Sunset over Hong Kong

Image result for images of old hong kong harbourHong Kong in the mid-sixties

A life – another instalment of my autobiography before I revert to my normal blogs

Before we left England, we enjoyed two quintessential English events. The in -laws gave us their tickets for the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy, one of the glamorous fixtures on the London calendar fifty years ago. I watched with interest the people and clothes, as well as the pictures. Standing next to a woman dressed in exquisite soft pale blue suede with matching knee length suede boots, I recognised the heiress Tessa Kennedy, famous for her elopement at eighteen with painter Dominic Elwes.

They had fled to Havana to escape the English courts and marry there, before eventually fleeing Cuba on a raft during the anarchy of Castro’s era… I watched the President of the Academy reverently ushering through the galleries the fascinating Dorelia, Augustus John’s mistress, then partner for over fifty years. She was tall and stately, her gypsy beauty undimmed, her bright draperies fluttering as she moved. The famous and the fashionable thronged the beautiful galleries.

Earlier in June I had sat in Whitehall- dressed in a big navy straw hat, coral linen dress, and navy court shoes, feeling deliciously elegant- this time in seats obtained by my father, for us to watch the Queen’s Birthday Parade close up. She rode side saddle into the great parade square, escorted by the Royal Dukes on horseback, all gold braid, chain mail, spurs, bearskins and majesty. The Guards and the Household Cavalry trotted and wheeled and manoeuvred in their timeless rituals as the colours were trooped, and we sat spellbound on a perfect summer’s day, the glorious trees of the parks all around framing the pageantry and splendour.

We returned to old Thomas Twining’s two hundred and forty-three year old house down by the Thames, also surrounded by ancient trees, where squirrels scampered along the top of the high Georgian garden walls. A hundred yards away, a small boat was moored. This was an ancient ferry crossing, and a boat had waited there since medieval times, ready to ferry passengers across the river to Ham Common and the beautiful country on the other side of the river.

History and historic houses, parks and woodland dotted the banks along this stretch of the river. I loved it all. And had I known then that I was leaving this blessed plot, this beloved place, ‘this precious stone set in a silver sea’ – this England – forever, I would have been rent with grief.

But then, simply looking forward to our next adventure I set blithely off. Expecting the gentle energy and rich tropical environment of Malaya, I had a terrible shock when we landed in Hong Kong. The army had laid on a bus to take us from Kaitak airport and deposit us at our hotel and as I looked out of the windows in horror at the traffic, black exhaust smoke, pollution and shoddy blocks of flats, there just below our window, was a truck filled with bloody red animal carcasses covered in flies. This nauseating sight accompanied us the whole way to Kowloon and coloured forever my feelings about this extraordinary place.

Our hotel turned out to be plum in the middle of the thriving and noisy red- light district of Kowloon. The girls whose beauty had bowled me over at first with their elegant cheongsams, beautifully coiffed chignons of shining black hair and immaculate make -up turned out to be prostitutes plying what looked like a prosperous trade with the legions of cropped headed American servicemen on R and R – Rest and Recreation – from Vietnam.

Nights were made hideous with the sound of rows and roistering in the bedroom next door, as well as the traffic outside, and honking of horns and shouts of hawkers who never seemed to go to bed. But after various vicissitudes, we eventually found a beautiful flat in Deepwater Bay, across the harbour on Hong Kong Island. It was ideal, as all the other flats were occupied with young families like us, and there was never any lack of playmates.

We had arrived in the blistering heat of summer, but in September something magic happened. The humidity dropped, and the air became crystal, clear and shimmering and the light glittered on the blue and silver sea. The atmosphere changed too and became charged with a beautiful and haunting nostalgia.

After that first year, I waited for the day, and every year the same magic suddenly returned to the strident city, and transmuted for a few glorious weeks, the raucous harshness of the place and people. Some people never noticed the poetry which suddenly flooded those days and nights. Those who did, likened it to the light of the Greek islands. It lasted for a month to six weeks, before ebbing away into the grey mistiness of winter.

The rest of the time for me, Hong Kong was a place to be endured. Yet now, since China has grasped the prize, I sometimes think back with nostalgia to those years spent on that amazing rock, ten miles by five miles, where then, nearly four million people hawked and spat and bargained and gambled and drank and starved and jockeyed for the biggest profits and built the highest high rises.

In the mid-sixties, with Vietnam and flower power both at their zenith, Hong Kong was both a place of rest and recreation for American troops slogging it out in Vietnam, and a place too, where some draft dodgers quietly eked out an alternative life style.

