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If you visit any Chinatown around the world, from London to Sydney, from San Francisco to New York, it is likely that you will find “Moon Cake” at the Chinese pastry shops.

What is “Moon Cake”. Really, it is just a round wheat flour pastry, shape of the moon, with a rich thick filling of sweet red bean or lotus seed paste. Some moon cakes may also contain one up to four yolks of salted duck eggs which elevate the quality of this pastry. Round shape symbolizes completeness and reunion.

Traditionally, moon cakes are eaten during The Mid-Autumn Festival, one of four most important Chinese festivals. It is a time when families and acquaintances exchange moon cakes as a gesture of friendship, and a time to get together to admire the moon. In Hong Kong, young lovers try to find high spots, such as the roof of a building or the top of a hill or mountain, to be physically a bit closer to the moon, to romantically watch the moon and to pray for their wishes to come true.

There are several legends surrounding moon cakes.

One had it that the Han Chinese revolutionaries circulated a secret message stuffed inside moon cakes, to orchestrate the overthrow of the ruling Mongols on Mid-Autumn Day. Kublai Khan, a grandson of Genghis Khan, ruled China under the Yuan Dynasty from 1279 to 1368.

Another legend “Chang’e flying to the moon”. Long time ago there were ten Suns which excessive heat dried up plants and killed people. Hou Yi, an accomplished archer, shot nine Suns down, thus saving the world. The Queen Mother of the time awarded Hou Yi a bottle of elixir, fit for one person only, which when taken would make the person immortal and leave the world. Hou Yi preferred to stay with his lovely wife, rather than becoming immortal. One day when Hou Yi was out hunting, Pang Meng, one of his disciples tried to snatch the elixir from Chang’e. Chang’e did not want Pang Meng to have the elixir, and instead drunk it herself. She became immortal and decided to fly to the moon where she could be close enough to earth to watch over her husband.

Another legend, The Jade Rabbit, goes like this. Once upon a time, there were three animals living in a forest, a fox, a monkey and a rabbit. Three Immortals, disguising as beggars, approached the three animals, and asked for food. The fox and the monkey offered them food. The rabbit who was less resourceful had nothing to offer. She said: “Sorry, I don’t have any food to offer but I can offer myself”. Then she jumped into the fire. The three Immortals were deeply touched by the Rabbit’s virtue and decided to make her an immortal and sending her to live in the Moon Palace.

The Mid-Autumn Festival, also called the Moon Festival or the Mooncake Festival, is celebrated on the 15^th of the 8^th Month of the Lunar Calendar, when the moon is at its fullest and brightest. In the Gregorian calendar it is in September or early October. On this day people celebrated and felt grateful for a good harvest, similarly to the Western Thanksgiving Day. Today Mid-Autumn Festival is celebrated as a reunion for family. It is not uncommon for children living overseas to fly back home to unite with their parents to enjoy a family meal followed by moon cake.

Children are particularly excited about The Mid-Autumn Festival, not only a time to enjoy the moon cake, but also a time to go to the park, amidst all other children, each carrying and showcasing his or her own brightly lit colourful paper lantern, flower or animal shaped, rabbit being a favourite.

In Hong Kong there is the popular “Tai Hang Fire Dragon” dance. Here is the origin.

Around 100 years ago, the people of Tai Hang were afflicted by a series of bad luck, first the typhoon disaster, then the plague and the livestock eating pythons. A soothsayer decreed that the only way to stop this calamity was to stage a fire dance for three days and nights during the upcoming “Autumn Festival”. The villagers made a huge dragon from straw and covered it with lit incense joss sticks. For three days and nights the dragon danced, accompanied by the sounds of cymbals and drums and firecrackers. At the end of three days the plague had disappeared. This tradition continues till this day, displaying an impressive 67 metres long straw dragon, attracting thousands of locals as well as tourists.

Tai Hang was a small village within the district of Causeway Bay on Hong Kong Island. This place is dear to my heart because my wife grew up there, and as a family we spent some memorable moments in Tai Hang.

The Chinese Middle School (新華中學) was founded in 1912 by philanthropists Lai Fat Fur, Venpin and Ng Cheng Hin, and closed in 2011 as students opted for western education.  My elder brothers and sisters attended Chinese school, this meant they had to forgo western education. Starting around early 1950 there was a huge shift to attending English school, hence my immediate elder brother and siblings below him went to English school. We therefore could not read or write Chinese.

The Chinese Middle School was situated on a large block of land, surrounded by Dr Joseph Rivière, Remy Ollier and Emmanuel Anquetil Streets, Port Louis. The School apparently came under the umbrella of the Communist Party when Mao Zedong took power in 1949. The Nationalist Party, the Kuomintang, out of Taiwan, opened a second Chinese school in 1941, called The Chung-Hwa Middle School (中華中學). There were occasional clashes between proponents of the two schools, particularly around the National Day of the respective countries.

