Cheung Chau had the bucolic atmosphere I'd been missing. The island is small, walkable, serene and green. There were forests and hills where butterflies fluttered and birds sang. Those lovely notes hit my ears fresh; I hadn't heard birds in a long time. I parked myself on a bench overlooking the harbor and ate a picnic lunch. No crowds. Absolutely charming.
Every year in May, people in Cheung Chau spend a week celebrating the Bun Festival. Thirty-foot metal cones are built and covered with buns. Real, baked-in-an-oven buns. The purpose of the Bun Festival is to thank the gods for keeping everyone healthy, and the traditional sacrifice is to eat vegetarian for the week. Even the island McDonald's participates by serving veggie burgers.
Parades, dragon dances and fireworks were scheduled for the week after I was there. For me it was satisfying to observe townspeople preparing and I had no desire to return for the crowds.
After my lunch I started a hike up into the hills. Brightly colored baby lizards slid across the cement path, birds sang and I was utterly alone. Really heavenly.
And then:
Cicadas. A racket of sound struck from above. Dolby Surround-worthy and loud. The devil's cry. The buzz was familiar — because you hear it in horror movies all the time. I twirled and looked up into the trees. Nothing. There was nothing to see, only the roar of — what is it? — their wings, their feet? What?
The fracas sounded like they were about to swoop down and swarm my body. My heart raced and I started to run, stumbled and nearly fell into:
A charcoal pit. And in the dirt, a beer bottle and an empty pack of Marlboro Lights.
This could well have been the remains of some family's weenie roast but I wasn't sticking around. My bucolic adventure was over. I raced down the hill and was back on that ferry, on my way to kill Jason with his stories of suicides in these hills.
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