Photo Diary

I shouldn't be here. It is 10.30pm on Sunday night and I am already short of sleep before the new week has even started.

The Pioneering Accountant has just left for a week in London where, I am hoping, he will find us somewhere to live. Without him and his unfailing ability to rise early each morning to get the children up and out, the coming week is going to be hard work.

And yet unrecorded days in these last hectic weels are like pearls slipping from a string. Once lost they are gone for ever.

So in brief, my week as a photo diary:

Tuesday. We attended the Beijing Evening at the ten year old's school. The children put on a wonderfully entertaining performance which included ribbon dancing, kung fu, sketches, singing and drumming. The trip had clearly been an amazing experience for all. I was close to tears as I watched my eldest boy reenacting in Mandarin a scene of bartering with traders at the Great Wall. He's been at this school for just over a month and yet seemed totally at home. We on the other hand snuck in and sat at the back for fear someone might actually notice us. Our stay is so fleeting that I am almost embarrassed to be seen at all and shy away from meeting other parents in case the lunacy of our brief stop-over is revealed.

Thursday. A public holiday - the Dragon Boat Festival at Stanley. We stood for hours on a jetty waiting to be transported to a junk from which to watch the races. It was cold and windy and when we finally got to the front of the queue we began to have second thoughts as the pier heaved dramatically on the choppy water. Clambering from ferry to junk was perilous. The ferry men assumed those with long legs could bridge yawning chasms of black water between the bobbing boats while small children and bags were tossed into the waiting arms of ships' hands on the moored junks. We saw some races, nibbled cold pizza and made a quick get away on a passing speed boat, arriving at the beach just minutes before the heavens opened. It was one of those events you have to do once. Once will do, however.

Friday. There was no school for the eight year old so he and I enjoyed the rare treat of a morning together and went and nosed around the Police Museum. It wasn't thrilling for him - lots of old photos and masses to read - but I loved it and lost myself in Hong Kong's history and the long running battles between police and the Triads.

Saturday. Our eldest was again at the University in Sha Tin so we drove off to discover Clear Water Bay. We found an enchanting beach, small, clean and relatively empty and sat on the sand while the three others stripped off and swam in the waves. It was hot and sunny and both of us were thinking, Damn, it would have been nice to have a bit more of this.

Sunday. Sailing for the two older boys on Middle Island. After lunch we packed suitcases for the PA to take to London full of stuff for our UK summer - sweaters, raincoats, wetsuits all of which we'll need before our sea freight docks. I remember doing this in reverse last summer, packing suitcases of stuff we'd need in Hong Kong before our container arrived. We ended the day with friends at Shek'O and ate supper at a round table for 11 with all the children chirruping with excitement.

As we arrived home I reached for my handbag to get the keys. No bag. Flashback of putting it on a wall behind the car while I loaded the boogie boards into the boot. Shek'O is a good half hour's drive from us along narrow winding roads. It is about as far away as anywhere on Hong Kong Island. And at 8pm on a Sunday night I had no desire to return. Except for the fact that my bag, passport, wallett and camera were all sitting there on a wall. At least I hoped they still were.

I drove fast with anxious thoughts of what I would do if the bag were not there. Where to start looking? The PA had to leave at 9.15pm so I didn't have much time.

It took me 22 minutes to get there. I was having fantasies about a F1 Hong Kong Grand Prix as I drove. And as I drew up to the space we had parked in but an hour earlier I saw my dear old bag waiting for me on the wall. Hallelujah!

Driving myself, crazy

The other day, in one of my blind panics that involves propelling the Flying Sofa around Hong Kong, and never quite managing to go the way I intended, I realised too late that I was in an Autotoll lane for the Aberdeen Tunnel. Realising my error, I drew up and, to show willing, feebly waved my HK$5 out of the window. There was no one to take it. The whole point of Autotoll is that the booths are unmanned. Instead, a large bus loomed into my rear view and honked impatiently. I had no choice but to cross the red light and drive on. When I got home I related the story to my eldest son who gasped and said, You’ll have to pay a fine Mummy. It’s about HK$5,000. I hoped he was wrong.

