I
knew there would be no chance of bumming free accommodation in Hong Kong.
Though I have family in the city, the bulk of them reside in
ghettoesque million-story high apartment buildings in units that would
make even a cricket claustrophobic.
But
no matter. I’m well versed
in the area of budget guidebook abuse, and decide to keep in my tradition
of forsaking comfort for strict economy.
I discover all this and more can be found down in the hubbub of
Kowloon activity. Destination: Mirador Mansions in Tsim Sha Tsui.
Tsim
Sha Tsui is boisterous area located in central Kowloon, a mad marriage of
new world commercialism and old Chinese tradition.
Flocks of mobile phone users float underneath bamboo scaffolding
while dodging pushcart garbage collectors.
Granville Road, just a few streets north of the Mansions, is
chock-a-block with clothing for the trend setting youth market, Nathan
Road is a haven for tech geeks, and a quick 50 Canadian cents will get you
on a Star Ferry ride, offering a speedy connection to the high-rolling
upscale markets of Hong Kong Island.
Thus, the Mirador Mansions (and its southern counterpart, Chungking
Mansions) makes the perfect accommodation of choice for those who want to
be in the centre of it all and wish to sacrifice comfort for a chance to
buy a new gizmo that just can't be found in good ol' North America.
Guesthouse
touts and commission agents prowl this stretch of Nathan Road, chumming up
anyone in possession of internationally tagged baggage and a jet-lagged
demeanour. Usually,
these folk are newly landed mainland Chinese or East Indian expats; most
are just trying to etch out a meager living by scoring pennies from
unforeseeing tourists and guesthouse owners.
Apparently,
I fit the bill of the gullible tourist, and as I step off the airport bus
I am attacked by a smiling agent. I
bawk at his swiftness but welcome his style.
Stumbling off a ten hour flight provides no remedy to my patience
– I need all the help I can get.
Had
I wanted to debate the idea, I would not have had the chance: he whisks me
and two other foreigners into a lineup of people waiting for an
unbelievably slow elevator. Eventually,
after two shifts of the lineup, we squeeze in for a quick trip up and out
through an incomprehensible set of hallways adorned with leaking pipes and
flickering fluorescents reminiscent of a bad NYC gangster flick.
We finally chase the agent to an open door with a view of an
unrefined Chinese woman sprawled over a desk sleeping.
She is obviously not interested in accepting new customers, but
slowly wakes up to guide us to another decrepit looking hallway chock full
of doors that lead to equally decrepit-looking dank rooms.
When told the eyesore would cost me $40 Canadian, I thank the lady
and walk away, half glad that I wasn’t gullible enough to pounce on the
very first offer, but the other half wondering how I would find another
guesthouse, let alone get out of the building alive.
Panicking, I skip down a series of staircases that
I figure will lead me out of the building, but instead brings me to a dead
end. Memories of getting
stuck in the mirror maze at the Canadian National Exhibition rain down on
my helpless soul.
This,
above all, is most important about the
Mirador Mansions: if you think you know where your guesthouse is, think
again. Take notes on which elevator you board, as four sets of
elevators adorn the mazelike mayhem.
Obviously, investing in a compass wouldn’t hurt.
Apparently
my need to get out of the building is as intense as my friendly tout’s
need for a commission. Not a
beat later, he’s behind me, huffing and puffing, asking me why I had
left so quickly. Of course, he has scores of other guesthouses to recommend,
each one a little better than the previous.
I finally get myself into a $12 CAN dorm room with no apparent
security aside from the four east Indians engaged a loud round of card
games outside the open door. I
figure this will be better than nothing and, in an act of extreme fatigue,
volunteer my back to the bedbug-ridden and creaky bunk bed mattress.
Mirador
possesses so much more than bedbugs and running backpacks.
The building brims with commercial affairs of an indescribable
nature, including a number of rooms filled with naked mannequins, cloth
samples, and people squatting on the floor eating rice in takeaway
containers. The clickety-clack
of mah jong tiles and the consequent high pitch Cantonese squeals ring
throughout the halls, as do the wafts of coriander and cumin flowing
through the ventilation shafts.
And on every floor, with every turn, the largest ratio of janitors
to tenants, hardly indicative of the hygienic state of the tower.
All
this describes its appeal. Of
the three times I've passed through Hong Kong, I've voluntarily thrown
myself back into this labyrinth of substandard rooming houses.
Despite my frustration with accommodation standards, it has a sort
of personality that you just can't get in your typical Howard Johnson
(i.e. slimy bathroom slippers, cockroaches).
Though reports have it that the Chungking Mansions, a few buildings
south on Nathan Road, harbours even more chaotic pleasure, I find that my
time spent in Mirador has been interesting enough.
Next
time’s mission: Chungking. Here
I come.
