Golfing Round the World
Chapter XII The cheerful Caddy
What do we know of Hong Kong, those of us who have not seen it? Nearly everyone has friends there. Don't we know them, those much tanned 'revenants' who turn up after the years of absence, in our homes and clubs, almost shy and reticent, wistful and politely bored? I remember such a one. During the day he played golf darkly like a Trappist: after dinner he would fall asleep, if his chair had arms. Another told me that the one thing that interested him when on leave in England, was the sailing date of the steamer in which he had booked his passage back to the East.
From other parts of the world men return and talk informatively and expansively, and not always veraciously, hence the term 'traveller's tales'. Why then this silence concerning Hong Kong? Is it a conspiracy? Having had the privilege and unalloyed pleasure of spending some days in that delectable Crown colony I am inclined to think that the hush hush tactics of its denizens are intentional. They know a good thing when they see it and do not mean to give it away.
Hong Kong is an island about as large as Arran or Bute. It is rugged and mountainous and most beautifully wooded. The coastline is indented with shady bays and coves and creeks like the shores of a sea loch in the Highlands. If shelter were required in that superb climate there lies just across the sound or strait, from a mile to two miles wide, the bold mainland of China, with its chain of imposing mountain heights towering up to five and six thousand feet. Hong Kong itself rises to three thousand feet and falls sheer from the famous peak, tumbling from terrace to terrace to the sea level ledge far below, whereupon is built the most beautiful city of the Far East. Mingle the beauties and climate of the Golden Corniche with the rugged grandeur of the Western Highlands and you have some idea of the fascinating charm of this Pearl of the Orient.
Now the men of Hong Kong live in palaces on top of the peak, literally suspended in the blue, above the city and the sparkling waters of the sound. Dwelling on these giddy heights they become Hyperions: they are not as other men, and while in the guise of human beings they may at times descend to the plain, and even condescend to visit their native land, their spirits remain behind on high Olympus.
The "Imperatrice" had stolen in, in the small hours of the morning. We always came and departed in the dark.
We lay alongside the "Godowns" (splendid word) at Kowloon which is situated on the peninsula of China, to which it gives its name, and which is, since its lease from China in 1895, British territory. It was to some extent our misfortune to have ushered in the rainy season, so the Peak and city which lay just a short mile across the Sound were shrouded in mist. The whole harbour seemed crowded with life and activity, there were dozens of huge liners at anchor alongside wharfs and hundreds of small sailing junks, and sailless sanpans literally teaming with Chinamen, their wives and large families. In view of the rainy weather, only a mild warm drizzle in fact, the port labourers wore heavy looking capes and bell tent hats made of striped palm leaves, which are said to be unsurpassed in their weatherproof qualities.
Whenever a steamer leaves the harbour for foreign parts all Hong Kong is aware of it, without even taking the trouble to look out of its windows. The Chinese have a notable mode of bidding their friends farewell by letting off thousands of crackers - Chinese crackers, those neat little red cardboard tubes filled with gunpowder and having a little fuse of twisted paper which are the delight of every British schoolboy, but I had to travel many years from my schooldays before I realised why they were called Chinese. The generally accepted explanation of this quaint custom is that every cracker kills a devil.
We had come back to a rickshaw country. It is perhaps significant that none of these man-drawn vehicles were to be seen in Java or the Philippines under Dutch or American administration. I have seldom seen a finer type of man than the rickshaw men of Hong Kong. One night I went up to dine with a friend who lived on the Peak. He had given me the address of his house written in Chinese characters on a slip of paper. It was pitch dark when I stepped out of the 'take your breath away' tramway near the summit and my chances of finding his house unaided were absolutely nil, but as directed I invoked the help of the native policeman, who was on duty just outside the Station. He glanced at the chit and summoned one of the rickshaw men from the rank. This fine fellow, a magnificent athlete to look at, carefully read the address, nodded his head cheerfully, and invited me to mount his rickshaw, a smart silver mounted affair with rubber tyres. He then dashed off with the speed of a quarter mile sprinter, traversing a maze of inclined footways and terraced paths. He was the embodiment of strength swiftness, and silence, and very evidently he took a pride in his work. Most decidedly I enjoyed the sensation and there and then, I realised why the recent Wembley Exhibition had failed of complete success. Rickshaws would have filled the universal need of easy and comfortable transport up and down and across that square mile of weary slope. Cannot you picture the letter columns of the British press if my dream had come true. If the Rodeo came near to being suppressed, the promoters of such an enormity as rickshaws, with the coolie drivers, would have been lynched: thus providing an even greater sensation. But nursemaids still push perambulators, and if porters still condescend to pull your personal baggage by the quarter ton, it is surely not less honourable and useful to exercise skill and strength in the plying of Jinrikishas.