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shutters clang shut, joss sticks camouflage the strange, pungent smell of opium.
    One name for the Walled City in Chinese is
Hak Nam
, in English, “darkness.” As I began to know it better, I learned how true this name was; the Walled City was a place of terrible darkness, both physical and spiritual. Journalists get good copy out of it, but when you meet the men and women who have to live and suffer in such a place, you can be broken by compassion.
    I had thought I was going to one of those Chinese walled villages in the guidebooks—sort of quaint, but poor.
    Mrs. Donnithorne had invited me to visit her nursery school and church, but she had not prepared me for what I was to see. We got a lift as far as Tung Tau Chuen Road on the edge of the city. The street was lined with countless dentists’ parlors, which were equipped with ancient and modern drilling equipment, their windows filled with gold and silver teeth. There were teeth in bottles, teeth on velvet cushions, teeth even on the tips of big whirring fans. This was the street of the illegal dentists; illegalbecause none of the amateur mouth doctors is allowed to practice in Hong Kong proper.
    Behind these tawdry shops rose the ramshackle skyscrapers of the Walled City; it seemed impossible to find a way in. But the frail old lady who was my guide knew exactly where to go; we squeezed through a narrow gap between the shops and started walking down a slime-covered passageway. I will never forget the darkness and the smell—a fetid smell of rotten foodstuffs, excrement, offal and general rubbish. The darkness was startling after the glaring sunlight outside. As we walked on between the houses, their projecting upper stories almost touched each other above us so that only occasionally would the daylight penetrate in strong shafts of brightness among the shadows. I felt like I was in an underground tunnel.
    As we went, my guide gave me a running commentary. On my right was a plastic flower factory; on my left an old prostitute who was too old and ugly to get work. So instead, the prostitute employed several child prostitutes to work for her; one seemed mentally retarded, another was a child she had bought as a baby and brought up to take over the bread-earner’s role when she grew too old. They had plenty of customers; in that depraved street the ownership of child prostitutes was regarded as a good source of income. “Auntie Donnie” told me to keep my head down in case someone chose to empty his chamber pot as we were passing below. Next, we reached the door to the illegal dog restaurant, where the captured beasts were flayed to death to provide tender dog steaks; then we came upon the pornographic film-show house, a crowded lean-to shed.
    There was legitimate business, too. Workmen carrying loads of freshly mixed cement on their heads hurried down the alleys. Women clutching huge sacks of plastic flowers staggered out from tiny workrooms where the clank of plastic-pressing machines never ceased. There was no Sabbath day of rest here; five days’ holiday a year was considered quite sufficient. Whole families were involved in keeping the plastic presses running day and night. For Chinese children, when they were not studying,the duty to work all hours for their parents was paramount.
    How can such a place exist inside the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong?
Over 80 years ago when Britain apportioned to herself not only the Chinese island of Hong Kong but also the mainland Peninsula of Kowloon and the Chinese territories behind it, one exception was made. The old walled village of Kowloon was to remain under Chinese Imperial Administration, complete with its own Mandarin magistrate administering Chinese law.
    Later, however, the British traders complained and the concession was unilaterally withdrawn; the Chinese magistrate died—he was never succeeded by either Chinese or British—and lawlessness inside the Walled City came to stay. The city became a haven for