In the Greater Bay Area, There's Always an Island That Will Capture Your Heart
After returning from a self-driving RV trip in New Zealand's South Island in February 2020, I haven't stepped a foot abroad for two years. Not long ago, I was stuck at home for over a month, and my travels came to an abrupt halt. Yet amidst these travel-less days, happy news arrived: my new book "Don't Work, Go to the Islands: A Blue Romance in the Guangdong-Hong Kong-Macao Greater Bay Area" was published. I majored in law in college, studied procedural law in graduate school, taught at a university for a few years, then switched to television. My advisor joked that I was a disciple who "doesn't stick to his proper profession." Then I became obsessed with travel and photography, truly embarking on a professional path of "not doing proper work." Long ago, I contributed to two legal textbooks, even writing three chapters for a national self-study exam book, but that was just my job and specialty, not my passion.
When traveling around the world, I wrote many travel guides and impressions for travel magazines, took countless photos, and even contributed chapters to travel books and provided photos for them. But this is the first travel book I have fully authored and photographed on my own. Several publishers had approached me earlier, encouraging me to write a book, but I was reluctant. I loved the simplicity and joy of traveling and didn't want to be chained to my desk writing. I always made excuses to put it off. It wasn't until I became a trapped "caged beast" that an editor from Guangdong Travel & Tourism Press approached me. I hesitated, daunted by the task. Coincidentally, they were planning a series called "Charming Greater Bay Area Series" and assigned me the theme of island travel—a topic close to my heart—so I decided to complete the assignment. I feel that the title "Don't Work, Go to the Islands" reflects my lifestyle, but my family disagrees. They see me constantly shooting photos while traveling and constantly writing when at home, and think it's actually work—unpaid work at that. But I love it, I don't care, and it doesn't feel like work to me.
Shooting the RAW photos for "Don't Work, Go to the Islands" numbered in the tens of thousands; I had to take them all myself, sometimes revisiting places several times. In August 2019, during the summer, I went to Dong'ao Island for the second time to take photos. That day the sun was scorching, the island's temperature extremely high. I wore long-sleeved sun-protective clothing and a hat, covered my face with a mask, carried my camera and water, and hiked 20 kilometers around the island alone. Suddenly, the cap of a soda bottle in my backpack burst from the heat, covering my back with a sticky mess. I quickly put down my backpack, dumped the water-soaked camera, batteries, and sunscreen on the ground, and cleaned and dried everything piece by piece—an utterly wretched scene. Facing the endless sea, with no one else around, I sat by the roadside and wrote the preface to the book: "Every time I pack my bags, leave home, step out of the city, and set foot on an island, it's like entering another world..."
Island travel is a joy, but traveling with a mission is not easy, sometimes even extremely grueling. In the summer of 2020, while shooting on Shangchuan Island and Xiachuan Island, my sneakers' soles came unglued from the scorching ground. I could only limp and drag my feet on the beach. In a small shop on Shangchuan Island, I bought a tube of 502 glue and stuck the sole back on, but it didn't last long. When I went to Hebao Island to take photos, the repaired sole came off again. I had to throw away the shoes and go home in flip-flops. The wind and sun along the way not only made me sweat profusely but also exacted a permanent toll: severe solar dermatitis and rapidly graying hair.
During island photography, there were occasional annoyances, but more often joy. In June 2013, I went camping on Miao Bay Beach. My teammate Mumu and I shared a tent—"mixed tents" as we called it. Two grown men squeezed into a small tent felt very awkward, and the wind blew sand all over the tent mat. While shaking out the sand, my glasses fell into the sand. When I finally found them, the lenses and frame were scratched and ruined by the sand, beyond repair. But that evening we had a great time. A couple among our teammates—the man suddenly proposed to the girl on the beach. The ceremony had a small challenge: the wind was strong on the beach, and candles kept blowing out. Everyone dug a pit in the sand, arranged the candles in a heart shape inside the pit, and lit them. The girl was moved to tears. At noon the next day, under the blazing sun, everyone else had retreated. Mumu and I stood halfway up the mountain, drenched in sweat, and captured photos of Miao Bay that rivaled the Maldives in the book.
When photographing on islands, I least wanted to photograph people, fearing they might not be willing. I loved photographing little animals the most—no risk of infringing on portrait rights. I took many photos of seabirds and dogs on the islands. When camping on Jixin Island, one teammate's Shiba Inu was very clever and lively. On the speedboat to the island, it sat in front of me, its paws gripping its owner's arm, curiously looking at the sea—exactly the curious expression I have when going to a new place. Once on the island, its owner took it for a stroll, even had it stand on a rock as a model for me. But it was as excited as a child on an outing, running around. When it was time to sleep, it obediently lay down by its owner's tent, never bothering anyone. Another thing that stunned me were the seabirds on Yanzhou Island. There were unimaginably many. At first glance, the mangroves in the sea looked dense and green. When I zoomed in with my telephoto lens, I saw that every tree was covered with white seabirds, like blossoms of cotton blooming on green trees.
