Hong Kong is, first and foremost, a land of stark opposites. Sleek skyscrapers are silhouetted against the verdant mountainous terrain, bustling night markets are dotted between majestic colonial-era architecture. The roads are either steep and narrow, little cramped side streets that meander between crumbling apartment complexes, or wide and sprawling, one of the many overlapping highways that act as the veins and arteries of the city. In the heart of the city, juxtaposition is the name of the game.
It isn’t even eight in the morning, and yet, this concept is already on full display. I’d wandered into a rundown side street, the street before me dappled in shadows and covered in puddles, damp from the unidentified liquid leaking out of pipes overhead. Sunlight is a limited commodity, with most of it being blocked out by the laundry dangling overhead, bridging between the different apartment complexes, as the pungent odour of stale trash permeates the air. Despite the lack of sunlight, the buildings are sun-bleached and weathered, yellowed to a muted sepia from the many typhoons and decades they’ve welcomed. Clawing at the sky like wild beasts, the buildings are bursting at the seams from housing so many inhabitants.
In the midst of all the chaos, the lone pop of colour comes from a vibrant blue storefront.
A winding queue snakes all the way to the sapphire-coloured door, as a simple, albeit trendy white font spells out the word “Bakehouse”. The clientele is a mishmash of locals and tourists, residents and expats, all eager to get their hands on the treats being sold within the jewel-toned walls. In front of me, a local teenager plays a game on her phone, idly looking up once in a while to check her progress in the queue. Behind me, a group of three middle-aged tourists discuss the best sights in Hong Kong, with thick Australian accents coating their tongues, adding a distinct curl to their vowels. This bakery is known for excellent sourdough loaves, German pretzels and buttery croissants, but I'm only here for one thing. The quintessential Hong Kong egg tart.
When I finally order and pay for my breakfast, it arrives in a paper bag that is the colour of cut sapphire. The handle of the paper bag is a tangerine orange, and so are the cartoonish line doodles emblazoned on the front. It looks whimsical, effortlessly avante garde in a way that my Design and Technology coursework could only aspire to emulate. However, there’s nothing whimsical about the contents of the box at all. The treats encased within are the picture of tradition, of culture, of Hong Kong's vibrant heritage.
Glistening Macau-style egg tarts await me, filled with luscious egg custard, the slightly burnt edges caramelised to perfection, the perfect snack of childhood nostalgia. The pastry is buttery and crisp, a nod towards its origins, inspired by British custard tarts and Portuguese pastel de nata. When they were first introduced to Hong Kong in the 1940s, these treats could only be found in high-end Western restaurants, a far cry from their status now, as popular snacks in Chinese bakeries and Cha Chaan Tengs, Hong-Kong style diners. Derived from Colonial recipes, adapted to Hong-Konger tastes, it’s a brilliant metaphor for Hong Kong’s position as an eclectic cultural melting pot, the perfect cultural figurehead, disguised within the folds of a deliciously flaky pastry.
A city of stark contrasts has its own magnetic allure, a certain thrill that accompanies expecting the unexpected. With Google Maps in one hand and the FOMO-fuelled exuberance of a tourist in the other, I never know where my next adventure is going to take me, whether it’s the frigid tundra of an air-conditioned mall, or sublimating in the the sweltering heat, as I take a shortcut through a dingy side alley. There’s something to love about having surprises that lie around every corner, a pleasant change of scenery in comparison to the routine monotony of everyday life, back in my own city.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a fair opinion for me to regard Hong Kong’s infrastructural dichotomy purely through rose tinted glasses. With the city in stark contrast comes a whole host of hidden problems, which I may not fully be able to understand the scope and nuances of, from the viewpoint of a temporary visitor. The polar differences between neighbouring districts speak volumes of growing issues, such as socioeconomic inequality and a growing wealth disparity within the society. It would be incredibly tone-deaf and privileged of me to regard these decrepit buildings as nothing more than an eccentric charm to the cityscape, or praise the unconventional appeal of the ‘grunge aesthetic’ of these buildings, without pausing to consider the lives of the people who live within them.
However, there’s no such thing as a flawless city or country. Hong Kong has a predominantly Southern-Chinese population, and its unique characteristics, as well as the specific issues it faces, stem from Colonialist roots and exponential growth as a global entrepot. As a result, many of these influences have led to these effects being translated across generations, but the vestige of colonisation will fade over time.
I don’t visit Hong Kong often, but when I do, I return to find it being completely different from when I left it, the sight before me usually a far cry from the way it was immortalised in my memories. Perhaps, it’s due to the time spent away, giving me room to grow, resulting in a change in perspective over the years, or perhaps, it’s because Hong Kong is a dynamic city, nimble and quick to constantly reinvent itself. Upon my most recent visit to the city, one thing that was obvious was the way the frenetic, buzzing energy that had died down during the pandemic was slowly but surely returning to the city. Like waking up from a long slumber, life was creeping back in, vibrant hues painting Hong Kong in large, sweeping brush strokes. The returning sensation is a curious, buoyant thing, a spirit that weaves its way around the people of the city, tying them together with an invisible thread.
Although I am half Hong-Konger in ethnicity, I’ve spent my whole life in Singapore, which led to me forging a significantly stronger sense of belonging with the Singaporean facet of my identity. But this trip to Hong Kong surprised me. In spite of the differences, the contrasting architecture, influences and lifestyles, there’s still a deeply rooted feeling of community, bringing together a divided society. After all, the differences lie in the heights of buildings, the depth of pockets, the mother tongues that grace the lips of locals, but these factors aren’t enough to abolish the sense of togetherness within the Hong Kong society, instead only serving to amplify the unwavering sense of belonging.
Even back on Singaporean soil, I can’t help but feel as if I’ve unlocked another part of who I am, a once-forgotten facet of a diverse cultural identity. Even if Cantonese words feel foreign on my tongue, even if I’m more acquainted with the streets of Tanjong Pagar than Tsim Sha Tsui, it can’t change the fact that there’s a hyphen in my passport, there’s another city that I have roots in, distanced but not divided by the South China Sea. Like an egg tart, my identity is a layered, rich thing, paying homage to a plethora of influences, wrapped in one, central shell.
Unlike an egg tart, it took much longer than a trip to a memorable bakery to find it.