There were also the  grand, old-established British families of several generations who had built up the great English Hongs, or business houses, there were colonies of newsmen, especially from most of the top American news agencies, from CBS and NBC, Life and Time, Newsweek, The Washington Post and Los Angeles Times – to name a few – there were birds of flight from New Zealand and Australia, working their way across to Europe for their OE – overseas experience- refugees from South Africa and apartheid, army and navy contingents, the Foreign Office and government clusters, the Indian community, Portuguese- Chinese immigrants from Macau, the rich Chinese and the endless army of poor Chinese, most of whom had fled China in different waves, ever since the Communist takeover.

This was also the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. Just before coming to Hong Kong, I’d read the history of the Boxer Rebellion. It struck me then, even in the mid-twentieth century, that China was a good place to stay away from. At a dinner party one night soon after we had arrived, a handful of us farewelled a lowly foreign office official, named Ray Whitney.

After learning Chinese like my husband and all those dining with us, he’d left the army to join the foreign office and was now posted to what was still known as Peking. Sitting next to Ray after dinner I naively suggested to him that it was a dangerous posting with the Cultural Revolution in full swing, and shades of the Boxer Rebellion. He swung his whole person round to look at me. “My dear young lady”, he exclaimed, ” I regard this as an adventure”.

A few days later, we read the reports of him and his colleague being beaten up on Shanghai Station and smeared with glue. When they reached the British Embassy in Peking, it became their prison. The diplomats there were beaten up while hordes of Chinese Red Guards chanted Kill! Kill! and part of the embassy was set on fire. Back inside, they were besieged, and no-one could leave for nearly eighteen months.

Requests would reach Hong Kong for Italian cook books and the latest novels with which to while away the captivity of an embassy of bored, beleaguered, idle diplomats. (Ray Whitney, a lovely man, had a distinguished career after this, knighted for his very real services, becoming an MP and a member of many influential offices and commissions.)

Reports were also reaching us of cruel mock trials of intellectuals and artists and other Enemies of the People. Old men were made to parade around in dunce’s caps at their trial and sentencing. It was a grotesque gesture by Chinese hooligans who had no idea of the history of Duns Scotus’s medieval hat. The Red Guards had now transformed the symbol for a dunce into a ritual for sadistic humiliation.

This was the year too of the Star Ferry Riots, when the government tried to raise the price of the Star Ferry tickets by one cent, the first rise since 1947. Those riots were just over when we arrived, and the next riots were soon to begin, fuelled by the unrest in China.

A curfew was laid upon the island. Everyone had to be in their homes by some ridiculously early hour like six o clock. I climbed into our turquoise Volkswagon and drove round from Deepwater Bay to a look-out on the Peak. I was the only disobedient soul outside and as an army wife, I felt slightly guilty. I looked down to Victoria, the town centre. Nothing moved.

Trams sat abandoned on the sides of the roads, cars were left empty and parked. The streets were silent and empty. The throngs of shoppers, the hurrying workers, the hawkers and Hakka women in their rattan hats trimmed with black, the street vendors, the prostitutes and the students, the toddlers who lived and played on the pavements, the school children crouched on the side-walk doing their homework in the shelter of a sewing machine or street stall, the rick-shaw men, and the porters in white vests and black shorts and wooden clogs, the business men in grey suits, the camera-laden tourists – all had disappeared.

It was eerie and frightening in the same decade as films of nuclear war and lethal clouds of radio-active dust destroying all life, leaving cities full of dead but still standing. That was how Hongkong looked that night, silent and empty. The silence was almost more un-nerving than the emptiness.

The unrest went underground, and suddenly erupted one hot summer’s afternoon. Perhaps as karma for disobeying the curfew, I found myself in the middle of the next round of dissent. I was driving up Garden Road with the children to see Pat Hangen. She and her children lived on the Peak with her husband Welles, NBC Bureau chief, always away in Vietnam and who later disappeared forever in Cambodia.

I had only recently learned to drive, and uphill starts were still a challenge, though there was only one junction where I might be called upon to use them, I thought. But, as I passed the Helena May Hostel for Young Women, I came on a mass of white-clothed Chinese youths, all shouting and waving Mao’s Little Red Books in the air.

I slowed down, and another group converged from another direction. I tried to edge out of the crowd, but more and more columns kept coming from all directions. I slowed right down to walking pace, and realised I was in the middle of a hostile, fanatical mob, and if I made one mistake, like running back or edging forward too quickly, it would be more than dangerous for me and the two now very silent toddlers in the back.

