Yogi Baba

I've only been in Hong Kong for a day so I could be wrong, but it seems that a large number of the former colony's South Asian population is employed to irritate the high holy living crap out of you. Walking down Nathan Street, the main drag of Kowloon, you are guaranteed to be approached by scores of men offering "tailored suits" and "copy (that is to say, fake) watches and purses." Now I ignored every single one of them and so did everyone else in sight, so I can't imagine this is a very successful strategy. Still, they wouldn't do it if it didn't work, thus I can only assume one of two things. A) People actually take them up on these offers or B) they take prospective customers into dark alleys and rob them, in which case you only need one or two marks a day to make a living. Far-fetched perhaps, but I've learned quickly to stare at the ground and walk quickly.

The most egregious example came when I was sitting along Victoria Harbor eating my takeout rice and beef bowl. A gentleman in a turban approached me and said something about me having a "nice face" and said he could tell I was a "kind person." From that last part, I could immediately tell he was full of shit. I know enough about cold reading not to fall for this type of thing. He sat down next to me and introduced himself to me as "Yogi Baba," and attempted to prove this to me by showing me an old grainy photo of about a dozen nondescript bearded Indian men. Apparently, I will be famous by the end of this year, and he wanted to prove this to me with an "experiment." As he was writing something down on a piece of paper and folding it up, I hastily made my exit.

Maybe I was being rude. Maybe he was just an eccentric guy. He probably wasn't going to steal my kidney. But the truth is, I live every moment on the road through a prism of "What are the odds I'll end up in a bathtub full of ice missing an organ?" and this scenario was an unacceptable risk.