PassingCloud.net

In the 60s I used to go to my then girlfriend’s home every Saturday after work. We took a bus and got off at the bus terminus on Tung Lo Wan Road, from there we walked a couple of blocks under the canopy of some old pre-war buildings (called “Tong Lau”), built circa 1920s with large columns lining the pavements. The ground floors of the buildings were mainly small retail shops including not surprisingly the very traditional Hong Kong Pawn Shop, while the upper floors were residential. We then made a left turn on to Wun Sha Street, a pretty large street with small makeshift stalls lining on both sides. Food produce and housewares were the main items on sale: vegetables, eggs, dried goods, canned food, stationery, newspaper, pots and pans as well as joss sticks and ghost paper money to burn away at the nearby Lin Fa Temple built in 1863. Behind these small stalls were newer residential buildings seven or eight story in height with elevators. The ground floor housed restaurant, Chinese medicine shop, pharmacy, laundry shop, flower shop and meat market where proud butchers busily worked with their cleaver on large heavy wooden blocks. There was a distinct smell of stale and raw meat as the market and street were never washed enough. A heavy rain during the typhoon season was a welcome event to clear away the smell and dirt. The butcher had a special status in the community, everybody paid him a lot of respect as he decided who get the choicest chunk of meat.

A “Tong Lau” built at the turn of last century, with typical huge columns hanging down to the pavement.

Lin Fa Temple built 1863, since renovated, still stands proud today

Better be good to the butcher if you want the choicest chunk of meat.

Hong Kong people ate mostly beef, pork, chicken and fish and they wanted them fresh, not frozen. Vegetables arrived daily from the New Territories but today are mainly imported from mainland China. In spite of the advent of supermarket, there are still today many “wet markets” around the city which carry fresh meat and fresh vegetable.

Hong Kong people like fresh vegetables, now arrived daily mainly from mainland China

There was also a “Tai Pai Dong”, the roadside stall, on Wun Sha Street. Tai Pai Dongs were popular because the food was cheap and good. They became an icon of the food culture in Hong Kong. Wonton noodles, fish balls and Hong Kong style tea were their specialities. We ate there regularly though hygiene left much to be desired. To bring some comfort to ourselves, it was routine to ask for a glass of hot water which we used to rinse our chopsticks and bowls. Remnants of food were routinely spat on the table and floor. Though the table was uncaringly wiped for the next customer, the floor was cleaned only once at close of business.

Tai Pai Dong, once an icon of Hong Kong food culture, almost dying out.

The neighbourhood was called Tai Hang which translates as Big Canal. A small stream once run openly along Wun Sha Street, but today run underneath the street and openly on the other side of Tung Lo Wan Road.

Everybody knew everybody in this neighbourhood, my mother-in-law played mahjong with the neighbours. The community was so close that borrowing salt and sugar from a neighbour was not out of ordinary. The normally short walk along Wun Sha Street became a long walk for my mother-in-law as she could not escape greeting and gossiping along the way.

Wun Sha Street with makeshift stalls, a long walk to my mother-in-law

My mother-in-law lived on the third floor, the balcony served some great purposes including drying clothes

My girlfriend family lived on the third floor of a town house complex, built at the turn of the 20th century, on an elevated terrace, with no elevators. Her home was an end unit which attracted lot of sunlight from three sides. The apartment had a small balcony facing Wun Sha Street from where we could experience the ever bustling street activities. The balcony, like all others, was equipped with bamboo poles for drying clothes. It was not a bother to the residents when we talked to people below from the balcony, however loud or heated the conversation might be. We often lowered a rattan basket down to the street hawkers to pick up goodies, saving a lot of sweat from stair climbing.

Drying clothes on bamboo poles from the balcony, a part of Hong Kong history and heritage

The flat was about 500 square feet. The main door opened into a square living room which led to the kitchen at the back through a narrow corridor. On the right of the corridor were two bed rooms, one for the parents and a smaller room for the girls. The rooms were enclosed by six foot tall wooden panels, this allowed air circulation and sunlight through the unhindered space above the panels. The boys slept on a bunker bed placed against the wall along the corridor. The kitchen was primitive, no range or oven, just a gas stove sitting on a concrete slab. Gas was delivered in heavy metal containers, carried by slim sweaty muscular shop assistants from the corner store. Today some parts of the city still use gas stove, and gas containers are still carried to the residents by shop assistants. There was no air conditioning, only a large ceiling fan in the living room, a luxury in its time. A great comfort to the family was having its own toilet cum bathroom, though tiny it was.

Typical inside of a Tong Lau residence, with six foot tall panels enclosing the bed rooms.

From the window of the main bedroom, we could see a lush green hill with makeshift shacks hanging precariously on the slopes. The dwellers were mainly illegal immigrants who had descended on Hong Kong from mainland China in search of a better life. When typhoons hit the Colony, the dwellers suffered brutally but were grateful if there were no loss of life.

Makeshift shacks hung precariously on the hill side of Tai Hang

My father was born in 1900 in China, Meixian, of Hakka ancestry, thus he was raised when the last Empress Dowager Cixi was still ruling China. I do not know much about his early life but I guess that he was doing not so bad if he had been able to receive a good education. What prompted him and my mother to leave China to immigrate to Mauritius was probably, like any parent in the world, to provide a better future for their children.

Meixian is located in Meizhou, North East of Guangdong Province

China in the first half of the twentieth century was not a good place to live, much less to raise a family. It was a chaotic and lawless era, warlords fighting warlords, the Communists fighting the Nationalists and Japan interfering in China. So those who could leave immigrated overseas. Why chose Mauritius! This is a good question. My father had an elder brother who was already in Mauritius, he in turn would have known somebody there before him. The first Chinese settlers, mainly Cantonese speaking, arrived in Mauritius circa 1780, from Canton Province but gradually overtaken by Hakka immigrants from Meixian.

I believe my parents took a boat from Hong Kong, because my father told us an anecdote about Hong Kong. When he was there in a restaurant the waitress sat on his lap and fed him peanuts as part of the establishment’s service, a very bold concept to the traditional Chinese culture. This was how advanced and liberal Hong Kong was.

My father’s first job in Mauritius was teaching at the Chinese Middle School (Sin-Hwa) which was established in 1912, a pro-Communist school at Dr. Joseph Riviere Street. A second Chinese middle school (Chung-Hwa) was later established in 1941 by the Kuomintang, a pro-Nationalist school at Remy Ollier Street. The Communist and The Kuomintang were arch enemies in China, their conflict sometimes spilled at the two schools, particularly during their respective National Day, October 1st and October 10th.

Mao Zedong the Leader of the Communist Party in China

Chiang Kai-Shek Leader of the Kuomingtang Party, arch enemy of the Communists.

