Driving Miss Mandy

Mandy had been abandoned twice. A Sri Lankan friend had found her wondering in the woods and taken Mandy home. When the Sri Lankan herself left, Mandy came to stay with me. She was so scared of being abandoned again and followed me everywhere, and crawled under my bed to sleep at night.

Mandy was a Welsh Corgi, obviously of mixed parentage, and perhaps six months old. I was living in Mobile, Alabama, while my wife was working in Arkansas, a good 500 miles away. So, at least once a month, I drove the thousand-mile roundtrip to see her, and I took Mandy along. She refused to lie on the seat, preferring to wriggle and crawl under the driving seat. My attempts to pull her out failed, so I let her be.

Mandy

To travel from Mobile, at the southern tip of Alabama, to Arkansas, I drove through Mississippi and Louisiana. All four states are large, each about twice the size of Sri Lanka, with a population around 4 million each. Considered backward and poverty stricken, all four rank at the bottom in terms of the economy, education, and health care among the 50 American states.

I travelled in a north-westerly direction, on secondary roads, passing small towns. I do recall a few larger towns like Hattiesburg, Jackson (the capital of Mississippi state), Vicksburg, where I crossed the legendary Mississippi river, Pine Bluff, and Little Rock, the capital of Arkansas. The first few times, I relied on my road atlas. Having forgotten the names of the smaller towns along the way, I recently checked on Googles maps and was reminded of Wilmer, Lucedale, Seminary, Mendenhall, Transylvania, Eudora, Greenville, Dumas, Grady, Moscow, Jefferson, Sweet Home, and Mayflower. Some of these towns came straight out of Harper Lee’s classic To Kill a Mockingbird. Somewhat rundown, grass growing on the sidewalks, people moving slowly, with nowhere to go, nothing much to buy, and perhaps no money to buy with. Some were so poor that even Walmart, the ubiquitous discount chain of the USA, did not bother to open stores there. The local “supermarkets” were Winn Dixie and the hilariously named Piggly Wiggly, with a peculiar smell of spoiling meat, and shirtless, shoeless locals wandering in and out. As for fine dining, the choice was between McDonald’s and KFC.

All four states had heavy historical baggage. They had been slave-owning and had fought on the losing side in the Civil War. The Ku Klux Klan had rampaged, and thousands of blacks were lynched, mainly in order to control and terrorize them. The last lynching had taken place in Mobile, where I lived, as recently as 1981. I was aware of the fearful history. Mine were not scenic drives.

The Civil Rights Act had been passed three decades ago, but segregation had not ended. All along my route, in every town and city, the races appeared to live separately in their own neighborhoods. Conflicts were rare, as long as the blacks knew their place. The white areas, even the churches, looked better maintained and affluent. As V.S. Naipaul noted in A Turn in the South, the segregation was best seen on Sundays, when the races worshipped separately at their respective churches.

The poorer areas were noted for “shotgun houses”, so called because a bullet fired through the front door would go right through the back door without hitting a wall. These houses consisted of a front porch, an inner room, a kitchen, and an outhouse in the backyard. Elvis Presley was born and raised in a shotgun house in Tupelo, Mississippi, which I have visited.

Shotgun house

The whites in these areas were generally called “red necks”, a sometimes humorous or otherwise derogatory term, which described their crude and unsophisticated lifestyles. Their large, somewhat battered trucks, open at the back, with a rifle mounted behind the driver’s seat, were everywhere. Naipaul’s hilarious description of a red neck, considered the best ever, takes-up nearly a page.

At one time, the Mississippi Delta, as the area is known, was exclusively cotton country. The slaves were brought to work in cotton plantations. Although cotton is still grown, other crops such as soybean, corn, and rice also thrived in the rich, black soil. Because these were grown in large, heavily mechanized farms, jobs were few. Many locals appeared to live on welfare, lounging around their homes or in the pool halls and bars.

The primary forest had been cleared to plant pine trees to feed the local paper mills. So, for mile after mile, the scenery was monotonous. The only diversion were the crop dusters, small aircraft that flew very low above the ground, often paralleling the road, spraying a cloud of pesticide. To stay awake, I listened to country music, mainly to Jim Reeves, and for a touch of home, to Victor Ratnayake. I sang along, with not a hum from Mandy. And I took breaks at rest stops.

These are places where all long distance drivers - of cars, trucks, U Hauls - stopped to use the toilets, to stretch their legs, and perhaps chat with fellow travelers. Not being on the interstate highways, these stops had the minimum facilities: parking places, poorly maintained toilets, a water fountain or two, and some shady benches. Not even a vending machine, which would have been vandalized. After making sure that Mandy’s toilet needs were met, and she was given water and snacks, and taken for a short walk, I used the facilities. From the license plates, I could see that the vehicles came from various states across the country. People were eager to talk, especially those who traveled alone in silence. They brought their regional accents – New England, Mid-West, Southern – and were curious about mine. Many people brought their pets along, so they too were a topic of conversation. 

Vehicles traveled at high speed, and the inevitable result was roadkill, animals getting hit and dying. In fact, dead animals – rabbits, chipmunks (large squirrels), deer, and armadillo – littered these roads, a virtual carnage. The armadillo is a small mammal with a peculiar appearance, bony plates covering most of its body. Slow moving and perhaps with poor eyesight, they were the most common roadkill, a gruesome mess of blood and bone.

Armadillo

I always paused at Vicksburg, a historic town on the Mississippi River (“Ol Man River”). The twin bridges were magnificent, and I could watch the barges that moved serenely on the water, always pushed, never pulled, by tugboats. Strung together, these barges could be hundreds of feet long.

