Opium

by Martin Booth

  Whilst mainland China was going through civil wars, uprisings, famines, social and political renaissance, Hong Kong went about things in its own way.

  The news of the reforms promoted by the 1906 Liberal government back in London had created some dismay. The opium monopoly revenue made up a substantial part of local tax income.

  It was reckoned that up to a third of the Hong Kong Chinese population used opium on a fairly frequent basis, although nothing like all of them were addicted. A Chinese merchant, Ho Su-cho, summed up the state of affairs:

  Many use it occasionally, but are not addicted to the habit; they can use it or not, as they choose. Most Chinese who use opium do so for pleasure, just as other people smoke cigars or cigarettes. When a visitor calls at a place he is offered opium to smoke. Apparatus for smoking is kept in most places of business, so that when a customer comes he may be entertained by being offered a smoke of opium … The effect is bad in all cases. The moral effect, however, is not so degrading in the case of the rich or well-to-do as it is in the case of the poor. This is due to the fact that the rich man has the means with which to buy the opium he wishes, whereas the poor man is often compelled to resort to theft and other dishonest methods in obtaining the money with which to buy the drug … Formerly a shop for the smoking of opium was considered disgraceful; but now in most homes and places of business as well as in the public shops apparatus for smoking the drug is kept, in order that visitors and friends may be entertained. The use of opium has become more respectable and as a result has increased.

  In May 1908, another motion was put before the British House of Commons. It suggested steps be taken ‘to bring to a speedy close the system of licensing opium dens now prevailing in some of our Crown Colonies, more particularly Hong-Kong, the Straits Settlements and Ceylon.’ It was carried unanimously and the Secretary of State for the Colonies declared the opium divans of Hong Kong were to be shut.

  In the colony, this pronouncement was met with angry indignation. The Governor, Sir Frederick Lugard, worried at the potential loss of tax revenue, claimed matters were under control and assured his political masters in London that opium dens were not as bad as they were made out. ‘They were,’ he said, ‘places where the tired coolie may rest and enjoy a little opium, or where friends of the better classes may meet and discuss affairs. Such places contrast strongly with a public house, in that they are quiet and orderly. Women and children are absolutely excluded.’ Nevertheless, all the dens were closed during 1909 and 1910, the operating of one becoming an offence. However, the purchase and consumption of opium was still not illegal and it continued to be supplied by the monopoly holder.

  In 1914, the monopoly system was closed once again, the opium concession now being held by the government which prepared smoking opium in its own factory, retailing the product throughout the colony. The vicinity of the factory soon became a mecca for poor coolies who sniffed at the steam coming from the waste-pipes in the hope of getting a free sample.

  Opium was sold through a system of licensed offices, the price being fixed by the government. However, Hong Kong’s main raison d’être having always been to turn a dollar, the government actually paid licensees a commission to promote sales where demand fell short of projections. In the first ten months, the scheme brought in HK$3.5 million, peaking in 1918 at HK$8 million or 46.5 per cent of government revenue. Just in case reformers should get wind of this, however, the income was disguised in the accounts as ‘Licences and Internal Revenue not otherwise specified.’

  It was another thirty-two years before opium was made illegal in Hong Kong.

  Although illegal, opium dens continued to exist openly for the maximum penalty for operating one was a fine of only HK$500. Colonial pragmatists and realists knew they could not simply do away with opium overnight. Addiction, as well as moneyed interests, precluded it. Even under the Dangerous Drugs Ordinance of 1923, opium was fairly safe. The only serious offence concerned the counterfeiting of government opium labels and wrappers, by which tax might be avoided.

  The number of Hong Kong opium users was little changed from the figure estimated seventeen years before and was not expected to drop until full prohibition was introduced. The status quo remained until 1932 when the Opium Ordinance allowed the police new and increased powers of search which led to a resolve to close down all the dens. Most were shut, although a number continued to operate illegally, but as opium possession and use remained legal, provided supplies came from a licensed source, the closure of the dens had little impact on opium consumption.

