Po Po Lung!

They’re very big on “orientation” here at the University of Hong Kong. In fact, I would have to say that the students here at HKU are obsessed with it. For every possible organization, club, team, student residence, and even residence floor there is an elaborate orientation process that is colloquially known as “O-Camp”. O-Camp, it turns out, is the reason I haven’t been able to get a decent night sleep since I arrived in my residence here at Swire Hall. I guess the closest Canadian equivalent would be Frosh week except there’s no alcohol involved and it lasts for about nine months. The purpose of O-Camp is actually pretty a pretty good idea. While it’s easy to be critical of its militaristic hierarchy (i.e., the students who have been in the group longest have the most seniority and command the most respect), the process forces everybody into a situation where they get to know each other and immediately have shared experiences to the point that the club, team or student hall forms a strong cohesive unit…if it is something you can culturally relate to. For me, the interesting thing about O-Camp is that it reveals something I hadn’t expected about the psyche of Hong Kong youth -- they are very immature for their age.

I know that statement might come across as presumptuous on my part, especially since I haven’t even been here for three weeks yet and I still have a lot to learn about the culture. Nevertheless, after this weekend I’m absolutely sure about this. In fact, the local student’s juvenile behaviour has become a popular topic of conversation among exchange students, particularly when one of us is confronted by a situation that we find a bit baffling. The funny thing about it is that when I say “exchange students” I also mean the mainland Chinese students (like my roommate George from Shanghai) and, most interestingly, the second generation Canadian and American exchange students with Hong Kong ancestry. The funny thing about the latter group is that while at home they often identify as Chinese or “from Hong Kong,” if they can’t speak Cantonese well (as most cannot) they’re as much outsiders as the rest of us.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to experience the aforementioned dynamic first-hand on an adventure to Tung Lung (East Dragon) Island (a 30 minute ferry ride south-west of Hong Kong Island) with the HKU “Ramblers Club.” The Ramblers Club is the closest thing you’d find to an Outdoor Recreation Club back in Canada. Essentially, they are a group who see themselves as hikers and campers. If they were Canadian they would certainly shop at Mountain Equipment Co-op. Thus, I thought this would be a great opportunity to get involved with a group of locals and have some planned trips to places I wouldn’t otherwise know about.

When I signed up for the club it was expected that I would go to the introductory O-Camp weekend which was scheduled to take place in only three days. I was a little hesitant as I had already developed a strong aversion to anything bearing the name “O-Camp” as the Swire Hall camp is taking a serious toll on my mental health. Furthermore, of the three leaders I met while I was signing up for the club in the HKU commons two didn’t speak English very well and all of the Club’s literature was only in Chinese (including the neglected club website http://web.hku.hk/~ramblers/. When I suggested that while I might not be able to make it to the weekend O-Camp camping trip, I would love to come on any subsequent daytrips they might be organizing the tone of our conversation suddenly changed. The three chatted among each other in Cantonese with a tone that suggested “oh my God! What do we do?” Afterwards, Rachel (the one Rambler leader who could speak English quite well) pretty much explained to me that if you don’t go to the O-Camp you wouldn’t really be a Rambler (i.e., you can’t join the club). Ultimately, I agreed to come along for the weekend trip.

I was a little relieved when I met Ben, an engineering student from UBC, at the O-Camp orientation night which took place on the Thursday preceding the weekend. I had also managed to coerce my friends Nick from England and Lloyd from Wales to come along and it actually started to feel like it might be a fun weekend after all. Besides, it was only going to be two days and a night…how bad could it be? The Thursday night meeting started off pretty cool and I was feeling optimistic. About half an hour after arriving we had gone over everything and I was ready to head out -- or so I thought. In fact, the planning for this overnight trip got into such minute detail that after three hours the organizers were still calculating how many packets of sugar would be appropriate for the group. It even took us twenty minutes to decide what the name of our group (out of about ten we came up with) would be. Our group name had to incorporate the name “dragon” into it somehow. In the end, we settled on Puff the Magic Dragon. Since some people liked including Puff Daddy for a bit of soul and the euphemism of the Peter, Paul and Mary song seemed to strike a chord among some exchange students. Anyway, none of this made a difference anyway ‘cause the name was translated into Cantonese anyway which ended up as: “Po Po Lung” or, literally translated, “bubble dragon.” Sometimes this would turn into Po Po Daddy Lung (bubble daddy dragon), but, for the most part, it was Po Po Lung.

On Saturday morning, a short ferry ride from Sai Wan Ho MTR Station (the subway here) deposited about 50 of us onto this barren island which is a dedicated Hong Kong park reserve save a small cluster of three hovels. Luckily for us one of these hovels had a crooked sign that read (in small English print under big Chinese writing) “Mrs. Lee’s Holiday Camp.” Mrs. Lee is a very little, very old woman -- think Yoda -- who speaks no English whatsoever. Nevertheless, she is one of those people who communicate pretty damn well just by the way she says it. She smiles a lot and she sells cold beer. Needless to say, I liked her immediately.

After passing through Mrs. Lee’s place we made our way to the campsite and erected the tents. My eight-man tent was also to be home for the evening for Nick, Lloyd, Ben and two local guys Neo (like The Matrix) and George. George is a very popular selection for English names over here. I’ve been told that some sounds in the name are suggestive of many Chinese names. For example, my roommate George’s Chinese name is Gu Yuqi…well… at least it starts with a “G.” Alas, I digress…

It was incredibly hot and humid outside the tent and you can imagine what it was like inside with six guys. Even with the flaps wide open and mosquito netting down I considered sleeping outside, but the thought of mosquitoes, wild dogs and snakes changed my mind.