The entrance to the Chinese Middle School (Sin-Hwa), still stands intact as it was at least since 1950s

I do not know the year my parents moved to Mauritius but they must be a young couple then because all the children were born in Mauritius. When I started to remember thing, around age six or seven, my father was no longer a teacher. I do not know the reason why he quitted the School. He must have been unhappy with the school politics as he opened his own Chinese school for a brief period near Saint Croix. Afterward he worked as manager of a Chinese business club on Desforges Street near Dr. Joseph Riviere Street. He lived at the Club rather than at our boutique at Aleppo Street. My brothers, my sisters and I visited our father often. We had a few friends there. We also visited our eldest sister’s place just round the block.

Desforges Street 1950s where the Chinese Club was located, not too far from the Town Hall

My recollection of the Club was that my father was pretty busy attending to the demand of club members, and I remember he was allowed to run a side business selling soft drink, beer and snacks to Club members. I sometimes assisted in serving the members. My father loved “Ceylon” tea with condensed milk, and he always made some for us. Indians were famous for their special brew Ceylon tea and occasionally we went to their tea shops to enjoy their tea and delicious pastries.

The tea stall that I knew in 1950s Mauritius will look like this tea stall in India

My father was easy going, rarely screamed at us, much less caned us, a normal form of punishment to most kids then. The only time my father hit me and my brother was when we accidentally shot a self made bamboo arrow at a grown up. Then it was a mild whack on the hand with a ruler, more for show and symbolic than to really inflict pain on us. He rarely complained, got angry or showed displeasure but he was disciplined and well organized and cared for us. When we kids misbehaved or not listening, he knocked our head with his knuckles, a common and traditional Chinese show of authority, that was the extent of his disciplinary action. My best recollection of him was when he held my hand and walked me to my first day at school, and while waiting for the gate to open he bought me a treat from an old Indian lady. I always remember and cherish that moment.

My father had a deep appreciation of Indian culture, so he particularly liked to watch Indian movies at “Rex” and “Luna Park” cinemas. Very often he brought me along and I also fell for Indian movies which centred on good guys fighting bad guys and good Gods fighting evil Gods, dramatized by lively music and songs.

A renovated “Rex” cinema on Desforges Street, Port Louis, where my father and I watched many Indian movies.

One day my father collapsed at the Club probably due to hard work and inadequate diet. My second eldest brother, by miracle, happened to pass by the Club, found our father on the floor and quickly seek help. In a way he saved our father. My father went through surgery and was hospitalized at Moka Hospital for several months. We were grateful to our brother-in-law who arranged for everything, and every Sunday he drove us in his Austin to spend time with our dad. I loved Moka for its serenity, fresh air, open space and the colourful flamboyant trees.

Moka in the 1970s unchanged from 1950s, serene, refreshing, colourful.

My late brother-in-law posing by his Austin or Morris. He drove us a lot in this car. I think it was me and my niece on the balcony.

After recovery my father quitted his job at the Club and returned to live with us at the boutique. Although I was small, I felt quite happy that we were now together as a family. We did not need or rather we could not afford an extra hand at the boutique, so my father took up a job with a prominent Chinese firm, Lai Fat Fur & Company. My father was one of several people looking after Mr. Lai’s warehouse on Jummah Mosque Street. His work was demanding and when he came home he was so exhausted that he often fell asleep on the bed. Watching him, I felt a pinch of sadness in my heart and I would quietly remove his shoes so that he could nap more comfortably.

Most Sunday morning we did some house cleaning, the most important task was to eliminate the bed bugs that lived in the cracks of the wooden planks of our beds. The bed bugs lived exclusively on human blood and every night they came out to bite us. When I caught and squashed them a pool of my own blood splashed on my finger. My father would stand each plank straight up and bang one end on the stone floor several times until the bugs fell off from their hideouts, the bugs knew they were in trouble and stampeded in all directions. The kids’ jobs were to trample on them with our fingers or feet. In the afternoon the whole family would walk to our uncle’s place at Champs de Mars, he had a big home with a large backyard with vines of green grapes. Including the family of a second visiting uncle, we were talking of ten adults and twenty kids. These were great quality time we spent with our parents, uncles and cousins.

My daughter and grand-daughter today would have a fit just looking at the bed bugs. We lived with them.

My father, apart from being well educated, was also talented in playing musical instruments. One day he bought a Chinese guitar “Yueqin” and a Chinese Bamboo flute “Dizi”, and taught us how to play. At age seven or eight, I was able to play both instruments.

The Chinese guitar “Yueqin” my father taught us to play.

The Chinese bamboo flute my father taught us to play.

My father was a kind person, had no enemy and treated everybody with respect. One day one of my brother-in-laws, troubled by the politics at his workplace, asked my father’s advice and guidance. He replied: “Don’t worry, Heaven will take care of the bad guys.” My father was well known in Mauritius as a respected Chinese teacher, and as was common, every time an adult met a young Chinese boy or girl, they would ask: “What is the name of your father”. When I told them my father’s name, their face beamed with a smile and replied: “Your father was my Chinese teacher”, this was enough to pump joy and pride into my heart.

In the 60’s most offices in Hong Kong worked half day on Saturday, and on this day I could not wait to hop on a bus to “The Star Ferry” to cross the harbour to Central district on Hong Kong island to meet with my girlfriend. The only way to cross the harbour then was by ferry or hire a sampan if the ferry service was closed for the day. Then we did not have the “Cross Harbour Tunnel” and the wide network of underground Mass Transit System. The ten minutes ferry ride was really pleasant, cheap, fast and efficient. This ferry still runs today and has become famous as one of the best ferry ride in the world, a great way to watch the spectacular coastlines of Hong Kong and Kowloon.

The Star Ferry crossing from Kowloon to Hong Kong.
A scene from the 1960s “The World of Suzie Wong”

Sampans were an important means of transport between the many islands of Hong Kong

My girl friend and I then took bus No. 5 to her home in Causeway Bay, passing through Wan Chai which became famous from the 1960 movie “The World of Suzie Wong”.

William Holden crossing a street in Wan Chai, from the 1960s movie “The World of Suzie Wong”

The bus ride was about half an hour, longer if there were traffic jam caused by the large number of people wanting to get to Happy Valley Race Course. Hong Kong people were avid gamblers. If they were not gambling at the race course, illegal gambling dens or Macau casino, you would find them at the mahjong table. The buses were old and non air-conditioned, mostly single deck. We needed to sit by the window for the breeze if we did not want to suffocate. The glass window panes slide forward to close and backward to open, often they were stuck and became non functional. We were not always lucky to get a seat in which case it was all standing and holding tight to the hand belt hanging from above our head. The smell of sweat of the persons around us were unbearable just as ours would be to them

A single deck bus in 1960s Hong Kong.