  By 1935, there were some seventy retail shops selling opium under licence at HK$14.50 a tael. This price was out of the reach of the ordinary coolie, whose daily wage was in the region of 50 cents, so a black market quickly developed in which opium cost about HK$3.50 a tael. The source of most of this cheap opium was China, with a small amount being either pilfered from government stocks or smuggled from Persia.

  For the poor user, illegal dens were the only alternative they had to smoking up an alley: as most coolies who did not live on the streets resided in crowded boarding houses, sleeping in common beds on a rota, dens with an individual kang on which to lie must have seemed luxurious indeed. In fact, they were seedy, squalid places, often little more than cubicles in run-down tenements. It was officially estimated Hong Kong had about 2500 illegal divans in 1935, each catering for about 40 smokers a day. The police often raided these dens but did not necessarily close them down, the Chinese constables and some of their European superiors often using the raids as an excuse to collect protection money from proprietors.

  Despite its traditional popularity, opium use was beginning to wane. The fashion was shifting to Shanghai heroin which was obtained mostly as pink pills for smoking. The escalation of heroin can be judged from Hong Kong police statistics: in 1931, 5000 pills were seized but by 1933, the haul had risen to 500,000 per annum. In 1937, the Hong Kong water (now marine) police made their first seizures of heroin. The defendants were arrested, bailed then – predictably – vanished.

  Severe punishments were meted out for heroin possession, including long prison sentences. At the same time, operating an opium den was still only liable to a fine. The hard line taken against heroin was caused by two factors: first was the recognition that heroin was far more dangerous than opium, and second, it was feared heroin, being illegal and therefore untaxed, was more than likely to undermine the revenue potential of opium.

  All attempts to halt smuggling and, therefore, to protect the revenue base were ineffective. Hong Kong harbour allowed unrestricted access by sea and the land border was open. Poverty and civil strife in China gave an added incentive to smuggling. Opium was run into Hong Kong mostly by ocean-going junks which traded along the China coast. Each could carry several tonnes of cargo, a small percentage of opium easily out-valuing the rest of the load. The Hong Kong coastline – of little sheltered bays and fishing hamlets full of compliant locals for whom piracy had been a pastime for centuries – provided ample cover. It also gave shelter from customs officers who frequently followed their police colleagues’ example and either colluded with smugglers or charged them protection money. Officially, the colonial administration did not recognise the corruption in its ranks. It blamed the apathetic, indifferent attitude of the local Chinese for opium addiction and accused them of not wanting to assist the police.

  As an entrepôt port, Hong Kong had a very important place on intercontinental steamship routes. This, in turn, made it an ideal centre for international traffic in drugs which, by the time a report on the subject was published in 1936, was well organised, well financed and wide-reaching. What was more, the colonial government had neither the manpower, expertise nor funds to fight it. On the other hand, the financial report for the year 1938/9 recorded a steady increase in government opium sales.

  Addiction patterns were changing. The older addicts were mostly habituated to opium but the younger were trapped by heroin. The report of 1936 concluded
Hong Kong (just the island itself, excluding the crowded peninsula of Kowloon and the 200 or so miles of the rural New Territories) contained over 40,000 opium addicts and 24,000 heroin pill addicts. Many were female, with over 90 per cent of the prostitutes addicted or frequent users. Addicts amongst the coolie population were malnourished and in poor health and, although some were admitted to hospital for treatment, most of them lived, smoked, dreamed and died on the streets. What was more, Europeans still frequently smoked opium at Chinese banquets, as guests of Chinese businessmen or while doing business with a Chinese firm. However, very few indeed were actually addicted.

