Baptised in hooch
How a night of booze changed a young man’s life
That weekend, my friends and I were booked for an all-night party at Ragama, Sri Lanka. The occasion was the annual feast at St. Peter’s and Paul’s church, some ten kilometres away from my home. It was an event worth celebrating by Catholic lads.
We assembled on a Saturday evening as a group and headed to Brian’s home. Brian was Edward’s friend. Two of them worked at Inter-Continental Hotel. It was the first time I met Brian, his elder brother Errol and their parents. In an era your friend’s friend was your friend, there was a lot of implied trust between friends. Brian was a flamboyant character on the go. We clicked immediately.
By about eight pm, Brian started the house party. There were a dozen fellows and a very few girls. Brian was a fabulous host. Liquor galored, the hooch type. A lot of dancing with loud music. Everyone was drinking.
The hooch tasted like a fizzy drink. I gulped a few sips from a fuzzy white bottle. I wanted to get high. I drank more of the bottle with my usual bravado egged on by Naushad, a brave lad and a fellow party beast who dared me. It was a competition between Naushad and me. I was showing off. I cannot remember how much more I drank after passing the tipping point of no return. Where were the adverts for ‘responsible drinking’ targeted at youth then?
Before long, I threw up all over myself before the party started. I was seriously pissed for the first time. I was floating and could not stand. Brian, his brother Errol and my friend Cyril came to my rescue and removed my soiled clothes. They took me to the bathroom, stripped me bare and cleaned me. Then they put me to sleep, covering me with a white sheet from head to toe.
I slept through the night while the rest of the party-goers were out there, drinking and dancing in the next room with loud music blaring. The next day, I recovered and was embarrassed in front of Brian’s parents. The boys laughed it off, though. They said I have now come of age.
I had breakfast at Brian’s and returned home with my friends.
That was the first time I got pissed beyond repair. After that, I determined never to be wasted like that ever again.
My getting drunk became a bit of folklore among my friends. One that everyone teased me about for a few years to come. Brian still recalls this episode with nostalgia about how his new skinny friend got stoned for the first time at his home.
With that unforgettable event, baptised in hooch, Brian and I became good friends. We met each other in the company of our mutual friends. We attended dance parties on weekends. Brian was always on the ‘go’. Some days after work, I walked to his hotel. With my colourful polyester clothes, bell bottoms, skinny t-shirts, seventies bag, long hair and no facial hair, Brian’s friends from the hotel mistook me for a girl. Perhaps, I had unwittingly challenged gender stereotyping back in the seventies.
Intermediary for letters to Dubai
Brian left for Dubai a year later to work at Dubai at Inter-Continental Hotel. Our mutual friend, Edward, kept in touch with Brian by mail. Edward wrote letters to Brian and gave them to me with the money for postage. I bought stamps and envelopes and posted them to Brian in Dubai.
I was getting bored at my job at OTS. Going overseas was an aspiration of the daring kind. Some of my more ambitious friends from my hometown were leaving for Europe, mainly England, Germany and France.
Edward gave me another open letter to post to Brian. On the spur of the moment, I wrote a short note to Brian. Edward had already paid for the postage. I inserted my note and posted the letter, a freebie.
Surprise job offer
A few weeks later, I walked into my office on a typical workday. To my surprise, in my name, a telegram had arrived from Dubai, offering a job at the Inter-Continental hotel. Everyone was talking to me, this gangbuster fellow who had managed to secure an overseas assignment. I became the talk of the town at my workplace for snaring an overseas job with almost no effort. One of my early lessons in the power of ‘networking’.
I left work and came home determined to take up the job offer. I was young and had nothing to lose: no financial pressure or fear. I was going to give it a good ‘go’.
My parents supported my wish and offered help.
Passport and bond release
The biggest obstacle was that I needed a passport. The hotel requested my passport details to issue the visa and send me an air ticket. So I had to figure out a way to get a passport double quick.
On top of that, I was on an employment bond with the government of Sri Lanka. Either work for five years or pay 5,000 Rupees (USD 720 at the rate then) to break the contract. The bond was the cost of my apprenticeship two years ago. The bond amount was equal to about 18 months of my Sri Lankan pay, a considerable sum of money at the time.
My father generously offered to pay the bond on my behalf. One problem was solved. The next challenge was to get a passport quickly in a country saddled with bureaucracy.
To get a passport in socialist Sri Lanka, one had to surrender their rice ration book and get a certificate from the government’s village representative. That certificate, coupled with a financial guarantee from someone with an annual income of Rupees 10,000 (USD 1440 at the rate then), was required.
Let me explain what the rice ration book was. The government issued one to every citizen to ensure that they had enough grain for sustenance. The staple diet, rice, was sold only at government outlets at subsidised prices. Everyone was issued two kilos of rice a month on the production of the rice ration book. It was a highly valued document in a decade when widespread starvation and deaths in some parts of the world.
