"Pondside"

My dad enjoying a ride at "Pondside". He's 82.

"Pondside" is what remains of the ancestral property that belonged to my dad's family. My grandmother Engracia Nonis, who had expanded a small piece of land by buying up adjoining plots in the early 1900s, gifted parts of the land to her children--my dad and his brothers and sisters. The part that is "Pondside" was given to my uncle George, who in turn sold it to his sister Mary. I bought the property, which is about one hectare, from Aunt Mary in 1977.

The property is named after the pond that borders one part of the land. My grandfather, Charles Stanley Braine, had the pond dug so that his large brood of children (six girls and three boys) would have a place to frolic. The pond is fed by a stream, which now brings pollutants in, so it's no longer safe for swimming or bathing. A body of water cools and greens the property and attracts birds and various small animals, so, polluted or not, it's still adds beauty to the property. The pond also teems with fish.

"Pondside" is a green oasis in a village that is fast becoming crowded with large houses built by the locals. In the 1980s, men from the village, almost all of them Catholics, began to leave for work in Italy. They were later joined by their wives and children. They obviously make good money working as housemaids, drivers, or in caring for the elderly. The only way of displaying their wealth is to build a large, modern house back in the village, so Boralessa (that's the name of my village) is full of these houses, which are largely unoccupied because their owners are in Italy. My house, which sits in the middle of my property, is only 800 sq.ft.

In the late 1970's, my family lived at "Pondside". When we first moved in, there was no electricity in the area. Life was simple, and I traveled to work at the Kelaniya University by train. Fawzia taught at the girls school in the village. The property had numerous fruit trees such as mango, guvava, cashew, ambarella, pomegranate, beli, and anoda. It also had coconut, jak, breadfruit, and some coffee. We also kept chickens for their eggs. We were, for the most part, self sufficient in food, except for rice, fish, and meat. And the produce was organic, although the term was not applied commonly to agricultural products at that time.

In time, we, too, went abroad, and a succession of friends and tenants lived at "Pondside". In 1995, when I moved from the USA to Hong Kong, we made a determined effort to revive the property. First, the old house, a relic from the 1940's, was pulled down and a new house built for my friends the Nizam and Eileen Dane, who were looking for a calmer life. Nizam (or Dane as I called him) was serving in the army, only two years from retirement, and Eileen had retired from the Central Bank after it was attacked by a suicide bomber. Tragically, Dane died in action soon after they moved into "Pondside"and Eileen didn't stay there for much longer.


My son Roy relaxing at "Pondside"

To give an idea of the prevalence of bird life on the property, let me show a list of the birds seen by my friends Kathy and Cully Wilcoxon, who spent a week there in January 2004.

Birds seen at “Pondside”, Boralessa (January, 2004)

Black-hooded Oriole
White rumped Munia
Indian Pond Heron
Little Cormorant
White-breasted Waterhen
Red-wattled Lapwing
Flame-backed Woodpecker
Red-vented Bulbul
Magpie Robin
White-bellied Drongo
Purple-rumped Sunbird
Long-billed Sunbird
Common Myna
Brown-headed Barbet
White-throated Kingfisher
Indian Pitta (a rare bird)
Asian Paradise Flycather
Pak-billed Flowerpecker
Great Tit
Little Egret
Yellow-billed Babbler
Oriental White Eye
Black Bittern
Koel
Palm Swift
Greater Coucal
Stork-billed Kingfisher
Blue-tailed Bee eater
House Crow


Jak fruit

"Pondside" is now looked after by Prasanna, his wife Padma, and their two children. We pay them a small sum monthly, provide free housing, and pay for their electricity. Prasanna is a coconut plucker. He climbs coconut trees and plucks the coconuts by hand, charging the owners Rs. 30 for every tree he climbs. This is a dangerous job because the coconut trees could be 50ft. in height and a fall could be fatal.


Prasanna and Padma in the vegetable plot

Prasanna and Padma take good care of the land and have made it thrive. They are naturals at the cultivation of vegetables and take pleasure in sharing the produce of the land. Padma keeps chickens and sells the eggs to her neighbours.


Padma and the two children with the cow.

In 2007, I gave some money to Padma to buy a calf. The family is looking forward to the milk that is expected this year.


Prasanna and Padma appear to have thrived since moving to "Pondside". In addition to a TV and furniture, they bought a refrigerator last year, a luxury for many Sri Lankans. This year, Prasanna bought a motorcycle; instead of bicycling to work, he now rides the motorcycle. He told me he had paid half the sale price of Rs. 60,000 in cash. We are happy to see them doing well.


Prasanna, Padma, and their two children, who are dressed for Sunday school.

To my regret, I don't get to spend much time at "Pondside". When in Sri Lanka, often on brief visits of a fortnight or so every year, I might spend a few nights at "Pondside", enjoying kos, polos, breadfruit, cashew, and mango cooked by Padma. These visits bring back memories of times when life was simpler and we lived closer to the land.

How to turn a Natural Disaster into a Crime Against Humanity

Burmese children scrambling for handouts after the cyclone


Burma and Sri Lanka have a number of things in common. Both were British colonies. Both gained Independence in 1948. Both are predominantly Buddhist and primarily agricultural, rice being the main crop. At independence, both had solid infrastructures with irrigation projects and well managed railways. Both changed names: Ceylon became Sri Lanka and Burma became Myanmar. And both are spiralling downwards in terms of the standard of living. In Sri Lanka, corrupt politicians are the cause. In Burma, thugs in army uniform have caused the debacle.

It's hard to imagine that, at independence, Burma was the richest country in South-East Asia. With huge resources, a high literacy rate, it was bound to succeed. Burma was so respected in the international community that U Thant, a Burmese, was elected to the post of Secretary-General of the United Nations. But, today, Burma is the poorest country in the region. It's a pariah state, ruled with an iron fist by the army since 1962.

The cyclone that hit two weeks ago is the last straw for two million Burmese living in the low-lying Irrawaddy Delta. According to one estimate, up to 200,000 may have died. More than a million are homeless. Disease and starvation stalks the delta. The Burmese government is not capable of handling such a catastrophe. It needs foreign aid, both financial and material, and foreign relief workers. Yet, to date, the ruling junta has not allowed the free flow of relief aid or relief workers into the country.

As Gwynne Dyer wrote in The Island newspaper, "the generals who rule Burma are ill-educated, superstitious, fearful men whose first priority is protecting their power and their privileges. They almost lost both during the popular demonstrations led by Buddhist monks last year, and they are terrified that letting large numbers of foreigners in now might somehow destabilise the situation again. . . [The junta is] fully aware that most Burmese hate their rulers, and fear that the presence of large number of foreigners might serve as a spark for another popular uprising." The junta has only approved 34 visas of foreign relief workers and allocated only five army helicopters to transport relief supplies.

