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[a-white-crayon]

Tai Hang

Despite having studied in Causeway Bay for 6 years, I had not spent an afternoon in Tai Hang.

Today’s trip was spontaneous, but more delighting than most planned ones.

There were several interesting spots. In the corner of Second Lane, there was a building, of two-storeys at least, that was painted entirely in pink. Pink as in bright, bubblegum, saccharine looking pink. It is almost neon and glowing. There were products displayed in the windows, but the shop appeared to be closed, or abandoned even. The pink was so loud and so in-your-face, it was impossible to walk past it without sparing a curious glance at it. The name of the shop was “carrie carries” - oh how I love puns.

Another shop that caught my eye was Ramen Kureha. It was a wooden house, with vintage signs hanging on the walls. Even the name of the shop was put in a tricoloured banner, red, white, and blue. This colour scheme was often found in old advertisements and signs. The shop also reminded me of my trip to the central region of Japan. I particularly remember a wooden house, it also had big and colourful signs hanging on the walls. I had always adored these signs because the colours were solid, warm, and bright. Nothing makes me happier than pretty colours!

The last spot was the best discovery yet, because I had to save the best for last. It was a little store that served tea and light refreshments. It’s called Jrink, drink with a J. The teas were brilliant, and the food was heartily made. I ordered an iced hojicha latte and a slice of yuzu cheesecake, both were brilliant in terms of taste and presentation.

First, let me begin with how you choose your tea. You can read through the menu, there is a step-by-step guide for that, but I just sniffed the tea leaves samples on the shelves and randomly picked one. The first tea I smelled was Peach Temptation (something like that, I forgot). I quite likes it and I smelled some more, but they couldn’t beat the Peach one. (On a side note, the tea names were extemely punny. My personal favourites were “Grape Expectations”, “Sexy Boo-tea”, and “Chai Me”. Oh how I loved puns.) I ordered a pot of Peach Temptation to share with my company, and an iced tea latte entirely for self-indulgence.

The tea arrived in a glass teapot sitting on a stove. Then I realised I forgot to order it as chilled (ugh, me). The stove was not the kind of stove you imagined, it was just a ceramic platform with a mini candle inside to keep the tea hot. The teacups were adorable too, they were glasses and they could insulate heat so you wouldn’t burn your hands - GREAT CHOICE OF CUPS, JRINK.

Moving on to the tea latte. My hojicha latte was milky with mildly strong tea flavours, making it perfect for days when I just didn’t want to drink proper coffee but I felt I needed a little caffeine. And the straw was made of stainless steel, making it reusable. I had the exact set of reusable straws so I got a little too excited. I did not expect any shops would purchase these staws instead of plastic straws. These reusable straws were definitely more costly than plastic straws, but in the long run, they were more worthy of money, and they helped alleviate the waste problem - GREAT CHOICE OF STRAWS, JRINK.

And lastly, the yuzu cheesecake was smooth and fresh, sweet but not teeth-achingly sweet. In short, the flavours were tuned perfectly. The plate was one of a kind, its colour resembles pencil lead, and it had really fun textures. The plate had a fairly rough surface, I felt like it was made out of rock. The only downside about Jrink was the small tables and chairs. There was not much space between tables, so it was quite uncomfortable.

I am sorry that this turned out to be a revew of Jrink. (Not sponsored, unfortunately.)

[a-white-crayon]

Good People Good Deeds

note: this is an entry to a story writing competition, the theme is good people good deeds. i won the silver award in senior level *yay*

---

Today was one of the dog days.

It's drizzling outside, rain fell in little arrows and landed on the grass in puddles, sunlight seeped through the gaps in the half-down blinds and casted bars of white heat across the dirty tiles on the floor. The rain didn't sweep away the heat, though, the estival moisture lingered on my skin, I shifted in the plastic chair uncomfortably. A fan was spinning slowly on the ceiling, I stared at it for a while, then the steady sounds of the pad of feet inched closer.

"Hot kiddo yuanyang," said a tired, slightly husky voice.

I glanced up quickly, I only caught a fleeting glimpse of her back.

The white ceramic cup sat in the middle of a matching saucer, both of them were covered with scratches. The cup was brimming, as I had expected, there was a drop or two of yuanyang spilt out of the cup, forming little ponds on the saucer. I inhaled deeply, the scent wasn't rich enough. Not the richest I had ever tasted, at least.

I tasted the best one in Lucky Cafe.

