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By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

When the last American military troops left Vietnam on March 29, 1973, things on base began to return to a more normal routine for those of us stationed at Andersen AFB, Guam. Tom and I went to work on base every week day. I swam 40 laps in an Olympic size pool at lunch while Tom grabbed a sandwich. At night we had dinner at the O’Club and came home to an evening watching Armed Forces TV with local news and programming from the states.
After our visit to Yap, the U.S. territory of Guam felt different, but not foreign. Most people, on and off base primarily spoke English, and they used U.S. currency. Yap, however, had ignited our shared curiosity and hunger for different cultures, people and history. Eager to feed our wanderlust, we began to explore our options for June travel.
Andersen regularly sent C-121 Super Constellation planes to Thailand, Okinawa, the Philippines, etc., on resupply missions. Since the planes could accommodate cargo and passengers, the base offered active-duty military personnel of all ranks an opportunity to see a bit more of Southeast Asia. They only had to sign-up two weeks ahead of scheduled flights to either Hong Kong or Bangkok. Flights for them and family members were gratis. My parents, who planted my love of travel at an early age, had raved about their trip to Hong Kong, which became our first choice.
Two hundred miles from Hong Kong, flames shot from one of our C-121’s engines. Never again would I make fun of any ancient firetruck chasing an airplane down a runway during the landing like the one we had in Yap. After a few moments my fear of dying by fire morphed into abject terror. While still over the ocean, the pilot appeared to be about to land amidst endless skyscrapers. I squeezed Tom’s hand. Our wheels touched down on a ribbon of runway wedged between the sea and skyscrapers.
Rattled from our flight, we were glad we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel that cost 30 U.S. dollars (!) per night, about 150 HK Dollars. After all, we had celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary on June 7. As we arrived, a tall gentleman wearing a white turban and matching Nehru jacket with standing collar, and jodhpurs tucked into tall leather boots greeted us. Given Hong Kong and India’s long histories with the British Empire, we assumed the hotel’s official greeter was of Indian descent. The first photo we took at the Hong Kong Hilton was of Sahib with the killer-smile and golden skin tone. He stood at the entrance to the hotel’s glossy, glittering lobby. Dorothy, we aren’t in Yap anymore.
Our room’s wall of windows high above Victoria Harbor revealed a broad expanse of water that fed into the South China Sea. My eyes locked on a flat-bottomed, high sided wooden Junk that appeared ancient. Its trio of sails looked more like large, folded, crimson-colored parchment fans than sails. As modern watercraft sped past, the Junk bobbed awkwardly in the water.
Even that first stunning view had not prepared us for what awaited after we came back from dinner. We stood mesmerized by the nighttime glow-up of the dazzling lights facing us across the water from the Kowloon side of the island. That view was and still is easily one of the most romantic memories of our marriage.
The next day we explored several neighborhoods on foot. In a bustling city filled with noisy laughter and millions of diverse people, cultures and places, we caught numerous glimpses of Buddhism. At open-air shrines and temples giant coils of burning incense hung above favored-Buddhas. The energy of the city felt palpable. The contagious smiles of the locals captivated us.
We took several guided tours to see more of the city’s landmarks. Easily the most charming people we encountered in Hong Kong were a Chinese couple seated at the entrance to the overlook that encompassed a view across a deep valley to the (then) rural, mountainous New Territories region. The middle-aged couple laughed and grinned. Holding long bamboo cigarette holders, they gleefully smoked something perhaps stronger than tobacco. They wore light-weight, light-colored clothing that some might describe as peasant garb. Perhaps they were farmers. They were charismatic and adorable beneath their oversized hand-woven bamboo hats of different shapes.
The happy couple wanted only to pose for tourists’ photos – for a few Hong Kong Dollars, or perhaps a coveted U.S. Dollar. Years later, we opened a slick U.S. travel magazine and saw a Vodka advertisement featuring that very couple, exactly as we remembered. Across continents, oceans and time, they still made us smile. Duplicates of their broad bamboo hats, which I bought there, still hung in our bedroom.
Another day while visiting Tiger Balm Gardens, which apparently was an acquired taste, a gray-haired Australian woman on our tour took a hard fall. As her leg continued to bleed, our tour guide was about to apply an unnecessary makeshift tourniquet. Tom jumped in, bandaged her leg, and we left the tour to go with her to a local hospital. We just thought Tiger Balm Gardens was bizarre.
On our last full day, we traveled to Ocean Terminal, a myriad of modern, air-conditioned shops selling everything under the Hong Kong sun. I discovered an antique Chinese treasure. The bangle bracelet was half-old-bamboo and half hammered leaf patterns in silver. Sadly, I was unable to justify the expense. Back at our hotel, Tom asked, “How much was it?”
“Seven dollars.”
Without a word, he led me back to the ferry. I don’t know which I loved more, Tom Latino or my bracelet. Fortunately, I didn’t have to choose.