"Don't Work, Go to the Islands" includes many travel tips for Hong Kong, even uninhabited islands that locals may not have visited. I have to thank my friend Sam. Sam is a seasoned Hong Kong hiker—it seems there's no place in Hong Kong he doesn't know. He always acted as a free guide, taking us hiking, camping, diving, and shooting in Hong Kong. He helped us book yachts, buy food and drinks for the boat, and even drove his own car to take me to two very obscure spots in Hong Kong. If there's one "downside," it's that he is incredibly fit and walks very fast. I walked while taking photos, always falling behind, and had to jog to keep up.
Potai Island is the farthest island from Hong Kong's urban area. From Shenzhen, crossing the border and getting to the island took a one-way trip of over three hours. Sam found us accommodation with a fisherman's family on the island, and we squeezed into a small room for one night. That afternoon, we wanted to swim at a relatively distant clean beach. I changed into a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops and walked there, thinking I wouldn't bring my camera since I was going into the sea. It took a long time to reach the beach. When I was almost there, the scenery was stunning, so I took a photo with my phone, planning to come back with my camera later. But then the pandemic hit, and I couldn't go back for nearly two years. That left many regrets, but also gave me a reason to return. The scenery in that section of "Don't Work, Go to the Islands" was taken with a phone, and it doesn't seem out of place. I used to agonize over which camera and lens to bring for a trip, tossing and turning all night. Now that's all water under the bridge.
For a while, Macau opened up to mainland tourists, and no quarantine was required upon return. I checked my Hong Kong and Macau Exit Permit and was overjoyed to find I still had a valid Macau endorsement. I immediately took a ferry from Shekou to Macau. Upon arrival, I noticed there were only about a dozen tourists on the whole boat, and all the attractions in Macau were eerily quiet. The Macau Fisherman's Wharf, usually a popular tourist spot, had only a handful of visitors. On Rua do Cunha, once packed with people, there were more shop assistants shouting than tourists. The quietness had its advantages: hotel prices were unimaginably cheap—good hotels for one or two hundred yuan were everywhere, and food was as affordable as in Shenzhen. So I stayed in Macau for a few days. During the day, I took photos for my book; at night, I strolled around. The photo-taking efficiency was extremely high—no matter where I went, even the most popular photo spots had no waiting lines, and I could shoot immediately.
Unless I'm shooting street photography, I generally prefer islands and coastlines with fewer people. When it's crowded to the max, it must be Hong Kong. Once, I went to Ha Pak Nai in Hong Kong to shoot the sunset. It was packed with people, everyone waiting from afternoon until dark. At sunset, the oyster beds on the beach formed the foreground, Shekou Port in the distance was the background, and the sky was filled with red clouds that spilled over the sea—unbelievably beautiful. However, on the way back, I ran into trouble. Because so many people had come to watch the sunset, and there was only one minibus route, which was always full. The queue stretched for over two kilometers, and I figured I'd never catch the last bus even if I queued. Even if I wanted to take a taxi, I'd have to wait a long time. In the end, it was already dark, and I had to walk 6 kilometers to Lau Fau Shan before I could catch a bus.
Someone asked me which island I like the most. I think I like them all. But if I have to name one that left a deep impression, it would be Tai Wan Shan. The first time, my classmate took me there. He's an avid sea angler and often goes with his fishing buddies to the reefs near Tai Wan Shan. When we got to Tai Wan Shan, they rented a boat for night fishing, and I stayed alone on the island to take photos. It was the peak fishing season, and all the few hotels on the island were fully booked with anglers. I was prepared to sleep on the stone bench of a seaside pavilion. While anxiously looking for accommodation, a kind local woman offered to let me stay at her relative's house. When I entered, the hosts were a very friendly elderly couple. I stayed in their child's room, which faced the bay.
"Don't Work, Go to the Islands" features 36 routes. The most dangerous one is Hong Pai Jiao in Shenzhen. It's part of the Shenzhen Dapeng National Geopark, with unique and beautiful geological features. But I don't recommend non-professionals to traverse it; ordinary people can just walk part of the route and turn back. Because the last three sections require professional outdoor enthusiasts with ropes—some people cannot pass without assistance. The most dangerous spot requires crossing a very wide gully, then inching along while clinging to rocks. A single misstep could result in falling into the sea or crashing onto the rocks, causing injuries at best or life-threatening danger at worst. Therefore, security guards often stop hikers from attempting the traverse.
