As a truckload of bamboo poles pulled into a narrow street, Daisy Pak stubbed out a cigarette, pulled a safety harness over her paint-streaked leggings and began blasting Prince from a Bluetooth speaker.
After maneuvering a loaded cart into an elevator, she opened a tiny window on the ninth floor and ducked out onto a narrow pipe, a bunch of zip ties sashaying behind her back like a bushy tail. She called for mid-length bamboo poles that she tied into a latticework clinging to the outside of the building.
Ms. Pak, 31, is one of the few female bamboo scaffolding workers in Hong Kong, using an ancient Chinese practice that is synonymous with the city even as its use has faded elsewhere in China. She turned to the industry for a fresh start in 2021, after a hardscrabble upbringing and falling into drug addiction and debt. There was a demand for skilled construction workers, it paid relatively well, and she had a passion for the time-honored craft. “It’s so special, to build something completely all out of bamboo,” she said.
Traditionally, workers learn their craft by shadowing one master with knowledge passed down through generations. But Ms Pak learned any way she could, working with different bosses to broaden her skills and techniques, and overcoming taunts about her ability as a novice and her 5-foot-1 stature. While dismantling a scaffold, a colleague once tossed her poles to catch instead of passing them downward. Contractors have tried to pay her less than she was promised. Her arms and legs were constantly bruised, but she carried on.
“I was born with the will to prove people wrong, to do things that they say cannot be done,” she said.
But the industry that helped transform her life now faces its own uncertain future. Some, like Ms. Pak, are worried after Hong Kong’s development bureau issued a memo in March requiring at least half of government projects to use metal scaffolding in an effort to gradually widen its use to keep pace with modern industry practices and improve safety.
The city is one of the last bastions of an art — and later industry — that was first depicted in scroll paintings from the Han dynasty around 2,000 years ago, and it has thrived in bamboo-rich regions in China. But in the past two decades, the rest of China pivoted toward metal amid an overproduction of steel.
Lattices of bamboo poles bound together by intricate knots regularly rise across the city to build and renovate apartment blocks and commercial skyscrapers that can be dozens of stories high.
Advocates of the material, including Ms. Pak, say it is lighter and cheaper than metal to transport and carry in Hong Kong’s tight urban spaces. Builders particularly favor the material when erecting platforms that support workers who patch up building exteriors and replace old pipes and window sills.
The government development bureau wrote in a statement that metal scaffolds offered better fire resistance and were more rigid and durable. But it added that it had no intention to phase out bamboo scaffolds entirely, “particularly in special circumstances including limited working space on site.”
Tony Za, the former chairman of the Hong Kong Institution of Engineers’ building division, said that a spate of industrial accidents involving bamboo structures had prompted safety concerns. Metal scaffolds are more suitable for large-scale construction projects as skyscrapers grow taller and building materials change to include more glass, Mr. Za said.
For metal scaffolding, engineers can make decisions such as how thick a pole to use and how far apart to space the ringlocks based on calculations accounting for load and extreme weather, Mr. Za said. But that cannot be done for bamboo scaffolds, because the poles do not come in uniform shapes, requiring the discretion of bamboo masters.
Ms. Pak had the foresight to get licensed to work with metal scaffolds last year, saying she already used some metal components, such as platforms. “They reinforce one another, like brothers scaling a mountain together,” she said.
But her love for bamboo, bordering on sentimentality, has only grown. “The material is so dynamic and resilient,” she said. “It’s just like the spirit of Hong Kong.”
Passers-by often do a double take when they watch her haul a bundle of seven-foot bamboo poles with ease.
Raised by a single mother, Ms. Pak worked in a seedy nightclub for a while but moved into construction during the pandemic. The daily rate for novices was about $90 and could go up to $250 for a skilled worker.
With no connections in the industry, she trawled scaffolding groups on Facebook, asking if anyone would hire a female worker. Many contractors responded out of curiosity, she said. For the first year, she stayed on the ground, passing tools and bamboo poles several times her height to more seasoned workers dangling from rooftops and balconies.
She said she earned greater acceptance as she became more experienced. She amassed several qualifications in the industry, including what is nicknamed the “master license.”
“I am now respected,” she said.
On a recent day off, she traveled to the outlying Po Toi Island to visit Kenny Lee, a veteran builder of open-air bamboo theaters outside temples used for religious celebrations and Cantonese opera performances. The technique for making such structures has been designated by the government as an intangible part of the cultural heritage.
In recent weeks, Mr. Lee and his crew of about 10 builders constructed a theater at a cliff-side temple ahead of performances marking the birthday of Tin Hau, the goddess of seafarers. With minimal direction, the builders worked in synchrony: hauling heavy wooden logs and bamboo poles, and clambering up and down the theater’s soaring rooftop. It was built upon uneven rocks; in high tide, the fir pillars slanted into the waters.
“There’s joy and there’s sorrow in this work,” Mr. Lee, 57, said, recounting days when he worked through typhoons to meet deadlines, even as hurricane-force winds hurled flower pots from neighboring buildings.
In his heyday, Mr. Lee would build and dismantle as many as 30 bamboo theaters across the city every year. But the pandemic hit the business, and there is more profit to be made with the construction jobs that he needs to make ends meet, he said.
“You can’t really make money,” he said. “I do it for the gods, then for the brothers.”
Ms. Pak has ideas on how to make the industry more accessible to newcomers and the public. She has taught high school students how to build a small scaffold and is preparing to launch a YouTube channel with tutorials on basic skills, such as tying knots with zip ties.
Ms. Pak bought sour plum juice on the way to the temple to give to the crew and traded stories with them. She worked up the gumption to ask Mr. Lee to hire her for his next bamboo theater project.
“It would be a shame if the tradition dies in our hands,” she said.
Tiffany May is a reporter based in Hong Kong, covering the politics, business and culture of the city and the broader region.
The post Hong Kong’s Famous Bamboo Scaffolding Hangs On (for Now) appeared first on New York Times.
