In November 2003, I went on a very exclusive trip to Hongkong, the city also known as The Sweet Smelling Harbour. Well, there was no sign of any sweet smells, only a salty, sticky breeze was coming from what is left over from the ocean. I found myself standing amongst huge buildings, lost of dimension, having no feeling for time and space.
This city is overgrowing the mellow hills of the once beautiful landscape like a great parasite, the bilduings reach into the sky like the poles of a termite's nest.
Everywhere is business, everything is about business. There is nothing you cannot buy.
The former colonial masters, the grand entrepreneurs have decorated their splendid private clubs with authentic propagandist art from Mao's China, while young Hongkong girls are waiting for clients next to the Peninsula Hotel, with fake Louis Vuitton-Handbags as their only decoration. The buildings reach high, but the margins drop deep.
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