I have quit my job, everything, and am traveling with nothing but the thick dark blue shirt on my back and mustard colored shorts. I am on a boat, I think a fishing boat or cargo boat, with heavy iron doors in the hold which, when slid shut, close with a clang.
The boat is Chinese owned and heavy with the air of grease and dirt from the toil of fisherman and ferry workers. A dim light below deck reflects off dark girders; off the water sloshed across the floor to clean out the discarded catch.
I liked it, liked being back. It was where I was meant to be. Siobhan would never understand. I felt laden with sweat and grease too and it was OK. The rub of sweat clung in black shavings to my collar, to my cloying shirt sleeves and the hem line of my shorts.
When the boat pulled in, I saw we were at Yung Shue Wan and my first point of order was to find a place to stay.
I had not arrived to see Dee. I didn’t want to see her, preferred to avoid her if possible, I just wanted to be back in Hong Kong.
The passenger deck disembarked first, locals disgorged over a shifting iron ramp and on to the pier. And I walked with them, passed newly built single room lodgings lining the pier’s left side. They were constructed with heavy bamboo, frames and doors, painted dark red; they looked rough but good to stay in as a last resort. Plus the rooms did not have much privacy; I could peer in through the bamboo slats, and each had a timer above the doorway that showed the price by the minute.
Further along, there were gathering rooms, also for rent, the same heavy bamboo construction, also dark red. But these included a four person table where you could sit at a window and look out at the pier.
At the far end and now on land, I stepped up to some more familiar restaurants; grey concrete floors, twin tables scattered, two café chairs per table. And right in front of me, at an open café, at their tables pressed together, I saw Oliver sitting with a person I did not recognize.
I cannot believe it, that you are here, I said to Oliver as I looked down at him.
He said the same back.
I knew I looked shabby from the traveling and from the fact that I had nothing on me.
He stood up, and the other man moved over to make room.
Oliver was still Oliver; tall, with short curly hair and a languid style that made him popular with the girls, although now he had a few reddish locks in with the dark.
He buried me in his arms, and I pressed him back in a huge hug. And he even kissed me, almost on the mouth, before he sat back down.
His friend said, You look exhausted.
And I did indeed look weary, tired. I felt the weight of my shirt.
Oliver turned to his friend, don’t worry about him, he has the money.
To make it light I said, I have a few pesetas, yes.
What are pesetas? he replied.
I thought to reply, and so too did Oliver but then we thought better of it.
Photo by Anne Roberts via Flickr