I have no GPS. If one exists for Hong Kong I could have done with it. An all too familiar scenario is to be driving along a busy expressway with a vague idea of where I am going but little idea how to get there. Up ahead I see a flyover crossing my road some 30 feet in the air. I recognise that I need to be up on that road but I have no idea how to join the dots.

In the early days I felt quite proud of myself for seizing the bull by the horns and getting behind the wheel of my car. One ex-pat earned my scorn with her admission that she didn’t drive on the left. Another that she was only prepared to drive in certain parts of Hong Kong. Me? I’d go anywhere – mostly unintentionally. As for arriving I was usually late, shaking with fright and bathed in sweat.

Just a couple of weeks ago I spent over an hour trying to find the way into Bonham Road via a spider’s web of Midlevels crossing roads, flyovers and underpasses. In desperation I phoned the Pioneering Accountant in the office and begged for help. With assistance from Google maps he talked me through it. When I finally hit Bonham Road I had to turn left. The address I needed required a right. I gave up in disgust and drove home.

By hesitating and dithering I have discovered parts of Hong Kong and the New Territories I had no intention of visiting. Each outing in the car has been an adventure and each time I went wrong I was sure I wouldn’t make that particular mistake again. Others maybe. The children quickly grew accustomed to my predicament and learnt to ask as a matter of course, Are we lost Mummy? Good gracious me, no! I would insist. We’ve been here before, haven’t we? Yes, Mummy, the last time we were lost.

The real dramas took place on journeys to the furthest reaches of the New Territories where the 7 year old was learning to ride. I took to following the school bus so we could learn the way. The bus driver was incredibly speedy and was armed with the requisite Autotoll. I had a hard job keeping up with him as he shot through the tolls whilst I fumbled for change and waited for the four cars ahead of me to find theirs too. On one occasion, the bus long gone, we took the wrong exit and found ourselves stuck in a tsunami of heavy goods vehicles heading for the border. I could hardly swing a U-turn whilst hundreds of one-way freight trucks bore down on me and yet we didn’t actually want to go to China. I nudged my 7 year old out of the car and told him to make sorrowful faces at an official. He returned to the car with a guard who arranged to have us led out of danger under police escort and flashing blue lights. The 7 year old was thrilled.

I taught the children how to use the “Maps” function of my iPhone. Sometimes we’d arrive at our destination without incident and with a degree of luck. Sometimes the battery ran out en route and left us floundering about in tiny back streets. But mostly I ended up snatching it from whichever incompetent was in the passenger seat and trying to read directions while I missed turnings and started to snap. And very occasionally but quite inexplicably, the road we were mistakenly following would turn back on itself and filter us onto just the route we’d been hoping for.

Once I’d got over barking at map reading minors it finally dawned on me that we could never actually be that far from home. Even in Kowloon you can see landmark buildings on Hong Kong-side. At best you will recognise the signs to where you want to go and at worst you’ll end up in a tunnel you didn’t mean to enter. But keep going long enough and you usually end up back where you started.

And when I grew over confident about where I was going I was stopped for speeding. The fact that I had neither HK I.D. nor driving license with me did not look good. I tried to explain to the baffled policeman that my driving license had been submitted in support of my application for a Hong Kong license. He in turn explained to me I was due to get three points and an on the spot fine of HK $450. I was busy being very polite while reaching for my wallet when he suddenly announced he was just going to give me a verbal warning and let me go. Your case was too complicated for him to deal with, crowed my HK passenger. It’s ex-pat women like you that the police are most afraid of as they always stand their ground. You got away with it!

A letter came recently headed Evasion of Toll. It stated that on such and such a date my vehicle had travelled through the Autotoll booth of the Aberdeen Tunnel without a valid toll tag. My hands began to shake. A driver who fails to pay the appropriate toll in full commits an offence, the letter continued. Please arrange the Total Outstanding payment as below within 14 days. Bang goes my fake Birkin, I thought to myself, I’m about to spend it on a fine. I looked again. The Amount Outstanding was given as HK$5.00 – the tunnel fee and not a cent more.

Take away the cost of the postage stamp at HK$1.40 and I think you’ll agree that a bargain tunnel crossing at HK$3.60 is something of a result.

