从“热爱家乡”到“偷渡客”

作者：黄维克

记得那时候的深圳罗湖桥破破烂烂，我提着大包小包走到中线，非常犹豫地迈步去对面，那毕竟是国境线。回首一看桥头上的对联：“热爱祖国、保卫家乡”。

一位穿着草绿色军装的解放军战士呵斥我，叫我赶快离开，他的衣服显得很寒碜, 态度也十分不耐烦。桥这边站了一位身穿黑色呢子制服的女警察，她朝我微笑然后手指着我应该走的路线。

我手上握着一张有着中英文的“通行证”，还有那好久不见的繁体字，可以说从小到大没看过那么厚实的纸张。等候入境的大厅里坐满了人，他们来自全国各地，中午每人还发一份盒饭，感觉人家都要下班了还没轮到我。

原来广播里早就叫了我的名字很多次，因为他们说的是广东话，我感觉“那个人”与自己毫无关系。

好不容易登上了去九龙红磡的火车，那时候的列车还是客货混载，有那种运货的闷罐车，也有运牲畜和蔬菜的。在一个位置坐下来四处打量，这一切对我来讲都是那么新鲜。

对面坐了一个四十多岁、和蔼可亲的中年妇女，她主动与我打招呼，普通话比我说得标准，表示可以帮我提行李。我当时“阶级斗争的那根弦”绷得很紧，很坚决地拒绝了。

记得那时的人不会有今天的旅行箱，箱子下面也绝对没有轮子，整个火车上就我一个人最“论尽”(广东话)，感觉到谁都想要帮我。还是那位女士提出来给我一百港币作为押金……

到了九龙总站，多亏有她的帮助。我像傻瓜一样站在大厅中间不知道做什么好，手上紧紧地握着那张写有名字电话地址的纸条，还有就是那仅有的二十块钱港币。还是她给我从来没见过面的外祖父打了一个电话。

他们讲的都是广东话，内容大概是说，我的钱可能不够支付出租车费，我又拒绝任何金钱的帮助。当年过海隧道收费每程五块钱(还得收来回)，要去的地方是铜锣湾，大概叫我外祖父在楼下拿着钱等我。

就这样，我离开了九龙半岛到达了香港岛。

以前有人说，大陆和香港的差别，就像黑白电视与彩色电视的差别。 我感受到更多的是“文化冲击”。

的士飞快地穿过海底隧道，司机大佬透过倒后镜打量我，仿佛在想：哪里来了一位“不会讲话”的人？他明显兜圈子了，本来应该够的车资，结果成了我倒欠他十几块钱。

我把仅有的二十港元交到他手上，他抓住我的衣领，高喊要报警抓人，惩罚这位坐霸王车的“偷渡客”。外祖父在哪里？我怎么一来就闯祸？

外祖父原来等的地方是“双黄线”，的士不可以停靠。他们争吵的广东话我也听不懂，大概是本来就是港岛车，不应该收双份的隧道费(每程五块)。

仅有的二十块钱就这样没了，那可是我跑了好几天，好几个不同的部门，盖了好几个红印章才换来的，我还记得汇率是0.26人民币等于1港币。

那时候出行前，关心我的人都来送行，听说人民币在香港没有用，有人给了我全国粮票，还有的人说可能要国际粮票。我也搞不清楚，香港需不需要用粮票。

我的全副身家还剩下一把可以套现的德国小提琴。小提琴的指板和旋钮上还镶有贝壳花，即使没人碰它，它也是一件非常漂亮的艺术品。那是花了父母的半辈子储蓄(当时在上海价值一千人民币)。

我的老师是上海电影乐团的小提琴首席，他一半广东人一半德国人。当时他家有栋很大的洋房在出售，别人给两万八千，三个兄妹都不同意，说不好分执意要三万 ，这样三家人都成为“万元户”。

做父母的不容易，担心儿子在香港人生地不熟，可能潦倒到连饭都吃不饱。最坏的情形都能想到，酒吧混一晚饭吃做一个“洋琴鬼”，或者街边拉琴求人帮助，过路人总会扔一些零钱在提琴盒子里 。

因为“文革”早期，上海邻居儿子“阿六头”，刚刚从香港回来，头发留得比女人还长，听说他就是在酒吧里打鼓的。里弄干部告诉他不可以唱外国歌，结果他唱《东方红》都带着鼓点，成了非常特别的摇滚版本。

他与祖父经常聚在一起用英文聊天，什么内容好像都要保密。就是因为他说在香港有一技之长，很容易混口饭吃，就这样我也成了“音乐人”。

父亲说实在混不下去，卖掉这把小提琴，买张机票回来吧。一路火车周折，加上繁琐的过关，我时时刻刻把这“宝贝”搂在怀里。

不仅是价值还有一份感情，有时候孤独了还想搂着睡觉，怎么会舍得卖掉呢？毕竟她是陪我从大陆到香港，再远渡重洋来到加拿大。

编辑：周志刚 校对：熊辩 翻译：戈冰

Twenty Yuan to Hong Kong

From “Loving the Homeland” to “Illegal Immigrant”

Author: Huang Weike

Abstract: This article recounts the author’s early experience of moving to live in Hong Kong. The author suffered a massive culture shock in Hong Kong and was referred to as an “illegal immigrant” by a taxi driver.

I remember back then the Luohu Bridge in Shenzhen was dilapidated and run-down. Carrying bags and bundles of all sizes, I walked to the midpoint line and stepped across to the opposite side with great hesitation—that was, after all, a national border line. Looking back, I saw the couplet on the bridge tower: “Love the Motherland, Defend the Homeland.”

