amanda castleman - diary of a gweipo 2

travelgirl
March 2006

Diary of a Gweipo
Falling for hysteric glamour in Hong Kong
travelgirl sent journalist Amanda Castleman to explore Hong Kong and measure the pulse of this powerhouse of finance and fashion. Here's a glimpse into her travel diary.

“Hysteric Glamour,”
chirps one storefront.

1 2 3 4 5

The racetrack and cockroach girls
“So I can see that you miss America, Miss America,” my friend writes. He's lived in Southeast Asia, experienced its uneasy mix: the poor and posh jumbled together like stir-fry in a steaming, subtropical bowl. I'd e-mail him back, but I'm too busy watching a gangster flick in the bathtub. That's right. In the bathtub. A little monitor is recessed into the mauve marble. I feel so decadent, I break open the minibar potato chips. But Hong Kong has greater extravagances awaiting: Sha Tin racetrack, for one.

Horse racing is Hong Kong's only legal form of gambling. More than a million people place $215 million in bets each race day. The two clubs here earn almost as much as America's 167 tracks ($10.4 billion versus $12 billion annually). Racing is a big-money, big-excitement sport in China's Special Administrative Region. And this course, so close to the Temple of 10,000 Buddhas, has much better energy than its rival Happy Valley, which had to stage a feng shui intervention a few years back.

The Sha Tin skybox serves Indian curry and green-tea ice cream, part of a lavish buffet. But the air-conditioned rooms are sterile, devoid of the stands' sweat and stress. I don't want to murmur. I want to roar. Especially when I win HK$110 on the first race.

Fourteen bucks up, I'm wise enough to quit. I wander down to the track. No one's clucking and fussing over prawn salad here. The bettors are rapt, waving black and jade flags in support of Silent Witness, a local horse undefeated after 17 races. He's so popular, a fan stampede for souvenir caps after his last triumph injured 21 people.

“Bam,” the gates fly open. Hooves churn the turf in the Champion's Mile. Somehow, the city's next-best horse, Bullish Luck, noses out the superstar. Thousands of faces shutter closed. Time to go, so we join the deflated fans shuffling to the exit. Our van speeds though the New Territories, passing monasteries, walled villages and swathes of unspoilt countryside. Corrugated iron shanties cluster on the city outskirts, near duck farms and oyster beds. Soon television aerials blacken the sky like sharp Chinese pictographs over high-rise slums. Then we are back in Central, that “glittering temple to high-end conspicuous consumption,” as Time Out Hong Kong memorably put it.

Barney Cheng dresses the bel mondo here, including actress Michelle Yeoh (his Crouching Tiger, beaded animal-print gown triumphed at the 2001 Oscars). He patches together sable off cuts into fur bedspreads. He imports Thai thread, twined from silk, gold and mother of pearl. This boyish designer uses his architecture training to cantilever bosoms and bottoms. Cheng's Sinotrash show riffed on ravers: “greaseball guys and cockroach girls,” he calls them, complete with ironic antennae. “These party animals are here, there and everywhere. Stomp on them and they come back,” he laughs. Despite his street edge and celebrity clients, Cheng tailors mainly for the tai tais, the ladies who lunch – and aspirants to the gilded cage. “They want to marry onto the Forbes Top 100 List,” he explains. “They make a career of it and are quite good at it.”

He adorns them for the courtship and the grand society wedding. Cheng also whips up maternity wear, then christening gowns and mommy-n'-me matching cheongsams. Often, he dresses “the other woman” too. “We always schedule appointments so people don't run into each other,” he notes. He steers rivals away from similar styles: “We're discreet and just say this fabric is already ordered for that event.”

Hong Kong, after all, is all about face: how deluxe the car, how designer the couture, how deep the ceremonial bow. Glittering and greedy, the Fragrant City is all hustle, from the strippers to the sweatshop owners, from the triads to the tycoons and tai tais.

“Hysteric Glamour,” chirps one storefront, smothered in hot pink, mustard and orange decals. “Love it!”

But I just can't. Not yet anyway.

Contine 1 2 3 4 5

“So I can see that
you miss America,
Miss America,” my
friend writes.

"This boyish designer
uses his architecture
training to cantilever
bosoms and bottoms."