When Mother does not know best

The prolonged spell of clear, sunny weather that has seen us lounging on beaches, eating outside and in the pool every afternoon came to an abrupt end this week with amber rain and thunderstorm warnings.

Whilst past weekends have seen us exploring the New Territories while our eldest learns to “Be a Storyteller” at HK Chinese University in Sha Tin, this week his teacher cancelled and the only NT excursion was to bring the five year old and me home from hospital. The boys’ sailing course at Middle Island was cancelled due to rain warnings and we found ourselves facing the prospect of a loooong weekend inside.

So what jollier prospect than to ride one of Hong Kong Island’s double-decker trams from end to end and see the sights?

This was the view with the window up.

And this was the view with the window down, little better and we got wet.

The children grew quickly bored (can’t think why) and we only made it to one end before giving up and heading home. I spotted Hong Kong’s Central library and an interesting looking market at Shau Kei Wan (neither of which I shall have time to appreciate) and marvelled at the steep sides of the escarpment that rise above King’s Road east of North Point.

The five year old is in considerable discomfort. He is eating virtually nothing now that the novelty of ice cream, milk shake and fresh smoothie has worn off and he grows visibly thinner by the day. He has stopped snoring and is sleeping for England but his breath smells vile and he is unusually quiet and still. To me it is clear he is weak from lack of food but nothing will induce him to eat and I find myself at a loss as to what to do. So much for mother knows best.

As rain pours down the windows and drips though the air con vents into the kitchen we play Carcassonne and Pictionary for hours between whizzing delicious fruits up in the liquidiser to tempt the ailing patient. He takes a sip, announces he’s full and his siblings gulp the rest.

As Sunday draws to a close, we have almost survived our confinement when WW III breaks out in the playroom. Son 2 has offended Son 1 in some way involving misuse of a piece of Pictionary paper. He gets clobbered by Son 1 and screams like a stuck pig. How many times in the last two days have we appealed to our eldest not to resort to violence? No-one is prepared for the pent up storm of fury released in a family deprived of fresh air and exercise for two days. The ten year old’s fuse has been lit and after he lands me a passing thump I too go off like a firework.

The Domestic God spends hours trying to reason with Son 1 whilst I state that it is being too soft on him that has created the monster that holds us all hostage with these outbursts. He's ten for goodness sake, what will it be like when he's fifteen? For the second time today I don’t know what to do so I put him outside the back door until he can be more civilised. It is no longer raining: you’ll be glad to know there are limits to my cruelty. However, it is the fear of mosquito bites that drives him inside repentant, apologetic and keen to make amends. We have a big hug and a chat and the whole family ends the evening listening to him playing his trumpet like an angel.

Quality of Life

Some months ago, frustrated by our youngest son’s inability to stop coughing and concerned that Hong Kong’s poor air quality might be responsible, I took him to a doctor. It was a visit that merited a World’s Apart post on the differences between seeing a GP here and doing the same in London but like many things that never made it to the pages of my blog, I didn’t quite get round to it.

Suffice it to say, I rang up, was offered a choice of appointments for that same afternoon, took my son along, was seen immediately and was given medication by the in-house pharmacist. I was then presented with an eye-wateringly large bill for all that convenience.

The doctor thought his problems might be bronchiole. I imagined a future held hostage by asthma or allergies. She also mentioned that he had unusually large tonsils and referred him to an ENT specialist, just in case.

Last week in the waiting room of a new town hospital in the New Territories we were the odd ones out. Every other person was wearing a surgical mask. Then a hospital orderly appeared and handed us each a mask so we shrugged and put them on.

The five year old wondered why we had to wear our masks and I explained it was because of swine flu. He then pretended to sneeze and I got the giggles. Not only did we look absurd but you can’t hear what anyone is saying from behind your mask so you pull it down to say, I’m sorry, what did you say? and then presumably pass on all your deadly germs in so doing. I put my sun glasses on and the five year old laughed and said I looked like a gangster.

The South African Consultant looked down my five year old’s throat and declared they were the largest tonsils he had ever seen.

He then explained that a tonsilectomy could improve our son’s quality of life. The golf ball sized tonsils that are currently clogging up his throat may be responsible for his tiredness, for his bad tempers, for his snoring, for the constant coughing and throat clearing, for his lack of appetite and general lack of energy and possibly even his unusually deep voice, although I’ll actually be sad if he loses that too.