I wound all the windows up so that air came in through only a crack at the top, and the heat became stifling.   Sweat ran down my face and spine in rivers, soaking my thin cotton dress. The children’s hair was plastered to their heads with sweat and I could smell the musty smell of their damp scalps, and something else – our fear.

There were thousands and thousands of young men shouting in unison and waving their red books in the air. As they moved at slow walking pace, I was obliged to shift the car at the same speed, crunching the hand brake on and off, as we slowly revved up the steep incline. Then, suddenly, I could see where it all ended. They were all advancing on the Governor’s Residence off to our right. Thankfully I left the Governor to it, and made our way to Pat, shaking all over from the tension.

And after that, things took on another momentum, with bombs exploding all over the place, and many areas placed out of bounds to Europeans. The Bank of China in the middle of the city began a propaganda war of noise, blaring out raucous, Chinese communist marching songs and party chants. The deafening noise was augmented by the childish response of the authorities, who used the tower of the Hilton Hotel across the road from the bank, to play decadent, western rock and roll to drown out the Chinese music.

It seemed to go on all summer. What also went on all summer, was the Chinese water torture. Hongkong and the New Territories relied on water supplies from China, and some years, flexing her muscles, and also to annoy, China restricted the water. This revolutionary year was no different and for the four long hot months of sweltering summer, we were severely rationed in order to survive.

There was no water for three days out of four. On the fourth day, water was piped for four hours in the evening, during which time we had the opportunity to fill baths, buckets and every available jug, bottle and kettle with water to last for the next four days. We all also seized the opportunity to shower or bath during this precious four hours.

Unfortunately, our flat was at the top of a twelve-storey building, and the pressure didn’t build up until the water had been on for two hours, so we only had the precious stuff for two hours every four days.

And we were the lucky ones. The Chinese living down in Wanchai and among slums built on the sides of hills from boxes and cardboard, queued for several hundred yards by the intermittent taps. They had to manage with buckets and containers small enough to carry back to their dwelling places. These were the people who had fled China after the Communist takeover and it was their teenage children who were now demonstrating in Hong Kong, mimicking the excesses of the Red Guards under Mao.

The much-maligned Colonial rule in Hong Kong prevented the same victimisation and destruction here. Yet at the same time that these rebellious Hong Kong teenagers were enjoying their Maoist demonstrations, dissidents were risking their lives to escape from China, in the continual exodus which had never ceased since the Nationalists under Mao Tse Tung had driven out the Kuomintang under Chiang Kai Check back in 1949. In 1949 alone, the population of Hong Kong had  doubled.

Since then, the borders had been closed, and now most people slipped across the border in darkness or swam across, and were picked up in the New Territories. These refugees arrived undernourished and dressed in patched rags, testimony to the poverty that reigned in China under Mao. The society they now joined was a heartless one. Many once penniless Chinese had made good in the years since they too had arrived destitute.

They had obliterated their peasant past and educated their children at western schools and universities, penetrating established, rich society. Others had arrived from places like Shanghai with all their riches and built lordly homes on the upper slopes of the great rock which meant safety to them all. But they were indifferent to the plight of the newest arrivals. There were no charitable organisations to help them or the struggling poor. Philanthropy was not a characteristic of Hong Kong society.

A hundred and fifty years before, in 1812, the city of London with a population of a million, had free hospitals, alms houses, dispensaries and nearly three hundred free schools educating, feeding and clothing nearly twenty thousand children. Arthur Bryant, the historian who gathered these facts, wrote that ‘London could claim her real palaces were hospitals. Wren’s Greenwich and Chelsea; Gibb’s St Bartholomew’s with its Hogarth staircase; St Thomas’s with its four great quadrangles treating and discharging 11,000 patients a year; the new “Bethlem” and St Luke’s for the insane, with their enormous classical facades, were buildings that a king might have been proud to inhabit.”’

By contrast there were only two hospitals provided by the government here in Hong Kong for three and a half million people – huge rabbit warrens – not palaces. There were no facilities for the handicapped or insane at all. In a population of four million, there would have been a minimum of 200,000 mentally and physically handicapped, judging by the normal ratio of such figures per head of population. No-one knew where they were, though there were stories of deranged figures chained to verandas.

There were stories of goodness too. Two English teachers received a divine message to go to Hong Kong where a task lay before them. Obediently they packed up and came. Once in the colony, they had no idea what the task might be. They ‘waited on the Lord,’ and seemed to feel they should buy an old house in the New Territories. This they did, still having no idea why.

