Samantha Culp

Click on the picture to see Ming breaking the clay shell of the “Beggar’s Chicken.”

Yeah. Over drinks on a Friday night, a friend Renus who works for HK magazine “T(ea)” asked Sarah and I if we’d like to be models in the next issue. We said sure, but didn’t think anything would come of it. Imagine our surprise when we find ourselves on Monday in a Causeway Bay flat, being made-up and dressed-up (in Chanel accessories no less) and flashed-at. All in all it was fun. Later in the week the magazine came out, and my picture is about half an inch tall– Sarah’s is a beautiful full-page spread. I’ll try to put up a scan later. Another entry for the HK Surreality files.

(Click on the image above to see even MORE pictures from our busy day)

Woke up around dawn to meet our riverboat guide for an “illegal” cruise down the Li River (illegal because he’s not government-licensed, hence cheaper, hence he has to take us before all the legal boats do their tours). Xie Jie street was quiet and it wasn’t too hot out– just foggy and gray. We got down to the river and onto a huge boat. The guide set up folding chairs for us at one end and we just plowed through the hazy river landscape, like entering a surreal painting. The visual effect of the rounded mountains is difficult to describe. Water buffalo on the banks. Little fishing boats and women washing clothes on the rocks. The typical tourist illusion: “we have travelled through time.” We ended up at Fuli village, and ate some 8am breakfast of banana pancakes, barbecued duck ribs, rice, and mango juice. Walked through the early morning and fairly empty village streets. I bargained with a hawker for a small diptych painting of a woman on one side and a black goldfish on the other (final price: 20 yuan, under 3 US dollars). It probably isn’t very old, I just liked it. Because of the “open” nature of traditional Chinese village living spaces, I almost felt bad strolling the cobble-stoned lanes, as if I were trespassing in someone’s living room. On either side of us, through open doors and windows and corridors, people were sleeping, eating, cooking, working, watching TV, bathing babies, etc. The private is pushed out to the public, and to be a foreigner here felt quite circumspect. Also I felt like even more of a foreigner when we began to hear yelping getting louder and louder in our progress through the streets– and came upon a medium-sized dog laying in the road, barking and barking and wiggling around because his front legs had been tied with plastic twine around his back, and his ankles similarly trussed. I don’t know why he was tied up and left in the road, or what was going to happen to him, but I knew I couldn’t do anything about it. I still felt awful.

We found our way to the main road that led back to Yangshuo, and began asking around for the bus that would take us there. Instead, we were persuaded to take a motorbike/cart type contraption that was much cheaper. Rachel worked her Putonghua magic and got a ridiculous price of 10 yuan for all four of us, and we climbed in the back of what was basically a big box with four wheels and a canvas roof attached to the back of a motorcycle, and bumped our way back to Yangshuo. Probably not much safer than a bicycle, but it felt better protected, and our female driver fiercely steered through the traffic mess of tractors, buses, bikes and cows. Back in “town”, we got some lunch, shopped for more pirate DVDs (I caved to the new Tsai Ming-Liang film “Goodbye Dragon Inn” for 25 quai, and something that I correctly surmised was Wim Wenders’ “Tokyo-ga” for 8 yuan), and then Sarah and I went to the Yangshuo park. It was so quiet and green (and hot), with old men sitting around playing checkers or cards and these abandoned kids’ rides that seemed to feature bootleg versions of Disney animals (in the bigger photocollage you can see a sort of “Goofy”). We walked to the top of this hill and I almost had a coronary from being out of shape and the general soreness of my knees and arms from yesterday’s wipe-out. The view, though smoggy, was incredible. We walked back down, drank water, and went back to the hotel to check out and wait for the van to the cooking class.