I spent several years of my childhood around the neighbourhood and have a deep understanding and memory of “Shing Fah”, the Chinese name for the Chinese Middle School. After all, my late father was a teacher there and I attended evening classes there for a couple of years, learning and remembering only a handful of Chinese characters, namely “big”, “small” “school” and my own name. I went back to visit the school in 2014, and all that remained was the main gate of the school.

Let me attempt to describe how the school looked like in the 1960’s. The main gate to the school was on Dr. Joseph Riviere Street. As you enter the gate, to the right was a small courtyard with a small house, residence of the school caretaker. In the middle of the courtyard was a large tree which provided shade to the old folks who regularly came to chat with the caretaker, a nice way to spend an afternoon. The guests sat on wooden stool or bench. The caretaker sat on a more comfortable rattan wicker armchair

Adjacent to the courtyard was a Chinese temple, quite small and dingy, with the usual altar on which sat wooden tablets, statue of Kwan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy (I believe) and large incense burner metal bowl for the joss sticks. There was a verandah with six circular pillars in front of the temple main entrance. I rarely saw any worshipper coming in to pray, I don’t know if it was because Shing Fah was a Communist School, and Communist believes no God.

Facing the Temple was a basketball court, where I and a host of other kids spent numerous hours playing basketball, football or play catch. Due to unaffordability, an old tennis ball was used in lieu of a proper basketball or football. We always played barefoot and occasional bruises or cut formed part of the routine. Sometimes we fell and the skin of our knee peeled off against the rough concrete surface of the court. We just let the blood dried and clogged, no bandage, no complaint, no crybaby. After a couple of days, the blood hardened into a shell and we kids could not resist peeling the shell piece by piece, like peeling a hard boil egg. At times, the wound got infected and oozed out a thick yellow substance which we washed with water and soap. If available, we applied some mercurochrome. I even had my right toe bent sideway up to forty-five degree many times.

When it came to basketball season, tournaments were played here in the evening, the court lighted with six big flood lights hanging over the court along thick metal wires. Two favourite teams were the “Dragon” out of Port Louis and “Wild Cats” out of Rose Hill. I, of course, cheered for Dragon our local team. Spectators paid an entrance fee to attend, there were no sitting, everybody stood along both sides of the court, packed like standing sardines. We, kids, sneaked in through the gate or climbed over walls to get in.

On one end of the court was a tall stone wall separating the court from the residence of the “Tsakok”, a prominent family of Port Louis. Members of the family always watched the game from over the wall, unobstructed, which I qualified as the best seat of the arena.

The highlight of the evening, apart from screaming fans, was the food stalls that lined the street in front of the school gate, selling favourite snacks – fish ball, meat stuffed tofu, gateau arouille or gato violette (deep fried balls of taro), grass jelly cubes (leong fan), pineapple, cucumber, alouda. My favourite treat was the slice of cucumber painted with a thick layer of mazavaroo chili pepper sauce, followed by a cold alouda. The extremely dynamic hot chili pepper never failed to fire a cascade of sweats down my forehead, over my eyelids down to my neck. This was what took my breath away. The stalls were manned by two young teenage brothers who studied at Bhujoharry College, and I thought they were so smart to cash on this opportunity. In the absence of sufficient street light, kerosene lamps were used to brighten the stalls.

The school ran regular black and white movie show in the basketball court on weekends, mostly propaganda movie about how strong and glorious the Communist party was. We all sat on the ground, under open sky, with great expectation, in front of a large white screen, awaiting anxiously the broadcast of the national anthem of China that preceded the shows. We could hear the repeating cranking sound of the projector as the film rolled out from one reel to another.

On the other side of the basketball court was a wooden stage, with tin roof, where live singing, dancing and drama were performed by students or drama clubs on special occasions such as October 1st China National Day or Chinese New Year. The stage was also used by school teacher for announcements and to lead the students gathering below for daily physical exercise.

Behind the temple was the area where the classrooms were situated, two rows of three or four classrooms, with a large open yard in the middle. Access to the classrooms was by way of a narrow corridor with a gate. When school was over, we would climb over the locked gate and entered the classrooms. The student had individual desk and chair, unlike our western school where kids sat shoulder to shoulder on long desk and bench. The desk had the shape of a rectangular box with four legs. The top cover could be flipped open, so that school materials could be secured inside. Often pen, pencils, rubber, ruler and occasional coins were left inside the desk, and naughty we were, we did not hesitate for one moment to serve ourselves. Luckily, we never got caught.

Further ahead was another area with a couple of more classrooms and one small house served as the residence of the Principal and the school’s administrative office. I imagined now and then that my father spent some time here when he was a teacher of the school.

