A three-part story: Part 1

The evening had finally arrived—the one that Nicholas and I had been planning for ages but kept putting off because the timing was never quite right. It was early February in 1988, with a light dusting of snow, biting winds, and temperatures barely above freezing. Conditions weren't ideal, but it was winter in Wales. My suntan from Oman had long faded, leaving me with my usual pasty-white complexion. While I experienced bouts of homesickness, there was plenty of fun to be had, and tonight would be no exception.
 
Nick and I struggled to concentrate in class, our secret plans too risky to share; with genuine snitches in our class, tell one person and you'd told the world! At break time, we walked to the massive Lebanese cedar tree on the muddy school lawn, facing the edge of the woods covered in damp leaves. The only green came from the occasional pine tree standing out among the bare, grey trunks.
 
We stood side by side, whispering as the distant sound of a chainsaw filled the air. Adrenaline coursed through me. “Do we have torches?” I asked, just as three girls walked back into the classroom. “Yep, I’ve got two,” replied Nick, who was always prepared. “Do you think we should paint our faces, camouflage style?” I suggested. “I can get some paint from the art room.”
 
“No—while it might help in the forest, we can’t wash it off later.”
 
“Okay, but I don’t have black clothes—just navy blue and brown.”
 
“Anything dark will work, but black might be a bit much,” Nick agreed. “We don’t want to look like bank robbers.”
 
The thought of "up there" excited me. We looked and spoke like characters in a war film plotting our escape, which we were—though we planned to come back. Alex approached, easily identifiable with his Norwich City scarf pulled up to his nose. “What are you two doing?” he asked suspiciously.
 
“Just…talking about…building a den,” Nick said quickly.
 
“When? Tonight?”
 
“No, this weekend…” I hoped he would go away, and thankfully, he returned to the classroom. He was a day boy, part of a different world. By the time we’d be out in the woods, he would be at home with his cat. Nice, but Nick and I had something far more exciting in mind.
 
As we walked to the forest, Nick took a handful of Sugar Puffs from his parka pocket. We shared them, gazing at the path ahead. “I can’t wait; this is going to be great,” I said, smiling at him while wiping my runny nose for what felt like the umpteenth time. The cold damp seeped into my scuffed black school shoes. A gust of wind sent shivers down my spine.
 
“This path,” he pointed ahead, “leads to the clearing. We just need to decide whether to follow the road or head across the fields.”
 
“Cool! I’m going back to the classroom; I’m freezing. Are you coming?” A mix of rain and snow blew into our faces.
 
“Yes…but let’s really do this tonight. We keep putting it off. No word to anyone, especially Matthew. He’ll tell Donna, and she’ll tell everyone—including the teachers.”
 
She really would.
 
Back in the warmth of the classroom, we opened our desks, which still stank of Lynx Oriental—we had sprayed a bit too much weeks ago. Three girls played noughts and crosses on the blackboard, while Edward and Andrew munched on Opal Fruits and pored over battered National Geographic copies. Mr. Evans arrived with rain-specked history textbooks, his tweed trousers a tad short and his hair reminiscent of Doc from *Back to the Future*, his Valleys accent rolling each 'r' like it was part of his identity.
 
“Morning, everyone. Rrrrright, girls, clean that off, please…” he boomed.
 
“Ah, Sir, it’s still break time!” Natasha protested, her perm resembling Mark Hughes’s hair.
 
“What are we doing today?” Matthew called from the back, managing to put Huw in a headlock.
 
“Arkwright’s Spinning Jenny,” Mr. Evans replied with a smile.
 
No one knew what that was, but it sounded boring, and we groaned collectively. No one wanted to do anything—except for Alex, who sat bolt upright like a soldier, ready to take notes. The rest of the day was a blur for me and Nicholas as we focused on our adventure ahead.
 
That evening, we had three after-school activities: cadets with Commander Fry, who ran us ragged; Art with Mrs. Bell, which meant "draw what you want but keep the noise down"; or woodwork with Mr. Phillips—a cozy setting where we could listen to music. We chose woodwork and told Mr. Fry we’d leave cadets. He didn’t seem bothered by our decision; we were the antithesis of the boys he preferred.
 
