A Lucky Lad on Lamma

It was one muggy morning on Lamma when it finally hit me.

I was 22, it was April 1997, I’d been in Hong Kong for all of six months, and I was still finding my way. I lived in Tai Peng village on Lamma with Chris, a guy I’d met at a youth hostel, who was looking for someone to split the bills with.

Chris taught English, and I worked for a newspaper, but I didn’t really know what I was doing. Chris may have had the lesser-paid, part-time gig, but I was a bit out of my depth. He was envious of a fixed salary, but I was envious of his routine. He barely left Lamma—which would have worked for me; I loved it.

Like quite a few "kids" my age that I knew, I was blagging it as best I could, and for the most part, I was convincing—if only to myself! There was a Dutch guy who worked at the stock exchange—he was 20. When I asked him one evening what he did every day, he replied, "F*** knows, let’s get drunk!" and I believed him, because I sometimes felt the same way. He looked about 16 and was having the time of his life. We all were. 

Back on Lamma, I could take off that thin corporate mask I tried so hard to wear and return to that immature, energetic, and naive man-child I was.

I remember one day we had a meeting with newspaper bigwigs at the Mandarin Oriental for lunch. I sat there in my new suit, trying so hard to mix with these real adults—so there I was just smiling, nodding, not sure what to say - so I just ate like a king and kept my mouth full.

At one point I went to the toilet, looked at myself in the mirror, and laughed silently before mouthing, “What are you doing?!” It was a mixture of excitement and disbelief—a bit like the line in the Talking Heads song, “And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?” That’s another story.

Back to that morning on Lamma: after a shower with tepid water (and that was with the cold tap), I killed a few dozen ants on the windowsill and headed out for a walk. Our free alarm clock, courtesy of the cockerels near our flat, had already let out their morning call, but there was no waking Chris—he’d had a skinful at the Deli Lamma, and a combination of farting and snoring drove me out the door.

The air was thick and heavy, and under a stormy, overcast sky, I headed to what I called “the back” of the island. I went to a place called East Tai Peng Beach, which overlooked the channel between Lamma and Aberdeen.

I sat on the rocks and watched container ships slowly make their way, and as I wondered what earthly goods they were carrying, I suddenly realised something.

Right now—right here—I could literally do anything. I had this sudden rush of energy at the realisation that the world was at my feet. I was young, healthy, and totally free. I didn’t have a ton of money, but if I wanted to, I could jack it all in and fly... anywhere. I had a friend in Abu Dhabi—I could work there, Dad had friends in Muscat who could sort me out with a visa, I could go to Thailand, study back in Canada—not that I wanted to up sticks, but the fact I could just pack up my bags and head to Kai Tak—that was an incredible feeling. Nothing was holding me back. No commitments, no debt, no mortgage, no worries at all.

Equally exciting, though, was the present moment. Look at you, James, I said to myself (I know, I talked to myself in the third person)... Look where you are, you’re in Hong Kong! You actually live in Hong Kong! You work for an American newspaper! You’re 22!

The only sound came from a few birds and the wash created by the ships, and as I looked toward the slowly lifting haze across toward Aberdeen, I realised how lucky I was—and looking back now, I realise it even more.