I had to get a passport within ten days; Surrendering the coveted rice ration book was easy.
The guarantor became an issue. My father’s annual salary did not exceed 10,000 Rupees. So I was looking for a financial sponsor who could sign my passport bond.
Uncle Theo was a friend of my father, and he and I travelled together sometimes on the bus to work. His son, Preethi, was my friend. Theo was the Assistant Postmaster General in the Sri Lanka Postal authority, one of the highest-paid government officials in my home village. After hearing my dilemma, he offered to sign my bond.
I resigned from my job. I got my passport within ten days with Uncle Theo's backing, a record. I obtained the yellow immunisation card, a prerequisite to travel by getting vaccinations against Hepatitis A and Malaria. A harrowing event with hardened needles back in the day.
The hullabaloo continued in my workplace, where one of its rebellious and notorious youngsters was chucking a coveted job, daring the established norms. I had no regrets and instead imagined my new life in Dubai. I should be OK with the company of Brian, my friend from my hooch days. The world was going to be my oyster. It is OK to be naive and stupidly young.
Leaving Sri Lanka
It was easy for me to get my packing gear organised and get ready to travel. I had lived away from home for four years as a teenager in boarding schools, so this was not a big deal.
As I was readying to leave Sri Lanka, a bit of perspective on leaving a country in the seventies is relevant. Then, there were no frequent phone calls, internet, social media or quick messages. The world has become small due to cheap flights and accessible technologies. Unlike today, the parting then felt much more profound.
Edward gave me a ten-dollar bill, a tip he had received from a guest at the hotel where he worked. I folded the note and hid it in my bag. It was illegal to leave socialist Sri Lanka with foreign currency.
The night before my flight, my mother came to my bedside and poured her anguish about letting go of her eldest son. She touched my head and recalled the events of my childhood. Then, with tears streaming, she said she would miss her firstborn terribly.
All my family members, friends and relatives came to bid farewell to the airport. I was the first on both sides of the family to leave Sri Lanka.
I was stoked about my new adventure. I was in seventh heaven.
Somebody has to spoil the party. So Uncle Artie, my father’s cousin who arrived in his car to drop me off, said to my father with a pompous loud voice for everyone to hear.
“Big brother, you raised a son. Now he is leaving you without any thought for you”.
Everyone who came to bid me farewell heard it. With that stupid statement, uncle Artie ridiculed me for leaving. He put down my father for letting go of his son.
I hated him badly for saying that. That was the last thing my parents had to hear.
Fortunately, my father was beyond this type of small-time thinking. His love and support were unconditional. So I figured it from how he held me tightly and kissed both cheeks as I bid him farewell at the airport. I must have broken my father’s heart, although he did not show it. My mother’s eyes were red with tears when she hugged me and touched my forehead.
On 20th April 1977, wearing my only suit and tie, I must have looked pretty young. At the airport, security asked whether I was going to study overseas. Nevertheless, I quickly navigated airport logistics, helped by my domestic flight experiences. The flight took off at 10:35 pm on time. I was on my first international flight, flying into Dubai on Singapore Airlines, SQ707. With just $10, that too concealed in a back pocket.
Some three and a half hours later, in Dubai, I could see my friend Brian looking over from the arrival lounge in the early morning hours the next day. It was great to see him again with his beaming smile.
I joined Brian after clearing immigration at Dubai airport, after jostling with kandura-wearing Emirati Arabs. Brian escorted me to the hotel’s private bus and took off to the hotel quarters.
My experiences in Dubai Inter-Continental Hotel are a story for another day.
On reflection, my parents selflessly let me go to live out my dreams. They taught me that your children are not yours to hold on to. You get them for a limited time to nurture and nourish. Then you unleash them into the world. You don’t own them. You prepare them to live their lives.
My father was 50 years old, and my mother was 42 when I left Sri Lanka. When they set me free, unleashed onto the wide world.
Where are my characters today:
Brian and I have been lifelong friends; after a career spanning nearly 45 years in the hotel industry in the Middle East, he has retired to Sri Lanka. He is still on the ‘go’.
Errol, Brian's more relaxed version and elder, also lives in Sri Lanka.
My friends Edward and his elder brother Cyril live in Sri Lanka in retirement. They did short working stints in Germany in the seventies.
Brian’s friend, Naushad, has disappeared from the scene. I was impressed with his Asian looks (he was of Javanese origin) and his fascination for Bruce Lee and Kung Fu.
Uncle Theo passed away at age 58, eight years after he signed my bond. His son and my friend, Preethi, also passed away due to the after-effects of being in a bomb blast in Iraq, where he worked. I keep in touch with some of Uncle Theo’s children. Uncle Theo voluntarily signed up to guarantee me a significant sum in Sri Lanka. The Sri Lankan government could have asked him to pay up if I got stranded in some parts of the world. I must have impressed him as a youngster for him to trust my ability to fend for myself.
Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe.
Images belong to the original owners.
