Had it not been for the International Jazz Festival, I would have never even thought of going to HongKong. I envisioned the scene to be a bland mix of chaos for the sake of chaos. I closed my eyes and imagined it and all I could literally hear was the noise coming from all over the place. Even before I got there, I could hear the little annoying chatter from all the ni, sha, wung, kai mono-syllabic sounds they call their language. I foresaw the lean semi/full malnourished chinese men in their kamiso de chino shouting, selling, shoving noodles and dim sum in my face. Why bother flying across miles of the south china sea if I had little china right smack in the heart of Manila. To me, HK was nothing but a heartless, soul-less, inflicted culture-deficiency wasteland.
While it was true that they did not offer the culture enshrouded in mysticism that I usually crave for, it turns out that HK was a pretty nice place. While most of the residential buildings are your typical HK slum movies in high-rise units with dilapidated parts, creepy gang-looking labyrinths, with steel bars (which btw, turned out to be pretty high-tech laser activated doors), it seemed like an actual living, breathing place. Unlike Singapore, who in its cleanliness, would make anyone feel like they’re the filth invading the place, HK felt homely. With a realistic mix of leisure and real toil and hardship, you’d see Rolex stores on one side and have cheap noodle shops on the other. People had difficulties expressing themselves and understanding English but they were friendly as hell. Much more friendlier than the Chinese we have back home. I’m definitely coming back.