The Dying Art of Preserving Hong Kong’s Mobile History
There’s something profoundly bittersweet about watching a piece of history slip through your fingers, especially when it’s as iconic as a vintage double-decker bus. In Hong Kong, two enthusiasts, Terrence and his blacksmith friend Chung, are on the brink of abandoning their HK$1 million restoration project of a classic China Motor Bus (CMB) vehicle. What makes this particularly fascinating is how their story isn’t just about a bus—it’s a microcosm of Hong Kong’s evolving identity, its economic pressures, and the fading art of preservation in a city obsessed with progress.
A Bus, a City, and a Million-Dollar Dream
Terrence and Chung’s journey began in 2019 when they acquired a retired CMB double-decker from a scrapyard. The bus, once a workhorse for New World First Bus, had a storied past—from transporting tree-cutting crews to serving as a police watchtower during Lunar New Year. Personally, I think what’s most striking here is the bus’s dual life: it wasn’t just a vehicle; it was a utility, a symbol, and now, a relic. But the restoration isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about preserving a piece of Hong Kong’s transport revolution, when double-deckers became the backbone of a growing metropolis.
What many people don’t realize is that CMB’s decline in the 1980s and 1990s mirrored broader shifts in Hong Kong’s economy. The company’s collapse in 1998 wasn’t just a business failure—it was a symptom of a city transitioning from manufacturing and services to property development. Terrence’s decision to abandon the project due to financial constraints feels like a modern-day echo of that era. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about a hobbyist’s budget; it’s about the cost of preserving history in a city where every square foot is monetized.
The Guy Arab: More Than Just a Bus
The bus in question, a Guy Arab built in Wolverhampton, UK, is a relic of a bygone era. Converted from a single-decker to a double-decker by a local company, it was part of CMB’s effort to meet Hong Kong’s booming population in the 1960s. One thing that immediately stands out is how this bus represents a global connection—a British-made vehicle adapted for Hong Kong’s unique needs. It’s a reminder that Hong Kong’s story has always been intertwined with the world’s.
But here’s the irony: while Hong Kong prides itself on being a global city, it often struggles to preserve its own heritage. The bus, now rotting away, is a metaphor for the city’s selective memory. We celebrate skyscrapers and innovation but rarely pause to honor the vehicles, buildings, or people that built the foundation. This raises a deeper question: What does it say about a society when it can’t afford—or perhaps doesn’t care—to preserve its past?
The Cost of Progress
Terrence’s Facebook post about recycling the bus if no one steps in is a stark reminder of the disposable nature of our modern world. In my opinion, this isn’t just about a bus being scrapped; it’s about the systemic devaluation of history in favor of efficiency and profit. Hong Kong’s transport history is rich, but it’s also fragile. CMB’s downfall, as detailed in a 2022 academic paper, was accelerated by a hostile takeover attempt and a fatal crash in 1982. The company’s decline wasn’t just inevitable—it was a result of poor management and shifting priorities.
What this really suggests is that preservation isn’t just about money; it’s about mindset. Hong Kong’s government, for instance, has often prioritized new infrastructure over maintaining old landmarks. From my perspective, this reflects a broader cultural attitude: the past is something to be admired briefly before making way for the next big thing. But at what cost? When we lose these artifacts, we lose the stories they tell—stories of innovation, struggle, and resilience.
A Broader Trend: Preservation vs. Progress
This story isn’t unique to Hong Kong, but it’s particularly poignant here. The city’s rapid transformation from a fishing village to a global financial hub has always been its defining narrative. Yet, as someone who’s watched Hong Kong evolve over the years, I’ve noticed a growing disconnect between its past and present. The bus, with its rusting body and working engine, is a physical manifestation of that tension.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how preservation efforts often fall to individuals like Terrence and Chung, not institutions. These enthusiasts are the unsung heroes, pouring their time and money into projects that society at large seems to overlook. But their efforts are unsustainable without broader support. If Hong Kong wants to preserve its identity, it needs to rethink how it values its history—not just as a tourist attraction, but as a living, breathing part of its culture.
Conclusion: What’s Lost When We Let Go
As Terrence and Chung prepare to let go of their million-dollar dream, I can’t help but wonder what else Hong Kong is at risk of losing. The bus isn’t just a vehicle; it’s a time capsule, a piece of collective memory. By abandoning it, we’re not just scrapping metal—we’re erasing a chapter of our story.
Personally, I think this moment calls for a reevaluation of how we approach preservation. It’s not just about saving old buses or buildings; it’s about recognizing that history isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity. If we don’t preserve these artifacts, who will? And what will future generations have left to remember us by?
Perhaps the most provocative question of all is this: In a city that’s always looking forward, can we afford to forget where we came from?
