Guanlan

The posters say Guanlan is on 1.4 million square metres of land. Certainly the site is large, as between the main studio and artist’s apartments are two ponds and a field where you can pick strawberries and pay by the kilo under a blue canvas marquee.

Apart from the two story office and studio, which are both new, the complex is a series of 300 year old stone and wood Hakka houses with steeply pitched, round tiled roofs and thick walls.

During the week it is quiet. There are four international artists here, a handful of Chinese printmakers, and staff who work the presses and maintain the grounds. There are occasional visitors. I am photographed, once. The locals laugh when I make the peace sign.

On the weekend it is different. Because this is an historic area as well as a printmaking base it fills with locals who come to walk among the old buildings and drink tea in the coffee shop.

There are three watchtowers. One is open to visitors, occasionally. The other two are closed and barred but not abandoned.

Outside the gate new China abounds. To the left is a small retail centre with shops at ground level and apartments above. Further on is a hotel, its entrance pillars wrapped in gold foil, and a large grey building that could be a museum or a government office. There are rows of concrete pillars, the stumps of an unfinished expressway project, and houses that have been sheered off mid room to make way for the expansion. The road is new but covered with dust the same colour as the sky.

It is nearly six o’clock. I walk to the end of the tarmac, where the new road finishes in a maze of construction barriers, look across at the distant hills, and make my way back home.

A____

A____ is from Pakistan. Islamabad. He has lived the last eight years in Hong Kong, four of them married to a Chinese woman. He has two children, aged three years and 15 months. He does not say if they are boys or girls.

We meet in a park just west of the Kowloon Temporary Food Market. Despite its name the market is built of concrete and steel and looks set to remain. There are stalls selling meats, fresh, frozen, halal, and otherwise, and a small section where hawker stands noisily announce their meals.

The park itself is a triangle wedged between two buildings and the off-ramp of a flyover. Across the street are the luxury stores. Gucci, Prada, Hermes, Dior. Watches are further along, in a mall renovated out of an 1881 police station.

A____ is not from Islamabad but a village nearby. It is in the hills so cooler than the capital in summer. In any case Islamabad is milder than Rawalpindi or Lahore, and much greener than either year round.

A____ is not doing so well. He smokes the stubs of cigarettes. His wife moved back in with her mother three months ago. He has lost his job. His mother-in-law has money so the children now have two nannies. Hong Kong is an expensive city to raise children in, he says. He does not say what work he used to do, or what he hopes to find. Anything will do.

It has been cold this last week in Hong Kong. Fog lies across the harbour, isolating the island from the New Territories. The sky above is grey. It has not rained yet, but yesterday the pavements were covered in shallow pools.

A____ says warm weather is coming. I pull my beanie down, wedge my hands into my pockets and tell him I hope so. Soon.

Brunei

Brunei

I have one night in Brunei. It is a small country, one of the three that share the island of Borneo, and wealthy beyond reckoning thanks to the gas and oil fields that lie offshore.

All Royal Brunei flights transit here, including the ones to London and Hong Kong. Most of the flight from Melbourne is heading to the UK. The passengers are a strange mix of backpackers and older British tourists. D____ two seats along was visiting his daughter. The lady chatting near the bulkhead mostly goes on cruises [‘but never on the smaller lines’]. Her companion says he has flown this route once or twice a year for nearly 30 years. A lot of miles.

At the airport I am met by a small man with Damon Lawrence written on a sign. It is a two minute drive to the hotel. The room is large and foyer empty, though a decorated limousine sits outside waiting for a wedding party.

‘Which way is to town?’

The clerk gives directions. Outside the air is warm and humid and the wide streets are quiet and well lit.

‘Times Square’ he says.

This name sounds out of place for a country whose road signs are written in English and Arabic. The Arabic, or Jawi, is an old form of the language, revived as the country re-embraces its faith. It feels false to read what is essentially a dialect of Bahasa Melayu in the script of the Middle East. A different form of colonialism to that offered by the English language and Roman.

Times Square. I walk for a while, thinking the centre of town and its harbour should be further away than 15 minutes on foot. I stop. Look up. Times Square is massive, brightly lit. Sealed and mostly windowless. A mall.