January 2007

Back to recent work

travelgirl March 2006		Diary of a Gweipo Falling for hysteric glamour in Hong Kong travelgirl sent journalist Amanda Castleman to explore Hong Kong and measure the pulse of this powerhouse of finance and fashion. Here's a glimpse into her travel diary.
“Hysteric Glamour,” chirps one storefront.		1 2 3 4 5 The racetrack and cockroach girls “So I can see that you miss America, Miss America,” my friend writes. He's lived in Southeast Asia, experienced its uneasy mix: the poor and posh jumbled together like stir-fry in a steaming, subtropical bowl. I'd e-mail him back, but I'm too busy watching a gangster flick in the bathtub. That's right. In the bathtub. A little monitor is recessed into the mauve marble. I feel so decadent, I break open the minibar potato chips. But Hong Kong has greater extravagances awaiting: Sha Tin racetrack, for one. Horse racing is Hong Kong's only legal form of gambling. More than a million people place $215 million in bets each race day. The two clubs here earn almost as much as America's 167 tracks ($10.4 billion versus $12 billion annually). Racing is a big-money, big-excitement sport in China's Special Administrative Region. And this course, so close to the Temple of 10,000 Buddhas, has much better energy than its rival Happy Valley, which had to stage a feng shui intervention a few years back. The Sha Tin skybox serves Indian curry and green-tea ice cream, part of a lavish buffet. But the air-conditioned rooms are sterile, devoid of the stands' sweat and stress. I don't want to murmur. I want to roar. Especially when I win HK$110 on the first race. Fourteen bucks up, I'm wise enough to quit. I wander down to the track. No one's clucking and fussing over prawn salad here. The bettors are rapt, waving black and jade flags in support of Silent Witness, a local horse undefeated after 17 races. He's so popular, a fan stampede for souvenir caps after his last triumph injured 21 people. “Bam,” the gates fly open. Hooves churn the turf in the Champion's Mile. Somehow, the city's next-best horse, Bullish Luck, noses out the superstar. Thousands of faces shutter closed. Time to go, so we join the deflated fans shuffling to the exit. Our van speeds though the New Territories, passing monasteries, walled villages and swathes of unspoilt countryside. Corrugated iron shanties cluster on the city outskirts, near duck farms and oyster beds. Soon television aerials blacken the sky like sharp Chinese pictographs over high-rise slums. Then we are back in Central, that “glittering temple to high-end conspicuous consumption,” as Time Out Hong Kong memorably put it. Barney Cheng dresses the bel mondo here, including actress Michelle Yeoh (his Crouching Tiger, beaded animal-print gown triumphed at the 2001 Oscars). He patches together sable off cuts into fur bedspreads. He imports Thai thread, twined from silk, gold and mother of pearl. This boyish designer uses his architecture training to cantilever bosoms and bottoms. Cheng's Sinotrash show riffed on ravers: “greaseball guys and cockroach girls,” he calls them, complete with ironic antennae. “These party animals are here, there and everywhere. Stomp on them and they come back,” he laughs. Despite his street edge and celebrity clients, Cheng tailors mainly for the tai tais, the ladies who lunch – and aspirants to the gilded cage. “They want to marry onto the Forbes Top 100 List,” he explains. “They make a career of it and are quite good at it.” He adorns them for the courtship and the grand society wedding. Cheng also whips up maternity wear, then christening gowns and mommy-n'-me matching cheongsams. Often, he dresses “the other woman” too. “We always schedule appointments so people don't run into each other,” he notes. He steers rivals away from similar styles: “We're discreet and just say this fabric is already ordered for that event.” Hong Kong, after all, is all about face: how deluxe the car, how designer the couture, how deep the ceremonial bow. Glittering and greedy, the Fragrant City is all hustle, from the strippers to the sweatshop owners, from the triads to the tycoons and tai tais. “Hysteric Glamour,” chirps one storefront, smothered in hot pink, mustard and orange decals. “Love it!” But I just can't. Not yet anyway. Contine 1 2 3 4 5
“So I can see that you miss America, Miss America,” my friend writes.
"This boyish designer uses his architecture training to cantilever bosoms and bottoms."
January 2007		*Back to recent work*