Chris Song’s Note: Chan Hay-ching’s 陳曦靜 short story “Boda’s Borders” 寶達的邊境 was originally written in Chinese and was first published in Hong Kong Literature Bimonthly 城市文藝, No. 105 (April 2020). It was later included in her collection Rocky, a Stray Dog 浪犬洛奇 (2022). It tells the story of a tuck shop owner tending his mundane everyday business in a public park without losing the ambition to become a novelist.

“Hongkongers don’t frequent parks—” Boda typed, only to stop, cluck his tongue, shake his head, and meticulously delete each character. He started over, “Chinese people don’t frequent parks.” But this time he didn’t pause, instead holding down the delete key until the computer screen was blank again. It was too absolute, he thought, and such a tone would inevitably turn into a lecture. Boda wanted to write a novel.

This was indeed a reflection of Boda’s genuine thoughts. Beyond the stone lions at the park entrance, the central fountain on the square, and perhaps a scattering of ancient trees, he felt he had the utmost authority to make such a claim. Not that he was old, but he had been running this tuck shop for—he counted—twenty-seven years! When it came to observing park-goers, he was confident no one had more insight than him.

It’s not that the park was only frequented by tourists. In fact, sixty percent of his tuck shop’s patrons were locals; the rest were tourists or domestic helpers. But to Boda, the majority of locals were just passing through, whiling away time, be they adults or children. On sunny, dry autumn and winter days, orderly rows of primary school students would pass by his tuck shop, with their teacher, megaphone in hand, rallying them, “Hang in there a bit longer! Once we’re through the tunnel, we’re there! Are we excited?” The students would drawl in response, “Exciteeeed.” Boda would then check the shelves, ensuring snacks like chips, juice, and chocolate were well-stocked, then slice luncheon meat and pour out fish balls. He knew that within an hour, they would return, in their most boisterous element, clamouring for fish balls, instant noodles with luncheon meat and fried eggs… The teacher would be by the door, trying to maintain order. The children would mimic monkey calls, hands cupped around their necks, cheeks puffed, making bizarre noises. Their peers would poke their cheeks, correcting them, while glancing at the teacher and Boda, wary of the teacher’s temper but hopeful for Boda’s attention. The teacher, with furrowed brows, seemed anxious, perhaps worn out. Boda, while frying eggs, would ask, “Seen any sloths?” and await the enthusiastic replies, “Haha, sloths are nocturnal, they won’t come out now!” The pride in their responses was always uniform. The teacher, seizing the moment, would praise the knowledgeable student, urging the others to learn from him. Boda would smile silently, lifting the noodles out of the soup. There were too many clever children who knew too much. He preferred the quiet ones, the ones who sat in corners, who would confide, “The animals are trapped in cages, it’s so sad,” or “I miss my mom,” or “I’m sleepy.” Boda found such honesty in the children more genuine.

Boda himself was far from reticent, especially with tourists, to whom he’d chatter endlessly, his fluency in English honed over many such interactions. Sometimes, local patrons, upon witnessing his animation with foreigners, would feel slighted, accusing him under their breath of pandering to outsiders. Boda was aware but indifferent—they were mirrors to each other.

To put it plainly, to the locals, Boda was invisible; he was just a blur providing services and collecting fees. If you asked them to describe him, most would say, “Nothing special, just a guy,” and those who could identify him as “a middle-aged man” were rare indeed. Tourists, however, while waiting for their coffee, would appreciate the music he played, sharing their favorite singers, express surprise at the 3D The Scream in the display case, laugh at the various Trump figures, and thank him upon receiving their coffee, departing with, “You’re such an interesting guy, have a great day.”

Boda had pondered the differences between local and foreign customers, such as their attitudes towards sunlight. Foreigners bask in sunlight like a treasured gift, stripping down to bare flesh, lying on the grass to while away the hours. The Chinese, on the other hand, do the exact opposite. In the scorching summers, they are nowhere to be seen, and even in cooler weather, they wrap themselves up with umbrellas, sunglasses, sunscreen, and long-sleeved clothing as if they were mummies, wishing they could fend off the sun’s rays themselves. Their park visits seemed fuelled by irritation, as if they were coerced into suffering. Yes, the locals often seemed angry, their minds preoccupied with the descent from the park, the forthcoming car ride, what to eat next, the chores awaiting at home, the late nights, and the dread of another day’s toil. They would command Boda, ghost-like, to remove or remake a grilled ham and fried egg sandwich at the sight of unwanted lettuce shreds or tomato slices. In contrast, if a foreigner didn’t fancy something, they would still say, “Hmm, quite interesting,” followed by a thanks. If they couldn’t bring themselves to eat it, they would apologise, explaining and asking for his forgiveness. Upon discovering that a zoo with gorillas, monkeys, and sloths was free for the city’s residents, they couldn’t stop envying the welfare of Hong Kong citizens and talked about how even a park with a few crocodiles in their country would cost a hundred dollars to enter. “Why so few locals?” they’d ask. Because—Boda would say with a laugh—Hong Kong people love to pay fees and queue up.

