The Shay Rebellion | Christopher Shay

In college, my friends and I walked. We walked the entire length of Manhattan. We walked a portion of the 6 train, eating and smelling the neighborhoods along the way. We walked from the East Village to Morningside, finishing with the sunrise.

At times, these walks were a way to have a Star Trek adventure, beaming ourselves down to worlds different from the familiar one at Morningside Heights. In other cases, these walks were a way of creating a particular sense of being-in-the-world, a sense that connected us to the larger, networked geography of the city. For us, walking was skimming over pages in a book. We’d catch certain details while blowing past others, expanding and recreating our narratives of New York City.

Here in Hong Kong, there have already been a number of ‘walkabouts,’ the name a friend has given our aleatoric wanderings. Our walks have become adventures through the varied ambiences of the city. Though our walks are not completely random—we’ll chase smells, search for an overlook, or navigate our way to the waterfront—we always entrust chance as our primary guide. Hong Kong is a delightfully messy city that lends itself well to meandering twenty-somethings. Great cities allow for what the American suburbs permit only reluctantly to the dregs of society: drifting, loitering, strolling. With our characteristic blend of tarrying and pressing forward, we want to the impossible: to grasp the whole of Hong Kong, to sample all the flavors of this Baskin Robbins of a city.

At least for a moment, we’ll be able to satisfy our curiosity of what’s around the next corner.

In an Orientation meeting for new Shue Yan instructors, we were told—based on personality tests performed on the entire incoming student population—that two thirds of the student population were “analysts” and not “intuitivists.” Analysts are compliant and desire structure, while intuitivists are nonconformists with a broad perspective on topics. Because today’s global economy requires more intuitive thinking than at any previous time, we were informed that it was our job to transform our analysts into intuitivists.

Though obviously flawed as a method of depicting a mass of students, the description led me to imagine a class of students used to—even desiring—being filled with knowledge from an all-knowing and unquestionable lecturer. I feared they would react to my interactive—you could even call it “intuitive”— approach with an awkward silence.

Instead, my first classes were chocked full of enthusiastic volunteers. The variety of ways of asking about my love life left me both impressed with their English and their “intuitivist” approach to problem solving. They just kept trying new approaches to extract information, despite my repeated refusals to dispense with information.

Being a 22 year old instructor at a university means that I’m in this strange liminal state between being a teacher and a fellow student, a mentor and a peer. According to the university, part of the reason why I’m here is to “bridge the gap between students and instructors.” But it still makes navigating the teacher-student relationship difficult. The students certainly do not treat me like a normal lecturer. I can’t imagine they’d ask an older teacher whether or not he was single. It’s true; they were testing me, seeing what they could get away with. But for a first day, where a teacher tries to create a trusting environment where people are willing to take language risks, I’d say it was smashing success. Now, we’ll what happens when I force them to do some real work.

Okay, I’m a bit nervous. Tomorrow is the first day of school. I’ve spent the last few hours pacing my apartment, unable to focus on even the simplest tasks. This is worse than any first date I’ve been on. I sort of anticipated being a little anxious, but these kids really give me the jitters. I just don’t know what this whole teaching thing will be like. I don’t know much about the students’ English level. I have no idea how much time my planned activities will take up. I’m totally clueless about their educational backgrounds and preferred styles of learnings. Over five classes, I’ll be teaching about 175 students, who aren’t too much younger than I am. Somehow I never realized it as a student, but a class of thirty-five students is intimidating. How will I remember all their names? How will I grade all those papers? How will I avoid losing their grammar assignments?

But what’s most nerve-wracking is that I REALLY want to be excellent. I want to be liked by the students—preferably all 175—and respected by my colleagues. While I’m at it, I want to enjoy it too. It is the first time that I’ve been so emotionally invested in something that I am so completely clueless at.

There was a brief teaching orientation earlier in the year, and there was one lesson that I remember well. The gist of the class was, “you will suck at teaching.” Of course, the instructor continued to by saying that that was okay, and that you will only suck sometimes. For any teacher, not every class or every lesson plan will work. This is probably an important lesson to internalize.

I hope I learn it next month.

