From Moonshine to Whiskey and Beer

From Moonshine to Whiskey and Beer

I moved to Boralessa, my ancestral village, in 1977. Many villagers – who made a living as masons, carpenters, workers in tile factories and brick kilns – supplemented their income by brewing pot arrack. The main ingredient, coconut toddy, was readily available and so was the demand.  Pot arrack was a cottage industry: the males did the brewing and the women sold it from home.

Some of my immediate neighbors were brewers, the small time mudalali across the road being the main supplier for the area. In the evenings, a steady clientele of regulars could be seen going into his house. As the evening drew on, drunks, mainly middle aged men, would be staggering down the road, some singing bawdy songs and others picking quarrels with anyone around, using the foulest language.

Cleary, the making and selling of pot arrack was illegal. So, why didn’t the police crackdown? The MP for the area, who also happened to be a cabinet minister, had requested the police to go easy on the pot arrack dealers. Those who indulged in the business were not well off and it provided an essential supplementary income to “feed their families”, never mind the damage done to the consumers’ health and family harmony. Anyhow, not to be put off, the police also went around to the dealers every month collecting their cut!

Distribution

When the supply exceeded local demand, the brewers found a ready market in nearby Negombo and further afield in Colombo and the suburbs. Transport was through two modes, train and car. In those days, I was teaching at Kelaniya University and took the “office train” to work. Boralessa has a tiny railway station, manned by an agent (not a station master), with no security whatsoever. Men with four-gallon plastic containers filled with pot arrack would be hiding in the bushes around the station, and, as the train was pulling off, make a mad dash and scramble on to the train. The containers would be quickly hidden in the toilets or under seats. Although this was a daily spectacle witnessed by hundreds of passengers, not once did I see a raid by railway security, the police, or excise officers.

Transport by car was more spectacular. The chosen model was the sleek Austin Cambridge A50, vintage 1950s, perhaps the fastest and most maneuverable car in those days of tight import restrictions. Cars loaded with pot arrack would set off for Colombo, both day and night. The natural boundary between the north western province, where Boralessa is located, and the western province, where Colombo is, happens to be the Ma Oya river, crossed by the legendary Kochchikade bridge. Once the cars carrying pot arrack crossed the bridge, they were under a new jurisdiction and at the mercy of the police. Avoiding the main road on which a number of police stations were located, the drivers took circuitous back roads, but the police did their best to stop the cars. So it was a cat and mouse game - roadblocks, checkpoints, ambushes, gunfire, and high speed chases, the stuff of thriller movies. One of these drivers, I’ll call him Primus, recently told me of being fired on when he sped past the police. He is still alive to tell the tale, about 90 now.

Austin Cambridge A50

Dankotuwa, a nearby town that was surrounded by large coconut plantations (providing coconut toddy, the essential ingredient for pot arrack), also supplied the brew to the Colombo area. The best of the liquor, on par or even better than the legitimate variety, whether from Boralessa or Dankotuwa, was known as “Dankotuwa Special”. Many local musicians in those days were heavy drinkers, and a top musician told me not long ago that whenever he managed to get a bottle of the coveted “Dankotuwa Special”, he would get together with another well-known musician to enjoy the treat.

From pot arrack to kasippu

In the 1980s, due to various reasons, the supply of coconut toddy declined, but the demand for illicit liquor prevailed. Ever creative, villagers found a new way to continue with production. Instead of toddy, they began to use sugar dissolved in water, with generous doses of added yeast, to produce alcohol. This was kasippu.

The 1980s were a turning point for Boralessa because large number of villagers began to travel to Italy, both illegally and legally, in search of work. Because the “Italians” had brought more prosperity to the villagers, the local MP, took a hands-off approach to the illicit trade; the police were given a free rein and could arrest and prosecute illegal brewers.

In the manufacture of kasippu, the fermentation process would take place in large, rusty barrels over a few days, and the barrels had to be hidden from the police. The village had enough hiding places – coconut groves, a weed-choked irrigation tank, long abandoned paddy fields, culverts, thickly wooded area - for the purpose. The bottom of my property has a pond surrounded by overgrown shrubs, and one day I found two barrels there. After I spoke with the prime suspect, the barrels disappeared.

