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Every year around May or June, Chinese, all over the world celebrate the Dragon Boat Festival, which reminds me that when I was growing up in Mauritius my mother used to make sticky rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves, we called it “joong”. I did not know why then but later understood it was to celebrate the 2,000 year old Chinese traditional Dragon Boat Festival. It is amazing and worthy of praise that overseas Chinese, though thousands of miles away from their home country, keep many of their long traditions with them, wherever they are, Vancouver, San Francisco, London, Cape Town, Sydney or Sao Paulo.

“Joong” sticky rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves.

“Joong” with peanuts and BBQ pork fillings

The Chinese population in Mauritius is too small, too scattered and probably too busy to organize the traditional dragon boat race associated with the festival. They are content with making and enjoying the sticky rice dumplings. Nowadays sticky rice dumplings can be found any day in many Chinese restaurants and shops around the world, and they come with different kinds of fillings, red bean paste, chestnut, barbecue pork or chicken.

When I arrived in Hong Kong in 1966 I was exposed to and mesmerized by the many long standing Chinese traditions that were not celebrated to its fullest in Mauritius. In Hong Kong the dragon boat race is an important component of the festival. Here races are organized at over 10 different sites, involving thousands of competitors, tens of thousands of supporters. The race is very colourful, the boat lively decorated with an imposing dragon head and multicolour banners, the participants dressed in bright colour uniform, not to mention the chanting scream of the paddlers and deafening beating of the drum or gong which coordinates the rhythm of the paddles. A great tourist attraction.

Participants ready for the Dragon Boat race in Hong Kong

Dragon Boats with imposing Dragon Head and drummers

When I was living in Vancouver, Canada in the 1980s, the local Chinese community leaders, due to the large influx of Hong Kong immigrants to the city, organized a Dragon Boat Race at False Creek in downtown Vancouver. The event quickly became very popular not only among the local Chinese but to many Canadians who also enthusiastically participated in the event by commissioning their own dragon boats. Soon the event spread to other major cities around the world including New York, Sydney and San Francisco.

There is even an International Dragon Boat Race held in Hong Kong every year where teams from around the world congregate to compete for the top title.

There are several folklores as to the origin of this festival, the most popular is about Qu Yuan (340-278 B.C.), a poet and beloved minister in the ancient state of Chu during the Warring States Period of the Zhou Dynasty. He lost the Emperor’s favour due to his disagreement with the state policy. Removed from his post and later out of despair for his country, he drowned himself in the river. The local people raced in their boats to try to save him, hence the Dragon Boat Race celebration. When they could not find his body, the local people threw rice dumplings in the river so that the fish would eat the dumplings and spare his body, hence the sticky rice tradition.

Statue of Qu Yuan in Zigui county, Hubei Province, his birthplace

Shame shame, I am Chinese, yet I cannot read or write Chinese. That’s what a lot of my compatriots thought. Ironically my late father was a Chinese teacher in Mauritius and he had many students but I was not one of them. There was a time in Mauritius whenever I met the older generation of Chinese folks, the first thing they asked me was: “What is the name of your father”. We were then judged by the reputation or disreputation of our father. In most cases they instantly recognized my father’s name and were thrilled to impart to me that my father was their teacher and he was well respected. With those words I felt really good and proud of my father.

My first nine siblings, rather eight as the first baby died at birth, went to Chinese school and the last four, including myself, went to English school. There was no second language option at school, all Chinese or all English. As a British Colony Mauritius official language was English, and studying Chinese only did not have any advantage. So it was necessary to shift gear for English education for the last four children.

When I arrived in Hong Kong in 1966, I went to stay with my brother-in-law. My brother-in-law and my sister were raised and educated in China and knew not a word of English, the children were too young to speak English as well. The house could have look like an episode of the muted Charlie Chaplain movie, had I not, fortunately, been able to communicate with them in the Hakka dialect.

Cantonese was the most common language spoken in Hong Kong, and no matter how hard we used to laugh listening to our Cantonese friends in Mauritius, I had now to learn Cantonese. I think that the best way to learn a language is from small children, just mingle with them, play with them and speak with them. Fortunately there was no shortage of children in the household, specifically seven heaven-sent nephews and nieces, from age one to twenty. Secondly, watching television is a second best way to learn a new language, as the words are complemented with graphics and actions, giving you a nice clue of what is said and happening.

When I went out and unable to speak Cantonese, I was frowned upon and often received uncomplimentary comments such as: “You are Chinese and you do not speak Chinese”. Sometimes I saved the day by replying in Hakka which might be foreign to the listener but somehow reduced the blow with a softer comment: “Oh you are a Hakka”.

Amusingly people used to ask me where I came from and when I replied “somewhere near Africa” rather than “Mauritius” a never heard of country, they rolled up their eyes in disbelief. They had expected a black person in front of them.

Not able to read or write Chinese then was not a major hindrance to my career development, as I had always worked for foreign companies in Hong Kong where English was the main means of communication, oral and written. Today I would not be able to make it in Hong Kong without written Chinese and spoken Cantonese and Mandarin.

Learning is a never ending activity. The more you learn the less you realise you know. In the 1990s I was working in an international bank in Vancouver, and immigration from mainland China was quickly accelerating to the point that Mandarin had become essential in my line of work. There you go, learning Mandarin became a must and I had since grasped, through evening lessons, some basic Mandarin which came in handy in my work and when I travelled in China.

A year ago in Toronto I went to see my doctor, a Hong Kong born Chinese. Unlike other physicians he came out personally to the reception desk to pick up the file of the next patient. My file had only my English name written on the cover as is customary in Canada and he called out my name in English. Then he said to me: “It would be more friendly if I can call out your name in Chinese. Would you mind writing your Chinese name on the cover?” Fortunately I always know how to write my Chinese name and a dozen more Chinese characters. Looking at my Chinese name, he said: “Your Chinese handwriting is very pretty”. That compliment really made my day and when I went back home I started to ponder about learning the written Chinese language, in some way to remove the shame and embarrassment of not able to read and write Chinese. The internet proved to be fabulous, I was able to find great websites teaching written and oral Chinese in Mandarin and Cantonese, all for free. If you think Chinese is hard to learn, listen to one teacher’s statement: “If a billion people can learn the language, how hard can it be”. A year later I have added over five hundred Chinese characters in my arsenal, and everyday I look forward to add new words to my vocabulary.

1966 – Now that I decided to pass the Colombo Scholarship and to stay in Hong Kong, it was time again to look for a job.

Chinese families always wanted their children to be a doctor, a lawyer or an accountant in that order. Naturally not all kids have the intellectual capability to aspire to one of these professions. Even if they do, circumstances may prevent them from achieving their goals, such as family constraint, financial issues or simply karma.

