There was a nasty cultural revolution in progress across the border when I first visited Hong Kong. My ship had docked at Ocean Terminal in Kowloon and a smoke-belching ferry took me to Hong Kong Island. There I was besieged by an army of reed-thin men who made a living pulling rickshaws. They wanted to show me the sights of the island. Those sights were, basically, the junk boats in Aberdeen, the chaotic old city and the Tiger Balm Garden. The garden was built by the makers of a local ointment that soothed aching muscles. At one point, it was Hong Kongs most popular attraction, kitschy statues and sculptures depicting scenes from Chinese folklore.