Adjacent to the administrative office was the private property of a Chinese family, separated from the school premises by a stone wall. Considering the size of the dwelling, we know the family was well off. In the middle of its courtyard was a mango tree and during blooming season, kids could not keep their eyes off the tempting juicy looking mangoes.

One afternoon, I and my best buddy decided to climb the wall on to the roof of the house. Our motives were obvious. While on the roof, ready to pluck the best-looking mango, we saw the school Principal coming our way. My buddy, as if by magic, was down on the ground in a second, leaving me up on the roof hanging high and dry. It was a critical moment for me, a matter of life and death, I was toast. Then, a brilliant idea flashed through my mind. I pretended to be a member of the proprietor household. I sat relaxed on the roof pretending to be enjoying the afternoon and admiring at the family mangoes. Just when I thought that I had fooled the Principal, a resounding sound from below came crashing into my ears: “Hey you, what are you doing up there on my roof”. He was the owner of the house and he had caught me red-handed. In a flash, I was down on the ground floor in front of the Principal. The rest was history.

In 1865 a group of British Merchants in Hong Kong banded together to establish a bank to facilitate trade with China. A branch was opened in Hong Kong and one in Shanghai, hence these two cities formed part of the Bank’s name, The HongKong and Shanghai Banking Corporation Limited, now widely known as HSBC. It was a dream of young men and women seeking a banking career in 1960’s Hong Kong to join HSBC. It was the most reputable and envied bank then and people called it “The Bank”.

HSBC was very much a British run bank, all the bank executives were from Britain and were referred to as IO’s, International Officers. The IO’s were mobile and every couple of years were posted in various countries, thus giving them valuable international exposure. Time changed, and in 1960’s HSBC started to recruit local people to executive position. These local executives were referred to as RO’s, Resident Officers, and they were initially not eligible to overseas postings.

Resident Officer’s post was the envy of every bank employee but hard to get. A University degree was the minimum requirement and I did not have one. There were some exceptional cases of promotion from the rank and file, where the incumbents were highly recommended by their manager or they were studying for a Diploma in Banking.

For many weekends I remember sitting at my girlfriend’s home dining table or on a quiet bench at Victoria Park, studying for the Banking Diploma, through a London Business School Correspondence Course. I naturally applied for the Resident Officer position at HSBC, also at Chartered Bank, a distant second choice. I sat with over 100 candidates for a preliminary written examination held in the imposing banking hall of the Chartered Bank Head Office for three hours. You guess right. I did not make it.

My late mother always talked about benefactor and guardian angel. Indeed, an angel came down to open a door for me. Here is the story.

A Mauritian friend of mine, named Jackie (a male), who moved to Hong Kong around the same time as me, had a girlfriend, a nice beautiful girl of Portuguese descent. Her name was Evelyne and she was the personal secretary of the Personnel Officer of HSBC. The Personnel Officer was a British Lady, tough, no nonsense and powerful, no staff dared to be on her bad side.  Her name was Miss Unthank and she had undisputed authority over recruitment of local staff. Thus, Jackie secured a job as a result of the connection.

Shortly after, I met Jackie and lamented about my failure to join HSBC, I did not know that he was already a Resident Officer in training. Jackie introduced me to Evelyne who arranged an interview with Miss Unthank. “I will take in a second Mauritian and no more” was the comment made by Miss Unthank to Evelyne after my interview. I guessed that I should have somehow impressed Miss Unthank. I was the happiest person in Hong Kong, and I was and will always be grateful to all three “benefactors”. I look at them as three links of a chain, missing any one link made the chain no more.

Then, some turn of event shot dark clouds over my sky. The story is like this. HSBC sent me for a medical check-up, a requirement for all Officer’s employment, my X-Ray showed traces of Tuberculosis. I explained to the Doctor that I was completely cured and offered to provide him with a written confirmation from my Doctor. However, the Bank Doctor did not bother to wait and forwarded the unfavourable medical report to the Bank.

It was a devastating moment for me. My one and only chance for my dream Bank was shattered by the irresponsible action of one Doctor. “Is it not the duty of a Doctor to save life. This Doctor instead put a rope round my neck”, this thought run through my mind time and time again. Fortunately, all was not lost. Miss Unthank sent me to Ruttonjee Sanatorium which specialized in the treatment of tuberculosis, for a second opinion. She had no obligation to do this, but I was glad she did. Tuberculosis was a disease that was widespread in Hong Kong at the time. I was certified fine. This was my second chance.

No doubt, Jackie, Evelyne and Miss Unthank were all my guardian angels but I also believe that I must have been a good person in the first place, else why would any one care to extend you a hand.

In Imperial China Emperors invariably maintained harems of concubines, to the extent that some concubines never ever had a chance to see, less sleep, with the Emperor after the Concubine Selection process. Similarly, local landlords were legally allowed to have as many concubines as they could afford. In many cases, the main wife even encouraged the husband to acquire concubines, where they were unable to conceive, as it was paramount to have a male descendant. Further, concubines raised the status of the main wife to a “Tai Ma” (big wife) with undisputed power and authority over the lower status concubines. One side effect of concubinage was the fierce and at times fatal power struggle that ensued between concubines and between half-brothers.