He liked alpha boys who could run for miles—not two skinny nerds who couldn’t manage five push-ups. “Wren! Come on…your father is in the Navy!” he would say. True, but I wasn’t. I was always expected to be a miniature Navy officer. No thanks.
 
We told Mr. Phillips we were considering woodwork for next week, and he was fine with it, as long as “Commander Fry knows.” He did, believing we’d attend woodwork tonight. Yes, it was a lie, but we’d gained a grace period for one evening where each activity leader thought we were somewhere else. Everything would be fine—just so long as no one looked for us.
 
We bolted down dinner, readying ourselves for prep, after which we’d finally be on our way. Sitting in class doing homework, I struggled to concentrate from nerves and excitement, frequently checking the clock.
 
Mrs. Morgan sat at the front, reading a newspaper and pausing occasionally to ensure we were working. Most of us were doodling or passing notes, as was customary. The classic trick was to hide a magazine inside an atlas and pretend to study, but it depended on which teacher supervised prep. Some patrolled like passport officers; others simply read newspapers, barking “Shush! Get on with your work!”
 
It was dark now, and despite the chilly wind, the sky was clear, so we’d stay dry.
 
“Right, pack up, please…” said Mrs. Morgan, quickly out the door and to her car. I understood exactly how she felt.
 
Everyone headed back to their dorms to change for evening activities, but we lingered behind, waiting until everyone had left. As we walked the short distance to the boarding house, Nick tapped me on the shoulder and half-whispered, “Go to the toilet.”
 
“What?”
 
“Go to the toilet; I’m going too. Wait until the others change; otherwise, they’ll ask about our dark clothes. Then we can get changed when they’re all out of the dorm.”
 
Nick was smart; he had it all figured out. This was already turning into a very exciting evening. Where were we going? My home - less than 20 minutes from my boarding school. It was a very strange situation, and I could actually see my garden from the dorm window. Mum and dad were in Oman, I was at school, but tonight I'd be home again....sort of.

The whir of the electric engine from the milk float. The clink of bottles as the milkman makes his way from door to door.

He heads down the driveway. A young girl is up early and knocks on her bedroom window and waves at him. He smiles and waves back.

A tabby cat licks its paws then rolls on its back across the slowly warming tarmac.
Birdsong. Churchbells from the village.

Dew on the recently cut grass. A BMX left out overnight on the lawn next to a plastic football, a Sindy doll covered in shards of grass. Matchbox cars scattered across the lawn.

It’s now 8am. A red Sierra estate sits in a driveway. The boot is packed high with bags. The bonnet is up. Dad's checking the oil and water before the family prepare to depart for a holiday to Tenby. Mum locks the house door and checks it twice.

The brother and sister open the rear doors as they clutch their comics - Mandy and Beano.
Laughter and excitement.
Click-click - seat belts on. Doors closed. Windows halfway down.
A light aircraft overhead in the whispy clouds. Dad closes the bonnet and the sound echoes across the cul-de-sac.

The air carries with it a smell of creosote from the freshly-painted panel fences.
The engine starts and "BBC....Radio 2...." is the jingle from the car stereo.

The family leaves. They all wave to the neighbour who is off to fetch the paper. Dad tests the windscreen wipers and two tiny jets of water spray onto the window as they turn out of the driveway. Over the hill and gone, off to the M5 then M4. An empty space in the driveway. The tabby cat walks across it.

An open bathroom window, the sound of a hairdryer and a radio. "Like to get to know you well" sings Howard Jones.

A boy of 11 pushes his Grifter down the side of the house. He runs a hand along the white pebbledash wall. The sound of the wheels across loose gravel, past the Renault 5 in the drive.

The sound of a strimmer and the smell of bacon.

The boy sits on his bike and faces the rolling Devon hills. His white Puma trainers barely touch the ground. Shiny red Liverpool shorts and a white tee shirt that smells of fabric softner. This tee shirt won't be quite so clean come the end of day.

He's off, and he won't be back before it's dark. Past the milkfloat, and over the hill, down through the estate, past the empty classrooms for the next 6 long weeks, and through the narrow Devon lanes. He's off to Colin's house to build a den.