What of the international community? ASEAN, the regional bloc which also includes Singapore, Indonesia, and Thailand, is impotent as usual. US ships, loaded with relief supplies, are waiting a few miles off shore for permission from the junta to land. The UN, embroiled in bureaucracy, can only preach.

China has major energy investments in Burma and may be the only country the generals will listen to. China must stop blocking Security Council action and use all its influence to press the junta to open up the country to relief efforts. China has now suffered a major disaster -the earthquake in Sichuan Province - and is handling it responsibly, quickly mobilizing the military for rescue work, allowing full media coverage, and welcoming offers of assistance. It should press Burma's generals to do the same, before there are no more victims left to save.

President Sarkozy of France was the first to propose the air drop of supplies in to Burma. Fearful of an international backlash with accusations of another Western invasion of a Third World country, his allies did not support him. But, an air drop will not only save hundreds of thousands of lives; it will also humiliate the ruling junta. It will lose face, on a massive scale, in the eyes of the Burmese people it has oppressed since 1962. An air drop could also be the beginning of the junta's end.

To me, Burma came alive with the writings of George Orwell, who served there as a police officer in colonial times. His immortal short story "Shooting an Elephant" and novel Burmese Days evoke a colony governed mostly with a velvet glove.

An air drop must take place before this natural disaster becomes a crime against humanity.

"Hillside Paradise"

With dreams of retirement in Sri Lanka in an idyllic setting in the cool hill country, I used to surf the Internet looking for suitable properties. Then, some years ago, I came across an advertisement that carried the title "Hillside Paradise". Ever the sucker for an appealing line, I visited the site and soon realized that the description of the property matched the headline.

"Hillside Paradise" was located in Galaha near the central hills of Kandy. According to the description, it was "17 acres in total, with a good clean title. It is comprised of two hills, one mostly wooded, and one mostly grass. . . There is a small creek which runs between the two hills, and a larger creek on one side. There is also a fresh water spring with an ample supply of fresh water. The property has two small but well built houses, one of about 800 sq. feet and one of about 500 sq ft. . . One or two acres is terraced, and was previously in tea." According to the description, the property has a variety of vegetation, including bananas, mangoes, jak fruit, avocado, limes, tea, coffee, pepper, and much more. In essence, a veritable Garden of Eden.

The asking price was US$79,000. I sent an e-mail expressing my interest, but Max, the owner, had lost interest in selling the property.




Last November, I was clearing old e-mails from my computer and came across Max' reply. So, I sent a message to him wondering if he had changed his mind. He had, and offered me the property at the reduced price of US$50,000. I was visiting Sri Lanka last December and got permission from Max to visit the property.

I drove through the picturesque Peradeniya Campus of the University of Sri Lanka on the way to Galaha. But, soon, the narrow road became difficult to negotiate, with numerous pot holes and sharp curves a constant challenge and danger. The 3 kilometres of road to the land beyond Galaha town was a disaster. In some places, it had been completely washed away and I thought the car would break down. Finally, I reached the property after a full hour's drive from Kandy. The description, and Max, had assured me the drive was only 30 minutes.

The caretaker Sarath is a prematurely retired agricultural instructor. He was doing his best to bring the property to an income generating state, with a small dairy of three cows, some chickens, and goats. He was paving the paths with rocks, clearing the land, and attempting to plant various fruit trees and vegetables. But rabbits, porcupines, wild boars, and monkeys were a nuisance, destroying everything that he cultivated. The main house was in even better state than Max had described. Two brooks flowed through the property and the sound of flowing water was music to my ears.


On the way back to Kandy, we drove through Hantana Estate, a beautiful tea plantation with rolling hills and lovely vistas. But the drive was difficult because the road had completely washed away in parts. The drive back to Kandy took an hour. The terrible roads dissuaded me from buying the property. Max seemed disappointed by my decision.


At this stage, I must say a few words about Max. Beyond his hotmail address, I knew nothing about him. I Googled, and he wasn't on the Internet. His messages, although always polite, were cryptic and written only in lowercase. He appeared to travel a lot, to Europe, North America, and India. After the deal was done, I was relieved to delete the more than 100 incoming and outgoing e-mail messages I had exchanged with him!

However, at the back of my mind, I had the feeling that the property was being sold at a bargain price, and that I should not let it go. Nevertheless, managing the property would not be easy, so I needed partners. Max kept hinting that the property was definitely on the market and that he would soon be accepting a "lowball" offer. Then, out of the blue, he offered me the property for $34,000 provided I could finish the deal by April 14. He said he was "fed-up" with Sri Lanka.

Then, I thought of Hamlin, my brother-in-law. Hamlin, a quantity surveyor by profession, has lived and worked in the Middle East for 25 years and was eager to return to Sri Lanka and become a gentleman farmer. When contacted, he was enthusiastic about the land, especially after he saw some photos on the Internet. He agreed to be responsible for the running of the "farm' and its day-to-day expenses. So, I had a partner. I also "invited"my friend and relative Gihan to coordinate the purchase, because neither Hamlin and I were in Sri Lanka. In the end, Gihan's help proved invaluable in putting the deal through.

But, the deal was far from done. Max owned the property in the name of a business he had set-up, and this caused some confusion. Further, he did not want to visit Sri Lanka to sign the deeds and wished to do it through a power of attorney from abroad, France or India, wherever he happened to be. He did not have any faith in his Sri Lankan lawyers, and my lawyers, with the best of intentions, wished to search the title of the property and go through the time consuming legal procedures. Enter my friend Herman Gonsal, who found us a lawyer who would not only expedite these procedures but also open his office on April 14, a public holiday. Finally, Max agreed to fly in to sign the deeds in person.

All parties met in Colombo on April 14 and the purchase went through smoothly. Max turned out to be an especially pleasant person, well traveled and widely knowledgeable about most matters. He wasn't the eccentric I assumed him to be. He had traveled from Delhi, where he worked for IKEA, and was taking excess luggage weighing over 100 kg (mainly books) from the property back with him.

In the end, we discovered that Max had paid $37,000 for the property, and spent at least $20,000 more on it. We got a bargain, a property worth at least thrice its purchase price. You lose some, but, occasionally, have a winner, too!

I hope to see Hamlin as a "gentleman farmer" before too long.