I was late. Real late. Due to a miscommunication, I didn’t know the exact time or location of the student Orientation meeting. Everybody was already there—my bosses, colleagues, students. I’d been wandering around the campus frantically searching for someone I recognized. On account of unexpected butterflies in my stomach, I’d not slept much the night before. I guess this was the first time I’d meet many of the people whose opinions mattered to me, and I really wanted to make a good impression. Finally, I called and found out the room number of the Orientation, but I continued to look in the wrong building for that room number. Sprinting up and down stairs two at a time, desperately trying to minimize my tardiness, I started to sweat… profusely.

I discovered my error with the building and quickly found and entered the room where the Orientation was taking place. I tried to sneak in unnoticed.

“Oh, it looks like one of the English instructors from America joined us after all. I haven’t even met him myself,” the head of the English Department said. “Go on, introduce yourself,” he told me.

Damn.

Needless to say, I was a little flustered. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I think it came out as, “Uhhhh, my name is… uhhh… Christopher Shay… and I’m… uhhh… Portland, Oregon… errrr… I mean I am FROM Portland, Oregon. I just graduated from New York… errrrr… I mean from SCHOOL in New York.”

And then there was the looooong, awkward pause. Apparently, everybody had given much more verbose speeches, or at the very least, had indicated when they were finished talking. The crowd expected me to continue speaking, but I had nothing more to say. I just wanted the spotlight back on someone else. The merciful (but awkward) clapping started, and I was off the hook. The first impression to my bosses, colleagues, and students was over, and the rest of the Orientation continued without my input.

Boy, I hope my first day of classes goes more smoothly.

Underneath a red awning and sitting next to a cage of fortune-telling birds, a man with speckled-grey hair stared at my face silently. Not knowing what else to do, I looked right into his eyes as he told me:

“You are not a lucky person. You have small ears.”

An old woman, who was feeding the birds behind the Kowloon fortune teller, smirked. I was stunned. This was not the fortune I’d imagined.

“Your youth will not be easy,” he continued as he judged my physiognomy. “You will struggle to succeed. But your ears are high up on your head so that means you’re clever. You would do well to make money for someone else. You’re a bad entrepreneur.

I can see in your deep eyes that you have an old and beautiful soul (remind me to use this line). But, your nose tells me that your forties will be hard; your forties are all in your nose (but not this one!). On the bright side, forty-five will be a good business year for you.

You have a straight mouth, which resembles the character for the number one. This means you’re very eloquent. You’re good with your mouth.

Still though, your fifties will be difficult. You have a big chin. Old age can be read in the chin, and starting in your late fifties, your life will get better. In your sixties, you can finally lay back and relax. The world will come to you, and you will be content.

You want to know about your love life? Well, this year will be lonely. However, 2008 and 2009 will be good years. Your best relationship will start off slow—with some real conflict. You won’t know it’s right in the beginning, but gradually, it will become better and better. Twenty-five will be a good year to take the relationship to the next step. The seeds will be there, but like a tree, you will need to feed it. You will do that. I can tell.”

From the top of Victoria Peak, the city becomes graspable. My twenty-six story apartment building looked quaint amongst the other residential high-rises. The white lights of I.M. Pei’s Bank of China Building pierced through the Hong Kong haze, and the Central Plaza Building stood proudly erect, declaring that it was the biggest building in Hong Kong. While the neon lights of Kowloon turned the bay into a rainbow of reflected color. But Hong Kong is not just concrete, steel, and glass, the city is also covered with large swaths of jungle, which at night, look like green jig-saw pieces, interrupting the urban fabric. We had just been down there, meandering through Central, the clubs of Lan Kwei Fong, the posh boutiques of Soho, and a sloped jungle. Now, we were high enough that we couldn’t make out a single person. The view was breathtaking, and it wasn’t just the pollution.

It’s not often that a hike ends at a peak with such an impressive view, and it’s not often that one accidentally walks there.

Despite the pouring rain, we started the day with a ferry to Lamma Island. There are no cars on the island; everybody walks everywhere through the lush jungle and by beautiful beaches. The slow pace of the island is immediately evident as it stand in stark contrast to Hong Kong Island. The most arresting part of the island is one beach where people swim next to a coal power plant. Have no fear; one local resident, who invited us into here home, told us, “Don’t worry, all the pollution floats to Hong Kong Island.”

