart of the temple for fresher air. 

There are a couple of shops inside the temple in case visitors need to purchase items to participate in the rituals, adding to the ambience considerably. For want of a better description, it feels like the hardest working temple I’ve yet been to. People were waiting in line to pray and could buy stocked items to help them do so with proper etiquette. Upstairs, past the pair of tired dogs, I found even more activity; more shrines, more lines, more half-empty rooms to suggest more space than needed. 

Finally, you can cap off your tour of the valley by visiting the largest, most impressive temple of all: the Yuen Yuen Institute. Unlike the others, it is a Taoist temple complex, meaning no glass-encased gold buddhas. It does mean a substantial uptick in bearded statues, however. The design of the temple is pleasing by itself; smooth straight lines of the balconies, staircases, and walkways intersecting are very geometrically satisfying. My personal highlights were the multi-coloured flowers that looked gorgeous in the lighting of the moment, and the terrapin pond filled to the brim with the little animals. A waterfall, likely from the same source as the one you can follow down the hill, feeds into the pond, and it was the perfect time of day for a small rainbow to reveal itself in the spray. Coupled with a monkey sitting on the top of the wall and the garden statues, it was an exceptional moment to exist in. 

Artistry is on full display at the temple. Dark stone scenes from Taoist stories cover some of the exterior walls, and each incredibly dense with detail truly showcases the sculptor’s skills. Every opportunity to add artistic flair has been taken. No space is wasted. The colours of the temple are even more vibrant than what I had seen earlier; precision painting of patterns around the base of the roof and the use of gold to highlight the edges of the interlocked wooden beams make it a multi-coloured marvel. 

This same attention to detail was given to the towering pagoda. Too high to see all levels from the base, but if you walk around the valley as I had, you will have appreciated it from every perspective. And in the final burst of clear sunlight of pre-sunset, the tower was a magnificent monument to the faith of the people who it serves – the base is in smooth black stone that is heavily covered in carved Chinese characters, and four figures guarding the entry. Flowers and potted plants ring the tower, and several people walked several times around it clockwise. One man read from a book, perhaps taking direction on how to conduct himself properly. After this final visit, I was satisfied with temples and monasteries and walked back out the valley towards the station.  

The noise of materialism on Hong Kong Island can easily drown out the sense of spiritualism, confining it to small corners or tourists’ curiosity. As it turns out, there are still plenty of spaces to attend to our faiths. It’s nice to know that for all the high-rises and MTR shopping malls, one need only walk for a little while to hear bells ringing on the breeze, or a waterfall trickle into a koi pond. Hong Kong still has a soul – it's just a little hidden, sometimes.