"Dream into Reality"

Ranjit's rice field at Hingurakgoda



The "kade" (village shop) at Meegoda


Don't we dream of changing our hectic lifestyles and getting back to the basics? Leaving the drudgery, the monotony, the stress and strain of modern life for that of a simple farmer, to start an ethnic restaurant, to write that great book lurking at the back of our minds? But, we are tied down by responsibilities, by family, the need for financial stability, and a hundred excuses to keep the status quo. We soldier on. Another day, another dollar.

Ranjit Hulugalle has actually realized his dream of becoming a farmer in rural Sri Lanka. Ranjit attended boarding school and university in Britain and lived a life of ease and luxury in Britain and the USA. His last job was that of Country Manager for Dilamh Tea in Britain. In London, he drove a Jaguar. Now, he has given all that up to become a son of the soil. He lives simply, without electricity or running water in Sri Lanka's rural north central province and drives a battered Tata truck to take his produce to Colombo.

Ranjit inherited a 10-acre coconut plantation near Colombo and sold the coconuts, king coconuts and other produce at a small "kade" (see photo) on the land. He later bought a 5-acre plot in Hingurakgoda, where he mainly grows rice (see photos). This land is surrounded by small farms like his as well as by wildlife, including elephants. In his blog titled "Dream into Reality", Ranjit narrates the joys and travails of running these farms, with delightful accounts of the rural people he meets or works with. He even lists the selling price of his produce. I read his blog because it brings calmness and serenity to my own life.

So, if you wish to share Ranjit's experiences, go to my favorite blog http://rajaratarala.blogspot.com/

Tai Po

Behind the impressive high rises, glittering lights, and chic restaurants and shopping malls that adorn tourist brochures, the back streets of Hong Kong resemble those of any third world city. Pedestrians spit freely, discarded plastic bags and containers are thrown casually on the street, and rotting fruits and vegetables block drains. The stench of drains pervades back streets and the most fashionable areas. Nowhere is the resemblance to the third world more evident than in the “wet markets” that are found everywhere in Hong Kong.

So called because they are regularly hosed down with water (which also ensures that shoppers have to walk on soggy floors), wet markets are home to vegetable, fish, and meat vendors offering these staple items at prices far below those in supermarkets. In some respects, wet markets epitomize to roots of most Hong Kong citizens, resembling the open markets of Mainland China. The stalls may be crude and unhygienic, the floor may be wet and slippery, but the goods are fresh and cheap, and to most Hong Kong citizens, a bargain is what matters most. That’s probably why more than 100 wet and markets dot the Hong Kong landscape, located mainly on the ground floors and basements of housing estates and railway stations. Licensed stallholders compete with illegal hawkers, who brave the constant police patrols and arrests in order to sell inexpensive Chinese goods, mostly cheap rip-offs of western labels such as Nike and Polo.

When I lived in the staff quarters of the Chinese University in the late 1990s, my favorite wet market was in Tai Po, a market town in the New Territories only a 10-minute drive from campus. Although surrounded by an industrial estate, Tai Po still retains the flavor and friendliness of a traditional Chinese town. The buildings maybe mildewed and soot-stained, but Tai Po gains in friendliness what it lacks in glittering shopping malls. Especially in comparison with nearby Shatin, which boasts wall-to-wall, multistoried shopping malls with name brand stores that harbor sulky, indifferent saleswomen, Tai Po consists mainly of smaller and friendlier mom-and-pop stores located at street level, with the owners often living on the floor above. The numerous Chinese restaurants and the occasional Thai and Indian restaurant give the local McDonalds a run for its money. In those days, on the way to the wet market, a store that sold diving gear vied with the London Pub, and the Shalimar, the Indian curry place, which still adjoins a garish furniture store. Across the street was the best picture framer I have met in Hong Kong and down the street is the restaurant that sells snakes; the live commodities--cobras, vipers, and rat snakes, are displayed in wire cages for the customers’ selection. Sue’s Flower Shop competed with Wendy’s Flowers down the street, a jewelry shop with glittering showcases wedged between them. Across the street were two herbalists, whose salespeople didn’t speak a word of English yet served me with a smile. Next to the Thai restaurant was the barbershop, which still adjoins two bridal stores. Two pet stores are neighbors to a home for the aged. A few steps down is an old Chinese temple that houses sooty, spine-chilling figures of deities in dark corners.

The streets are narrow, jam-packed with bright green New Territories taxis and 16-seater “light” buses driven by speed maniacs. But, unlike in most Hong Kong towns, the sidewalks are broad and generally uncrowded. Old men sit in the squares playing mahjong or watching the world go by. Grandmothers, half bent with age, saunter down the streets on the way to and back from schools accompanying smartly attired preschoolers.

The wet market announced itself with a littering of discarded vegetables, fruits, and squashed dog turds. The entrance was narrow, two vegetable sellers having scattered their produce on either side. The narrow passageway was lined by a dry goods seller, pushing everything from dried frogs and lizards for medicinal purposes to tiny shrimp that add spice to fried rice. Further along is the doorway that advertised Indonesian lunches. An old Chinese woman surprised me one day by speaking in Malay, which lead me to assume that a few Chinese families that fled the anti-Chinese riots in Indonesia in the 1960s were probably resident there.

I would descend a few broken steps into the wet market proper. On my left was the vegetable stall run by two sisters, shy schoolgirls who took turns manning the stall. Even if their English was scanty, they were able to tell me the price. The opposite stall was run by an old woman who sold the best papaya in the market, although she was seldom found at her stall. Directly opposite were the stalls that sold seafood, but I would first see the frog-seller decapitating frogs in quick succession with an evil-looking cleaver. A few yards away over the sloshing floor stood my favorite fish-seller, Wincy. I usually visited the market during the early afternoon, and Wincy would greet me with raised eyebrows and the inevitable “Holiday today?” I was compelled to explain that it is merely my lunch hour, not a holiday. Wincy sold my favorite Spanish mackerel as well as red snapper, mullet, and shrimp. Her sisters stood on either side while her mother squatted on the stall, in charge of the shrimp. An expert at filleting or steaking the fish, Wincy wielded her cleaver with artistic ease and grace.

Although it has the look and feel of a traditional town, almost everyone in Tai Po speaks a smattering of English. The old man who sold me potatoes would cry “Four dollar” when I asked the price. When words fail, others would display the coins or the notes to indicate how much I owed them.

In every sense, Hong Kong is a place of contrasts, hanging precariously between the first and third worlds. Wet markets and traditional towns such as Tai Po may tilt it towards the latter, but the liveliness and bustle and the friendliness of the locals compensate for what may be lost of the glitter and glamour.