1960s Double deck buses in Hong Kong

The bus stopped at every designated stop for the route, and at each stop there were more people wanting to get on. Passengers entered the bus from the back and alighted from the front. It demanded special skill and know-how to get on a bus as there was no queue system, everybody just had to outwit the other passengers and elbow their way into the already sardine packed bus. Very often the door would not close as people were clinging around the doorway, then came a barrage of swearing words from the driver, shouting to the last batch of passengers either to get off or push their way in.

A bus conductor trying hard to control a crowd boarding the bus in 1960s

Just as it was hard to get in the bus, to alight was not easy either. Passengers needed to get to the front to alight and the passageway was so crowded that they had to push really hard to get through, more often than not triggering scream and swearing from the standing passengers. Some passengers carried large bags and parcels, a cheap way for movement of goods, and this added to the difficulties. Imagine the scenario when it rained, with the many wet and dripping umbrellas mingling inside the bus. Who dared to complain, we were already lucky and content if we were spared a poke in the eye. Bus drivers were always in a rush to move on and were indifferent to the passengers’ failure to get off and to their subsequent complaint and swearing. Alighting passengers just had to try their luck at the next stop.

Every bus had a conductor on board to collect the fare and issue a ticket. He carried a bag around his waist with several pockets to hold different money denominations to facilitate easy dispensing of change. It was hard for him to reach all the passengers but who cared if some had a free ride. From time to time inspectors came on board to check the passengers and issue fine to those without a ticket. In such case there would be a great commotion, argument, shouting, swearing, pleading and threat.

Bus drivers, always sweaty, sat in a small cubicle turned mini oven by the heated engine and the hot humid summer air, a towel hanged around their necks to wipe the ever dripping sweat. They would have tossed aside their shirts and wearing only the white cotton under-vests, and who could blame them. They were always in a rush for the reason that the more trips they made the more money the Company earned. They hated passengers blocking the door and delaying the voyage, time was money, so much so that at their will they often stopped the bus a good distance from the bus stop, quickly drop the alighting passengers and drive away instantly before the crowd realized the trick. Filing a complaint, who had time!

At the bus stop fuming passengers stretched their neck to look anxiously far ahead for their bus, what’s taking so long. When they saw their bus arriving they all got ready to pounce at the door, and had to make a quick mental prediction of where the bus would stop, well before or well after the actual stop, and strategized their move accordingly. Sometimes the bus driver, having heard no buzz sound of the stop bell, skipped the stop altogether to the irritation of the impatient crowd.

We were lucky that we were getting off at the route terminal, we did not have to fight our way out as others had done earlier. When we got off our shirts were pretty much soaked wet and stinky but we were glad the journey was over.

Today buses in Hong Kong are modern, comfortable, clean, air-conditioned, organized and efficient. They are equipped with powerful engines, well designed for flow of passenger traffic, mostly double deck for maximum efficiency. There is no ticket conductor, the bus driver controls everything including collection of fares. Passengers enter from the front, drop the exact fare in a money box, or in majority of cases they use a pre-paid electronic card which they tap to a reader located near the bus driver. Further people are now more civilized, they line up and behave orderly.

A passenger pays his fare by tapping his “Octopus” electronic card on the reader as he enters the bus.

Last year when I was in Hong Kong I benefitted from the Government Subsidized Fare Program to senior citizens, a cool 50% discount on any trip. This year I was back again and a new even better program for seniors was introduced, namely a flat fee of HK$2.00 for any single trip however far the destination may be. Seniors travel free on the “Star Ferry”. Is not that wonderful!

At an early age I was exposed to business through my participation in my parent’s corner store. Although it was a very small business, nevertheless it was no different from running a corporation. I think the same principle applies to small or large business.

Our corner store looks very much like this, sixty years ago.

Out of a number of siblings, I was the only one interested in the shop. I spent a lot of time, voluntarily no coercion, serving customers, and I was so tiny that I had to stand on rice bags to get myself above the shop’s counter. Our customers were mainly “Creoles” descendants of African slaves then brought in mainly from Madagascar and Mozambique, and “Indians” from India then brought in as indentured labourers to work in the sugar plantation.

I would see people like these coming to our corner store to buy things

The shop’s counter was L shape and it separated us from the customers. On one side of the counter sat two glass display cases, one containing a bowl of margarine, a can of the higher grade “Red Feather” brand butter, a jar of locally made jam, a plate of sardines and a can of condensed milk. These were condiments which we sold in minute quantity, customers unable to buy a whole can, delightful when spread to the warm round French loaf. For those who could afford it, sardines on crunchy bread with the vinegar marinated hot pepper “piment confit” was the best choice, else sugar sprinkled over sliced bread was a cheaper alternative. The other display case contained household accessories, sold per piece, such as needles, thread, zippers, buttons, clips, elastic bands and cheap imitation jewelleries.

This is the exact butter we carried in our shop sixty years ago. Still on the market today.

Sardines on warm crispy French loaf with “Piment Confi”, a luxurious diet to the poor inhabitants of Mauritius

Mauritians love their “Piment Confi”, green peppers marinated in vinegar.

The only time we sold one can of sardines whole was when on one unique occasion two tall imposing pitch black tough looking “Zulu” soldiers in khaki military uniform came to our shop and asked for a can of sardines. They stood there and then and devoured the contents using their fingers. The Zulu soldiers, remnant of the World War II military force, were stationed in a barrack a kilometre behind our shop. I stood there watching them feeling awed, scared and glad at the same time.

On the other side of the counter we had the grocery items, such as rice, sugar, salt, tea, flour, spices, cooking oil, kerosene, canned food namely Pilchards in tomato sauce and condensed milk. Most produce were sold in small quantity, half pound, quarter pound, the spices in spoonful, and wrapped in cone shape paper bags in-house produced from old newspaper. We even made our own glue to tape the paper bags by cooking flour with water until it turned into a thick paste. In another corner sat a couple of shelves stacked up in neat rows with different brands of cigarettes. The cigarettes came in round tin box and we sold one cigarette at a time.

Mauritians love their spices which include garlic, ginger, cilantro, tumeric, clove, thyme, basil, cannamon, black pepper, dried chilis.

Pilchards in tomato sauce sold in our shop sixty years ago. Still available on the market today.

Cigarettes were kept in circular tin container with lid. The Triple Five was a favourite brand of cigarette then

Sale was by cash only. Debit or credit card and cheque were never heard of. Occasionally some credit was allowed to a few trustworthy customers. My brother used white chalk to write the amount owned on the edges of the shelves and erased when paid.