Becoming a doctor, a lawyer or other professions does not necessarily guarantee you great success in life, though your chance of success may be higher than those without the qualifications. I have seen lawyers struggling in their practice and doctors given up the profession for psychological or other reasons. Education is important and one should never pass the opportunity to study. Interesting to note that many successful people did not have the opportunity to attend proper schooling and that includes Mr. Lee Ka-Shing, one of the richest men in Asia. He was born when China was in chaos and he was deprived of a full education.

To a Chinese family working in a bank was a prestigious matter. So I sent my resume to all the banks in Hong Kong and what I received as reply was disappointing: “Thank you for your application, we are sorry we have no opening at this time. We will let you know if a vacancy presents itself”. The reality was that most jobs were filled through “connections and relationships”, the Chinese call it “guanxi” or “guanshi”. My late mother often mentioned about “guardian angel”, some one that in the course of one’s life would open a door for you. In some way it is much like “guanxi”. I found my guardian angel in Father Germain of the Xavier House, one of the many missionaries that had set foot in China and Hong Kong for over a century. Father Germain had earlier helped my two other friends find a job at Banque Nationale de Paris and Air France respectively.

Three major banks in 1960s Hong Kong side by side, Bank of China, Hong Kong Bank and Chartered Bank. Hilton Hotel is on the left.

One phone call from Father Germain to a Mr. Yao, Personnel Manager at the Banque Nationale de Paris landed me an interview. I took a written and oral test and Mr. Yao was impressed. He further complimented me: “you have a beautiful handwriting”. Mr. Yao wanted to make full use of my knowledge of French and posted me to the Tsim Sha Tsui branch in the busy tourist area of Kowloon. At the branch because I was fluent in English and French, I was treated by my colleagues with some respect in spite of my young age. Not only did I serve many French tourists coming to the branch for money exchange but I came across many French speaking Vietnamese military personnel and businessmen who wanted to keep some of their money at our bank in Hong Kong. South Vietnam was at war with the Viet Cong and what the future held nobody knew. Need to save for the rainy days.

Tsim Sha Tsui the tourist district in Kowloon. The neon light is mesmerizing as it was in 1960s

That was also the time when American soldiers posted in Vietnam spent their recreation in Hong Kong. At any one time there were a couple of U.S. battle ships anchored in the harbour. The American servicemen in Hong Kong probably set the stage for the book “The World of Suzie Wong”.

Hong Kong Harbour 1966

It was also the era when Americans were flocking to Hong Kong to buy custom made suits, among other things, at a fraction of the cost in their country, and delivery was made in 24 hours. Hong Kong people were and are still hard working, innovative and accommodating. “Idle time” was not in their vocabulary; if the tailor had to work through the night to finish the suit, so it would be. Shops were lining Nathan Road in Tsim Sha Tsui, surprisingly owned by many Indian businessmen with Chinese tailors behind the shop front. The Indian businessmen were also busy travelling to major U.S. cities to take measurement of Americans wanting a custom made suit, while other clients would buy a suit through “Mail Order”, sending in the measurement and a cheque. It was a happy and prosperous era for a lot of small shop owners. One Mauritian even found his niche selling decorative items made of jade and ivory to the French tourists under the business name of “Chez Edouard”.

Personally for me it was a golden year. I was young, energetic, confident, single, with a good job in a new fascinating country with seemingly endless potential. I was courting my future wife and very much in love, my first love, it was like a replay of the movie “Love is a many splendoured thing”.

At night Tsim ShaTsui switched focus from an intense business environment to an entertainment mecca. The neon lights turned on, night became day, restaurants filled with noisy patrons and the bars lively with loud music, often with live band made up of artists from the Philippines, to entice the American servicemen as well as other tourists for a drink and more. Today Tsim Sha Tsui has changed a lot and moved upscale, the small shops and bars are long gone and replaced by large department stores, malls and brand name boutiques. I missed my four years in Tsim Sha Tsui.

Numerous bars sprang up in Hong Kong to service the Americans on recreation from Saigon

On the dark side, China started the Cultural Revolution “to rid society of members of the bourgeoisie threatening to seize political power from the proletariat”. 1.7 millions people died. Countless politicians and intellectuals killed. Cultural relics and artifacts destroyed. Red Guards waving their little “Mao Red Book” were threatening to a lot of people in Hong Kong. The Cultural Revolution somewhat spilled into Hong Kong leading to the 1967 Riot, the last straw for many residents who packed up and immigrated to the Americas. Fortunately the instability of Hong Kong did not last too long, apparently at the command of the administration in Beijing. Life was back to normal but the expected return of Hong Kong to China due in 1997 was an ongoing concern. While riding on the ferry and admiring the great many high rises along the Hong Kong shores, one American commented to me: “Look at all these buildings. They will soon belong to China”.

Hong Kong 1967 Riots

Hong Kong shores 1960s with its many high rise buildings

Pro-communist rioters brandishing the Mao Red Books in front of Hong Kong Government House.

Our family home and boutique was very humble. The structure was built at the south west corner of Aleppo Street and Yoloff Street in Port Louis, and formed part of a larger residential complex on a square terrain. Aleppo and Yoloff were paved streets, though not without its expected potholes, in an area that was not a priority of the Municipality. The other two streets that enclosed the terrain were dirt streets that got muddy in rainy weather.

Our stone house had one large room on Aleppo which was our boutique and one room on Yoloff which was our bedroom. Detached from the L-shape structure was a makeshift kitchen with an elevated stone slab on which stood our stone stove, and on the other side was a small concrete slab, our bathroom, from where a small drain led to the main basin outside in the yard. The kitchen-cum-bathroom was very small and an adult could touch the tin ceiling with his hand extended upright. This was where for many an afternoon I helped with starting a fire to make dinner, and where I learned from my sisters and sister-in-law to cook rice, fry fish and prepare the Mauritian “rougaille” (tomato sauce) and “satini” (tomato chutney). Just outside the kitchen we had, sitting on the floor, a rectangular stone slab on which we ground, using a fat stone rolling pin, various ingredients such as onions, garlic, chillies, coriander, coconut, tomato, to make a “satini” or “curry paste”. I knew all these by age nine. Rice cooking, now as easy as abc with the press of a button, was then more complicated and required lot of practice. The rice was cooked in a large pot filled with water to the rim, and when the rice was ready, the extra water was drained, apparently a waste of nutrients.

This was how we cooked dinner in 1960s

Satini Tomato A Local Mauritian Favourite Dish

Stone Grinder Essential In Every Mauritian Family

We had a courtyard, and on hindsight I realized it was really small, just a couple hundred square feet. We were privileged though to have a fence around the courtyard, built with odds and ends pieces of lumber and tin sheets. No other tenants in the complex had any private fenced area. I remember when a cyclone hit the Island our fence always fell flat to the ground and as a small kid I felt uneasy with the sudden openness of the yard, the insecurity of the place and the lack of privacy. Fortunately we always quickly found and paid some hands to reinstate the fence.