Alas, the wet market in Tai Po was pulled down some years ago and replaced with a gleaming, more “hygienic” structure. Living in far away Sai Kung, I don’t shop there anymore. But, the chicken tikka and the mutton curry of the Indian restaurant Shalimar still beckon, and I sneak off for lunch there once in a while.

Cricket at the Chinese University of Hong Kong - 2

CUHK Cricket Club vs. Sri Lanka Casuals

Sunday October 20 was another glorious day for cricket at the salubrious Sek Kong Grounds, where the CUHK Cricket Club met the not-so-casual Sri Lanka Casuals. We were delighted to see the return of David Gilkes to our side, albeit temporarily.

Batting first, CUHKCC faced the a string of accurate bowlers. Despite this, our batsmen put-up a stiff resistance, captain Pradip Nath showed the way with another sterling performance, scoring 38 not out. He was ably assisted by the spirited batting of David Gilkes (17), David Johns (22), Tony Chung (21), and Andrew Laslett (15). However, we could not match our earlier performance against City University (162 for 2), being all out this time for 139 in 34 overs.

When the Sri Lanka Casuals batted, Andrew Laslett lived up to our expectations with a spell of accurate bowling to capture 3 wickets. However, that could not stop the Sri Lankans from reaching our total in the 19th over.

So, the scores:
CUHKCC : 139 (David Gilkes 17, Paradip Nath 38 not out, David Johns 22, Tony Chung 21, Andrew Laslett 15)


Sri Lanka Casuals : 140 for 4 (Andrew Laslett 3 for 48)

Thanks to Fawzia Braine and Sonya Saunders for keeping the scores, and for all our supporters for turning-up to cheer the side. We hope to see more of you in the future.

We next play the Inter-Varsiy Sixes on Saturday October 26 at Sandy Bay. Play starts at 1.00 PM.

Note: The Chinese University of Hong Kong Cricket Club was dissolved in 2004. New staff from cricket playing countries like England, Australia, India, and Sri Lanka were not joining the university, and the team was losing players every year due to their retirement from the university. In the end, the club did not have enough players to field a team.

The Cricketing Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, American Emigre

Let us go then, you and I
where a bowler flings a red ball across the sky
and morning spreads its wet across the wicket,
let us go, through pullulating streets
the cacophonous retreats
of sidewalk hawkers near Pokfulam Road
and diesel belching trucks each with its overload:
streets that follow like some athlete’s foot
to lead us to the looming scoreboard and the score . . .
Oh, do not ask, “Where is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

Near the scoreboard women come and go
talking of Michelangelo.

The tabby smog that rubs its back upon the window screens,
slipped by the terraces, made a sudden leap
and seeing that it was a wet weekend
curled once about the pitch, and fell asleep

And indeed there will be time
for the tabby smog that slips along the pitch;
there will be time, there will be time
to prepare straight bats for the bowlers that you meet.
There will be time to cut to leg
and time for thirty overs and some more
and time for all the wiles of hands
that lift and drop a googlie on your crease;
and time for an umpire’s wrong decisions
and the crowd’s half-heated cheers
before the taking of sandwiches and beers.

And indeed there will be time
to wonder, “Do I dare to make a run with ease?”
Time to turn around and scramble for the crease.
Would it have been worth it, after all,
to have squeezed the universe into a ball
and knocked it for a six beyond the wall?

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
Shall I wear the bottoms of my flannels rolled?

I shall wear white flannel trousers for cricket on the beach.
I have heard the umpires singing, each to each.

Andrew Parkin

Prof. Andrew Parkin (photo) is Emeritus Professor of English at The Chinese University of Hong Kong.

"Woman Attacks Giant Snake"

View of Sai Kung Country Park

In Hong Kong, I live adjacent to the Sai Kung Country Park, which is about 4,500 hectares in extent. I have already written about it on this blog, but this entry refers to an astonishing phenomenon--Hong Kong wildlife. I term it astonishing because, just a 45-minute drive from the country park is Mong Kok, teeming with people.

In September 2007, Catherine Leonard was walking her two dogs in the country park. Suddenly, she heard Poppy, one of the dogs (a mongrel), yelping that sounded like “a scream”. She found that Poppy was being strangled by a 4.5 meter (15 foot) python. She kicked and punched the python, which slithered away. Poppy was injured but managed to survive (see photo). Catherine told the South China Morning Post “I wasn’t sure exactly what I did but I kicked it and I tried to pull Poppy free. The snake was twisted around her. . . It was all over in about a minute." Catherine said she was “shaken afterwards and really scared”.

The previous year, a large Husky dog was strangled and killed by a python in the same area. Burmese pythons can grow to a weight of 180kg (400 pounds) and a length of eight meters (18 feet).

I walk in the same area, often in the evenings, but have not come across pythons yet! I have encountered wild boar, barking dear, and cobras.

A few days after the incident was reported in Hong Kong, I was in Japan. The story was reported in a Japanese newspaper under the headline “Woman Attacks Giant Snake”, which is a lot more sensational than "Woman Rescues Dog from Python". Hence my title.

Domestic Helpers in Hong Kong

“Domestic helper” is a collocation unique to Hong Kong. The more popular terms worldwide are “maid”, “housemaid”, “amah”, or even the politically incorrect “servant”.

To feel the full impact of the number of domestic helpers in Hong Kong, one only has to wander into the area around the colonial-style Legislative Council Building in the Central business district on a Sunday morning. The area takes on the atmosphere of a busy Manila marketplace. Thousands of Filipino and Indonesian men and women gather to chat, write letters, read, give and take hair cuts, hold Bible lessons, sing, nap, dance, and while away the time. Sunday is the day off for most domestic helpers, the “amahs” who take care of children, cook, do household chores, take children to school, take the dog for a walk, wash the car, and surreptitiously work in the shops or restaurants that their employers own.

By the latest estimates, Hong Kongers employ more than 240,000 domestic helpers, the vast majority of them from the Philippines. Others come from Indonesia, Thailand, India, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. The legal minimum wage is HK$3,500 per month (about US$400), which compares favorably with the wages in Malaysia (US$100), Singapore (US$250), and the Middle East (less than US$200) for house maids. In addition to a minimum monthly wage, employers must also provide their domestic helpers with health insurance, a weekly day-off, and return air passage at the end of every two years. It is no secret that many domestic helpers agree to work for less than the minimum wage, while others earn more by working illegally at part-time jobs, often with the tacit understanding of their employers.

In Hong Kong, an employer with a monthly income of US$2,000 is eligible to apply for a visa to employ a domestic helper. This income is quite low by Hong Kong standards, where the rental on a tiny 300 square foot apartment could be as high as US$1,000 per month. As a result, having left their native lands to escape economic hardships, many domestic helpers face other problems in Hong Kong. Some are forced to sleep on cramped kitchen floors, while others have been known to live on tiny balconies in high rise apartments. However, the conditions in Hong Kong are not as deplorable as those in the Middle East, where female domestic helpers face physical and sexual abuse under conditions that resemble modern-day slavery.

