and you thought it was all over

Even though the date of Chinese New Year wanders up and down the Gregorian calendar over a range of about four weeks, it always seems to be cold in Hong Kong over the new year period, and this year has been no exception. However, instead of the usual two or three days of cold weather, this year it was cold and miserable throughout the first week, threatening to dampen any enthusiasm for the highlight of the annual celebrations in San Wai: the ceremony of the roast pig and the village dinner.

You could be forgiven for thinking that after the fireworks that would be it for yet another year, and so it was in most of Hong Kong: prices remained high throughout the week, especially in restaurants and food markets, and the territory was slow to get back to business as usual, as usual. And, according to tradition, it is imperative to get out of the house on the third day to avoid quarrels, which are believed to last all year if they occur on that day, but nothing of note actually happens, apart from the quarrels about where to go, given that it’s still a public holiday and almost nowhere is open.

However, San Wai’s dinner is always held on the eighth day of the new year and is a big occasion: it is held in the open air, hence the concerns over the weather, and this year there were thirty-seven tables, each accommodating between ten and twelve diners, some of whom will have been guests of village residents. And, remember, this is a Chinese dinner, which means in this case eleven courses, all cooked in the open; it is a mammoth logistical challenge, and after days of damp, dreary weather, it must have been a relief to the organizers to see the clouds lift and the temperature rise a few degrees.

The day starts with a ritual to bless the roast pig that the village purchases every year. It is a quasi-religious ceremony with incense, the burning of paper money and ritual obeisances at an impromptu altar (a table covered with red paper). My assumption is that the beliefs behind it are connected with fung shui, although when I declined to join in everyone assumed that it was because I’m a Christian, which I’m not. It appears to be based on a mixture of Taoist and animist beliefs, with rice wine poured on the ground as an offering to the gods. Last year, the ceremony was more meticulously observed, while this year’s ceremony was much more of an ad hoc affair that I thought was rushed through.

I suspect that one reason for the hurry was that this year the village had bought two pigs, one of which was promptly chopped up and scoffed on the spot in a most convivial atmosphere. The meat is very fatty, but the skin is crunchy and absolutely delicious, especially when washed down with a couple of glasses of beer. The second pig was also chopped up, after which portions were distributed to every house in the village as per tradition.

Preparations for the dinner went on all afternoon, and this year the organizers had booked live musical entertainment: not to my tastes, although I did enjoy the Cantonese opera singer. Backed by an electric trio of bass, drums and keyboards, she sounded better than would have been the case in a more traditional setting, and to my surprise she sang mostly duets, switching from the male to the female role with remarkable ease.

If you have any Chinese friends, you will probably be aware that they light up like a clown’s nose after only moderate consumption of alcohol, and moderation is not on the agenda on occasions like these. We were well supplied with both wine and beer. In addition to a toast as each dish comes to the table, groups of topers go from table to table proposing additional toasts. And everyone has a good time.

The highlights of the dinner itself were the deep-fried prawn balls and the eight ingredients stuffed duck. The number of ingredients in the stuffing relates to the allegedly lucky properties of the number eight, although I have to confess that I could detect only two: chick peas and lotus seeds. You will assume, correctly, that everyone is full by the time courses nine and ten arrive, which is why these are always egg fried rice and braised e fu noodles, or something similar, designed merely to fill up the unfilled.

By this time, everyone was fairly merry. Uncle Chu, a familiar and popular figure in the village, his face lit up like a Christmas tree, was dancing enthusiastically to the music, but when the glamorous Cantopop singer offered to dance with him (while continuing to sing), he shot up the stairs leading from the dining area (aka the car park) like a rabbit down its hole when a fox appears in the neighbourhood, clearly embarrassed.

The Spring Festival, as it is known in mainland China, continues until Sunday, but as far as San Wai is concerned that’s it for another year. Lung ma tsing san.

The ritual carving of the first pig.

The pig is chopped into bite-sized pieces; dipping sauces can be seen in front of the chopping block.

Thirty-seven tables are set out in the car park alongside the east wall of the village.

What remains of the last five courses, including the eight ingredients stuffed duck and the 'fillers'.

fireworks: a retrospective

You can probably guess, based on my previous post, that I like fireworks, but this wasn’t always the case. My earliest memory of this kind of thing was as a four-year-old on Bonfire Night (5th November) in 1950. My father had bought a box of fireworks, but I was too scared to go into the garden to see them being set off at close range and merely watched through the living room window.

