Pak Wai

Until 22 February, we’re living in a village called Pak Wai. It’s exceedingly crowded and I feel we are the only Westerners here. We also seem to be the only people with a baby who screams all night and sets off the nearby village dogs (in this case, the chihuahuas living upstairs and in the apartments on both sides. These chihuahuas and their millions of comrades are paraded through Sai Kung on the weekend wearing pink coats and matching headbands and even jeans. Sometimes in special dog prams. Shit is fucked up.)

I’ve already managed to slip down the front steps (catastrophic only in terms of the level of embarrassment, luckily not in terms of hand breakage, despite reflexively landing on right-angled wrists, with as much grace as you can imagine – and i say luckily because after all, no hands equals no job equals no visa bye-bye).

We are living at number 14, or, to render it in my skillful Cantonese, “sup-say”. You’ll have to infer my astonishing(ly bad) exhibition of the tonal complexities of this language.

Pak Wai edges up against Marina Cove, this magnificent harbour. The first time we ventured out, it was nighttime but still apparently lovely.

Today we took a stroll outside the village gates at sunset. I know the colour palette is enhanced by the pollution, but for fleeting romantic moments at 5.34pm, my children’s certain future bronchial issues are a fair price to pay for a view like this:


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