Somewhere in Time

There are only 12 people on the ferry in this Monday morning in fall. A young couple is sitting in the right corner of the last row, dozing, with the woman’s head nestling on the man’s shoulder. Another couple sitting on the left side are chatting softly, almost whispering – from time to time, the woman will burst into silent laughter with her long hair rippling and shimmering like the sea in the sunshine. When they are not chatting, the man is taking photos of the slowly changing view, from skyscrapers to the open sea to a little island covered in green, and from fishing boats to jet boats to freighters exhaling smoke.

Three men on the right side appear to be fairly exited, talking merrily with each other, running from side to side taking photos.

The cold and strong wind blows and howls wildly on the rear deck, bringing a fresh smell of the sea. With the sound of the wind, the ferry roars, cleaving the water into billows of waves pounding back at the ferry angrily.

Thirty minutes after departure, the ferry pulls in. Standing on the pier, I see a fishing village at a distance with a warren of prosaic low-rise country buildings spreading unattractively along the coast line.

The formerly chatting couple walks by. “So this is Lamma Island?” the woman asked somewhat complainingly, apparently not impressed.

Well yes, from the graffiti on the seawall that reads “welcome to Lamma.”

I am not surprised at the hundreds of bikes chained to the rails on the pier – Google has prepared me well for this trip. But it still looks exotic being a part of the crowed, train, bus and car-loaded Hong Kong that I am familiar with.

What surprises me is that in a place supposed to be quiet and safe I don’t always feel so. Even though motor vehicles are prohibited on the island except for the fire trucks and ambulances and VVs (Village Vehicle), the VVs can be as loud and dangerous on the island’s narrow streets.

The pier leads to Yung Shue Wan village, or Banyan Bay, the most populated and popular village on the island. At the entrance of the village a huge banyan tree stands welcomely, ushering me to a line of two to three seafood restaurants on the left with a variety of strange looking live marine creatures on display in large water tanks, and their tents canopying over the street and the alfresco docks on the right for people to sit and enjoy their seafood feasts.

Passing the restaurants and several small hotels, I enter the heart of the village. The streets of the village are so narrow that two adults can barely pass shoulder to shoulder. Along the streets are restaurants, cafés, bars, small apartment buildings, and stores selling fruits and vegetables, handicrafts, cultural clothes and accessories and decorations, snacks and cookies.

The stores are simple with the rustic appearances, but special with what’s inside. They glow with the dazzling stocks of artsy-craftsy goods they sell. They are exhibitions of the creative minds behind. When you step into the stores, you can take your time and have a good look at everything. The owners of the stores will not come to you and sell you this and that aggressively. They will say nothing but greet you with a smile and several friendly words. If you want they will also give you detailed introductions and recommendations – they know what they are selling, and they treasure them. In front of a store a scarecrow board stands with a sentence written on the board that reads “forget about the things that bother you for a while, and have a taste of the leisure moment on the island.”

Perhaps this is what everyone on the island is looking for, be it an islander or visitor. Perhaps this is what they will get here – when a VV is not around, of course.

I guess I can understand why so many people from the Hong Kong proper and other countries settled here. Walking through the streets seeing people passing by jogging, biking, or walking dogs, seeing them sitting in the cafés and bars sipping a cup of coffee, exchanging a couple of words, I feel time flowing backward.

The street gradually wanders away from the village. Following the signs I am on my way to Hung Shing Yeh Beach, the most popular beach on the island. Walking along the trail past the small flower-decorated apartment buildings, banana groves, clusters of trees in blossom, and fields with tall grass and trees growing lavishly, I keep hearing intense drumbeats sound African or Native American. But when I look toward the direction the beats are coming, I see nothing but trees. I feel as if I have entered a primitive jungle where the aborigines are celebrating a feast.

“Is there a celebration on the island?” I ask myself.

Ten minutes later I come to another sign pole with one sign pointing forward toward Hung Shing Yeh and one pointing leftward toward the wind power station uphill. No sign points rightward toward the place downhill where the beats come from. So I take the downhill trail. In a minute I come to a small beach right beside the Lamma power station with the overwhelming view of the famous, or infamous immense triple stacks of the station. Some superstitious locals dislike the chimneys because they see the chimneys as three huge incense sticks, a symbol of death.

The beach looks deserted and peaceful. It would have been quiet also without the drumbeats. On the trail alongside the beach, I finally see the origin of the beats – four African artists are practicing African drumming and dancing, preparing for a show to be held in Central. The three men are drumming, the woman is dancing. From time to time, they will sing wildly in an aboriginal language. Their voices mixed with the drumbeats echo between the sky and the sea. In the sunset glow, the peaceful sea, the deserted beach, the rocking figures and shades of the most ancient race performing the most ancient art, and the colossal machine park looming ahead form an almost beautiful view of a juxtaposition so dramatic and alien that it stuns me endlessly.

From the deviation back to the main intersection, I move on to Hung Shing Yeh. A minute later I arrive at the beach. Different from the wild little beach, it is more complete and well preserved with small stores, restaurants, barbecue docks, lifeguards, changing rooms and bathrooms, and tourists. Still, it is under the shadow of the power station, but the station feels less imminent here, and the juxtaposition not as striking.

The pillowy soft sand curves into a pleasant crescent. A couple of rocks strew at the sea front. Small waves wash over the rocks, brush over the sand and go back down, in a steady echoing rhythm and sound. Just like the ebb and flow of the lives here, day and night, up and down – certainly not sweeping, but constant and lasting.

After a short visit to Herboland, an organic herb garden I have described in the previous post, I figure it is time to go back, back to the Yung Shue Wan pier, and back to the material reality of the prosperous Central.

On the ferry back, cruising closer and closer to the glorious lights of the Hong Kong Island, suddenly I feel the time on Lamma like a dream. It reminds me of a Chinese journalist who wrote in an article, “Riding on a ferry cruising between the outlying islands and the Hong Kong Island is a most dramatic experience. Heading into the dazzling modern society of Central from a tranquil rustic fishing village, in a short time you have traveled across Hong Kong’s past life and present.”

The alfresco docks at the entrance of Yung Shue Wan village on the right side of the street for people to sit and enjoy their seafood feasts. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

One of the narrow streets of Yung Shue Wan village. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

A store in the village selling fruits and vegetables. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

The glowing store with the dazzling stocks of artsy-craftsy goods it sells. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

A scarecrow board in front of a store with a sentence written on the board that reads “forget about the things that bother you for a while, and have a taste of the leisure moment on the island.” (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

The small apartment buildings among lavishly grown plants along the trail to Hung Shing Yeh Beach. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

An apartment building decorated in blossoms. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

Banana groves and fields with tall grass and trees along the trail to Hung Shing Yeh Beach. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

The view from the small beach of the power station in sunset. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

Four African artists are practicing African drumming and dancing, preparing for a show to be held in Central. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

One of the stores near Hung Shing Yeh Beach. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

Hung Shing Yeh Beach. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

An overview of the beach. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)

The juxtaposition of the beach and the power station in sunset. (Photo: Shirley Zhao)