The Hong Kong Stalker
December 26th, 2017
Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong
[10min read]
I couldn’t decide whether I liked the three-headed bronze sculpture. Each head stemmed from the same root. The faces seemed suspended in different states of meditation. Krystina had long since wandered off toward more interesting works of art in Kowloon Park’s Sculpture Garden.
“Wait! Take this picture!” I called. I clasped both hands together, staring up at the central face in mock wonder. Krystina snorted.
“What are you doing?”
I struck another pose, puckering my lips and reaching up, as if for a kiss.
We were still in a fit of laughter when the woman broke away from her family, changing course like a heat-seeking missile. I took an instinctive step back, nearly tripping over the small backpack I’d set on the floor.
The middle-aged, petite Chinese woman stopped short. Her face lit up with curiosity and amazement. Her cell phone was mounted onto an expensive selfie stick. She gestured excitedly, asking in English if she could take our photo. The smile vanished from my face.
This was not my first go at this; this was not even my hundredth go at this. I’d been to South American and European countries. I’d been to cities, big and small, where brown skin appeared to be the eighth wonder of the world. By now I was used to the gawking, used to the eyes that followed me.
China was a different story.
It was usually easy to find these racially fueled encounters funny; after the fact. Back home, my parents laughed at my daily reports, incredulous. I would cradle the phone each night and rush through a list of bizarre incidents. I gave myself over to the comfort of their voices, thousands of miles away.
I’d come to spend Christmas with my friend Krystina. She was teaching English in Guangzhou, a large city in southern China. She couldn’t go home for Christmas, and I hated the idea of her being alone. We’d decided to meet in Hong Kong before continuing to Thailand. I had three days on my own before she arrived.
On my first day, I’d taken the MTR (Mass Transit Railway) north of Tsim Sha Tsui to the Nan Lian Garden in Yuen Leng. I leaned against the train’s wall, spreading my feet apart for balance. The man to my left FaceTimed animatedly with a woman. I’d noticed that locals were very fond of FaceTime, particularly in public spaces. I looked straight ahead, reading through the stops on the route. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man quickly turn the phone so that I filled the frame. The man didn’t look at me, perhaps thinking I wouldn’t notice. I turned completely toward them. The woman waved eagerly, as if I were an old friend.
Hours later, I’d wandered through every nook of the stunning garden. There were hints of the Tang Dynasty everywhere; the artful rocks; the tiny, intentional waterfalls. The Pavilion of Absolute Perfection, a striking, gold structure, stood proudly in the center. It looked like the backdrop of a fairy tale.
I paused for a moment to check my phone, leaning against a large boulder for support. A young boy, no older than 16, ran up beside me. His friend, phone in hand, darted out in front of us. The boy posed sporadically, bending his body in different directions. Did he think I was a statue? He didn’t bother to actually look at me. They were gone as quickly as they came.
Just before the exit, I stopped to tighten my laces. The nine hours I’d spent wandering around the city had finally caught up with me. My feet were throbbing; my knees ached. When I straightened up, a Cambodian girl about my age closed the distance between us, grabbing my arm. I was too stunned to shake her off. She pulled me towards her group, waving frantically at them. I didn’t understand Khmer, but I could only imagine what she was telling them. Guess what I found. I took a deep breath and managed an almost genuine smile. I had tried, for days, to be understanding. I knew that it must be exciting to see the kind of face in real life that you’ve only ever seen on TV. I found myself surrounded by thirty very delighted Cambodian women. Cell phones swam in front of my face. I hunched over slightly so that I could fit into their pictures.
Nearby, an American family halted at the sight of us, thoroughly confused. They slowly lifted their phones and cameras, unsure of whether I was an actual celebrity. Just in case, they snapped and clicked away, eventually moving on to another part of the grounds.
The Cambodian group also disbanded. They thanked me cheerfully and waved goodbye. I stood there for a moment. It was becoming increasingly difficult to be a tourist. And how could I? I was part of the attractions.
