Tai O, the Fishing Village Out of Time.

As Hong Kong was moving from the intense activism of the anti-government protests to the anxiety about a possible coronavirus epidemic, with a couple of friends I headed for the first time to Tai O, a small village on the nearby Lantau Island, in search for some tranquillity.

Fishermen have been living in Tai O since the Ming Dynasty, and at one time its population peaked at thirty thousand. Now, due to the decline in salt and salted fish production, only about two thousand inhabitants are left.

Some have defined Tai O as a small "Venice of the East". To me, it stirred other recollections. There are places that immediately bring back the memory of others, for which we feel a sense of longing. With them, we develop a special and sometimes inexplicable connection. To them, we reserve magical and personal moments of recollection. At times, we need to talk, write about these places because, as Joan Didion said, 'A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively...'

That's how, while we were taking a trip on the little boat that promised the sighting not only of the village seen from the sea, but also of rare white Chinese dolphins (that we could not spot), a first glimpse of Tai O brought me back to my beloved Myanmar, precisely to Inle Lake. I remembered sitting on the long, wobbly little boat as we made our way from the endless expanse of the lake into its small channels, rich in lush vegetable gardens – green floating islands of hydroponic fruits and vegetables – and navigated among water hyacinths, getting closer to the many picturesque buildings raised on piles over the surface of the water.

Rekindling memories of Inle Lake, Myanmar, in Tai O

Tai O looked now so familiar, so déjà vue, except maybe for the advertisement banners in Chinese. We passed by a white restaurant on stilts decorated with red lanterns. Colourful houses displayed mandarins and yellow chrysanthemums on their balconies, while vases of purple orchids dangled under green awnings. Fishermen’s boats lined near the shore.

In a 'split-second' (and I would really like to use this expression: a split second, divided into instants, imperceptible due to their brevity), I was once again navigating the Burmese lake among the spitting and croaking engines of the local boats.

The spell broke when our boat stopped, and I was back in Tai O. We did not get off where we had departed, but on the pier leading to the Tai O Heritage Hotel, a beautiful white, colonial-style two-storey building dating back to 1902, when it served as a maritime police station built to exercise control over the island of Lantau but also to repel pirates’ attacks. The police station eventually ceased operating, and it was restored in 2009 by the Hong Kong Heritage Conservation Foundation Ltd., which converted it into a nine-room boutique hotel.

But the ‘real’ Tai O lives in the streets of the village located a short distance away, following a pleasant walk along the bay. Mangroves are scattered in the middle of the still sea – like miniature trees accidentally abandoned in the water by a distracted Creator. The path passes through silver houses with shiny aluminium walls, vegetable gardens, a small hospital, a primary school, the post office, and the public toilets housed in a white structure that almost resembles a small Greek church.

Once we reached the village centre, it became clear from the smell what mostly contributed to the island's economy: dried fish. It was impossible for me to guess the names of the many dry fish products or to imagine their original shapes. Some hung from the shops’ ceilings and gently swayed like sacred amulets meant to ward off troubles. There were also yellow, round cartilages of various shapes. It was almost as if we had entered an art gallery full of futuristic installations. Instead, everything on display was a rare delicacy, to be eaten in a soup or pan-fried with other ingredients. At lunchtime, we enjoyed a plate of fried noodles in a local store and could not miss the propitiatory ritual of the Lion Dance, typical of the Chinese New Year period and a good omen for business. The cunning lion, guided by two experts and with his 'tail' held by a child, stopped to visit every shop and restaurant, bringing good fortune to the business and receiving in exchange 'lai see', red paper envelopes containing money, and lettuce leaves, its staple food.

We completed our outing by tasting 'taufu fa', or 'tofu flower', a warm dessert with the texture of a soft and velvety pudding to be taken with a sprinkle of red sugar on top.

The pace of life in Tai O is a far cry from the city. People here don’t run but take leisure walks instead and ride their bikes. Children play undisturbed in the main street as the island is pedestrian-only. The whiff of dried fish mixes with grilled squids and fish-ball skewers, Osmanthus-flower and red date jellies – typical street-food. One wonders if the inhabitants barely make ends meet by selling snacks or dried fish, or by running simple-style restaurants. Despite the undiscussed uniqueness of the place, there were very few tourists and even fewer buyers when we visited.

Perhaps the answer lies in what Tai O’s villagers want more from their life. Peace, a slow-paced routine and what that corner of the island naturally offers are already available to them. Not far away, on a piece of land that once was the sea, is one of the busiest airports in the world. How many people have been tempted to leave, become part of the city frenzy, fly to other destinations? Or, maybe, more simply, there is no other place than Tai O for them to love, to be claimed the hardest.

Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here