1. Pacific Place, about 5.50pm
She was perfectly made up. Her long hair was set into bouncy, luxurious waves, her lipstick freshly applied, her skin milky fair (no market for hitam manis attraction among north Asians), her long nails exquisitely manicured. Just enough perfume. She was also carrying 2-3 large shopping bags in each hand – Gucci. Max Mara. And, I notice with new respect for her tastes, Donna Karan.
Not DKNY, proper Donna Karan. I only know one store in Tsim Tsa Tsui. Every knee-length, drapey jersey dress I tried on cost around HKD 10,000. (Didn’t buy anything then, but I do have a very functional Donna Karan Double Zip Messenger Bag I paid ~ GBP 450 for in an online sale.)
There are 4 of us queue-ing for a cab when she approaches, I’m 3rd in line. She moves to stand behind me, and I assume she is the companion of the man standing last in queue. A minute later, however, she moves to stand in front of me and I realize she’s trying to cut the queue. She’s not very pushy, and when I don’t let her in (even if I wanted to, the man behind would kill me) she tries the person in front of me.
No one lets her in, but rather than join the back of the queue (which really isn’t very long by fast moving HK taxi queue standards – I would secure a cab in about 10 minutes) she continues to stand facing us as the queue moves. It starts getting longer, and I want to tell her after 6pm when the first wave of early leavers from the office hits, it’s going to be very long, so she better get in line.
The man behind me is joined by a woman who has obviously just gotten off work, by her very work-appropriate attire. They start talking about the well-groomed woman whom everyone has already assumed is from Mainland China (the main reason I didn’t warn her to get in line – I’m almost sure I can’t make myself understood to her, not with my shaky Putonghua and her obviously not having spent a lot of time in HK.)
I’m next in line for a cab. The working woman behind me says loudly to Ms Mainland China “Nobody is going to let you in the queue, ok. This is Hong Kong. We’re all tired. We just got off work. Get in line.” A flicker passes over her face, but I’m not sure how much she understood, she doesn’t reply or make eye contact.
As I get into my cab, she’s still standing there waiting for someone to let her in the queue, which is now snaking back and forth with more than 30 people in it.
View from a Queue
Uh, yes Rockstar, this Poh-poh looks very happy.
2. Ice House Street, 12.40pm
While I still worked… I sprint to the queue right after Hong Kong market close (12.30), and am first in line – I’m trying to get home for my weekly lunch with Rockstar. A lunch hour queue quickly forms, about 5 deep. The Caucasian man in his 50s in double-breasted suit standing behind me starts yelling and I see an asian auntie (who also looks to be in her 50s) now standing about 10 feet in front of us trying to hail a cab.
“Hey. Hey! HEY! <auntie finally turns> YOU WAIT YOUR TURN LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!!”
Auntie scowls and crosses the road to try and steal a cab elsewhere.
3. Landmark, about 3pm
I feel a tug on my sleeve, turn, and jump. An auntie’s tear-soaked face is close to mine and she’s crying almost hysterically. She’s in mourning clothes. She’s still tugging on my sleeve. I’m so startled (this being my first encounter – there were of course more thereafter) I start stammering in English, not even thinking to try my dubious Cantonese.
When she hears me speak in English, she immediately moves on to the next person in the queue, and starts crying all over again.
There is however a guy I somehow ended up always giving money to near International Finance Center, after moving office. He’s been there a long time, recognizes me, and navigates the fast moving escalators by scooting, cross-legged, on his bottom, because his legs don’t work and his hands are twisted. And Kings and I found it difficult not to give money when the beggars are old. (We just thought we have been blessed infinitely to be the ones who get to give.)
One day, two police officers stop me. Apparently by my action of giving this beggar money, I have identified myself as foreign / not having lived in HK for very long (back then), because they speak gently and politely in English, “It’s illegal in Hong Kong to give them money.”
When I get to work, I learn from my colleagues that the “correct” way of doing it is to give them food, say a lunchbox, as all cash is likely taken from them.
