As a child, I hated the ding ding (叮叮)—Hong Kong’s iconic tram. There, I said it.
There was no air-conditioning, only the occasional breeze if you were lucky enough to snag a window seat. The wooden benches were hard, unforgiving against my back, and the carriages, with their century-old design, looked worn, tired, and perpetually uncomfortable. And then there were the crowds. During rush hour, it was a battlefield—elbows digging into ribs, sweaty strangers pressed together in an unwilling dance of discomfort. Sometimes, the sheer density of bodies meant you had no choice but to stand for the entire journey, your arm aching as you clung onto the railing. Worse still, getting off was a mission in itself. You’d shuffle forward, inch by inch, only to realise that the people in front of you weren’t budging. The moment the tram doors opened, it was every man for himself, a desperate scramble to reach solid ground before the doors shut again.
For the longest time, I could not understand why anyone would willingly subject themselves to this ordeal.
But time has a funny way of changing perspectives.
Years later, well into my twenties, I returned to Hong Kong at the height of summer. The humidity was as relentless as ever, and the streets pulsated with the same chaotic energy. But this time, something shifted. I boarded the tram once more—not out of necessity but out of curiosity. The slow, deliberate chug of the tramcar felt oddly soothing. The familiar clatter of wheels against tracks was not a sound of inconvenience but one of nostalgia, a rhythmic heartbeat of the city.
Hong Kong’s tramway is unlike anything else in the world. There are other trams, sure, but nowhere do they weave through the arteries of a metropolis quite like this. It is a relic of the past, yet still very much alive. In Central, where impatient drivers honk their horns in endless traffic, the tram glides past them all—steady, unhurried, determined. It may not be fast, but it gets you where you need to go, and in its own way, it offers a reprieve from the relentless rush of city life.
And then there is the magic of a night ride.
When the crowds thin and the city lights flicker to life, the tram becomes something else entirely. The pace slows, not just in movement but in feeling. As the tram ambles through the streets, you see Hong Kong not in hurried glimpses, but in full, lingering frames—neon shop signs casting reflections on the pavement, late-night diners hunched over bowls of noodles, silhouettes of old tong lau blending into the skyline. The world outside moves, but you remain still, suspended in the quiet hum of history.
In those moments, you realise that the tram is more than just a mode of transport. It is a living memory, a piece of Hong Kong’s soul that refuses to fade. And perhaps, that is why it endures—not because it is the fastest, or the most efficient, but because it is uniquely, unmistakably, home.
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