  The sight of opium addicts in the streets of Hong Kong was a commonplace which most Chinese ignored but which even long-term expatriate residents could seldom see without a shudder of sympathy. In the 1930s, it was possible to see into dens when passing by outside, the addicts lying on shelf-like bunks or k’angs. They were invariably skeletal, sorry wrecks of human beings who, under the effects of their pipe, were suddenly active, returning to their usual manual labour with a vigour which soon wore off requiring them to take another pipe to keep going.

  During the Second World War, Hong Kong was occupied by the Japanese who, at first, imported opium into the colony with the intention of demoralising the Chinese: they had no need to for disease, starvation and Japanese cruelty were sufficient not only to demoralise and kill large numbers but to cause many hundreds of thousands to flee into China. As the war progressed, and Japan came under increasing pressure from Allied forces, supply lines were disrupted, with first opium imports and then stockpiles being depleted. In the occupied territory, many thousands of addicts died from withdrawal, insane or broken, but a good number survived through to non-addiction.

  When the Japanese surrendered Hong Kong in September 1945, the colonial government, most members of which had been incarcerated in a prisoner-of-war camp on Hong Kong island, did not immediately take over the running of the colony. An interim administration was set up under the British Commander-in-Chief. He issued a proclamation which abolished the opium monopoly thereby preventing any possible revenue being derived from it. Quite possibly, had there been a civilian administration in place, they might have argued against or even prevented this move. The police were made responsible for the closing of all opium dens and suppressing any opium dealing whatsoever. Needless to say, an illegal trade quickly appeared and began to thrive.

  Yet, for the first time since Hong Kong was ceded to the British, opium was illegal there and was, at last, banned by every facet of British government, at home and abroad. The pernicious legitimate trade was finally over.

  9

  Coolies and Conferences

  With the Far East and especially China steeped in foreign opium for the better part of two centuries, it was perhaps inevitable, in due course, the tables would start to turn. When this revenge began there was a certain ironic justice about it for it involved, once more, an exploitation of the Chinese.

  From around the middle of the nineteenth century, large numbers of Chinese – particularly men – started to emigrate. There were two main reasons for this migration. First, conditions in China were intolerable for the average peasant. Landlords were grasping, the Ch’ing emperors imposed crippling taxes which were ruthlessly collected, starvation was rife due to a combination of poor administration and natural causes and the nation was torn apart by the Taiping Rebellion. Second, there was simultaneously a massive international demand for labour. Across the world, roads and railways were under construction, mining was booming and vast areas of previously untouched continents were coming under the plough. From time to time, gold rushes added an extra incentive to migrants throughout the world.

  Millions of Chinese peasant labourers – coolies – emigrated with the dream of striking it rich overseas, sending money home to support their extended families or, having made good, bringing their families to their new home.

  The first immigrants headed into South-east Asia, to the tin mines and rubber plantations of the Malay peninsula. An indication of this migration can be seen in population figures: by 1910, the first reliable census, there were recorded 60,000 Chinese living in Rangoon, 120,000 in Saigon and 200,000 in Bangkok. In Singapore, they were the racial majority. Such large immigrant numbers brought about a high demand for opium: in Singapore in 1881, a third of the adult Chinese population was addicted – this was a higher addiction than in China. To try and regulate supply and use it as a source of tax revenue, every South-east Asian country and colony had a state opium monopoly in place by 1900, state-licensed opium dens being commonplace: opium taxes substantially increased government incomes and significantly encouraged economic development.

  Most coolies came from the southern, coastal provinces of China, especially Fukien, Kwangtung and the area around Canton which had long been associated with the opium trade. Just as in the 1820s, when coolies were exported to the tea plantations of Assam, large numbers of men were shipped out through Hong Kong, Macau and other ports such as Amoy. They were, from the very start, exploited by Chinese coolie shipping agents and ships’ captains – over a third of whom were Americans – then abused and treated atrociously by their employers. The trade in these unfortunate souls was known colloquially as the ‘Pig Trade’: the ‘Poison Trade’ was slang for the opium business. Crowded into corrals like slaves they were, as the British Consul in Canton observed in 1852, frequently painted with letters such as P, C or S meaning Peru, California or the Sandwich Islands.