However, the newspapers regularly publish accounts of domestic helpers who have been exploited or abused. A well known Canto-Pop singer was found to have hired and fired 30 domestic helpers within a 3-year period. Marites Sampilo, a Filipina, had her contract terminated because her work was "unsatisfactory". However, she claims that her employer was angry because she refused to bathe at night, the only time she was allowed to do so. She was fired and asked to leave at 11.45pm. The next morning, the check given by the employer bounced. Sampilo’s requests for severance pay and an air ticket home went unanswered.

Each year, the Hong Kong government decides if the minimum wage of domestic helpers should be raised. Earlier, when wages were frozen during the Asian economic crisis, the government claimed it was done on the basis of three factors: wages of local workers in comparable jobs, the current economic situation in Hong Kong, and the value of the domestic helpers wages in terms of their national currencies. Although some domestic helpers complained about the freeze at that time, others were more worried about losing their jobs than the wage freeze. More recently, the wage was reduced by HK$400, and amount to be paid as a tax by the employers.

Although few local Chinese would not like to work as full-time, live-in domestic helpers, many middle-aged female workers, who now work as cleaners at small restaurants and factories, would not mind working as domestic helpers on an hourly basis. (The current rate is about US$7 per hour.) However, they are not employed as domestic helpers because of their age.

At a personal level, I've employed three domestic helpers from Sri Lanka in the past 10 years. The first was Chandra, who worked for me for 7 years. Chandra was the daughter of Jane, who had taken care of me when I was an infant. Chandra herself had taken care of my son Roy in Sri Lanka. the next helper was Wasanthi, who akso had a link to my family, having worked for my mother in Sri Lanka. My current helper is Sewath, another Sri Lankan.

Most domestic helpers allow themselves to be exploited by employment agencies in their countries in order to come to Hong Kong. In Sri Lanka, agencies charge about Rupees 300,000 ($3000) for a job in Hong Kong. (Of course, my helpers didn't have to pay any fees.) Even after paying these hefty fees, what awaits many domestic helpers is a tiny room in a cramped apartment, spoilt, hyperactive children to take care of, and employers who may fire them at whim. Nevertheless, as long as Hong Kong remains relatively more prosperous than its neighbors, domestic helpers, with sunny smiles and in their snappy Sunday best, will remain a lively part of the local scene.

Training College Days

In memory of Colonel Nizam Dane, Died in Action on June 24, 1997

The entrance to the Maharagama Teachers Training College isn’t particularly impressive. It’s a narrow, tree lined, pot-holed path leading off High Level Road, some distance from the Maharagama junction. About a hundred yards beyond the entrance, the path opens up to the training college premises. The sight, in the early 1970s, was more akin to an internment camp than the premier teachers college in the country. World War II vintage Army barracks, made of carelessly white washed rough-hewn stones, rusty wire mesh, and grimy asbestos roofs, were scattered among overgrown lawns and gravel pathways.

To me and the others who had gathered there on a January morning in 1970, our first day as teacher trainees, the environment was indeed forbidding. Senior trainees, rumored to be merciless raggers, hovered menacingly. There appeared to be no escape, not even strength in numbers, because, as newcomers, we were yet strangers. We were further disadvantaged as English teacher-trainees because of our tendency to speak in the detested “kaduwa.” All we could do was to put-on a false bravado and pray that the ragging would be merciful and not wretchedly embarrassing.

In fact, the ragging never took place, but the bonds forged out of nervousness and fear among us that day lasted well beyond the two-year training period. I often wonder why we still speak so nostalgically about Mahargama days. Is it because none had attended university, and the training college was a better substitute, minus the economic hardships of undergraduate study? Or, did the eccentric and sometimes brilliant lecturers of the caliber of Walatara, Cramer, Karunaratne, and Tambimuttu inspire us with a sense of empowerment, the feeling that we could, if only we tried, change the world through the minds of our young students?

He is Nizam to some and Raja to others, but he will always be Dane to those at training college who fell under his charm and learned to love him. Because his name appeared right after mine on the roll and we often sat together at lectures, our unusual and rhyming surnames were a source of confusion to some and amusement to others. On the first day of lectures, we were called upon by the lecturer of Sinhalese language to identify ourselves. “Mama Braine” was followed by “Mama Dane”. The lecturer, a motherly woman who later became one of our favorite teachers, wasn’t amused. “Meke vihuluwak kiyala hithuwada?” (Do you think this is a joke?) she retorted. Amid peals of laughter from our classmates, we eventually managed to convince her that these were our real names.

We English trainees were easily divisible into two groups. The twenty who came in January were the younger “non-teachers,” with no experience in teaching; we had been admitted on the basis of high scores obtained at the entrance examination. But the vast majority of English trainees, about 140, were “teachers,” often with ten or more years of teaching experience before being granted admission. To many of the younger, non-teacher trainees, the two-year training period actually became a time of leisure—a paid holiday. Only the older classmates, with responsibilities of parenthood and accountability to their spouses (and maybe even to the Department of Education, our employer), appeared to take the work seriously. The easygoing curriculum, with plenty of free time between lectures, provided the younger trainees time to socialize or to plan extra-curricular activities. So we acted in the English Department’s annual Shakespeare production, planned sports events and outings, and campaigned vigorously for elections to the Student Council. Some even found time for romance.

Especially in the first year of study, a few classmates were noted for their regular absence from lectures. Dane didn’t miss any, although I rarely saw him take notes. At the more important and interesting lectures, while most classmates scribbled away without a pause, he would be sitting bold upright, listening with rapt attention, his eyes focused on the lecturer. Later, during discussions, he would summarize the lecture precisely, and others taking part in the discussion would have to correct their notes. I marveled at Dane’s brilliance, wondering why he wanted to be a teacher when he could have easily chosen a more lucrative profession.

The afternoon lectures were the hardest to handle. Lunch was usually a heavy meal of rice and curry often followed by a drink, and the temptation was to sneak-off and nap at home. But attendance was compulsory and all had to make an appearance and sign the register. The heat and slowly revolving fans in the lecture theatre only made staying awake even more difficult. Some, including Dane, took the opportunity to nap, stretched out leisurely on a row of seats at the back of the theatre. One could always recognize the nappers by the way they sauntered in just before the lecture began, in contrast to the more serious students who rushed in well in advance to grab the front seats. While they meticulously copied every word of the lecture, a few trainees slumbered peacefully at the back, disturbed only by an occasional, quickly muffled snore.

