Wan Chai
With Hong Kong just being a hop, skip, cab ride, 2 lengthy immigration lines, and a 1 hour bus ride away from Shenzhen, my home the past month, it is natural that I would find my way back there a few more times since I'd last written about it. My 19 year old brother Andrew was on his winter vacation from his sophomore year at UC San Diego, so he and my mom flew out from the States to spend some quality family time together. We had decided to go to Taipei shortly after Christmas to see our grandmother, and ended up spending a couple of days in Hong Kong prior to our trip. It was on our last night there that I accidentally ended up taking him to a brothel. OK, to three of them.
Before you judge me, let me first say that I have always tried to be a good older brother. I rarely beat the shit out of him, I never gave him any of my porn, and even offered to give him an old driver’s license that he could use as a fake ID. So you have to believe me that I didn’t know I was taking him to a whorehouse; I thought it was merely a strip club.
Now, Hong Kong is a very wealthy and modern city, and with all such cities there must necessarily be a place of seediness and loose morals to complete the picture. However, being a stranger to HK, I had no prior knowledge of where exactly lay this seediness. With Andrew being a healthy and robust 19 years old, I felt that it was the right thing to do to insist that we hit the town at night and have a raucous time.
By the time we got back from our dinner, I had decided it was too late to trek all the way out to Lan Kwai Fong and join the rest of the British yuppies in song and dance, so I thought it would be nice to just go to a few places around our hotel in Wan Chai. Somewhere in the inner recesses of my massively empty brain, I could hear the voice of my dad telling me: “Do not, under any condition, go to any of the bars around our hotel.” As a son respectful of his father’s opinions, I responded to the voice: “Well, if you truly object, then please say ‘I object.’” Since I got nothing in return, I figured that it was OK.
The first odd thing that we noticed was that the streets were filled with Filipinos. A word about the social class system in Hong Kong: the lower-working class is composed primarily of immigrants from the Phillipines. Most Hong Kong residents have a live-in maid/nanny who is almost always from the Phillipines. It’s a hard life, cooking and cleaning for a family 6 days out of the week. Sundays is their day off, so it’s not strange to see huge congregations of Filipinos out on the town at select locations. Apparently, Wan Chai was one such party location.
The second odd thing we noticed was that there was a plethora of clubs and bars advertising themselves as “Model bars.” How glamorous, I thought! I told my brother it’d be great to go into one of those places, grab a beer, and check out some models. My brother was a little apprehensive and pointed out that most of the advertisements out front bore pictures of naked women.
I patted him on the head. “Drew, when you get to be a certain age, you will understand that sometimes it’s OK for models to pose in the nude. It’s called ‘high art.’”
“I think these are strip clubs.”
Curious, I felt that we should fulfill our duty as tourists and take a peek inside. But which one should we try out? After walking up and down the streets a few times, we decided to avoid all the places with solicitors outside that called out to us “Young boys! Young boys! Come inside to play!” We didn’t particularly feel like shooting pool or playing darts, anyway.
After walking in circles a few times, I decided that these places were harmless. Most of them seemed empty with a few bored-looking cocktail waitresses. It was getting late, and since all we wanted to do was to grab a few beers and head back to sleep, I decided that we should stop off at a bar about a block from our hotel. It seemed harmless enough, with a bright blue sign and fun party music emanating from behind the curtain that was the bar’s entrance. We walked in, sat at the bar, and were immediately approached by the bartender, a middle-aged dumpy Cantonese woman who excitedly asked us what we were looking for.
“Two San Miguels,” I told her, and took out my wallet to pay for it.
“OK, we’ll send them right over.”
I turned to my brother and started talking about the Lakers. The place was completely empty except for a few young girls sitting around behind the bar. I figured the bartender was happy to see us because it had been such a slow night. The Lakers had lost a few consecutive games, so my brother and I were engaged in a serious discussion, furrowed brows and all, when suddenly…
“Drew, why is your hand on my leg?”
My brother looked quizzically at me. “Why is your tongue in my ear?”
I looked down. The hand on my thigh that was slowly creeping up toward the magical area did not belong to my brother, myself, nor anyone else from the Hu family. It belonged to a young petite girl who, EGADS, had her bare breasts in full display.
At this point, a few possibilities rushed into my head:
a) They had very friendly bartenders at this place. VERY friendly
b) This girl wanted me. Badly.
c) San Miguels now came with naked women as part of a promotion of some sort.
d) We were getting worked by working girls.
It was clear that options A and C were not likely, and option B was against all the physical and metaphysical laws of nature, so we were left with…
“Drew, we should get out of here.”
My brother, who had his own girl draped all over him, nodded in agreement. I calmly called the bartender over, who was clearly not a bartender, and told her that all we wanted were the beers and nothing more. She wasn’t very happy. We did, after all, get to see naked breasts.
“Are you two gay?” she asked.
Sometimes, it’s just easier to tell the truth and walk away. This was not one of those times.
“Yes we are!” I cried. We finished our beers and walked outside. The world had become a lot seedier than it was when we had walked into the place. All the bars were now screaming “brothel, brothel, brothel!” There was no escaping it. Seriously. So we went into another. We were very straight with the solicitors. “No girls! All we want is beer!” The beer, after all, was cheaper than anywhere else we had seen. I figured that if all we wanted to do was drink and talk about the Lakers, we shouldn’t discriminate against the location, right?
