I would be leaving Hong Kong with little more than a glimpse into a world that would take PhDs upon of PhDs to get straight. A staggeringly beautiful culture complicated with a cruel and dark history. Like many great societies, the Chinese have been both the victims and perpetrators in their story.
In the 17th century, when the British lusted after the silk and tea of China, they offered trade to the Emperor.
Sure, sounds good, but you don’t have anything we want.
The English dug through their closets.
Hats?
No.
Biscuits?
No thanks.
Our fabulous accents?
Hmmm...nope.
One day a British brainiac, contemplating the problem, looked out at his English garden. Flowers. We know everything about flowers.
Specifically, poppies.
They convinced the Chinese that opium was a terrific cure for diarrhea, which it was, but no one considered the side effects. The English went to Turkey and India, filled their ships, and thus began the opium addiction of millions of Chinese men. And women. And children.
Opium quickly moved from medicinal to recreational use and the preparation and smoking of an opium pipe became as formal a ritual as the tea ceremony.
One day in 1800 the Emperor peeped over the walls of the Forbidden City, saw his doped-up citizens tripping down cobblestone streets and thought, This is nuts.
He dispatched armies to every town, village and hamlet with instructions to systematically destroy millions of crates of the stuff. Too late. An addicted population led to a corrupt military and Western suppliers weren't about to give up their bounty. Illegal trade became the modus operandi.
Many other countries — including the U.S. — had jumped onto this profitable bandwagon. In 1839 the governor of Hunan ordered twenty thousand chests of opium burned at the port of Canton. He also levied heavy tariffs on foreign trade, seriously pissing off the English. In response, they readied their cannons, floated their ships into the harbor and took aim. The French and Americans added their firepower and so began the Opium Wars.
The Chinese didn't stand a chance against the advanced military tactics of the Westerners and suffered humiliating defeat. In 1842 Hong Kong was ceded to the British.
Eventually the Chinese Empire itself fell. So here we had an addicted population, a criminal army, questionable authority and a massively growing population: fertile ground for the Communism that followed.
My favorite spot in all of Hong Kong was the Hong Kong Museum of History. In a time travel-like experience the region's story is spelled out both in miniature and life-size reenactments. I marveled at the full-size rendition of a music company both onstage and backstage and felt a rush of guilt over my harsh assessment of Peking opera. There were the towering bun-trees of Cheung Chau — the bread shellacked into a glossy finish — and a trolley car like those in Wan Chai.
A miniature replica of a 19th-century walled city told the story of the outlawed opium. Before me, little soldiers gathered wooden crates of opium to burn. Barricaded outside, tiny addicted citizens covered their mouths in horror, unable to stop the destruction of their fix.
This museum was remarkable. I tiptoed around in silence because no one else was in the place other than docents encouraging me to see this and that. I have never met a single relative or friend who has been inside this detailed wonder. If I were as rich as an emperor, I'd fill a plane with friends and hand out tickets to the Hong Kong Museum of History.
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