Dane came to training college with impeccable cricket credentials. He had captained the team at Carey College and had also played for Walkers, and was an automatic choice for the training college team. He quickly became the team’s best bowler. To Dane, cricket sometimes took precedence over less important family matters, such as a vigil on Eileen’s bedside after the birth of his only child. On the morning Romola was born, he was playing cricket. Although his bowling was outstanding, batting was not his forte. He was the popular choice for the vice-captainship of the team in the second year. In one memorable game with the Peradeniya Teachers College played at Police Grounds, Kandy, Dane and I bowled at either end to spin our team to a win.

George waiting to bat at the match with Peradeniya Traing College, 1971

Because most English trainees were mature, rather portly ladies and gentlemen, the English Department was fondly referred to as the “Mahalu Madama” (Home for the Aged) by trainees from the Science, Mathematics, and Commerce Departments. In fact, they appeared young enough to be the children of most English trainees. These age and girth factors posed certain problems in inter-departmental sports activities; although English trainees were guaranteed victory in such events as the shot-putt, discuss throw, and the tug of war—the domain of big, pot bellied, men—we were hard pressed to find enough participants for track events, and enough players to field cricket, hockey, and soccer teams in inter-departmental tournaments. This meant that the same (younger) English-trainees took part in all the sports activities.

Marathon team from 1970: Ziard, Cyril Edirisinghe, George, and Sunil Fernando

For the English Department’s soccer team, Dane was the goalkeeper and I played at fullback position. Our defense must have been solid because we frustrated teams from other departments, who in previous years had subjected the English team to humiliating defeats. We held a couple of better-fancied teams to scoreless draws. I captained the hockey team and Dane kept goal. Again, we put-up brave fights, but I was not happy when Dane let off an easy goal in a crucial match. Meaning to appease me, he persuaded another player to don the goalkeeper’s gear and came to the forward line to score a compensatory goal, which, alas, did not materialize. We lost the match.

My sweetest, most hilarious memories are from the track and field events. Well in advance of the annual sports meet, Dane let everyone know of his prowess as a high jumper. So, he became the English Department’s natural choice for the event which was held a few days before the main sports meet. I, along with Kumar Molligoda, Sunil Fernando, Alfred Janze and other friends gathered to cheer him on and to celebrate a sure victory. For the initial jump, the bar was set at a modest 4 feet, hardly a challenge for accomplished athletes. A number of participants had nonchalantly cleared the height, and, because his fame had already spread, the crowd held its breath as Dane ran up to jump. Lo and behold, instead of flying over the bar, he was soon lying ignominiously on the ground, the bar clattering at his feet. He appeared to have passed out, and, fearing the worst, we rushed to the pit to carry him out. The unconscious state didn’t last too long and our champion soon melted into the crowd. However, he didn’t escape our endless ridicule.

But Dane soon had his revenge. Sunil too had boasted of his abilities as a long distance runner and was entered for the 3,000 meters race. Soon after the race started, much to our dismay, he was not only running at the back of the pack but was also being lapped by the front runners. This was a fine opportunity for Dane, who continued to heckle Sunil at the top of his voice till the race ended. “Pathetic,” the term he used most often, clung to Sunil for the rest of his stay at training college.

The day of the sports meet held some hope for the English Department athletes because the Commerce Department had pulled out of the competition over a dispute. With only Science, Math, and English in the running, we were guaranteed at least third place in all events. But, even that did not come without a price. The 4 x 400 meters relay, the last and crowning event of the meet, brought the biggest embarrassment. I ran the third lap and was already well behind the Science and Math runners when I handed the baton to Kumar Molligoda for the final lap. As Kumar bravely struggled to complete the race amidst cries of “Come-on Mahalu Madama,” he was swallowed by the spectators who had swarmed over the field, assuming that the race was over; we had to clear a path for Kumar to finish. Throughout the race, I could hear Dane’s loud catcalls, getting his own back for the high jump debacle.

The relay team from 1971: Sunil Edirisinghe, Neil Silva, George, & Kumar Molligoda

Training college days were not all play; we did have final examinations to complete. Certain courses, such as Sinhalese Language, were compulsory, and posed a challenge to a few trainees who were from minority communities. In fact, a number of trainees failed in Sinhalese at the final exam. On the day of the exam, to my amazement, Dane handed over his answer script and walked out of the examinations hall well before any of us did, smiling with confidence. Keenly aware of his not-so-perfect mastery of Sinhalese grammar and syntax, I was even more surprised when he passed the exam. I did not learn the secret of his success till he confessed recently. About an hour before the 3-hour exam ended, he had “borrowed” the answer script from Neil Silva, who sat nearby. Then, all he had to do was to erase Neil’s name, write his own, hand the paper over to the supervisor, and walk triumphantly out of the examination hall. In the brief time that was left to him, the hapless Neil scrambled to answer as many questions as he could. Fortunately, he too passed the exam.

Dane also passed the final exam in Islam in flamboyant style. According to Fawzia, a classmate who later became my wife, Dane rarely showed up for Islam lessons; it was rumored that he attended Christianity classes instead, which he apparently found more easygoing. Because Islamic students were few, his absence was easily observed, but despite the efforts of the teacher and his classmates, Dane managed to keep his distance from Islam classes. But, once again, he astonished everyone by passing the Islam paper too. Explaining this miracle, he revealed his magic formula: all he did was to write “Allah is great” fifty times on the answer script!

How Kumar Molligoda passed the English Literature paper with Dane’s help is legendary, but it is worth repeating here. Kumar, a professional musician, was perhaps the most colorful character at training college. While other trainees eked out an existence on the meager monthly salary, Kumar not only traveled to the college by taxi, but he also owned a half share in it. However, lecture attendance was not his highest priority. Yet, when the first year exams came around, Kumar was unperturbed. The evening before the literature paper, he visited Dane at Etul Kotte for a “cram session.” Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge was a text in the course, but it was soon apparent that Kumar knew very little about its character and plot and quite likely had never read the text. As Dane related to us later, Kumar’s first question was “Machan, so who is this Henchard?” (Henchard is the tragic main character in Hardy’s novel.) The cram session must have been highly successful because Kumar passed the examination, although a few of the more diligent students failed miserably.

