Experience the Culture of Kowloon by Jini Reddy

The first time I came to the territory, a grubby backpack and fifty quid to my name, I liked it so much, I stayed for nearly two years. Yes, the sci-fi skyscrapers and nightlife drew me in, but it was the traditional side of Chinese culture that left a real impression: the Taoist temples, herbal medicine with those witchy-looking roots, practices like Tai Chi and Feng Shui, and the colourful festivals (especially Chinese New Year when my boss would appear, bearing red envelopes of Lai Si, lucky money.)

Roll on a decade, and I’m back. In a bid to knock jetlag on the head, I join a free, earlybird Tai Chi class, on the Avenue of Stars (filled with celebrity handprints) overlooking Victoria Harbour. My teachers are William Ng, 69 and his wife Pandora Wu, 60, the pair of them resplendent in silky Mao-style pyjamas.

If you hate exerting yourself, you’ll love Tai Chi– it’s performed in slow motion, and the moves have names that read like cryptic spy codes. Give me a ‘Repulse the Monkey’ or ‘White Crane Spreads its Wings’ over a ‘Plié’ any day. Officially it’s a martial art, but for most Tai Chi is a shortcut to zen bliss: even I, heavy with sleep, soon feel weightless, calm and alert. ‘Tai Chi is a moving meditation and a gentle form of exercise that anyone can do – it lowers blood pressure, improves joint mobility, and makes you feel happy,’ explains William.

Thus revived, I grab breakfast, a sugary Bo Lo Bau pineapple bun, and a Yin Yong (a brew of milk, coffee, and tea) and head over to the popular Wong Tai Sin Temple. How popular? Well, three million people come here every year. Even on a Monday morning the temple, a riot of red and gold, and thick with incense, is full of devotees making offerings.

Others are burning paper items for dead relatives: anything that might allow the spirits to have a good time in the afterlife. I spot spookily accurate paper likenesses of Nike shoes, designer gowns, bottles of Cognac, Rolex watches, cash – Hell Bank notes, no less! (Apparently, paper mistresses are an especially sought-after item.)

Fortune tellers ply their trade in the stalls by the exit, and I’m eager to see what fate has in store for me – hopefully, he’s tall and handsome. As custom dictates, I pick up a cup full of numbered fortune sticks, and try to shake it so that only one stick falls out. This is easier said than done – every time I try, the whole lot go flying.

At last, number 19 wriggles out and I head over to an elderly ‘seer’. I show him my number and with great ceremony, he hands me a pink slip, covered with Chinese characters – my fortune. The verdict? I’m due a helping of fame and ‘gain’ (yes, well I knew that). And need to tread warily in matters of the heart. (Sigh.) Anyway, it’s all good fun and costs HK $30, less than two quid.

That evening, feeling brave, I head over to Ser Wong Fun, a no-frills restaurant on Cochrane Street, in Hong Kong island. Ser Wong means ‘Snake King’, hint, hint. Some locals swear by the star dish, snake soup, as a cold remedy. To say I’m anxious about eating reptile is an understatement, but all around me families are tucking into tureens of the stuff with glee.

At last a bowl of grey, glutinous sludge is set before me. I peer at it closely – nothing slithery here, just bits of what looks like stringy chicken. To be honest, it even tastes like chicken – but visions of a post-meal Alien style encounter with serpent compel me to call it quits after a few mouthfuls, and I head over to Temple Street for a bit of retail therapy.

After sunset, Hong Kong’s most famous night market erupts in a blaze of neon. As Chinese pop and opera blare over the loudspeakers, bargain hunters jostle contentedly in the stalls. Temple Street is the place for souvenirs, cheap clothes, and fake designer handbags (especially Burberry). In the space of ten minutes, I snap up three Chinese-style silk handbags, and a glittery evening clutch, and still have change from twenty quid.

Rather conveniently, my hotel, the chic but affordable Eaton is across the road. It’s unique in that it offers guests a free tour of Temple Street market. (And the Ladies and Jade markets, also in the area.) The hotel is a wildly popular venue for wedding banquets – one night I park myself in the lobby, and watch a stream of nervous brides flutter past.

Tai Chi may have kick-started my week, but by the end of it, body and soul are in need of further repair. The solution? A session of foot reflexology, at the Kwong Tai Reflexology Clinic, in Tsim Tsa Tsui. Diagrams of big feet in windows, advertising the services of reflexologists are a common sight in Hong Kong. The treatment, say regulars, disperse toxins and revitalise energy – the perfect pick-me-up, right?

Well, it starts of harmlessly enough: I sip a cup of jasmine tea, and a sweet-looking girl bathes my feet in a herb scented bath. Then, shock, horror, she seizes my tootsies in a pincer-like grip, and virtually excavates the flesh with her fingers. Eeeeow!

To distract myself from the pain, I watch as an old man, two chairs down (it’s all very communal here) submits to a Shanghai pedicure. His therapist unwraps a sinister-looking array of scalpels and files, pulls on a headlamp, and gets to work, scraping and peeling away. No half measures here, that’s for sure. But that’s Hong Kong all over – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.