I had thought it unusual that my five year old still requires a two hour nap most afternoons and had wondered how he would survive a full school day on our return to London but it was a relief to know there might be a solution to hand. As for the bad tempers, I had thought he had inherited that from me, so I was relieved about that as well.

You don’t need to decide now, the Consultant told me.
I’ve already decided. How soon can you do it?

So it was that we checked in to another Sha Tin hospital yesterday morning. Far from being apprehensive, the five year old was excited at the prospect of being rid of the tonsils that bother him so much. He had spent the last week asking, how many days until I have my tonsils out? He was so delighted to be told, Just one more day now, that his little sister asked if she could have hers out too.

We were shown to a private room (thank you Mr Bupa), covered with schmaltzy images of Pooh bear and Mickey Mouse. Clouds of pastel-clad nurses wafted in and out with papers to sign and questions to ask. They took his blood pressure and bought him toys. We read and played together and finally more nurses arrived to dress him for surgery. On the trolley he laughed and joked with the orderlies who couldn’t quite believe how cheerful he was as they wheeled him to theatre.

In an anteroom I too was gowned up with a shower cap on, another mask and slip on covers over my Birkenstocks. Don’t try it at home; it’s not a good look! My boy laughed again and we went into theatre together. Only when the anaesthetist put the respiratory mask over his mouth did he decide the game was up and attempt to struggle but his lids grew heavy and I was shown out.

Waiting outside I reflect that this is the second time in his short life that my five year old has gone under general anaesthetic. He was 16 months old and we were on holiday on the island of Amrum off Germany’s north west coast. He took sick and began throwing up. Instead of getting better he was flown by helicopter to a mainland hospital for emergency surgery for an intussusception of the gut during which they removed a Meckel’s diverticulum and whipped out his appendix. It was a long operation and I wept buckets of anxious tears as I waited for him to be returned to me.

This time it’s over within thirty minutes. I am ushered in and he’s coming round, disoriented and in pain. The nice South African tells me it all went well and that he took out his oversized adenoids as well. Then, in case I don’t believe them, they hand me the adenoids and tonsils in souvenir plastic pots and we are returned to our Disney room.

The patient is doing well on a diet of ice cream and DVDs. He is exhausted but after an overnight stay we are home and looking forward to that increased quality of life we've been promised.

A space at the table

My big boys have been away on school trips.

Last week the eight year old went on camp to one of the outlying islands in Sai Kung National Park. They went abseiling, cooked their own food and built rafts. Then to test the seaworthiness they put their teachers on the rafts and sent them floating across the South China Sea, or to the bottom of it. They were away just two days and one night but returned happy, dirty and bitten by sand flies.

This week the ten year old has been away on a five day trip to Beijing with his school year group. The night before each of the boys departed I sat up late hastily sewing Cash’s name tapes onto all their clothes. My mother used to do this for me when we lived in London. Now that it’s my job I always leave it to the last minute. I think I’m in denial, hoping she might pop in at the last minute with her sewing kit and settle down to help me out.

So, for seven days now we’ve had just three children at our table. It has been unusually quiet and there is a yawning space where the fourth child normally sits. That is not to imply that the absent child is the noisy one but the dynamic has changed and the children are exploring their new roles within the revised subset.

Our eight year old says he likes being the eldest. He is flexing his big brother muscle and trying on the bossy hat on for size. He even slept one night in his brother’s top bunk. On the other hand he has taken to coming upstairs to join the Little Ones at bath time when the absence of his elder brother means he has no one to lark around with while he gets ready for bed.

I keep thinking I’ve forgotten someone, neglected to collect a child from school or an afternoon activity. Having three is relatively manageable and yet we all miss the absent one. The remaining three come home from school or nursery and ask where he is, forgetting momentarily that he is away, really away, not just for an afternoon or a day.