After a few weeks, they found a baby girl on the doorstep one morning. They took her in. And then the unwanted babies kept coming. They knew their task now, but they had no money. So they prayed for what they needed. And whenever they needed money or assistance, they prayed and it arrived. They called this place the Home of Loving Faithfulness.

The Dean of Hong Kong Cathedral and his wife were very pleased to have a new house built for them among the old trees just behind the Cathedral. It was handy, central, and of course, unlike most vicarages, new and efficient. In order to build this house, a destitute old lady who squatted beneath the trees, and scavenged enough food to cook small meals on a tiny stove, had had to be moved on.

But she always came back. The dean, a good man, and his wife, equally good, then organised a real home in a new block for the old lady, and there she was taken. By the following week she had found her way back, squatting where she had always squatted, which was now the veranda of the brand-new house. There she stayed, her acrid cooking smells drifting through the windows into the house. This was her home, so we have no right to force her to leave, said these worthy representatives of a sometimes-maligned church. So she stayed.

To be continued

 Food for threadbare gourmets

 I love the idea of thrifty ways to avoid wasting food. I found a recipe the other day in one of my scrapbooks for using up the remains of salad leaves to make a good pesto. Whatever the leaves, and someone else tells me she’s used radish leaves – put them in a blender with olive oil, garlic, and grated walnuts, salt and pepper. Whizz enough to make a textured mix – I use it over pasta, or with poached salmon. Amounts of olive oil etc depend on how much wilting lettuce you have in the fridge !!! I grate the nuts in my parmesan cheese grater.

 Food for thought

 This poem by Wendell Berry soothes my soul and brings me peace:

I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”




Filed under army, colonial life, cookery/recipes, family, history, life/style, The Sound of Water, Thoughts on writing and life, uncategorised, Uncategorized

29 responses to “Sunset over Hong Kong

  1. It must have been a real nightmare for to live in Hon Kong during the cultural revolution. Reading your description of your car trip in the mids of the young revolutionaries gave me the shivers. Looking forward to read the next episode of your adventurous life, Valerie. Best wishes! Peter


    • Good to hear from you Peter… there were so many layers to life in Hong Kong back then – there probably still are !
      There are many more dangerous experiences to come, and not all in HK!
      Thank you for your enthusiasm, Peter..

      Liked by 1 person

  2. No wonder England seemed like paradise by comparison with all that! You continue to demonstrate that you have had a quite extraordinary life, and at times there were strong indications that it might end prematurely!


  3. Every day, out on the ditch bank I ‘rest in the world, and know I am free.” You so understand.

    What an adventure you had living in Hong Kong through that amazing time of upheaval. Your travel in your little car was scary.

    Like Peter, I can hardly wait for the next installment.

    (What an amazing life you have lived! AMAZING!)


  4. Your memory for everything, but especially what people wore, is incredible. But then I suppose if I saw someone dressed from neck to toe in blue suede I would remember it too. What I do remember is arriving in Hong Kong in 1981 to see my Love after being parted for a year, and having travelled about 20 hours to get there only to find they were having a water shortage, so no shower! It must have been true love because he married me 18 months later regardless! I’ve been to HK in summer, autumn and winter and seen it exactly as you described. It was exciting and bustling and exotic to me the first time, but very wearisome by the last visit. Just too much of everything. We are so privileged to be able to read your story Valerie. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • How interesting that your experience of HK was not so very different from mine after eleven years.. water, crowds an’ all !!!
      I love clothes so it’s probably not surprising that I remember what people wear… though I remember once after a party when I was still in the army, my senior officer having fun quizzing me on what everyone had worn the night before, including their jewellery as she found it hard to believe that I would have noticed – but I had !!!
      Thank you so much, Ardys for your lovely words about my blog, I do appreciate them…

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Anonymous

    Valerie the description of your being surrounded by the mob of young men made me shudder with horror….it must have been so frightening for you with your two babies n the car…& trying to do hill starts as well as all the other stuff! I so love your story ….each instalment has me fascinated.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Angela, thank you, I love to hear from you, and see what has grabbed your attention !!! You fully appreciate the horror of uphill starts for a novice driver!!! Now I find it’s reversing down our curved drive !!!
      Thank you for your lovely encouragement, Valerie


  6. I only came across your blog about a month ago and I’ve really enjoyed reading about your life’s adventures. It’s a fascinating window into worlds and times that few of us have experienced and I’m hooked.
    Re. Hong Kong we had a neighbour now deceased who’d been a British policeman out there in the 60’s/70’s who been retired in disgrace for corruption. His excuse was that everyone at all levels took bribes and it was impossible to do otherwise. He must have repented his ways as on his death his nephew found his bible which was very well thumbed with many verses underlined. I hope you publish its great social history.


