Golden Boy (25 page)
Authors: Martin Booth
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In weeks I had become more or less
au fait
with the geography of the Peak. The path I had taken that first day was called Governor's Walk. The near conical mountain was called
Sai Ko Shan
(or, in English, High West),
shan
meaning mountain. I attempted to climb it but it was too steep for me. At its base was a rifle range where I collected deformed .303 bullets, digging them out of the butts with my penknife.
au fait
with the geography of the Peak. The path I had taken that first day was called Governor's Walk. The near conical mountain was called
Sai Ko Shan
(or, in English, High West),
shan
meaning mountain. I attempted to climb it but it was too steep for me. At its base was a rifle range where I collected deformed .303 bullets, digging them out of the butts with my penknife.
To reach the rifle range, I had to take what must be one of the most spectacular walks on earth. It began â and ended â at the foot of Mount Austin Road and circumnavigated the Peak.
I would always set off clockwise, walking beneath overhanging trees alive with butterflies and the birds that ate them, passing a waterfall and arriving at the place where the soldiers lay down to shoot across a valley at the butts. On one occasion, my walk was halted by a police barrier. A young woman had been murdered on the shooting platform, which I thereafter avoided for fear of ghosts.
After visiting the butts, my pocket full of spent ordnance, I carried on around the mountain. At first, the road wound its way by several houses, one of which was empty because no servants would work there. It was, according to Wong, haunted by the spirits of previous amahs who had been raped and murdered there by Japanese troops in 1942. A short distance further on, the road narrowed and became unsuitable for vehicles.
Holding more or less to the same contour, it continued around the mountain, sometimes as a viaduct, at others cut into the rock. Bit by bit, an incredible vista unfolded, first the western harbour approaches with merchant vessels awaiting a docking berth or discharging cargo into junks and flat barges called lighters.
In the distance was Stonecutters' Island, a military signals base. Further on, Kowloon came into sight, the peninsula crammed with buildings, ships lying along the jetties, ferries ploughing across to the island, walla-walla boats little more than aquatic insects. In another hundred yards, the central business district and the eastern suburbs came into view, the lower slopes of the hills dotted with houses and the red-brick block of the Bowen Road military hospital. Beyond Kowloon were the nine dragon hills.
In the distance was Stonecutters' Island, a military signals base. Further on, Kowloon came into sight, the peninsula crammed with buildings, ships lying along the jetties, ferries ploughing across to the island, walla-walla boats little more than aquatic insects. In another hundred yards, the central business district and the eastern suburbs came into view, the lower slopes of the hills dotted with houses and the red-brick block of the Bowen Road military hospital. Beyond Kowloon were the nine dragon hills.
Yet it was not the view that captivated me. I took that for granted. My bedroom window afforded me the same panorama. It was the sound. At first, I did not hear it but, gradually, it impinged itself upon me. It was a faint humming noise, as a wild bee hive might make. One weekend, walking the two roads with my mother, I asked her if she could hear it.
âOh, yes,' she said, âI can hear it. Do you know what it is?'
âIt's the city,' I replied, surprised that she did not realize it.
âNo,' she answered, âit's the sound of a million people working hard.'
Halfway down the western flank of the Peak, on a promontory 1,100 feet above sea level and approached by a cracked and overgrown concrete track called Hatton Road, was a large gun emplacement known as Pinewood Battery. During the war, it had been equipped with two 3-inch anti-aircraft guns but had been destroyed on the morning of 15 December 1941, during the battle for Hong Kong. The gun platforms still existed, as did the subterranean block houses, the command post, ammunition bunkers and sleeping quarters. The concrete walls of the buildings were still decorated with their camouflage paint, whilst in the sleeping quarters, the metal-frame bunk beds remained standing, the remnants of palliasses draped upon them.
Pinewood was a special place for me. The ruins were a purpose-built adventure playground in which a few friends and I could
enact the Japanese storming it and the British defending it, the latter always winning in strict contradiction of history. Yet it was when I went there alone that it was the most exciting. Just walking down to the battery made my spine creep and the hair on my neck rise. A man had died there during the four-hour-long bombardment of 15 December. Now, it was as if his ghost still inhabited the place, rode the breezes coming up the mountain, sighed in the stunted pine trees and whispered in the azalea bushes.
enact the Japanese storming it and the British defending it, the latter always winning in strict contradiction of history. Yet it was when I went there alone that it was the most exciting. Just walking down to the battery made my spine creep and the hair on my neck rise. A man had died there during the four-hour-long bombardment of 15 December. Now, it was as if his ghost still inhabited the place, rode the breezes coming up the mountain, sighed in the stunted pine trees and whispered in the azalea bushes.