A People’s Liberation Army soldier wearing a grass-green uniform yelled at me, telling me to hurry up and leave. His uniform looked quite shabby, and his attitude was extremely impatient. Standing on this side of the bridge was a female police officer wearing a black wool tunic uniform; she smiled at me and pointed with her finger to the path I should take.

In my hand, I held a “Two-Way Permit” printed in both Chinese and English, featuring traditional Chinese characters that I had not seen in a long time. It can be said that from childhood to adulthood, I had never seen such thick, sturdy paper. The immigration waiting hall was packed with people who had come from all over the country. At noon, everyone was issued a boxed lunch. I felt as though the staff were about to off work, yet my turn still had not come.

It turned out that my name had long been called over the loudspeaker many times. Because they were speaking Cantonese, I felt that “that person” had absolutely nothing to do with me.

With great difficulty, I boarded the train bound for Hung Hom, Kowloon. Back then, the train still carried both passengers and cargo mixed together; there were boxcars used for freight, as well as those for livestock and vegetables. Sitting down in a seat, I looked around in every direction; to me, all of this was so fresh and novel.

Sitting opposite me was an amiable, friendly middle-aged woman in her forties. She took the initiative to greet me, speaking Standard Mandarin even better than I did, and offered to help carry my luggage. At that time, “the string of class struggle” in my mind was pulled extremely tight, and I firmly refused her.

I remember people back then did not have today’s suitcases, and there were absolutely no wheels on the bottom of boxes. On the entire train, I was the most “lún jùn” (cantankerous and awkward in Cantonese), feeling as though everyone wanted to help me. That lady still proposed giving me one hundred Hong Kong dollars as a deposit…

Arriving at the Kowloon Terminus, it was all thanks to her help. Standing in the middle of the hall like an idiot, I did not know what to do, tightly holding in my hand that slip of paper written with a name, telephone number, and address, along with those mere twenty Hong Kong dollars I possessed. She was the one who placed a phone call to my maternal grandfather, whom I had never met before.

They were both speaking Cantonese. The general content was that my money might not be enough to pay for the taxi fare, and I refused any financial assistance. In those days, the Cross-Harbour Tunnel toll was five dollars per trip (and they even collected for the round trip). The destination I was going to was Causeway Bay, so she essentially asked my maternal grandfather to wait for me downstairs with money in hand.

Just like that, I left the Kowloon Peninsula and arrived on Hong Kong Island.

Previously, people said that the difference between Mainland China and Hong Kong was like the difference between black-and-white television and color television. What I felt even more was “culture shock.”

The taxi sped through the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, and the driver looked me over through the rearview mirror, as if thinking: Where did this person who “doesn’t know how to speak” come from? He was clearly taking a circuitous route; what should have been an adequate fare ended up leaving me owing him over a dozen dollars.

I handed the only twenty Hong Kong dollars I had over to him, and he grabbed my collar, shouting that he would call the police to arrest me and punish this “illegal immigrant” riding a taxi without paying the fare. Where was my maternal grandfather? How had I gotten into trouble the moment I arrived?

It turned out the place where my maternal grandfather was waiting was a “double yellow line,” where taxis were not allowed to stop. I could not understand the Cantonese they were arguing in either, but it was roughly that since it was originally an Island taxi, it should not collect double the tunnel toll (five dollars each way).

My only twenty dollars was gone just like that. That was money I had obtained only after running around for several days, visiting several different departments, and getting several red official stamps stamped; I still remember the exchange rate was 0.26 RMB to 1 HKD.

Before setting out back then, people who cared about me all came to see me off. Hearing that RMB was useless in Hong Kong, some gave me national grain coupons, while others said international grain coupons might be needed. I could not figure it out either—whether Hong Kong needed grain coupons or not.

My total family wealth left was a German violin that could be cashed in. Shell floral patterns were even inlaid on the violin’s fingerboard and tuning pegs; even if no one touched it, it was a very beautiful piece of artwork. That had cost half my parents’ life savings (valued at one thousand RMB in Shanghai at the time).

My teacher was the concertmaster of the Shanghai Film Orchestra, half Cantonese and half German. At that time, his family had a large Western-style house for sale; someone offered twenty-eight thousand, but the three siblings all disagreed, saying it was hard to split and insisting on thirty thousand, so that all three families could become “ten-thousand-yuan households.”

It is not easy being parents; they worried that their son, unfamiliar with the people and places in Hong Kong, might be down and out to the point of not even having enough to eat. They could think of even the worst-case scenario: hanging around bars to get a meal as a “foreign-violin ghost” (a foreign instrument musician), or playing the violin on the street corner to beg for help, where passersby would always throw some spare change into the violin case.

Because in the early days of the “Cultural Revolution,” “A-Liu-Tou,” the son of a Shanghai neighbor, had just returned from Hong Kong with hair grown even longer than a woman’s; I heard he played drums in bars. The lane committee cadres told him he could not sing foreign songs, so he ended up singing “The East Is Red” with a drumbeat rhythm, making it a very peculiar rock-and-roll version.

He and my grandfather often gathered together to chat in English, and whatever the content was seemed to require secrecy. Precisely because he said that having a technical skill in Hong Kong made it very easy to earn a living, I became a “musician” just like that.

My father said if I really could not make a living, I should sell this violin and buy an airplane ticket to come back. Through all the twists and turns on the train journey, plus the tedious customs clearances, I held this “precious baby” in my arms at every moment.

It was not only the value, but also an emotional bond; sometimes when I felt lonely, I even wanted to hold it to sleep, so how could I bear to sell it? After all, she accompanied me from Mainland China to Hong Kong, and then crossed the vast ocean to come to Canada.

Editor: Zhou Zhigang Proofreader: Xiong Bian Translator: Ge Bing