It may seem incongruous to characterize nearly one-fourth of the human race as clannish, but it is undeniable that the Chinese, no matter where they have lived, have retained their home ties, customs and culture. They are rock-ribbed individualists rather than nationalists, but when they live abroad, whether in Hong Kong or the Chinatowns of San Francisco and New York, they remain distinctly and unalterably Chinese. In Singapore and Manila they are resented for their commercial shrewdness and their stubborn insistence on remaining Chinese. If their next-door neighbors can’t change them, what reason is there to believe that the tourists of Hong Kong can do so?
There are certain comic aspects to the relations of the British and Chinese in Hong Kong. Living side-by-side for 121 years, they have told each other—sometimes directly, more often by implication—“You can’t change me!” To a large extent, they have both held out, like a silent couple eating at opposite ends of a long dinner table. Lately the table has been contracting, but the prospects of a cozy twosome are still somewhat distant.
Meanwhile, the Chinese go on living by their own calendar, celebrating festivals and family events according to their traditions, and following their ancient religions. The rural people cling to their belief in fung shui (literally, wind and water), a form of geomancy which guides them in locating their houses and burial places on the particular site most pleasing to the living and the dead. On the other hand, the old superstitious fear of Western medicine has been overcome; in the 1961 Hong Kong cholera outbreak, 80 percent of the population flocked to government centers for inoculations.
Neither the British, the Nationalist Republic, nor the Chinese Communists—all of whom favor the 12-month Western calendar—have been able to wean the colony’s Chinese people from their ancient lunar calendar. The old calendar was supposedly devised in 2254 B.C. by astrologers working under the orders of Emperor Yao, who wanted it to serve as a crop-planting guide for his predominantly agricultural subjects. It is the gauge by which all festivals are set and varies in length from 354 to 385 days. The years proceed in cycles of twelve, each being named for a particular animal such as the rat, rabbit, rooster and horse until the twelfth animal is reached and the cycle repeats. Each year is subdivided into 24 solar “joints and breaths,” which being based on close observation of weather and the growing season, tick off the seasonal changes with remarkable accuracy.
Because of its variable length and its nonconformity to Western ideas of what a calendar should look like, the Chinese calendar causes endless confusion for foreigners. Most of them cling firmly to the Gregorian calendar and keep a close eye on the colony’s newspapers to learn when the next festival is due. The religious significance of the festival means nothing to them and it does not need to; the ceremonies and celebrations attending the day are so animated and colorful that they can be enjoyed for their spectacle alone.
Chinese New Year, generally occurring between the middle of January and the third week of February, is celebrated on the first three days of the First Moon. It marks the beginning of spring, and gives the Chinese population sufficient time to recover from the shock of seeing the Westerners booze it up on New Year’s Eve. Chinese employees receive a bonus of an extra month’s pay, the shops close and firecrackers, permitted by colony law for a two-day period, keep up an unending cannonade. A tourist wandering into the uproar feels like a dude in a frontier saloon; everybody seems to be shooting at his feet.
Red papers lettered with gold are stuck on boats and the doors of shops and houses inviting the lucky spirits to lend a hand. The fearful din of the firecrackers is a pointed hint to malicious spirits, advising them to get out fast. All debts are paid, finances permitting, and the past year’s feuds and grudges are wiped out, so far as human nature will allow.
The heart of the observance takes place in the home, with all members of the family dining together on the last night of the old year and the children receiving “lucky” money in red envelopes to assure them of safe passage through the coming year. After dinner, everyone adjourns to the courtyard where branches of sesame, fir and cypress have been strewn; these are stepped on and burned as a symbol of the departing year. Firecrackers are set off to discourage the prowlings of the Skin Tiger, a kind of reverse-action Robin Hood who steals the cakes of the poor to give them to the rich; as the Skin Tiger views it, the poor have lived off the wealthy all year, so isn’t it time to square accounts?
A lighted lamp is placed before the shrine of the Kitchen God, who is expected back from his trip to divine headquarters. Every door is sealed and locked until 5 A.M. the next day, when the entire household gets up to see the master of the house reopen the doors, remove the seals and extend a welcome to the New Year. Incense sticks are lighted, Heaven, Earth and the family ancestors are honored and the Kitchen God, now returned from his journey, is properly greeted. New Year’s Day is the occasion for a complete family reunion, with outsiders being excluded. No meat is eaten, since the use of a knife on this day would imply cutting off a friendship, and no sweeping is done, for a broom might sweep away good luck. Later, gifts are exchanged, with baskets of food being rated as thoroughly acceptable. The season’s greetings—“Kung Hei Fat Choy”—ring out everywhere.
In Hong Kong, a local newspaper and the radio promote a Fat Choy Drive to provide a New Year’s feast for even the poorest families. When the family phase of the celebration is over, there is a day for visiting friends, and with true Chinese practicality, a final day to worship the God of Wealth, making certain that he does everything divinely possible in the year ahead to boost the family’s fortunes. In former days it was customary to prolong the observance for fifteen days or more, but the demands of modern business limit it to three or four days in most instances.