“Drew, just make sure you check the seat before you sit down.”
The next morning, my dad asked us where we had gone the night before. “Hopefully, not anywhere around here. This is the red-light district, and this is where all the sailors come once they docked.”
Sometimes, even as merely a voice in your head, father knows best.
Before you judge me, let me first say that I have always tried to be a good older brother. I rarely beat the shit out of him, I never gave him any of my porn, and even offered to give him an old driver’s license that he could use as a fake ID. So you have to believe me that I didn’t know I was taking him to a whorehouse; I thought it was merely a strip club.
Now, Hong Kong is a very wealthy and modern city, and with all such cities there must necessarily be a place of seediness and loose morals to complete the picture. However, being a stranger to HK, I had no prior knowledge of where exactly lay this seediness. With Andrew being a healthy and robust 19 years old, I felt that it was the right thing to do to insist that we hit the town at night and have a raucous time.
By the time we got back from our dinner, I had decided it was too late to trek all the way out to Lan Kwai Fong and join the rest of the British yuppies in song and dance, so I thought it would be nice to just go to a few places around our hotel in Wan Chai. Somewhere in the inner recesses of my massively empty brain, I could hear the voice of my dad telling me: “Do not, under any condition, go to any of the bars around our hotel.” As a son respectful of his father’s opinions, I responded to the voice: “Well, if you truly object, then please say ‘I object.’” Since I got nothing in return, I figured that it was OK.
The first odd thing that we noticed was that the streets were filled with Filipinos. A word about the social class system in Hong Kong: the lower-working class is composed primarily of immigrants from the Phillipines. Most Hong Kong residents have a live-in maid/nanny who is almost always from the Phillipines. It’s a hard life, cooking and cleaning for a family 6 days out of the week. Sundays is their day off, so it’s not strange to see huge congregations of Filipinos out on the town at select locations. Apparently, Wan Chai was one such party location.
The second odd thing we noticed was that there was a plethora of clubs and bars advertising themselves as “Model bars.” How glamorous, I thought! I told my brother it’d be great to go into one of those places, grab a beer, and check out some models. My brother was a little apprehensive and pointed out that most of the advertisements out front bore pictures of naked women.
I patted him on the head. “Drew, when you get to be a certain age, you will understand that sometimes it’s OK for models to pose in the nude. It’s called ‘high art.’”
“I think these are strip clubs.”
Curious, I felt that we should fulfill our duty as tourists and take a peek inside. But which one should we try out? After walking up and down the streets a few times, we decided to avoid all the places with solicitors outside that called out to us “Young boys! Young boys! Come inside to play!” We didn’t particularly feel like shooting pool or playing darts, anyway.
After walking in circles a few times, I decided that these places were harmless. Most of them seemed empty with a few bored-looking cocktail waitresses. It was getting late, and since all we wanted to do was to grab a few beers and head back to sleep, I decided that we should stop off at a bar about a block from our hotel. It seemed harmless enough, with a bright blue sign and fun party music emanating from behind the curtain that was the bar’s entrance. We walked in, sat at the bar, and were immediately approached by the bartender, a middle-aged dumpy Cantonese woman who excitedly asked us what we were looking for.
“Two San Miguels,” I told her, and took out my wallet to pay for it.
“OK, we’ll send them right over.”
I turned to my brother and started talking about the Lakers. The place was completely empty except for a few young girls sitting around behind the bar. I figured the bartender was happy to see us because it had been such a slow night. The Lakers had lost a few consecutive games, so my brother and I were engaged in a serious discussion, furrowed brows and all, when suddenly…
“Drew, why is your hand on my leg?”
My brother looked quizzically at me. “Why is your tongue in my ear?”
I looked down. The hand on my thigh that was slowly creeping up toward the magical area did not belong to my brother, myself, nor anyone else from the Hu family. It belonged to a young petite girl who, EGADS, had her bare breasts in full display.
At this point, a few possibilities rushed into my head:
a) They had very friendly bartenders at this place. VERY friendly
b) This girl wanted me. Badly.
c) San Miguels now came with naked women as part of a promotion of some sort.
d) We were getting worked by working girls.
It was clear that options A and C were not likely, and option B was against all the physical and metaphysical laws of nature, so we were left with…
“Drew, we should get out of here.”
My brother, who had his own girl draped all over him, nodded in agreement. I calmly called the bartender over, who was clearly not a bartender, and told her that all we wanted were the beers and nothing more. She wasn’t very happy. We did, after all, get to see naked breasts.
“Are you two gay?” she asked.
Sometimes, it’s just easier to tell the truth and walk away. This was not one of those times.
“Yes we are!” I cried. We finished our beers and walked outside. The world had become a lot seedier than it was when we had walked into the place. All the bars were now screaming “brothel, brothel, brothel!” There was no escaping it. Seriously. So we went into another. We were very straight with the solicitors. “No girls! All we want is beer!” The beer, after all, was cheaper than anywhere else we had seen. I figured that if all we wanted to do was drink and talk about the Lakers, we shouldn’t discriminate against the location, right?
“Drew, just make sure you check the seat before you sit down.”
The next morning, my dad asked us where we had gone the night before. “Hopefully, not anywhere around here. This is the red-light district, and this is where all the sailors come once they docked.”
Sometimes, even as merely a voice in your head, father knows best.
posted by sushipanda at 2:18 AM
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