Old meets new in Hong Kong

By ALISTAIR SMITH

It's classic Oriental mountain country - dark green, steep sloping ridges stacked one behind the other, each a little more hidden in a heat haze, gradually fading and ultimately blending into the grey nothingness of the sky.

In the foreground is a lake-filled valley, mirroring the hills, creating the type of scene repeated a million times on wall-hangings and tile decorations in Chinese restaurants around the world. Ahead, up in these mountains, lies the temple complex of the Precious Lotus.

The scene is real but the picture it creates is wrong. The lake is a water reservoir and, out of sight behind us, lies the concrete and ribbon-wire complex of a high-security prison.

This is Lantau Island, a place of contrasts, where the most modern of Hong Kong meets the most traditional.

At one end, the Chek Lap Kok, the tops were knocked off islands and the land between reclaimed to build a huge, ultra-modern airport to serve Hong Kong. At the other lies a tiny fishing village where locals lead a life still pretty much undisturbed.

There was a time when few visitors would go to Lantau Island, the largest of the former colony's 256 islands, and twice the size of Hong Kong Island itself.

Now, thanks to the new airport, nearly everyone goes, although admittedly, they normally rush to get off the island by either rapid transit link, train or fast taxis and buses over futuristic bridges and tollways.

The old-fashioned way is to use a ferry, preferably a slow triple-decker where the locals play cards to pass the time and outsiders can watch the incredible variety of harbour craft, from big container ships to brown varnished chugging wallah-wallah boats. It's a relaxing 75 minutes to the harbour at Silvermine Bay, so named because of nearby silver mines.

Long before you arrive, you realise how mountainous Lantau is, with peaks close to 1000m. Much of it is a national park complete with walking trails and camping facilities.

From Silvermine Bay, a winding, narrow road with glimpses of small villages in valleys leads to Cheung Sha Bay, a 4km sweep of long, yellow-white beach, frequently deserted during weekdays but popular with Hong Kong visitors at weekends.

Signs warning of submerged rocks are redundant at low tide. A concrete lifeguard post looks out for everything like an airport control tower. Offshore is the outline of Turtle Island, a name that relates to its shape, not its wildlife.

Later, turn inland and climb along a twisting, hairpin road which follows the ridgelines and leads to the Buddhist Po Lin Monastery high in the mountains, about 1000m above sea level.

Its isolated gold, green and red buildings are part-hidden in swirling cloud and offer tantalising glimpses of rugged, green hills and deep valleys.

This isolation makes Po Lin, the Precious Lotus, different from most temples seen by tourists who travel to Hong Kong or other Asian cities.

But in the complex island that is Lantau, another thing that makes Po Lin different is manmade: what is said to be the biggest outdoor and seated Buddha in the world. The 33m high Buddha stands on top of a hill and is reached by climbing 300 steps.

Like the beach, Po Lin can often be crowded, the souvenir stalls in its carparks and courtyards crammed with customers and, elsewhere, among the large cast-iron incense-burners, diners may sample the same vegetarian food as is served to the monks.

It's pretty ordinary and bland, not exactly the sort of stuff you would be served at the famous Kung Tak Lam restaurant in Hong Kong.

Further into Lantau - in fact, all the way to its western shores - where, after passing through the disappointing modern face of a public housing complex, we reach the tiny village of Tai O.

It's not exactly a time-capsule of ancient Chinese life but is certainly a place fisherfolk and rice farmers and duck farmers still go about their business relatively untouched.

There we can walk the alleyways of narrow-fronted shop-houses - "the oldest apartments in Hong Kong" is how a proud local describes them to me.

These little lanes are barely two metres wide and coloured canvas awnings almost touch overhead to provide a complete canopy.

Small stores are a blend of old and new, plastic buckets and electric kettles, or traditional medicinal herbs and coffin-makers. Shining black and silver dried fish, presented like bunting, hang outside on poles, a reminder that Tai O once had an export market in fish and salt.

Ramshackle shanty houses on stilts, some you'd swear at a precarious angle, are built over what appears to be a creek but is actually the small sea channel dividing Lantau mainland and a small island on which part of the village lies.

Crude ladders lead to small fishing boats, among them some larger, permanently moored vessels serve as homes. There's always movement here, as people punt and row their way to and fro, going about their business.

It's not so long ago that the only way across was a little ferry, pulled back and forward using rope power by a little old lady with a huge grin beneath a bright lampshade hat.

Now there is a bridge. It's not the same, but it is a reminder that nowhere, not even in Tai O, does time stand still.