Imperial history became interesting and intriguing as the male offspring of competing concubines battled one another for the attention and favour of the Emperor.  In the pursuit to inherit the throne, half-brothers did not hesitate to betray and resort to murder.  Emperors, worried about siblings in-fighting, were at times compelled to take the hard road of removing, by way of life prison or death, a threatening son so that another favourite son could ascend the throne without challenge.

Although Imperial concubines were subservient to the reigning Empress, this did not prevent them from seizing power and becoming powerful Emperor, as were the case of Empress Wu Zetian, the only female Emperor in the Chinese history, and Empress Dowager Cixi (Empress Dowager is defined as the mother or widow of a Chinese Emperor).

There are numerous Chinese movies depicting the intrigues of Imperial households on Youtube and the likes, with English subtitles, a great entertainment for any evening.

Concubinage was abolished in China when the Communist took power in 1949 and Hong Kong later in 1971. However, concubinage continues to be socially tolerated in China and Hong Kong even today, although it is not legally recognized. The term is now changed to “Er Nai”, literally Second Wife.

As China opened its door to trade in the 90’s and its citizens became affluent, keeping an Er Nai became not only widely popular but represented a symbol of power, wealth and social status. It is widely believed that most corrupt Government Officials and affluent businessmen in China maintain at least a second wife, if not a third and fourth.

Honkongers also jumped on the bandwagon when factories started to move from the Colony to mainland China for its cheap land and labour. They usually spend weekdays attending to their factories, returning home for the weekends.

China became a perfect breeding ground for Er Nai, young Chinese women seeking financial stability by offering themselves as Second Wife, and lonely businessmen away from home seeking companionship and pleasure. Typically, the arrangement, a business arrangement per se, requires the man to provide a comfortable apartment in China and a pre-negotiated monthly allowance to the Er Nai. There is even established rate for an Er Nai depending on the cities in China, with Beijing commanding a premium. To ensure a long and permanent relationship with the “husband”, Er Nai made sure to bear children, reported to number in half a million, a clever tactic to hold on to their man.  However, Er Nai know where they stand and do not seek to replace the main wife, content to maintain the second wife status.

Mistress villages have sprung up in cities close to Hong Kong, namely Shenzhen, so that the men can drop by the apartment to be with the Er Nai for a short period before taking the train back to Hong Kong to have dinner with the wife.

Prior to 1971 in Hong Kong, it was legal to have several wives and concubines. Polygamy and concubine were common in Imperial China and continued in Hong Kong till 1971, making Hong Kong the only Colony in the British Empire embracing this practice. It is interesting to note that the “main wife” often encouraged the husband to seek a concubine, where she was unable to conceive. Further a concubine automatically raised the status of the main wife to “Tai Ma” (big wife) with undisputed authority over the concubine.

My father-in-law was a druggist and he owned a successful drugstore in Western District, which is a stone throw away from the business centre of Hong Kong. He had two wives, maintained two households, owned a business and drove a car, not an easy feat for someone living in the 1940’s. Unfortunately, due to his neglect and penchant for a leisure life, he lost his drugstore business to one conniving nephew. Overnight the comfortable lifeline was severed.

Hong Kong people were and are still reputed to be resilient, adaptable, persevering, undaunted, so was my father-in-law. He had to re-invent himself, and he did but not without some hardship. There were times when there was no money to put food on the table and my late mother-in-law, a good-hearted easy-going woman, had had to seek help from some caring neighbours. This was at a time when her seven children were still young and had yet to finish school.

My father-in-law moved on to a new business venture and began manufacturing medicinal pills, for cure of internal disorder like diarrhea, stomach pains, ulcers and other ailments. If you are envisioning a plush state of the art laboratory, think again. The manufacturing process took place at home in the kitchen. Powders and crushed herbs were mixed with water into a dough, shaped into small pills and baked, a crude way to produce medicine. Imagine the consequences today if the pills cause health complication. Hong Kong was then famous as a free country, with a liberal “Laissez Faire” policy which led Hong Kong to progress quickly from a “Barren Rock” to one of the most sophisticated cities in the World.

Later my father-in-law tried his hand at “Fung Shui”, the Chinese art of Geomancy. He quickly became a Fung Shui Master. He did very well in this enterprise because not only was he knowledgeable or perceived to be knowledgeable in this field, but he was a convincing talker. He could hold an audience. Further, Hong Kong was flooded with newcomers from China who were superstitious and willing to pay high price for a glimpse of what the future lay ahead for them.

