Hong Kong Travels: Tai O

The sign on the bus said: notice to passengers: no standing or sitting on the staircase and no sitting on passenger compartment passageway.” I know this because the bus was so full that I sat on the staircase looking at this message. I would later stand on the staircase with my hands in a vice-like grip on the railings, staring straight up the road as it rose and fell. The ride from Tung Chung to Tai O took almost an hour. Amanda and I only managed to sit for the last 15 minutes.  

When we finally arrived, I was surprised by how large such an isolated place was revealed to be. The bus terminus was also at the end of the road. There were few cars, whether because people were at work, or more likely there was no need for them. Instead, there was a big group of parked buses to take people to and fro. 

Many places in Hong Kong are fishing villages. Many of them have small boats for leisure and service. Tai O’s boats are taken for granted. Who would have guessed the floating village would necessitate such a feature?

The small Tai O Fishermen Image gallery at the entrance to the town shows you the reasons why, in miniature. It presents as much of the town as possible, including the fishing boats which had been produced as wooden miniatures by a university professor. Not far away, a museum displays items gathered from the towns. The collection is diverse. A cutlass has almost rusted away in one corner of a shelf. On another, hurricane lamps are in danger of cracking from the weight of dust on top of them. On the wall, black and white photographs show the history of Tai O through people and places. The aerial photos immediately remind me of Venice's Grand Canal; large parts of the settlement split by waterways, which perhaps betrays my lack of worldliness.  

As a microcosm of Tai O’s past and present, those two projects together act as perfect introductions. In the process, Amanda and I discovered how important the area had been in the past to trade in the estuary, as well as how diminished the seaborne population was after many moved to government housing. What you can see now is the lesser version of a greater past, the relics and photographs attesting to that fact 

Taking a boat up and down the main canal and out into the bay allowed us to see the reality for ourselves. Many of the stilt houses are missing walls facing the water, allowing you to look in at the owners looking out at you.  Most of their houses have ladders leading down to the water and their boats. Most also have plant pots on the decks, and some even have fishing rods cast out into unhealthy green shallow shore. 

The true spectacle is in the variety of designs, materials, and sizes of the abodes. Some look to be barely stable, cobbled together from old iron sheets and scrap wood, with rope tying the whole structure to the base. Next one could be an ambitious two floor structure that would appear quaint on land, built on stilts among the others, practically palatial. Others still are made from hammered nails and welded steel like a cheap grain silo. At times it feels as if they have been built by squatters pushed to the edge of Hong Kong itself. The twists and turns of the streets, better considered to be decks, I imagine, must be hellish for any postman. Despite some not having four walls, electricity is available, including air conditioning. It is difficult to see the effect it would have when it would be trying to cool the whole world.  

While we were there, early evening and the low glow of the sun coupled with a general quietness made it reminiscent of the time before dinner was ready when you were a child. However, there were few children to be seen. Most of the energy had gone for the day and a few elderly were busy in their homes, different smells occasionally wafting by. I wondered how the houses were constructed, by whom, and what the Tai O property market must be like. Hong Kong's street art scene is alive even there, despite the few available canvases. One even added to previous paintings, creating a composite piece that brightened up the small corner of the village. 

One funny feature of the town is the red bridge spanning the river. In the long history of Tayo, hundreds of years of occupation, they only decided to build it in the 1970s. Only at that point was hopping across on poles too inconvenient, it seems. At the back of town, you could sense the living mosquito larvae in the still marsh water, ready to make their move on the poor people. 

Amanda and I had been discussing during that time our feelings about Hong Kong's identity. I referenced how the legacy of British colonialism gave me, as a British citizen, a particular perspective. I was not yet two years old when the handover happened. I remember seeing on television the Union Flag descending, not knowing decades later I would stand under the same flagpole. I explained how I could not disconnect my identity from that legacy, as there are constant reminders of it in all parts of Hong Kong, even Tai O. On a certain level, I explained, it made me uncomfortable.  

Amanda felt that Hong Kong was between empires and that now was the moment to preserve its cultural identity. It had never had the chance to tell its own story until now, so what was being created needed to be preserved or washed away by the Mandarin tsunami. Appropriate language, perhaps, considering the location we were in. 

Elsewhere in the village, similar signs of struggles against nature are on full display. Colonial-looking houses are entirely gutted. Not even doors or window frames are left behind. Banyan trees are so closely connected to them that they feel part of the same structure. It looks as if it were a deliberate design choice to make them as ruinous as possible. Another condemned structure is starting to lean into the sea as its foundations erode. A closed Shaolin school is slowly being reclaimed by the undergrowth. 

At the far end of Tai O is the old police station. Small shops dot the path leading out to the station. Some are people's living rooms, eating dinner and watching television while they wait for a customer. A souvenir shop is there that sells postcards with illustrations of Tai O life. At that time of day, the cats multiplied as the sun began to set, but the kites still circled over the water.  

An information board outside the station shows the transformation from forgotten feature to Grand Hotel. Conspicuous in its opulence compared to the shantytown behind it, the now renovated building is part hotel, part restaurant. I am unsure who they expected the clientele to be, considering there are more tables than bedrooms. A long walk for expensive food would be ludicrous for any resident when so many cheap options are a kilometer closer. But truthfully, the restoration is fantastic and the contrast of the softly lit white walls with the darkening mountains and sea was enchanting. There is only one flagpole this time, flying the Hong Kong flag. The wind picked it up so it flew proudly and strongly. I think it looks the best when flying solo. 

Finally, at the very end of the land, Amanda and I looked out over the waves at the prospect of Chinese white dolphins making a late appearance, but with no luck. Instead, we could look out over the ocean at the large shipping vessels squatting offshore. On the right, we could track the bridge to Macau as it disappeared over the horizon. I have heard that the mega project is not used as much as it was designed for, though I have never taken it myself. Macau will have to wait for another trip. 

By the time we returned to the bus station, it was dark. There were few lights on in the town, the brightest coming from a lone fisherman's still at work and the flood lights of the sports ground. Thankfully there were seats available that time, so we both took the chance to rest on the trip back to Tung Chung. As I reflect on my visit, I think about how the floating village seems so unconcerned by others. Visitors arrive and are catered for in various respects, including both rides and the museum. But Tai O makes no secret of its identity.  

It's an impoverished town with few young people left to look after the old. The police station-turned-hotel stood out for the same reason its restaurant was empty: it is not appropriate for the location. I feel that's the charm of Tai O is in its current state, and I fear that any attempt to improve the housing would jeopardize the community completely.  

A good place to visit, never to stay. Unless you can afford a few $1000 a night, ironically.