We carried two types of cooking oil, coconut oil the less expensive and vegetable oil the superior quality. The oil usually came in a large three feet high drum which we rolled to the back of the house for storage. A portion of the oil was siphoned into a two feet tall tin container from where we, using a long quart-size tin ladle, dispensed the oil into the customer’s bottle through a funnel.

Cooking oil came in large drum.

Our shop opened from 7 am to 7 pm everyday except on Thursday and Sunday when we closed at noon. As if the opening hours were not long enough the neighbourhood kept coming after hours and knocked on our backyard door to buy things. I realized later that it was not that these people were busy and could not come earlier but they were waiting for the bread winner to come home from work with money to buy food for the day.

I learned about buying and selling and in between earned a profit. Who does not know the motto: buy low and sell high, but it is not as simple as it sounds. I learned about risk.
For example I felt uneasy when we were not able to sell all the individual sardines by end of day, or when I saw the unsold bananas hanging from the shop’s ceiling turning deep brown with black freckles, a sign of deterioration. Most often reduce the price and cut the loss was the way to go.

I was worried when our bananas turned blackish. A business risk we had to take.

One day after school I walked, amidst deserted undulating terrain, with an Indian schoolmate to his family farm two kilometres away from home. He wanted to give me some cilantro free. To bypass his father’s prying eyes he hide a bunch of cilantro inside his watering can and walked to the small stream running by the farm to get water. There he let go the cilantro in the running stream for me to catch thirty feet downstream. I felt really proud when I brought the item to our shop to sell, very glad of my contribution to the family business.

Even as a young boy, I liked to compare other neighbourhood stores, predominantly run by Chinese, to ours. The earlier Chinese in Mauritius, for lack of local language and other relevant skills, had few alternatives other than running a corner store. For sure our shop was not doing as well. I knew it was location and I envied my two other uncles’ shops which were located at Champs de Mars, an affluent area of town. Also I knew we were not the friendliest shop on the block, my mother always acting tough, necessary to keep the hooligans in check. For some reason my father was working and living at a Chinese Club on Desforges Street. So the lack of a male presence, similar to my aunt’s circumstances at Deep River, weakened the shop security. I remember on several occasions my elder brother had to chase some bad kids down the road to retrieve stolen merchandises.

I was aware that product quality and competitive pricing were also essential ingredients for business success. I remember how quickly warm breads were sold off each morning. I knew Coca Cola and Pepsi Cola were quality drinks but their prices prohibitive. When we acquired a refrigerator at a later stage, we were able to make our own cold soft drink from the local “tamarind” fruit, a sweet and sour terrific thirst quencher which the locals gobbled in one swoop.

I was extremely happy when we got our refrigerator and made our own “tamarind” soft drink.

The tamarind fruit widely grown in Mauritius. We can also eat them as is, a sweet and sour taste.

However strong business minded I was and however strong my desire to get into business was, a business career was not meant for me. I ended up working in the financial industry. In hindsight I could probably never be a successful businessman, for I could never take advantage of a customer or an employee. My principle, my philosophy, the nature in me would have driven me to give the shop away. Such is fate.

In today modern society kitchens are built within the structure of the dwelling. In our time kitchens, built of residual pieces of lumber and tin, were always detached from the main dwelling for a simple reason. When cooking, a huge amount of soot and smoke were emitted from the wood burning or charcoal stone stoves, imagine the scenario if the kitchen was built within the house.

Many kitchens of our time would look like this

Electric or gas range was non-existent during our childhood in Mauritius. Every household was quite content with their stone stove which was simply made up of three equal height boulders, placed in a triangular shape, on which would sit our frying pan, kettle or cooking pot. The stove normally sat on the floor, but for a bit of luxury it would be built on an elevated slab of concrete or stone. It was on a likewise stone stove that my sister-in-law taught me how to cook the Mauritian classic “Rougaille”, an equivalent of Chutney, a dish that I often make till now to go with fried fish, chicken or beef. Within the confine of the three boulders dry wood or twigs or charcoal were placed and lighted with our indispensable match. On wet weather starting a fire was no easy matter, as the firewood or charcoal would have gotten damp with dripping water from the leaking tin roof, and the matches loosing its effectiveness in the damp air. This primitive stove has a long history, costs nothing and is still widely used in many places around the world, in Africa, India and Asia. Firewood sometimes might be picked up free in our neighbourhood bush areas but was also available commercially supplied by farmers from the country side. Our boutique bought firewood by cart load, which came in about three foot long sugar cane size sticks split from branches of filao tree. We in turn sold them by bundle of three or four sticks tied together with straw string. Charcoal was also produced by farmers and came in gunny bags similar to the rice gunny bags. Our shop in turn sold the charcoal by small tin load

Filao trees beautify Mauritius beaches, once a source of fuel for cooking.

Rougaille Mauricien, a tomato base chutney cooked with ginger, garlic, onion, thyme, chili, salt and pepper

Firewood is still an important source of fuel in the countryside of many countries.

We did not have the luxury of a lighter or automatic electric switch. Matches were part and parcel of our lives

Apart from the stone stove, there was the “bucket stove” which was made from old bucket. A small opening was made in the lower part of the bucket and the inside was plastered with a layer of concrete an inch or so thick. Around the rim of the bucket sat three or four small mounds of concrete, on which the cooking utensils would sit. To start a fire for the stove required certain skill and experience. Small dry twigs would be first lit with a match and slowly the flame would be fanned until it caught up with the bigger chunks of wood or charcoal. Often we had to use our mouth to blow air through a short tube, producing a sweet musical sound, into the firewood to help combustion, resulting often in soot stained faces. Sometimes what we got was a full eruption of black smoke that filled the small kitchen room. And mom would be screaming. Sawdust was also used in neighbourhood that had a sawmill. I used to go to the sawmill, where huge heavy trunks of trees were sawn into flat planks for house building. Sawdust would accumulate around the gigantic metal circular saw and we just have to scoop and take them home. The sawdust was compacted in the bucket stove leaving room for a tunnel for air circulation from the small side opening though to the rim.

Charcoal in gunny bags still widely used in many less developed countries

We were grown up with the bucket stove.

Gradually life improved and the “Primus” brand of kerosene pressure stove made its pompous debut. Less wood, less charcoal, soot free. Kerosene or paraffin as it is known in some parts of the world, or “petrole” as we, Mauritians, like to call it, became the fuel of choice for cooking. The pressure stove was made of brass and it produced no soot, which kept the cooking area clean. It was, however, not affordable to all and was liable to explosion if not properly handled. As a ten year old kid, I had grasped the technique of operating the primus stove which required filling the tank with kerosene, pouring alcohol in the small “spirit cup” sitting just below the burner, applying a match to the alcohol to pre-heat the burner, then pumping the kerosene tank to produce pressure. Boom the fire spread and burned with a hissing and roaring sound. Sometimes the burner got clogged and we used a small needle to poke through the holes of the burner to clear the passage. We used the kerosene stove for making tea, cooking rice but it was not ideal to place our oversized Chinese wok over it. We used the bucket stove for our wok. The “Primus” stove was the most popular brand in our time and it was so efficient and reliable that it was the stove of choice for Admiral Amundsen’s expedition to the South Pole, as well as various expeditions to Mount Everest. The Primus is still used widely in Africa and India.