Number 64 are planning a barbeque tonight. Everyone in the cul-de-sac is invited. The sun will set and the smell of charcoal and grilled food will fill the air, as well as laughter and conversation. it'll be the perfect end to another perfect summer's day on the estate, days that felt like they lasted forever.

As I sat at the gate waiting for my flight, I looked out across the apron at Kai Tak, watching various airliners coming and going. For a moment, I wondered if I hadn’t tried hard enough and failed in the place that was supposed to be easier than the UK—at least when it came to finding work.

Maybe I should have stayed and looked for another job, and I had the sniff of a junior position at Star TV, but I wasn’t interested. Or at Nike, again, not fussed. Friends on Lamma said I was nuts, but it felt a bit like being told to eat when you had no appetite. Perhaps I’d been beaten by Hong Kong, or maybe I’d just decided that at age 22, I was meant to be somewhere else.

Just 24 hours ago, I had been partying at a friend’s house on Lamma. We swam, ate, drank, laughed, and danced. As I watched the sunrise and container ships making their way through the channel, I did wonder if I was making the right choice. I knew I was, because my heart wasn't in it - at least, not the office life.

As I sat on the Lamma to Central ferry, I watched the island until it was out of sight and felt a lump in my throat. Chapter closed. I would miss this place very much, but now it was time for new adventures.

The Lamma life? Oh yes, that was great, but working in an office from 9 to 5? No, I was bored stiff. I remember my mum saying, “It must be so exciting to work in Hong Kong”—but no, it wasn’t. An office cubicle is still just an office cubicle.

I remember my first day at work so clearly, thinking about the lyrics to “Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads:
“Same as it ever was, same as it ever was.” I'd secured this amazing job, but as I sat in the silent office staring at  my screen, I caught myself clock watching...on my first day.

I wanted to drop off to sleep behind my spreadsheets and reports, and sometimes, I did.  No one spoke in the office, aside from my American boss, and when he was away, I felt the walls closing in.

I was 22, but after just a few months working with USA Today at the Ocean Centre and eating Oliver’s Super Sandwiches, I knew I had to get out. Some days, I set up pointless appointments with sailing clubs, the American Chamber of Commerce, and hotels—anything to kill time before the end of the workday.

With my boss in Japan for a few weeks and my colleagues ignoring me, I refused to sit there all day just clock-watching. I’d sit harbour-side in North Point, staring into the distance, trying to muster the motivation to go back to the office.

“Be careful what you wish for,” they say, but I also believe you only know if you don’t like something by trying it. No one has ever said, “You know what I hate? Coriander! Never tried it, but I hate it.” Try it first, and if you don’t like it, don’t do it again.

Mentally, I was probably about 17, just a boy in an adult’s world, and what I really wanted was to work with kids at summer camp in the USA. A career move? Far from it, but something was pulling me there.

I’d written to some camps via email at an internet café, and one camp sent me a brochure for a high-adventure camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The brochure arrived at the office, and that night, as I commuted home, I read it on the Star Ferry. An American guy in a cowboy hat stood close by saw me reading it, you couldn't make it up, and I promise I'm not!

“You going to North Carolina, son?”
“Yes,” I said, and he looked at the pictures with me.
“That’s God’s country right there…”
I’m not a religious person at all, but his words helped justify my decision and took away any doubts. Yes, I was that easily swayed!

As I sat waiting to board, I pictured myself arriving there, wide-eyed and excited. I remembered my first day at work, the barbecues on Lamma rooftops, the day I rescued two puppies, playing basketball in Wanchai, and our breakfasts at Deli Lamma that lasted all day. I smiled to myself as I recalled swimming in the Peninsula Hotel pool and being kicked out—what an idiot I was, but what a time!

The flight announcement was made. Here we go.
I took one last look at the terminal and prepared to board. Don’t doubt it, just go with it—things will work out, I kept telling myself.

After a jet-lagged stay at "home" with my parents for a few days,  I flew to North Carolina and was picked up at Charlotte Airport by one of the summer camp maintenance guys. He played country music the whole way and the adrenaline wwas racing through my body. We laughed, talked, and he gave me the lowdown on summer camp life. We stopped off for a burger along the way, and by the time we arrived at camp, it was pitch black.