The king of our courtyard was our dog, a medium size dog acquired for the sole purpose of enhancing security to our home. We did not walk the dog or take him out for any activity or leisure. He was fed with the dinner leftover and not dog food, but I think he was content to have a place called home. He always remained in the courtyard sitting or sleeping, a good dog, under the small tin canopy that extended from the walls of the structure.

Then we reared a couple of chickens, sometimes they were caged, sometimes they were at liberty to roam the courtyard in search of food, mainly worms from the ground, though we did feed them with maize once a day. Occasionally panic stroke us, when one hen escaped over the fence and we had to chase it all over the neighbourhood. Every afternoon at around four o’clock I would, at the request of mom but mainly for my own curiosity and pleasure, be on standby in the courtyard and waited for the hens to lay their eggs. Sometimes I was too eager to pick the still warm eggs and the hens would not hesitate to show their true colour and fighting stance. Occasionally I saw how hens got intimate. The male chicken, called a cock, always majestic with its head high and proud, would jump and sit on top of the hen, pinching its neck with its beak. It was all over in a few seconds. Interestingly a hen does not need a partner to lay egg, all it needs is sunlight.

The Proud And Majestic Cock

The little plot of land we were able to plant green onions, chilli peppers and chouchou (a type of cucumber) among others. Imagine the extreme pleasure we derived from experiencing the produce as it grew bigger and bigger day by day. The chouchou was the most fascinating as it grows like a grape vine, its tentacles reaching, curling and clinging on to the wire mesh. The chouchou itself has a unique shape, the Chinese call it “hand palm cucumber” due to its resemblance to a pair of clapped hands, and it has all over the body small prickly hairs like an unshaven face. I always felt funny and tickled when holding a chouchou. Other frequent visitors to our courtyard included ants, insects, flies, worms, spiders, birds, lizards, butterfly, centipedes and rats, all of which were mesmerizing to our small eyes. We were also delighted to see small plants and flowers, for no apparent reason, sprung out of the ground, an enhancement to the landscape of the yard.

Chouchou Plant Curling and Clinging To The Wire Mesh

The Hand Clapped Shape Of The Chouchou With Prickly Hairs

Then in the middle of the yard was a stone basin built on the ground, where stood a large rectangular flat stone which our maid used to wash the household clothes everyday. The clothes were hanged to dry on wires fastened across the yard. The basin had its own water tap and a metal drum used to store water. If we were not taking a bath in the kitchen, we boys would be standing by the drum scooping the cool water over our body, somewhat of a quick shower.

Stone Slab Where We Washed Dishes and Clothes

Our Clothes Were Washed On Stone Slabs

There was a small gate which connected us to the other side of the courtyard where we needed to go and use the only washroom in the complex. Eventually we were able to build our own private toilet in the sanctity of our courtyard, a far cry from the public latrine, which many a time I had to be there as the bodyguard for my sisters using the facility at night.

In the yard under the canopy we had a small square table and four long wooden stools, our dining area except when it rained we would move in the bedroom. Hanging above the table was a small square cupboard, short of a refrigerator, to keep food safe from flies, insects, rats and cats. Two sides of the cupboard were wood and the other two sides were mosquito mesh to keep the air circulation.

Like most Chinese, my parents were Buddhist and we had an altar mounted on the wall facing the courtyard. The altar symbolically had two Gods to protect our family, Guan Yin, Goddess of Compassion and Guan Yu, Guardian of Justice. Every night my mother lighted joss sticks and incense and recited the Buddhist verses under the altar.

Most Chinese Families Had An Altar At Home

On Sunday afternoon when the shop was closed, our family often visited our two uncles at their place close to Champ de Mars, their abodes more spacious to entertain all three families. Our house would be locked and deserted, and the courtyard quiet and susceptible to break-in, but our beloved dog never failed in his duty to keep the place safe.

To us small kids the courtyard was a small jungle, a small paradise.

“We go dim sum sometimes” was something that I heard frequently in Hong Kong in the 1960s. My mother-in-law, so did everybody else, would say this to anybody that had provided a favour or service, whether paid or unpaid. Though there was no intention to go dim sum with someone you hardly know, it carried the message that the favour or service would be returned sometime. What that translated to was that to get things done quickly, you would need to give out “tea money” or “lai see money” or to put it bluntly a bribe.

Corruption was part and parcel of life in the Colony in the 1960s and 1970s. Little could be achieved if you did not pay a bribe, small or big, depending on what were to be accomplished. Corruption had a long history in China since imperial days, so had in Hong Kong since its birth in 1841.

The Police Force, The Fire Fighters and The Health Department were the most corrupt public bodies. To get a fire safety certificate for your establishment you needed to bribe the fire department, for a sanitary certificate the health department and for security the police department

Paying a bribe was an open secret, there was even a system set up as to how the bribe was to be paid. For instance, the health inspector arrived at your establishment, hanged his jacket on a designated rack and went to the washroom. The establishment’s owner discreetly slided an envelope with money in a pocket of the jacket. The inspector came out of the washroom, put on his jacket and issued a compliance certificate.

As for the police, the constable on beat would collect the bribe individually from the street vendors, the small mom and pop shops, the restaurants and other businesses, legal or illegal, and handed the daily receipt to a designated officer at the precinct. Once a month or so, envelopes containing money were handed to individual participants, the higher the rank the more the payout. Participation was somewhat “mandatory”, lest you were quickly demoted and transferred to a remote border station in the New Territories.

Hong Kong Police 1960s

One of Hong Kong 1960s attraction was the hawkers who plied their trade on the pavements of busy roads. Here you could get, at a bargain, things that were used on a daily basis, from ladies stocking to hats, from underwear to overcoat, and fast food, from curried octopus to wanton noodles. This bustling trade was what made Hong Kong lively when the sun had set. Unlicensed hawking was illegal, yet the business thrived under the nose of the law enforcing police. It was hilarious that the police even staged mock up raids from time to time, so as to appear clean and straight, whence the hawkers would run with their carts down the street in panic, shouting “jau gwai” (run from the devils). One hawker summed up this trade as follows: “without hawkers, society is quiet and empty”

Hawkers plying their trade in Hong Kong. Find clothes, accessories and all.

Modern Food Hawkers in Hong Kong, not dissimilar to the 1960s

Then the Triads (Mafia) extracted money from the businesses, not paying meant trouble and disruption to the business. The Police stepped in and extracted more bribe in the name of protecting the businesses from the Triads. Triads also controlled illegal gambling and prostitution, and business would run normally if under the police protection. Other businesses were raided now and then until they came under the police umbrella.

“No Money No Water”, a sarcastic term used to poke fun at the firefighters. During a fire, the firefighters would be busy with all sorts of activities but dispensing water. Anxious property owners knew they had to negotiate to get the firefighters to open the hose. Then the reverse was also true, “No Money More Water”. This time the water kept flowing causing unnecessary further damage to property even after the fire was extinguished. Pay up to close the hose.