After a delicious seafood meal on Lamma, we took the ferry back to Central and wandered, taking in new parts of the city as we gawked at the shiny lights. I felt a bit like a freshman in New York. Then, we hopped on an escalator, and there is certainly nothing like that escalator in NY. Hong Kong has the world’s longest escalator system, an elaborate infrastructure of moving stairs that through residential and commercial areas, clubs and street markets, and we wanted to see it all. Lan Kwei Fong, an area home to Hong Kong’s only jazz club and a variety of stylish bars and hip clubs, is a fun area to explore but certainly not cheap. But the escalator transported us through the snippets and smells of other people’s expensive nights out. We glided by Germans quaffing Australian wine and Brits drinking American beer. We saw people dancing in clubs and crying in the streets. Without spending a Hong Kong dollar, the escalator put together for us a collage of a full night out.

The entire ride was made all the more surreal, because people burned “hell money” and incense by all the roads for the visiting spirits and ancestors that come down during the Ghost Festival. The entire city was veiled in smoke, and the smell of incense mingled with the already aromatic city.

As we effortlessly slid past downtown, we realized there just had to be a view at the top of the escalator system. But when we reached the top, walls of residential buildings blocked it. As three stubborn Americans, we wanted a view, so we just kept walking up and up and up. Before we knew it, we saw a sign to Victoria Peak. We finished up the walk and took in the most famous of view Hong Kong with the herds of tram-taking tourists. However, we couldn’t dilly-dally too much on the Peak. We received a call that a dozen people also doing a Princeton-in-Asia program were passing through Hong Kong. To finish the day, we danced the night away in Lan Kwei Fong in a basement club with other PiAers.

Smells are elusive. They are difficult to describe and harder to categorize. They evoke inchoate memories and unconsciously alter one’s behaviour. A smell can open a door of recognition to one’s past, and of all the senses, that link is uniquely direct—straight from the nose to memory centers in the brain. Smell can take one a journey to other places and times without one having any choice in the matter.

Walking down a busy Hong Kong street, the variety and intensity of smell takes one on an olfactory adventure—even when compared to New York. The dense air gives the smells a heaviness to them. It somehow feels as if the humidity allows more and larger aromatic particles to float in the air, ready for inhalation. Most of the smells are pleasing.  One moment, I transport back to my college suite to when Brendan made stir fry with sesame oil. The next moment, I’m reminded of the muggy hall outside my Oma’s condo in Bradenton, Florida. Most of the time though, I’m left with a vague feeling that a particular smell carries some deep memory that I just can’t quite place. The smells of the Hong Kong street draws one’s senses into an unknown, loosening oneself from familiar distinctions. Then just as one is engulfed in the aroma of the unknown, one somehow instantly recognizes a smell one has no idea one could identify. In one case, I immediately recognized the combination of dried jerky, squid, and salted fish. What’s strange about Hong Kong is that the city can have an intense smell even if there is no obvious source in the area. An area can smell of sewage of coconut for no apparent reason.

A lot of tourists seem to be struck by the smell of Hong Kong (many negatively). To me, Hong Kong just smells like adventure.

From the air, it appeared as if a giant nimbus cloud came down from the skies to greet Hong Kong only to become impaled on the sharp buildings of the skyline. Unable to wrestle free, the great cloud engulfed the city in grey. Stepping off the plane, I ducked to cut through the thick cloud. After a summer of anticipation, all I could see were effulgent neon signs and white halos from distant street lights. After a long and sleepless flight, it was exhausting just to fight through the viscous air.

As the day went on, the cloud slowly disappeared revealing the city. Initially from my room on the 26th floor, I could only see the dozens of nearby residential high-rises, some covered in over thirty stories of bamboo scaffolding. Later, I could see the bay, dotted with ships of all sizes. In the middle of the bay was a perfectly rectangular peninsula, the remains of a runway from the old airport. By midday, I could see Kowloon across the bay, until recently the most densely populated place on earth. It was wall after wall of high-rise residential buildings. By four, I could see the outlines of mountains in the distance, the site of future adventures, I’m sure.

Jetlagged, I went to bed early, but also excited to explore my new home in the upcoming days.

See the view from my room.