By the fifth day of the trip, I’d been accosted by all sorts: the Chinese, Japanese, Cambodians, Vietnamese, in large groups, in small groups. Each encounter beat on my heart like a drum. Each encounter forced a tension into my shoulders. There was nothing as lonely as having hundreds of eyes on you, grabbing you, pleading with you for a photo, or even taking a few without your permission. I didn’t feel human.
Krystina looked at me. She looked nervously at the woman, who stood expectantly with her extended wand. Krystina preferred to keep the peace. She would rather just take the picture and move on. I shook my head and let the woman know politely that I wasn’t interested. It was as though I’d slapped her across the face.
“Just very quick,” she insisted. With each step she took forward, I took one step back.
“I’m sorry, but no thank you.”
“I want a picture for my daughter. Please.” She arranged her lips into a pout. She waited, looking at me like a child pleading for ice cream. This was all becoming too much. I had a right to say no. I had a right to be tired of the whole thing. What I wanted was to feel like any other human being wandering the park.
“Sorry, no.” I picked up my backpack and stalked off in the direction of the Pool Pavilion, but not before I heard the woman huff and mumble something in Mandarin. Her anger, her sense of entitlement, infuriated me. Krystina matched my stride, looking sideways at me. She would’ve just taken the picture. After a year in China, she’d made peace with the way things were.
I soon forgot about the aggressive woman. We stopped to admire the artistically bent steel that decorated the walkway between the lotus pools. I was quickly falling in love with Hong Kong. I had never seen a more spectacular skyline; it even surpassed New York. With such an impressive collection of concrete, there was still a natural beauty that had already brought me to tears.
We got up, dusting off our pants and hands. I noticed the woman and her selfie stick lurking not too far away. We made eye contact. She turned away quickly, pretending to be engrossed in the nearest flower. I could barely conceal my irritation. I reminded myself that she was free to wander wherever she wanted; I didn’t own the park; It was a public space. But there was something in her body’s orientation that disturbed me. Her left shoulder and foot seemed to point in our direction, even though her eyes were trained elsewhere. Krystina laughed, sure that I was paranoid.
We walked on, enjoying the warm weather and serenity of the park’s many gathering spaces. I enjoyed the people-watching, but not nearly as much as the people enjoyed watching me. We stopped to take in the gorgeous flamingo pond at Bird Lake. The lush green that enclosed the water, and flanked both sides of the bridge, magically muted the noise of the buzzing city, transporting us to a quiet jungle far away.
We lingered and cooed over every creature we set our eyes on. I hadn’t noticed my own hunger until Krystina spoke of dinner plans.
I took one last savoring look around, doing a double take toward the opposite end of the bridge. I thought I’d seen someone; she looked familiar. The figure disappeared, melting into the retreating crowd. My eyes were playing tricks on me. We left the dreamy waters behind and circled back through the Park’s main promenade.
Krystina pointed out an ice cream stand down the path. I walked distractedly, searching my backpack for a HK$20 note. We heard the twigs snapping and bushes shaking before we realized what was happening. My eyes flew to the extended selfie-stick before settling on the determined Chinese woman who wielded it like a sword. She charged through the underbrush. Her blouse snagged on a branch on her way into the center of the promenade. Undeterred, with her chest puffed out, her mouth fashioned into a hard line, she looked us dead in the eyes and snapped away.
“Oh my God,” Krystina breathed.
And then I lost it, right there, in the middle of Kowloon Park. The sound bubbled in my throat and then rushed out of my mouth. I bent over, shaking uncontrollably. I laughed until I could feel tears rolling down both cheeks. I laughed until the woman, confused, retracted her phone and walked away.
After some time, I straightened up. I couldn’t help but remember Lau Yau-Kuen’s three-headed sculpture. Even with three heads, I wouldn't have seen that coming.
Photo Credit: Aramide Alaka
