“SORRY, WORLD,” SINCERELY, THE UGLY CHINESE TOURIST.
The rain was pouring down as we made our way down the cobbled pavements of Ocean Park, desperately trying to join the end of the ginormously long queue to the only train that can get us out. We started the day having to pay HK$300 for an amusement park that turned out to be “just OK”, ended up being surprised by an unwelcome typhoon and worst of all; here we are stuck in line with a million desperate tourists.
Not just tourists—the infamous ugly Chinese tourists.
You go, Ding Jinhao.
As I huddled with my torn rain jacket among a sea of people, a tall middle-aged woman tried to crab-walk her way to the front. I persistently pushed in front of her—no way in hell or Ocean Park was I going to give her the satisfaction of winning. But as the queue widened to a bigger pavement, she slipped her way in front of another unfortunate and miserable American tourist. But her shorter friend—a little 40-something lady who had been following the taller woman’s tracks—did fall behind and I was determined to make sure this woman didn’t cut me in line.
After several minutes of jousting with my wet back and a crowd that was at least a head taller than her, this little old lady lost it and started screaming in Mandarin, pointing her little finger at my chest. I articulately responded by threatening to cunt punt her in the face when I suddenly realized how physically impossible that was. It didn’t matter, I didn’t understand a word of Mandarin (other than to say “No Chinese”) and she didn’t seem to understand the powerful comedic significance of the phrase “cunt punt.” Our weapons were lost on each other, but both of us were glad to let out some steam and stand up for our respective self-righteousnesses.
When my family and I finally exited the train, we lined up for the 629 bus back to central Hong Kong when the lone man in front of me in the line was suddenly joined by the rest of his family of 14 or so women and children. My temper already running short and reinvigorated by the recent fight, I sternly yelled at him “Excuse me, mister—we are queueing.”
“No, no.” he said indignantly, the rest of his group murmured in Chinese.
But he has no idea how good I am at this game. I grabbed my sister’s arm and promptly dashed in front of his group to their collective dismay. “Assholes,” I muttered.
And that’s when it hit me:
I was the ugly Chinese tourist.
Of course I’m not really Chinese. I was born to an Indonesian-Chinese family, who are presumably more low-key. But the fact of the matter is that I cut lines in public and sometimes speak a little too loudly in English and Indonesian to my family. Respect for a local community comes second to winning a juvenile fight with someone annoying, and I sunk so low as to threaten a harmless old Chinese lady. And above all, I felt entitled to those things because I had enough money to hop onto a flight and visit a foreign country.
That’s when the reason for the ugly tourist hit me. I’ve never been scared of picking a fight with a stranger in public because that’s how I came to know the world. When I was a kid, I had to share a room with two sisters and a grandmother. When the 1998 riots came around, all three of my parents’ stores were looted and burned while we fled to Singapore, then to America. But now they have a house and enough money to go on vacation. I can go to college without ending up with student debt. When life handed us lemons, we learned to build a raft and life vests enough for the whole family.
Imagine the typical 50-year old Chinese grandmother, who spent her childhood on the cusp of the Cultural revolution, who witnessed the crushed national economy and the brutality of Tian An Men. For one whose life has always been a war, it can be difficult to realize that lining up for tickets isn’t a similar battle for one’s life.
So when you see us obnoxiously cutting lines or talking loudly, it’s just because we’re scared of losing.
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