Never….been….so….hot… How can it be this humid and still tipping it down with torrential rain?? Part One
[Relates to Friday 13th June]
Today is my first official day of flat-hunting on my own. And I don’t really count the flats we looked at on the orientation day – they were so far from what we’re looking for, I’m doing everything I can to forget about them. (Deep breath.) So I’ve given in to everyone’s pestering and I have two sets of appointments today: the first is at 10:30am in Discovery Bay, for which the quickest mode of transport is boat, and then at 2pm Agnes is taking me to look at places in Olympic (which, as you know, I’m fairly certain is going to be my preferred option, but I’m trying to be open-minded and not rule anywhere out. Even if it is some crazy place where you don’t actually mix with any natives).
For some reason, I have quite a bit of trouble finding the tube line that I need (yes, in actual fact, I got very lost and ended up going down an escalator only to have to go back up the adjacent escalator two seconds later when I realised I was in completely the wrong place…) so I was already having a bit of a faff and I hadn’t even got on the boat – not a great start as it meant I was in danger of missing the 10 past 10 ferry which I’d been instructed to get on by real estate lady. But I managed to go one stop on the train and get into the mall. 15 minutes to spare, we’re doing ok. Bit of running through the mall, just for good measure; bit of slipping on a wet patch too – whose idea was it to wear the ballet pumps? Oh yes: it was these or flip flops – I sent my monsoon-handy wellies on the shipping container – d’oh!
The second I step out of the door to the mall heading for the ferry piers, there’s a blinding flash and a massive ‘BOOM!’ of thunder and my only lasting thought is “good one Sarah, what a brilliant day to be going on a teeny tiny boat across the sea…” Onto the raised walkway to get to the piers – number 3 for Discovery Bay…good, still got 10 minutes till the boat leaves. I reach a sign that says ‘Piers 2-6 down these stairs’ – ok, bring it on – and logic tells you that 3 is going to be the second one along, right? WRONG! The first pier I come to is number 6. 6???! Who taught these people how to count?
It’s now just after 5 past 10 and I’m already sweating like a whore in church, but there’s no other option: running. (those of you who know even the tiniest bit about me will know that Packers do not run.) Damn stupid piers not being close together …. After what seems like and age and a lot of getting heavily rained on, I make it to 3 with two minutes to spare, through the ticket barrier and then… er.. where’s the gangplank?? There’s some sort of construction going on and I’m wandering through an empty waiting room trying to peer through sheets of plastic to work out if I have any chance of getting this boat.
And then suddenly, there it is! The gangplank! Running again slightly – lest the boat should pull away in the next three seconds with me still halfway up the ramp (you never know), I get on, find a seat and no sooner do I (literally) flop into the chair, the bell rings to signal departure. Ha-hah! Take that you public transport system – beaten at your own game! Or maybe I just managed to complete the simplest of tasks…
Hmm…why did it only occur to me after I’d boarded the hydrofoil that hydrofoils/catamarans are the type of seafaring craft that make me very ill? And in the armageddon-esque storm of today… (I’ve added a picture in case you’re unable to conjure up what a rain-lashed hydrofoil window looks like.) Well, you can imagine how pleased I was to stumble down the gangplank after 25 minutes of lurching and bouncing around to find that my erstwhile guide to Discovery Bay was nowhere to be found! And from somewhere, the good lord above found a further three trillion gallons of water to hurl down at me – this is all my own fault, you know – I was being far too smug that my hair doesn’t get frizzy in humid weather…
Although I’ve only travelled (or survived) just under half an hour from Hong Kong island, surveying the scene in front of me, I may as well have gone half way round the world. There are more white faces than I have seen in my six days here, and all of them look suspiciously American. And children! Bloody hundreds of the blighters – it’s like a weird, non-underground version of the cave in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang where they hide the kids from the child catcher (*shudder*). Every child also seems to be accompanied by a pregnant mother – so that’s what you do in Discovery Bay – you breed…
Contemplating just getting back on the ferry (remembering the near-vomiting situation and ruling it out) and cursing God, estate agents and just men in general, I run on tiptoes across to Pacific Coffee (which our friend Clifford described as “the local version of Starbucks”; I found out yesterday it originated in Seattle…) Trying not to dwell on the fact that Pacific is essentially a crêche, I commandeer a PC (complete with free internet) and email the dozy real estate lady to say “Woman! Your man is not here. I’ll be here till 11:30. Sort it.”
And lo and behold, 20 minutes later, the dude Cris appears and whisks me off to a car park full of golf carts (you’re not allowed to drive a car here) while jabbering enthusiastically (and heavily accent-edly) about how it’s almost 100% expats in Discovery Bay, or ‘D-Bay’ as the locals call it. Er, so what’s the point of emigrating in the first place? The Rough Guide to Hong Kong & Macau seems to make a pretty accurate summation when it says:
The atmosphere is nightmarish, a too-perfect copy of idealized middle-American suburbia, with happy blonde families zipping about in golf carts, and very few Chinese faces.