I would sit on one of the emplacement walls and watch the ferries far below me, heading for Lan Tau or Lamma islands or the smaller outlying islands of Cheung Chau and Peng Chau. They carefully avoided Green Island directly in front of me where, as red warning notices on the shore stated, Hong Kong stored its explosives. Only fishing sampans risked passing through Sulphur Channel between Green and Hong Kong islands. The shoreline was strewn with treacherous rocks, the currents fast and unreliable.
Tiring of the view, I would then start hunting for wartime relics. Most of all, I wanted a British cap badge or uniform button. The battery had been manned by Indian Army troops when it fell and a Rajput regimental emblem would have been a find indeed. My wish list also included a Japanese shell from a Zero fighter â I was sure the place must have been strafed and knew that bullets hitting soft earth did not necessarily deform â machine-gun cartridge cases and, best of all, a shell case from one of the AA guns. What I actually found outdid the lot.
I was working through the low, dense scrub below the battery, about twenty yards out from the concrete skirt, when I came upon a piece of khaki material sticking up from the ground. Hoping it might be a fragment of discarded uniform with a button on it, I grabbed it and tugged. It was firmly embedded in the earth
so I pulled harder. It would not shift. Kneeling, I set to work excavating it with my penknife. In less than a minute, I discovered the edge of a collar. Just beneath it was the smooth side of a skull, an eye socket filled with earth staring up at me.
so I pulled harder. It would not shift. Kneeling, I set to work excavating it with my penknife. In less than a minute, I discovered the edge of a collar. Just beneath it was the smooth side of a skull, an eye socket filled with earth staring up at me.
Immediately, I knew what I had found and jumped backwards as if it had been a reared cobra, ready to strike. Scrambling through the undergrowth, I reached the battery, ran through it and headed up Hatton Road. It was a steep climb to Harlech Road. My legs ached as never before. I paused to gather my breath and wits and then ran on to the Peak Cafe where I asked someone to telephone the police for me.
An hour later, I was back at Pinewood with a dozen police officers and some coolies. They started to dig up the skeleton as I was asked questions by a British police officer who then took me home in a police car. My father was summoned from his office. I thought I was going to be for the high jump when he arrived, yet he was surprisingly mellow.
We were informed that the skeleton I had found was that of a Japanese soldier who had been shot in the back of the head. He had not, I was told, died in the war but afterwards, captured by local Chinese who had probably murdered him in retribution for what the Japanese had done to the local population.
âWhat's going to happen to him?' I asked. I toyed with the idea of asking if he had any badges on him but decided that was pushing my luck.
âHis remains will be handed over to the Japanese authorities for return to Japan,' the police officer answered, âwhere he can rest in peace.'
The next time I walked down Hatton Road, the hair on my neck did not prickle and I felt utterly alone.
This was not always the case during my Peak wanderings.
Whilst some of the mountain was covered in thick scrub, much
of it was densely forested. Where there was a road, path or clearing, the fringes of the forest were heavily overgrown with plants seeking the sunlight but, under the canopy of the trees, the undergrowth was comparatively open. In this universe of dappled light existed creatures rarely seen.
of it was densely forested. Where there was a road, path or clearing, the fringes of the forest were heavily overgrown with plants seeking the sunlight but, under the canopy of the trees, the undergrowth was comparatively open. In this universe of dappled light existed creatures rarely seen.
The first wild animal I saw appeared fleetingly to me about a month after we moved to Mount Austin. It was early dusk and I was returning from the rifle range. A little way ahead of me, there was a rustle in the undergrowth and what I took to be a miniature deer stepped daintily out into full view. I froze.
Not much bigger than a large dog, it was reddish-brown in colour, had a short tail, two swept-back antlers and, to my astonishment, tusks. I was enchanted by it. The only other deer I had seen were in England, in the New Forest, where they seemed as tame as the feral ponies. This one was different. It was a truly wild animal that had chosen to show itself to me. Except for its disproportionately big ears, it too did not move: then it uttered a brief dog-like yelp and vanished.
âIt must have been a muntjak,' my mother explained when I got home. âThey're also known as barking deer because their call is like a dog's yap. You were very lucky. Few people ever see one. They only come out at night.'
Discovering that such creatures existed, I started to explore the forests. Several evenings later, I saw a bushy-tailed, cat-sized animal appear quite suddenly out of a burrow. With a badger-like striped face, the rest of it was otherwise a nondescript brown. It stood at the burrow entrance, sniffed the air then, spinning round, vanished back down the way it had come. It did not reappear and I was later told it was a ferret badger.
I soon realized that entering the forest was pointless. With the ground covered in dry leaves and twigs, walking silently would have been hard work for an experienced hunter, never mind me.
The denizens of the forest could see, hear, smell and locate me long before I did them. Furthermore, most of them were nocturnal, and I could not stay out after dark.
The denizens of the forest could see, hear, smell and locate me long before I did them. Furthermore, most of them were nocturnal, and I could not stay out after dark.
