Chapter Five
The old man bent and peered into the refuse bin. He carried a large plastic bag stuffed with newspapers and empty soft drink cans. The flimsy aluminium containers with the red, white and green brand names stylised on the side were no match for the man’s filthy trainer clad feet. They had been stomped flat and meticulously positioned in the bag, safely distant from the torn holes and flush against one another to allow for maximum space utilisation.
As he leaned into the bin his trousers parted and bared sooty flesh, uncovered by undergarments. The trousers themselves were black, stained with oil and what passersby could only imagine, and they came to his calves, the ends in tatters, almost the same colour as the skin they were too short to cover. The pockets had been ripped out and there looked to be more tears and holes than actual material.
The tramp withdrew a Diet Coke can and triumphantly wiped it on his jacket in a gesture totally out of character with his dirty appearance. The motion stripped another few square inches of brittle material and it fell to the sidewalk. The can was then immediately squashed and placed in the bag.
With a final ransacking of the bin, the beggar straightened and looked across Statue Square for the next stop on his search. His face was lined and deeply encrusted with grime, his matted hair falling over his ears and forehead, and his greying beard a tangled mess. The eyes squinted into the morning sun as he paid no attention to the groups of Filipino maids who had adopted the Central precinct as their own personal meeting place. Hoisting the bag, the old man moved into the middle of the square and resumed his bin searching.
He looked like any one of the hundreds of street sleepers who infested the crowded urban areas, and whose makeshift beds could be found under flyovers and on street benches. An eyesore, and a glowing example of the side of Hong Kong the tourist association had no intention of promoting, these derelicts were periodically rounded up, washed, shaved, shorn and deloused. Then, because the law gave the authorities no alternative, they were dropped back on the streets to continue the life of their choice.
The beggar shuffled to the granite steps and descended them eagerly, another bright yellow bin ahead of him. Plucking a crumpled newspaper from inside he folded and laid it in his bag. Glancing to his left he caught sight of a security guard outside the entrance to the Legislative Council building. He appeared to glare at the uniformed guard for a few seconds and then walked straight towards him.
“Shit,” said the beggar in harsh Cantonese.
“Get out of here, old man.” The guard motioned him on.
“Shit,” repeated the beggar and pointed at the entrance doors.
The guard turned his face away to avoid having to look at him. “You can’t go in there,” he said. “Go on. Get away.”
“Shit. Want.” Repeated the bedraggled man and pointedly dropped his bag on the concrete.
“Listen,” the guard said in a stern voice, now looking him in the eye. “You are not allowed in there. So get away from here or you’ll be in trouble.”
A small group of labourers from a nearby construction site had seen the brief confrontation and stopped to watch. One of them with a sneer pointed at the guard. “What’s wrong?” he called out. “Is this only for the rich people? Too good for the likes of us or him?”
The guard tried to ignore the group and again motioned the beggar on.
“Why won’t you let him in?” said another of the workers, enjoying the opportunity to tackle authority, especially at no risk to himself. “All the old man wants is a shit.”
“Let him empty his bowels in luxury for once,” said the worker who had spoken first. “It’s a public place.”
The guard was about to step back inside the building when the doors opened outwards and an expensively dressed Chinese man emerged.
“What’s the matter” he asked the guard, who without hesitation began to explain. A small crowd had gathered and was watching with interest the exchange. The man looked in their direction and then spoke to the guard. “Let him in,” he said. “But be careful. I’ll explain to the people why we must have security. Be quick.”
The guard pulled wide the door and called to the beggar: “Come on! Hurry!” He led the old man in and directed him twenty paces to the right. Inside the toilet he motioned to the far cubicle and when the old man was inside he stood to attention outside, prepared to warn anyone who entered that they would be well advised to wait for a while.
After some minutes the old man tugged open the door and glared at the guard who in turn peered over his shoulder: “Diu nei,” he exclaimed, and pulled the beggar out into the corridor. At the main entrance he stood patiently by the door and beckoned the beggar out into the square.
The crowd outside watched as he picked up his bag and hurried off. The well dressed man was still explaining the security measures necessary for the building as the guard returned inside and met a colleague.
“The dirty bastard shit on the seat,” he cursed. “Get the cleaner.”
An hour later the beggar could be seen shuffling through the Botanic Gardens. But he was not observed as he entered a shed behind a tall clump of bamboo. There he stripped off the rags and washed himself clean from a pail of cold water. He removed the false beard and wig and pulled a bundle from under the newspapers in the bag. He shook out a pair of shorts and a checked shirt along with a pair of brown leather sandals. Once dressed he packed the old clothes in the bag and left the shed. As he passed a rubbish bin he dropped the bundle in. Anyone who saw him would never imagine him as a dirty beggar who had been rummaging in refuse bins in Statue Square shortly before.
He walked back towards Central whistling softly to himself.