However, throughout the 1950s my father always bought a big box of fireworks for Bonfire Night, and I gradually became more confident about watching—I even lit a few myself. I was never too keen on the ones with pretty colours though; I always preferred the ones that went off with a bang, the louder the better. By the early 1960s, the bangs were no longer loud enough, and I decided that I could do better myself.

After I’d splattered the ceiling of the living room with chemicals and burned a hole in the fireside rug, I was exiled to the garden shed, which became my own laboratory. All the neighbours knew what I was up to, because every so often they’d hear an extremely loud explosion, look out of their rattling windows to see a huge white mushroom cloud erupting over the shed and exclaim: “Dennis is at it again!” Or words to that effect.

In the current climate, amid fears about terrorism, it would be irresponsible of me to provide any further details. Suffice it to note that I’m writing about an altogether more innocent age, when a schoolboy making his own fireworks attracted no more than amused tolerance from the adults in the neighbourhood. Nowadays, a visit from the police would be the least I could expect.

After I left home in 1964, I paid no attention to either Bonfire Night or fireworks until Chinese New Year in 1982. This was the first year for what has now become a tradition—a fireworks display over Hong Kong’s harbour. I was working at the local Outward Bound School at the time, and the school had a sailing ship that could carry up to forty trainees plus crew. The director decided that it would be a good idea to take the ship into the harbour to watch the display, so we all had a grandstand view, complete with buffet supper and drinks. I’ve rarely had a better view since.

This scenario was repeated in 1983—as a treat for hard-working and underpaid staff—but with the appointment of a new and corporate-minded director in 1984, staff were no longer welcome: the ship still sailed round to the harbour, but now the passengers were local taipans and other dignitaries in a position to help the school. For many years after this, I never bothered to attend the displays, mainly because I didn’t fancy having to contend with the large crowds that gather on the waterfront. I didn’t start going again until about ten years ago and have missed only two displays since.

During this period, I’ve usually watched from somewhere along the Kowloon waterfront. The best viewing position is the walkway in front of the New World Centre (now being demolished because it was built at a time when there was a height restriction on building in Kowloon) and Intercontinental Hotel, but as mentioned in my previous post, you have to get there two hours beforehand or the police will not let you through. However, one year we watched from an apartment overlooking the harbour—it was being rented by a colleague of my wife. Not as much fun, but at least I could watch with a gin and tonic in my hand.

Another year, the cloud ceiling was so low that all the high shells were exploding in the clouds and therefore out of sight. This was the reason for missing the show in 2007: we didn’t bother to go, because the clouds were down to about 300 feet. We also missed the fireworks in 2005, because we were in New Zealand. In fact, we were there to evaluate that country as a place to live; that we eventually chose to return to Hong Kong was heavily influenced by the comments of a TV news reporter, who described Chinese New Year as “the world’s biggest party” (it isn’t a party) and Hong Kong in the morning of New Year’s Day as “like a ghost town” (it is in extremely bad taste to talk about ghosts at this time of year). We really didn’t fancy living in a country whose news media fed its citizens such ignorant drivel.

This year, I watched from the roof of the Royal Garden Hotel with a friend from Sydney who was a guest at the hotel. It wasn’t the best view I’ve had over the years, but the hotel had thoughtfully set up stereo speakers to relay the music with which the fireworks are electronically synchronized, which is broadcast on local radio and which added another dimension to the experience. It was mostly jaunty Chinese classical music, with one slow piece and a jazzed-up version of La Rejouissance from Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks.

You might be wondering how slow music fits something as fast and explosive as a fireworks display, but the designers had come up with fireworks that resembled waterfalls as they fell slowly back to earth: these were just one of five or six new effects that were integrated into the display this year. Others included two-stage starbursts that bore an uncanny resemblance to flowers and ones that featured spoked wheels or contained smiley faces.

At the end of the display, my Australian friend, who has seen Sydney’s new year fireworks quite a few times, said that it was the best fireworks display he’d ever seen, and I had to agree. I couldn’t help but think that the degree of control that the designers had over the raw power of the display, together with the way it was coordinated with the music, moved it from the merely spectacular to the truly awesome (using this word as it should be used). But with the Chinese and fireworks, I expect nothing less.

fireworks

I often say that the best time to be in Hong Kong is Chinese New Year—if you’re a resident. If you’re a visitor, it’s the worst time—everywhere (apart from the big hotels) is closed. The Hong Kong Tourist Board did initiate a New Year’s Day parade through the main entertainment district in Kowloon a few years ago, but this is Chinese New Year for tourists, and we don’t bother to attend.