Twin Bridges of Vicksburg

Nearing Arkansas, I could see the terrain and the vegetation change. The low-lying delta was behind, and hills began to appear. In place of the monotonous pine trees, oak, maple, and hickory appeared. The drive was more enjoyable partly because my destination was drawing nearer. I crossed into Arkansas over a bridge, and a large metal sign which said “Welcome to Arkansas – Home of President Bill Clinton”. The sign always had bullet holes on it!

Barge pushed by tugboat

My wife Fawzia lived in Conway, a small college town. She was a librarian. Unlike my house in Mobile, hers had a large backyard, which Mandy loved. She also preferred the rice and curry that Fawzia served her. When the meal appeared, Mandy would dash madly in circles around the backyard before attacking the food. She also enjoyed the evening walks around the old neighborhood, accompanied by a friend, Miriam.

Once, I started late from Conway and was speeding way above the limit, when an Arkansas state trooper stopped me. Tall and good liking, he resembled the President. After checking my driver’s license, he asked what I did in Mobile, and hearing my reply, “College professor”, he thought for a while and said he would let me go, with a warning to slow down. Some hours later, well into Alabama, darkness had fallen, and I was still speeding. Suddenly, sirens wailing and red and blue lights flashing, a police car was right behind me; he had been waiting in ambush on a side street. An older, big made patrolmen appeared. The same question, the same answer, and I was allowed to go again, with a warning not to kill myself. Twice, in the same day. I think of this when I get pulled over for crossing that blessed white line on Sri Lankan roads.

When we left for Hong Kong, Miriam was glad to take Mandy in. They later moved to Washington DC, where Mandy lived to a ripe old age. 

Nearly 30 years later, I recall those surreal drives with wonder.

Japan Remembers J.R. Jayawardene

On September 8, Hokkaido Shimbun, a regional newspaper in Japan, carried a front page article about the signing of the Treaty of San Francisco exactly 68 years ago. Even that brief article mentioned the influential role played by Mr.  J.R. Jayawardene at the conference which led to the signing of the treaty.

The treaty, signed by 49 countries, including Ceylon, ended Japan's position as an imperial power, allocated compensation to Allied civilians and former prisoners of war, ended the occupation of Japan by the Allies, and returned full sovereignty to that nation. 

To quote Wikipedia, “while many were reluctant to allow a free Japan … and insisted that the terms of surrender should be rigidly enforced in an attempt to break the spirit of the Japanese nation, the Ceylonese Finance Minister J.R. Jayawardene spoke in defense of a free Japan and informed the conference of Ceylon's refusal to accept the payment of reparations that would harm Japan's economy. He said that Ceylon did not ‘intend to do so for we believe in the words of the Great Teacher [Buddha] whose message has ennobled the lives of countless millions in Asia, that hatred ceases not by hatred but by love.’

He ended the speech by saying “We extend to Japan the hand of friendship and trust that … her people and ours may march together to enjoy the full dignity of human life in peace and prosperity.^”

The New York Times reported that Mr. Jayawardene's speech was received with resounding applause, further stating that the “voice of free Asia, eloquent, melancholy and still strong with the lilt of an Oxford accent, dominated the Japanese peace treaty conference today."

Since the treaty, Japan has risen from the position of a subjugated nation to a world powerhouse. Mr. Jayawardene was revered by some people in Japan and I have seen the memorial put up for him at one of Japan’s most sacred sites, Kamakura. I am aware of a statue of him in Tokyo.

Japan has reciprocated the hand of friendship that Mr. Jayawardene extended in numerous ways. Among the hundreds of projects, grants, and soft loans extended to Sri Lanka over the years, I can recall the Peradeniya Teaching Hospital, the Parliamentary complex, the Sri Jayewardenepura Hospital and the new wing of the International Airport.

Mr. Jayawardene became the Prime Minister of Sri Lanka in 1977 and later became its first Executive President.

Lest we forget.

JRJ at the San Franciso conference

Singing with Victor

I spent Christmas 2017 with Victor Ratnayake and a few friends at Nuwara Eliya, and, on our return to Colombo, he drove me to my village home near Lunuwila. I sat in the front seat and his wife sat in the back.

As we were passing Rukmani Devi’s statute at Tudella, Victor began to reminisce about the Rukmani he knew and respected. He has a phenomenal memory, and he brings in numerous anecdotes, usually funny, to his stories. But, on Rukmani, his memories were tender and tinged with sadness.

Rukmani Devi

Then, I related my own story. While schooling in Negombo in the early 1960s, I was boarded at a house on Temple Road, only a few hundred meters from “Jaya-Ruk”, the home of Rukmani and Eddie Jayamanne. They were at the height of their popularity.  The boarding house owner was the sister of Bertram Fernando, a comedian of early Sinhala cinema and a contemporary of Rukmani and Eddie. Bertram was affectionately known as “Batta”, and lived with us. Every Sunday, his friends, including Eddie Jayamanne, would gather in the veranda for a game of cards that went on till afternoon. I recall a two-tone Buick convertible, red and cream, being driven regally up the driveway by Mr. Jayamanne. We children were in awe.

Eddie Jayamanne

When I related this, Victor thought for a while, and, without any warning, suddenly burst into song. He sang Bertram Fernando’s early 1950s hit “Mang bandina wayase thawama danna nadda maupiyo”, the second line being “mage rupe dakala kele gilatha me game liyo”. (Loosely translated, it goes like this: don’t my parents realise that I am of marriageable age now, the young lasses of the village salivate at my good looks). Victor sang with gusto, taking a hand off the steering wheel to gesture. He particularly relished the rousing phrase “Ammapa! me game liyo”.  I joined in.

Then, Victor launched into “Kolom pure sriya”, Eddie Jayamanne’s hit from  “Banda nagarayata paminima”. This number, with descriptions of tram cars, the Colombo jetty, and an energetically signalling traffic policeman, gave Victor many opportunities to gesticulate and thump on the steering wheel. This was not the gentle crooner of “Sihil sulang ralle” or “Aadaraye ulpatha wu amma”. He seemed very happy.