Shortly after arriving, I discovered that our day had been rigidly divided into sections which had to be adhered to rigidly. We were told that the hike was about to begin so we were corralled and told to follow a leader while another ranking organizer would follow from behind. It suddenly felt like summer camp. I don’t mean that it felt wild and free summer camp, but rather, the camp counsellor/camper relationship started to be enforced. Statements like “don’t go over there it’s too dangerous” would come yelling from one of the “leaders” (they wore white shirts while all of us campers wore orange). “OK, you must hurry up now” or “come down from there” also became popular. I mean were not talking about serious terrain by any stretch of the imagination. The feeling that you were being treated like an eight-year-old by a sixteen year old camp counsellor became so strong that the exchange students started whispering about revolt. In fact, leaving the island became a popular theme of discussion as well as heading to Mrs. Lee’s for a cold beer. Branching off from the hiking group was strictly forbidden.

On the hike, which was actually an organized march, we had seen a group of people swimming in a lagoon. Due to the fact that it was well over thirty degrees and the sun was blazing we started discussing how nice it was going to be to take a dip after so much sweating and overheating. When Nick suggested to Rachel, our Po Po Lung leader that we were looking forward to this she regretfully informed us that a “mass game” was scheduled for after the hike, so swimming would be impossible. Nevertheless, by the end of the hike all of the exchange students had agreed that we would be swimming regardless of the counsellors plans. One girl from UC Berkeley whose parents were from Hong Kong was the most outspoken about the bizarre group dynamic and she just informed them that if she wanted to go swimming, she was going swimming. She was really pissed. The leaders eventually gave into our demands (after a serious aside discussion in Cantonese) under the condition that we not discuss what we had done with the local students. I suppose they were worried about an all out rebellion. We agreed.

We missed out on the mass game (I still have no idea what this was by the way) and took an incredibly refreshing dip in the South China Sea – with the exception of a few close calls with some hidden sea urchins. We then headed back to Mrs. Lee’s where we took a shower in her dark, cement, semi-outdoor shower and had a most welcome ice cold beer. We eventually made it back to camp for dinner: roasting fish, pork, and beef balls over the camp fire. Then the whole chickens came out which were precariously skewered on sticks and held over the fire ‘til they were done.

The campfire sing song was scheduled to begin at midnight. There was even a song-book provided to everyone so there was no excuse for not singing along. While campfire sing-a-longs back home are typically treated as a laidback affair, this one was surprisingly serious. We even had to attend a song practice before the actual campfire to be sure we knew the tunes – attendance was not optional. As it turned out, rather than it being a dude with a guitar singing Bob Dylan or Cat Stevens songs, it was going to be a choreographed performance of Western children’s songs that had been modified as though through broken telephone. For example, “The Hokey Pokey” became “Buki, Buki, Buki” (i.e., Buki, Buki, Buki and you turn yourself around; and that’s what it’s all a-bout!). Then, there was “Singing in the Rain” which clearly had its roots in the classic Fred Astaire number, but through poor translation had become “I sing in the rain, just sing in the rain, with glorious spirit, I am HAPPY AGAIN! (Yelling out loud).” I was chastised for accidentally singing the original lyrics. Then there was “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” which didn’t stray much from the one you know. All of these songs had particular body movements as well.

At midnight we were all summoned to the fire pit where a truly enormous pile of two-by-fours had been stacked the way one would build the walls of a Popsicle stick house. One of the leaders produced a huge can of kerosene, or some similar flammable liquid, which he poured on the wood and then set fire to it while chanting with a flaming torch (a-la Lord of the Rings). Because of the humidity, I was sweating my ass off long before the gigantic fire was lit, so now I really felt as though I were a coal loader for a locomotive engine. Just then, Angus, a particularly enthusiastic leader, started screaming “I Sing in the Rain, just sing in the rain…” and everyone joined in. He ran around the big circle of Ramblers singing at the top of his lungs, sweating profusely and insisting that everyone sing along. This lasted for over an hour.

Trying to imagine a group of Canadian university students who are not involved in some kind of Christian retreat standing around a campfire singing “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” in the middle of the night – without the use of drugs or alcohol mind you – is, needless to say, simply baffling. Nevertheless, I decided that I was here for a cultural experience and that’s what I’m getting. Clearly I have a lot to learn. Despite over 160 years of Western influence here in Hong Kong, I’m finding that you can’t presume to know anything about the culture for sure. I’ve heard many assertions from various sources since I’ve been here, but I’ll try to figure things out for myself.

Sunday started with a scavenger hunt which was good clean fun. Shortly afterward a crazy, bad-ass tropical-style thunderstorm rolled in. About thirty of us all huddled under a gazebo big enough for twelve trying desperately to keep dry. When we faced the fact that we were just getting wet anyway, several of us decided to make a break for Mrs. Lee’s. Half way there we discovered that the only bridge back had been consumed by a flash flood. There was no way to cross safely. We just threw our hands in the air and waited with all our stuff in the pouring rain until the rain abated. Soaking wet, we finally got a hot bowl of noodle soup (pretty much a staple meal for me these days) at Mrs. Lee’s and then caught the ferry home. My shoes are still wet.

A.