    • How interesting about your neighbour… my husband had a friend who I thought was dodgy and who was the one who persuaded him to do as he had done, – learn Chinese etc
      He had joined the HK police… I couldn’t bear him or his wife, Thelma…

      Thank you so much for reading and commenting.. I’ve tried to get into your writings, and found your old blogs, which I enjoyed, but I don’t do facebook, and am completely bluffed by it, every time I try to return your visits, alas…best wishes, Valerie

      Liked by 1 person

  7. Jane Sturgeon

    The richness of experience, history and real life events comes across in waves Valerie. You write so beautifully. The moments in the car with your little ones .. no words from me. Truly a world away from England’s rolling green pastures. Is there a sense in you of ‘Did that really happen?’ It’s a privilege to share your story like this. Hugs and ❤ Xxx

    Liked by 1 person

    • I love your warm perceptive comments, Jane … and thank you so much for your lovely appreciation ….
      No I’ve never had that sense that you ask – did this really happen… somehow when you’re in the thick of things, it feels normal !!
      Love, Valerie

      Liked by 1 person

      • Jane Sturgeon

        Yes, absolutely Valerie. I wondered about that ‘unreal’ feeling in hindsight. I glance back at some memories, like riding shotgun on the country roads, when I was still a teenager and it feels rather unreal. When I was in the thick of it, we just got on with it. Many hugs and much ❤ for you. Xx


  8. What a time to be in Hong Kong and how scary to be caught up in that mob. We are off to this year’s Summer Exhibition next week but I doubt we’ll see anyone quite as elegant as your lady all in blue suede! I’m loving these stories of your remarkable life. I think I’ve said it before, but this really should be published whole. All the best, Sally xx

    Liked by 1 person

    • OH Sally, lovely to see your smiling face… what fun to be traversing those gorgeous galleries at the RA, and savouring the crop of new paintings.. Hope you have a lovely time – pictures on “My beautiful things’ ?????????
      Thank you so much for your enthusiasm about my saga… love, Valerie

      Liked by 1 person

  9. Although we seek, even crave certainty, we all live on the edge of uncertainty, of ambiguity. Adventures are not vacations. They are difficult, perilous and test our courage and resilience. Your memoirs are extraordinary and resonate within my current reality. Thank you!! Hugs and love,

    Liked by 1 person

    • Dear Rebecca, what a beautiful comment… fascinating thoughts and words.. I love what you say about adventures… Such insight, and such exquisite words – you could be channelling our treasured Gandalf !!
      It’s lovely that you’re enjoying my memoirs… and tell me more about your ‘reality”.
      The descriptions you wrote of your expedition to the islands of the Nordic North were so very thought-provoking, and what expansive meditations on the oceans, and the world and life, you encapsulated in the few words that make up a comment… amazing, how you do it…love, Valerie.

      Liked by 1 person

  10. I like that you tell it as it was, such as your comment about charities in Hong Kong. Painting things with a cheery gloss helps nobody. As usual, I love finding out about your fascinating past through your beautiful writing.

    Liked by 1 person

  11. This is a very good article, a good read so I am going to reblog this one for you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you kind sir, for your interest, and your re-blog – much appreciated.
      Being a complete technological incompetent, I haven’t been able to find a way to like or comment on your intriguing blog…alas…


  12. Valerie, although it can’t have been easy to live through such times, it has made for such an interesting life, and it must have been destined for you to experience these things because you write about them so well!


  13. After your narrative regarding the high life in London and to land smack in Hong Kong on a blistering hot and crummy day – must have been quite a shocker, to say the least, Valerie dear.
    You’ve captured those momentous days so very well and helped jog my memory some.
    What an interesting life you’ve led.
    All good wishes,
    P/s Looking out for the second part of the narrative.


  14. Dearest Valerie,

    I can only echo the comments of others re what an extraordinary life you’ve led. I can’t imagine only being able to have freedom of water four hours a week. One can imagine the hardship, if not the stench in the heat. You paint the pictures with such contrast between beauty and ugliness. I could almost hear the voices of the throngs of people crowded into such a small space. Thank you, as always, for your generosity in sharing. Perhaps one day you’ll compile these stories into a book?
    Much love to you and birthday wishes to himself. (There’s a card on it’s way, if it hasn’t arrived there yet.)
    Shalom and hugs to you both,



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