Fire Fighters 1960s Hong Kong

It was not that there were no apparatus in place to control bribery. There was the Hong Kong Police Anti Corruption Branch, established in 1952. However it was ineffective, as the Anti Corruption Branch became corrupt itself, extracting bribe from police under investigation. In the classic Golberg case, the Anti Corruption Branch was investigating Senior Police Officer Golberg for having huge sum of unexplained money in his bank account. Before he was charged, the Anti Corruption branch let Golberg to flee Hong Kong to the UK, though he was eventually extradited and convicted.

“Foh Kei” meaning “Colleague” was a powerful word used within the police force. With this word, the member of the police force and their family could get away with a lot of contravention such as illegal parking, speeding or even running illegal or unethical businesses. I had the opportunity to use this technique once, when ticketed for illegal parking. “We are foh kei” we told the ticketing officer and provided him with the name and rank of one of our detective relative. We were let go.

There were also routine corruptions such as a business corporation giving the manager of a bank an expensive Rolex watch so that he/she facilitated some business deals, or paying the public work department for insider information to land a contract, or paying a senior executive to get a lucrative promotion, or paying the personnel manager of a company to land a job. Even in the hospital “tea money” was systematically paid to the nurses to get an extra blanket for the sick, or to extend the visiting hours. The whole Asia was generally corrupt. I remember when we travelled to Thailand and Philippines, it was an advisable practice to have a banknote enclosed in your passport for the immigration officer to take, without which you might be subject to long baggage search and inconvenience.

Then everything changed in 1974 with the establishment of ICAC, the Independent Commission Against Corruption, and today Hong Kong is regarded as one of the most corrupt-free societies in the world. As we speak even the previous Chief Executive of Hong Kong could not get away from the claw of ICAC, he being brought to court for alleged corruption during his term of office.

Modern ICAC Hong Kong Headquarter, Over 1,200 employees

All these, however, pale in front of today’s corruption in China, the latest was a top former general in the Chinese military investigated for accepting bribe, estimated to be more than another earlier charged general’s accumulation of a tonne (in actual weight!) of banknotes found in his house. It was reported that in 2015 HK$245 billions of bribery money was channelled out of Guangdong in illegal money transfer. This is just the tip of the iceberg of corruption money in China

Ask any kid and even young adolescent in the developed countries if they know what “matches” look like, they would stare at you as if you come from an alien world. All they know is to turn on the switch on the electric range, or press the button on the microwave and the electric kettle. The closest to matches that they may have come across is the cigarette lighter, which dad uses for his cigarette or mom uses to light the candles on the birthday cake.

Yet matches were, and are still in less developed countries, a fundamental part of our lives when we were growing up in the 1950s Mauritius. Without matches we were as good as starved. Every kid then knew how to use matches and likely had naughtily played with them at every available occasion. It would terrify parents today if the children are to get their hand on them, if they do, half the neighbourhood would likely be on fire.

Typically matches come in a small rectangular box made of very thin layer of wood or cardboard. The match stick with its round iconic brownish or reddish head is struck against the sandy side of the matchbox, the friction sparks a fire that slowly burns the stick. As kids we often competed as who could hold the lighted matchstick longer to the very end. Burned fingers were common occurrences and were marks of bravery or stupidity depending on one’s view. It delighted us enormously to see the matchstick burn and contort into charcoal under the heat of the flame.

Matches An Essential During Our Time

Another version is the matchbook, a cardboard folder of matches with a striking surface on one side. Inside the folder are two to three layers of matchsticks, typically 20 to 30, to tear out and strike.

Matchbook Great Medium For Advertising Businesses

As kids, we also used to play with matches. It was a simple game. We threw a handful of matchsticks on the floor, each laying flat and not on top of another. Then with another stick, we would flip each stick so that it came to rest on top of another and we earned both sticks. If we missed, it was the other player’s turn, until all the sticks were accounted for. Simple game but fun and requires some brain work and skill.

Then we found use for the matchbox, as a protective head cover for our toothbrush or as a container to keep our new catch of “mouche jaune” (yellow bee).

Mouche Jaune (Yellow Bee) Our Prize Catch Which We Kept In Matchbox.

For a long time since the early 1900’s matches were a very popular, cheap and effective medium of advertising for businesses, be it a mom and pop store or a national corporation. Every hotel, restaurant and shop had their own matchbox or matchbook, with their name and logo prominently imprinted on them. They were free giveaway. The company that first developed advertising matchbooks called their matches the “20 Little Salesmen”. Some matchbooks had ingenious designs with the matchsticks taking the shape of the products being advertised, example the shape of a beer bottle or the shape of a sexy entertaining girl. Whenever I travelled I always tried to collect the matchbox to the extent that I had accumulated several hundreds. From time to time I would take them out and look at them, reminiscent of the places that I had been. When I moved from Hong Kong to Canada I took them along, thereafter I realized how dangerous these matches could be when transported by air and even when kept at home. I consequently disposed of them.

Matchbox Collection A Great Way To Reminiscent Your Past

Matchbook With Ingenious Design

In 1971, I was sent to Outward Bound School in Hong Kong by my employer for personal development. One of the programmes required that every participant spent two nights and three days on one of the many islands of the beautiful Sai Kung Peninsula. We were left there alone “solo”, each one on a separate island, with a limited supply of canned food and rice and a matchbox containing only a few matchsticks. If the weather was great it would be a delight to light a small fire and cook and enjoy the food in the tranquility of the place. Unfortunately it was pouring wet and my matchbox was dampened and became useless, leaving me eating cold food. That was how important a matchstick could be.

Sai Kung Peninsula Hong Kong

The gas cigarette lighter ultimately replaced the matchbox and as Companies competed for the lighter market we saw a variety of shape and style lighters, solid gold and diamond studded or just plain disposable plastic casing, ranging from a couple of dollars to thousand of dollars apiece. During the heyday when smoking was “cool”, cigarette lighter became a fashion, a trend, just like jewellery, and every smoker, gentlemen and ladies, carried one in their pocket or purse. People were judged by the lighter they carried and every one tried to own one of the famous brand lighters such as Ronson, Dunhill and Dupont. Dupont lighter was a favourite because of its famous crystal clear ring when the lighter cap was opened. Many heads did turn with each ring.

Disposable Gas Cigarette Lighter

Every One Wants This Iconic Dupont Lighter With Its Famous Crystal Clear Ring

I like to think of Mauritius and Hong Kong as two sisters, born of one English father, with Mauritius a French mother and Hong Kong a Chinese mother. Mauritius is an island, so was Hong Kong (before adding Kowloon and New Territories) – in area term 787 squares miles and 426 square miles respectively. They were administered under the same British system of governance with a flair of Chinese for Hong Kong and French for Mauritius, each headed by a Governor appointed by Her Majesty the Queen of England. So when I landed in Hong Kong in 1966 I felt quite comfortable, secure and at home.

