Notes » September 2007

Dishrag Stink Blues

For me, part of the joy of living in Hong Kong as a foreigner is maintaining the ability to see things from a western viewpoint (even though I consider myself a local) while making the effort to understand behaviours from a cultural or historical perspective.

What seems strange to visitors may be normal to someone raised in this environment, so learning what makes people tick helps prevent misunderstandings and conflicts. Yet there are still things folks do that make no sense whatsoever and for which I've not been able to find a reasonable explanation.

One of the worst rears its ugly head between May and October, the hottest months of the year: people wearing putrid clothing.

Let me put it this way: remember the reek that developed when you neglected to change the kitchen dishcloth? You know, the stink that can ripen in as little as a few hours, depending on what you've been wiping up? A stench so offensive, that if God forbid, you let a dirty rag sit in a wet heap on your counter for a couple of days and then used it to wipe down the kitchen, you'd be forced grab a clean dishcloth, haul out the cleansers, and scrub every surface the rag touched?

That's the precise odor I get to inhale at least twice each time I go out.

For some unfathomable reason, some Hong Kongers wear shirts that smell so bad I can't get within six feet of them without wanting to throw up. Imagine the pleasure of meeting such people on a bus or being trapped in a lift with them. At least on an escalator or in a mall I have the opportunity to speed up and pass.

If you're wondering how clothing gets that way in the first place, it's because it is hung to drip-dry in the bathroom: the most humid and bacteria-friendly room in the flat. I know this because my mother-in-law did that when she lived with us, which drove me insane because we have a dryer.

But here's the kicker: the people wearing fetid clothing don't seem to be aware that they reek. How can that be; how can they pull a shirt off a hangar and not notice the eye-watering, toxic miasma wafting from every thread?

This is the mystery of which I speak; a behaviour that has no conceivable excuse. Culture can't explain it, even though some people love to eat a street-snack known as stinky tofu; nor can one blame history when appliances exist that can take care of the problem. I doubt I'll ever solve the puzzle, because how do I broach the subject with someone who doesn't realise he stinks?

"Excuse me, Sir, but would you mind if I asked why you're willing to wear such a rancid shirt?"

"What are you talking about?"

The smell of mothballs, so prevalent in Hong Kong during the winter months, used to bother me.

Now I look forward to it.

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