My father-in-law had a bad temper, a trademark of the household. Here is an episode. The family lived on the third floor of a building with no elevator.  Every time my father-in-law returned home, he pressed the buzzer, which was located on the ground floor, three times, effectively a siren to warn people to hide. Should one cross his path, hell broke loose. He needed no shout, just one long penetrating side glance, this was enough to send a shiver down one’s spine. Only after he had cooled down through a face and torso wash, life resumed its normal course.

In fairness, I had also witnessed the good side of my father-in-law. One time, he was in a good mood, a rare occasion. He gave her youngest and favourite daughter a twenty-dollar bill, quite a sum then, his face radiating with a caring smile and fatherly love.

Face was and is important to Chinese people. People from Shanghai in particular were reputed to dress extremely neat for appearance when in public while at home they might have to endure a meagre meal of simple congee. My father-in-law, not from Shanghai but from Chiu Chow, never left home without a well ironed shirt and pants.

Mother-in-law and all siblings regularly enjoyed Dim Sum together, an established family activity, but father-in-law never joined once. Instead he indulged heavily on his pet birds, a popular and prestigious past time of the older folks, spending numerous hours feeding the birds with live crickets and grasshoppers, cleaning their feathers, exchanging whistling, talking to them, and keeping the bird cage in tip top condition. He needed his treasured pets to be at their best when show casing them at the morning gathering of bird lovers at the park.

When it comes to punctuality, no country can beat Japan. There was a case in Japan last year when a commuter train had left the platform one minute earlier than scheduled. The next day commuters who had missed this train, strongly expressed their dissatisfaction through the social media. The Station Master had to apologize and humbly bow to the public.

Since an early age I was very conscious of the importance of being punctual. It is a good habit that is always appreciated by the people around you. When I was attending primary school in Mauritius, I hated to be late because the school gate would be locked. Then, it required great courage to knock on the door to be let in and brought straight to the Principal’s office, and further endured embarrassment in front of the teacher and the class. Little kids we were, frightened and abandoned. On some occasions, I and other kids chose to skip school rather than go through this horrendous experience. We lingered around town until end of class and went home as we normally do. Mothers were always too busy to check or care. We got away scot-free.

My first serious test of punctuality occurred when I was about 17 years old. I was a Form 7 student at St. Andrews School, Rose Hill. St Andrews was at that time an Anglican School run by British Priests. Discipline was stricter than in the Local Government schools, and students behaved well.  One summer during the school break, a small group of classmates decided to climb the “Montagne Le Pouce” (Thumb Mountain). From my home in Port Louis I could see the North side of the mountain, which peak has the shape of a thumb. I had always wished to climb it. The night before the hiking, I was very nervous because I was afraid to oversleep and miss my rendez-vous. In that era, most families did not own an alarm clock. They woke up to the cry of the cockcrow. I relied on my mother for the wake-up call.

I did not need a lot of preparation for the journey, no hat, no sunscreen, not even a bottle of water. I rode my bicycle from home on Aleppo Street to the central bus station near Government House, from where I took a bus to Rose Hill. We were to gather at a designated bus stop. From Rose Hill, we were to take another bus to the foot of Montagne Le Pouce, on the south side. I arrived at the meeting place, rather punctual but could be a couple of minutes late.  I fretted when there was nobody at the bus stop. I waited a couple of minutes and still no sign of any of my classmates. “Oh my Lord, I must have been late and the group had left” I told myself. In a panic, I jumped on the first bus that showed up, and hoped to catch up with my friends at the foot of the mountain. I remember the bright sun, the serenity of the route, sugar cane fields, the exotic flamboyant trees and the occasional nonchalant ox cart stacked to the brim with freshly cut sugar cane. When I got off near the foot of “Le Pouce”, I frantically looked left, right and centre, still could not locate even one shadow of a man. It was early in the morning, not a soul to be seen.

My mind quickly told me that I must walk up the path fast. Time was of the essence. I should then be able to join the group. The climb was rather easy for the early part, the foot path was narrow at times but not intimidating, luxuriant shrubs and bushes and trees lined both sides of the beaten path. I was too agitated and eager to find my friends that I missed out on enjoying the hike. The temperature was bearable because as I climbed higher the air became cooler. Still, I sweated a lot and my shirt completely drenched due to the fact that I was racing against time. No stop, no rest, no water. Just pushing hard ahead.

Thinking back now, I could have put myself in a lot of trouble had I, for instance, slipped or lost my balance and fell, or attacked by wild animals. None of these crossed my mind and it never occurred to me that there might be some degree of danger. Just need to catch up. After a good half an hour, I was halfway up the mountain. At that time, I met a couple of local people coming down from uphill, I did not know why they were there, if not to hunt for wild animals. I asked them if they had seen a group of youngsters. “No” was the answer.