Finally, at my request, Victor sang “Saragoiya hari miniha”, first performed by Mabel Blythe. As a child, I had seen the movie “Daiwa Vipakaya”. This song was the backdrop to a brief segment shown at the end of the movie, where a village yokel outsmarts a policeman. It was hilarious, filled the theatre with laughter, and everyone went home happy. Ms. Blythe, dressed in a black suit, danced as she narrated the story, dialogs and all, while the main action was shown in flashback.

In the first two songs, Victor’s versions were much better than the originals, but, to me, Mabel Blythe’s “ Saragoiya” is still the best.

1950s Buick convertible

A memory I cherish, and am happy to share.

"Casual" cricket, Hong Kong style

The lengthy fax would arrive about once a week, sent to all cricketers of the Chinese University, announcing an upcoming match and asking if we could play. Sent by the captain David Gilkes, the Bursar, who didn’t use email. A few days later, we would receive another fax, listing the players and the admonition to dress in white “to intimidate the opposition”, a strategy which rarely worked. I wondered what David’s secretary, a Hong Kong Chinese who perhaps knew nothing about cricket, thought of her additional duties as the convener of the cricket team.

We were an eclectic side. The Bursar was English, and we had a Scottish pharmacologist, a Malaysian surgeon, a Sri Lankan chemical pathologist, a Canadian sports scientist, an Indian English teacher, an Australian veterinarian, another surgeon who was English, and medical and business types from various nationalities, and me. Our average age would have been around 55. We never had net practice but that didn’t matter. The aim was to enjoy the game.

Only a 20-minute drive from the campus, Sek Kong was our favorite grounds. I caught a ride in a large 1960s light-blue Mercedes owned by Mano, the other Sri Lankan, gliding majestically along the Tai Po Road, Tolo Highway, and Lam Kam Road which ran along a beautiful valley of village houses and orchards. Sek Kong was a Royal Air Force camp, which had a cricket grounds, and a smartly attired Gurkha guard would raise the barrier and let us through.

 

Our first act was to visit Shaffis Curry House, a few yards from the entrance, to open a “chit” or a credit account for the day. Shaffis was run by Liaqat Ali, from Pakistan, but everyone called him Shaffi.  Located in an unpretentious structure, Shaffis served a range of North Indian delicacies—tandoori chicken, chicken tikka, samosas, mutton kebabs— (British servicemen’s favorite Indian food), to be slurped up with the naan bread and gulped down with cans of Tiger beer. Shaffi was a cricket nut, and lurked around hoping for a chance to play. So when we were short of a player, he was our choice. Nothing pleased him more.

The Sek Kong camp, out in the countryside, was a lovely location for our games. The well-maintained grounds, with a clubhouse at one end and rolling blue hills in the distance, was bordered by tall, shady trees on one side. Supporters and wives of some players, who also acted as scorers, preferred to sit in the shade of these trees. Being an air force camp, we could hear light aircraft taking off and landing not far from the cricket grounds. With the backdrop of the bluest skies, parachutists and hang gliders slowly drifted over the grounds to land nearby. The sounds of mild jubilation as a boundary was scored, a catch taken, would occasionally fill the air. Those afternoons were magical.

Shaffis was only a few yards from the grounds, so would nip across for a quick samosa and a beer while the cricket was on. In any case, beer was the main item when drinks were brought to the players. At the end of the game, both teams and supporters would retire to Shaffis for a sumptuous meal, accompanied by loud talk and much laughter. The lovely ambience of the grounds and Shaffis made Sek Kong perhaps the most attractive cricket venue in Hong Kong. We never lacked for opposing teams!

Mano, a Sri Lankan, was known less for his cricket prowess than for the fun he brought to every game. He would open batting but not last long at the crease, getting out to a rash shot. The occasional boundary would bring a quick, wild dance from him. He also kept wickets (after the Bursar retired), much to the benefit of the opposing sides because he let many deliveries go to the boundary. And when he fielded, usually far from the batsman, we could all see an open beer can in his hand or sitting on the grass nearby! We had to give a warning yell, “MANO, BALL!” before he saw it coming his way.

David Gilkes, the captain, who on the verge of retirement, was also our wicket keeper and often the top scorer. We played 35-over games, so David would have to squat and stand, squat and stand, behind the wicket, not missing a catch or allowing the stray ball to go past him. We expected big hitting from the veterinarian, a tall, well-built man, but he barely lifted his bat. Another memorable player was the pharmacologist, who never missed a game and was a fine fielder near the boundary. The English surgeon, who performed reconstructive work, preferred to keep wickets. I was concerned about injuries to his fingers, but he didn’t seem to care.

          Our most frequent opponents were the Sri Lanka Casuals team, the City University of Hong Kong, and the Legal Eagles, a team consisting of middle-aged lawyers. Here’s the report of a typical game.

Match with City University of Hong Kong CC 

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 honor--to a technically more advantaged side. Composed entirely of Chinese University campus affiliates, our team took on City University, composed, save for their captain, almost entirely of unaffiliated, inappropriately-youthful guest players. Batting first, the Chinese University 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 and 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.

Chinese University then went in to field, sorely missing our regular wicket-keeper and erstwhile captain, David Gilkes. There was some good bowling and two good catches, but we couldn't keep City University from surpassing our total by the 28th over.

I would be unforgivably remiss if I did not mention the invaluable contribution made to our efforts by Vera and Fawzia. 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. [End of report]

With the handover of Hong Kong to Mainland China in 1997, and the arrival of Peoples Liberation Army (PLA) troops, the Royal Air Force left Sek Kong base. That was the end of cricket at Sek Kong grounds. We continued to play at other grounds in Hong Kong. Shaffi had to move out and started another restaurant in a town further north.