I was recently reading “Hong Kong A Cultural History” by Michael Ingham, an interesting book which described the origin and history of many monuments, buildings, streets, temples and places in Hong Kong. I was particularly intrigued with these descriptions as I was able mentally to walk through these familiar spots as I read them.. Then I was thrilled to read of Sir John Pope Hennessy, Governor of Hong Kong (1877 to 1883) who also became Governor of Mauritius (1883 to 1889).

A typical Mauritius beach

Hong Kong overlooking Kowloon with Victoria Harbour in between

Mauritius, a remote island in the Indian Ocean, became British territory in 1810, ceded by France during the Napoleonic War after close to one hundred years of French rule. Her younger sister, Hong Kong was born in 1841, ceded in perpetuity to Britain by China as a price paid for losing the First Opium War. Over the years Hong Kong had grown fatter by annexing Kowloon in 1860 as China ceded it to Hong Kong as a price for loosing the Second Opium War. Then in 1898 the New Territories were leased from China for 99 years ending 30 June 1997. Kowloon is a peninsula of mainland China separated from Hong Kong Island by the Victoria Harbour, and the land immediately north of Kowloon is the New Territories.

Hong Kong was a “barren rock” when Britain took it over and there were deep concern and regret among the British Leaders that they should perhaps have asked for a better concession. But Captain Charles Elliot of the British Forces who negotiated the deal saw the importance of Hong Kong’s deep natural harbour.

Hong Kong A Barren Rock

Mauritius has developed rather nonchalantly over the century, relying mainly for a long time on agriculture, principally sugar which is world famous, and more recently tourism and textiles. It is one of the world’s top luxury tourism destinations, due to its tropical climate, clean warm water, beautiful beaches, variety of flora and fauna, and last but not least friendly multi-ethnic and cultural population. It is an upper middle income economy, with 2015 per capita GDP at US$17,716, the highest of its neighbouring African countries. Its population has not changed drastically since I left the Island in 1966, lingering just over the million mark.

Hong Kong, by contrast, has developed at a more aggressive speed over the century, relying mainly on commerce and trade and as an entrepot port. Its population grew from around 3 million when I first arrived there to over 7 million today.

Hong Kong started to prosper after the Second World War. Its manufacturing industry boomed in the 1960s and 1970s as it drew from the expertise and ambition of well, Chinese and Western, educated business people, mainly from Shanghai, who had descended on Hong Kong in large number when the Communists took control of China in 1949. Thereafter most factories closed and moved to China as it opened its door and welcomed the world. Cheap land and cheap labour were very attractive incentives. I remember a time when everything was “Made In Hong Kong” and then it changed to “Made In China”. Starting late 1970s having lost its manufacturing base, Hong Kong switched focus and became a major entrepot in Asia Pacific. Now it is the world’s largest re-export centre, mainly goods made in China and distributed via Hong Kong, resulting in Hong Kong becoming the world’s second busiest container port and the world’s busiest airport for international cargo. At the same time it changed from a manufacturing-based economy to a service-based economy.

Hong Kong Container Port, 2nd Busiest In The World

Hong Kong ranks as the freest economy in the world and becomes a top Financial Centre in the league of London and New York. Its 2015 per capital GDP stood at US$56,428.00. Beyond question, Hong Kong is dynamic and always on the move, nothing stands still and is appropriately characterized by what is written on one of the Island’s street warning signs: “Waiting will be prosecuted”. While Mauritius has developed on its own pace, the speed and breadth of change in Hong Kong are quite a world apart.

Hong Kong Street Sign –
“Waiting will be prosecuted”

Hong Kong was known for many years as a “shopping paradise” for its cheap and wide range of products. Though it is no longer a bargain destination, Hong Kong is still the world’s most popular city for tourists.

Hong Kong was once known as the Pearl of the Orient

However, not all that glitter is gold for Hong Kong. The gap between the rich and the poor gets bigger, to the point where Hong Kong has become the least equal city in the developed world. Hong Kong’s real estate is the most expensive on the planet. A home was reportedly sold not too long ago for about US$192 millions to the boss of Alibaba, China giant tech firm. The previous owner had bought it in 2000 for around US$21 millions plus US$7 millions in redevelopment/renovation. This kind of transaction is incredible and can only happen in Hong Kong.

Hong Kong home sold for US$192 millions

Behind the glittering glass windows of fabulous skyscrapers live tens of thousands of people literally one on top of another. Not only in term of layers of flats in the high rise buildings but also in the layers of bunk beds within the flats. The very rich live in luxurious apartments or mansions with stunning view of the Hong Kong harbour, the very poor live in 12ft by 2.5ft wire mesh cage home, also known as “Coffin” home. Many apartments are divided up to seven 50 square foot cubicles, each of which can accommodate only a bunk bed and a small cabinet and barely any space left to stand. A 2013 report described a 63 year old grandmother living in one of these cubicles, located in Wan Chai district where the classic movie “World of Suzie Wong” was shot in the 1960s, with her 9 year old granddaughter and 13 year old grandson. The father had abandoned them, and the mother lives in China unable to get a resident permit. The poverty line was unofficially marked at HK$12,000.00 per month income and it was reported that 1.19 millions people lived below this line in 2012.

Hong Kong “Coffin” Homes

Hong Kong Cubicle Home

By contrast I understand a high percentage, eighty percent or so, of Mauritian families own their homes and the living condition of the very poor is not that disgustful. The Hong Kong Administration had promised to build more subsidized housing to alleviate the living condition of the poor. We have yet to see an improvement.

To-day most children born in developed countries are lucky. They get a good education, they eat heartily and healthily, they dress decently and they have a warm home. And toys in abundance. My grandson and granddaughter practically buy a toy every week, their rooms are clustered with toys of all sorts, Hello Kitty to Cinderella dolls, Star Wars guns to spacecrafts. As a matter of necessity and whenever we can afford it, we always pamper our children and grandchildren with gifts on their birthday, at Christmas, on graduation, and other occasions that we, grown up, create as an excuse to shower more gifts upon the kids.

In my 1950’s childhood in Mauritius the scenery was very different. I remember that as a child I had received only one “toy”, it was a small tin toy wind up airplane that you wind up to propel the plane to move on its wheels, making a cranking sound. I remember the specific place where I received the toy, a “boutique” at “Bel Air”, a small town some 30 kilometers from home, when I was on my way to spend my summer vacation at my maternal aunt’s place at “Deep River”. It was around Christmas and my aunt had come home to pick me up. We took a bus from Port Louis and rode through a picturesque countryside, the roads were serene, lined up on both sides with mango trees, green fields and sugar cane plantation. There was little traffic except for the occasional farmers riding their cattle carts to deliver sugar cane to the mill. We stopped at “Bel Air”, and I felt the fresh cool breeze which was a relief from the hot humid air in Port Louis, to visit an acquaintance of my aunt at their store. The store was stocked with toys and other home festive items for Christmas. It was there that my aunt had bought the airplane toy and given to me as a gift. Having lived in Hong Kong and now in Canada, both advanced and forward countries where people celebrate Christmas with cakes, gifts and parties, I had my share of gifts from family and friends, but that small “airplane” toy at Bel Air is the one gift that will never be erased from my memory.

