Indefinite Wanderings

In Happy Valley, Theo’s morning lullabies are bamboo scaffolding scraping the sides of buildings, a road of angry drivers, and shop radios rattling away in Cantonese. I push my infant brother- a Hong Kong native- from sidewalk to busy sidewalk until we reach the Crescent Garden.

From the garden, the heart of Hong Kong Island rises beyond the racetrack. It quivers in an early autumn heat. A group of fifteen senior citizens perform tai chi in the pavilion, swimming their arms through the sky in attempted unison. A rugby practice is commencing on the fields of the track.

I’m 23 and new to Hong Kong, newer than Theo, and he’s very new to the world. Happy Valley is a microcosm of east-meets-west, a hybrid blossomed from the roots of one civilization passing through the hands of another, for decades: a bao bakery on this street, a Starbucks on that; a match on at the pub across the street from impossibly clean walkways swept by garden keepers with bamboo brushes. Cadbury chocolates and green tea.

Banyan trees rope the garden path hugging the race track, disregarding their metal fencing. There are many stories about the Banyan trees; some say they sprout from nothing. Theo sleeps sound as I weave between them along the jagged sidewalk. Unsuspecting passersby find their foreheads tickled by the Banyan’s branches.

The world around Crescent Garden moves quickly. The morning sees gaggles of multicultural toddlers pass through the playground’s slide while their minders dart from one end of the plastic jungle to the next. Someone cries; someone eats lunch; someone stretches. The elderly pat Theo’s blonde head and chuckle. “You have a beautiful boy,” they say. I don’t bother to correct my mistaken place as mother, but instead respond with simple thanks.

There is a man who walks the garden path silently every day, like us. His eyes crinkle like rice paper, and his gait is steady but quite slow. He carries handfuls of water from the bathhouse as if his entire existence depends on not spilling a single drop. Theo coos from a colorful dream as I follow the man and his cupped hands. He reaches the spot he sees fit, takes a knee, and examines the sidewalk with a tenderness it doesn’t seem to warrant. I move closer and we make eye contact for a brief moment; his thin smile suggests my curiosity is in good hands. A single sprout, centimeters tall, curves out of the cracked concrete. The man’s hands hover above it for a moment before the release.