A night at the races

The crowd begins to roar. Louder and louder, the whole stand expands with exultation and expectation, and then, a collective groan. The mob deflates into a drawn out gurgle of dissapointment. The Australian trained outsider finished outside of the placings, the favourite from the UAE is still wallowing amongst the mediocrity. Behind me an old Chinese man with a neatly buttoned shirt but glasses askew tares his slip in disgust. Someone squeezes past me clutching a polystyrene box, the smell of kebab rising in the beer froth bubbles of air. From the balcony I can see a young banker/investment/suit-wearer, straight out of Fulham, holding forth with two gorgeous South African blondes. If I haven't laboured the point enough already, Hong Kong is international and this is where its inhabitants collide. 

The races have endured since the 19th century and was one of the few places where British and European merchants would share the same space as the local Hong Kongnese residents (beside brothels and opium dens). It's longevity is a testament to how significant these brief moments of mutual pleasure were. The density of the city creates an intensity that has metamorphosed from narrow wooden streets to shiny glass skyscrapers which lean precariously on every river bank and hill. Yet rampant commercialism remains at the core of the city and its success. On the whole Hong Kong has been a triumph, like anywhere of immense prosperity there remains inequality. However, with increasing rapidity locals are rising to purchase their own companies and property. The recent student-led demonstrations have protested against China and its monopolying tendencies exerting too much influence.  Both the magnet for migration and the reason for its success has derived from this attitude to the great mercantile tradition. Different nations and cultures collect together such as the large population of Sunni's who live around the large Mosque just north of Kowloon bay. The issue of cultural identity which seems to cause such political strife in the West seems almost absent. This must be in part because each community must interact to survive in such a competitive atmosphere and so all supposed relative cultural values are secondary to market forces. 

What the Wednesday nights in Hong Kong reveal is the secret to how we can all get on in a globalised economy. It's not a newly found appreciation of other cultures which although, obviously desirable, has not been the view of much of the West's electorates. Instead we should celebrate our shared vices. If dancing is our universal language than its drinking which is our conversation. Even more puritanical attitudes have been quick to profit from drunken appetites. As I queued for my one winner it struck me that the only thing I shared in common with the other pushing punters was the Tsindao in my hand and that reckless fleeting elation of  triumphing over the odds. In that joyous crowd we were all reduced to our most basic human element and we are not always virtuous but if we can console ourselves in our shared failings, we can cultivate our shared aspirations. 

What did the Spanish ever do for us?

Escaping from the scorching midday sun, I scuttle to the shade of nearby building. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I can make out a black drape hanging mournfully. I am in Baler town museum, a town in Luzon,  the most northerly island in the Philippines and this black cloth is the greatest prize of the museum apart from the air conditioning. I near it and it becomes recognisable, a monks habit. It's coarse, thick and heavy and would be unbearable in the heat but these were worn by perspiring Spanish Fransiscans from soon after Margellan's 'discovery' in 1521 till independence in 1898. Throughout the Philippines there seems little evidence of Spanish presence, a colonial house in Manila here, an imitation of Spanish pork casserole there but not much. One of the few enduring remnants is a significant one, Christianity. Churches are everywhere, some are even bigger than the cock fighting arenas and spontaneous genuflections swat the rampant mosquitoes away. The colonial era is not reflected on with great fondness by Filipinos which begs the question: why keep the religion of the oppressors? 

I think this question can be answered in part by this rather neglected local museum. Some amateur historian has with meticulous care compiled an impressive section devoted to the work of missionaries in Baler using their own personal diaries. Like all good local historians he has been utterly impartial and rigorously non-partisan in his judgements. The missionaries are arrogant and exploitive, Friar de Santa Rosa, in a fit of passion, writes "the devil has his throne here ... they are murderers like none other"! Admittedly, the friar was referring to the tribes of the highlands above the town, who well into the 18th century still demonstrated strength by the number of heads they had decapitated. In these same hills a local statue is displayed on Emita Hill which commemorates brave Philippine families who escaped a tsunami in 1735. The recount from one of the friars to officials in the capital tell a remarkably different tale to the local patriotic myth. Rather than one giant wave it seems that heavy rainfall caused mass flooding and landslides. Converts rushed to the church where they were protected by the monks. When the church was collapsing the monks shepherded the flock to safety above the town, probably the same hills. At the end of the letter the concerned friar asks for the people of Baler to be exempted from the Real Tax, which was granted for life. 

Within sixteen years from the first conversion in Baler the pious had trusted their lives to the Fransiscans and this relationship of cooperation seems to have lasted until its bloody denouement. Besides some hasty notes of baptisms performed (the monks never seem to remember their new Christian names) there is limited statistics for conversion success rates. Regardless of spiritual contributions, the Fransiscans provided vital medical services tendering to the sick and dying. More unexpected was that the normally gentle and peaceful order oversaw the defence of the Filipino people not from rampant conquistadors but Philippino pirates selling their own people into slavery. The powerful watchtowers which guarded the shore was in decline by the time of the Japanese invasion (1942). There is a particularly lurid painting on the upstairs floor of the museum depicting a brutal beheading of a missionary by a revolutionary. It might be expected that like Spanish rule, the missionaries proselytism became aggressive or tyrannical for such a breakdown in relations to occur. Yet it seems that the missionaries and the religious community in general were instrumental in setting up free basic education. By 1876 over half the boys were literate and at the girls school 40% could too. So it's clear that the missionary community were still making a positive contribution. The tragedy is that the men who were slaughtered by the revolutionaries were simply caught up in the violence and were failed to be protected. Men who had travelled across the world and in a hostile climate devoted their lives in total isolation to spread the word of God were massacred and their efforts burned with them. They should be remembered. 

In part they have been memorialised in film because Baler was so isolated that the Spanish troops maintained a siege for nearly a year refusing to believe they had surrendered. There is a really enjoyable series on Netflix made by a Spanish director called '1898, Our last men in the Philippines' and a Filipino film entitled 'Baler' which I have not watched but can guess how it will portray the missionaries. The black habit looks limp and tragic on its plinth, which contrasts with the pride and inspiration all of humanity should feel when confronted with such conviction and sacrifice.