The Dark Side: Chungking to Kai Tak
Let's head across the harbor, as we explore the Kowloon of my youth, the peninsula north of Hong Kong Island that offered excitement, intrigue and a little bit of danger
In 1270AD, a young emperor stood on the shore of a sparsely inhabited peninsula, and, taking in the soaring mountain range rising before him, asked the courtier standing next to him: “What is the name of this place?” Seizing upon the moment to ingratiate himself with his master, the servant replied, “Why, it’s called Nine Dragons,” gesturing to the peaks before them (according to Chinese legend, mountains are formed when dragons lie down to sleep). “But I only count eight,” replied the child king. The answer came even quicker than the one before. “That is because you, my liege, are the ninth.” And that’s the way Kowloon, or as it’s known in Cantonese, ‘Gau lung’, was named.
Growing up in Hong Kong, you’d think this would have been a story I was told from a young age. After all, any pre-schooler can count to ten, and it would be immediately obvious from even a cursory glance that there are only eight mountains surrounding the Kowloon Peninsula. However, I was raised in colonial Hong Kong, the son of a colonial civil servant, and the product of a colonial schools system – Cantonese was never on the curriculum. Instead we had the option of French or German, but neuf or neun was never going to lead me to gau. Instead, I remained blissfully ignorant of the etymology behind the landmass across the water, though oddly attracted by the other half of the city, which expats living on the island often referred to as the ‘dark side’.
Despite Hong Kong being a multinational multitude of people, cultures and religions, not to mention 235 islands over 1,104 sq km (that’s 50% larger than Singapore!), there have only ever been two ways to see the city. You are either a fan of the island – that’s Hong Kong Island, the territory’s economic centre – or Kowloon-side. I was from the island, which meant for me Kowloon was a mysterious place, somewhere visited on a day trip, holding my mother’s hand tight as we first caught the minibus down to the Star Ferry pier in Central, and then, following a 15-minute trip (it’s now shorter) across the often choppy harbor, walked down the gangplank to a completely different world.
Kowloon was always exotic in a way the island could never be. Whereas Central was full of gweilo like me (it literally means ‘ghost man’), expat businessmen and their ‘tai-tai’ wives and high brow luxury shops, Tsim Sha Tsui (the area on the southern tip of the Kowloon Peninsula, which means ‘sharp, sandy point’, although after reclamation it no longer fits that description) was home to Chungking Mansions, Indian tailors (“Would young sir like a suit?”), worldly backpackers, and what I perceived as ‘local’ people – those not adopting the British way of life. It was also very rough around the edges, an endless source of interest to someone growing up in a secure and manicured complex of apartments specifically built for government civil servants (they have since been replaced by another, larger complex of apartments specifically built for the rich).
Located near the Tsim Sha Tsui (TST for short) ferry pier, Nathan Road leads directly northwards, cutting through the heart of Kowloon; a vital artery that leads all the way from Tsim Sha Tsui’s Salisbury Road to the district of Prince Edward, four MTR (that’s the subway) stops away, and Boundary Street – it marked the former border between British Hong Kong and Mainland China, before the New Territories were occupied in 1898. Named after the 13th governor, Sir Matthew Nathan, the formerly tree-lined road was once known as ‘Nathan’s Folly’, a veritable road to nowhere that was the subject of much mirth among the chattering colonial community of the time. It subsequently more than proved its worth, becoming the catalyst for the peninsula's development.
At its starting point sits The Peninsula Hotel, the grand dame of Hong Kong hotels, holding court opposite what once was the terminus for the Kowloon-Canton Railway, now marked by a lonely clock tower and a cultural centre once disdainfully labelled a ‘ski slope’ by a visiting Prince Charles. Passengers had once ridden the rails here from as far away as Moscow, by way of Peking, disembarking right by the harbor in order to connect with the Star Ferry, and complete their journey to the island. Many, however, walked across the road and checked in. Despite the addition of a 30-story tower replete with twin helipads in 1994 (as seen in The Dark Knight), the interior of the ‘Pen’ hasn’t changed much since its opening in 1928. Even in the 1990s, when my mum would meet with friends to enjoy afternoon tea, the old world charm had lost none of its luster.
Walking beyond the rows of distinctive ‘Peninsula Green’ Rolls-Royces, bellboys in round hats would greet visitors at the door, while first-time guests stood agape at the splendor of it all. At least, that’s what I imagined happened – we instead frequented the rooftop café at the old YMCA down the road (built one year later than the Pen, it was sadly redeveloped in 1996), which had almost as equally grand views as the Pen (although an incident where I nearly plummeted to my doom put a stop on that). Our walks to and from ‘tiffin’, as lunching ladies would refer to it, using the Indian word for lunch, would often take us past the foreboding headquarters of the Marine Police. A mysterious tree-covered hill, home to some of the oldest colonial buildings in Hong Kong it was sadly ‘repurposed’ as the 1881 Heritage, the hill hollowed out to allow for more luxury shops surrounding a characterless plaza (as you can tell, I’m not a big fan).
Directly behind it stands One Peking Road, one of the first high-rises to be built in Tsim Sha Tsui following the removal of the height restrictions imposed to protect the flight paths of planes flying in and out of Kai Tak. This iconic former airport, with its finger like runway jutting into Victoria Harbour, closed on July 6, 1998, its admittedly antiquated facilities superseded by the new Chek Lap Kok built on reclaimed land north of Lantau. However, my memories of sitting by the window of a 747 (or, if my brother and I were lucky, a McDonnell Douglas Tristar - it had an extra engine in the tail!), soaring low over Kowloon, wingtips almost brushing the buildings below, close enough, it felt, to reach out and pluck the washing drying on the rooftops, before a 47-degree right turn at the “giant checkerboard”, a small hill painted red and white, have always remained vivid. Then, unlike now, you were landing in the heart of the city.
Returning from mandatory annual trips to England to visit relatives (not that it was intolerable seeing family, but more that, compared to my home of Hong Kong, the United Kingdom felt like such a dull, grey, humdrum kind of place), the buzz was palpable as soon as you touched the tarmac – you were thrust into a thriving Asian metropolis, with development and excitement all around you. In the taxi ride home – or, later on, when I began to fly by myself, the family car – I would catch glimpses of the people who lived opposite the airport, running shops with names in Chinese and another script I did not recognize, red, white and blue striped flags fluttering in the wind. It wasn’t until a long time later I discovered that these people were Thais…