Before he left he turned to his little sister and said, Can I have a hug, please? I think he knew he was going to miss her. Or that she might change while he was gone. When he returns he too will have changed. He’ll be that much older, cannier, a little more mature. I’ll want to hug him to me and tell him how much we missed him and perhaps he’ll feel it too but want to show us how well he coped without us. And in this way one more of the many tiny threads that bind him to us will have been cut as he sets off on his way to independence.

Hurtling towards the finishing line

As time gathers pace, we race headlong towards our departure date and our days are packed. There are last visits to old haunts and first visits to new ones.

Whilst I should have much to write about I’ve hardly the heart to blog. I want to be out there living it, doing it all. I am gathering the harvest of our year, drinking it all in and in considerable danger of overdoing it, bingeing on last experiences.

We’ve been by junk to a fish restaurant on the tiny island of Po Toi. Arriving windswept and starving, the only guests, we ate our fill of crab, prawns and deep fried squid with garlic and butter running down our chins as the mosquitoes gorged themselves in turn on our legs and ankles.

We’ve enjoyed a late night foot massage with friends sitting in a row in huge cinema-style armchairs with the four masseurs before us in intimate consultation with our feet. The other three relaxed so much they drifted off to sleep while I grew more and more animated and wanted to chat and comment on the news items appearing on the big plasma screen above us.

I’ve been to the Mandarin Oriental Spa with the gift voucher I was given by girlfriends as I left London last year. Their idea was for me to be pampered in Hong Kong after the stress of moving. Little did they or I know I’d use it just as the stress of moving back starts to bite.

We’ve been to our favourite shabby Chinese and Thai restaurant at Shek’O and afterwards lay on the beach in the sun with friends while the children boogie boarded in the surf and our youngest built sandcastles at our feet. I swam out to the diving platform and beyond to the shark net which arches around the bay and then grew nervous as I neared my target for fear of meeting a shark nosing up at me on the other side of the net.

Our daughter has started ballet lessons with her Friend. She calls it bally and wants to go every day. It is a rite of passage for her and for me. As my youngest child and only daughter she brings leotards and gossamer skirts to our male dominated family for the first and last time. She skips about plucking stars from the sky and shows me how she makes happy feet and sad feet. Will her feet be sad to leave? I wonder. Will she miss the first friend she’s ever had?

We joined a team for the school Quiz Night and managed not to disgrace ourselves. A raffle was held and my husband threw in his HK$100 note in disdain announcing he’d never won anything in a raffle, ever. He won the only prize: two bottles of Absolut Vodka, a box set of Luxe city guides, a Coach handbag and a handful of gift vouchers for Hong Kong stores and spas which I am now charging about trying to use up before we go.

And yet the words are drying up. My eyes no longer see with the curiosity of the newcomer. My observations are neither fresh nor witty.

As I move through Hong Kong I stare wide-eyed about me, trying to burn the image onto my retina, hold it for always, as we have known it. For, should we ever return, Hong Kong will have changed, moved on and renewed itself several times over. That is its very nature and our Hong Kong will be a place of the past.

Miracle Cure

I’ve been so worried of late. So much to do, so little time. Nowhere to live, nowhere to hide.

No matter, I’ve found the solution. Botox. A glass and a half full of botox injected into my brow and no one would guess I’ve a care in the world. It’s more addictive than chocolate. And less fattening. And the children think Mummy is less cross. Magic.

The tiny needle-wielding Doctor talks with energy about his range of miracle skin cures. I yearn for them all. Whilst I would guess he’s the same age as me, on the Doctor's brow there is not a wrinkle to be seen. I think he practices what he preaches, but I could be wrong. Last week when I visited the Temple of Dermatology he told me that Caucasians are more animated than Asians and talk with more expression. I think that was his way of explaining kindly why I have so many more wrinkles. Or of denying that he’s had more botox.

They’re all at it. The Plastic Surgeon who sewed up my daughter’s head has a red velvet cushion on his desk. It is embroidered in gold with the words “Botox saved my marriage”. He too is smooth and unlined. I want to ask him about it but I fear five more minutes in his consulting room may double the bill.