My mum started working in Lucky Cafe as a waitress since I was 8. Keung Gor was the boss, a middle aged man. He was barely five foot three, he had greyish black hair, his eyes were bright and warm. He always wore the same old clothes - worn out white vests, blue jeans which were torn at the knees, and the only shoes he owned - a pair of white canvas shoes. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled up. Creases were branded at the corners of his eyes, in my heart too.

I would never forget him.

I went to the cafe everyday, so Keung Gor reserved me a table at the back of the cafe. Everyday he placed a mug of kiddo yuanyang (Ovaltine mixed with Horlicks) on the greasy glass, and greeted me with an endearing tap on the shoulder. "Hey buddy, done with your homework yet?"

Most of the time, I shook my head. Then he patted and ruffled my short hair, sitting next to me. "Let me help you then buddy," he wiped his wet hands against his jeans, and pulled out the pencil behind his left ear.

He seemed to be enthusiastic about everything. There was a big black boombox sitting on the counter next to the cash register. (They were equally important, Keung Gor insisted.) There was never a moment of silence in Lucky Cafe, because the air was filled with music 24/7. Out of all his hobbies, tutoring my sisters and I was his favourite. He always said, "kiddos, you must work hard," and when he said this, he had an inward expression of crestfallenness between his constantly furrowed brows. He lowered his head, looked up again, and stared into the space blankly. This was the only time when he was sad, when he talked about how he wished he had studied more.

When I was still an immature boy, I looked forward to the Lunar New Year, because the daily cup of kiddo yuanyang would be sweeter and larger in size. When he handed me the tall cup with a warm grin, my face mirrored his.

"Excuse me, sir," said a high pitched voice, then all of a sudden, the room waa much brighter. The blinds were pulled up now, the soft sunshine brought me back to the reality. I smiled discreetly at the thought of Keung Gor; he was much more than a cup of sweet drink and a tutor, the 8 year old me was too young and naive to appreciate him.

At the age of 16, I had become more profound. I was quite sensitive and observant, so I noticed things. The creases at the end of Keung Gor's eyes were deeper, his hands shook involuntarily, and the black in his hair had faded completely.

It was an ordinary afternoon, then all of a sudden I heard a loud clank: he dropped his cup. Keung Gor squatted immediately, he looked pained. I ran towards him and helped him up. He hissed silently, rubbing his back. This tugged on my heart strings. I asked him, did it hurt? Speechlessly, Keung Gor smiled, he merely pointed at the pieces of porcelain before sitting on the nearest chair slowly. I looked worriedly at him - he had been ageing silently. It was drizzling outside, with warm rays pouring over the trees. I wished Keung Gor would be as fine as the weather.

The second thing I noticed, was Keung Gor's strange habit. Every Friday afternoon, he carried two big baskets and disappeared from the cafe. I asked the other sabout this, but no one seemed to know where he's heading to. Three months after my discovery, I decided to followed him.

 It turned out that he was giving out free meals to homeless people.

In the small park, there was a long queue of them, dressed in smelly and torn rags. Yet Keung Gor wasn't disturbed at all, in fact, his smile was the widest; he handed out styrofoam boxes, sending the needed people warm greetings with his even warmer smile. The hotness of my tears prickled my eyes, and I joined in the queue. I heard Keung Gor's laugh, he was chatting with an old lady, their grins were so genuine. When it was my turn, I walked up to Keung Gor. He looked shocked, he visually stiffened and his mouth hung open.

"W-What are you doing here?"

I wanted to speak, I wanted to ask him how long he's been doing this, but my tongue was tied. It was unbelievable, in this city, where everyone chased papers and the only thing they cared about was their bank balances, Keung Gor provided meals freely! I hunched up shamefully - I had been complaining that I didn't have enough pocket money, I kept asking for more. Ironically, here was Keung Gor, sharing love and kindness, without asking anything in return! 

“Keung- just, why?" I managed to choke out a few words.

 He chuckled softly, and shrugged, "because they need," he gestured towards the lunchboxes, "these, more than you and I do."

Until this very day, my heart still wrenched a little when I thought of Keung Gor. He was so selfless, in this city full of selfish, cold hearts. I wiped a tear away and drank my lukewarm kiddo yuanyang in silence. I turned my head to the window, it had stopped raining and the sky was cerulean. I closed my eyes and savoured the sweet taste of Ovaltine and Horlicks on my tongue.

And the boombox continued to blare at the back of my mind.

[a-white-crayon]

Before the Sun Rises

note: this is a feature story assignment for my journalism course

---

The sun had not yet risen, but his day had begun. Under the West Kowloon Corridor and along the Tung Chau Street Temporary Market in Sham Shui Po, Ah Shing dragged his bag of treasures to his spot – the corner around the third column. With trembling hands, he carefully placed the goods onto the tattered green rag. MD players, white trainers that had gone yellow, vinyl discs, chipped crockery, you name it. Those items hardly held any value anyway. It was a couple minutes past five a.m., long before breakfast time.

