Opium (27 page)

Over 50 per cent of Big-eared Tu's heroin was exported to France through official channels. The police force in the French concession was administered from Vietnam, then French Indo-China. The captain of police, Étienne Fiori, was a Corsican and a representative of the Union Corse, the Corsican equivalent of the Sicilian Mafia. With French Consul-General Koechlin, he was beholden to Big-eared Tu who paid both the diplomat and the police captain hefty bribes in addition to providing them with concubines. On Tu's behalf, Fiori assisted in setting up his distribution route to France. Heroin, manufactured by Tu in Shanghai, was shipped to Paris via Hanoi, Saigon and Marseilles. Tu paid a substantial part of his profits to key civil servants and politicians in France to ensure the French government kept its inquisitive nose out of Shanghai.

This protection did not last long, despite Tu increasing his Parisian bribe level and sending as his undercover emissary Mme Wellington Koo, wife of China's representative at the Treaty of Versailles negotiations. The French government was not for turning. Fiori and Koechlin had let down and possibly double-crossed Tu. In 1933, both were poisoned at a farewell banquet before retiring to France. Koechlin died in extreme pain (along with a few other misfortunates who shared his serving dish) whilst Fiori was ill for months, his health broken.

The Farmers Bank of China, colloquially known amongst expatriate Europeans as the Opium Farmers' Bank, was inaugurated in the same year. Chiang Kai-shek was closely involved in it and used it for his private banking transactions. A conduit for heroin and opium revenue, it issued its own currency notes, Chiang increasing the print run when his funds ran low. The reserves were never audited nor the books opened for inspection.

Perhaps the greatest public irony of all was Chiang Kai-shek's fiftieth birthday present from Big-eared Tu. For several years, aware China needed to be strong to defend itself (and his way of life), Tu had spent millions of dollars purchasing American fighter aircraft to build up the air force. On an auspicious day in 1936, Tu presented Chiang Kai-shek with an aircraft bearing the name
Opium Suppression of Shanghai
on its nose. The hypocrisy and arrogance of the two men were staggering. A poetical expatriate witticism of the time went:

A way at last has now been found

To get opium suppression off the ground.

By the end of the 1930s, it was estimated 10 per cent of the Chinese nation (about 40 million people) were opium addicts, the Japanese occupation during the Sino-Japanese and Second World Wars not significantly reducing the figures: it was in Japan's interest to keep as many Chinese as possible habituated. In Shanghai, even after the privations of the latter conflict, opium was readily available to all levels of society. Opium poppy growing at the time was still so common as to be found in the suburbs of Canton. Domestic production and importation continued unabated until 1949 when, after four years of bitter civil war, the Kuomintang army was defeated by the Communists.

Within months of assuming control, in February 1950, the Communist government State Administrative Council banned poppy growing, the production, importation and sale of opium and all narcotics. Only a required quantity of licit medicinal opium was produced under rigorous control.

This ban was comparatively easily conducted for China went through massive land reforms. Landlords were displaced (or beheaded), the peasants put in control of agricultural production, communes established and cash crops replaced by food. Communist oratory, a vital aspect of mass ideological education, attacked opium and poppy growing as an imperialist plot which, in a sense, it was. Local cadres, responsible for the presentation of political theory at grass-roots level, were not only able to preach the anti-opium creed: they were also able to pinpoint local opium vendors, addicts and poppy growers.

Opium stocks were publicly burned, divans were destroyed, dealers were either killed or sent for ‘political re-education' in labour camps. Poppy fields were burnt and ploughed. Pipes were publicly destroyed. Opium taking was listed officially as unhealthy, anti-social, anti-socialist and a capitalist activity. Addicts were not condemned for their vice but offered medical help and rehabilitation centres were set up. Those who were antagonistic towards treatment were sent to labour camps whilst those who re-addicted or were intransigent were paraded before the public as criminals and imprisoned.

Between 1949 and 1953, the addict population dramatically shrank. By 1960, China was virtually free of drug addiction. Anyone dealing in opium was summarily executed, often without the inconvenience and expense of a trial. In 1971, China produced exactly 100 tonnes of raw opium, precisely its medicinal requirement.

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.