My first and only toy as a child looks like this, a tin toy wind up airplane

The road from Port Louis to Bel Air was serene, with occasional farmers leading their ox carts of cane to the mill.

No toys did not mean that we were unhappy and miserable kids. Yes, we envied looking at the tempting toys displayed in the “Magasin” during Christmas. My brother-in-law had a popular magasin, named “Triangle Rouge” on Royal Road, not too far from the Government House in centre of town. A couple of times I had been at the store on Christmas eves and I had seen all the fascinating toys that would be the joy of any kid. But I was not there to get a toy, I was there to keep an eye on the shoppers, excited kids with mom and dad, that walked through the store. My assignment was to ensure that they did not walk out of the shop without paying.

Like kids everywhere in the less affluent countries, we created our own toy, made up our own game and designed our own entertainment. One of the most popular toy was the “Hoop Rolling Wheel”. It was simply an old bicycle rim which we would run down the street noisily, pretending that we were driving our own car. It may sound silly today but back then we could play with it for hours on end. We used a short stick to stir the wheel to go straight, right or left and do other tricks such as jumping over a mount. Even then, not all the kids had the good fortune to possess a rolling wheel and we did share the toy with those who did not have one. This toy is probably no longer fashionable in Mauritius but in other African countries it is still alive and kicking. Surprisingly I learn that “hoop rolling” is an ancient form of game played by children, rich or poor, all over the world, from Europe to China to America.

Popular Hoop Rolling Wheel in the 1950

We kids just loved rain. When it rained we all had a ball, running and getting soaked, and we indulged in “racing boat”. Our racing boat was really just a piece of stick, or for fancier competitors a flat piece of lumber carved in the shape of a boat with a mast and cloth sail. Most streets in the City had small canals on both sides along the pavements to facilitate the flow of water, and the canals were the venue for our competition.

Kids made their own wooden boats similar to the picture

A more dangerous toy was the “bow and arrow” which we made out of split bamboo. With these toys, we played Robin Hood and the vicious sheriff. At the end of the arrow we sometimes attached a needle, not intended to shoot at our friends but to shoot at targets chalk drawn on the wooden walls. Once, my brother and I inadvertently shot a needle arrow towards a neighbour who reported the incident to our father. My father, kind and understanding he was, had to administer punishment, and he held our wrists together and hit the palms of our hands with a ruler, ten strokes it were. It did not hurt. It was a symbolic gesture but the message was distinctively delivered.

We made our own bow and arrow out of split bamboo

Climbing trees and swinging on the hanging vines of banyan trees were very popular activities for us. I remember one Sunday afternoon while playing in the open field by a large Tamarind tree, I saw a fellow “camarade” felt off from the tree branch some eight feet high, onto the ground with a smothered thump. Fortunately the ground was soft, but he did not get up and he laid unconscious and still. The other playmates were frightened and started screaming, and we all gathered around our motionless friend, curious of his condition but not knowing what to do, while someone run to fetch his father. We did not have ambulance service, the hospital was far away and no transport facility was available. The father arrived, agitated and concerned, and he carried his son home hastily in his arms, and all the kids just followed behind like in a disorganized procession. Since we heard no more, we believed the kid was fine.

Swinging from the Banyan tree was a popular pastime of the kids

Apart from the common entertainments such as kite flying, bicycling, street football and playing hide and seek, the boys sometimes indulged in scary and atrocious activity. They would catch a live chameleon by placing and tightening a string loop, attached at the end of a bamboo stick, round its neck. Then they would dangle the wriggly creature into the face of the small kids who would run screaming for their lives. When the fun was over with the scary kids, the boys would light a cigarette and forced it into the chameleon’s mouth and the smoke filled its belly until it burst. It was too cruel and sickening to watch and I always left the scene beforehand. We also derived a lot of pleasure placing large nails on the railway tracks that run two blocks behind our home, then we hide behind the bush away from the glare of the train conductor. When the train had passed, the nail would be flattened like a knife blade.

Chameleon aplenty in our neighbourhood

A typical train that run behind our house

During my childhood and like most other kids, I did not celebrate birthday. No cake, no toys, no gifts, no inviting friends. In fact all of us never knew our own birth date. It did not mean, however, that our parents were neglectful or indifferent of our birthday. They were just too poor and busy working to bring up the family that they did not have the time nor the money to throw a party, but I think most parents were aware of our birthday and in their heart they did remember us. When I was six or seven years old, my mother, one evening, quietly and discreetly waved me to go to her in a secluded area of our shop, away from the other siblings. There, she had earlier secretly boiled an egg and placed it in an empty condensed milk can containing hot water to keep it warm. She took out the egg from the can, removed the shell and gave the egg to me, and said: “Louloute, today is your birthday. Have this egg”. I was a little taken off guard and too young to react with any emotion or in any other way, I was simply glad that I had an egg. I ate the egg with my mother standing close by me watching until I finished. It was a simple moment, a quiet celebration of my birthday with my mother alone, with no other participant, no witness, no fanfare. That scene always flashed through my mind now and then and I always treasure that moment. As I grew older, I started to realize the significance of that moment; it was the purest manifestation of a mother’s love and care for her son. Sometimes I tried to figure out what my mother was thinking and how she felt, as she watched me eat the egg, and tears could not resist flooding my eyes. I might have forgotten most of my birthdays celebrated as an adult, but I will always remember this one alone with my mother. This birthday crowns all the birthdays that I had as a grown up and all the birthdays that I will have in the future.

Mahjong, commonly played by four players, is the most played card game in the world, the card was replaced by tiles sometimes in the 1850s. It is a “draw and discard” game to form “melds” which consist of forming a set of three or four identical tiles and/or a set of three in sequence of the same suit, not too unlike the Western card game of “Rummy”. “Mahjong” is the literal translation for the Chinese word “Sparrow”. What makes mahjong mesmerizing is its inexhaustive combinations of play leading to a wide range of scenarios which the players have to deal with great skill lest they loose the game.

“Mahjong” is the literal translation of the Chinese word “Sparrow”

A dying breed of mahjong shops in Hong Kong.

When I arrived in Hong Kong in 1966 I could not miss the clacking sound of the mahjong tiles all over the city, whether it be from the living room of my neighbour, the corner space in a local store, the dining hall of restaurant, or simply in the open air under the banyan tree. Mahjong was also joyously played by guests at weddings for a few hours prior to serving dinner. The game, though innocent as a game of chess in outward appearance, has in fact a strong element of “gambling” with a burning urge on the part of the players to win. After all, I have yet to find a Hong Kong person willing to sit at the mahjong table for hours on end, if it is not for the chance to make some money. Gambling was and is still illegal in Hong Kong and to get around being caught by Police, the players used “chips” which at the end of the game would be paid back in hard currency.

