The last time I arrived in Hong Kong, I searched the Internet to find some halfway interesting places in that city of banks, offices and escalators, using the fantastic website Atlas Obscura to find out what, if any, seedy or strange destinations I might be able to visit or perhaps spend the afternoon.
One place was the Chungking Mansion, which, after a quick Google follow-up, appeared to be right up my alley.
This building in the Kowloon district evidently had the cheapest per-square-foot rent in the city and was made to sound like a den of reprobate vice; a dark, lascivious, lecherous place where esoteric businesses thrived and men named “Lucky” with scars running up and down their cheeks leaned against every corner.
I also read that Chungking Mansion was the most ethnically diverse place in Hong Kong, and that at any time there would be expats from Africa, the Middle East, India and other far flung countries hawking wares and serving up hot food at one of many stalls.
Needless to say, I was excited, and I set out one mid-morning to explore this “mini-Casablanca,” as one website had referred to it.
I got off the subway at Tsim Sha Tsui and walked a block or two before finding the building. A few guys out front were advertising for potential lodgers (Chungking Mansion’s many guesthouses are some of the cheapest places to stay in the city) and also for tailored suits. A few of them were hawking other, more specialty items.
One well-dressed man approached me, saying, “Watches? Marijuana? Watches?” while another said, “Excuse me, sir, but would you like some hash today?”
I politely brushed them aside as I climbed the front steps, pleasantly surprised at their professionalism.
The ground floor entrance hall was flanked with money changers and remittance offices; but, once inside, the main area was large, square-shaped and lined with many different food vendors. The vendors were mainly Indian and Pakistani, although there were some Middle Eastern stalls.
I swam into a sea of samosas, a vat of vindaloo, a moat of masala. I was carried away in a chariot of chutney (yeah, ok, just let me have that, it started well and I liked how it turned out). I got little paper bags full of fried stuff at every stall before eventually sitting down to a huge plate of biryani, dal and mutton curry.
The food was so good I forgot to chew it.
Finally, with a cup of chai in hand, I stood up and strolled past the many electronic stores, tailors, grocery marts, Tamil and Hindi DVD carts and luggage shops. Men were cavorting and drinking tea, eating sweets. Women and children waded through the crowds, looking for various bits at the markets.
Eventually I walked back out to the sidewalk, having found no obvious evidence of criminality. Maybe I missed the boat on the Chungking Mansion, or perhaps the other reports I’d read on the Internet were from those with weaker stomachs than I; but the only vice I was able to feed there was that of a love of amazing Indian food.
And in that regard, I scored, big time.