An Egg in Hong Kong

Home is where the yolk is – by Bradley Wayburne

THIS STORY ORIGINALLY APPEARED ON BANANA WRITERS

 

 

 

I define an Egg as a person of European descent with their hearts pumping to Asia’s rhythm. But it takes more than a rapt fascination with Asia, or part of it, to earn the title of Egg. Authentic Eggs, like myself, are a confused bunch – not complete egg white, nor totally yolk. But like a nutrient-filled, deliciously poached yolk, the heart of the Egg is what sets them apart.

I was born and raised in a little place called Hong Kong, an island under China that you may have heard of. Many would call me an expat brat, and to some extent that is true. Even I believed it. But here’s the difference: An expat brat comes from expat parents – job seekers looking for the best opportunity out there, who stay a couple years and then bugger off back home. Home being the key word. I, on the other hand, am a born and bred Hong Konger whose only known home is the island, a short ferry journey from the rest of the city. So I can say with confidence that I am not an expat brat. I am simply a brat.

“Wow, you’re from Hong Kong? So you speak Japanese or something and know kung fu?”

That is precisely correct. I also carry around a packet of bamboo snacks to distract any rogue and/or rabid pandas that roam the country. Oh, and Jackie Chan comes over for dinner every Saturday.

For three years while I was at university in the UK, this was the common response to where I come from. Either that or, “No, seriously … where are you from? I mean … where are your parents from? Ah! OK it makes sense now … you’re South African.”

Considering I’ve been to the country once for a total of 11 days, I’d prefer to answer no, I am not South African.

Towards the end of those three years, I became a liar. A big fat liar. Instead of answering Hong Kong, I’d say I’m English, an hour from London. Unless of course if I were talking to a beautiful woman. Then it was all about the kung fu, pet pandas and Jackie Chan connections.

Like I said, a big fat liar.

“Mate, that’s wicked. I know this really good all you can eat Chinese!”

In Hong Kong, our 7-11s do a better job than those westernised “Chinese restaurants”. Meanwhile, I dig into my fourth portion of sweet and sour wings and a handful of prawn crackers. What can I say? They are enjoying the cardboard-covered-in-sauce experience so much that I don’t want to ruin it for them. But a part of me is always on the look out for the inevitable Chinatowns that are bound to show up at some point. There’s no better way to shovel food than a good ole CHAR SIU FAN.

“That will be 15 pounds, please.”

Are you kidding me? That was a 47 second taxi ride.

Enough said.

“So what’s it like growing up over there, must be strange, right?” 

I honestly don’t know how to answer this question. When I ask the same thing they respond with a single word – normal – which is the same word I would use. I suppose I should create a list to help me explain what is normal for me:

  • Six feet tall is tall … until I go on holiday. Then I’m short and not good at basketball any more.
  • When I’m given a fork instead of chopsticks I feel insulted.
  • Glares from old ladies on the subway.
  • Developing a false sense of importance because the locals think I am a rich tourist.
  • Learning how to barter but sucking at it all the same. “Ok, you win” translates as “You’ve lost”.
  • Calbee [crisps] over Walkers. Anyday.
  • Hotpot and karaoke are options – as long as there is enough alcohol.
  • Speaking of alcohol – 7-11, drinking in public, parties on a boat.
  • Anything less than 10 degrees is hibernation season.
  • My accent has not been given a name yet, unless mongrel has won the vote.

“So you’ve been here twenty years? You must speak Chinese!”

After learning the intricate art of being a pathological liar in the UK, I returned to study in Hong Kong. My experience in England acted as a small ringing sound, like an alarm to my subconscious. It told me I was not quite as Western as I thought. My friend groups were made up of internationals, I played basketball with my Chinese brothers on the weekends and I stockpiled Vita Ice Lemon Tea cartons like it was December 2012.

University life in Hong Kong was vastly different to the one I was used to. That’s when the question changed.

I am thoroughly embarrassed whenever I need to create an excuse as to why my only language is English. It took some time for my classmates, and especially the lecturers, to come to grips with this. The professors would look around the room at the start of every class, a big smile on their face until they saw me. That smile vanished quicker than Mr Miyagi could snatch a fly out of the air with chopsticks. They knew with me they had to speak English.

I am here and there, Caucasian and Asian, chopsticks and forks, noodles and spaghetti. I am an Egg, a rare breed that can fit into almost any social circle because of their unique background of European descent and Asian upbringing. At the same time, this egg can never fully relate to the local Chinese man, nor the “let’s go down to the pub” Englishman. Eggs are most comfortable with other Eggs because of what they have in common – shared by all who do not belong to a single city, country or continent.

Our parents were pioneers, and so are we.

Bradley Wayburne was born and raised in Hong Kong, where he runs a photography studio

From Banana Writers:

 Western publishers are not publishing enough books by Asian writers. Banana Writers exists to bring positive change to the publishing industry by encouraging Asian writers to showcase their work. With readers from over 30 countries, Banana Writers has become a voice for hidden writers. www.bananawriters.com “Where Asian writers get unpeeled”



Share