Last Wednesday I was driving steadily down Argyle Street when an old grandmother decided she wanted to cross the road in front of me. Brakes squealed, cars swung, horns sounded. By a miracle she survived.
It reminded me of the bloody years of the early 1970s when 1,000 people a day arrived in Hong Kong. They came from villages across the Shenzhen River in rural Guangdong. Often their lives consisted of rice paddies, their main means of transport the family buffalo.
They wandered through the streets of Hong Kong gazing in wonder. They did not take into account the whirlwind of fast-paced Hong Kong streets. Many paid with their lives.
Most were older women, gnarled, hardened peasant farmers who did not take a liking to the horseless carriage. There was no understanding about the traffic regulations. As the matriarch of their family back in rural Guangdong, people stopped for them. In Hong Kong, they were fearlessly crossing the road daring any oncoming traffic to take their best shot.
It was a frightening and bewildering time for drivers.