However, the second day is different: we always travel into town for the New Year fireworks display over Victoria Harbour. The Chinese invented fireworks, and the only place that may conceivably put on a better display is Beijing. Hong Kong’s display lasts 22–24 minutes, during which time more than a thousand shells per minute will be fired up into the night sky from three barges moored in the middle of the harbour. The marine police, with their customary efficiency, maintain a strict exclusion zone in the central harbour for a couple of hours before the display is due to start.

You have to get there early if you want a good view, because up to half a million people will be lining the harbour on both sides. Two years ago, we found quite a good vantage point and had to wait more than an hour for the display to start. My younger son, Tristan, had never seen the display before, but when I asked him whether it had been worth the wait he agreed that it definitely was. Last year, our friend Barry from the UK was staying, and we wanted to get the best possible view, which meant a two-hour wait. You can judge whether it was worth the wait on this occasion by Barry’s comment after the fireworks had finished:

“That was bloody excellent!”

The people on Hong Kong side never learn though: the wind at this time of year is always from the north or northeast, and smoke from exploding shells will drift in that direction and obscure the second half of the display. And if you think that a fireworks display is a purely visual experience, think again. You might as well be watching it on TV, with a cretinous commentator repeating endlessly “Ho leng, ho leng” (‘very beautiful, very beautiful’). However, real aficionados will tell you that the feeling of pressure waves from the explosions hitting you in the chest is an integral part of the experience. You have to be there.

And when it’s all over, the crowds disperse in a remarkably orderly way. But we always go to Chung King Mansion for a curry after the fireworks. You may have heard of Chung King Mansion, and there is one rule that you must always follow: never use the lifts. The place is like a rabbit warren, and it is a serious firetrap. However, the Indian restaurant we go to is on the third floor, and we can walk up the stairs. My wife and I have been going there since the 1980s, and in those days we were usually the only customers, but the restaurant has now been discovered by local Chinese, so we need to get there quickly or risk having to wait for a table.

Finally, in my post for New Year’s Eve, I introduced you to the common greeting at this time of year: kung hei fat choi (‘may you be prosperous in the year ahead’). However, there’s an even better one, which I learned from my wife only today: lung ma tsing san (‘may you have the health/energy of a dragon or horse’). I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have good health over great wealth any day.

a new year

Firecrackers had been going off sporadically all morning, and the local lion-dance troupe, which is always kept very busy on the first day of the new year, is running behind schedule. It is due to arrive at midday, but it is past 1pm before their truck finally pulls up outside the village.

The first order of business is for the lion to pay its respects at the village shrine, accompanied by the standard ‘musical’ ensemble of three pairs of cymbals, a gong and a huge bass drum. The drum is played using two heavy sticks, and you can feel it as much as you hear it. The rhythms are complex, slow at first but building in intensity, then fading away and building again. The lion’s steps are intricate and carefully choreographed, and in time with the accompanying rhythms.

Last year, my wife asked me whether we wanted to put out some ‘bait’ for the lion.

“What kind of bait?” I asked.

“Lettuce!” she replied.

“Lettuce?” I repeated, incredulously.

You need to know that the Cantonese for ‘lettuce’ is sang choi; choi simply means ‘vegetable’, but sang, apart from its meaning in this context, can also mean ‘new lease of life’. It is yet another example of the word association that is an integral part of many Chinese beliefs. Another is the avoidance of the number four, which sounds like the Cantonese word for ‘death’ (buildings often don’t have a fourth floor).

The idea is that you hang the lettuce high enough that the lion can reach it only by standing on its hind legs, which as you can imagine requires some acrobatic prowess by the performers. Our Friend Tom was the front end of a lion when he was younger, and he tells me that I’d have made a good rear end, but definitely not now: it looks far too energetic. Anyway, the lion proceeds to ‘eat’ the lettuce, but what would you expect to happen next? That’s right! If you try feeding lettuce to a lion, it is going to spit it out again, and this is exactly what happens.

The following photographs were all taken last year. I took more photos this year, but the weather was pretty gloomy, so this year’s pictures are not very good. And we didn’t have a string of firecrackers to start the proceedings. In fact, there seems to have been a shortage of firecrackers this year. Perhaps the local police have been on the case.

The village headman dots the eyes of the lion to bring it to life.

The performance begins with a full string of firecrackers, which takes almost a minute to finish.

The percussion band that accompanies the performance.

There are many kinds of lion dance. This one takes place on top of a large bamboo pole.

The performance is over, and the lion takes a rest.