The Oscar-winning English film and stage director Sam Mendes (of “American Beauty” fame), a fine batsman who still plays cricket, claims that the joy of cricket is “not necessarily the batting or the bowling, [but] the hours spent in the outfield just being part of the game, being both inside and outside of it, allowing the mind to wander and yet being there as part of the team.”

Enjoying the cricket, not merely to win, and being with like minded people, the easy comraderies, made the cricket in Hong Kong memorable. Those lazy afternoons were some of the happiest, most carefree times of my life in Hong Kong.

"Band-aid on rotting flesh"

Two days ago, Hong Kong's Chief Executive Carrie Lam finally withdrew the hated extradition bill. It was a great humiliation for Lam. But, if she expected a favorable reaction from the protesters, who have been out on the streets for three months, she didn't get it. Their spokesperson promptly remarked that the withdrawal was like placing a "band-aid on rotting flesh".

The protesters have five demands: withdrawal of the extradition bill, Lam to step down, an inquiry into police brutality, for those who have been arrested to be released, and greater democratic freedoms.  Only the first had been met.

Under the "one country, two systems" which began in 1997, when Britain handed Hong Kong back to China, Hong Kong is guaranteed a high degree of autonomy till 2047, only defense and foreign affairs coming under China. But, over the years, China has attempted to enforce its will in a number of ways.

• 2003: a draconian National Security Bill. Suspended after mass protests.
• 2012: a "Moral and National Education" syllabus for schools, an attempt to brainwash Hong Kong students into loving Mainland China. Withdrawn after protests.
• 2014: proposals for  a carefully-controlled Election Committee that would nominate candidates for the Hong Kong people to choose from. This triggered the Occupy ("umbrella") movement, which shut down a section of downtown for nearly three months. The proposals failed when the required 2/3 majority in Legislative Council was not reached.
• 2019: the "Extradition and Mutual Legal Assistance" bill, to allow extradition of Hong Kong suspects to the Mainland and the freezing of their assets in Hong Kong. This would breach the firewall between the two judicial systems. Withdrawn.

What this goes to show is that China has learned nothing about Hong Kong people in 16 years, since 2003. Its Hong Kong advisers, and the Hong Kong shoe shiners who support and advice China, get it wrong again and again.

The withdrawal of the extradition bill has been a huge loss of face for China, too. Then, why did they allow it? October 1 is a big day for China, the 70th anniversary of the establishment of the Peoples' Republic. Huge celebrations are planned. The massive protests in Hong Kong, drawing international attention, would not look good. Chinese troops in Hong Kong at this time would draw worldwide criticism.

But, what is likely to happen after the birthday party is over? Unless the protests die down, I fear a Tiananmen type crackdown, with Chines troops marching onto Hong Kong streets. Blood will be shed. 

1956 - 1959

1956 had been a good year. Father had a job at Carrington Estate, Dankotuwa. The estate also had a dairy and a piggery. The bungalow was about a kilometer from the road, on top of a hill. My brother Roy and I attended Ave Maria Convent in Negombo, and we travelled by bus. Jane (Chandra’s mother), who must have been about 13 at that time, accompanied us. When we returned in the afternoon, two laborers would be waiting at the gate. They would hoist Roy and me on their shoulders and carry us all the way to the bungalow. I still remember that one laborer was named Dharmadasa. I was 6 and Roy was 5 years old.

We traveled in a bus like this. Getting in and off from the back. No glass shutters, but canvas cloth which was rolled down when it rained.  These were war-time trucks that had been converted later to buses.

Father was kind and the laborers liked him. Mother was a field midwife and stayed at Kirimetiyana, her area of work, and came home only on weekends. But we had enough help, both in the kitchen and the garden. The most memorable incident that year was a hail storm, rare in tropical Ceylon.

Jane would exchange story books with schoolgirls who traveled in the bus. All the stories were scary, about rakshayas (demons) and gamaralas (farmers) being their victims. Every night, when Roy and I went to bed, Jane would relate these horror stories to us, and we were terrified. In the afternoons, we would hear deep, gurgling calls coming from various parts of the estate, and Jane told us the calls were from demons, which we called “bukabu”. Only later did I learn that the calls were from atti-kukula, a large bird found in gardens.

Ati-Kukula

Carrington Estate was owned by the Carron brothers, a judge who lived in Dehiwela and his brother, a lawyer and acting magistrate, who lived near the beach in Negombo. Father would go every two or three weeks to visit the elder Carron, and he always brought back games like Snakes and Ladders or jigsaw puzzles for us.

The two Carron brothers didn’t get along, and, caught between them, father lost his job. So, we moved to Negombo, to a rented house off Hunupitiya Road (since renamed Ave Maria Road), which was separated from Ave Maria Convent by a high parapet wall. Our landlady was Mrs. Moraes, whose house was just a few yards from ours. There was no electricity or water service, and the toilet was primitive. The house had a tiny verandah, a hall (sitting room), and two bedrooms, and a kitchen which faced the parapet wall on Ave Maria side.

Mother got a transfer to Negombo Hospital. Roy still went to Ave Maria, but, from Grade 2, I attended Maris Stella College which had classes from Grade 2. So all Catholic boys attended kindergarten and Grade 1 at Ave Maria Convent, along with the girls. Both Negombo Hospital and Maris Stella were on Colombo Road, about a mile from where we lived. I would cross the railway track and walk along main street to Copra Junction, where the college was. A couple of classmates lived along the way. One went to school by car but never gave me a ride. Hundreds of students, and most teachers, rode bicycles to school. Some came by bullock cart.