Not all barrels were properly sealed, so passing lizards, rats, snakes and other creepy crawlies would fall in. To improve the “kick”, ammonia fertilizer, rusty barbed wire, and anything handy was added. Kasippu, unlike pot arrack, is very much a poison brew.

A grocery store not far from my house probably sold tons of sugar every week. This could be estimated from the lorry loads of sugar that were unloaded there. It also showed how much illicit liquor was brewed in the village.

The Italian sojourn brought prosperity and some villagers developed a taste for whiskey. The dealer across the road, who had given up his illicit trade because he now had two sons in Italy, once boasted to me that he now drank only “whishkey”.

 

Effects on the Lifestyle

A large number of villagers, both young and the elderly, consumed kasippu. I now realize that many, who worked as masons and carpenters, were alcoholics and this caused problems well beyond the immediate households.

Sundays were reserved for heavy drinking, which meant that, being severely hungover, nobody turned up for work on Mondays. A head carpenter I knew, who built roofs (backbreaking work under a blazing sun), who had a small team of assistants, dreaded Tuesdays because getting his men to turn-up for work took all morning. First, Anthony would call them, and they dutifully promised to turn-up at the worksite. But, often, they didn’t. Then, Anthony would have to go around to their homes in a hired tuk, pleading and coaxing the men to join him. This was repeated weekly and the Anthony was fed up, till the pandemic hit and put an end to house construction. 

Kasippu also affected family harmony because the men were habitually drunk, broke, and in poor health, leaving the womenfolk to keep the home fires burning. Domestic abuse was common. I know of broken homes where the women had fled, unable to bear their misery.

Beer

About ten years ago, a liquor store opened in Boralessa. Hard liquor was too expensive for most locals but beer sales exceeded expectations. The consumers were mainly young men, who had not developed a taste for the hard stuff. Perhaps, they had also seen the scourge that kasippu caused, even within their families, and spurned the stuff. Most evenings, they would converge on the beer shop and hang out for hours, even sitting on the railway tracks.

Boralessa had come a long way from the days of pot arrack. People still drank, some copiusly, but I no longer see anyone staggering down the quiet Kiragara Road that runs along my property, singing bawdy songs. Most of the heavy drinkers have passed away, and the younger generations, bolstered by cash infusions from abroad, have become “respectable”. But I do miss the old Boralessa, where moonshine was king and daredevil drivers played cat and mouse games with the police.

The quiet Kiragara Road that runs past my house

 Adventures in Academia 2: Asleep at The Oral Defense

About a week after I returned to Hong Kong upon delivering a keynote address at a joint China-US conference in Beijing, a new doctoral student from Mainland China walked into my office. When I asked Ming if he had attended the Beijing conference, which incidentally had been held at his university, he said no. Puzzled - who would avoid an international conference that came to one’s doorstep - I asked why. He mumbled an excuse, and I left it at that.

At the English department, doctoral students are paid a stipend. In return, they are affiliated to a professor each semester, and required to do a teaching assistantship (TA) as well as a research assistantship (RA). This involved attending and assisting with course lectures, teaching two small tutorial sections, and helping with the professor’s research. During his first semester, Ming was assigned to me.

Once, I asked him to photocopy 30 handouts to be distributed to students at the next lecture. Ming turned up, but without the handouts. When asked, he mumbled something incomprehensible, avoiding eye contact. When this happened twice more, I stopped asking him to do any more tasks. I also received complaints from students about his sloppy handling of the two tutorial sections. So, at the end of the semester, I asked the departmental secretary not to assign Ming to me again.

With other professors, too, Ming’s behavior did not change. After a few semesters, none wanted him. Hence, while his doctoral classmates performed their TA and RA duties, while conducting their own research and writing their theses, Ming had a free ride. To this day, I am not sure if he was incompetent, plain lazy, or an ace con artist who had found an easy way out.

A doctoral student needs four professors on his/her dissertation committee: the thesis supervisor, two committee members, and an external examiner. One day, Ming waked into my office and invited me to be a member on his committee. I inquired about his research topic, and on hearing that it related to memory mapping in vocabulary acquisition, a topic about which I knew nothing, I politely turned him down.

