Lords of the Land

The a much-acknowledged problem with Hong Kong landlords is that you often have too little land and too much lord. The living spaces seem to be shrinking away to nothing while landlords definitely hold the power in the relationship. The law of supply and demand is alive and well here. 

Do they want to charge crazy amounts for tiny, airless, cockroach-infested flats? That's expected.

Do they want to not rent to you because you are the wrong color? That seems to happen fairly often (not my experience but I have heard numerous stories from different sources on this one). 

Do they want to not fix anything when it breaks? They often get away with it (sometimes by sneaking that clause into an extremely lengthy and convoluted contract). Or just by not answering your calls or emails. Effective. 

Do they want to raise your rent by 100%? They can do that too. Nothing is stopping them.

But these are just the normal, everyday landlord problems. You can have even more colorful problems, depending on who your landlord is. My current landlord is the strong, silent type. I haven't really heard from them since I moved in. That's the kind of landlord I like to have. 

The first time I was looking for a flat in Hong Kong, I narrowly escaped having a landlord that was...shall we say...less silent. 

I was spending an exciting Friday night browsing a housing website (although the online postings are almost always gone by the time I call, I always use a posting to call the agent so that they can't pretend they don't have any flats in my price range). I stumbled across a flat that was posted by the landlord. No agent fee! I liked the idea of not parting with half a month's rent to pay the agent. 

The flat looked like it fit the bill. Wan Chai, tiny, cheap. I called right away. 

"Hello?" A shrill voice punctured my ear. 

I explained that I was interested in the Wan Chai flat. 

"Ok. You come now and look at it. So you can come at 7:00?"  I looked at the clock. It was 6:40. I told him I didn't think I could make it by then since I was in Ap Lei Chau and it was traffic jam time, but I could try to get there by 7:15 or 7:30.

"Ap Lei Chau, you can get here by 7:00. See you at 7:00!"

I hung up the phone feeling doubtful and went to get my keys. 

7:00 found me sitting on a bus stuck in the Aberdeen tunnel. My phone rang. 

"Laura! Laura! Laura!" I am not really used to people shouting my name in such a reproachful tone, especially not by someone I hadn't even met face to face. "Laura, this is James! Where are you! I am waiting here at the flat! Why are you not here???"

I explained that, as I had said before, it takes longer to get to Wan Chai from Ap Lei Chau around 7:00 but I should arrive around 7:15 or 7:30. 

"Ok!" The line went dead. 

Sometime later (probably twenty after seven), I rather cautiously walked up to the designated building. A balding, middle-aged guy in glasses and colorful board shorts was standing in the front of the building, madly tapping on his phone. For some reason I could guess it was James. 

He looked up from his phone as I approached.

"Laura, Laura, Laura. What took you so long? I've been waiting for you!"

I started to regret giving him my real name. And coming at all. Still, I forced a smile and asked to see the flat. 

We trudged up the grimy stairs to a small lift that took us up about ten floors. Then we walked into what looked like a seventies hotel room. If a seventies hotel room was extra small with cartoon-character curtains (Stitch, maybe?). A giant bed took up most of the room so I had to turn sideways to navigate my way around the space. 

"Isn't it good? So comfortable!" I tried to listen as James pointed out the "great" features in the room. "And here's the microwave! So convenient to cook cup noodles for dinner!"

I said I guessed I could get a portable cooker and put it on top of the microwave. His eyes narrowed and he began shaking his head vigorously. 

"No, no, no, no, no! No cooker! Only the microwave. Cooking is very messy. You'll get oil everywhere!" He wagged a finger at me. "And why do you want to cook anyway? It's so annoying. Just go downstairs and buy some dinner. Just $20 and your stomach is full! Why do you want to cook? So stupid." 

I thanked him for his time and started edging towards the door. 

"So you want it? You want it? Better tell me soon! It's going to be gone, so you need to decide! Don't forget!"

Over the next few days I received countless messages about the flat, many of them containing just one word a message. It was kind of like a ransom note, piecing together the text messages. Except for in this case I was the one trying to escape.  

After my third refusal, the messages petered out. I had successfully escaped!  Or had I...

TO BE CONTINUED