Father had two sisters, Amy Chelvaratnam and Bridget Wambeck, living in Negombo at that time. Aunty Amy lived at “Stanlodge”, which had been built by grandfather, whose second name was Stanley. It was a large house and Aunty Amy, who was a hospital matron, had persuaded grandmother to give it to her saying she had a large family. But her husband Shelley was a heavy drinker and could become abusive, so Aunty’s siblings stayed clear of “Stanlodge”. I don’t recall visiting it even once with my father.

Aunty Bee lived only 300 meters from us, at Fiscal Junction opposite the house where Hector Fernando, The MP for Negombo lived. (That house is now Ave Maria Hospital.) Roy and I were in and out of her home. Uncle Eddy was a public health inspector (PHI) and had to approve the beef that was sold in town. As a result, he got beef as “gifts” from the butchers every day, which meant that the Wambeck home served beef, parippu, and white rice, which I disliked, daily. The household was large and money was short.

Aunty Amy had seven children, and Aunty Bee at least six at that time. So, there would have been about 15 cousins growing up in Negombo. (How we have scattered since then!) At Ave Maria, I don’t remember the Chelvaratnam girls and boys, but Edmund Wambeck, whose nickname was “Baguru”, stands out. He often beat up other boys, and once made a teacher cry.

In February 1957, Beaula was born at home. I think a midwife was in attendance, and Aunty Bee was present. Father, Roy, and I sat in the sitting room. We heard Beula crying and Aunty brought the baby out soon after. She was red. She was baptized perhaps a week later at Tammita church. Father’s classmate Dr. Alwis (a registered medical practitioner, called an apothecary those days) was her godfather, and Marie akka the godmother. We had a small party to which the Wambecks were invited. The house was full of children, and I remember how Rosita, the adopted daughter of Aunty B, attacked the plate of fish cutlets.

Father being unemployed and mother’s salary only being about Rs. 100 per month, we were poor. Both Ave Maria and Maris Stella were government assisted schools, so the monthly school fees were only about Rs. 2 for each of us. But clothes were not ready-made those days and had to be tailored, shoes and books had to be bought. Mother stitched all the clothes we wore at home. How my parents managed to feed us while buying the milk food and other requirements for Beaula remains a mystery to me.

Grandfather Braine had been helpful to Dionys aiya, who had started a boutique on land owned by grandfather opposite “Stanlodge”, and had become quite successful. He had even started a biscuit factory under the brand name “LIONROAR”, and built a large, beautiful home. I recall a delivery bicycle coming to our house from Dionys aiya’s shop, with two large cardboard boxes at the front and back packed with groceries. I am not sure how often the delivery was made, and whether they were a gift or we paid for it. Dionys aiyya may have been sorry to see grandpa’s son in poverty.

Father tried to make money by breeding Alsatian dogs. They are called German Shepherds now. He had Rani, our dog, mated with a male pure bread, and about 6 puppies were born, which he hoped to sell. But, a rabid dog was supposed to have bitten Rani, and the PHI wanted her destroyed, along with the puppies. Father owned a shotgun but didn’t have the heart to shoot Rani, so he asked the police and a constable was sent. I can’t remember how the puppies were put down. Father also bred turkeys hoping to sell them at Christmas but one night they were all stolen. He must have been heartbroken.

Roy and I spent a lot of time at the Aserappa home, a large house where Tilak and his sister Savithri lived. Tilak was about one year older to me, and Savithri about two/three years younger. Mr. Aserappa had been to Cambridge and was a top civil servant. Mrs. Aserappa was a gracious lady, and knew that we were poor. She welcomed us and allowed us to play with Tilak’s toys. He had expensive train sets, “Hornsby”, made in England, the Rolls Royce of train sets. Tilak was more interested in books. We had the run of the house, and played in the large garden, catching butterflies. Mrs. Aserappa was a piano teacher, so the house was full of music. She served Roy and me delicious treats.

Sixty years later, I met Tilak and Savithri again. Their mother had died in 2008. Savithri was living in a charitable home, lonely but well looked after. But Tilak, who had qualified as a lawyer, leads a pathetic life, more like a beggar, without electricity or water service.  I visited him with books, New Yorker magazines, and short eats. I cleaned-up his filthy house, but he’ll go on like that till he passes away.

In 1958, we moved to a rented house on Colombo Road, opposite the hospital and Maris Stella college. I think the address was 120 Colombo Road, Negombo. Roy, too, was attending Maris Stella now, so the new place was quite convenient for mother and us.

In 1950, when mother was in labor expecting me, she had been brought to the maternity ward of Negombo hospital. Seeing the nurses and attendants scolding the expectant women loudly and in bad language, she had refused to stay there, so they turned back. (I was born at Sandalankawa hospital while they were driving back home to Pannala.) Ironically, mother was now working at the same maternity ward which she had refused to be admitted. Being short tempered by nature, I am sure she scolded the expectant women.

Our home was down a lane which began near a huge mara tree on Colombo Road. A funeral home (actually a coffin shop) was at the turn-off. On the way home, we had to walk past the coffin shop and a workshop which turned out various electroplated items for coffins, such as handles and decorations. The workshop was noisy and dirty. Our home was in the middle of a large garden, with a well and a primitive toilet at the back. As usual, no electricity or water service. Because the well water was brackish, we couldn’t drink it, so a water cart (a bullock cart which had a huge wooden barrel mounted on it) came around every morning. The carter carried two large cans of water (about 5 gallons in each can) and filled kalagediys in the kitchen. Each can of water cost 5 cents.

Maris Stella College was only a 5-minute walk from home, so we came home for lunch. George Wambeck ate at our place. On Fridays, being from a good Catholic home, he would be fasting, but sit with us at the table. I found it odd. I saw Roy and Lloyd also at college, but we rarely met because they were in the Tamil stream.

