Rain, Rain...

"The mild grumbling from my column of officers fell silent as a fireman carried a bundle through our line, wrapped in a soaked blanket, with a small foot visible."

Even short-term memory can be misleading. It seems we’ve had 40 days of rain — a biblical event. In truth, it was only a matter of days. Just a few weeks ago, the relentless heat that enveloped Hong Kong prompted mutterings about a global warming.

Relief is now in with a relentless monsoon that has drenched the city for days. The hillside run-offs have burst into life as the reservoirs overflow. At sea outlets, brown stains spread across the water, warning that mud is washed away with possible terrible consequences if a hillside slips. 

In the 1982, I led my platoon uphill through the wreckage of a squatter area. We’d arrived well after the rains had brought several huts crashing down a Sau Mau Ping slope. The grim-faced, mud-spattered firemen were finished digging. 

As we slogged uphill, slipping on the debris, the mild grumbling from my column of officers fell silent as a fireman carried a bundle through our line, wrapped in a soaked blanket, with a small foot visible.  

Drenched and shaken, survivors, their resilience shining through, milled around clutching a few precious possessions. We offered what help we could, sheltering kids in our vehicles and guarding the scene. A mobile canteen arrived as a well-resourced response took shape. 

By the end of the day, we’d ferried folks to nearby sports halls and community centres as the process of documenting people began. But many left the scene, some in taxis, and where they went next is never established. They’d want to keep off the radar without identity documents or as overstayers.

The 1970s had seen bigger disasters in the area. On 25 August 1976, the slope behind Block 9 of Sau Mau Ping Estate collapsed during heavy rain, killing 18 people. 

We should be grateful that the hillside shanty towns are gone. An ambitious building program and stabilising slopes made Hong Kong much safer.

The fires that ripped through Shek Kip Mei in December 1953 were the initial impetus for removing these hazardous makeshift communities. 

In truth, I only saw the tail end of it. Still, it was remarkable to see wooden and tin huts perched on slopes, abstracting electricity from who knows where. The postmen delivering mail gave an air of normalcy as kids scrambled down hill heading to school. 

It always struck me that these precarious hillside communities testify to new arrivals' ability to build a life as they transition into Hong Kong proper or onto the broader world.