Perhaps the most exciting time at training college was the elections to the Student Council. For most younger trainees, experiencing their first taste of freedom, it was a time to be actively involved in politics, dividing themselves into camps and campaigning on behalf of their favorite candidates, The English Department didn’t escape the excitement, and Dane and I were heavily involved in the elections. Our candidate lived at “Botledon”, a nearby chummery (hostel) shared by a number of mature English trainees, which was also Dane’s second home. It naturally became the campaign headquarters where strategies were planned and posters designed and created. As election fever reached a crescendo and defeat stared them in the face, the opposition resorted to personal attacks on us. I vividly remember one poster which stated in big, bold letters that “Braine Dane bothelete weda” (Braine and Dane are working for liquor), a blatant canard if ever there was one! But we had the last laugh when our man won, and by a two-thirds majority at that.

Little wonder we speak nostalgically of training college days.

First published in We Remember Colnel Nizam Dane (1999)

Memories of Nattandiya, Sri Lanka, 1960s

Opposite the Nattandiya railway station, between the Buddhist temple and the Milk Board collection center, is a narrow road that winds down out of sight. I believe it used to be called the Gansabawa Road, but my memory may be wrong here. In 1960, my father served as the superintendent of a small coconut estate about a mile from the station along this road.

Ratmalewewa Estate wasn’t large--it must have been a little over one hundred acres during those days, and it was split into two by the road. For a child growing up in rural Ceylon, the estate and the life surrounding it held many memories.

Not much traffic passed down the road. There was no bus service and cars were infrequent. Lorries loaded with coconut husks, transporting them from estates down the road to coir mills further afield, passed occasionally. The most frequent sight were bullock carts carrying raw coconuts or thatch, their slow clop clop interrupted by carters’ occasional shout, urging the bulls to hurry along.

We lived in a large whitewashed bungalow a few yards from the road. The roof was thatch, the walls were of clay, and there was no electricity or water service. A long, uncovered verandah faced the road and to a side was father’s office. The kitchen was a separate structure parallel to the house connected by a corridor, forming a sort of “meda midula” where my brother Roy and I played frequently.

Because the roof was low and thatched, the house was in semi-darkness all day. But it was also cool, a welcome relief from the scorching heat of the day. Not that we ever complained about the weather, except when it rained and we were not allowed to play outside. By about six o’clock every evening, the lamps would be lit. In the living room, the bright Aladdin lamp was suspended in its bracket hung from the roof. In other rooms, we had smaller lamps, with brass bases and bright chimneys that would be soon covered with soot. Insects of all types would hover around the lamps, many falling in to the flame to be scorched.

Dinner was always early. The forbidding darkness loomed from all sides and the radio with its music and the news broadcast provided the only distraction. After dinner, the night watchmen (the watchers, as they were called) would drop by for a chat with my father. They would sit in the verandah, the watchers on the steps leading to front yard and father lounging on an easy chair, and lazily discuss the events of the day, the local gossip, and life in general. Roy and I would listen to the talk, joining in occasionally but mostly absorbing the grown-ups’ ideas and local gossip. Before long, the lamps would be extinguished and we would be tucked into bed.

Roy and I studied at Maris Stella College in those days, a good twenty miles away by train. Every morning, we would be taken to the railway station by bullock cart. School began early, around 7.30 am, so we had to leave home with the morning light. The bullock cart that took us to the railway station would arrive early, and we would sleepily climb into the cart, dressed in white shirts and blue shorts, carrying a small suitcase filled with books and wearing a khaki pith helmet.

We took the office train to school. The train started in Chilaw and picked up school children and office workers in Kakkapalliya, Madampe, and Walahapitiya before it reached Nattandiya. We would stand on the curving platform in front of the signalman’s box, in which we could see the signalman standing behind a line of controls. We would hear the whistle of the steam engine long before we saw it. The sound would also send the signalman into a frenzy, pulling or releasing various controls using all his strength.

The train would stream into the station, pulled by a sooty engine belching smoke. The engine driver would be leaning out of the cab holding out the “tablet” for the stationmaster. We could see the fireman, stripped to the waist and covered in grime and sweat, shoveling coal to the engine. Despite the crowd, we always found seats. Leaning out of the carriage to watch the passing scenery, we would invariably get coal dust in our eyes.

When we returned to Nattandiya in the afternoon, the cart would be waiting at the station. The journey home was always more interesting than the one to the station in the morning. If the carter was in a good mood, we would be allowed be given the reins and allowed to drive the cart. The narrow road went over the bund of a village tank and Roy found the various storks and waterfowl irresistible. He never gave up trying to catch one, jumping off the cart almost every day to chase a bird into the bushes.

In those days, my mother worked at the Negombo hospital and would also travel by train. She would return from work late in the afternoon, so father would take me and Roy to the station to meet her. We would park the car across from the railway station, watching engines shunting goods wagons. The engines bore the names of former Governors such as Sir Edward Barnes and Sir Hercules Robinson, if my memory is accurate. On one memorable afternoon, father persuaded an engine driver to lift us onto the floor plate and peer into the firebox.

The weekends were the most interesting. The laborers would line-up on Saturday morning in front of the bungalow for roll-call (muster) and to be allocated work for the day. We missed witnessing it on weekdays because we were off at school. Roy and I would wonder the estate, following groups of laborers and generally making a nuisance of ourselves. I remember a disused “gal wala” (rock quarry) especially well. It was in the middle of the estate, with a pool of green water at the bottom. Although we were under orders to never enter the quarry alone, we would occasionally do so, scattering polecats and monitor lizards as we descended the quarry. Around noon on Saturday, the laborers would return to the bungalow to be paid, lining up for their names to be called.

Sundays began with church. Before father bought a Morris Minor, we would go to church by a bullock cart, dressed in our Sunday best. We would clop clop along the Gansabawa Road, turn left at the Bo tree on Marawila-Kuliyapitiya Road, cross the Dutch Canal and enter the spacious church grounds on the right. On the way, we would see and often pass other churchgoers in their bullock carts.

Among the churchgoers was the local MP at the time, Sir Alfred F. Peiris. I believe he was also the Speaker of Parliament at the time. He and his family occupied the same pew every Sunday. Simple and unassuming, Sir Alfred would linger after service for a chat with parishioners. I was awed at his presence; father always wished him a Good Morning.

The most memorable character at Ratmalwewa Estate was Charlis hewerala, the senior watcher. Charlis, with his walrus mustache, graying hair tied at the back in a little knot, his sarong half-raised and tucked at knee-level, was a common sight around the bungalow. He would be present at muster in the morning, run various errands for father at all times of the day, and, during his evening rounds, drop by for a chat with father. Despite his forbidding appearance, he was a kindly man, patiently answering our endless questions and guiding Roy and me as we explored the estate. Charlis was the natural leader of the laborers. During Sinhala New Year, when the laborers put-on a musical and dance performance, Charlis hewarala sang numerous Nadagam songs from Tower Hall musicals. Seated on mats laid on the ground, lit by a few Petromax lamps, Charlis played the keyboards and sang late into the night while one of his sons pumped away at the organ.