Yet what would be on his breakfast plate was never Ah Shing’s concern, he didn’t have the privilege to think about that. He was like everybody else here in Sham Shui Po, pockets empty, living off Comprehensive Social Security Assitance (CSSA), and living in public rental housing.

Ah Ho was already there, when Ah Shing had yet reached his usual spot. Her goods were neatly laid out on top of the blue and white striped canvas, which was often used in construction sites. There were bomber jackets, faux leather handbags, blankets, worn out trainers… “It’s all good stuff,” she claimed.

 “Come and take a look,” Ah Ho called at the passers-by. “If the stuff isn’t good I won’t sell it.” She was sitting on a tiny plastic stool, a child’s chair, surrounded by rice cookers, tin plates, teapots, and electric kettles. A few plastic food jars were lying around, the ones with flowers drawn on them. They were popular in the 70s.

“You like that plate? It’s only five dollars.” She was referring to an enamel plate, with the classic blue rim and a red chrysanthemum painted in the middle. It was chipped here and there, but it was decent looking, it would work after a much-needed scrub.

Before the daybreak, there are bazaars in various areas in Hong Kong, selling low-cost, often used wares. Selling goods at grassroot bazaars could provide a supplementary source of money for the poor. Financial assistance such as Old Age Living Allowance, Old Age Allowance, and CSSA from the government could not support their living.

The vendors are usually elderlies, or retired middle-aged people. A lot of them were too old to be in the labour market, they were not as able as young workers and they were seldom hired. Up to 2014, 50.7% of the poor population are elderlies. 97200 out of 366000 people live below the poverty line, making the poverty rate in Sham Shui Po 26.6%. The median of monthly household income was merely $2500.

In April, the Daytime Market Concern Group, Support Grassroot Bazaars Alliance, and Concerning CSSA & Low Income Alliance proposed the operation of trial holiday bazaars at the junction of Sham Shui Po’s Kiu Kang Street and Hai Tan Street. The three organisations had conducted a survey on this subject. Out of 201 people who completed the questionnaire, 168 supported the grassroot bazaars. 104 agreed grassroot bazaars could help the poor vendors to make a living.

Ah Ho is one of the regular vendors, she lives alone in an apartment in a tong lau building nearby. “I have been here for two years,” she said. “No one comes around anymore, and when there is people, they are stingy old bums.”

“What are you looking for? I have everything,” she mumbles whilst staring into the empty space, eyes lacking a focus.

An old man came by, rummaging through the things Ah Ho was selling. “What a nice teddy!” He delightedly opened the box of plush toys. “Of course it’s in good quality, I am selling it for fifty dollars.”

The man hesitated for a moment, worried about the price. “I’m not getting it - unless it’s forty (dollars).”

“This is brand new, I don’t sell brand new toys for forty dollars,” Ah Ho shook her hands, “the best I could offer was forty-eight dollars, deal?”

“Stingy old bum,” She muttered under her breath after the man left with his new purchase, stuffing the money into her hip pack. “People nowadays are always sticking out their hands, asking for more and more, but none is willing to do anything for it!”

“CSSA is not enough! Inflation is so serious, prices aren’t going down,” Ah Ho sighed as she picked at a slightly dented can of sardines.

The grass-root bazaars have existed for more than two decades, yet they had not aroused public interest until the recent years. It had also come to the public’s concern that hawker licenses have not yet been granted to any vendors at grassroot bazaars.

Lee Kwok-kuen, a community organsier at Concerning CSSA & Low Income Alliance, agreed that granting hawker licenses to bazaar vendors would benefit the grass-roots in Sham Shui Po. “More and more young people come to these flea markets to look for vintage treasures. This is a good sign.”

At grassroot bazaars, vendors could do business and shoppers to purchase things they need with a low cost. Licensing allows sustainable development of the hawkers, preserving this unique culture.

The street sleepers had woken. Ten of them gathered in a circle and watched two men play chess. The Vietnamese were up too, chattering in their mother tongue, a foreign language to our ears. Their voices were soft, and coarse due to the years of smoking.

A lantern was placed in the middle of a blue tent, lighting up the tiny space. A short-haired woman squatted outside the tent, bare feet, injecting God-knows-what into her swollen ankle with a syringe that did not look it had been properly cleaned.

The sun had not yet risen.