Primus stove made it debut in 1950s in Mauritius

The needle was essential if we were to have food on the table by dinner time.

Then came the Rope Wick Kerosene Stove, which used a series of rope wicks, typically 10 wicks, arranged in a circle that feed into a centre burner. One end of the wick is immersed in the kerosene tank and the wick draws kerosene and keeps the fire going. The burning ends of the wicks sometimes burnt out and we had to manually pull the wicks a centimetre out for efficiency. Again fire and kerosene were a dangerous combination and extreme care was necessary in its usage. Accidents did occur time and time again, resulting in burned hands and faces. When I arrived in Hong Kong in 1966 many households were still using this type of kerosene stove. Gradually LPG (liquefied Petroleum Gas) overtook kerosene.

Kerosene wick stove, a huge improvement over the stone stove or primus.

The LPG gas initially was delivered in self contained metal cylinders and in Hong Kong my in laws would order the gas cylinders from the corner stores. The delivery men had to be tough as they had to carry these heavy cylinders on bike, sometimes four at a time, dwingling from the handle bar or back wheel of the bicycle. The climax of this delivery exercise was when the skinny sweaty man had to climb five or six storey to make the delivery. On the way down he carried the empty cylinders. A very small area of Hong Kong still has gas cylinders delivered on bicycle but the main supply is now through gas pipes direct to the flats. Many countries still, however, deliver gas cylinders on bicycle.

LPG gas cylinders still being delivered on bicycle in some parts of Hong Kong

LPG gas delivery in India

When I went back to visit Mauritius in 2014, after 48 years of absence, I made it a point to visit Deep River, a small village stuck within lush sugar cane plantation, a couple of miles from Bel Air in the district of Flacq.

We had to walk a mile on this road from the main road to my aunt’s home.

Deep River was a big part of my childhood as it was there that I spent several happy summer vacations somewhere between the age of seven and ten. An aunt on my maternal side had a shop in Deep River. She had two daughters and one son. The son was a sort of a castaway and I rarely saw him at the shop. He worked and lived in a different town. The elder daughter helped my aunt run the shop and the younger sister, four or five years my senior, attended a Catholic nun-run school in Port Louis. Every end of school year around mid November to end December, as school closed for vacation, my cousin would come to fetch me and we took a bus to Deep River. It took us a good half day to reach Deep River, though the distance was a mere 45 kilometres. To a young eye, the trip was always exciting as the bus puffed its way through the country side, the road lined with mango trees or sugar cane fields and thatched homes. As we reached Bel Air the air became cooler and fresher, the scenery greener, more open, quieter, very different from the City. We had to get off the bus at an intersection and walked a mile or so of beaten road to my aunt’s shop, in between fields of sugar cane, over an old bridge, under mango and flamboyant or flame trees.

A recent country scene in Mauritius, not much difference from 50 years ago, except the modern road.

The flamboyant or flame tree still stands tall and pretty as it did during my childhood.

My aunt’s shop compared to my parent’s was much bigger. It was a stand alone structure, red tin roof, perched on a small mount, with a veranda on the front. Inside the shop an L shape counter separated us from the customers, with a separate room for serving liquor. At the back of the shop there were two bedrooms, an eating area and a storage room. Detached from the house were the kitchen and the bathroom, with a large stone water basin. Further away was the backyard where we had the latrine which simply was a concrete slab with a rectangular opening placed over a large deep hole. As a kid I was always scared of falling into the pit full of excrement and hovering noisy flies. On the other side of the courtyard were two filthy pens holding several pigs. I found great pleasure in helping to feed the pigs every evening, their diet consisted of raw papaya picked up from the papaya trees in the yard and cooked in a large metal pot. There was one occasion when my aunt decided to slaughter a pig. Several local men came to help, first dragging the pig from the pen, then tied its two front legs and two hind legs together. The pig did not make it easy for the men, wriggling ferociously, whining loud and desperate, before a knife was put through its throat.

I found a picture of a latrine which was similar to the one I was scared of when I was at Deep River as a kid.

The pig pen at my aunt’s house looked just like this.

Me and my son recent visit to my aunt’s shop, once a thriving and busy place of gathering.

The inside of my aunt’s house, once a lively and warm place

I saw very little of my uncle at the shop. In fact he was not the best head of family as I understood he spent most of the time living in Port Louis, leaving the running of the shop solely on the shoulders of my aunt and the elder daughter. He gambled a lot to the extent that most of the income from the shop, which was intended to acquire new stock of merchandises, was lost at the mahjong table. My aunt struggled, without the least complaint, to keep the shop running, and she would replenish some stock supply by buying locally from a Bel Air acquaintance. One time my aunt said to me. “I need you to go to Bel Air to replenish some stock.” She specifically mentioned cigarettes. Innocent and naïve that I was, I replied after having noticed a row of cigarette packages on the upper shelves: “but auntie there are still a lot of cigarettes on the shelves”. It turned out that the neat packages were empty inside and they were just there for show.

Often I would ride solo the only adult bike in the shop, oversize for an eight year old, to Bel Air to purchase the much needed merchandises. The distance was three or four miles but for a young boy it was a long distance. My aunt was very considerate and kind and always ensured that I had a full stomach before I went on the errand. In particular she would fry two eggs, sunny side up, and I silently forced myself to eat them though I detested the raw part of the eggs. We kids were trained to obey the elders with no contest.

Me and my son biked through Bel Air in 2014 and rested at this magnificent church.

Bel Air today with bicycle and motorcycle still common modes of transportation, the magnificent church hidden behind the trees

I spent a lot of time helping in the shop serving customers as the two daughters were not always on duty and my aunt appreciated very much my assistance. Business was steady as we were the only shop in the area. Our clients were the villagers who were mainly of Indian and African descent, most worked in the sugar cane fields that formed part of the Deep River Sugar Estate, owned by a prominent French family carrying the name of “Fleurie”. My aunt was fluent in Hindu and Creole which deeply impressed me.

During weekend, the shop became very busy as the sugar cane workers had the days off. In particular the “liquor room” got crowded and rowdy as the alcohol started to take effect on the jovial drinkers. We also served squid curry, a speciality created by my aunt, which went very well with the wine. Fights often broke out. Fortunately there were always enough sober macho men around to keep the situation under control. One day Mr. Fleurie, the Landlord of the Deep River Sugar Estate, came to reinstate order after a brawl at the shop, that day he had, by some long standing decree, all the powers of a policeman.

