Crossing Boundaries

Contrary to popular opinion, Americans are not the most well-respected foreigners abroad. Being a “USA”, according to my entry documents, Hong Kong was less than impressed with the super-charged culture clash that comes with a twenty-something-year-old American discovering herself in such an environment. I worked hard to disprove some of these notions by partaking in local rituals and learning what I could of the language. I greeted the elders and showed my respect as best I could. In the end, I really couldn’t take the American out of the girl, as it were.

There was a particular interest in my presence, especially on the island I lived on, because I am not a white American. I am not African or Asian- the two majority representations living in HK. I look like a blend of these. I was often mistaken for being Filipina, a Pacific Islander or really any blend of reasons you might check “other” on a government form. It came to my attention that a single, young woman my age from abroad, living in HK meant one thing— sex work. Hang on to that little tid bit, it’ll come back to haunt me.

I wasn’t there on holiday, nor was I “doing a semester abroad”. I was clearly beyond the naïveté of my peers. I was living there and volunteering for a non-profit organization that provided teaching materials, workbooks and supplies for teachers living on the Mainland. It was my job to lead teams that came from all over the world to participate in bringing said items across the border from Hong Kong into China. This was an exceptionally amazing and tiring job. I was responsible for carrying important documents, travel money, metro passes etc. I met people from every continent (sans Antarctica) and had wonderful conversations with some fascinating individuals. It was by far the most culturally rich experience of my life at that point. It required the utmost professional manner from me at all times. All times. Did I say all times? Okay.

Believe it or not though, there were times where this job could be monotonous, especially if I was crossing the same entry border every day that week. I had to be careful not to get sloppy... or too comfortable.

One of the problems I often encountered while going through customs was that the officers often assumed I was a prostitute. So I was always careful to answer all their questions with confidence. I had to provide an address from memory, in Mandarin. If I was questioned for longer than usual, I made a mental note to be extra aware of my conduct before and after crossing the border. I was just short of saluting them on my way past. Any mishaps would get me arrested.

One afternoon, after a long “border run” as we called them, I saw a booth on the HK side of the border, manned by young people promoting a safe sex campaign. I was rather excited for a few reasons: 1) I rarely saw people my age at the border 2) here was a great opportunity to practice Cantonese 3) they were doing something rather brave in their culture to address the taboos surrounding sex. I waved to them on our way into China and reminded myself to visit them on the way back in. Nobody was visiting the booth and I knew the show of white foreigners, whom I was traveling with, would be an attraction.

Coming back across to HK we made our way to the booth. I greeted them and introduced myself. They were so friendly and kind. We talked for a bit before I asked them to tell me about what they were doing. They obliged and explained that sex was not something their parents talked to them about but they wanted to offer education, through pamphlets and email sign-ups as well as free condoms to promote safe sex. They said not many people had stopped by because it would be shameful to do so.

Now, I’m a fairly introverted and shy person so I’m not sure what came over me. The sudden theatrics came alive as though on cue, I became like a vaudevillian actor looking through the pamphlets and smiling, giving thumbs up, miming my approval to the team and the young people. I shoved my hand into the bucket of condoms and took two handfuls of the colorful, bright rubbers and stuffed them in my bag, laughing, chortling like a damn fool. Everyone had a good laugh, we said our good-byes and went on our way.

That was the end of that.

Early the next morning the city was busy and alive. Weaving a team of ten people through the crowds to make it to the bus stop was nothing short of a hustle. I had to learn to be assertive and keep my place in line. I had had one too many grandmas elbow me in the gut to get on the bus. If you know, you know. I saw our bus approaching and signaled the team to get ready. I instinctively reached for the Octopus metro card in my bag pocket that would pay the fare for everyone I was traveling with. Because I’d done it hundreds of times, I could do this without looking.

The bus pulls up. The crowd funnels. The neighbors I had worked for hard-won approval and a few dozen folks are swarming the bus doors as they open. And this is where everything begins to happen in slow motion. My team gets on the bus and I’m grappling for the edge of my card, my fingers pinching it, sweat beading up as I can’t quite get it. It felt stuck. What is blocking my card? The bus driver is visibly annoyed as my friends board and need their fares paid for. Passengers are waiting.

Got it! I grabbed my card and thrust it into the air, like a chalice of victory.

“I got it!!” I exclaimed. Instantenously sending a barrage of shiny, colorful condom packages flying into the air. Their lollipop-like wrappers sparkled in the morning sun as they flew, twisted and spun over our heads. Some not quite sure what they were, gawking, looking up, squinting. School kids gaze upward in child-like wonder. I can still hear the gentle pitter-patter of the condoms landing on the sidewalk, into people’s bags, and on their heads. Raining down on us as though baptizing us into a new reality. Everyone turned to look at me in disgust. Dread in five shades of red washed over me, as I bent down to gather them saying,

“These aren’t really mine! I promise! There was a sex booth, and some nice kids and…see, these are super funny! Hahaha!” Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Right?

I scrambled to gather my receipts of condemnation and shove them back into my bag, as the sweat of from a thousand dams pours from my face, everyone shaking their heads. Suspicions confirmed.

I look up through the bus windows, I see my teammates, mouths agape, some already with tears of laughter, some with hands clasped over their heads. It was the truest walk of shame I’d ever made.

“Drop me off at the morgue,” I said to the bus driver.

“Huh?”

Never mind. I’ll just be busy back here returning to dust.

Beep. Fare Paid.