The art of thinking on your feet:

Mississippi Hippy meets Olu Pippi 

Gaston De Rosayro

Some people are so sharp they can really think on their feet. I too usually think better on my feet. Besides, it makes it easier for spectacular theatrical exit lines.

And never mind the slanderous minority who claim I favour the vertical position because I usually sit on my brains. My friend Sepala, a Sri Lankan jeweller is a master of the art. His family has been in the gee-gaw business for three generations. Their establishment in Hong Kong is one of the most trusted names in the region. As an experienced jeweller he never underestimates a potential client by the mode of his attire. From the 1960s and well into the mid 1970s the Hippies were a common sight in every Asian capital. 

So Sepala greeted a bohemian who entered his showroom with all the due respect he would have displayed towards any potential customer. The beatnik sauntered in and said: “Peace be with you, pardner. I’m Mick, a Hippy from Mississippi!” Sepala knew the man was British because of his rather low-class English accent. Never at a loss for one-liners, he gestured an expansive welcome and quipped: “I’m Seppy from Olu Pippy.” The Hippy shot back: “Hi Seppy. But where in tarnation is Olu Pippy?” Sepala looked him in the eye and ad-libbed: “It’s a small village in our land of lotus eaters, in Sri Lanka.”  

The beatnik favoured the unconventional hippy attire. He wore an un-pressed old pair of Levi bell-bottoms, a psychedelic top and leather sandals. He wore his hair long, had an unkempt beard. His neck was festooned with strands of love beads. Sepala was in essence, a discriminating observer. His occupation had necessitated such sharp-eyed perception of his customers. He was seldom wrong. He had discerned that despite the nonconformist apparel the man was no ordinary peacenik, in the real sense. His powers of discernment had been honed by years of experience as a self-educated student of  human psychology. He observed that the man’s outfit although bohemian was clean and his leather sandals were expensive. There was that aura of confidence and bearing about him that spelled big bucks. 

So the bohemian gazing at the glittering showcases asked Sepala whether he could purchase a single diamond earring. “Sorry sir,” said Sepala, “they come in pairs and we only sell them as sets”. Anyway realizing that there just might be a misplaced single earring somewhere, he told the customer he would ask the boss. He walked into the office at the back of the shop and told his father: “Some darn idiot wants to buy a single diamond earring.” Just as he finished the sentence, he turned to find the customer standing right behind him.

Without batting an eyelash he continued: “And this gentleman here has kindly offered to buy the other one.” The hippie’s eyes twinkled as he moved back into the showroom. He eased himself comfortably into a chair and quipped: “The idiot you spoke of will be back. He’s probably on his way now I’ll wait.” He was spot on. A few minutes later his partner, another Hippy walked into the shop. “The idiot is here he said. This cat’s my partner.” Hippy men were referred to as Hipcats and the women as Chicks.

The hippies it later turned out were celebrity rock stars. They were Brian Jones and Mick Taylor of the Rolling Stones, the British musical group who epitomised the Swinging Sixties, along with the biggest and best ensembles of the time such as the Beatles and the Kinks. Seppy sold them two mixed pairs of expensive diamond earrings in four separate fancy boxes.

Then there was my old journalistic colleague Joshua who hailed from the salubrious climes of the village known as Little England in Nuwara Eliya. After all, the climate lent itself to becoming the prime sanctuary of the British civil servants and planters in old Ceylon. It was the hill country retreat where the British colonialists could immerse in their pastimes of deer hunting, rugby, polo, golf and cricket. The complexions of many of the inhabitants of the village were a dead give-away as to their mixed pedigree. Indeed, their skin-textures and facial appearances were testimony to the fact that they were living monuments to the dalliances between local highland matriarchs and their British masters.

Joshua had been thrust with a local moniker but his pallid complexion was a tell-tale sign of his part British ancestry. The legend goes that young Joshua was being interviewed for a job by a very crusty assistant newspaper editor who queried: “Where are from?” He answered without hesitation: “Little England, Nuwara Eliya, sir.”

The interviewer an obvious anglophile stared at him: “I know New Railiya. What made you leave the place?” Joshua replied: “I got tired of the surroundings. There are only twilight women and rugby players over where I come from.”

The old journalist eyed him with suspicion: “Oh, really. My wife is from Nuwara Eliya. Joshua was equally up to it. His answer was one of the most classic, inspired one-liners ever to have been uttered in that hallowed institution: “What a small world, sir. Which rugby team did she play for?