One of the highlights of the vacation was to be able to eat sugar cane to our heart content. Running alongside the shop was a railway line. Everyday wagon loads of sugar cane passed by and we run with the train to pull the best looking cane from the wagon. We sat and ate for hours. We used our teeth to peel the skin and we would only stop chewing when our jaws were so sore and tired that they became numb. Also mangoes were in abundance, falling off the trees at their leisure and free for the picking. In the evening after dinner we always had freshly brewed Ceylon tea, a traditional beverage brought to Mauritius by the early Indian settlers, served with sugar and creamy fresh cow milk brought to us daily from the local farmer.

This could have been one of the trains, no longer in service, that we run with sixty years ago to get our hands on the best sugar cane.

Wagon load of freshly cut sugar cane passed by my aunt’s home, free for our picking.

For the sake of security and family continuity, my aunt adopted a young boy my age from China. Unfortunately he turned out to be a little bit cuckoo, he was sometime violent and irrational. One day he tried to poke my eyes with a stick when I was looking through the crack of the door. I stopped the yearly visit to my aunt at around age ten, and I did not keep up with how the boy was doing.

The absence of a male body in the house presented a security risk for my aunt and daughters. Fortunately my aunt had a good relationship with a local indigenous family whose son would from time to time visit the shop and so boosted a sense of security. His name was Robert and I liked him a lot. He would often give me a ride on his motorcycle and he would take me and other kids on adventures down the river, one time at midnight, to catch prawns. The prawns, pricked with a stick, were roasted over an open stone stove in the backyard, my gaze turned in awe when the grayish shrimp turned into bright pink. In one adventure, I jumped into the calm water of the river not realizing that it was very deep. Fortunately Robert pulled me up to safety. Robert also took us to catch rabbit at night. The night was always dark and eerie as there were no street lights and we only used flash light or torch as it was called then. One day there was a big commotion down the street, a mongoose was fighting a snake. The scene was too frightful for me to go and watch. Telling ghost stories when the sun had gone down was a national past time. We often went to Robert’s home which had no electricity. Only candles or oil lamps dimly lit the rooms, a perfect setting to hear ghost stories, we all sitting on the cool cow manure compact floor, scared stiff.

Marriage is one of the “Great things in life”. Every country, every culture down to every tribe or clan has its own wedding custom. As a kid in Mauritius in the fifties, I had experienced some of the Hakka marriage custom and culture first hand through the wedding of my sisters.

First and foremost a Hakka girl of age must get married and leave the parent’s home, it was a shame if the girl could not find a husband. And she better marry quick because once she stepped into twenty, she was considered “old” and the older the harder to find an ideal husband. Secondly girls rarely meet their other half directly. Marriage was mainly arranged through a match maker, usually an older lady who might be an acquaintance or a total stranger. Sometimes a match maker might know both sides of the family and would make a proposal of marriage to the parents. Sometimes the parents would enquire around the community for a match, and some match makers might just have a right candidate to broker a marriage. If the parents had someone in mind, they might send a match maker to propose to the other family. Match makers were not professionals and were not paid for their service, but would receive by tradition a “Laisee”, the red packet containing lucky money which Chinese parents give to their children on Chinese New Year.

Once the two families had agreed to the marriage proposal, the girl and the boy could see each other but under some degree of supervision. As a kid I was ordered to follow my sister whenever she went out on a date. I remember my future brother-in-law always came to pick up my sister after our shop had closed for business at seven p.m., day courting was rare because everybody was busy working. He always came by taxi, the same car with the same driver. We usually drove to Champs de Mars, a favourite spot for young lovers. I would sit and wait in the front seat with the driver, while my sister and the boyfriend went on a stroll. A couple hours at most we had to head home. I also remember we went to a movie three of us, watching “The Ten Commandments” featuring Charleston Heston.

Champs de Mars with its horseracing tracks was a favourite spot for young lovers.

Not too long after the match maker’s proposal, a day had to be set for the “betrothal” ceremony. It was a short and simple ceremony usually performed at home, with an exchange of rings, attended by only close members of the two families and the match maker. I believed we had cakes and soft drinks on this occasion.

Then the wedding day had to be fixed soon thereafter. An auspicious day was selected and agreed by both families. The day was chosen, with consideration of the time and date of birth of the boy and the girl, by consulting the Chinese Almanac which my mother, and for that matter most Chinese families, always had a copy handy at home.

The Chinese Almanac, a handy book traditional Chinese use to find auspicious day for an important event

No exception, the girl should be “pure” before marriage, had a good family background, a good education, a good character, apart from being reasonably pretty. The more good qualities she possessed, the better was her chance of finding a good boy from a reputable family. In any case the girl must always be younger in age than the boy. Interracial marriage was strictly forbidden, and going against tradition made one an outcast and as good as dead to the parents and relatives.

Religion was also important when considering marriage. My eldest sister had to adopt the “Protestant” faith to match the groom’s because otherwise she would be barred from entering the Church for the nuptial blessing. Religion however might not matter if the marriage was not taking place in a Church. It is interesting to note that Chinese marriage ceremony is never performed in a Temple, then and now, although the bride and the groom may have prior separately gone to the Temple with their parents to obtain Heaven’s blessing.

My sisters wore traditional western white bridal gown, as opposed to the Chinese traditional red “Cheong Sam” or “Kwa”, which consists of a long sleeve jacket and long skirt, heavily embroidered with gold thread a dragon and a phoenix. Red represents love and prosperity, the dragon the groom, the phoenix the bride in a balanced yin and yang posture. Cheong Sam or Kwa is still a popular wedding dress in Hong Kong and China.

Chinese wedding dress, Kwa, always red in colour, rich embroidery with picture of dragon and phoenix.

In preparation for the wedding my sisters acquired new dress, new shoes and some jewellery, the cost of which was paid for by the groom. They also received presents from friends and relatives, mainly red packets containing money.

The wedding day was a busy day for both families. It ran all day till night. We got up early, wore our best outfits which often were newly made for the occasion. Our wardrobe would have nothing decent. My parents had earlier in the morning offered thanks to the God, with a whole cooked chicken, fried fish, fruits and burning incense at the altar.

A typical Chinese offering to God as a way to say Thank You for good fortune

The groom then arrived with a string of friends and relatives, the boys well groomed and dressed in black suit, white shirt and red tie, the girls in bright colourful dress with lots of frizzle. They arrived by taxi, family cars were a rarity, which were decorated with fresh flowers and colourful ribbons. The bride’s maids played hard and refused to open the door for the groom until he paid an acceptable amount of “Laisee” money, part of the “Door game”. Excitement filled the air as my sister prepared to leave home, to the sound of fire crackers intended to ward off evil spirits. The bride and groom’s car drove first leading the rest of the cars in a procession heading towards Church, honking all the way through town. Curious bystanders lined the street shouting joyously at the convoy.

