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asked to help, I would go with them and sit all day at the government office to help them make the correct application. I had to do all this during the holidays, as by now I was teaching music full-time at an Anglo-Chinese girls’ college, St. Stephen’s.
    For several years, I had many followers who reckoned that if they hung around for long enough they might get a baptism certificate or a document that would enable them to get to America. They were real “rice Christians.” Perhaps they could get an introduction to a priest who needed someone to clean in a convent, or they could grab any of the side perks they thought they could get from a church. They began to treat me as they treated other missionaries; they thought I was a pushover. They were careless with my property and equipment and were continually asking to borrow money. They simply did not believe me when I told themthat I did not have any. The conversations were always the same, and they went like this …
    “Poon Siu Jeh, I haven’t got a job and I’ve run out of money.”
    “But I’m afraid I haven’t got any money.”
    “Oh, but you must have—you’re terribly rich.”
    “No, no, really, I haven’t got any money.”
    “Oh yes you have, because you’ve got a church in America like the rest of them.”
    “No, really, I haven’t got a church in America. Actually, I come from England, but no church sent me.”
    At this point another jumbo jet would lurch low across the rooftops as it came in to land at Kaitak airport, which was close to the Walled City. Indeed, the Walled City must have been directly under the flight path, because in the summer months the tourist-filled jets came over every couple of minutes, making conversation impossible as they thundered overhead.
    The plane noise would die away and our conversation would continue.
    “Huh, one day I expect you’ll get into one of those and fly back to where you came from.”
    “No, there’s no danger of that,” I would reply honestly, “because I haven’t got enough money to get on one.”
    “Well, your parents can send you the money anyway—there is plenty of money where you came from—we’ve seen how all those English people live it up.”
    “No,” I said, “you’re wrong about that—my parents haven’t got any money either.” There would be a pause, and then Ah Ping would join the conversation. Ah Ping thought more than the others; his remarks were always more to the point, more understanding and more desperate.
    “Maybe you haven’t got any money now, but you could always get away from here if you had to get away. We can’t. There is nowhere else for us to go; we’re stuck on the edge of the sea, and the only escape is into it. But you Westerners—you can fly away when you want to, and then you can forget all about us.”
    “No, Ah Ping. I’m not planning to fly away and forget all about you.”
    Ah Ping could really talk when he got warmed up. I respected his honesty, for few Chinese ever tell Westerners what they really feel about them. “You Westerners—you come here and tell us about Jesus. You can stay for a year or two, and your conscience will feel good, and then you can go away. Your Jesus will call you to other work back home. It’s true that some of you can raise a lot of money on behalf of us underprivileged people. But you’ll still be living in your nice houses with your refrigerators and servants, and we’ll still be living here. What you are doing really has nothing to do with us. You’ll go home anyhow, sooner or later.”
    This kind of conversation took place many times; it was an indictment of those evangelists who flew into Hong Kong, sang sweet songs about the love of Jesus on stage and on Hong Kong television, and then jumped back into their planes and flew away again.
    “Fine,” said Ah Ping to me savagely one day. “Fine for them, fine for us too, we wouldn’t mind believing in Jesus too if we could get into a plane and fly away round