We came out of the MTR building to find ourselves in the middle of a barren suburban landscape. There was a huge forest of steel scaffolding just outside the exit, the framework for the next stage of the new town’s vertical upsurge. The completed apartments that shot up from the transport interchange were as tall as any I have seen in Hong Kong, that means probably 60 or 70 storeys. The clouds were low that day, showing how perfectly apt the term sky-scraper is for these aerial residences, unless you prefer cloud-ticklers.
Dense though it is, Tiu Keng Leng isn’t very extensive and we were soon climbing away from the estates, negotiating wide empty roads made all the more difficult to cross thanks to randomly placed crash barriers. The hill tops were covered in mist so it was difficult to know which way to go. Basically we guessed, based on the impression that we needed to head uphill.
We climbed steep steps that led to a new reservoir, built in 2002. Workers were turfing the top of it. Along the way we spotted the first of the day’s odd rest benches. It’s a Hong Kong phenomenon that the government will conveniently place seating in the last place you would want to sit. Saikung district council had put sturdy iron bus shelters along this concrete stairway that is unreachable by bus. There was one that offered the view of a steel crash barrier, then wire mesh fencing behind that, with the dam wall in the background. If you strained your neck by turning around you would see panoramic views stretching down a green valley. The shelter was covered with a steel sheet punctured by picnic area logos, so it wouldn’t do much good in the rain but at least you would know that you were on an officially designated picnic bench.
Further up we came across another sitting out area that straddled the top of the ridge and would have commanded views down to Lei Yue Mun on a clear day. This one was a concrete patio with a couple of round benches, also made of concrete, underneath a thick concrete roof. So that old people and children wouldn’t fall off the concrete, a 2 m high wire mesh fence was wrapped around the rock hard leisure facility, supported by angular iron posts.
From there we dipped down to a road that had worn a deep cut through the hilltop. The bank opposite was heavily reinforced against landslides. It’s not usually the sort of place that you see people, but here there were several clambering along the embankment. On close inspection we could see that they were collecting water that trickled out of pipes jutting from the stonework. At ground level we spoke to an old lady filling up several receptacles. “It’s good for making tea,” she told us. I took a sip straight from the pipe and it tasted good. That was the first time I had ever drunk natural untreated hill water in Hong Kong.
After that we climbed up more steps into the mist. It was a steep and narrow concrete staircase hemmed in on both sides by fencing. We were following signs to the Wilson trail but we made the mistake of striding out onto an unpaved hiking trail up to the misty mountain top.
“It’s impossible to get lost here,” I told my friends, who were barely visible through the white cloud. “We’re on a small headland, we have to hit a road, or the sea at some point.”
Instead we hit the perimeter fencing of a graveyard. It was too high to scale.
We pulled out the iPhone GPS. It looked very cool, but we couldn’t make out where to go. We were lost. So we backtracked to the concrete staircase.
Along the way we saw a deep and mysterious tunnel. We peered into to its dark bowels and had no idea what we were looking at. Something to do with WWII defences, perhaps?
We finally got back on track. Once on the Wilson trail it was easy to follow, with bold yellow and black signs painted onto storm water drains at regular intervals.
The municipal benching continued too, all of them uncomfortable and facing into the hill instead of overlooking potentially stunning views.
Then we came across what could only have been a home-grown rest spot. Its irregular angles and recycled materials, plus its quirky charm and eccentricity clearly distinguished it from the inhuman creations of city bureaucrats.
Much of it was made from pilfered (?) building material – scaffolding, masonry of various types, tiles, ornamental stones, and hundreds of wine bottles. The wine bottles were all the same brand of red in 250ml bottles and they formed the borders of flower beds, and sectioned off different parts of the three level complex. The little hideaway was a cool example of grassroots, guerrilla landscaping. And guess what, the benches faced the open views.
Just below the final ascent onto Devil’s peak we turned back and dropped down into a valley that took us to the back of Lei Yue Mun. It was a lucky detour because we got to see the remnants of an abandoned squatter village that surrounded a temple.
The first derelict buildings looked like old cottages made from large sandstone blocks. The jungle was making a slow creeping attack over the crumbled walls and concrete floors. Remnants of drainage piping remained clinging to moss covered stonework. Decaying scraps of linoleum hinted at ordinary lives once lived on the hillside.
The temple was freshly painted and well kept. A man sat alone at a table in the yard. Scrappy dogs bristled as we approached but were too lazy to see us off.
A new looking reservoir hung over the small valley and around the temple there were derelict homes abandoned to the elements. The homes were obviously makeshift and built around the natural contours of the valley. Boulders formed outer walls and a stream ran through the middle of the residences providing a sewage outlet from the head of the valley downwards. One ceramic toilet remained in place on a platform that over hung the stream.
But it wasn’t true to say that the site was fully abandoned. Once we started taking in what we were looking at, we realised that there were many vegetable patches that there growing fresh produce. Where there had once been living rooms and kitchens there were now rows of spring onions and lettuces. Papayas grew where people once slept and lychee trees sprouted from where they sat.
We met one man harvesting veggies for his evening meal. He told us that the village had been relocated to a vertical housing estate thirty years ago. He lived in a flat that towered about 100 m above the ground, from where he could keep an eye on his squatter garden.
When we reached the bottom of the valley and walked across the main road, Hong Kong’s suburbia hit us with shoppers, buses and evening lights. The contrast was strong, we had just walked out of a lost world.
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