Hong Kong and The Poetics of Dislocation (by Meena Alexander)

Hong Kong Island life. You miss the 9:30 fast ferry by 10 minutes and are stuck on the 10:30 slow ferry. You read HELLO magazine at the coffee bar and learn that Prince William's fiancee wore a "stunning blue dress" at something or other. You eat a tea boiled egg from the newsstand and drink a latte made by a Nepalese woman whose daughter is at your son's school. You feign interest in an article on Meena Alexander in your backpack and her blatherings about dislocation. This is Meena's main thread through her oeuvre. She is dislocated. She is American. But not. She is Indian. But not. She lived in Sudan. She speaks multiple languages. Meena, you think, you have to get your butt over here because you are like every other person in Hong Kong. This is the LAND of dislocation. You wait for the ferry. You chat with a former Cameroonian and learn of the country's police state and hear the running Cameroonian joke about the police shaking down the mother-in-law. You get off the ferry and cycle by drunken Brits and Aussies at the Turkish restaurant. You look in at your son, and talk to the Indonesian helper who is a character straight from a Pramoedya Toer novel and drink a glass of red Bordeaux from the Canadian houseguest your husband knew 21 years ago in Australia. Screw dislocation and Meena's theories about confused cultures. There is nothing to be confused about. This is simply modern life in the 21st century for many many people. That's four continents of people, goods, services, ideas, politics, numerous languages and serious culture clash, in two hours. No one is pledging allegiance to HK either, except maybe, the tea egg guy. Everyone retains their nationality and sort of collides with each other, lots of bumps, but it works in a weird messed up way. Yep, this is Hong Kong. This is expatriate life.