Before long, James, his thesis supervisor, came to me, and, as a favor to him, asked if I would oblige. Apparently, Ming’s past sins were catching up on him: no one wanted to be on his committee. After some cajoling, I agreed, telling James that I would not read the entire thesis. He said “OK”; all he needed were four warm bodies at the oral defense. (At the English department, only the committee members are allowed to attend an oral defense.)

About two weeks before the scheduled date for the defense, Ming handed me a tome, his thesis, more than 400 pages of dry, pedantic writing. I was bored reading just the first chapter. But, I would be expected to ask at least one question at the defense. So, after reading the first and last chapters, I formulated a question that would give the impression that I had carefully read the entire thesis!

The oral defense was scheduled for an afternoon, just after the lunch hour. We met at a conference room. The external examiner, Rupert, was from a smaller, liberal arts university in Hong Kong. Besides me, another professor, Janet, served as a committee member.

James, the thesis supervisor, suffered from sleep apnea, and his night sleep being often interrupted, tended to fall asleep at meetings. I, too, was missing my afternoon nap.

Ming began his defense with an oral presentation, droning on in his mumbling voice. True to form, James, who sat nearest to Ming at the long conference table, was soon fast asleep, with his head resting on an outstretched arm. I was sleepy, too, but, with a superhuman effort, managed to stay awake.

When Ming’s presentation ended, James woke up, and asked a few questions. The committee members were next in line, and I made the fatal mistake of telling Janet that she could go ahead with her questions. I was startled when she asked almost the exact question that I had come prepared with, leaving me high and dry. While Ming mumbled his answer, I quickly glanced through the thesis and came up with a new question. The day was saved. Rupert, the external examiner, who had come well prepared, wound up the defense with his questions.

But, there was more to come. At that time, the ranking of universities was a hot topic in Hong Kong. Being a small liberal arts institution, with little emphasis on research, Rupert’s university was ranked last in some polls. This stung, and Rupert came to his university’s defense by writing a letter to the local newspaper, criticizing the rankings. But, what matters here is how he concluded the letter: “This year I acted as external examiner of a PhD at, according to the poll, one of the most prestigious universities in Hong Kong. One internal member of the examinations board fell asleep during the student’s presentation and another, to judge from his question, apparently had not read the thesis …”

Guilty as charged!

Italian Exodus and its Consequences

 Italian Exodus and its Consequences

My village, Boralessa, is only 40 km from Colombo. Starting with my paternal grandmother, our family has resided at Boralessa for well over a century. My modest ancestral property, “Pondside,” was previously owned by my grandmother, an uncle, and an aunt. It has been mine for nearly fifty years. Most probably, I’ll be the last Braine to live there.

About 95% Sinhala Catholic, the villagers used to be masons, carpenters, sawyers, and workers in tile factories and brick kilns. Over the years, as the population grew, the large coconut plantations that surrounded the village were divided and sub-divided for distribution among landless villagers. Gradually, these plots have been reduced to only 10 perches.

The “Italians”

About forty years ago, looking for work, villagers began to travel to Italy, first illegally (on jam-packed, rickety fishing trawlers, and later with forged passports), then by legal means through family connections. Almost every household now has a parent, a child, or a relative living and working in Italy. Most work as carers for the elderly, shop assistants, farmhands, and in logistics. Many have gained citizenship there. Routinely, they would visit Boralessa for events like the annual church feast. They stood out for their flashy clothes and lavish spending and were referred to as Ithali karayo, or Italians.

As they accumulated wealth, these expats needed to show off to the villagers tangible evidence of their good fortune. So, they began to build houses, not just ordinary homes, but extravagant multistoried structures with gabled roofs, parapet walls, and massive gates. The construction would stretch over several years. First, a plot of land was bought. On the next visit, a parapet wall was built, along with the massive, elaborate gate, referred to as an “Italian gate”, that signified the owner’s affiliation to Italy. Building the foundation was the next step, followed by the walls and the roof. I have observed the entire construction taking seven years or more.

Usually, the elderly parents of the owners would reside in the backroom of the house. Cash, and gift boxes containing chocolates, pasta and other Italian items, would be sent regularly to these people. They may have missed their children but were well taken care of. The annual visits of the relatives from Italy was a time to celebrate and enjoyed by all.