I covered the upper half of the mountain just short of an hour, until I reached the lower part of the ‘Thumb”. This last stretch was quite steep and required more effort on my part, but that did not deter me. When I reached the summit, I was astounded to see the place empty. I wondered what had happened to my classmates. Why were they not here. The summit was very small in area and could only accommodate a handful of people. I took a brief break to enjoy the vista, a 360 degree majestic view of the Island. I was pleased with myself for accomplishing something that as a kid, I had always wanted to do. I could see Port Louis City and Champ de Mars, the racecourse, a place my friends and I frequented many Saturdays.

I did not want to stay too long all by myself and started my descent. The descent was much easier and comfortable and in no time, I was halfway down the mountain. Then, to my relief I saw a group of young people coming up my way. My face secretly revealed a smile. “Here they are, my buddies” I said to myself. I was not late. They were.

Needless to say I was very happy to join the group to climb up Le Pouce for a second time.

My five years old granddaughter wanted a pet. When we explained that her older brother was allergic to dog’s hair, she was quick to suggest a hamster, a rabbit or a lizard. The simple mention of lizard always sends a shiver down my spine. I am lizard-phobia. When I was growing up we had lizards running on the wall at home. For some reason we always killed them with a whack of our slipper or kids would shoot them with elastic bands. The tail always fell off and kept wiggling way long after the lizard was already dead. We were warned of the extreme danger of the tail getting into our ears, a myth some adults must have made up. Once while in bed I saw two lizards fighting each other on the ceiling above my head, I just froze and prayed that they would disperse quickly. Just as I had predicted they fell off the ceiling but missed me by a couple of feet. Once while travelling in Papua New Guinea, I had to face dozens of lizards surrounding the light by my room’s door, each in an attacking position ready to pounce on the moths circulating the light bulb. Inside the room more bad news, more lizards on walls. Well they needed to make a living and food was available around a lighted bulb. I knew lizards were harmless but my heart could not stop pounding, until I finally closed my eyes and slept. Keeping a pet is a big commitment. We have to be prepared to ensure their safety and wellbeing, as close to raising a new baby.

When I was growing up in Mauritius in the 1950`s we had a dog in the house. It was not really a pet but it was necessary to have a dog to keep our home safe from intruders. It barked loud and knew how to put on an aggressive demeanour as the occasion dictated. Then most households would not allow dogs inside the house, they simply lived outdoor on their own. Come rain and they had to figure out where best to hide from dripping water. There were no dog food and invariably dogs just ate the leftover of our dinners. I remember our dog could not wait for the food, it particularly enjoyed the bones that we threw at them. So then there was no need to recycle our left over food. Most of the time our dog just lay down and slept under a makeshift cover in the courtyard. What else could he do. Walking the dogs or taking them to the field or beach for exercising and refreshing their minds were never heard of. Yet I believed our dog was happy having a place to call home, if he could understand that there were a large number of stray dogs in the vicinity. These stray dogs lived from day to day, scavenging any and every trace of food they could find on the street. The dogs were obviously filthy, some were starved to the bones, some loosing their hair, some bruised, some limping. No one was there for them. That`s the dog’s life. To them the greatest nightmare was when the dog squad came in the neighbourhood, the squad was the City “dog police“ coming to catch stray dogs, a necessary act to curb rabies. They came in a truck, with three to four strongmen brandishing long bamboo poles, with a net attached at the end. The net was placed over the dog and scooped, to the howling sounds of frightened and abused dogs. Often domestic dogs, if they did not have an identification tag around their necks, were also caught in the process. Now the owners had to go to the municipality compound to reclaim their dogs and paying a fine. Unclaimed dogs were systematically disposed of by incineration after a prescribed number of days had passed.

Of course I witnessed frequent dog fight in the street, weaker dogs savagely bitten by bigger dogs. The fight only ended when some good men came in with sticks to disband the fighting dogs. Dogs knew the neighbours and usually left them alone, but come the Postman and the scenery changed. We kids just had a good laugh when we saw the dogs chasing the postman and nine out of ten times biting him on his buttocks.

Once we saw two dogs having intercourse in the street and they got stuck together even when the male had repositioned and was bum to bum with the partner, pulling in opposite direction. A long time passed before some adults came in to separate them. I felt so sorry for the dogs, a rare but traumatic moment for them.

One day our dog died, I think due to old age. There was no City facility to dispose of the body, and I think most dead dogs simply ended up in the garbage truck that came in the neighbourhood once every couple of days. I was too young to feel too sad but we all did miss him. People acquired dogs only when they were puppies. Once a while the neighbourhood would be aroused with the news that a dog had given birth to a number of puppies, usually in the half dozen. All puppies are cute. The owner would give the puppies away for free to whoever wanted one. We did not acquire a new dog because I believed that there were no new born dogs at the time and further our siblings were growing bigger, so that the protection of a dog was no longer a necessity.

