'IT is ancient statue from Tang dynasty. Over one thousand year old," said the young shop assistant in broken English.
As I carefully examined the small pottery statue, with its hairline cracks and neatly distributed fine layers of mud, I couldn't help thinking that the nearest it had ever come to any Dynasty was Crystal Carrington's gracious drawingroom. "Actually, I think I will leave it," I said politely as I put it back on the shelf and walked towards the door. "Why you leave? I make you good price." The young lady was beginning to get agitated. "Tangs but no Tangs," I said as I left the shop, although I think my attempt at humour might have gone unnoticed. Not content to let me escape, she followed me out the door and pursued me down the road, waving the little statue in her hand. "Why you not buy?" she shouted. "Very lucky in China to buy in morning time!"
The Irish just don't know how to say no. We carefully circumnavigate the word, with "I'll have a think about it" or "Thanks a million but it's not exactly what I'm after." But there are times when it's necessary to put aside such polite national traits. Almost as a reflex, I said "No" so sharply and decisively that it stopped the girl in her tracks like a bullet to the head. And with that, she immediately bowed, smiled and went back into the shop. It seems the word "No" is the most useful weapon to have in Hong Kong; you should never go anywhere without it.
Hong Kong Island is the Manhattan of the Far East. The city's huge skyscrapers rise boldly and irregularly, seemingly out of nowhere, and vie for the limited space between the coastline and the vertical ascent of Victoria Hill. I approached by sea, taking the 10-minute ferry ride from the mainland port of Kowloon. The city itself is densely packed and extremely busy. The streets twist and turn on a steep gradient, which could be very tiring for an explorer were it not for an ingenious series of outdoor 'travelators', helping to convey the teeming workforce with the minimum effort. I jumped on one such conveyer belt at Queen's Road Central - the main thoroughfare, named by the British during their century of colonial rule - and by the time I reached the antiques district I had covered about a quarter of a mile, while only taking a few steps. Thanks to a tip-off from a well-informed American tourist, the shop where I finally bought my Tang dynasty statue dealt only with genuine antiques. I discussed at length with Victor Choi, the owner of Dragon Culture on Hollywood Road, how to avoid fakes.
I think he liked my honest and interested approach, and perhaps also the factthat I might introduce himto readers of these pages (you can view his website at www.dragonculture.com.hk). Whatever, in the end he parted with something special: a well-preserved terracotta statue found in a tomb in mainland China, dating from around 800 AD. Ten inches high, it cost about the same amount as a good pair of shoes. He gave me a certificate of authenticity and wrapped it extremely carefully to help me get it home in one piece. (Hong Kong law, which differs from the rest of China, still allows antiquities of national significance to be taken out of the country, though I suspect not for much longer.) It was only when I was leaving that he told me he had written a Chinese hit pop song which, to this day, still earns him royalties. "I sing it for you now," he offered enthusiastically. Again, my Irish politeness kicked in as I stood listening to his tremulous singing in Cantonese, only managing to excuse myself finally after he was drawing breath to start verse 16. While I was outside waiting for the taxi Victor had called for me, my newly-acquired negativity proved excellent self-defence against a salesman trying to sell me a tailor-made 'Armani' suit. (One single "No" of operatic proportions and he left me alone.) But suits are big business here. Westerners who are staying for a few dayscan order a made-to-measure outfit - an exact copy ofa famous designer label,in the very finest cashmere wool mix - for about €150. And it's not just tourists who avail of this. The young men in Hong Kong are all in pin-stripe suits and 'Gucci' boots, hanging out of mobile phones on street corners, sporting sculpted Robbie Williams haircuts. For an Asian city, it all seems very Western.
Much to my amazement, when my taxi arrived, it turned out to be an elderly man pulling a rickshaw. I climbed onboard and off he jauntily jogged, huffing and puffing through the back streets, past a little Buddhist pavement shrine flanked by laundry hanging from apartment windows. He left me in Soho, outside a brightly lit, formica-tabled restaurant teeming with locals. The waiter was wearing his trousers tucked into a pair of Wellingtons. He spoke only Cantonese but thankfully gave me an English menu, from which I ordered strips of beef with green vegetables for about a fiver and a bottle of local beer big enough for four people. To end the afternoon, I took the old funicular railway from Peak Station up Victoria Hill to meet the other Celtic Tenors, James and Matthew. One of the only surviving relics of the 19th century, the railway climbs up the steep hill like a caterpillar clinging to the side of a tree. At one point it stopped to let another train pass on the way down, and it's no exaggeration to say I thought we might fall off. EASTERN PROMISE: The view of the city and beyond from Victoria Hill is stunning, by night or by day. But it's not hard to see why it's the most popular tourist attraction in Hong Kong. At the summit, the view of the city and beyond is amazing. I had arrived just as the daylight was softening. Visibility was clear across the narrow channel to the mainland and the city lights were coming on one by one. It was a truly memorable sight, the sort of thing you want to take home with you. At least I had my little Tang dynasty statue as a reminder. I think I will put it in my gracious drawingroom and call it Victor.