In Hong Kong, the lost thrill of rooftopping

David Cheng is a Hong Kong-based freelance lifestyle photographer who only occasionally ventures into the bustle of Lan Kwai Fong, Hong Kong’s infamous nightlife district. A private guy, Cheng far prefers to spend his spare time exploring his city from unconventional angles – places hidden in plain sight that only a keen eye would notice.

Cheng has a particular affinity for rooftops, and has earned a name for himself as Hong Kong’s resident rooftop aficionado. But despite the thousands of likes his rooftop Instagram images garner, what Cheng savors more than his online renown is the overflowing sense of serenity that comes with being 55 floors above the rest of the world. His rooftop oases are some of the last remaining bounties of solitude in all of busy Hong Kong, though Cheng knows it’s only a matter of time before they, too, disappear.

“Rooftopping used to be something only a few of us did,” says Cheng onboard the Star Ferry crossing Victoria Harbour, the waterway connecting Hong Kong Island with neighbouring Kowloon. “We kept it low-key and secretive because we didn’t want people to know where these places were.”

Tracy Wong, a jewelry designer and another early rooftopper, remembers it the same way. “Most of the time we’d limit it to about five people,” she says. “It’s just etiquette for rooftopping and urban exploration in general. To keep these spots accessible, it’s better to leave no trace and be discreet about it.”

Yet as early adopters like Cheng and Wong began inviting a few friends along on their adventures, rooftopping gained steam. From her very first rooftop experience, Instagrammer Laura Laviani saw it as the perfect confluence of novelty and creativity that her followers were looking for.

“I’ll always remember my first time,” Laviani says. “I was scared of heights back then. It was cold and windy that day, but there was something so quiet and freeing about it.” In time, as rooftop photos from Laviani, Cheng and Wong gained a following, more people joined in, and rooftopping became somewhat of a rite of passage.

Nothing good lasts forever, though. Over the past 12 months, both the police and building superintendents have been cracking down on rooftoppers by installing new alarms and making arrests. “We were always scared that these places would eventually be locked because of people taking unnecessary risks,” Cheng says. Wong agrees, mentioning the perilous situations that rooftoppers can find themselves in if they’re not vigilant – for instance, venturing further beyond a protective railing or hanging out at rooftops that are unsanitary or not properly cleaned. “There are definitely great spots that have shut down because too many people have put themselves in danger,” he says.

On one hand, rooftoppers are desperados – a small but determined group who refuse to let the laws of government or physics keep them grounded. On the other, rooftoppers are our most fervent urban archivists, capturing slivers of their city from angles that will likely never be accessible firsthand again.

Ultimately, Hong Kong’s rooftoppers aren’t chasing a photo; they’re chasing a feeling. And as the last of the city’s rooftops vanish, that pursuit of genuine, unbridled exploration is in danger of disappearing along with it.