My second brother was about eight years older than me, in between we had three sisters and another brother. I did not see much of my second brother because he was not living at home. He did not like school and surely he skipped a lot of classes. Somehow he survived alone outside of the family nest, he worked here and there, each job did not last too long as he was never a serious and responsible employee, he was then fifteen or sixteen years old. Outwardly he was a “vagabond” to my mother but inwardly he was still a son, a beloved son. The Chinese has a saying: “All fingers are not the same length” and yet each finger is as important and lovable as the next. In a traditional Chinese family this brother would be considered the black sheep of the family, yet I knew and felt that he was loved by all of us, my mother, my father and all the siblings.

He smoked at an early age and drank liberally, not to mention that gambling was deeply entrenched in his vocabulary. Sometimes he came home for a couple of hours, took a cold shower which entailed standing in his short and scooping water from the drum sitting in the courtyard and pouring the water over his head down to his body. I remember one time he asked me to get him a couple of rupees, he must have been really desperate. He could not have gone near the till of our shop lest he triggered suspicion, but I could easily sneak in and I did steal two rupees and gave them to him.

Pellet gun I once hold and shoot in my childhood.

Group picnic arranged by schools was very popular. Mauritius has beautiful beaches such as Mont Choisy above

Occasionally he visited and brought us things. Once he brought us some fish. He just came back from fishing using speargun and dynamite. Naturally dynamite was and is dangerous but to the young it was cool. Around that time a younger brother of my brother-in-law, like other knowledge-thirsty teenagers, was trying his hand at new things. Once he brought over a pellet gun to our home and shot at empty cans laying in the street. He even let me hold the gun and shoot. I was seven or eight. He sometimes made his own pellet ammo to shoot at birds with a slingshot. Then one inauspicious morning he went on a group picnic to the beach, a very exciting activity for young people. Participants boarded the bus by the Chinese school’s gate, he had under his armpit a small package wrapped in newspaper. Several nights before he had been assembling a home-made dynamite which he had intended to use to blow up the fish. Unfortunately the dynamite exploded under his armpit in the bus, when the wires got in contact accidentally. He did not make it that day.

Speargun fishing reminiscence of James Bond movies. It is still a popular activity in many countries.

Dynamite fishing, though widely banned, still active in many parts of the world.

Slingshot a popular gadget
kids used to shoot at birds.

Pellet gun ammo made of lead sometime used with a slingshot to shoot at birds

I also remember vividly when one hot afternoon my brother brought home some ice cream bars. He had just taken a job with “Happy World” a popular manufacturer of ice cream. It was the first time for all of us at home to experience this treat, something we had never seen before, chocolate wrapped over ice cream. Amazingly Happy World Company seems to be still in operation today.

This brother was always full of drama. I wrote earlier when he whacked a bottle over the head of a drunkard who was causing disturbance in our boutique. One day he came home in a panic with his sweet heart to run away from the girl’s family. I think he was caught that Sunday when he secretly visited the girl at her family’s boutique in the country side. It was a tense moment and my mother, she always made the final decision, directed them to take refuge at an aunt’s home, knowing full well that the girl’s parents would come to put up a fight. The parents indeed arrived that evening with a group of relatives in two cars, angry, loud and threatening, and demanded that we delivered their daughter. I remember the parents vowed that if they did not get back their daughter by midnight, she was no longer theirs. But time cured all. Some years later somehow the event was accepted by all concerned.

My father, seeing no future for this brother in Mauritius, suggested that he should go to England. At that time Mauritius was a British Colony and its citizens were free to settle in England. It took two weeks by steamer to England round the Cape of Good Hope, and we were really elated when we received a post card from him mailed from Cape Town. England changed my brother’s life. He turned over a new leaf and through hard work worked his way up to a managerial position in a garment import company in London. Some years later my sister-in-law and nephew joined him.

From Mauritius steamers went round the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa, to England.

But one thing did not change. He just could not stop drinking and smoking, a bottle of whisky a day was not a hard thing for him. He knew that his liver was beyond cure and he would not want to go through medical treatment. He chose to continue enjoying life as is though short it would be. He left us in his sixties.

The Government of Mauritius offered four major Scholarships each year to top students, two for the Primary School Examination and two for the Secondary School Examination. The first scholarship entitled the winners to free education at the Government run Royal College, and the second entitled the winners to study abroad at a University all expenses paid. To quality the students should not be over 12 years and 19 years of age respectively at time of examination.

My son in front of The Royal College Curepipe, my dream but not attainable college.

When I was in Primary Five, my family realized that I would be over 12 years of age for the Primary School Examination and therefore would be ineligible for the Scholarship. To allow me a chance to shoot for the Secondary School Scholarship, I skipped Primary Six and moved to Form I. In hindsight it was all wishful thinking as I was academically far from the elite students. Nonetheless it was a positive thinking and encouragement from my family.