School was over at 2.30 in the afternoon, and my brother and I would come home, change, and rush out to play. We were in and out of neighbors’ houses. One neighbor had two sons, the older boy was Quintin, and we played football and cricket with them. The large property ours was owned by a teacher and her mother, and we played in their garden. We also gathered to play marbles, for flattened cigarette packets. The brands I recall are Three Roses, Navy Cut, Capstan, and the rarer Ardath and Du Maurier, which were expensive. We traded these packs, 5 Three Roses for one Ardath. We were always on the lookout for empty cigarette packets casually thrown on the roadside.

After playing, we would not go home till Jane began to call “Baba, Baba” loudly, or came looking for us. We would be sweaty and filthy. She would drag us to the well and give us a body wash before taking us into the house.

Father still didn’t have a job. So mother, despite all the work she had (she had night duty, too) was the sole breadwinner. A delivery bicycle still brought groceries from Dionys aiya, mother still stitched our clothes, and she also bought food from the hospital. Under a scheme called the “diet”, hospital employees could buy the food from the kitchen, the same food given to patients. It wasn’t of high quality, but was cheap. Every day, Jane took a large aluminum container to the hospital for the food. We bought bread, sugar, kerosene oil and other sundry needs from a small thatched boutique nearby, on credit. Each day’s purchases were written on a small notebook, and the bill was settled at the end of the month. Every evening, I walked to the boutique to buy a quarter bottle of kerosene oil. At one time, we had a boarder, Weerasinghe, who was a senior student at Maris Stella.

We would sometimes go to the hospital to visit mother at work. On the way back, we had to pass the mortuary, which was located in an isolated area. We didn’t walk but ran past the mortuary. One time, I was ill and had been prescribed a penicillin injection. Mother took the prescription to a friendly nurse, who gave me a quick injection. I thought it was over, but a few minutes later saw her walking towards me with a bigger syringe. (The first one had been to test for penicillin allergy.)  I was so scared that I took off and ran all the way home. Poor mother would have been very embarrassed.

Aunty Bee was pregnant and she came to stay with us when her delivery day was near, not wanting to stay at the maternity ward. One day, when mother was at work, Aunty went into labor. Jane rushed to the hospital and brought mother home, and Jerry Wambeck was born.

1958 was a critical year for Ceylon because the first Sinhala- Tamil riots broke out. A whole day curfew was declared, and it continued for weeks. Negombo did not see any violence (I think), but army trucks patrolled the road, and the soldiers chased us off when we went up to the road to watch.

Mother of Perpetual Succor

Father had a Phillips bicycle. Every Wednesday afternoon, he would cycle to Bolawalana church, with me on the crossbar, to attend the novena for the Mother of Perpetual Succor. The church was packed, so we always stayed under some young coconut palms. The Sinhala hymn “Ma Mauni” was always sung, along with some Latin hymns. I felt a sadness in my father, who prayed and sang with fervor. He must have felt so helpless without a job. I Googled Bolawalana church and came up with the attached photo. We stood under these coconut trees, when they were young, 60 years ago.

Bolawalana church, from Google

The prayers must have worked, because father got a job at Dicklanda West Estate, Badalgama, in 1959. But we kept the house in Negombo. That year was notable because the Prime Minister SWRD Bandaranaike was assassinated.

Hong Kong on the Brink

Eleven weeks ago, the placards carried by protesters said "Withdraw Extradition Bill". Now, they proclaim "FREE HONG KONG". What began as a spontaneous protest against a hated piece of legislation has turned into an aggressive pro-democracy movement.

Sri Lanka has a population of 21 million. Imagine if 7 million of them came out for a protest march in Colombo. The police and the armed services would be outnumbered, and the protesters could lay siege to the city and even topple the government. When two million protesters marched through downtown Hong Kong in June, they were one third of Hong Kong's population. The protesters have brought the city to a standstill. The government hasn't fallen yet, but remains in paralysis. Hong Kong has no armed forces, but there's a garrison of Mainland Chinese forces based in Hong Kong, and more troops across the border, but any intervention by these them could be the end of Hong Kong as we know it.

I came to Hong Kong in 1995. Two years later, the British handed over the colony to China. After the Tiananmen incident in 1989, about half a million Hong Kongers, those who could afford it or those who had professional qualifications, left, to settle down mainly in Canada, Australia, and Britain. Most who remained in Hong Kong, and even some expatriates, were not optimistic about its future. As long as it was under the British, Hong Kong had been a humiliation for China, and some even expected Chinese tanks to roll down Tolo Highway, which connected Hong Kong to China, after the handover on July 1. (I could see the highway from where I lived on the Chinese University campus)

Hong Kong's breathtaking skyscrapers 

But, no tanks came. For me, the immediate impact was in cricket. The university cricket team used a Royal Air Force (RAF) grounds for our games, but, after the handover, the Peoples Liberation Army (PLA) took over the camp and we couldn’t play there anymore.

Historical Context

Till 1949, Hong Kong only had a population of half a million within its 500 square miles. That year, the communists took over China, and a massive exodus to Hong Kong occurred, raising the population to 2 million. The elderly taxi driver who drove me to the airport regularly, Mr. Wu, told me that he swam to Hong Kong with a bicycle tube around his neck. Most of these early immigrants are now dead, but the stories they told their children and grandchildren, about suppression of freedom in China, have not been forgotten.

The early refugees lived in shacks, coping with landslides and fires. With time, the British administration managed to build enough public housing to accommodate all, although some residential units were as small as 200 sq. ft. Eventually, citizens gained much personal freedom, and access to free education and healthcare. Public transport - the Mass Transit Railway (MTR), the bus service, taxis, and ferries – are perhaps the world’s best. Currently, Hong Kong boasts a sound banking system, an independent judiciary, about $400 billion in foreign reserves, and enforces rigorous anti-corruption laws. The stock-exchange rivals London and New York. Last year’s budget surplus was $40 billion. The annual per capita GDP is $49,000 (for comparison, the figures for the UK and Sri Lanka are $42,000 and $4000 respectively). To cap it all, the life expectancy is the highest in the world, for both Hong Kong men and women.

