To-day most children born in developed countries are lucky. They get a good education, they eat heartily and healthily, they dress decently and they have a warm home. And toys in abundance. My grandson and granddaughter practically buy a toy every week, their rooms are clustered with toys of all sorts, Hello Kitty to Cinderella dolls, Star Wars guns to spacecrafts. As a matter of necessity and whenever we can afford it, we always pamper our children and grandchildren with gifts on their birthday, at Christmas, on graduation, and other occasions that we, grown up, create as an excuse to shower more gifts upon the kids.
In my 1950’s childhood in Mauritius the scenery was very different. I remember that as a child I had received only one “toy”, it was a small tin toy wind up airplane that you wind up to propel the plane to move on its wheels, making a cranking sound. I remember the specific place where I received the toy, a “boutique” at “Bel Air”, a small town some 30 kilometers from home, when I was on my way to spend my summer vacation at my maternal aunt’s place at “Deep River”. It was around Christmas and my aunt had come home to pick me up. We took a bus from Port Louis and rode through a picturesque countryside, the roads were serene, lined up on both sides with mango trees, green fields and sugar cane plantation. There was little traffic except for the occasional farmers riding their cattle carts to deliver sugar cane to the mill. We stopped at “Bel Air”, and I felt the fresh cool breeze which was a relief from the hot humid air in Port Louis, to visit an acquaintance of my aunt at their store. The store was stocked with toys and other home festive items for Christmas. It was there that my aunt had bought the airplane toy and given to me as a gift. Having lived in Hong Kong and now in Canada, both advanced and forward countries where people celebrate Christmas with cakes, gifts and parties, I had my share of gifts from family and friends, but that small “airplane” toy at Bel Air is the one gift that will never be erased from my memory.
My first and only toy as a child looks like this, a tin toy wind up airplane
The road from Port Louis to Bel Air was serene, with occasional farmers leading their ox carts of cane to the mill.
No toys did not mean that we were unhappy and miserable kids. Yes, we envied looking at the tempting toys displayed in the “Magasin” during Christmas. My brother-in-law had a popular magasin, named “Triangle Rouge” on Royal Road, not too far from the Government House in centre of town. A couple of times I had been at the store on Christmas eves and I had seen all the fascinating toys that would be the joy of any kid. But I was not there to get a toy, I was there to keep an eye on the shoppers, excited kids with mom and dad, that walked through the store. My assignment was to ensure that they did not walk out of the shop without paying.
Like kids everywhere in the less affluent countries, we created our own toy, made up our own game and designed our own entertainment. One of the most popular toy was the “Hoop Rolling Wheel”. It was simply an old bicycle rim which we would run down the street noisily, pretending that we were driving our own car. It may sound silly today but back then we could play with it for hours on end. We used a short stick to stir the wheel to go straight, right or left and do other tricks such as jumping over a mount. Even then, not all the kids had the good fortune to possess a rolling wheel and we did share the toy with those who did not have one. This toy is probably no longer fashionable in Mauritius but in other African countries it is still alive and kicking. Surprisingly I learn that “hoop rolling” is an ancient form of game played by children, rich or poor, all over the world, from Europe to China to America.
Popular Hoop Rolling Wheel in the 1950
We kids just loved rain. When it rained we all had a ball, running and getting soaked, and we indulged in “racing boat”. Our racing boat was really just a piece of stick, or for fancier competitors a flat piece of lumber carved in the shape of a boat with a mast and cloth sail. Most streets in the City had small canals on both sides along the pavements to facilitate the flow of water, and the canals were the venue for our competition.
Kids made their own wooden boats similar to the picture
A more dangerous toy was the “bow and arrow” which we made out of split bamboo. With these toys, we played Robin Hood and the vicious sheriff. At the end of the arrow we sometimes attached a needle, not intended to shoot at our friends but to shoot at targets chalk drawn on the wooden walls. Once, my brother and I inadvertently shot a needle arrow towards a neighbour who reported the incident to our father. My father, kind and understanding he was, had to administer punishment, and he held our wrists together and hit the palms of our hands with a ruler, ten strokes it were. It did not hurt. It was a symbolic gesture but the message was distinctively delivered.
We made our own bow and arrow out of split bamboo
Climbing trees and swinging on the hanging vines of banyan trees were very popular activities for us. I remember one Sunday afternoon while playing in the open field by a large Tamarind tree, I saw a fellow “camarade” felt off from the tree branch some eight feet high, onto the ground with a smothered thump. Fortunately the ground was soft, but he did not get up and he laid unconscious and still. The other playmates were frightened and started screaming, and we all gathered around our motionless friend, curious of his condition but not knowing what to do, while someone run to fetch his father. We did not have ambulance service, the hospital was far away and no transport facility was available. The father arrived, agitated and concerned, and he carried his son home hastily in his arms, and all the kids just followed behind like in a disorganized procession. Since we heard no more, we believed the kid was fine.
Swinging from the Banyan tree was a popular pastime of the kids
Apart from the common entertainments such as kite flying, bicycling, street football and playing hide and seek, the boys sometimes indulged in scary and atrocious activity. They would catch a live chameleon by placing and tightening a string loop, attached at the end of a bamboo stick, round its neck. Then they would dangle the wriggly creature into the face of the small kids who would run screaming for their lives. When the fun was over with the scary kids, the boys would light a cigarette and forced it into the chameleon’s mouth and the smoke filled its belly until it burst. It was too cruel and sickening to watch and I always left the scene beforehand. We also derived a lot of pleasure placing large nails on the railway tracks that run two blocks behind our home, then we hide behind the bush away from the glare of the train conductor. When the train had passed, the nail would be flattened like a knife blade.
Chameleon aplenty in our neighbourhood
A typical train that run behind our house
During my childhood and like most other kids, I did not celebrate birthday. No cake, no toys, no gifts, no inviting friends. In fact all of us never knew our own birth date. It did not mean, however, that our parents were neglectful or indifferent of our birthday. They were just too poor and busy working to bring up the family that they did not have the time nor the money to throw a party, but I think most parents were aware of our birthday and in their heart they did remember us. When I was six or seven years old, my mother, one evening, quietly and discreetly waved me to go to her in a secluded area of our shop, away from the other siblings. There, she had earlier secretly boiled an egg and placed it in an empty condensed milk can containing hot water to keep it warm. She took out the egg from the can, removed the shell and gave the egg to me, and said: “Louloute, today is your birthday. Have this egg”. I was a little taken off guard and too young to react with any emotion or in any other way, I was simply glad that I had an egg. I ate the egg with my mother standing close by me watching until I finished. It was a simple moment, a quiet celebration of my birthday with my mother alone, with no other participant, no witness, no fanfare. That scene always flashed through my mind now and then and I always treasure that moment. As I grew older, I started to realize the significance of that moment; it was the purest manifestation of a mother’s love and care for her son. Sometimes I tried to figure out what my mother was thinking and how she felt, as she watched me eat the egg, and tears could not resist flooding my eyes. I might have forgotten most of my birthdays celebrated as an adult, but I will always remember this one alone with my mother. This birthday crowns all the birthdays that I had as a grown up and all the birthdays that I will have in the future.