There were three types of secondary schools (or colleges as we called them). The best college was the Government run “College Royal”, only two on the Island, one at Port Louis and one at Curepipe. The second best was colleges run by religious organizations, namely The Catholic and The Anglican Faiths. The last category was run by private entities and I ended in there at “Trinity College”. Three years ago, some sixty years later, I returned to Mauritius and visited the Trinity College. The building was intact except that the windows and doors were dilapidated and the school no longer in business. I reminisced my younger days at the school, the buzzling sound of students, the lining of students in the school yard, the morning prayer recital , and last but not least the Indian street vendor with his cart full of delicious roti, parked daily without fail by the school under the banyan tree.

The Trinity College looks the same today as it was 50 years ago, except the dilapidated balcony and doors

Street vendors were popular as they are now. The best roti and dhal puri could be found here.

College life was pretty exciting as we started to learn a little more than we did in primary schools. I was excited about physics and geometry but hated biology and chemistry. Latin was a breeze of fresh air. Because I jumped one class, I ended in the same class with my elder brother. It was a comfort to me to have a big brother protecting his little brother. We studied to Form V and had to change college because Trinity College had no Form VI.

Through some referral I was accepted to continue my Form VI at St. Mary’s College in the suburb of Rose Hill. St. Mary’s was run by Catholic Brothers and discipline was stricter than when I was at Trinity. It was a prestigious school and we felt proud when we walked in the streets in our school uniform, badge prominently displayed on our front pocket. That pride dissipated quickly as I got in trouble for not complying with the school’s rule requiring students to have their shorts to almost reach the knees, mine was way too short. I could not remember why I did not get a longer shorts, could be that I did not want my parents to spend more money on new shorts, knowing how hard it was already for them to send me to college. While primary education was free and compulsory, secondary school came with a monthly fee. One morning I was told to stand in front of the class and the teacher, after satisfied that my shorts did not meet the school standard, administered on my bum three whacks of the cane. I believed that I was one of the few, if not only, students who had ever been caned in this school. An unpleasant experience.

The St. Mary’s College, Rose Hill in 2014 almost unchanged from 1960s

We were proud to show off our school badge

My parents were concerned about the incident and frantically checked with a cousin of mine who was studying at St. Andrew’s School, which interestingly was situated on the same street as St. Mary’s. My cousin managed to get me into his school, run by the Anglican Diocese. My mother often reminded us that in life we sometimes met “Guardian Angel” who opened some doors for us. I still remember the “good fortune” and am ever grateful to my cousin. I had no issue with my short shorts. One characteristic of this school was that the school consisted of a cluster of several independent buildings on a huge lot with mature trees, in contrast to other schools that had only one huge building. Secondly we did not have a fixed classroom, but had to walk to different class rooms when the bell rang at the end of each lesson, to attend another academic subject. This was refreshing as it broke the monotony of sitting all day at the same desk and in the same classroom. Thirdly it was the only co-ed secondary school at the time. I felt quite at ease, the environment more liberal but still disciplined. Students and teachers mingled pretty well, we felt a sense of mutual respect. One teacher even arranged for a field trip, my first ever, to a saw mill at Moka. I remember riding my bike to that location from Port Louis through serene sugar cane field and row of flamboyant trees to join the party.

The main entrance of St. Andrew’s School, Rose Hill

St. Andrew’s School consisted of a cluster of smaller buildings in a huge yard with mature trees

I might have biked my way on this road to join the “sawmill” field trip party in Moka. Nothing seems to have changed fifty years later.

One day the school organized a cocktail party for the Lower and Upper Six students, I think it was on a Saturday afternoon. I never before attended any party, and innocent I was, I attended in my usual school’s shorts and short sleeve white shirt. As a matter of fact I did not have a pair of long pants and long sleeve shirt. I felt like a fish out of water when I realized that I was severely underdressed. Further while my outgoing classmates enjoyed striking a good conversation with the teachers and priests, some of us including myself were shy and did not really know how to present ourselves inside the crowd. My shortfall was evidently the result of the traditional Chinese parents molding their children into keeping quiet when in the presence of other people, particularly seniors and superiors.

It was usual for students to take private tuition after school on subjects that they were weak. My brother and I, again at great sacrifice on my family, attended private lesson from a well recommended teacher who was educated in England. I remember she read, among others, a book about Tutankhamun, the Pharaoh of Egypt. We did not have a Public Library then to access such books, so it was an eye opener for me to learn new things. Every end of the month we handed in our tuition fees. Then one time the tutor said that we did not make the last payment, though we did. She would not accept any explanation and my family forked out one more time. I was disappointed but not angry because she could have forgotten. I had wished in that circumstance that people who were in a better situation could give the benefit of the doubt to the less fortunate.

Finally I sat for the Cambridge Higher School Certificate Examination and passed. Continuing to University was a dream but not an option for me, way unaffordable. We did not have then a University in Mauritius.