When our cooking instructor arrived, we were first toured through the wet/dry market of Yangshuo (featuring live chickens and ducks stuffed into spherical baskets and tied to motorcycles, as well as eels, snakes, toads, fish, and the dried rat hanging so fetchingly halfway down the photocollage). Then we drove to an unbelievable restored farm-house about 15 minutes away, where a deluxe set-up of 10 personal gas stoves and woks awaited. Rachel, Carrie, Sarah and I and about 6 other British tourists were guided step-by-step in creating 6 amazing Guanxi province specialties that I doubt very strongly I could recreate on my own: barbecue duck ribs (like the ones we had gnawed that morning), steamed chicken and mushroom with wolfberries, egg-wrapped dumplings, stir-fried green vegetables with ginger and soy sauce, etc.

After hours of cooking and then eating our fill, we were driven back to the White Lion to pick up our bags and Sarah and I waited at the bus station, dreading the eight hour return to Shenzhen. We helped each other keep our vows not to drink any water, lest we need to use the urine-spattered bathroom in the middle of the night on a bus speeding 80 mph over unpaved roads. By the time we got onto the bus, I took a few Dramamine in the hopes of weathering the bumping a little better, but no dice. It still felt like being tied to a washing machine that’s on the back of a stage-coach going over cobblestones for eight hours, with outdated music videos and some very loud Chinese cop movie (with no subtitles) blaring near our heads the whole way back. We were welcomed into Shenzhen at 6am with the fanfare of loud “happy hardcore” techno music, which only increased our desire to get off the bus as soon as possible. After fording the Shenzhen/Lo Wu station and crossing the border back into Hong Kong, I realized again that Hong Kong may be “part” of China, but it’s still a different place entirely. The moment you step onto the HK side, the air feels different. The trees are greener. Nobody spits on the ground. Everybody speaks Cantonese. What a difference a border makes.
Back in my dorm at CUHK, I collapsed and napped most of the afternoon, and finally we rallied for dinner in Tsim Sha Tsui and drinks with Lenny and crew. Unfortunately, either the packaged sushi or curry rice didn’t agree with me, and the next morning (Saturday) found me awaking at 6am to vacate my stomach about 5 times in 3 hours. Sarah wasn’t feeling too great either. We just stayed inside most of the rainy day, and I worked up the tolerance to drink chicken broth by nightfall and watch the bizarre and historic Olympic ping-pong match between China and Hong Kong in the dormitory common room. I asked a few CUHK students how they felt when Hong Kong lost (fast, and badly), and they all responded that though they were disappointed, they couldn’t really feel bad because “both teams are Chinese.” One country. Two systems. What do I know.

the email i sent to people that night at the hostel:

hi everyone,

just a quick hello from yangshuo, in guanxi province of mainland china. sarah and i got here after a bone-rumbling overnight busride from shenzhen at the china border (and all the cheap dvds to be had there– we went a little crazy), and woke up to find ourselves in a fairytale landscape of green rounded mountains and lazy silver rivers. cows, farmers with straw hats, rice paddies, early morning mist, the whole nine yards– it looked like a green tea commercial. we pulled into the bus station, rode on the back of a bicycle-driven pullcart to our hostel, the white lion hotel, which is insanely cute, though located on the slightly-annoying “xie” or “foreigner” street (backpacker heaven). we took naps to replenish the sleep we never got on the 10 hour busride, and then ventured out into town in the heat of midday. we rented bikes for about 1 USD and rode towards something called “moon hill”, but never made it because of various wrong turns and then an unfortunate spill i took on the pavement (i haven’t ridden a bike in about 5 years). i scraped up my hand and elbow but i’m fine mom! (i have since cleaned with alcohol and neosporin, don’t worry) it was just a bit hard to ride on the way back with my bloody hand clutching the handle. also it made me aware of my own mortality on these crazy chinese backroads– if i had wiped out in the path of a bus or truck pulling 90mph, or one of these weird loud tractors everyone drives around, i probably would not be writing right now. but i am, and all cleaned up, sarah, rachel and carrie and i are headed out to find the local delicacy called “beer fish”… tomorrow perhaps a bamboo raft cruise down a river, maybe a cooking class, and then back to the hustle and bustle of neon hong kong.

