Olympic Fever

Having temporarily shelved my burgeoning views on Tibetan Human Rights, I realised that I too wanted to be a part of “One World, One Dream” and “Riding High in Hong Kong, the Equine Capital” and thus I set out on the morning of 08.08.08 in search of tickets.

Everyone, it seemed to me, had chosen this auspicious day to get married and I had to dodge the photo opps of at least 7 weddings as I hurried down to the Chinese Travel Service on Connaught Road Central.

The expected crush and bundle was noticeably absent as I took my number and sat down to wait my turn. Looking around it became apparent that none of those queuing with me were in the least bit bothered about Olympic tickets but were waiting for air tickets and China visas to be issued at another desk

I did however notice the occasional blond pony-tailed hopeful sidling up to the “Olympic Ticket Redemption Desk” and grew nervous that supplies could be running out so promptly side-stepped the numbered system and asked if there were any tickets left for sale.

“Yes, four.”
“Only four?”
“Yes, for cross country. Last tickets.”
“Well, I’ll take four then.”

None of my UK Visa cards appeared to work in the Visa payment machine so without knowing the price I rashly said I’d pay cash before wondering just how much four Olympic tickets was going to set me back.

“Two hundred eighty four Hong Kong dollar.” Whilst my 15 times table is still not up to speed it didn’t take me too long to work out that that was less than £5 a ticket. Wow, 8.08.08 was turning into an auspicious day for me too.

The next day I had to make my way to the Mong Kok branch of the CTS on Kowloon-side to collect my booty after 3pm. Kowloon was heaving and made Hong Kong look positively sterile, calm and orderly. Its streets buzz with noise and activity, the air is heavy with the smell of fried pork and sweet dumplings. Shops explode out onto the pavement and air conditioning units drip on your head as you dodge the bamboo scaffolding and walk along wondering what exactly that food was, dried or cooked, you just passed by.

I duly collected my tickets and, as something of an afterthought, given that I had in fact bought the very last four Olympic equestrian tickets in Hong Kong the day before, asked if there were any left.

“Queue round corner.” I was informed, so once more I took a numbered ticket and sat down to wait. A little over an hour later I emerged clutching “best” tickets for both the team dressage Grand Prix and the team jumping final, both with medal ceremonies. Now riding very high indeed in Hong Kong, I returned across the harbour on the Star Ferry with the warm evening sun glinting off the glass towers of Hong Kong's water front, firmly convinced that Hong Kong was the only place to be.

My newly discovered enthusiasm for everything Olympian is, it seems, in stark contrast to the rest of Hong Kong which appears fairly indifferent to the events taking place here. Riding the empty train to the Cross Country event in the New Territories early in the morning there was a chummy atmosphere among the Brits who swapped tips and news on the horses and riders but the train was noticeably empty of Chinese.

One man, a veteran of five Olympics told us that at the dressage part of the 3-day eventing competition at Sha Tin the Chinese spectators had clearly been expecting to see something more than a few horses put through their paces.

At the first interval a good third got up and left, barely able to conceal their disappointment with the proceedings. A man interviewed on the evening news said he thought he'd bought tickets for the races and had been looking forward to seeing the action.

"Why isn't horse racing an Olympic sport?" asked my nine year old. Opening my mouth to answer I realised, as with so many of his questions, that I simply had no idea.