Father served at Ratmalwewa for only a year. The only tangible evidence of our stay there is the farewell group photograph taken at his departure, in which our family and the laborers pose stiffly in the front-yard. I sometimes wonder what the estate and the Gansabawa Road looks like now. Although I drive through Nattandiya occasionally on the way to Chilaw, I prefer to live with my memories from the 60’s. The changes may be difficult to accept.

A Walk in the Park

Now that the weather is turning nicer, it’s time for a walk in the Sai Kung Country Park.

From the Chinese University, if you leave from the Science Park exit, the drive to the park is only 25 minutes. The new highway over Ma On Shan town gives a fabulous view of the green hills as you speed along at 80 km/h. The drive slows later, but it’s leafy and gently winding, taking you through the Ma On Shan Country Park. The bay is to your left and the hills are to the right.

A sharp left turn to Pak Tam Chung at the entrance to Sai Kung district and a 5 km drive will bring you to the entrance of the Sai Kung Country Park. Along the way, you’ll pass the war memorial for local guerrilla fighters who died during World War II. Incidentally, there’s an interesting reference to guerrilla activity around Sai Kung in Martin Booth’s Gweilo.

Free parking is available at the entrance to the park, but this fills-up quickly during the weekend. Paid parking is available at the Po Leung Kuk Holiday camp near the entrance. Vehicles are not allowed in to the park.

About 200 meters from the entrance, before you pass the bridge, take a right turn and walk along the nature trail leading to the Folk Museum. The walk is a treat in itself, with bamboo groves on your left and mangroves and a creek to your right. (Ignore the dogs; they only bark.) Helpful signs along the way describe the local flora, fauna, and history. You’ll be at the museum in 10 minutes. The museum is a restored a fortified village of the Hakka people built in the late19th century. It consists of houses displaying simple furniture and farm implements, pigsties, a cattle shed, and a watchtower, and provides a vivid picture of Hong Kong’s rural life in the past century. The nearby Catholic chapel has also been repaired. Please note that the Museum is closed on Tuesdays.

The museum keeper is Patrick Ng, who was an English major at the University of Hong Kong. Patrick is a delightful raconteur, highly knowledgeable about the history and culture of the local people. Patrick also composes poetry, a recent composition being “The Ballad of Pak Tam Chung.” A few minutes with him is a treat.

A short walk beyond the museum brings you to two abandoned villages. Yes, while Mong Kok is a mass of teeming humanity, villages are being abandoned in Hong Kong. The nature trail to the right leads to Wong Yi Chau village. A few yards beyond the village is a newly built colorful ancestral hall, which comes as quite a surprise considering the state of the village.

A left turn on the trail leads to another abandoned village, Hei Tsz Wan. You’ll see signs of rooting by wild boar along the way. (A massive boar, weighing more than 150kg, that attacked villagers’ bak choi, was shot near the park a few years ago.) This is a good place to pause and contemplate the hardships of rural life in old Hong Kong. Why did the people leave? According to a retired District Officer we met on the trail, the fear of a Communist invasion following the Revolution led to an exodus in the late 1940s and early 50s. Where did they go? Strangely, mainly to northern England and Scotland.

Another subject of contemplation is, why does the government build new water and electricity supplies to these abandoned villages? Plans that were drawn-up decades ago are being implemented now, despite changes in demographic patterns. Your tax dollars at work!

A few hundred meters along the trail brings you to a tranquil pier, an ideal spot for a quiet picnic. The graves on the hillside above the pier are well maintained; if you care to go up, you get the best views of the surrounding country.

All in all, an enjoyable day in the park.

Cricket at the Chinese University of Hong Kong

CUHKCC Team, 1996


Mano & George at Sek Kong, 1996

Match with City University of Hong Kong CC (circa 1996)

Last Sunday was a perfectly glorious day for cricket, made more glorious, I'm happy to say, by the gallant performance of our team. No, we didn't inflict a humiliating defeat on our opponents; but neither did we suffer one ourselves! One could say, we battled valiantly, and then yielded the match--not our honour--to a technically more advantaged side. Composed entirely of CUHK affiliates, our team took on City U, composed, save for their captain, almost entirely of unaffiliated, inappropriately-youthful guest players. Batting first, the CUHK opening pair, made up of Mano and David Johns, gave the team a splendid start by frustrating every effort by the bowlers to dislodge them. They were followed by some sterling performance by George Braine and Duncan Saunders, who together defied a spell of rather uncompromising bowling by the opposition, leaving the field on their own terms after knocking up 36 runs each. The next four batsmen took the total to 162 by the 35th over, and given the lack of practice, they too put up a creditable performance.

CUHK then went in to field, sorely missing our regular wicket-keeper and erstwhile captain, David Gilkes. The bowling and fielding performance, though whole-hearted, nevertheless emphasized yet again the need for Tony to go and persuade the Physical Education Department to allow us some space to practice every week! There was some good bowling, and two good catches by Phil Allen and Rogers, but, inspite of the belated discovery of a regular medium pace bowler in Andrew Laslett--we're looking forward to great things from him in future matches--we couldn't keep City U from surpassing our total by the 28th over.

So, the scores:
CUHKCC : 162 for 2 (Mano 11, George 36 rtd , Saunders 36 rtd , Nath 39 rtd, Allen 13 rtd, and Tony James 11)

City UCC : 170 for 4 (Arshad 39 rtd. Isfaq 35, Rafaquat 28, Dave W. 33)

I would be unforgivably remiss if I did not mention the invaluable contribution made to our efforts by Vera Jones and Fawzia Braine. Vera, as everyone knows, has been truly brilliant over the years as our official scorer, and we are very happy that we now also have Fawzia to reinforce this side of the team. Thanks also to the supporters who cheered us on. Hope we'll see more of you.

This account was written by Pradip Nath

About my Title

Jinadasa Vijayatunga's classic Grass for My Feet, published in 1935, records his childhood reminiscences of rural Sri Lanka with a touch of nostalgia. Vijayatunga describes the places where he grew up, his interesting relatives, and fascinating local characters he met.

I also grew up in rural Sri Lanka, decades later in the 1950s and 60s. On this site, I wish to recall my childhood memories, reflect upon on my experiences in Sri Lanka and elsewhere, describe other interesting phenomena, and express my opinions on past and current events. For convenience, I will also archive my previous "nonacademic" writing on this site. Being unashamedly sentimental, I can't think of a better title than Grass for My Feet!