  Whilst some were convicts on release or kidnap victims (we still use the contemporary expression, ‘shanghaied’), over 95 per cent were indentured workers who, having had $50 paid for their sea passage on their behalf by would-be employers who regarded it as a loan against future income, were offered a wage they never saw for their loan and deductions for living expenses exceeded their earnings. Their travelling conditions were grim but because money had changed hands they were not legally slaves so no action could be taken against their shippers. Many died en route: one British-owned vessel, the John Calvin, lost 50 per cent of its passengers whilst American ships were often known to have 40 per cent mortality rates. Some attempt was made by Britain to regulate this human trade with the Chinese Passengers Act (1855) but this resulted in the trade merely shifting away from Hong Kong.

  Women were sometimes part of ‘Pig Trade’ cargoes. Under Chinese law females could not emigrate but coolie employers overseas wanted women: the aim was to make their indentured coolies settle in their new countries, thus alleviating the need to import more. The women were mostly either kidnapped or purchased under a Chinese system, known as mui tsai, which allowed for the sale of young girls as servants or concubines-in-training. This aspect of the trade was invidious: in 1855, the British vessel, Inglewood, hove to off Amoy with a cargo of female children all under the age of eight. The crew, disgusted at what comprised their cargo, reported it to the British consul who arranged for the children to be returned home.

  Once abroad, many of the Chinese lived oppressed, miserable lives with only one familiar means of release – opium smoking. Not only did opium relieve the physical pain of labouring, it suppressed sexual desire in predominantly male immigrant work environments and the mental pain of homesickness: opium has the ability to make anywhere seem familiar so, for the coolie in a strange land, his nostalgia for China could be dulled by a pipe.

  Many coolies, of course, were not addicted or even frequent users: indeed, a good number only took to smoking once they arrived at their destinations. In some instances, opium was even cited as an incentive to emigrate because it was legal in many places outside China whilst employers were reluctant to stamp out opium smoking for they feared without it they might suffer a labour shortage. This was certainly true in the Malay peninsula, where workers were housed in primitive conditions, suffered terrible physical labour and were exposed to a variety of tropical diseases: opium kept the work-force going. It must be said, however, the Chinese migrants did no
t introduce opium to South-east Asia for it was already used by Indians and Malays along with cannabis: it was just that the Chinese greatly enlarged the propensity towards it.

  The main initial thrust of international emigration outside Southeast Asia was to Australia, the USA (particularly California) and Canada and later, further afield to South America with, later still, South Africa. With the coolies came Chinese traders who serviced the expatriate communities with everything from rice and joss-sticks to prostitutes and opium. It was not long before opium smoking spread to sections of the non-Chinese population wherever they settled.

  By 1870, there were 50,000 Chinese working as miners and general labourers in Australia, with predominantly male Chinese communities established in the Lower George Street area of Sydney and the Little Bourke Street precinct of Melbourne. Opium smoking and dens were common. The lack of females encouraged poor white women to move into the Chinese milieu where they worked as servants, prostitutes and even married Chinese men which set white society against the Orientals and their fallen women who were deemed to be corrupted by opium. Anti-Chinese racial attitudes were the norm and when, in 1888, a ship called the Afghan arrived in Port Melbourne with 250 Chinese immigrants aboard, a mass picket of the docks prevented them disembarking.

  Opium imports into Australia indicate the size of the smoking habit: in 1890, 17,684 pounds were landed of which only 400 pounds were for medicinal use. Fines for smoking or operating a den were lenient. The problem was to enter the political agenda in April 1890, when it was discovered there were 700 European smokers in Victoria alone. A concerted anti-opium – which meant racially inspired anti-Chinese – movement sprang up. A passage from the story ‘Mr & Mrs Sin Fat’, published in 1888 by the Australian writer Edward Dyson, sums up the prevalent attitude: