Hong Kong Travels: Peng Chau

The pollution looked beautiful as the ferry left the harbour, obfuscating all those ghastly mountains and islands on the horizon. It was a humid, close heat, but the sea breeze made it bearable on the boat. Slowly, then, all at once, the city disappeared, and the modest Peng Chau came into view. 

From afar, it seemed quiet, residential. Perhaps because of the name, I wanted to compare it to Cheung Chau. Perhaps because of most other things, I now consider it better to not. Peng Chau’s population was unused boats and roosting pigeons. Because I visited on a Tuesday and everyone was at work, it could be the case that there were less people than usual, but then again, it's first impression did not instil a sense of dynamism or the potential for any either. One of the first sites I saw was a government-owned ruin. The house was fenced in with bamboo and steel beams, suggesting that at one point the plan was to repair it. Judging from the bushes sparkling in the midday sun on the roofless first floor, it had not been the case for a while. It appeared as if the creepers were holding the structure together more so than the actual beams, so thick and strong they were. 

Just behind it was a small temple of the design you find commonly in Hong Kong. A few oranges were presented below the statues of figures I'm ignorant of, and coils of incense dropped down detritus now and then. Despite the day, it felt dim inside, as with most of them. I followed an unremarkable street further behind it to find a second shrine, this time even smaller. A man was fiddling with a bucket. I couldn't quite tell what he intended to do, but I assumed he was maintaining it in some way. There was a disused well nearby and although a grate was placed over the top, you could easily see the greenery inside sprouting from between the bricks. I imagined how cool it must have been inside before noting the polluted water at the bottom and changed my mind. 

There seemed to be no obvious route to take, no Main Street to follow unless you count the ambitiously wide promenade, and not enough depth to the island to lose yourself in amongst the alleyways. As a result, walking around Peng Chau felt like always being at the end of the town. With no particular intention, therefore, I began by turning right. I followed the path for a short time. Surprisingly, there was a British pub, the aesthetic of which felt too hot to sit in, like wearing a blanket in a sauna. Unsurprisingly, there was no one in it. In fact, there were few people anywhere. It seemed as if those who were there were at home, and those at home were old. A retirement village, then. In hindsight, it could have passed quite easily. 

That is to say, the buildings as I walked were suffering from the salt. Painted walls and doors was salt-stained and flaking off. Larger apartment complexes still far from the dizzying heights of Hong Kong and Kowloon were dirty and cracked, like they had an open infected wound in the side that was killing the rest of it slowly. In other parts of the town, collapsed houses had doors so rusted that the holes were being carved out of them. This trend extended to other areas as well, in particular the small boats that dotted the harbour and littered the pathways. My guess was that the moored ones bobbing gently up and down, were more likely to see frequent use, but the ones pulled up onto the road, or off the side of the road, or the one cloaked in police tape and filled with browned leaves and rusted steel were likely used rarely, if ever. 

Most of these small boats were in situ at the north of town, next to a jetty. On the way past childless play areas and a bare concrete plaza, I saw two empty tin bowls which may have once held water. Something about it struck me and I wondered if it had evaporated, if it had ever held water to begin with, or if the cats were even present anymore. It was just a thought, however, and the persistent glare from the sun was impetus enough to keep moving. 

To get to the jetty, which was connected to a small island, one had to cross a short bridge. There one brave fisherman fought against the clear blue skies and calm water to hunt for the tiny white bait darting about. A small black heron seemed to be doing something similar. On the other side of the barrier were more suggestions of a missing population; several mismatched chairs and stools overlooking the side of the bridge. It was curious, then, that the lone fisherman decided to stand.  

Unfortunately, there was little else of note aside from the quiet wash of waves and would, but since I was able to see some of the boats more closely in surprisingly reminded me of home. Not Sheung Wan, not even my mother's house in Hampshire, but my grandfather’s home: Hastings. My family had lived there until I was 6, but we always visited my extended family and stayed with my grandfather when we did. His street, Cornfield Terrace, in the summer felt a lot like Peng Chau. The side street with a small workshop opposite his house was quite quiet, but it was where I spent a lot of my time as a child. Granddad was usually inside, but the door would be wide open to allow some air flow. A passerby may have called out to him to ask about his day. He would leave leftover chicken or fish for Tom, the stray orange cat. He had a tiny triangle of space outside his window for a garden, which he tended to with a master's hand.  