[a-white-crayon]

Commute Diaries #1

31 March 2017 / MTR

It is 2355, the train has just arrived at Sheung Wan station. An incredibly tall man with limbs that only belong to giraffes gets on the train.

He steps into the car with a tint of inexplicable self consciousness in his eyes - probably due to his daunting height. Standing 2 metres tall, he immediately grasps everyone’s attention when he enters a room - I cannot help but notice he has the entire colour palette on his clothes.

His Puma windbreaker is oversized (even for his height!), black, with funky thick stripes on the shoulders - bright yellow, bright pink, and bright turquoise. The zippers and the embroidered Puma logo are yellow too. His windbreaker has the sporty chic vibe, because, well, it is sportswear. By eyeballing it, I reckon it is at least 20 years old.

He is wearing a red snapback hat and it is adjusted in a way that you can see the words on the other side of the bill. Beneath the windbreaker is a tree green v-neck tshirt, and he had blue socks on his feet.

His long limbs starkly contrast with the small man next to him, who gets on at Admiralty. Man #2 wears a brown biker jacket, with a sexually ambiguous, thin, purple ombre scarf wrapped around his neck. His scarf certainly does not keep his neck warm, nor it is a decent accessory. (it is too ugly to be complimentary.)

The colourful giraffe gets off at Wan Chai, whilst Mr Plump gets on. From the side, his protruding stomach is drooping, it hangs so low that it goes over his belt. His shirt is in white and blue vertical stripes, but those stripes aren’t making him any slimmer. He has gigantic Sony headphones over his ears, and who uses those anymore?! His balding head only has a few lonely patches of stray hair left… poor guy.

When I turn my head back to Colourful Giraffe’s seat, it is taken by the third person. I like the fact that she is wearing double denim. I can tell that’s a thrifted/passed down denim jacket. The button holes are stitched in green round the rim - not something hip in recent years.

Her hair is styled in the way that I will never be able to look good with. Short hair will not look good on me. Her skin looks amazing too, smooth and glowing (it is 0007 as I speak!) I think she is pretty, and I know most people won’t agree, but at least her lover in an orange windbreaker would.

It is 0011, I am at the North Point station.

A lady with nicely manicured, baby pink nails, is eating duck, or goose - I can smell it, and judging by the colour of the skin, it is either duck or goose - that are probably leftovers from a Chinese restaurant, with both of her hands.

Hair curled and dyed, brows drawn, cheeks powdered, lips rouged, she is indeed well groomed. (She is balding, though.)

How ironic is it to see a well-groomed lady in her 50s eating food with both hands on public transport?

Is she hungry? Is she just off work? Or she has just had her dinner but she cannot get enough of the goose?

She hasn’t stopped eating yet, still sucking on the piece of meat like no one’s watching (I am).

When she is done ripping the meat off the bones, she tosses them into the plastic bag.

And now she is totally done with eating, because her mouth is closed and scrunched in a way that I reckon her tongue is trying its best to get the meat out of her teeth. The job is obviously too difficult without a toothpick, so she used her index finger instead.

Wiping her greasy fingers with a tissue paper, she gets off at Tiu Keng Leng with me.

(Then I see her using the same tissue paper to wipe the corner of her eyes)

[a-white-crayon]

untitled

20 june 2016 at 0354 am

you’re fourteen minutes away from four am. it’s been a long day, tonight’s a hot summer night and you can’t drift off to sleep. you can’t get a thought off your mind. you think of a quote: and sometimes you exist then there are those strange moments when you imagine being nothing. because it’s how you feel right now, in your bed, sheets stained with sweat and saliva, food crumbs, even. your stomach churns from the coffee you drank to keep yourself awake in the meeting. the air con is far too loud and the way it rumbles fucking resembles a snoring old man. you hate to admit it but you’re counting down to the moment of truth, which is almost twelve hours away. the unnerving thought gives you a slight headache. you feel empty and full and needy and independent all at once. you want to escape from the situation. you desperately miss him. you shiver from loneliness. you wish you could cry but you couldn’t because you’ve dried up your tear glands a few days ago. or there’s nothing to cry about in the first place. and all you can do is wait. you’re now six minutes away from four am. and you’re still as restless.

[a-white-crayon]

The Title

This blog is titled “a white crayon” because that’s what I feel like most of the time.

There are so many vibrant colours, and I am white.

Just white. Plain white.

I am plain.

But sometimes, I feel like a white crayon is useful too.

It adds textures to dark colours, it highlights, and it lightens.

Nothing looks more stunning on black papers than a white crayon.

And almost ALL crayon packs come with a white crayon.

Maybe I am important, somehow.

I just don’t see it.