There is a hidden museum behind a red door eighteen stories high in an industrial complex somewhere up past Sha Tin. I had the pleasure of being invited by the curator, but the more honest thing to say would be that I invited myself and the curator let me in.
I have been wanting to visit for a while, but the curator has been wary of my intentions. It is a private museum after all, you can’t have just anyone barging in. There is a personal air about the place. It is full of books and fish tanks. The tortoise exhibit was closed that day.
Bookshelves partition off different exhibitions. Objects everywhere. The curator picks them up and tells a story. He speaks softly, pausing to gather his thoughts. He has impeccable eye contact, the kind that makes you want to fall asleep in his arms. He picks up a rubber bullet, a tear gas canister. He points out the dainty little red shrimp in one of the fish tanks. He is a sensitive, old-soul type and I can see now that he would not want me coming over just to turn around and make off with something, an intangible thing, a glimpse into his life perhaps. I am not a thief so of course I do not do that. That is part of the reason, among other things, I am so insistent on visiting. Some things you are better off showing people rather than telling them.
At the end of my visit, he presents me with one of those fat bananas that the shopkeepers on Lamma sneak out in the dead of night to pick off ambiguously-owned trees. I’m already looking forward to my next visit.