After the Church ceremony and photo shots we drove to the restaurant, by then it was noon. Again a curious envious crowd pushed their way to have a glimpse of the bride. More fire crackers thundered the air. Guests, sitting around long table with white table cloth and fully set with plates, forks and knives, applauded the newlyweds. The master of ceremonies performed his usual stint and after the wedding cake was cut, we all dipped into our plate and drank Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola or Fanta.

The bride and groom then went to their home to rest, an almost impossible feat due to the constant stream of visitors coming to express good wishes, before going back to the restaurant later in the evening for a traditional Chinese dinner. It was during this break that the bride and groom performed the “tea ceremony” for the parents and senior family members, an act of utmost respect. During dinner the bride and groom were subject of the “Teasing the newlywed” game, a traditional entertaining feature of Chinese wedding, entailing hilarious practical pranks on the couple.

Bride and Groom on their knees offer tea, using both hands, to the parents and senior members of the family, The Tea Ceremony.

One month later my sister and my brother-in-law came to visit us at our home, the last part of the Chinese marriage custom, to show thanks and gratitude to the parents and family.

A cousin’s wedding 1950s with her bride maids

My four year old granddaughter was preparing to go to Kindergarten and for a couple of weeks there had been some serious discussions and concerns as to how she was going to cope with the new routine. Would she cry, would she get along with the other kids, could she handle her lunchbox, could she manage the bathroom. In our time there were no such commotions, we simply go to school.

I started Primary One at age 6, there were no kindergarten then, at the “La Paix” Government Primary school. As I wrote in an earlier post, I remember my father, holding my hand, walked me from Aleppo Street, a 15 minutes walk to school, and bought me a treat from an old Indian lady selling goodies by the school gate. I do not remember much about this school except that I was bullied by a senior student. His complexion was quite dark for a Chinese, with small eyes like most of us, and with pretty thick lips. I thought then that he looked like a black pig and I hated him. In a strict sense it was not really “bully” because he actually liked me. But he always pinched my cheeks, I was a little bit chubby, and it was painful. I was terrified each time I came face to face with him. Then there was another older boy who would protect me whenever he saw that I was in trouble. He was a native boy, good looking and strong, he was my hero. But unfortunately he could not be there for me all the time and I was miserable when he was not around. Ultimately my brother-in-law made arrangement to transfer me to another school situated at Arsenal Street, one street south of La Paix Street. It was a great relief. When I looked back the scenario was very much like today “Batman”, the hero who fights the bad guys and protects the weak.

My new school, The Arsenal Government Primary School, was a small school. It was in an old wooden building, two storey high. There were the administration office and two classrooms on the ground floor, then up the staircase to the second floor with two more classrooms plus one larger room that accommodated two classes. All the kids sat on a long bench with a long desk. I could not remember the faces of any of the teachers but I would recognize the Headmaster if I see him today. The headmaster was a kind person, never putting a stern face, and after school he would walk out of the premises with the rest of the students, holding the hand of his small son who was also a student at the school.

My classroom would look a little like this but we did not wear uniform.

My school had a large play yard, so I thought, and the kids spent recess running and chasing one another on the hard ground, in the process stirring a storm of brown dust into the hot summer air. There were no trees or shrubs, just plain dirt ground which got muddy when it rained. On one side of the school was a row of lavatory, primitive and smelly by all accounts. A large stone basin filled with water sat on one corner near the school main entrance. We all drank from the basin, though we often saw small reddish worms wriggling their way at the bottom.

We drank water from basin with reddish worms wriggling at the bottom

Once every couple of month the students would gather by and behind the lavatory whenever the schoolmaster announced that an Inspector from the Education Department was coming to inspect the children. It was a traumatic moment as we had to get prepared for the inspection, we were all scared. For an hour the kids, mainly girls, would be busy helping each other looking for lice in their hair. Lice are small and difficult to find but once caught they were placed between the nails of the two thumbs and squashed, often with a popping sound. We were also instructed to clean our teeth as well, and each student always carried a toothbrush to school in case of need. To protect the tooth brush we used to place the bristles end in a matchbox. Then we checked our nail, trimmed it and removed the dirt that often lay under. Actually we never saw the Inspector, it was a ploy to get the kids to practise hygiene.

Most kids in our school had lice. It was common to see mother, sitting on the porch, picking lice from children hair

Lice looks ugly and gross but it was part of life then

My second recollection of early school days was that each student carried an enamel tin mug with a small round handle that we hung to our belt. At around 10 o’clock each morning all the students gathered in the school yard and formed a long queue, each holding a mug. The “peon”, the school caretaker had earlier prepared hot milk out of powdered milk in a huge tin container, and he served one quart scoop to each student, a legacy of the British Colonial administration.

Enamel tin mug each student had one hang on the belt

Then one day we heard of the visit of a member of the Royal Family from England, Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret, the only sibling of the present Queen Elizabeth II. To commemorate the Royal visit all school kids on the Island received, I believe, a 25 cents newly minted coin. A lot of happy kids indeed.

HRH Princess Margaret visit to Mauritius 1956

When going back home, walking with other kids, we had to pass over a bridge which then to me was huge and imposing, but in reality was a small bridge barely a hundred feet long. I have a deep recollection of this bridge for two reasons. First we were told about the dangerous and terrifying “Loup-garou”, a type of werewolf that appeared at night under the bridge with its long eerie howling. The only way to catch this creature was to throw a bag of beans at her and she would need to pick up each and every one of the spill bean before she could leave the area. If all the beans were not picked up before day break she would be unable to leave and she could be caught. Secondly one evening I was galloping on the bridge, with my parents, pretending to be driving a car. A car was coming towards us and I decided to cross the road once the car had passed us. With my head down and my eyes on the ground, I waited for the car to pass and immediately thereafter turned left to cross to the other side of the bridge, without realizing that a second car was, unknown to me, following suit. I was almost hit, a life and death experience I had never forgotten.

The mythical “Loup garou” that scared the hell out of the small children

I was making 250 Hong Kong dollars per month at my second job at the Banque Nationale de Paris in Hong Kong in 1967. Apart from the two French expatriate staff at the Tsim Sha Tsui branch, I was the only local staff speaking French, a great advantage for me. Not only that I could take good care of French tourists visiting the bank but also I was able to assist some of the Bank’s customers who were doing business with French Nationals.

My salary was decent, I had little expense as I was staying free at my brother-in-law’s large apartment. I dined with the family every evening, and many weekends I joined them for dim sum or barbeque outings in the New Territories, never having to spend a cent.

