A multi-coloured parrot perches on a wooden log; two snow white birds endearingly ruffle their feathers; other songbirds give high-pitched chirps of “hello” to unsuspecting passersby. This is Yuen Po Street Bird Garden, otherwise known as the home of the songbirds. It is here that I find dozens upon dozens of lively, energetic birds—albeit many in cages—and it is also where I find, quietly sitting in his stall, Hong Kong’s last known handmade bird cage maker.

Around his waist he wears a half apron, and the concentration with which he works is simply unwavering. As I approach him, he’s working on adding a new piece of bamboo to fill the empty space in a broken bird cage, delicately but efficiently measuring and trimming.

For those in the know, Mr. Chan Lok-choi isn’t an unfamiliar name or face; after all, the master craftsman, or 師傅 in Cantonese, has been sitting in this precise shop for over 20 years. And for two hours, I sit alongside him as he nimbly conducts repairs, which take up most of his daily practice nowadays. While many Hong Kong people still own birds, most people aren’t buying new handmade bird cages anymore, he says simply, but he thankfully equally enjoys process of both making and repairing cages. “There’s a level of satisfaction [in repairs]. When it’s broken in a difficult way, and I’m able to fix it in an ideal manner, I’m really happy,” he tells me.

Below: Mr. Chan shapes a piece of bamboo to fix a broken leg on a bird cage.
Left: Filing the bottom of the bird cage to make the surface even.


Mr. Chan first learned how to make bird cages by hand from his uncle in 1955, before following the footsteps of master craftsman Cheuk Hong. Back then, bird keeping was much more popular, with the tradition having begun during the Qing dynasty. The practice soon carried over from China to Hong Kong, and since birds were easy to take care of in small spaces, and were allowed in public housing estates (as opposed to dogs and cats, for example), many Hong Kongers adopted them as pets and would also bring them on walks, on public transport, and to dim sum restaurants.

But after the 1997 bird flu outbreak, the Hong Kong government instilled stricter regulations on birds, and their popularity as pets has since declined. Yuet Po Street Bird Garden, though still quite lively, is now one of the few places in the city where you’ll find as many birds chirping and squawking away, all day and all night long. The street offers a glimpse into old Hong Kong, a respite from the fast-paced urban life that the city is otherwise known for. Here, the elderly take leisurely walks with their winged companions, stop for card games, and casually chat with other bird owners as they pick out bird seeds. It’s clear that the population comprises mainly of the older generation,  of uncles and aunties; while some schoolkids are seen playing with the birds, young Hong Kong people aren’t keeping up the tradition of owning pet birds anymore.

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Even as pet birds—and subsequently, handmade bird cages—fall out of favour in Hong Kong, Mr. Chan’s loyalty for bird cage making remains steadfast. While he once tried his hand at advertising and even made makeup products, he always returned to bird cage making. With his self-assured demeanor, he strikes me as an artist in its purest definition—someone who simply loves his practice.


As Mr. Chan painstakingly cuts and shapes pieces of bamboo—with a band-aid on his thumb, no less—he talks me through his processes and tools, all of which are custom made and ordered, he says. There’s his array of knives and carving tools, which he uses to widen and create holes in the bird cage frame, to file or trim away broken parts, and to shape the ribs. There’s the gas lamp (“You’ll have seen this type of lamp in movies, but they never show this design,” he affectionately says), which he uses to soften and bend the bamboo, and another tool that he uses as a manual drill to create circular holes in the bird cage door frame. Of course, he has another supplement: glue, which he actually chastises. He only uses it when it’s absolutely necessary: “If you use glue, you’re not a real craftsman,” he says. “If you don’t use glue, then you’re a real craftsman.”

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While Mr. Chan answers all my questions with patience, it’s no surprise when he tells me about how he was quiet as a schoolkid. Indeed, he exhibits an introverted nature, one that is especially fitting for a profession that requires him to sit for hours on end, mostly in solitude, save for a few chats here and there with customers and neighbouring bird garden stall owners.

Regardless, Mr. Chan comes across as very content, and it is abundantly clear that he is deeply engrossed in his practice, even though he clearly knows the tradition of hand making bird cage is dying. “There’s no one to teach. No one will learn,” he says. While hobbyists do take classes from him, he recognizes it’s near impossible to make a decent living doing the work that he does on a daily basis, especially to his standards of quality as well. Birdkeeping and handmade bird cage making, as we know it now, is inevitably going to fade with the loss of the older generation.

1 / Some of Mr. Chan’s many tools, including paintbrushes, screwdrivers, and other knives and carving tools. While there’s one ruler included in his kit, I notice that Mr. Chan actually never uses it—he opts to rely solely on his eyes and understanding of the bamboo frame to conduct his repairs.  

2 / A picture of the young Mr. Chan alongside his teacher, master craftsman Cheuk Hong.
3 / Mr. Chan uses the gas lamp to loosen the bamboo frame.

Snapshots from Yuen Po Street Bird Garden.

Shortly before I leave his stall, Mr. Chan offers some wisdom as he reflects on how no one wanted to solicit his services when he was still an apprentice. In English, it doesn’t feel quite as poignant, but a rough translation of his remark goes: “If you don’t work hard and suffer, if you just play around, you won’t achieve success.”

This comment is perhaps a light critique of today’s Hong Kong youth, but it makes me consider how Hong Kong’s economic and technological advancements have significantly altered our culture and society, and understanding of success. In the past, a chosen profession meant that you worked hard so that you could stay in that business for the rest of your life; now, that same determination isn’t nearly as widespread. Mr. Chan’s simplistic mentality embodies a dissipating ideology, one that values uncomplicated personal fulfillment over nominal achievements or society-set notions of apparent success.