thinking of you all,

xo sam

Sarah came into Hong Kong on a Monday, and by Tuesday we were headed to Yangshuo. First stop: the smoggy air of Shenzhen, the border-town between Hong Kong and China. It feels different the moment you exit the customs line. The sky is hazier. The floor is dirtier. The pace is a bit more frenzied. And though you’re about 50 feet from Hong Kong, nobody speaks Cantonese. We spent a few hours in the crazed shopping center of Luohu (Lo Wu) splurging on DVDs and realizing how much we hate being called “Missy.” Then onto the bus station, and onto the bus, which turned out to be 9 hours of dark and bumpy purgatory before reaching Yangshuo. When we woke up, though, the endless bone-rattling and sleep-preventing progress of the bus had been worth it. We were in a fairy tale.

This whole past week I’ve been sick with some mysterious “upper respiratory infection” (NOT SARS) that simply wouldn’t go away. It took me down for the count (like “Throwdown”– check out the judo-themed graphic bottle of Qoo, a Gatorade-like drink I’ve been chugging for my electrolytes). Luckily I was done with Cantonese class, and not starting orientation for two weeks (and work for nearly 4), but it’s still no fun to become a borderline-comatose hermit for an entire week.

Days consist of: waking up. Drinking water. Taking medicine. Trying to go back to sleep, but instead having a coughing fit. Drinking some cough syrup (all local brands of which are about 95% pure codeine). Feeling nauseous. Having a headache. Whole body aches. Trying to eat something (choices are slim: Nesvita, ramen, husband cakes). Considering begging a friend to get me food. Considering going back to the health clinic. Going back to the health clinic. Having to wear a face mask because I have respiratory symptoms (but NOT SARS, I pinkie-swear). Trying to read or write, but finding it too mentally strenuous. Trying to write emails but finding it too mentally strenuous. Watching lots of movies on my computer because it’s the only thing that’s not too mentally strenuous.

Falling into the perfectly appropriate lull of “Picnic at Hanging Rock” and the theme of ethereal girl longing and dreamlike disappearance– I was practically consumptive like a proper Romantic heroine, after all. Falling into the opposite fever state of the two “Infernal Affairs” sequels, and the fiery stare of the inimitable and enduring Andy Lau. Other good sick viewing: “Mon Oncle” (the comfort of an old favorite, see site on Tati) “Zhou Yu’s Train” (Gong Li and Tony Leung Ka-Fai are always great), “Beijing Rocks” (pretty silly flick about the Beijing punk scene, sort of), “Made in Hong Kong” (Fruit Chan’s first, made me cry, for real). I am much better by now, thanks in great part to the sushi, snacks and picture books that Carrie, Rachel and Yomei got for me at various points in my decrepitude. And one of my oldest and best friends Sarah is coming to visit tomorrow.

I just saw this tonight and it is already one of my favorite movies. I don’t know when it will get reach the states (if ever), but I will happily buy DVDs for people if they want (and they should want). Here are some stills and you can watch the trailer here (you’ll have to click around a little bit if you can’t read characters). More facts: Directed by HK legend Johnnie To as an homage to the Sanshiro Sugata judo movies of Akira Kurosawa. Starring Louis Koo, breaking out of his squeaky-clean popstar image to play a former judo champ turned gambling alcoholic night-club manager and petty criminal– if you imagine a Cantopop heartthrob channeling Dustin Hoffman in his ’70s scruffy loser glory, you’ll get some idea of how awesome he is. Aaron Kwok, an even bigger Cantopo star, plays the upstart who wants to fight Koo, and Cherrie Ying is the ragamuffin girl who finds singing work at Koo’s club. There is also a great and weird cameo by Tony Leung Ka-Fai. The closest description for the film might be “judo screwball black comedy”, but it’s much stranger and darker than that.