I met the directors and then walked into my wooden cabin, which was surrounded by pine trees. It smelled musty, with walls covered in graffiti dating back to the 1950s: “Jake was here, 1952.”

“I hope this is okay?” asked one of the staff who came by to see me. He knew I'd come from Hong Kong, and it was almost like I was seen as some sort of rich kid, which was far from the case.
“Oh yes, this is very okay,” I replied.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked.
“Hong Kong,” I replied. Technically, it was London, but I had only been there for four days.
“Hong Kong? Isn’t that in China?”
It would be soon, but I didn’t get into it with him.
The next day, the kids arrived, and that night, we made a fire, cooked hot dogs, told stories, and slept under the stars. I may not have been helping my professional development, but deep in my heart, this gweilo has never felt more alive.
“And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”
I knew exactly how I got here, and it felt incredible.

The flight was nearing its end; my seatbelt was tightly fastened as we glided through the heavy clouds, which broke occasionally to reveal tree-covered hills and clusters of apartment blocks. I caught the briefest glimpse of a Maersk cargo ship cutting through the deep turquoise sea, and I wondered where it was heading.

On the other side, I briefly made out a few apartment blocks, which quickly disappeared from view as we tilted from side to side amidst the thick grey clouds. My skin felt dry, and my eyes were heavy. I wiped my face with a small towelette as I checked the seatback pocket for anything I may have left behind.

The lightest of rain splattered against the window like tiny darts as we turned sharply to the right, just as my stomach felt the familiar sensation of being left behind, reminiscent of a funfair ride.

The Rolls Royce engines roared, and I quickly glanced at the sick bag in the seatback pocket, just to be safe. I wanted to ensure it was there since I had a very sensitive stomach. Come on, make it down without throwing up...

We seemed to wave goodbye to the heavens with a sway from left to right, before a very sharp turn had me reaching for the seat in front.

Now, we were flying above the concrete canopy of Kowloon’s apartments. One minute, we appeared to almost hover like a helicopter; the next, we were racing across a cacophony of chaotic rooftops with their criss-crossing washing lines and power lines. Below them lay a labyrinth of teeming streets with processions of red taxis and beige minibuses. We then descended rapidly and landed on the harbourside runway with all the grace and elegance of a brick, just as the overhead baggage bins rattled and two French backpackers behind me clapped as we touched down.

Thirteen hours ago, I was at Heathrow for a short flight to Paris. The damp and drizzly London evening, the churning feeling in my stomach, the hint of self-doubt—yet here I was, I’d arrived.

I was amazed that the undercarriage survived; such was the ferocity of the impact. An elderly Chinese lady in the opposite row let out a long, exasperated breath while fanning herself with the safety card. It was very muggy on board, and everyone seemed desperate to disembark this Air France 747, our home for the last twelve hours. I had spoken to the two backpackers earlier, and they told me they were heading to Hong Kong to catch a connecting flight to Beijing later in the week, with the ultimate plan of travelling overland to New Delhi.

They had no visas and no clue how they were going to manage it, but it didn’t seem to faze them. Courage or craziness? Either way, they seemed like real travellers—not like me, a 21-year-old clean-cut boy playing at being an adult, off to Hong Kong to find a job.

I sort of wished I was going with them, embarking on some real travel. I had a swish apartment waiting for me; at least the name, Grand Panorama, had me dreaming of opulence, even if it were only for a week before I'd have to move into a cheap as chips youth hostel.

I suppose what I was doing was better than temping in some dull office in Bracknell and living at home with my parents, but there was still a feeling of trepidation. Who knows, maybe I’d “find myself” in Hong Kong? Although, at that moment, I just wanted to find myself in a shower followed by a bed.

As the plane turned at the end of the runway, the wing pointed toward Hong Kong Island for a second, and I watched the harbour activity under a muggy grey sky. A French cabin crew member welcomed us to Hong Kong, which was shortly followed by classical music. I was here in 1982 as a kid when we left Australia, but I'd obviously forgotten a lot of it, and one thing I'd forgotten was how small the airport was. "THAT is the terminal?" I said to myself, but it was perfect.

My adventure was only just beginning...