Stepping back in time on the path to Tai O

The new airport is so close to Sha Lo Wan village that it seems as if you could reach out and touch it. The shiny metal control tower across the narrow strip of water looks like a spaceship about to lift off from the lunar landscape of Chek Lap Kok. But as billions of dollars continue to pour in to ensure the July opening of the airport off Lantau island, villagers in Sha Lo Wan still scavenge for firewood to do their cooking. The firewood is stacked high, tied in neat bundles outside the traditional homes in this old walled village where many of the houses are still without toilets. The villagers have no mains water, either. Their supply is piped in from the mountains, and after a long dry season, they look anxiously to the skies. Many have never flown before, but those who do will have to walk with their luggage for nearly two hours along the centuries-old path to Tung Chung, where they'll catch a bus for the short ride to the new airport. Unless, of course, like Mr Cheung, they have invested in a small boat. 'This has always been a peaceful place but I worry about the noise when the airport opens,' he said, looking out from the sandy beach across to the runway where trucks scurry back and forth. Just three years ago, he would have been gazing at open sea. Now the water is like a mill pond, becalmed by the mass of the airport. But the locals still fish from the end of the pier, and a small boy shows off his catch, big enough for a family supper. Mr Cheung was born in Sha Lo Wan. His great-grandfather settled here after fleeing political turmoil on the mainland. The granite entrance to the village, 200 metres behind the beach, is still intact, but much of its enclosing wall has now been dismantled. 'There were lots of pirate raids around the coast in the old days,' said Mr Cheung. 'The gateway to the village was locked at six in the evening and a cannon was placed on the walls. 'When I was a young man, I could not even bring a friend to the village to sleep at my home. All strangers had to be out by nightfall. The villagers didn't trust anyone unless they knew him well.' There has been talk of a road being built between Tai O, further down the coast, and Tung Chung. It would probably wipe out this path, which like many that still exist in Hong Kong's rural areas, is a lifeline for the isolated communities. I used to walk all the way down this coastline, crossing over to the north shore of Lantau from Silvermine Bay, doing a three hour trek to Tung Chung, and then a further five hours on this path from Tung Chung to Tai O. Where about three years ago there was only a rocky coastline and sea, and I had startled sunbathing snakes (not as much as they had startled me), a dual carriageway now stretches along that first section to Tung Chung. I had decided to walk this track from Tung Chung to Tai O once more, before another area of tranquility is lost. Not that the villagers will mind if a road runs right outside their homes. The ones I talked to, including Mr Cheung, said they would welcome it. It would give them easy access to both Tai O and Tung Chung - and their land would become valuable. 'The Government would have to pay compensation, and then we would be able to build new homes,' said Mr Cheung. Tung Chung village has so far not been directly affected by the airport construction, though once out of the village, the open fields that lead to the coastal path are fast disappearing under concrete. After Tung Chung, the narrow coastal path winds all the way to Tai O, occasionally passing through a tiny village, but in the main, I was alone, and though the airport suddenly rears up in parts, through gaps in the undergrowth, there was total silence, apart from the birds. The first village I came upon was San Tau where a woman was praying in a small ancestral hall. There is a small school, but it has obviously been closed for a long time. At the far side of the village is a string of single-storey traditional houses, their doors bolted and protected by colourful paper warrior gods. No one lives here any more, but right at the end of the terrace is a spanking new three-storey house. Someone obviously believes there will be better days for San Tau after the airport opens. Further down the track I had to step into the undergrowth to allow an old couple to pass. They had hitched a lift on the back of a motorised builder's trolley to save walking. A few years ago a small ferry boat called in daily at these little villages, circumnavigating Lantau Island, a journey of several hours, which was a boon for the isolated residents. It was axed because it ran at a loss. Sha Lo Wan, the second village, nestles under steep, densely-wooded mountains, and once through the village, you start to leave the new airport behind, climbing steeply to tiny San Shek Wan, before descending into what is perhaps Lantau's most beautiful bay, at Sham Wat. Just beyond San Shek Wan, a single-storey school house stands in splendid isolation. It was built in 1961, and has been closed. It would be difficult to find a teacher prepared to make this journey each day. Peering through the window, I noticed that a last piece of information had been chalked on the blackboard. The translation: 'This school can be used as a shelter during typhoons.' Only a handful of people live in Sham Wat, fishermen and their families. Poles dot the shallow waters of the bay, marking where their nets have been placed. The path rises steeply now for the last part of the trek, along the coast, edging cliffs, towards Tai O. I met a 68-year-old resident of Sham Wat, who was making the long walk along this track from Tai O with a bag of chicken feed tied at each end of the bamboo 'equilibrium pole' balanced across his shoulders. He had been using this path since he was a boy, he said. Just outside Tai O, the footpath has been so badly eroded that signs warn not to use it. Part of the path has collapsed on to the beach, about five metres below. So I made a detour steeply up the hillside, but the reward was a terrific view over the village and its famous stilt houses. The path eventually leads right through these little homes, which are made mainly of tin sheeting. The authorities want the fishermen who live here without sanitation to move out, but they are resisting. After all, they have lived here for generations, and don't want their community to be split up, to be confined to concrete high-rises and have to pay rent. In the village I bought a fish - which was so fresh it frantically tried to escape the plastic bag - to take to my favourite restaurant nearby to cook for me. It's a vegetarian restaurant, but they are very flexible. I had to pass over the creek to get there. Only a year or so ago two old ladies ferried people back and forth all day, every day, in a wooden boat, pulling on a rope strung from bank to bank. The tradition has gone. They have been made redundant by a new bridge. Tourism is floundering in Hong Kong, but when attractions like the rope ferry are removed, it's not surprising. Progress comes at a price, sometimes.