So… the tropical-themed “seashell” party Yomei had told us about earlier turned out to be a tropical-themed “Seychelles” party. The Seychelles consulate, to be exact– an honorary title for an unbelievably posh house designed by Norman Foster (yes, that Norman Foster, Sir Norman Foster, designer of Chek Lap Kok and Stansted Airports, and the HSBC building). Who, pray tell, lives in this out-of-control architectural jewelbox? Sam Chan, a Hong Kong businessman who “owns brands” (in his own words, when I asked him what he did for a living, as we sat above his ridiculous 10-foot suspended plate-glass waterfall. In return, he kept asking me if I was one of the “nine Czech models” his friend had promised him would attend the party. I assured him that I was not, but he wasn’t convinced.) Anyhow, this fellow knows how to throw a party. When we finally left at 4am, Jackie Chan still hadn’t shown up (as someone said he would), but it was still a surreally-perfect evening of wine-sipping and skyscraper-gazing. At last we trundled down the consulate’s private road, passing the turbaned guards at the gate, and said goodbye to the magic kingdom of the Seychelles.

Saturday was quite busy. First stop: dim sum with Ingrid, Carrie and Rachel at the Shatin mall, where we made it just in time for the afternoon rush hour. I took photos of this bizarre, glass-enclosed peach tree sculpture to suppress my pangs of hunger until they finally seated us. After stuffing ourselves with dumplings and steamed vegetables and sponge cake, we split off on our separate ways– Ingrid to antique shop in Central, the rest of us to track down “Cattle Depot” and the art event taking place there. Cattle Depot is a complex of galleries in a slightly out-of-the-way location (actually quite near the old Kowloon Walled City, which was torn down long ago and is now commemorated by a park I’ve been meaning to visit), and used to be an honest-to-god depot for cattle– the whitewashed art spaces still feature big iron rings set into the walls that were used to tether cows. It’s a really cool place and immediately made me think of Bergamot Station in L.A. where I used to intern at the Santa Monica Museum of Art. On this particular day, Space 1a in Cattle Depot was hosting a lecture about cyber-text and hyper-text by Linda Lai, Professor at the City University of Hong Kong, as well as a closing party for an exhibit of computer-texty art projects by some of Professor Lai’s students. The lecture was interesting but really theoretical, as were, unfortunately, the artworks. They seemed sort of like works in progress, except for a pretty cool piece at the end of the hall called “Childgulations” where speaking into a microphone would trigger three video projections to talk back to you in bizarre voices and semi-nonsense speech. I got to talk to some of the art students present, and met a few local artists and curators– always nice to meet new people. Then a DJ and VJ started playing, who were actually quite good– strange loops of theremin and beats and live mixed video. I sipped away on red wine that nobody else (except us gweilos) seemed to be drinking. Then we headed over to Causeway Bay, and strolled through the G.O.D. (Goods of Desire) flagship store there (sort of a much cooler IKEA by a HK designer) before meeting up with Yomei and Ian at Times Square. Where to next? Some mysterious tropical-themed “seashell” party on Bowen Road in the Mid-levels…

On Wednesday afternoon, my entire Cantonese class went to “yam chah” (drink tea and eat snacks) at the University Guest House, one of the nicer eateries on campus. We carpooled up there with Chang sin-saang and Law sin-saang, two of the teachers, and valiantly tried to speak only Cantonese during the meal (well, some people tried. I mainly failed). Friday was our last class, comprised of an hour-long written exam and a ten-minute oral exam. I was incredibly nervous, but surprised myself by doing pretty well. “Gei hou,” the teacher said, after I amazingly enough managed to express why I wouldn’t like to be a businessperson (”Ngoh muiyaht m’jungyi heui gungsi”– “I don’t like to go to an office every day”). Not a terribly deep reflection on career choice, but this is only my fourth week after all.