Despite known as a concrete jungle, Hong Kong has many open spaces for hiking and barbecueing

But then I was not exactly the luckiest person on earth, though I should have been, because my brother-in-law place was not the same as home. Not that I was meanly treated, on the contrary my brother-in-law and sister loved me a lot. I remember one night we went walking in the busy streets of Mongkok. The streets were lively and brightly lit with dazzling neon lights, the hawkers occupied a lot of the pavements and streets, excitedly selling their goods to a huge crowd of people. My brother-in-law bought me a pair of leather gloves from one vendor, an interesting novelty for me, having no reason to wear one before. The gloves did keep my hands warm during the cold winter days. One of many treats from them.

Street hawkers were common everywhere in Hong Kong 1960s, vibrant and entertaining

My brother-in-law’s home was very traditional, no going out, no late night, no frequenting bad company. So after dinner we all watched the long running TV soap opera “Enjoy yourself tonight” and then ready for bed. My eldest nephew was a couple of months older than me and it was a bit weird for an older person to call a younger person “uncle”. We shared a room, he played the guitar and we chatted often and got along very well. He had a girl friend who was not “approved” by the father and he had to clandestinely meet her in the weekend. During week days he could only talk to her on the phone, often for hours when most of us were gone to sleep.

Then there was the eldest niece, four or five years my junior, a queer type of a person who one way or another considered my staying with the family as a sort of parasite. The rest of the five kids were just wonderful, each had his/her own character and we had great fun together.

Dinner was prepared by a maid, we called “Amah”. Amahs were popular in Hong Kong and South East Asia in the 1960s and prior. They were domestic servants who looked after children and did household work. They had long braided hair and always wore uniform throughout their life, white shirts and black pants. They lived in-house, likely to serve one master their whole life, and became almost part of the family. There are great stories about “Amahs” and their main characteristic was that they were “loyal and devoted” servant who had taken a vow of celibacy. One story goes that one dedicated amah jumped into the sea to follow the boy under her charge who had accidentally felt overboard.

Amahs in typical black and white clothes and long braided hair.

Our amah’s cooking was not the best, at least to me as I was accustomed to more Indian/African taste, hot and spicy. I remember the worst dish was the daily broth which Hong Kong people invariably had every dinner. It was usually chicken or pork broth with vegetables or peas. For some reason the peas seemed never washed before cooking and I could see small white plump worms floating in my bowl. Quite disgusting but the shy person I was, I could never complain nor reject the broth lest I looked ungrateful. With much effort I always finished the broth. Then I sensed the eldest niece was always watching me and I did feel quite uncomfortable and miserable. Often I had hoped that the sister who was to come with me to Hong Kong was there to help me through this difficult period. She was upfront and assertive, and would not hesitate to say what I could not say. I learned first hand that it was better and happier to live in one’s humble abode than someone else castle.

My host sister always, with good intention, ensured that I had breakfast before I went to work. The Amah always cooked for me a bowl of plain noodles, a favourite breakfast in Hong Kong, which most of the time was left too long in the cold winter morning that it turned into an unsavoury lump of flour.

Weekend was the best of time. I worked half day Saturdays. So I spent most Saturday afternoons and Sundays with my girl friend as well as other Mauritian friends.

Then one day I did not feel too well, had regular coughing. I was diagnosed with tuberculosis. I believe that I caught the sickness partly due to my low immune system caused by not having an enjoyable diet and by my bottling up all my emotions. Hong Kong people were then not as healthy as they are today, there were a lot of people with tuberculosis and it was not difficult to be infected by TB carriers. Active TB is contagious and I had to be careful when in the company of people.

Ruttonjee Sanatorium for TB treatment founded by a Parsee Merchant in Hong Kong 1949

My brother-in-law arranged for a Specialist to take up my case. A nurse came home regularly to administer injections and I had monthly check up and X Ray at the doctor’s office. Six months later I was cured but the X-ray film continued to show a scar in my lung. Super that he was, my brother-in-law paid for all the expenses. I was grateful.

Chinese are very much, one way or another, influenced by the teachings of Confucius, a Chinese teacher and philosopher born some 500 years before Christ. Confucius’s philosophy emphasized personal morality, correctness of social relationships, justice and sincerity. It espoused strong family loyalty, respect of elders by their children and of the husbands by their wives. For sure we Chinese children always and will continue to respect our elders, but in this modern age wives respect of their husbands has waned, not necessarily that I do not agree with this new behaviour, as demonstrated by the many divorces among the Chinese.

In the west parents rarely live with their children, and when they grow old, they likely end up in a senior retirement home. Chinese parents most likely live with one of their children till they leave this world. Both my father and mother lived with my eldest brother till they passed away in their nineties.

As a kid, we were taught to address our elders respectfully, by calling them by their hierarchical position, rather than by their first name as is customary in the west. For example we would call our elders: uncle, auntie, grandpa, grandma, and never call them by their name. Interestingly when I was in Hong Kong in the 1960s I often heard young kids calling their older siblings as “big brother” or “big sister” and this type of address continued even when the younger kids had grown to an adult. So in Hong Kong I always called my elder sister “Sister” and my brother-in-law “Brother-in-law”. In the west children call their teacher by their last name, adding Mister or Miss, a respectable way of address. Chinese children do the same such as “Good morning Miss Wong” but quite often it would be one step further “Good morning teacher”.

We were taught to be humble and not arrogant or show off. Therefore when we went out with mom and dad to visit relatives or acquaintances, we always kept quiet, to the point of shyness. In the hierarchy of things, whether it was a family discussion, a business meeting or a triad encounter, juniors were not to speak out of turn. When you did, the common warning, followed by a stern side glance, was: “Who say it is your turn to speak?” Looking back, I think this behaviour is not the best practice because it stifles the natural development of the child. Rightly, Chinese kids are now no longer “muffled”, they are encouraged to join the conversation and speak their mind.

I remember there was a popular anecdote in the sixties: when a western person went for a job interview he always boasted that he had all the knowledge and skill to tackle the job, even though he might be aware of the fact that he was far from being competent. Whereas an Asian person always said humbly that he was not sure if he could handle the job but would try his very best with the help and guidance of the boss, although in his heart he knew he was very much capable. If in Asia, the Asian most likely would get the job. If in western countries the Asian would have not a chance. This philosophy no longer works in the modern world, you now have to show all your skills, knowledge and confidence to land the job.

I remember one time in my early working years in Hong Kong, I went for an interview with the English manager of the lending department of the bank where I was working, for a job advancement. The manager asked me: “McDonald recently opened its first shop in Hong Kong, do you know why it is so successful”. I did not know the reasons and I failed to obtain the job.