I knew there would be no chance of bumming free accommodation in Hong Kong. Though I have family in many parts of the city, the bulk of them reside in ghettoesque million-story high apartment buildings in units that would make even Kate Moss claustrophobic.

But no matter. I’m well versed in the area of budget guidebook abuse, and decide to keep in my backpacking tradition of forsaking comfort for strict economy. I discover that all this and more can be found down in the hubbub of Kowloon activity. Destination: Mirador Mansions in Tsim Sha Tsui.

Tsim Sha Tsui is boisterous area located in central Kowloon, a mad marriage of new world commercialism and old Chinese tradition. Flocks of mobile phone users float underneath bamboo scaffolding while dodging pushcart garbage collectors. Granville Road, just a few streets north of the Mansions, is chock-a-block with clothing for the trend setting youth market, Nathan Road is a haven for tech geeks, and a quick 50 Canadian cents will get you on a Star Ferry ride, offering a speedy connection to the high-rolling upscale markets of Hong Kong Island. Thus, the Mirador Mansions (and its southern counterpart, Chungking Mansions) makes the perfect accommodation of choice for those who want to be in the centre of it all and wish to sacrifice comfort for a chance to buy a new technological gizmo that just can't be found in good ol' North America.

Guesthouse touts and commission agents prowl this stretch of Nathan Road, chumming up anyone in possession of internationally tagged baggage and a slightly disoriented or jet-lagged demeanour. Usually, these folk are newly landed mainland Chinese or East Indian expats; most are just trying to etch out a meagre living by scoring pennies from unforeseeing tourists and guesthouse owners.

Apparently, I fit the bill of the gullible tourist, and just as I step off the airport bus I am attacked by a smiling agent. I roll my eyes at his swiftness but, the fact of the matter is, I welcome his style. Stumbling off a ten hour flight provides no remedy to my patience – I need all the help I can get.

My first cause for panic is that the agent moves fast. I barely have time to think before he whisks me and two other foreigners into a line-up of people waiting for an unbelievably molasses-like elevator. Eventually, after two shifts of the line-up, we squeeze in for a quick trip up and out through an incomprehensible set of hallways adorned with leaking pipes and flickering fluorescents reminiscent of a bad NYC gangster flick. We finally chase the agent to an open door with a view of an unrefined Chinese woman sprawled over a desk sleeping; our friend nudges her, and a feral visage is exposed, appearing as if it is the most cumbersome thing to actually do her job and accept new customers. She slowly wakes up, and guides us to another decrepit looking hallway chock full of doors that lead to equally decrepit-looking dank rooms. Upon discovering that the eyesore would cost me $40 Canadian, I nervously thank the lady and walk away, half of me glad that I wasn’t gullible enough to pounce on the very first offer, but the other half wondering how in hell I would find another guesthouse, let alone get out of the building alive.

Panicking, I put pedal to the metal, skipping down a series of staircases that I figure will lead me out of the building, but instead brings me to a dead end. Memories of getting stuck in the mirror maze at the Canadian National Exhibition rain down on my helpless soul.

This, above all, is the most important issue of the Mirador Mansions: if you think you know where your guesthouse is, think again; next time, take notes on which elevator you boarded, as four sets of elevators adorn the mazelike mayhem. Obviously, investing in a compass wouldn’t hurt.

Apparently my need to get out of the building is as intense as my friendly tout’s need for a commission. Not a beat later, he’s behind me, huffing and puffing, asking me why I had left so quickly. Of course, he has scores of other guesthouses to recommend, each one a little better (and cheaper) than the previous. I finally get myself into a $12 CAN dorm room with no apparent security aside from the four east Indians engaged a loud round of card games outside the open door. I figure this will be better than nothing and, in an act of extreme fatigue, volunteer my back to the bedbug-ridden mattress on the creaky bunk bed frames with sheer delight.

Though this particular guesthouse feels like paradise compared to the previous haunts, an aura of insecurity continues to loom through the halls. After all, rooming in any of the Mansion guesthouses makes it seem like you've just volunteered to participate in the Hong Kong inferno exhibition, featuring the charred bodies of the cheapskate traveler collective. I would not be surprised if I return next to find the superintendent holding up a placard reading: “Come one, come all! Bear witness to the Burnt Canadian, well done!”

Still, Mirador possesses much more than bedbugs and burning backpacks. The building brims with commercial affairs of an indescribable nature, including a number of rooms filled with naked mannequins, cloth samples, and people squatting on the floor eating rice in takeaway containers. Behind closed doors exist the clickety-clack of mah jong tiles and the consequent high pitch Cantonese squeals denoting a bad hand. Wafts of coriander and cumin flow through the ventilation shafts of East Indian dens. And on every floor, with every turn of the head, the largest ratio of janitors to tenants, hardly indicative of the hygienic state of the tower.

And all this describes its appeal. Of the three times I've passed through Hong Kong, I've voluntarily thrown myself back into this labyrinth of substandard rooming houses. Despite my frustration with accommodation standards, it has a sort of personality that you just can't get in your typical Howard Johnson (i.e. slimy bathroom slippers, ****roaches). Though reports have it that the Chungking Mansions, a few buildings south on Nathan Road, harbours even more chaotic pleasure, I find that my time spent in Mirador has been interesting enough.

However, there’s no doubt that the next time I hit Hong Kong my relatives will still be stacked in their claustrophobic sardine flats, and I will be left to suffer accommodation woes yet again.

That’s it. I’ll grab my compass, you bring the ****roach chalk. I’ll see you in Chungking.

Tips and Recommendations:

Garden Hotel (do not mistake this for the NEW Garden Hotel) has a nice garden patio for some well deserved R n'R... Located on the third floor of the Mirador Mansions.

Report this post to a Virtual Guide |