Unlike the game of poker where all the players sit silently, without saying a word or making any abrupt body movement, mahjong was played in Hong Kong with a lot of fanfare. Firstly the players would be chattering, if not shouting, incessantly telling or bragging or complaining about any and everything. From telling about their misery at the office or their lucky winnings at the Race Course to the annoyance of their unbearable wives at home. Secondly the tiles were discarded with utmost energy, with a heavy bang on the mahjong board, the louder the merrier. If the radio could blast the latest Cantonese Opera Song to the already hectic environment, so much the better. Needless to say all the noise had to be complemented with incessant smoking and/or drinking Chinese tea, beer or alcohol. A serious real party it was!

Concentration is the key to winning a game of mahjong, apart from luck.

Women were no less immune to this contagious game, and they did get together for regular mahjong. What better opportunity was there to gossip the afternoon or night away, enjoying anecdotes of cheating husbands and opining strategies as how to keep their conniving husbands under their grip, or bragging about their good fortune, a favourite pastime among some self centred and snobbish “tai tai” wives.

Though traditional Confucian Chinese family snubbed at any sort of gambling particularly among the young children, it was acceptable practice to let young teenagers play a game of mahjong at home, within the comfort of the family circle. So it was not any surprise that small kid, as young as 10 years old, playing mahjong with mom, grandma and other siblings.

Despite against the teaching of Confucius, children are allowed to play mahjong within the boundary of the family circle.

For a long time bribery was a quick way to get things done in Hong Kong, and corruption was so rampant that the Government created ICAC (Independent Commission Against Corruption) in 1974 to put a check on the illegal practice. Mahjong became an alternate venue for people to continue to indulge in bribery without running foul of the law. An orchestrated loss at a friendly mahjong game enabled the passing of money from one person to another, a convenient way to safe bribery.

After work as Western people went to the bar to have a beer, the Hong Kong counterparts, mainly the male workers, went for a long evening of Mahjong. The city played good host to this addictive activity, in that most restaurants offered comfortable venue for the game which could last till the wee hour of the morning. Dinner served in between and snacks and drinks all through the night. Such a habit did not always bode well with the wives and was not conducive to a harmonious family environment. The game was, in all respect, a gambling game and involved money, the stake of which was pre-agreed among the players, could be a dollar a point or the sky the limit. Many players returned home broke and unable to feed their family. How many families were thus broken your guess is as good as mine.

However evil it is, Mahjong can work well for some people. First, it brings people together, whether they are members of the family, colleagues, neighbours or acquaintances, and is a good and enjoyable way to build friendship. My mother-in-law used to play regular mahjong with her neighbours, one of whom was in her nineties at the time. I had also played a few games with my mother-in-law to be, and it was an open secret that one should let mother-in-law win to gain her favour, lest she forbade her daughter to have anything to do with you. Mahjong game can also enhance your career. My wife’s brother-in-law who worked for the Taxation Office was at a dead end in his career for many years, until one day he was given the opportunity to become a regular mahjong player with some of his superiors. Then on, his career just flourished. Mahjong is also believed to improve health as the players are in regular motion, like doing mild exercise, as they shuffle and play the tiles. Further the brain is in constant alert, having to formulate strategies and remember your opponents’ every move, beneficial to individuals suffering from dementia.

Mahjong keeps this aging lady active and healthy.

Mahjong can also break friendship whence one player keeps winning and consequently fester frustration and angers amongst the others, or when one player plays discriminately against another to his irritation.

For the diehard gamblers there were, and some still exist to this day, licensed mahjong parlours where they could play with other unknown individuals. These parlours were considered undesirable places by most citizens and were believed to be run by Triads, the local mafia. The chance of winning was slim considering that your opponents might be part of a team or gang that discreetly collaborated to ensure your downfall. Other diehard players might participate in marathon games lasting from Friday evening to Sunday night. Then there were annual Mahjong Competitions, for the brave and daring, staged in many Asian countries where the winner earned the title of “Mahjong King”. For many players the most frustrating part was when a game had to be aborted because one player defaulted at the last minute and a replacement could not be found. The feeling was similar to that of a kid waiting for the promised ice cream that never arrived. A miserable ruined day.

Dare you to play at the licensed mahjong parlour.

There are also, till today, “social” unlicensed low-stake neighbourhood mahjong parlours in Hong Kong, catering to the retired mom and dad, grandma and grandpa types who just want to spend a couple of hours of leisure. These parlours, just the same, get raided by Police from time to time

Police raid at a “social” neighbourhood unlicensed mahjong parlour.

Mahjong is addictive, and Hong Kong people who have immigrated often continue to play the game with their friends in the new country. My neighbour, whose father and mother-in-law just landed in Toronto from Anhui Province in China, casually suggested a game of mahjong with them. I just learn that Mahjong has become the favourite past time of the Chinese people, this within a short period of time as China had banned mahjong from 1949 to 1985 because it was considered a “bourgeois” vice.

Superstition has been a part of Chinese culture for thousand of years and this belief is manifested widely day to day, even when playing a game of mahjong. The game always starts with the players given an opportunity to choose one of the four seats, done through the throw of the dices. If you understand “Fung Shui”, the art of geomancy, you would probably choose an auspicious spot such as away from the sight of the lavatory or away from traffic behind your back. If you are continuously loosing or one opponent is constantly winning, you would like to break up this cycle by getting up and requesting to go to the washroom. Some players would wear specific underwear, red carries good omen, or wear lucky clothing or trinkets. Others resort to humming or singing as a way to frustrate their opponents and bring them bad luck. You are free to make up your own remedy. It might work!.

A typical family run “boulangerie” when I was growing up in Mauritius in 1950’s

1950’s – At 6.30 in the morning sharp, the sun had barely broken the horizon, I would hear loud “Bang Bang!” on the door of our corner boutique. We were all still in bed, my brothers, my sisters, half conscious of what was going on. But there were no panic because the Bang was a routine occurrence, it was the delivery man from the “Boulangerie”, our local bakery. The delivery man arrived on bicycle, always punctual and in a hurry, with two big straw sacks full of bread, like huge beach bags, hanging on both sides of the handlebar. Our order was fixed at 100 loaves everyday, except on special days such as a public holiday, when we would request an extra 30 loaves. The delivery man would quickly transfer the bread into our own straw sacks, four at a time, two per hand, while making a count … quatre, huit, douze… under the prying eyes of my mother. We sold a loaf at five cents while our cost was four cents. If we were shorted by two loaves, and it would happen if we were not diligent, we would have to sell eight more loaves to cover the loss.