When I go with my daughter to have her stitches removed, the trauma of the day she was sewn up is still too fresh in her mind and she refuses to climb on the operating table. In the end she relents only if I agree to lie with her. We snuggle up, my arm stretched out above my head to prevent me from falling off the narrow bed. I become aware that someone is stroking my hand. I look up and realise the Plastic Surgeon has taken hold of my paw in the mistaken belief he is comforting my daughter. I wonder if I should say something or pull away. Before I can he notices his mistake and is flustered with embarrassment. Even the botox can’t hide his discomfort. I laugh, but only to myself (fewer lines) and briefly wonder if I can use this little episode to sting him for a free shot of my favourite drug.

Is was THAT big!

Great ripples of excitement were felt yesterday afternoon.

Next door’s helper was in the yard when she realised that the rope-like thing coiled around the railings at the back of the house was actually a large brown snake snoozing peacefully in the warm afternoon sunshine. She called security and the men came and hassled it off the fence whereupon it slithered along the back path and disappeared into a hole. Which has now been blocked.

Our helper saw it go and told us it was a big one, about 6 ft in length. She also said it was venomous. And that her grandfather and two of her cousins died as a result of snake bites.

They’ve been clearing overgrown bamboo on the steep bank behind the houses and the speculation is that the snake’s usual habitat could have been disturbed. We are advised not to come in via the back path until they can be sure the snake is not going to make a habit of hanging out on the railings.

But the real tragedy is that those of us who have barely seen a snake outside of the Cotswold Wildlife Park never even caught a glimpse of it.

And so the myth lives on; it was (spreads arms wide) THAT big.

UPDATE: the doormen rediscovered the snake today taking cover in the drainage gutter. They poured boiling water over it to kill it and then invited us to go and view their bounty which had by this time reached 8 ft in length.

Our slithery friend was rather a pathetic sight after his ordeal and felt hot and wet to the touch, a bit like boiled snake I suppose. I was of course disappointed to find he was not an inch over 4 ft, so not actually THAT big after all.

Somewhere to live

I confess the heart has gone out of Wife in Hong Kong. As I surveyed the children’s rooms this morning with a view to a pre-move clear out I asked myself, What’s the point?

A year ago, as I packed boxes and put stickers on our stuff indicating “sea” or “store”, I did so with a certain amount of gusto as I looked forward to our New Adventure.

Now as I contemplate yet another move the only emotion is a vague hope that our search for a home in London will not be quite as drawn-out as the search for a home in Hong Kong.

One year ago with only a couple of months to D-Day we lost out on the house of our dreams. It was a shabby bungalow in Shek’O, overlooking the golf course and the sea beyond. It had a lovely garden with a swing and a pool. I could see my kids there, totally happy in Hong Kong. We set our hearts on it, paid the deposit and got ourselves proposed for Country Club membership, an irritating and costly prerequisite of the tenancy since neither of us play golf.

Then the landlord started to agitate. We were on the waiting list for the Country Club but way off the top. Our contract was from the 1st of June and yet we would not be allowed move in before membership was confirmed. Our only option was to pay a huge sum to jump the list. Spread over three or four years, it could be regarded as an increase in the rent. We were about to bite the bullet when it became clear that the Country Club would not reveal when our membership might come up for discussion, regardless of the list-jumping fee. It could take up to a year. And then there was no guarantee we would be accepted. The money was non-refundable. We needed a place to live. We started to foresee a situation where we were paying rent on two properties. With sadness we let the house go.

The Pioneering Accountant left for Hong Kong in mid-May. His number one priority was to find us somewhere to live. He called home. I’ve found us a place. Will you come out to give it your seal of approval? I think he was just missing me but I went all the same. My Ma-in-law took the kids and I flew to Hong Kong for one night. The house was fine, only a small garden but it was right on the water, had a large roof terrace and a shared pool. It was in Stanley, just minutes from the beach. I envisaged my children there and gave it the thumbs up. Shek’O would have been a long schlep to work, to school, to the shops. No doubt it was all for the best.

We paid the deposit and I returned to London. Frequent telephone contact between Putney and Pacific Place, where my husband was lodged in a serviced apartment, revealed that all was not well. He hadn’t heard from our new landlady. She was away in China. She was not returning his calls. And then, without warning, without comment, the deposit cheque was returned by post. We never heard why.

