The first time I met a Zimbabwean was so long ago that he was in fact still a Rhodesian, the chief tenant in an apartment nestled, not far from my new job, into one of colonial Hong Kong’s residential neighbourhoods on the mainland, extending between dense, coastal commerce and farmland running north to the People’s Republic of China. The Rhodesian was a short, slight figure, a young white man with dark blonde hair and fierce eyes. He never set out to kill me, but his actions could have done just that.
The three-bedroom apartment in question included a shared living room and kitchen, which was almost never in use. If I ever met or even saw the third tenant, I don’t recall the event. There are two aspects of that home which I do remember well: the view out of the window from a horizontal position on my bed (the image was that of huge wing-tips of jets landing at the nearby airport - the audio was equally unforgettable), and the Rhodesian’s many Chinese girlfriends. One of those women provided the image recalled in greatest detail, a scene which confirmed my doubts about the wisdom of prolonging this living arrangement. The sights that day were followed by my final departure from the apartment the next morning.
When I went to view the apartment, I flashed my employment contract and spoke with just the slightest bit of exaggeration of my extensive connections in the local business community. In fact in those early days I knew only two people, but I referred to them and their community as my own secure circle, where people were watching. The chief tenant mentioned working at a bank - but the deal-clincher for me was the proximity to work. I moved in and began a hectic routine which included a bit of time (almost every day) at the apartment, where I rarely met another living soul. It didn’t last long.
After a weekend away, I returned home one Sunday afternoon to an apartment filled not with people, but with gas fumes. The purple curtains in the living room were drawn shut, and green candles were lit on the coffee table. While staring at the bizarre scene I became aware of the hiss, which I traced to the kitchen, where I found the gas on full force. At some point between that moment and my final departure I stood looking at the Rhodesian, seated on the sofa nursing a beer, explaining that while ‘all Chinese are dogs,’ he had never expected this particular Chinese girlfriend to be so vindictive as to set a death trap for him in his own home, only because he left her waiting for him all night long.
I also remember that packing was a simple affair: clothes and books into the backpack, one garbage bag for the overflow and another bag for the items going into the garbage. I left so quickly that by mistake I moved the rubbish with me and threw out the overflow, thus reinforcing an early adherence to the non-acquisitive lifestyle.
For the story of this globe, please see LBN post on November 26, 2007.
The three-bedroom apartment in question included a shared living room and kitchen, which was almost never in use. If I ever met or even saw the third tenant, I don’t recall the event. There are two aspects of that home which I do remember well: the view out of the window from a horizontal position on my bed (the image was that of huge wing-tips of jets landing at the nearby airport - the audio was equally unforgettable), and the Rhodesian’s many Chinese girlfriends. One of those women provided the image recalled in greatest detail, a scene which confirmed my doubts about the wisdom of prolonging this living arrangement. The sights that day were followed by my final departure from the apartment the next morning.
When I went to view the apartment, I flashed my employment contract and spoke with just the slightest bit of exaggeration of my extensive connections in the local business community. In fact in those early days I knew only two people, but I referred to them and their community as my own secure circle, where people were watching. The chief tenant mentioned working at a bank - but the deal-clincher for me was the proximity to work. I moved in and began a hectic routine which included a bit of time (almost every day) at the apartment, where I rarely met another living soul. It didn’t last long.
After a weekend away, I returned home one Sunday afternoon to an apartment filled not with people, but with gas fumes. The purple curtains in the living room were drawn shut, and green candles were lit on the coffee table. While staring at the bizarre scene I became aware of the hiss, which I traced to the kitchen, where I found the gas on full force. At some point between that moment and my final departure I stood looking at the Rhodesian, seated on the sofa nursing a beer, explaining that while ‘all Chinese are dogs,’ he had never expected this particular Chinese girlfriend to be so vindictive as to set a death trap for him in his own home, only because he left her waiting for him all night long.
I also remember that packing was a simple affair: clothes and books into the backpack, one garbage bag for the overflow and another bag for the items going into the garbage. I left so quickly that by mistake I moved the rubbish with me and threw out the overflow, thus reinforcing an early adherence to the non-acquisitive lifestyle.
For the story of this globe, please see LBN post on November 26, 2007.
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