But, there’s a dark side to Hong Kong. About 15% of the population, mainly recent immigrants from the Mainland (57,000 arrived in 2016 alone), live below the official poverty line. Their housing could be horrendous; exploited by landlords, they live in so called “sub-divided” flats, some as small as 100 sq. ft. for a family of four.

Changes

For about ten years after the handover, life went on as usual. The same civil servants and policemen continued to serve, and the same journalists’ bylines appeared in the newspapers. Train announcements were in Cantonese and English. Mainland Chinese visitors were few, because they needed visas to enter Hong Kong, which were not easy to obtain.

Gradually, I began to note changes, both at the university where I taught and elsewhere in Hong Kong. More students from the Mainland were entering Hong Kong universities, even to the detriment of local students: at my university, the majority of doctoral students turned out to be Mainlanders. Many newly appointed professors also had Mainland origins, as did some university Presidents/Vic-Chancellors. However, personally, I continued to enjoy academic freedom: no one observed my lectures, and none checked my lecture notes.

China had eased visa requirements, and Hong Kong shops began to overflow with Mainland shoppers, buying up everything from designer handbags to name-brand watches, from milk food to toilet paper. The MTR became clogged with Mainland visitors, easily noticed because they spoke Mandarin and brought huge suitcases into the railway carriages. In 2018, for instance, about 46 million Mainland visitors entered Hong Kong, further crowding the 7 million locals. Naturally, this caused a great deal of resentment.

Failure in Administration

The last British Governor, Chris Patten, had been a popular figure. But, all the Chief Executives (CE) - equivalent to Governor - appointed after the handover turned out to be utter failures. They had all been nominees of China, through an election in which only 1,200 chosen few Hong Kongers voted. The first, Tung Chi Wa, a businessman, resigned before his term was up. During his tenure, when a so-called National Security Legislation was proposed, half a million marched in protest. The bill was withdrawn. The second, Donald Tsang, is now in jail for corruption. As a Catholic, he attended mass every morning, and to me, that alone was suspect enough! The third, C.Y. Leung, was, like Tsang, a puppet in the hands of property developers.

Carrie Lam, the current Chief Executive, is a long term civil servant, like her predecessor Donald Tsang.  She, too, is a “good Catholic girl”, having even attended a Catholic convent. Top level civil servants in Hong Kong are a pampered lot. Lam famously did not know where to buy toilet paper, or how to go through the turnstiles to enter the MTR! When civil servants are appointed CE, perhaps their main shortcoming is the inability to create policy, having been trained only to carry out the decisions made by their superiors.

Despair among Hong Kong’s Young

Early on, my students had little interest in politics. I taught at a public university and most students came from the working class. Stories abounded of social mobility, of children of poor refugees from China, living  in crowded housing, rising to become top level professionals. My students also aspired to rise above their parent’ living standards, and many did.

Two sisters, whose parents were a cook and a cleaner, gained full scholarships to Oxford and Cambridge to pursue doctoral degrees. Another, the daughter of a hawker, earned a First Class Honors in English. She narrowly missed a scholarship to Oxford, and could have easily found employment in a top business firm. Instead, she joined the police as a probationary police inspector, telling me she admired the police for keeping her impoverished neighborhood safe from drug dealers and gangsters. A close friend, a world class academic, also came from a similar background.

But now, such social mobility is more the exception than the rule. I see two reasons. First, the more affluent children attend international schools, and go to the UK, Australia and the US for higher education. They return to Hong Kong with better English language and all round skills, and get the plum jobs.

The second is unaffordable housing. Housing prices have skyrocketed in the past 20 years. Presently, Hong Kong is the world’s most expensive housing market, at HK$17,000 per square foot (US$2000, or Sri Lankan Rs. 385,000/: for a square foot). For comparison, the rate for New York is only US$520. For most Hong Kongers, owning their own home is an impossibility. Those who do call themselves “mortgage slaves”, some holding more than one job to pay off killer 30-year payments. The property developers’ solution has been to build tiny flats, selling 160 sq. ft. flats for HK$3 million. Meanwhile, greedy landlords are subletting their flats, forcing whole families to live in horrendous conditions.

How the Hong Kong poor live

For the housing debacle, the culprits are three fold. First, the government (yes, even under the British), which controls all land and auctions them off to the highest bidder from the property developers. Second, the powerful, rapacious developers who manipulate the market and influence government policy. Third, Mainlanders investing their ill-gotten wealth safely in Hong Kong, driving up prices. Most of the flats they own remain unoccupied.

Singapore, which is even smaller than Hong Kong in terms of area, has solved the housing problem by building family-friendly housing costing about 5 years’ income. In comparison, a typical Hong Konger could only afford 12 square feet per year, and even a car-sized flat would cost 10 years’ income. Carrie Lam, the current CE, has a proposal to solve the housing problem: instead of building public housing on available land, she plans to create an island at a cost of HK$500 billion (US$65 billion). Construction would likely be handled by Mainland companies, and private developers would build the flats. Pressure from the Mainland and property developers is obvious.

