Postcard from Southeast Asia

My first jet-lagged impression of Hong Kong on Saturday night (Friday morning Philly time) was that for a place that’s been civilized since about 200 BC, it is surreally new. We’re talking an endless vista of skyscrapers, most with utilitarian post-modern design, giving the city a soul-less Blade Runner aesthetic. It’s no coincidence that Hong Kong was an inspiration for the dystopia depicted in that neo-noir cult movie. Of course, Blade Runner came out in 1982. Since then, almost everything in this former British colony has been ripped down and replaced with newer, taller, more high-tech structures. I’m barely exaggerating. The driver who picked me up at the vast, airy airport said it – and the reclaimed land it sits on -- is 10 years old. Likewise the 5.8-mile bridge and tunnels that connect it to the network of islands and peninsulas that make up greater Hong Kong. (The driver also pointed out a "really old" brick building from the early 1900s.)

The thing is, Hong Kong feels more like Utopia than Dystopia. Murder and armed robbery are rare. There are no taxes because the city government has so much money. (The reason, as it was explained to me, is that the government owns all the land and collects staggering sums from developers, who in turn charge staggering sums for a 600-square-foot apartment.)

Even though 7 million people are packed into the human equivalent of beehives, the individuals I’ve encountered have been unfailingly polite and friendly. Women and men alike have held doors open for me. On the crowded subway, a teenager offered me his seat. (Maybe the 18-hour flight has made me look particularly haggard? Maybe they can tell it's my first time in Asia?) Most surprising and best of all as far as I’m concerned, smoking is banned in indoor public places.

On Tuesday morning, the vendor pulled three squawking, flapping chickens from a cage, tied each one's feet, and took them into the back of her stall at one of Hong Kong's "wet" markets.

I watched as she deftly pulled back each bird's head, slid a cleaver across its neck, drained its blood into a coffee-can size hole in a giant metal drum, and plunked the twitching creature into the hole. The third bird uttered a strangely human-sounding cry as the blade sliced its neck.

Next, the vendor plunged all three fowl into a barrel of scalding water and used a stick to stir them like a witch's brew.

Finally, she put them in the de-feathering machine. They rumbled around while their soggy feathers extruded from a slot near the bottom of the device.

Naked, flacid and grey, the slaughtered chickens were ready for the customer.

In this day and age, I can't understand why many people in Southeast Asia prefer this so-called "fresh" chicken over boneless, skinless, packaged, refrigerated breasts at the grocery store.

But even though I found this slaughter unappetizing, not to mention brutal, it was not an infection control nightmare. Nor was the market the kind of launching pad for deadly pandemic flu that I had expected to see. At least, the Hong Kong market wasn't.

Tomorrow, I'll explain why.

About the only wet part of the Hong Kong “wet” market, it turned out, was the freshly hosed-down textured tile floor. Even the third floor, where the poultry vendors were located, was conspicuously free of bird droppings or other icky stuff. Sure, there was bird poop in a tray under the bottoms of their cages, and the cages were stacked five or six high.

But leave it to Hong Kong, the market seemed as hygienic as such a place can possibly be, right down to the dispenser of bacterial hand gel near the exit.

Senior Health Inspector Sin Chiu-hong, in a clean, white-shirted uniform, told me that every 25 days, the poultry vendors have a compulsory “rest” day. They cull (read: kill) all their birds, shut down, and the whole floor is cleaned and disinfected. They have to do this – even though their chickens are vaccinated against avian flu – or risk losing their vendor license.

In addition, inspectors walk around every day the market is open, checking for sick birds.

“If the chicken is sick, the crown turns purple and its nose runs, and it hides in a corner of the cage,” Sin explained.

A view of Hong Kong harbor from the Princess Margaret Hospital.

There appear to be no stop signs or stop lights in Hanoi, so the only thing that makes the hordes of honking motorbikes slow down is the prospect of a collision.

The only thing that makes them stop is a collision.

This makes crossing the street fairly difficult, at least the first time you do it.

But it's also one of the many things that makes this developing city, a place with such painful American memories, exciting, fascinating and terrifying.

Lunch in Hanoi on Wednesday. Journalist Son Phan, who is from Vietnam, shows us how to cook fresh herbs with sauteed fish. The fish was brought to the table in a pan atop a nifty traditional cooker.