It wasn’t entirely a joke; Hongkongers did indeed swarm like bees around honey. Sometimes Boda thought if his tuck shop displayed photos of him shaking hands with celebrities, it would be bustling with crowds. Boda was past the age of dreaming, but as the second generation to run the tuck shop, he had once roamed the world with ideals, recalling how the round-faced Japanese superhero Anpanman flew, sharing their bread with the hungry… In recent years, he’d watched documentaries like The God of Ramen, The God of Sushi, and various Gods of Cooking, and thought that if he had stuck to his ideals, perhaps he’d have become some sort of “god” too, with cameras following him for a documentary. But it was too late; reality had strangled his dreams, whether due to spatial constraints or regulatory restrictions. He couldn’t even fry and grill properly, let alone pursue grand ambitions. After all, he had numbers to crunch; breaking even was essential; profits were needed to survive. So whenever someone asked if he enjoyed being a “chef”, he’d just laugh, saying reality had smoothed his edges. He never shared those little aspirations that seemed so incongruous with his tuck shop, like the jazz music that didn’t quite match the park setting; or the black and white photos of Sham Shui Po and Yau Ma Tei on the wall, his true Hong Kong; or the few books he’d read and liked on the magazine rack by the fridge—nothing profound, just interesting, about how plants listen, animals’ emotions, the sound of silence, the art of decluttering…

Boda never went to university; reading became a habit later in life. Initially, it was utilitarian; he didn’t want to spend his days just making slick, laugh-inducing comments. Working in a park, a tourist spot, he became a spokesman for the city. And as a spokesman, he needed a basic understanding. He borrowed books from the library and became fascinated, admiring the richness and resilience of animals and plants on the one hand, and on the other, be embarrassed by human arrogance and selfishness. Reading became part of his life.

A ten-minute walk down from the tuck shop led to Central, bustling with shops and bars. Up the hill, down the hill; above, below—two worlds. Boda shuttled between them daily, feeling like he was constantly crossing borders. The hilltop was an “exhibition” of flora and fauna for leisurely strolls; the foot of the hill was his home—eating, sleeping, living, eventually just a place to sleep. Boda always felt something off: the place of work felt more like life, while the living space resembled a stage. The streets celebrated year-round, cars flowed endlessly, lines snaked outside luxury stores like refugees awaiting aid. Boda, navigating through, would stumble over suitcases, unnoticed by their draggers. And sometimes, descending the hill, he’d catch the acrid scent of tear gas—a scent Hongkongers had grown too familiar with over the past six months. Stepping onto the main road, he’d see a throng of riot police advancing towards Admiralty, barricades of trash bins in the distance, and further still, black-clad figures with “pig-snout” masks and eye coverings. On the sides, off-duty citizens and suitcase-toting tourists stood: the locals with furrowed brows and curses, the tourists tense yet curious, as if watching a spectacle that didn’t involve them. Boda felt a heavy reality press upon his chest, sneezing and wiping away the mix of snot and tears. The next day, workers went to work as usual, tourists continued their queued pilgrimages, as if nothing had happened. Real. Absurd.

Fortunately, once Boda crossed the busy main road with its regimented traffic lights and began the ascent, he could step into another world, a different life. Fortuitously, those suitcase-toting tourists had no interest in climbing hills; they preferred the gleam of Louis Vuitton and Prada. A place without lions or tigers hardly qualified as a zoo in their eyes. Their notion of a zoo came complete with every creature imaginable, where catching a tiger or a lion on a whim seemed plausible, and conjuring pandas and zebras was as easy as flipping a hand. Did he wish for more tourists? Of course. People meant a chance for more business. Independent travellers? Well—better not. Money? Who doesn’t love it? But—he’d rather deal with the mainland tourists from a decade or two ago, noisy but amusing—they’d come to the park, look for scenic spots to photograph, changing outfits and shoes to show they were out and about every day. But they didn’t spend much, complaining about the prices, strolling through, and ending with a request for hot water to refill their thermoses. Today’s independent travellers had money, sure, but his tuck shop wasn’t fit to earn it. Why? The small profits weren’t worth the hassle, and experience—plus what he’d seen online—taught him they weren’t easy to please. They complained about the cramped space, limited choices, overpriced goods, and unsatisfactory food, acting like deities over a mere spend of twenty or thirty dollars. Worse still, if they started using his place as a rest stop, a luggage hub, even a leisure spot, turning it into something like Tuen Mun Park—a notorious spot for sleazy business—then forget it. That kind of money, he’d rather not earn.

