Hong Kong’s Bamboo Scaffolding: Cultural Legacy or Convenient Scapegoat?

Hong Kong’s signature bamboo scaffolding is on the verge of being scapegoated to relic status.

Hong Kong has long thrived on its ability to adapt and endure, a place where generations have transformed quiet fishing villages into a fast-paced metropolis defined by the sharp geometry of its skyline. Yet, as the city evolves, some of its most characteristic features are slowly fading from view: the neon signs that used to paint the night have largely dimmed and disappeared, while the once-numerous dai pai dongs (open-air food stalls) that fuelled late-night, lively gatherings have dwindled to just a handful. Now, even the craft that lifted this vertical city skywards is being questioned: bamboo scaffolding.

Thrust into the spotlight in the wake of a catastrophic fire at a high-rise public housing estate, bamboo was vilified in the global media as the flammable “matchsticks” that fed the blaze. To the untrained eye, the lattice of poles may appear chaotic, even precarious. But to anyone who has called Hong Kong home, it is simply part of the landscape itself quiet, constant, and deeper than any headline can reveal. It has also been wrongly portrayed as the primary culprit in a community tragedy.

Bamboo scaffolding was imported to Hong Kong from beyond the city’s borders, arriving more than a century ago with skilled workers from Guangdong province. The tradition has roots that stretch back more than 1,500 years to China’s Sui-Tang dynasties, when bamboo lifted homes safely above floodwaters and later steadied the arched roofs of temples and city walls. One of the earliest glimpses appears in the Song dynasty imperial artist Zhang Zeduan’s Along the River During the Qingming Festival, where the delicate brushstrokes capture a scaffolding-like structure amid a bustling street along the Bian River.

Bamboo proved integral to Hong Kong’s rapid development in the 20th century with regard to construction, as well as culture and heritage. It was effortlessly woven into the fabric of the city’s identity as a symbol of resilience, humility, integrity and good fortune; bamboo’s ability to bend without breaking was adopted by residents as an unofficial motto. On a more prosaic note, it was light enough to haul up the city’s notoriously steep hills, it was flexible and more affordable than metal, and swift to assemble. Defining high-tech structures, from the International Commerce Centre (ICC) to the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre and the new Kai Tak Stadium, were built using a framework of bamboo.

The artistry of bamboo scaffolding also retained a place in the city’s signature cultural celebrations in the form of temporary theatres erected for the Cheung Chau Bun Festival or the 34th edition of the five-day Kam Tin Jiao Festival, held once every decade. The latter’s world record-breaking theatre was 30 metres tall and assembled from more than 30,000 poles.

Now, however, the use of bamboo is under threat, its future uncertain. On November 26, 2025, a devastating fire tore through the under-renovation Wang Fuk Court in Tai Po, in the city’s northern New Territories, claiming more than 160 lives and leaving countless families homeless. In the aftermath, multiple overseas reports, including those from the BBC, Reuters and Fox News, named the bamboo scaffolding that shrouded the building as the cause of the catastrophe. Locals, however, responded with clarity and conviction.

Simply put, the Tai Po tragedy was a failure of human oversight and error, and not a flaw in a craft that has safely supported the city for generations.

Engineers, architects and experts pointed to the true culprits: illicit substandard mesh netting and highly flammable styrofoam insulation that fed the inferno. Kristof Crolla, Associate Professor and Associate Dean at the University of Hong Kong’s Department of Architecture, says bamboo, “when properly used and combined with certified fire-retardant netting, is comparatively hard to ignite.” Correctly treated bamboo retains moisture and chars slowly rather than burn violently. In the Tai Po fire, much of the bamboo scaffolding remained standing long after the flames subsided, its structure intact while the green netting burned away. Bamboo’s heat tolerance is also one of the reasons it is still used in traditional cooking, where various ingredients are stuffed into fresh bamboo poles, sealed and roasted over open flames.

Long before the Tai Po fire, the government announced plans to phase it out from public works, favouring metal scaffolding for greater industrial standardization and perceived safety enhancement a move that some critics have suggested favours mainland Chinese construction interests and their steel supplies. While some in the industry accept the change as inevitable, many Hongkongers fear the loss of an irreplaceable part of history and identity. Unions warn of thousands of job losses for scaffolders such as Tak Gor (Brother Tak), a veteran in his 50s who admits, “I don’t have many skills, this is all I know. Bamboo has been my whole life.”

At a time of economic stress and rising construction costs, the decision to eliminate a predominantly blameless element of the process seems counterintuitive. What’s more, removing bamboo from the streets also removes Instagram opportunities for tourists, out of step at a time when the Hong Kong government is attempting to rejuvenate its tourism sector. Heritage advocates, artists and citizens continue to rally online, insisting the solution lies not in abandonment but in stricter regulations, better training, legitimate enforcement of new and existing laws (such as “No Smoking” rules for construction workers) and a shared commitment to protect this vital and much-loved element of Hong Kong.