Every child needs an extraordinary aunt. If Nature fails to provide, one must invent or appoint one. Mine was Aunty Joan. Strictly speaking she was my dad’s cousin, and therefore an Aunt by Appointment. But since she was most notable in my life for her absence, I did sometimes feel I had invented her.
Fifty years after she sailed with us from Australia in 1967, I finally got around to asking what she’d been up to when she left us to pick up her own adventure. And, not unexpectedly, it’s an extraordinary tale. Continue reading
There was even more colour and movement than usual at Hong Kong’s premier dragon boat races when the 1974 craze for running through a public place naked reached the shores of Stanley. They called it the Streak. Your Girl Reporter was on the scene. “Don’t look, Sally!” But it was too late. I’d already been mooned. Continue reading
The Spackman residence in Hong Kong didn’t get hot running water in the kitchen until the late 1970s. From 1967, when we first rented the flat in Macdonnell Road, until 1978, when I was packed off to Brisbane, Australia to endure the final years of my education, we would have to boil water for all our cooking and cleaning needs. And drinking water too, of course, in the early years. Traditionally, only servants would have used the kitchen, so hot running water was presumably deemed an unnecessary luxury.
When I returned to Hong Kong for Christmas 1978 the hot water fairy had arrived in my absence. I have no idea what prompted the long overdue upgrade, but it says something about the world of my parents’ Australia that neither of them regarded a lack of hot running water as a deal breaker.
For your young Girl Reporter it was just another glaring neon announcement of the Spackman Family Failure to fit into any of the rigid strata of Hong Kong’s colonial society. As if being Australian wasn’t enough, we were not expatriates in the accepted sense of the word. We were in Hong Kong on local terms. Continue reading
It will shock you, I know, to learn that Your Girl Reporter is not averse to the occasional act of thievery. Every so often I am reminded of past misdeeds which trouble my conscience to greater and lesser degree. The recent publication of a new book by journalist, author and artist Derek Maitland was one such reminder.
The Fatal Line documents the biggest public enquiry ever held into Australia’s commercial broadcasting industry from the ringside perspective of Maitland and his fellow whistleblower at Sydney’s TCN Channel Nine.
I knew Maitland as one of the noisy, amorphous group of Hong Kong journalists on whose fringe I dwelt in those years of childhood when you don’t care what people do for a living. So it was a surprise years later to see his name on a bookshelf in England. And it gives me enormous joy that accuracy enables me to begin my tale of crime and misdeed with the following observation:
It was a dark and stormy night. Continue reading
The question of why the Baxters left Australia in 1967 has a different answer depending on who you ask. My father would say that he wanted to get closer to Vietnam, to find out what was really happening there. So he gave up his job and took his wife, his mother and his two small daughters to Asia, Destination Bangkok. Continue reading
At one time Grosvenor House, our block of flats at the end of Macdonnell Road in Hong Kong’s Mid-Levels, was home to BBC correspondent Tony Lawrence, who died on 24 September 2013, and Dick Hughes, the legendary Australian journalist who covered the Asia beat for half a century.
Hong Kong, it must be said, was a pretty filthy place in 1972 when the government’s Information Services Department launched a campaign to clean it up.
Hacker had worked for GIS since arriving in Hong Kong in December 1967, just 10 months after the Baxters. He was a fine historian and cartoonist who deserves to be celebrated for his tireless work in documenting the history of that remarkable city.
But he will be mostly remembered by Hong Kongers of my generation for a vile green creature with red spots which became one of our most beloved icons. Continue reading
In the northern hemisphere it’s Harvest Moon and in Hong Kong that means Mid-Autumn Festival, one of my favourite times of year growing up.
The longer you live in Hong Kong, the more impressive becomes your Typhoon Tally, an essential component of your credentials, to be wheeled out as required. Only the big ones count. It’s Signal 10 (hurricane force winds with sustained speed of 64 knots or more) or nothing. I never knew anyone who couldn’t name them on demand, along with their year of occurrence and an alarming tale or two. For the record, mine goes Shirley, Rose, Elsie, Hope and Ellen. Continue reading