Foreigners chatting with Boda would customarily shake hands, introduce themselves, then ask his name. At first, Boda tried to teach them Cantonese: “bou2—daat6—” They inevitably pronounced it like “Border,” so Boda adopted it as his English name. Tourists would invariably respond with a puzzled “Border?” And so, he introduced himself: B-o-r-d-e-r, Border, explaining it was close to the Chinese pronunciation. Secretly, he thought of each meeting as crossing borders repeatedly. Seeing “uphill” and “downhill” as borders became pronounced after the open travel policy; the feeling intensified over the past half year. In this movement, he had no substantial involvement, no definitive stance. After witnessing a series of selective law enforcement and abuses of power by the police, his anger grew, along with his guilt. Social media was ablaze with condemnations of police brutality and government actions. When he saw the fiery glow and thick smoke over the hilltop of the Chinese University, he despaired of the government completely. Many around him talked of emigrating, and tourists would ask if he was worried… In fact, Boda had been an apprentice in the jewellery trade in Taiwan as a teenager, living there for years. Back then, it was easy for Hongkongers to obtain Taiwanese citizenship, and he had it too. But at this moment, he felt more unmistakably a Hongkonger than he had in decades, and he wore that identity with pride.

In the past, Boda looked down upon those who dragged suitcases in queues for luxury goods and typical Hongkongers who he thought were solely profit-driven and overly shrewd. But was he any nobler? He’d spent most of his life in the park, was he not also in the business of making money, eating, sleeping? How many in this world could claim they weren’t constantly “taking”—more recognition, more resources, higher positions, more power… Everyone hoped to carry away as much as they could. Those with suitcases aimed to fill them, park-goers to fill their heads, consumers to receive quality goods and services, businesses to make money. But, in Boda’s eyes, the young people in the movement were different; they too took, but what they sought was beyond material gain or self-interest. They yearned for democracy, for freedom, so they and future generations could live with dignity. For this, they were willing to give their money, time, energy, prospects, even their lives. What was he doing at their age? Boda wondered. Now he said he was too old; it was young people’s world. The sly and cowardly adults, indeed, had become too “slick.” Boda shook his head with a wry smile.

One day, an American couple bought coffee and spotted a “poop-shaped” Trump figurine in the display case, remarking it was in poor taste. Boda explained he could display Trump but not the Chief Executive of Hong Kong or Chinese leaders. Why? “Because you have democracy and freedom!” The customers responded with laughter and thumbs-up approvals. Once, he would have been proud of his quick wit, but that day, he just felt bitter. As the Americans left, they turned back and said, “Stand with HK,” cheering on the people of Hong Kong, pronouncing “Hong” slightly off. Boda felt both moved and ashamed.

Restlessness churned within Boda; he yearned to do something. Join the young in their charge? No, he was afraid. Afraid of pain, humiliation, burdening his family, and so much more he couldn’t bear to part with. Yet, he wanted change. It was necessary. The routine “crossing of borders” no longer appealed to him; he saw the shallowness in such “crossings”—the uniform politeness, the small talk, the thanks. It wasn’t others’ fault, but his own lack of depth and courage. He thought he was brave to “face the world”, but looking back, he realised he had been evading all along. Comfortable in his bubble, he’d mock and jeer at the world, fancying himself above others, when in reality, he was as mundane as they come. Boda refused to settle; he aspired to live more authentically, more engaged, more focused. He wanted to be not just a person who liked strolling in parks but one who made others fall in love with it too. This was the new frontier, and beyond the border lay an unknown and thrilling journey. Boda was excited. He believed everyone was seeking and crossing their own frontiers. Then, on a certain day of a certain month in a certain year, they would meet at this hilltop, enriching each other’s “beyond.” He decided to record it all, in the form of a novel. Boda sipped his coffee and began typing: “Boda decided…”

Boda believed he would write a moving novel.

How to cite: Song, Chris and Chan Hay-ching. “Boda’s Borders.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 10 Jan. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/01/10/boda.

Chan Hay-ching 陳曦靜 is a Hong Kong writer. She has published multiple collections of short stories and essays. She sees herself as “a person in the crevice” who uses words to record life. She is also an animal lover and wishes all animals can be treated with care and kindness.

Chris Song (translator) is a poet, editor, and translator from Hong Kong, and is an assistant professor teaching Hong Kong literature and culture as well as English and Chinese translation at the University of Toronto. He won the “Extraordinary Mention” of the 2013 Nosside International Poetry Prize in Italy and the Award for Young Artist (Literary Arts) of the 2017 Hong Kong Arts Development Awards. In 2019, he won the 5th Haizi Poetry Award. He is a founding councilor of the Hong Kong Poetry Festival Foundation, executive director of the International Poetry Nights in Hong Kong, and editor-in-chief of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine. He also serves as an advisor to various literary organisations. [Hong Kong Fiction in Translation.] [Chris Song & ChaJournal.]