"Don't Work, Go to the Islands" introduces a lot of seafood from various islands, accumulated from countless failed attempts and a summary of sweet, sour, bitter, and spicy experiences. Once, out of curiosity, I bought a "bread crab" that looked like a stone—beautiful like baked bread, but it had nothing edible besides the thick shell. Another so-called "seafood from hell"—gooseneck barnacles—not that they taste bad, but they are really troublesome to eat; you have to pick out the meat bit by bit, and most people lack the patience to finish them. Better to order a simple plate of sea urchin fried rice or sea urchin rice noodle roll, nutritious and delicious. Another time, I ate "blowfish" with roe; my lips and tongue turned black, but it was delicious. I greedily ate a lot, and ended up with diarrhea so bad I could barely move.
Traveling and shooting on islands, I feel more kindness from people than in the city. In June 2020, while shooting on Yanzhou Island, I happened to encounter elderly villagers carrying offerings in a procession around the village for a prayer ritual. The destination was the Xuyu Temple. After the ceremony, everyone rested. One villager ladled a bowl of food from a bucket and gave it to me, saying it would bring me smooth sailing. It was like a sweet soup, with red and white glutinous rice balls, pointed at both ends, resembling "you mian fish" in shape. Sweet, fragrant, and sticky—like the fermented rice dumplings I ate as a child. I asked what it was called, and they said in the local dialect "tuan ni." Seeing me finish it in one go, they gave me another bowl. I wasn't just being greedy; I was actually really tired and hungry. I had been so busy shooting that I skipped breakfast, and then I ran after the procession all the way. So I unceremoniously polished off the second bowl...
During my trips, I often encounter mutual care among outdoor enthusiasts. When I went snorkeling and shooting on Wong Mau Chau in Hong Kong, there wasn't a single tree on the uninhabited island—no shade at all. That day was extremely hot; if we didn't find shelter, we would get sunburned. Unfortunately, the canopy we brought was too small, and there were too many of us. We wanted to leave the island, but it wasn't time for our pickup yet. Several Hong Kong families with children had set up a huge awning, and they let us take shelter too. They had a cooler with beer and drinks, and seeing we were hot, they enthusiastically offered us some. In return, we gave them the cucumbers we brought. It was truly a joyful and harmonious scene.
"A graceful lady, her long hair flowing in the wind, with the splash of waves..." A friend who already got the book said she liked the photo of walking on the beach with waves lapping at the feet. That was when "Xiaowangshu," a veteran hiker from Mofang, organized a camping trip on Hebao Island in Zhuhai. Everyone went swimming at the beach, but my teammate Yoyo, wearing a brightly colored swimsuit, shyly wrapped herself in a large silk scarf. I thought the swimsuit flattered her figure, so I told her to throw off the scarf and walk into the sea. I snapped a few shots on the beach, and they turned out stunning. If there's any flaw, it's that I forgot to ask her to drop the key card and rubber band in her hands. So in the book, you see her walking into the sea holding a green key card in her left hand and a rubber band around her right wrist.
During the writing and shooting of "Don't Work, Go to the Islands," I received enthusiastic help from many people. A friend's father once worked on Hebao Island and told me in detail about the history during the People's Commune period. On Xiachuan Island, I rented a Jeep to drive around for photos; I returned the car past the rental time after dark, but the owner waived the overtime fee. Many guesthouses and hotels upgraded my cheap reservation to a sea-view room, even without knowing I was writing a book. The owner of a guesthouse on Yanzhou Island invited a friend to have tea with me, told me stories about salt drying in the past, and gave me some local sea salt. On Dong'ao Island, I hiked to the top to photograph the wind turbines, and on the way down, I was so exhausted I could barely walk. A local driver gave me a ride to the ferry terminal. On Coloane Island in Macau, I was on the terrace of a dried seafood shop shooting the sea view. At noon, the owner called his son's noodle shop to bring me a bowl of high-end seafood noodles and insisted on not charging me. There were also many outdoor friends who volunteered as models, but due to space or layout constraints, they didn't appear in the book...
On the day I sent the manuscript—60,000 to 70,000 words of travel writing and over 640 photos—to the publisher, it felt like Liberation Day. I deeply understood Charlie Brooker's quote: "Don't talk about talent, luck. You need a deadline and someone who will beat you to death if you don't deliver. Then you'll be amazed by your own talent." "Don't Work, Go to the Islands" introduces 36 islands and coastlines in the Greater Bay Area. Each has its own unique scenery. Some are suitable for vacations, some for camping, some for hiking, some for self-driving on the island. Some offer solitude, others group revelry; some let you experience local customs, others allow you to explore nature. Within the Greater Bay Area, there is always an island that will capture your heart... I hope one day, truly without work, we can all go to the islands together!
