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their backs—and I discovered that many of them, being illiterate, came to church for a reading lesson. The singing leader had a sort of rehearsal before each hymn, pointing out the characters (the written form of Chinese—one sign for each word) one by one. They all sang loudly and enthusiastically. Then the Bible woman gave the teaching in Cantonese; I could not understand a word of it at that stage, but I felt that I shared in the worship.
    Among the crowd of Chinese faces on my debut night, one woman stuck out remarkably. She was an elderly vegetable seller; she had a deeply lined face, with her hair combed straight back and a large circular comb stuck on her head. She had only two teeth, which showed prominently since she was always smiling. She came up and tugged me by the sleeve enthusiastically. Beside her was her half-blind husband—so she pulled him along, too. She chattered on, beaming at me and tugging still. I asked someone to translate what she was saying. It was, “See you next week—see you next week.”
    I wanted to tell her that I could not come every week; it was a long journey across the harbor and through Kowloon to the Walled City for a Sunday evening. It meant that I got back late. This was not good, as I had to be up very early the next morning to teach.
    But then I found that I could not possibly say all that to her. She would only understand that I was there or I was not; so I decided that for her sake I would be there every week.
    By now, I had regular jobs teaching in a primary school in the mornings (which I held for six months), helping Auntie Donnie three afternoons a week in her primary school, playing for the Sunday service, and arranging music programs forvarious welfare organizations. This filled up my time. I had been offered a superb job teaching music by a prestigious boarding school at the other end of the island; they additionally offered to refund my fare out. But it was clear I could not combine teaching there with my work in the Walled City.
    I do not find that I am very good at guidance, but on this occasion I had been reading a verse in the Bible that said, “For he was looking for the city which has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” 1 As I read that verse, I felt quite sure that I should carry on teaching inside the Walled City.
    The second time I went into the Walled City, I had this wonderful feeling inside; like the thrill you get on your birthday. I found myself wondering why I was so happy. And the next time I went into the Walled City, I had exactly the same sensation. This was not reasonable—of all the revolting places in the world. And yet nearly every time I was in that underground city over the next dozen years, I was to feel the same joy. I had caught a glimpse of it at confirmation, and again when I had really accepted Jesus into my life—and now to find it in this profane place?
    “There’s a drug addict,” said Auntie Donnie as we walked down the street to her school one morning. I had no idea at that stage what being a drug addict meant. Did he jump at you, or steal your watch, or throw fits? He was a pathetic looking man slowly sorting through a pile of waste item by item to see if there was anything of value. He seemed very ill; his face was waxy and he looked more like a 70-year-old than a 35-year-old.
    He wore a soiled T-shirt, a pair of cotton shorts and battered plastic sandals. Most Chinese people keep themselves meticulously clean, but Mr. Fung was filthy, his teeth were brown and broken, and his fingernails were disgusting. His rough crew cut, a grey shadow over his skull, was a sure sign that he had recently come out of prison. For Mr. Fung, though, prison was somewhere to sleep—a place with regular meals, which was morecomfortable than his present existence, sleeping in the streets and eating scraps collected at restaurant doors.
    But food and sleep were not important to Mr. Fung. He lived to “chase the dragon.” This