Pandemic and Bankruptcy

Even before the pandemic arrived, this smooth arrangement ceased to function at some houses. The elderly parents or relatives who had been caretakers began to die off, mainly of old age. The pandemic, which caused travel restrictions, only exacerbated the problem. Boralessa’s population being depleted due to so many villagers being abroad, there simply was no one to take care and maintain these houses. That’s when I began to notice a marked shift in their appearance.

The front yards became overgrown with weeds and the once pristine outer walls began to show streaks of black mold, sure signs of a neglected house. The gate may be firmly padlocked but the iron frames showed signs of rust. Roof tiles, also moldy, showed damage from falling coconuts or coconut fronds. No lights came on at night.

Annual visits by “Italians” became irregular or stopped altogether. Travel, with broods of children or grandchildren, had become expensive. Instead of building and maintaining houses in Boralessa, they began to purchase property in Italy. A neighbor, after more than 30 years in Italy, bought a house in Italy only last year.

I live in Kiragara Road, which begins at Boralessa junction and runs through the village for a few kilometers. Within a 200-meter radius of my house are four abandoned structures, as seen in the photographs below. If I walk down the road for about a kilometer, I can count at least ten more abandoned houses.

The first house below was built about six years ago. Two storied, built along sleek modern lines sans multiple gables, the house was visited by the owner’s family only once. Behind the iron and concrete fence, the front yard is covered in weeds.

The second photo is what could be termed a shophouse, with accommodation for the owner on the upper floor. Built for a tailoring business about five years ago, it attracted a good clientele for about two years before the pandemic hit. When business declined, the seamstress who ran it returned to Italy, perhaps permanently.

Shown below is another multistoried house, enclosed by a tall fence. This house is better maintained because the owner’s relatives live nearby. He has not returned in more than five years, and, though built at great cost, the house has never been occupied.

Finally, one of the neighborhood boutiques (sillara kade), which had operated for as long as I have been in the village, closed when the family went abroad. It is very unlikely that it will open again.

Consequences

The pandemic and the bankruptcy that came on its heels hit Boralessa hard. The “Italians” stopped visiting and less money began to circulate in the village. Building construction stopped, throwing masons and carpenters out of work. Rata yanda (go abroad) was the response.

Italy was the prime target because relatives and friends there could help one to find work and settle down, even if one had entered illegally. Romania began recruiting workers in Sri Lanka, and, apparently, the route from Romania to Italy could be easily traversed. Amazingly, tiny Malta (120 sq. miles; 550,000 population) also became a draw because the route to Italy was only a ferry ride. So many Sri Lankans were applying for visas to Malta that an honorary consulate was opened in Colombo.

Let me cite two instances of neighbors emigrating recently. One, to escape her abusive husband, went to Romania as a seamstress, although she had never stitched anything in her life. She took her grown daughter with her. Within three months, she had entered Italy, illegally.

Sriyani, my caretake at “Pondside,” whose husband died of covid three years ago, has a 23-year-old son. I found him work at a nearby electronics factory, but the Rs. 35,000/ monthly salary did not attract him. The young man had also been bitten with the rata yanawa fever, and, after a year of trying, he managed to obtain a visa to Malta, paying a Sri Lankan there Euro 5000 and wiping out the family’s savings. He left for Malta three weeks ago, and his mother had to remit another Euro 500 after he landed. She is heavily in debt now. Lakshman’s job is to assemble pantry cupboards at salary of Euro 1000 per month, minus rent, health insurance, travel, and other miscellaneous expenses. He has not started work yet due to ill health.

The consequences of this exodus on the village have been drastic. Working age men, and to some extent women, are in short supply. Skilled craftsmen – electricians, plumbers, welders, mechanics – are impossible to find. A pall of gloom seems to hang over the village. While at Pondside, I love to watch the world go by, sitting on my verandah with a direct view of Kiragara Road. Once busy – with schoolchildren and office workers (on their way to the railway station) in the morning, housewives walking or riding to the market later on, idle young men roaring by on their motorbikes, the tuk tuks, occasional car or lorry – the road traffic has diminished greatly. Instead of three chuun paan men, only one plied Kiragara Road now. Most customers were gone.

Boralessa has changed, and it may be a microcosm of what is happening to other villages and towns in Sri Lanka.