The following day I phoned my parents in England. I had a small amount of cash in a bank account and needed it. I went to a booth on Nathan Road and after getting through to England heard the message, “This number is no longer in service.” My God! I thought, breaking out in a cold sweat, that number has worked since I was a kid. They’ve disowned me, it’s a clear message! After assessing my situation that night I decided it was probably the way I was dialing.
My New Zealand buddy gave me some good news. He was an electrical engineer and told me he had scored a job in the tallest building on Hong Kong island. We strolled down to the harbor and marvelled at the place he would be working at over a couple of beers. He was set, a good situation for sure. He moved out a couple of days later and that was the last I ever saw of him.
Next day I did a directory assistance call to the UK. Sure enough the folks had changed the phone number, not to get rid of me, but because the new cable line forced them to. Anyway I got my Mum to send $300 so I could buy a couple of shirts and a pair of dress pants for a job. My batik shirts and shorts weren’t really cutting it with the local bar owners.
After receiving my cash I quickly acquired some new duds and hit the bar and restaurant scene again……….no luck. What the heck! The girls from my guest house had three jobs, more work than they could handle and I couldn’t get a look in.
One morning I heard they were looking for movie extras in Chungking Mansions. I went, lined up and then they told me they only wanted girls. Downhearted, I trudged back to the Mirador and told the girls.
“We’ve got too much work already,” they said, “In fact, we’ve just quit one of our jobs.”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Handing out flyers at the ferry terminal,” they replied.
I ran down to the ferry terminal and found the Chinese guy they mentioned.
“Hi, I’m looking for a job,” I said eagerly.
“I’m not hiring,” said the guy.
“You mean you don’t need any employees?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Didn’t you just lose a couple of employees?” I pleaded.
The lying sack of shit looked at me and shook his head. Jesus! What do I have to do to get a job in this town?
I was told by some British people in Bali that you could make US$8 per hour just handing out leaflets. I wanted some of that action. By the time I arrived a boatload of Bengalis had cornered the market in the leaflet business. They would work 17 hour days, 7 days a week for $5 per hour. They would also shower about once every full moon. My guest house at night was awash with Bengalis asleep on the floor. As soon as we would go to work the stinking Arabs would climb into our beds! I know this because I came home one day and found one snoring in my bunk. What a hole. Hey, but that’s Hong Kong, take it or take off.
Actually the Bengalis weren’t the worst people we had in our guest house. Most people were fairly civilised; world travellers on a stopover to replenish the reserves and English teachers trying to get a foothold in the local market. No, the worst people I encountered were a couple of scumbuckets from England. One was from London, the other Liverpool. These two losers worked on a building site and it seemed their lives revolved around the building site, the bar and going to Thailand every 4 months for some flesh. They would stagger into the room at 3:00am and try to climb into bed with a stranger they were so drunk. I tell you, I came within an inch of caning these two rodents, but being a nice guy I put it down to experience.