He was a fisherman at one point, among other things. And once, when he could still walk, he came with us to the Old Town to walk along the sea front. Hastings, he told me, had the largest beach-based fishing fleet in Europe. All the boats were wooden, and their names and numbers were painted onto the sides. Some were very impressive indeed, and Grandad had great reverence for them, his connection to its and its effect on the town's identity. To him, I think those ships were the spirits of Hastings, and as he got older and the ships became fewer, he felt both their spirits slipping away. Of course none of the boats by that jetty were anywhere near the majesty of that fishing fleet, but when I notice to small brown and black painted boat with a number in white, it reminded me of a memory I had not considered for years and how although I was only visiting, that place would mean the world for someone else. 

I was not someone else unfortunately, but I appreciated the reminder of a long-gone time. Unfortunately, there really was nothing else to do there unless one particularly enjoyed looking at electric substations, and I could not see a way to visit the small beach. From what I could see from the bridge someone had turned a disused boat into a small garden which was delightful. 

So concluded my exploration of the north side of town. By now it was getting hotter. The midday sun crawled across the sky and gave no respite. Nor was there sufficient breeze from the sea, but the humidity continued. The concrete did not help in this regard and I thought it best to hurry on. Passing through the sitting area of workers sat in the shade of the toilet block, watching his phone, his friend inside the office. As I hurried on, scattering pigeons as I went, I saw more modern units along the promenade. They all had wide windows, high fences and flat roofs. The colour scheme was at odds with the rest of the town. Despite the shabbiness caused by low maintenance and a hostile paint environment, at least the decorators had injected some colour into the town. The buildings may have been unified by shared punishment, but the bright faded colours gave it character. They were old ladies with makeup spread too thin to hide the wrinkles. These units were out of place: too modern, too airy, too private. What is a small town without its neighbours, after all? Fresh produce was being offloaded from a boat by the pier and a few people were excitedly looking over the bok choy, perhaps the most exciting thing I had yet witnessed. 

The South of Peng Chau had a different feeling, an air of continued life inhabiting old spaces. The houses there were ore alive, more unique than the stock complexes in the north. Some had walkways from street level because a second street with a second groundfloor was far below. Some people occupied houses next to ruins more fascinating than the ones in the centre of town. These you could see into: collapsed floors and furniture, peeking through rubble, smashed windows and those heavily rusted doors again. Even so, someone had left several green bottles neatly together on the windowsill, a queer contrast to the chaos of time behind it. Some houses took full advantage of the exposure to the sun and had plant pots perched on concrete, on top of rusty corrugated iron sheets, on top of concrete, stretching down to the bottom of the hill. They looked like a vertical allotment.  

Two builders worked on a roof, breaking the silence of the town, while a man was slumped over asleep opposite his shop/house, the low fidelity, unrecognisable music drifting across the road. One building that intrigued me greatly was scarred with concrete filaments. There were no windows, no signs, no obvious evidence of what it was or once may have been. The wooden door was a ship of Theseus. Several locks and chains failed to keep it closed, and patchwork panels kept it functioning at the very least. Such a curious insistence on maintaining the decay instead of replacing it, but I wonder if it was from necessity instead of reverence. 

Just to the side of the sleeping man was one last shrine. Unlike the others, though, it had no incense burning, no lights lit. Offerings of tea and origins were present, but it was the first shrine I had seen that felt dormant. Not in the same way as a hidden shrine up an obscured path is dormant for lack of passersby. This shrine with water-stained paintings and stacks of browned prayer sheets, seemed as if someone had forgotten to attend it. So, it seemed that whomever the shrine was dedicated to was wanting for honours that I could not provide. 

And aside from little paths leading down the other side of the hill and a short walk on a small beach, there was nothing left to see short of walking around the forest. The houses were personalised with plant pots and a wayward durian. But I was feeling faint from the sun, which could also contribute to the lack of people. It was simply too hot to be outside at early afternoon. Only one cafe in town catered to a Western clientele and I confess I am still unconfident enough in my Cantonese to have tried somewhere else, so I sought relief there. The staff were friendly, but the lemonade was so sweet that

I had to dilute it with more water. 

It was then that I decided I had seen all there was to see. The wait for the boat was quiet, and most of the people at the ferry terminal were simply trying to escape the heat. To my disappointment I could not see any ferries headed for the other islands, so I decided to end things there for that adventure. In the end, Peng Chau is not an island designed for tourists or people hoping for a change of pace. It is not Lamma Island; it is not Cheung Chau. It is unremarkable, which I imagine is how the residents prefer it to be. It’s a place to spend time with your relatives at the weekend, to check in on old friends and sit inside to chat about old times and a different Hong Kong. At least that is my impression. But it’s easy to romanticise when you don’t understand Cantonese very well.