At the bottom of the valley that dropped away to the south of Mount Austin was Pokfulam reservoir, the first ever built in Hong Kong to provide water for the embryonic city. As 1953 had been the driest year on record, by December and the school holidays the reservoir was very low indeed. This implied two things to me: first, that whatever lived in the valley would probably have to visit it to drink and, second, that whatever lived in the reservoir was now restricted to shallow water and therefore easily seen.
Supplied by Wong with a picnic lunch, I set off one Saturday morning and settled myself down on the cracked-mud periphery of the reservoir, as near as I dared to the water's edge and the soft mud. To my surprise, there were very few footprints pressed into the softer mud. I pondered this, found a stone and tossed it down to the water's edge. It struck the mud and disappeared with a sucking noise. The muntjak knew what I had not: the mud was quick. I shivered at the thought of what might have happened had I stepped another ten feet across the reservoir bottom. There was no-one about who would have heard my calls for help. I took up my picnic, left the mud and sat on the dam wall.
The water lay below me, as still and transparent as green bottle glass. I could make out every detail of the bottom. Schools of tiny fish occasionally darted by. A frog swam along. Suddenly, there was a large flurry of mud. It took a while to settle but I knew that something had put paid to the frog. As the water cleared, I noticed an oval outline in the mud about the size of a large meat-serving dish. Very slowly, it detached itself from the bottom and rose towards the surface, trailing mud that spiralled down from it. It was a grey-coloured turtle. From one end, a white and grey
mottled head appeared, stretching out on a long neck which curved upwards towards me. It culminated in a prehensile nose that broke the surface for a moment before the head was retracted and the creature drifted back down to the mud. If I had not seen where it settled, I would never have known it was there.
mottled head appeared, stretching out on a long neck which curved upwards towards me. It culminated in a prehensile nose that broke the surface for a moment before the head was retracted and the creature drifted back down to the mud. If I had not seen where it settled, I would never have known it was there.
Over the winter months, I also stumbled upon a pangolin feeding at an ants' nest in a wide crack in the concrete on Hatton Road, any number of giant African snails with shells the size of a whelk's, a dozing owl and, in a cave high up on the Peak, a colony of hibernating Japanese pipistrelle bats. Even the pangolin, normally nocturnal, paid me scant attention, feeding until I was almost upon it and even then just scurrying off.
Other encounters were not quite so benign.
The one warning my mother frequently issued was to beware of snakes. Hong Kong was home to over two dozen species of which at least four were venomous to man and potentially if not actually fatal. I kept an eye out for snakes but rarely saw one and, if I did, it was invariably heading away from me as fast as it might. Snakes in China appeared to know instinctively that there was a better than evens chance they might end up in a wok.
Walking to and from school, I daily passed along comically named Plunketts Road, at the side of which ran an open drain, or
nullah,
designed to shed heavy rainfall off the mountain as quickly as possible to prevent landslides. One afternoon, taking the path beside it, I heard what sounded like a hissing water leak. As a main water line ran along the side of the
nullah
and the public was being exhorted to save water and report wastage, I exercised my civic duty and went to investigate. The
nullah
was about eighteen inches wide and two and a half feet deep, sloping downhill in a series of steps.
nullah,
designed to shed heavy rainfall off the mountain as quickly as possible to prevent landslides. One afternoon, taking the path beside it, I heard what sounded like a hissing water leak. As a main water line ran along the side of the
nullah
and the public was being exhorted to save water and report wastage, I exercised my civic duty and went to investigate. The
nullah
was about eighteen inches wide and two and a half feet deep, sloping downhill in a series of steps.
In it was a common rat snake. Approximately three feet long, it was dark brown for its entire length with no pattern. A fangless
constrictor, I had seen them often enough in snake restaurants and had once watched as one crushed then swallowed a small bird on the Peak. This snake must have fallen into the smooth-sided
nullah
and could not get out. If it continued down the
nullah
it would reach a storm culvert and escape. If it headed uphill, it would arrive at several blocks of apartments and, I was certain, a place on the supper table in one of the servants' quarters. It was facing uphill.
constrictor, I had seen them often enough in snake restaurants and had once watched as one crushed then swallowed a small bird on the Peak. This snake must have fallen into the smooth-sided
nullah
and could not get out. If it continued down the
nullah
it would reach a storm culvert and escape. If it headed uphill, it would arrive at several blocks of apartments and, I was certain, a place on the supper table in one of the servants' quarters. It was facing uphill.
A stick was needed to turn the snake. I found one of a sufficient length in the undergrowth, knelt down on the edge of the
nullah
and attempted to force the snake's head round to face the way to safety. I had given it a few prods when it reared up, spread its hood and spat at me.
nullah
and attempted to force the snake's head round to face the way to safety. I had given it a few prods when it reared up, spread its hood and spat at me.
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