Friday night, Rachel and I went out with Christian to celebrate the end of class and also to say goodbye (Mr. C. Lo has now returned to Norway and his Anthropology Masters program). We met up in Mongkok and trekked to Central, where we rode the mid-level escalators up and down and to and fro, rejecting this restaurant because it was too expensive, that because it looked too cheap, this other one because Christian deemed the menu “boring”… Finally he remembered a Russian restaurant that seemed a good compromise, and we hunted through the alleys near Hollywood Road for “Ivan the Kossack.” I was starving and ready to give up and duck into some scuzzy place called “Tuk Tuk Thai Food” but I’m so glad I didn’t: 1) Ivan the Kossack has really good Russian food (potato pancakes with sour cream, baked duck with apple and blackcurrant). 2) Ivan the Kossack has really good Russian drinks (cocktail titles include “Dr. Zhivago” and “From Russia with Love”). 3) Ivan the Kossack has an unbelievable, and I mean, UNBELIEVABLE Russian band. They are a boy and a girl. They are married. Their names are “Andrew and Oxsana” (I’m sure I’m spelling her name wrong). They wear Russian peasant blouses and sit in the corner and play very soft Eastern European disco on keyboard and drum machine. They were imported from the Ukraine by Ivan’s owner 8 months ago, and every night of the week, from 7pm-11pm, they’re doing their subtly amazing act, which combines covers of Abba and Kylie Minogue with completely indescribable and fantastic Russian easy listening and electro songs. I want to go see them again as soon as possible. And though it’s hard to top Andrew and Oxsana, there is a 4th and final reason why Ivan the Kossack rocks: they have a SNOW ROOM. Yes. A snow room. A space about the size of a small bathroom which is kept at a permanent 15 degrees below zero and features actual SNOW on the ground (as well as panoramic photo murals of Russian snow-capped mountains, for atmosphere). You can get a big fur coat and fur hat to wear into the glorified freezer, and then take shots of any vodka known to man (I chose a fairly inexpensive pepper infusion). We toasted to Christian’s last night in Hong Kong and the hopes that our Scandinavian friend would return soon! (”Ho! Leskutegol!” is a Norweigan toast that means something like “Let the ships roll!” Oh Christian, you viking you.) We also stopped at a nearby LKF bar to say a “Kampai!” to our other classmates Nami and Shoko who were returning to Japan.

I’ve gotten into the habit of having two dinners. Some days this is because I don’t wake up until noon and this throws off my my entire schedule, but some days it’s because there’s just so much to do and I don’t want to miss anything. Yesterday evening’s dinner #1 was at Christian Lo’s grandmother’s flat, a homey affair with the whole extended family and Rachel and I there as guests. After class we trekked over to Sham Shui Po with Christian to meet his father and uncle in the train station, then walked around the neighborhood’s crammed and crazy marketplaces where everything from pirated software to live toads is for sale, cheap. I had barely paused at a traditional medicine shop to puzzle at the shriveled brown root-looking things in the window when Christian’s uncle Bill popped up beside me. “Do you know what that is?” he asked, and then took a moment to confer with Christian’s Dad about the English word– “They have them at Ocean Park? They do tricks?” I took a guess, remembering the smiling cartoon animal on the Ocean Park logo. “A seal?” “Yes, those are seal penises.”

Christian bought some nunchaku in an old man’s kung fu supply store, and we browsed the Hello Kitty wholesaler, a tombstone carver’s workshop, and the stalls of the live animal and produce market. While Rachel and I were pondering the purchase of a durian fruit, a wizened seventy-something man passed by and deliberately poked my butt with his folded up newspaper (it also happened a few moments later a few yards up, same guy and same paper, so it was no accident). It was odd because it was the closest thing to sexual harrassment I’ve had since I’ve been here, and it was quite mild compared to the lewd pinchers of the Tokyo subway and the incessant catcalls of the Parisian streets. In general I feel quite safe here, but feeling too safe can be a dangerous thing. Anyhow, we didn’t buy the durian– not because of the lech but because we didn’t want to stink up Mrs. Lo’s apartment, where we were headed next.

