In 1971, my father took my mother and I to Hong Kong, a stop over on my first trip to Asia. We stayed there five days, taking up residence in the Peninsula Hotel and making frequent trips to Hong Kong Island on the ferry. There, we explored the antiques market, where my father, who knew it well, took me along, streets crammed with small shops, their treasures spilling out onto the sidewalk, where children and dogs played. At noon, school children in uniform, shop keepers and office workers would crowd around the noodle sellers, fill their bowls and slurp their noodles.
I was an avid photographer and I tried by best to capture the wonders around me. The old Rolleiflex I used offered me some shelter, since I had to look down into the viewfinder and could avoid pointing the camera at my subjects, though I soon learned to be careful, especially after an enraged cabbage seller screamed insults and shook her wet cabbage at me, sending me running.
On one part of the Island, I think it was the Aberdeen side, was a whole population of people who lived on junks, and we wove our way among them on a rented boat. We also climbed up to the heights and I took shots of sceneries that looked just like the Chinese paintings I so admired.
I didn’t return to Hong Kong until 2008, 37 years later. It was another place, another planet, and all my pictures were in color.