In sticky heat of the Hong Kong port, a slender teenage boy with gelled hair, wearing a simple shirt and tie and carrying a brown leather suitcase, bid farewell to his family and boarded a ship bound for the other end of the globe.

It was the year 1954. The determined teenager was my father, Ng Ping-Yip. He was embarking on a three-month voyage with a group of young people to establish a textile mill in Argentina.

My great-grandfather had already immigrated from Guangdong Province to the U.S. by then. My grandfather would do the same after him.

Years later, my father ended up settling in the U.S. too. But before that, he had lived the best time of his life in Argentina. In an inland city of that remote country, he learned how to integrate into local society. He worked at the factory he set up; took up photography, tennis and hunting; made lots of friends; and fell in love and got married with a local girl who would be my mother.

My father had left China behind, and I grew up seeing a closed door behind which China was hidden. I saw embroidered paintings with cranes and trees; I saw a white porcelain goddess; I saw books written in the intelligible Chinese language; and above all, I saw my face in the mirror and my last name — without knowing what it all meant. It was a door I couldn't open.

The Chinese and Spanish versions of 10134 kilómetros a través de China (lit. "10134 Kilometers Across China") by Gustavo Ng.