Growing Resentment

In 1997, when Hong Kong was handed over to China, the “One country, two systems” proposed by the former Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping was put in place, ensuring Hong Kong a degree of autonomy for 49 years. Although defense and diplomacy came under the Mainland, Hong Kong continued to print its currency, to link the HK dollar to the US dollar, have its own flag, issue passports, and maintain immigration control. But, over the years, frustration with China has grown due to a number of reasons: covert pressure with the proposed security law of 2003 (which was withdrawn), attempts to change the school curriculum (which also failed), and coercion to invest in massive infrastructure projects, such as the 55 km sea bridge to Macau and Zhuhai, which don’t directly benefit Hong Kong. The “invasion” by millions of Mainland tourists, crowding public transport, shops, and streets, did not help matters. The influx of Mainland money into the property market, sending prices sky high, further exacerbated the situation. Hong Kong people’s resentment was palpable: street protests against the Mainlanders were held, and clashes occurred.

The Current Protests

The hated extradition bill would have subjected Hong Kong to the Chinese legal system. The government was warned by academics and legal experts to reconsider, but, perhaps under pressure from China, chose to ignore the advice.

I was in Hong Kong in June, when the two major protest marches occurred. Despite the blistering heat, one million took part in the first march, and a week later, an estimated two million marched. The protesters came from all ages and across the social and economic strata. University, secondary school and even middle school students were joined by their parents and grandparents. Working class people marched with civil servants, teachers, and airline staff. When the government did not respond by withdrawing the extradition bill, the second march ended with clashes between radical elements and the police. Waking up at last, Carrie Lam suspended the bill, but did not withdraw it. So the violent protests continued.

Violent protests

The Legislative Council building, Hong Kong’s parliament, was stormed. Police Headquarters was besieged. Roads were blocked. Finally, the Hong Kong airport, where nearly one thousand flights take off and land every day, was brought to a standstill. The Hong Kong government, and indirectly China, were humiliated.

Well-equipped protester

The attires of the protesters and the police offer a sharp contrast. The typical protester wears a black T-shirt, a helmet, goggles, and a gas mask, to protest from tear gas. A bottle of water is ubiquitous. In contrast, policemen in riot gear have the forbidding appearance of Darth Vader from Star Wars. Some baton charges have been violent.

Riot police

China Losing Face

I have traveled widely in China in the past 20 years, and have seen first-hand how much progress the country has made during this period. But, while material prosperity and living standards have improved, personal freedom appears to have declined.

Never having experienced it, Mainland officials have little understanding of democracy. They probably cannot comprehend the dissatisfaction of Hong Kongers, who are Chinese like themselves.

In Chinese societies, “face” is everything. The loss of face is intolerable, and these societies go to great lengths to “save face”.  What exacerbates the Chinese impatience with Hong Kong is the tremendous loss of face that China and its citizens are subjected to in Hong Kong. The Chinese shoppers are called “locusts”, and any type of errant behavior, such as a child peeing on the street, goes viral on social media and is condemned. But, the annual candlelight vigil held in Hong Kong on June 4 takes the cake for “loss of face” on a global level. Any mention of the Tiananmen incident of 1989 is taboo in China, but, for the past 30 years, Hong Kong has commemorated the incident with a vigil which draws massive crowds, 300,000 this year.

Candlelight vigil, 2019. Each light represents a person. 

During the current protests, the Chinese emblem was defaced, and the Chinese flag was twice ripped from a pole and thrown into the sea. In an open society, such acts would probably draw a mild rebuke (the US flag, for instance, is set fire to both within and outside the US on a regular basis), but China is incensed. The protests themselves, broadcast around the world, makes China appear weak.

In reaction, China has amassed a large, armored force on the Hong Kong border, and broadcast its tactics for riot control. It brought pressure on Cathay Pacific Airways, Hong Kong’s privately owned flag-carrier, to sack two pilots who had participated in the protests. Even Cathay’s CEO was forced to resign.

My Hong Kong

I have a deep, emotional attachment to Hong Kong. Prior to my arrival in 1995, I had studied and taught in the USA, where I couldn’t even live from paycheck to paycheck, being squeezed by high income taxes, state taxes, payments for health insurance and social security, in addition to monthly car payments and a mortgage. The sales taxes added a further 12% to every bill. Hong Kong, in contrast, had a flat 17% income tax, free health care, and did not require social security payments. No sales tax was added, because Hong Kong is tax free. When I bought a house, the government paid the substantial mortgage. My take home salary was three times what I earned in the USA. I could even afford a domestic helper, brought from Sri Lanka. And, as a permanent resident, I voted.

In other ways, too, Hong Kong has been good to me. The Hong Kong people are tolerant of foreigners, and the presence of a large expatriate population ensures a diverse lifestyle enriched by a cuisine that is truly international. Half of Hong Kong is reserved for country parks, which are easily accessed, and public transport is perhaps the world’s best, and affordable. The police and civil servants are courteous. At the well-endowed public university where I taught, academic freedom was guaranteed, and other forms of academic and research support were provided that was unthinkable at most cash strapped American universities. The generous travel grants enabled me to see the world. I made lifelong friends.

So, I want Hong Kong to be succeed, and the people to be happy. But, in recent years, I saw the smiles fade and gloom set in. Poor leadership, an unequal society, becoming “mortgage slaves”, has sapped the cheerfulness of the people. But, during my 20-year stay, Hong Kong weathered two sharp economic downturns, and the devastating SARS epidemic which killed more than 300 people. Each time, Hong Kong bounced back. I have lived in five countries, and nowhere else have I seen such a resilient society.

What can be done? Carrie Lam, the failed Chief Executive, already “the walking dead”, has to go. The hated extradition bill must be withdrawn. A crash program to build thousands of affordable public housing should be launched immediately. Finally, universal suffrage, one-person one-vote, must be implemented when the next election for the Chief Executive comes around.

As George Orwell said, knowing “that your children get a fair chance” are basic aspirations, all that Hong Kong people are asking for. The latest protests, held on Sunday 18, in pouring rain, went off peacefully, without any clashes. An estimated 1.7 million marched. Hong Kong is on the brink, but I have hope.