I like to break rules.
This space, which will contain a weekly dispatch from Hong Kong, begins with a detour to Thailand and an encounter with my Thai doppelganger.
It was three in the morning on the first night of 2005. On break from Hong Kong University, I had traveled with some fellow exchange students (but no Americans!) to the island of Koh Chang, Thailand.
It wasn't the most auspicious time to be in Thailand. We arrived in Bangkok one day after the tsunami (or "the wave," as the locals refer to it). My mailbox filled up with messages asking, "Are you dead?," which was flattering and also a bit strange. I was tempted to reply with a "yes."
My group had already planned to avoid Thailand's overcrowded south coast and go instead toward the less developed islands to the northeast. Upon arrival, we discovered that every vacationer stranded from the wave had exactly the same idea. Two hours later, we had accommodations at a sleep-on-a-floor-mat-with-an-insect-net-type place called the "Jungle Hut," and were quite thankful.
New Year's Eve was the following night. It felt strange to be partying less than a week after the country's largest disaster, but we did it anyway. By three in the morning, I had enough and headed back toward the Jungle Hut.
Koh Chang is a mountainous island with a single-lane road going around the perimeter. There is no public transportation - you get around by hailing converted pick-up trucks with a bench in the back.
I was standing on the road, thumb out. The chances of trucks running at this hour, on this night, especially ones with sober drivers, were very slim. I realized I might have to spend the night sleeping on the beach or try to keep myself occupied until sunrise.
Suddenly, I saw a man waving at me from across the road. He was a local, and after several more hand motions, I realized that he wanted me to come over. He was seated in front of a closed art gallery, with a small table placed in front of him.
His name was Rooney, and in halting English he introduced the other people at the table as his brother and a female cousin. There was also a fourth gentleman at the table, who was Polish. This man had a little too much to drink and soon wandered off to the "bathroom," never to return.
Rooney was the only person who spoke any English - the others just smiled and occasionally nodded as he spoke. His cousin was responsible for repeatedly filling my glass and bringing over bowls and bowls of peanuts, chips and cookies. Rooney explained that he was the owner of the gallery, which was filled with Surrealist portraits and local landscapes.
Once he started telling his story, I was amazed at the similarities between our lives. Rooney was a young political science student, just like myself. He had been born in the South, and then attended Bangkok University, the best school in the country. We talked about music, America and food, with an incredible amount of overlap.
Our stories only diverged because of our backgrounds. Rooney had run out of money in his third year of school, and was forced to drop out. He had tried to attend classes at night, but this had proved unmanageable. Trying to profit from the country's massive tourist industry, he now owned two souvenir stalls, he said, gesturing to a strip right across the street.
Rooney said that he wanted to come to the United States to join another cousin at a Thai restaurant in San Francisco. Just as he finished saying this, another young man approached Rooney, yelling frantically. Rooney rushed off, and soon an ambulance was on the scene. He came back briefly, explaining that a friend had been involved in a fight, and he needed to go the hospital to make sure he received treatment.
As Rooney sped off in the ambulance, I was left alone - the other two relatives followed Rooney in a scooter - wondering if he would ever have the opportunity to leave the island again. He had made it to Bangkok, and had been so close to completing his education. Now, he was here on this island, living off tourists.
That night made me reconsider the crowds of people hawking necklaces on the roadside or offering overpriced rides in a "tuk-tuk." The tourism industry, annoying as it might seem to tourists, may help people like Rooney to receive the education that I am so lucky to have. This was especially true in Thailand, where the government is desperately trying to rebuild the tourist industry after the wave.
The other outcome from that night was that I developed the two rules that will guide this column:
1. Little stories come out of big ones.
2. Locals have the stories.
And with that, I am headed back to Hong Kong. Hong Kong is a group of islands with a tiny strip of land on mainland China. Today, it is officially a "special autonomous region" of the People's Republic of China.
Six million people are crammed into massive tenements and luxury apartment complexes. Some neighborhoods rank among those with the highest population density on the planet.
I will be speaking to the people of Hong Kong in my column. No, I don't speak Cantonese, the local dialect, or even Mandarin, which is preferred by the mainland authorities. But I will be searching out an interesting person each week and will repeat his or her story and how it fits into my ongoing experience in Hong Kong. And I can't promise I will not break either of my two rules while doing it.