As she greeted us at her metal security gate (standard on every flat’s front door in Hong Kong), I saw what Christian meant when he said “my grandmother talks with her whole body.” She welcomed us in with hugs and a kiss on the cheek and her few words of English. The grandfather was posted in a black easy-chair towards the back of the living room (with the best view of the prominent television), children’s toys were scattered all around as the grandchildren Yan-Yan and Christy played on the floor (and eyed us shyly). We drank Coke Light and talked with Christian’s family (mainly in English, though everyone graciously pretended to understand our Cantonese) until dinner was served– three kinds of pork, chicken with black bean sauce and the most unbelievable mushrooms, rice, soup… I had planned to eat only a little and save room for dinner #2, but I ended up gorging despite myself. It’s lucky I had to leave before dessert was served; still I felt like the worst guest jumping up to leave right after eating my fill.

Next stop: TST. I made record time to meet Lenny and more of his friends for Spoon’s birthday party. (The names are getting slightly easier by the way, or maybe I’m getting more adjusted. This time was the highly-feasible roll call of Barry, Gary, Dicky, and Damon). Dinner #2 was at Indonesian Restaurant 1968, apparently one of Hong Kong’s first and best Indonesian restaurants. It is now run by Hudson, the son of the founders and a friend of Lenny’s (like everyone else in HK). He dashes around the restaurant in a black jacket and slightly unbuttoned white shirt, looking every bit like the movie version of a glamorous restauranteur (that’s him in the collage above with his hands on the bamboo poles). The cinematic aspect of the evening became complete when he came by the table about an hour into dinner and said something in low and confidential Cantonese to our group. Immediately excitement spread across the steaming plates of spicy chicken– everyone was laughing and chattering away and looking over their shoulders. Except for me, of course, since I had no idea what was going on. “Neihdeih gong matyeh a?” (”What are you talking about”) I asked Barry. “Oh, he just told us that there are a bunch of Triads sitting at a table around the corner.”

Dinner stretched on past the restaurant’s closing time, and I half expected that the plan for karaoke would be scrapped. But no. Come 12:30am, down in the hot street with some friends zooming off on their scooters and others complaining about early work the next morning, Lenny leads the way to Red Box for us die-hards: Spoon, his girlfriend Winnie, Siu Pak, Kitty, et moi. Reinforcements await us there, including Joanne and Lung Jai (whom I had also met at the GDC party last week). The Cantopop starts blaring, the drinks start flowing, and I am just trying to find English songs on the system that I know and like before they hand me the microphone to ones I don’t (know or like). “Here, you sing this one, you know Take That ‘I Want You Back’? Do you know Dido ‘Thank You’?” The selection of English-language songs was not great, so I couldn’t do my show-stopping rendition of the Rolling Stones’ “Angie” (which has always been my fallback in karaoke places from Sendai, Japan to Koreatown, California). But at least I got to rock “I Saw Her Standing There” and “Hotel California”. The rest of the time I mainly listened to the pitch-perfect Faye Wong lip-syncing and Nicholas Tse posing, and Spoon’s excellent improvement on a Coldplay song. Almost as good as the songs were the nuggets of local pop gossip– Faye Wong is a bitch (Lung Jai, who’s sound engineered some of her concerts, actually said “difficult”, but when I suggested the word “diva” or “bitch” he just looked at me and laughed like, “you don’t know the half of it”); Guns’n'Roses demand raspberry gum and bananas in their dressing room (according to Siu Pak who worked on their HK concert); and some unnamed Australian band is so racist that they requires all Asians working on their concert to “hide” in their presence. In the meantime, Joanne, Winnie and Lung Jai tried to teach me this dice-shaking drinking game that I kept thinking I understood and then losing pitifully again. There’s another one that looks like a more complicated version of rock-paper-scissors that I wasn’t even going to try.

Suddenly it was 3:30am, and the manager was bursting into our parlor to kick us out (but not before he courteously took digital pictures of us with everyone’s camera). We cabbed to Mongkok and split into our separate siu ba (night buses), and I glowed with the tired excitement that I might actually be making friends here.