Bread was delivered from “La Boulangerie” to “La boutique” in two straw sacks hanging on both sides of the handlebar of the bicycle

The boulangerie, I had observed, only baked two types of bread. The “pain maison”, a rustic bread roll and the “moule”, a rectangular bread which in Hong Kong, I later found out, people call it “pillow” bread because it looked like a pillow used in Ancient China. Actually my brother-in-law’s father used one to sleep in the 1950’s. The recipe was unique, passed from generation to generation by earlier settlers to the Island. We did not carry the “moule” at our boutique for it priced itself out in our neighbourhood. We only sold the “pain maison” which was a bit larger than the roll normally found in supermarket today, and it had a distinctive straight deep wide scar across its dome, I imagine, to ease its breaking in two. The inside crumb was light, fluffy and chewy and the crust light, airy, crusty and crumbly, unlike some rock hard crusts that sometimes cut into your gum. The bread always arrived hot at our boutique and for an extra two cents we would slice open the bread and spread a thin layer of margarine or butter. For those who could afford it, the “pain maison” was best taken with a couple of “gateau piment” known as dhal fritters or chilli cakes made from yellow split peas, or sardines with “piment confit” pickled chillies, or “vegetable achard” which is similar to coleslaw but hot, spicy and stir fried in curry powder. The latter three condiments were fiery and they burned your tongues, numbed your lips and triggered a cascade of sweats down your foreheads and necks. Then, if we could gobble a bottle of ice cold coke, it would be paradise on earth. That was the way we liked to eat our bread.

This is the closest to “Pain Maison” as I knew it.

“Moule” bread. The Hong Kong people call such bread as “pillow bread” for its resemblance to a Chinese pillow used in the old days.

“Vegetable Achard” similar to coleslaw, but hot, spicy, fiery, stir fried in curry powder.

“Gateau Piment” a popular Mauritian delicacy till today, made of yellow split peas, garlic and green chillies and deep fried

Mauritius “Piment Confit”, green chillies marinated in vinegar, a must to eat with sardines

To slice the bread my mother used a huge Chinese cleaver, the only knife in our armoury, which she swung, on occasions, above her head to scare off the local bully. The same cleaver had once sliced a small corner off the tip of my left index finger, when at six-year old I attempted to chop a small cork for my water bottle. As blood was oozing out from my finger, I rushed into the bedroom and told my elder sister, without daring to make any noise. We were both too scared to tell mother lest being severely scolded. My sister wrapped my wound with a piece of white cloth which stopped the bleeding, and quietly I slipped out of the house and went to school. The visible scar had remained with me since. I learned a good lesson with knives.

The boulangerie was located ten minutes by foot from our boutique, the hours of operation unconventional. The work had to done throughout the night, which was tiresome and hard on the workers, because the bread had to be ready in the early morning so that it remained hot when reaching the inhabitants. If the bread was prepared too early it would sit on the shelf cold and if too late there would be no customer. The locals loved to have a hot bread before they departed for work in the wee hour of the morning.

We, curious “petit-camarade”, liked to hang around the boulangerie just to savour the aroma of the freshly baked bread. We further liked more to watch the workers at work. The building housing the bakery was primitive and unimposing, likely built before the turn of the previous century. From the outside the structure looked like any other stone house in the neighbourhood, with a small door and window, the roof corrugated metal sheets. Inside was a single room, rather dark except from the sun rays coming in from the door and a small window, a hundred square feet or two in size, with bales of flour stacked in one corner. The wall facing the main entrance was built with stone. It had a small opening with a small metal gate, and behind it hid the belly of the oven. Against the adjacent wall sat an elevated large wooden trough, bathtub size, similar to the water trough for horses which we saw a lot in John Wayne’s movies. Here, flour would be dumped in, water added with a sprinkle of salt. Sometimes a cockroach or two and sweats from the kneader’s face, might find their way into the dough, the kneader not able or interested to see or know, under the excuse of the dim light. It was no big deal. There were no Consumer Agency to file a complaint. The kneading was performed no differently from what my mother would do at home when making crackers at Chinese New Year, except that the picture was magnified hundred times, the workers working harder with both hands, bending over the trough for two hours or more at a time.

A kneader working hard over a bathtub size wooden trough filled with flour

When the dough reached a nice and smooth, spongy and bouncy consistency the cutter stepped in. He was the person responsible to cut the dough into different shapes, but in our local boulangerie only the “pain maison” and the “moule” were baked. The moule bread was easy to make, just throw in enough dough into a rectangular baking tray, then into the oven. The making of the loaf was more interesting. The dough was beaten, rolled and pulled into the shape of a long baguette on a large wooden table. With great skill and ease the cutter, using a small rectangular aluminum blade as a knife, folded at one end for ease of handling, pinched a handful of dough off the long baguette. With the fingers of both hands, he massaged the dough into small promontory before applying a final slash on the top. The kneader could do the routine with eyes closed, his movements were like a broken record that sang the same tune over and over again, yet soothing to our little eyes.

The dramatic part, for us little kids, was when the “Brigadier” started his routine. The brigadier was the person who mobilized the uncooked dough for their entry into the oven by way of a “giant spatula”, a ten foot wooden pole attached at one end to a square metal blade. Six of the dough would be aligned on the blade in two rows of three. With military precision and fluency, the brigadier would glide the pole inside the oven through the small opening on the wall, and positioned the dough inside the oven, side by side and row by row, as if they were soldiers ready for battle. The oven would be preheated with firewood several hours earlier. Looking through the small opening we could see sporadic shots of fire, and occasionally a gust of hot air coming from the oven would hit our sweaty face. Then without the assistance of a time clock, the brigadier would be recovering the now baked bread with the same spatula, again scooping the hot bread in two rows of three on the metal blade. The breads were deposited in a large wooden box from where they were swiftly transferred into straw sacks and counted, ready for the delivery men to take them away, without delay on bicycle, to the boutiques within their area of responsibility.

Bread is the oldest prepared food in the world, originated thousands of years ago. Today we go to the supermarket and pick up the bread we want from a variety of choices, in the city there are bakeries baking their own bread, pastry and cake. In 1950’s Mauritius, we only had the “Boulangerie” which exclusively baked bread and nothing else. Bread fed the neighbourhood, the city and the country. Boulangeries were small family operations, spread around the city, each serving a small area with a radius of only a mile or so long. The area could not be extended too wide because it would be impossible, with the lacking transportation system, to deliver the bread “hot” to the consumers. Staff absenteeism was also a threat to the operation of the boulangerie. Often, several days a week, the kneader, the cutter and the brigadier would one or the other, as a matter of habit, call sick, sick from drunkenness if not tiredness. The owner and other members of the family were always trained and prepared to step in.

How we eat our bread has its own culture. In Mauritius as small kids we used to remove the inside crumb from the loaf and ate only the crust. In Hong Kong, the people sliced off the skin on the four sides of the “pillow” bread and ate only the inside white crumb. Bread baked in oven fired by wood tasted absolutely different, absolutely sensational. The aroma of the freshly baked warm bread and the melting butter never failed to drive the locals to roll their eyes and draw long deep breath in full contentment as they dipped into the first bite. The local Creole people lovingly called the sensation “cram cram”, crunchy crunchy. It was bread made in Heaven, to never have its match.

A Chinese pillow used in the old days. Hong Kong people call the rectangular bread “pillow bread” for its similar shape.