With only weeks to go we had nowhere to live. There was no more time for another trip, the decision was out of my hands. The Pioneering Accountant told me later that there was barely a rental house or apartment in Hong Kong he hadn’t seen. He signed the contract in a hurry, desperate not to lose a third house. The previous tenants were moving out at the end of July so it could be ready for us by mid August. In the meantime we took a second serviced apartment and made do for two weeks while we waited for our sea freight to arrive. I saw our new home for the first time just days before we moved in. It was perfect. The Pioneering Accountant had done us proud and we had somewhere to call home.

In a few weeks time the Pioneering Accountant leaves for London and will, amongst other things, be looking for a house. So far we have lost out on three. We are either too far away for quick-fire negotiations, are not able to move in within two weeks, or else are an unattractive proposition for landlords looking for a long term let. It all sounds horribly familiar. I can only hope my Old Man hasn't lost his touch. Keep your fingers crossed.

Nothing to Fear?

How shallow of me to be whingeing on about what not to wear while the world holds its breath, stifles a sneeze and waits to see if it has Swine Flu.

Are we affected? Oh yes. At the epicentre of the SARS crisis in 2003 when more than 300 people died and the island emptied overnight, Hong Kong has announced some of the toughest measures anywhere in response to the outbreak in Mexico and USA. It might have something to do with having one of the highest population densities in the world.

Ever since SARS Hong Kong has used infrared scanners to measure the facial temperatures of all arrivals at its airport and its border crossings with mainland China. Any traveller who has passed through a city with laboratory-confirmed cases and who arrives in Hong Kong with a fever and respiratory symptoms will be intercepted by officials and detained in hospital until tests can be shown to be negative.

The schools have been quick to respond. Guidelines for personal and environmental hygiene have been issued and information circulated on heightened measures for cleaning and disinfecting school premises.

Now, as in 2003, there is a run on surgical masks, bleach and disinfectant wipes.

At the New School parents are expected to take the child’s temperature each morning and record the result in writing in the homework diary. If a child’s temperature exceeds 37 degrees the child must stay at home.

And the best news came by email today: the Hong Kong Government has stated that if there is one case of the swine flu infection in Hong Kong they will close the schools.

Really? We are expected to be Good Citizens and get busy learning at home online. The school has recommended we check our broadband connections and ensure we have enough printer toner/ink and paper. Children were even sent home from the Old School yesterday with all their text books just in case the first case comes to light over the holiday weekend.

I have a much better plan: given that the Pioneering Accountant’s work commitments are winding down and the schools are likely to be closed, is it not the perfect chance to go travelling? Perhaps not to Mexico, but there are lots of other places we had hoped to see in the course of our three year stay. Irresponsible? Possibly, but I promise we’ll take our surgical masks, sterile wipes and thermometers with us.

Today we took a ferry to the outlying island of Cheung Chau which is celebrating the Bun Festival this weekend. We wandered amongst the crowds of pedestrians (there are no motor vehicles on Cheung Chau) and admired the Pak Tai Temple and the bun towers all ready for tomorrow’s climbers to scramble up in an attempt to grab as many buns as possible. The air was thick with incense and a Chinese opera was being performed in front of the temple as people arrived with gifts of food to pay tribute to Pak Tai who is reputed to have thrown the prince of evil out of heaven and driven away the pirates that plagued the island for many years.

We ordered lunch of fried chicken but we ate fried soya for the island turns vegetarian for the duration of the four day festival. Even the local Macdonald’s outlet ceases to sell burgers at this time.

As we drifted around the quaint fishing village with its colourful flags and stalls we were stopped by a journalist from the South China Morning Post. She asked us where we had come from and whether we were staying overnight.
No need for that as Hong Kong is only half an hour away by ferry.
Are you scared she asked?
Of what? We replied.
Of Swine Flu.
Gracious me, no, I said. I would think Hong Kong is about the safest place to be given the lessons learned during SARS.

Then she asked for my name. I shall be looking out for my quote in the SCMP over the next few days. I just hope it doesn’t come back and bite me!

UPDATE: HOT OFF THE PRESS! My husband has just come in to tell me that the first case has been reported this evening in Wan Chai. A Mexican who arrived in Hong Kong from Shanghai is now in hospital with suspected Swine Flu. Watch this space….