The Gangways Are Up

Home , Hairpin, Yapahuwa

ALL THE GANGWAYS

ARE UP

An expatriate in the Ceylon kaleidoscope

1916 – 1945

VALESCA REIMANN

ALL THE GANGWAYS ARE UP

An expatriate in the Ceylon kaleidoscope

1916 – 1945

VALESCA REIMANN

Abstract and author photo:

see back page.

iii

CONTENTS

Preface vi

Tributes from Trinity ix

Introduction xi

Map xii

1. All the Gangways are Up 1

2. School in Two Days 5

3. The Kaleidoscope 8

4. Anuradhapura 13

5. The Bishop's Visit 16

6. Up-country 18

7. The Little Monsoon 23

8. Negombo 24

9. The Kandy Perahera 27

10. Alankan, Afghans and Anchylostomiasis 30

11. Nawanagalla 33

12. Snake Upsets 37

13. A Mad Dog and Other Scares 39

14. Perumal 41

15. Supernatural Ceylon 42

16. The Rice Famine 43

17. Timitar Estate 45

18. Dambulla and Sigiriya by Bicycle 51

19. Polonnaruwa 56

20. Trincomalee 59

21. An Elephant Kraal 62

22. Caste and Customs 65

23. Meetings with Snakes 68

24. From the Bungalow 70

25. Six Years Later 73

26. Jaffna 75

27. A Jungle Trek 77

28. Two Kinds of Drought 88

29. Yala Game Sanctuary 89

30. Life and Death at School 96

31. The River 98

32. Westminster Abbey 105

33. Yapahuwa and Kala Wewa 110

34. Elephant Pass 114

35. The War Years 115

Appendix 1. “Visiting Adelaide. Miss Valesca Reimann” 131

Appendix 2. Staff Photos Supplied by Trinity College 134

Appendix 3. History of Trinity College, Kandy 135

PREFACE

I first met my aunt Valesca when she visited Brisbane in 1948. I was 11 and she had returned from thirty years teaching the classics, Latin and mathematics at Trinity College, Kandy, in Ceylon. That visit is etched on my memory. We were immediately on the same wave-length and she had a quirky sense of humour.

Now, at the other end of my span, I have inherited all her diaries, her book "A History of Trinity College, Kandy" and the manuscript and photos for another book she wanted to publish on her experiences in Ceylon.

Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) was approaching the end of the British colonial era. Trinity College was founded on Christianity in a largely Buddhist, Hindu and Moslem country. Sinhalese and Tamil cultures added to the mix. The boys at the school were mostly from these cultures. Valesca, from South Australia, navigated her way through this and added travel adventures on the way - ever curious and mostly undaunted.

Valesca says that in March 1915, the Rev A G Fraser, Principal of Trinity College, Kandy, visited Australia under the auspices of the Australian Student Christian Movement. The College had been established by the Church Missionary Society in England in 1872 and was a leading boys' school in Ceylon. It had been increasingly difficult during the war years to obtain suitable men from overseas for special purposes, so while Principal Fraser was in Adelaide he invited her to join the staff as head Classics teacher.

Her appointment was for two years, but this extended to thirty. At the end of every five years, she was given a year's furlough to England. She found the school was run along the lines of an English public school. Many nationalities were represented and boys came from all over Ceylon, India, Burma, Siam, Malaya and even Uganda. The ‘lingua franca’ was English, but gradually with the awakening of national feeling, the national languages, Sinhalese and Tamil, began to take a more prominent place. At first, while Ceylon had only a University College affiliated with London, the main examinations held in the Island were the Cambridge Junior and Senior, London Matriculation and London Intermediate in Arts and Science. Later on the University of Ceylon was established and introduced its own system of examinations. About 50% of the boys were boarders, divided into their respective Houses.

She lived all these years in one or other of the College bungalows. Until she left she remained head teacher of Western Classics, but afterwards these were almost entirely superceded by Eastern languages. She took an active interest in all College activities, helping to edit the College magazine,

took over the Glee Club, acted on committees and latterly even judged some athletic events. In spite of the White Australia Policy, much resented in Ceylon, she was accepted as a full member of the College by the boys and staff. Being female was not considered a handicap. In fact most of the smaller boys called her "Sir”.

Valesca was born in Adelaide in 1888 and died there in 1964. Her grand-parents farmed in Hahndorf in the hills east of Adelaide. They migrated with many others during the first half of the 19th century from Germany, seeking greater Lutheran religious freedom. Her father taught music and founded the College of Music in Adelaide (Australia’s first), later to merge with the Elder Conservatorium of Music. There were six children, the survivors being Valesca, a sister and two brothers. Valesca was educated in Adelaide, achieving a Master of Arts from the University.

I have picked the ‘teeth’ out of the manuscript and diaries and added a selection of her photos. I have tried to keep to her writing style, but with editing by me and some additions (see notes below). Valesca visited Adelaide for a holiday in 1923 and a newspaper article of her impressions of Trinity and Ceylon is transcribed in Appendix 1. Trinity College kindly supplied some tributes and staff photos, which are in the next section "Tributes from Trinity" and Appendix 2. A brief history of the College is in Appendix 3, taken from Valesca's book on the College and other sources.

Peter Reimann Wellington, New Zealand, 2014.

Notes on changes and additions:

Valesca unsuccessfully attempted to publish the manuscript in the early 1960s. My editing takes into account the comments of the publishers' reviewers.

My thanks go to the current Principal, Brigadier W G K Aryaratne for his biographical material and photographs relating to Valesca’s 30 years at the College. I added a little family background above. More on changes and additions are as follows:

. In keeping with the 'kaleidoscope' theme, I have tried to give equal weight to historical, cultural, religious, travel adventure, wildlife, personal and school/educational aspects. Accordingly, some material of cultural/religious interest found in diaries has been inserted and some on visits to places with little accompanying story have been left out, as information can be readily sourced from travel books and the internet. . Her hand-drawn map had yellowed and frayed and the lettering was too small, so I have re-drawn this. A link to Google maps is added. . Many words considered superfluous or extreme were deleted, eg “very” or “terribly” before adverbs, eg “suddenly” before “exploded” and “completely” before “abandoned”. . “specially” changed to “especially”, “till” to “until” and “round” to “around”. . Changes or deletions to avoid over-use of “have” and “had”, eg in “have been”. . A few statements of the obvious deleted, eg “But it had its disadvantages.”

vii

. Many long sentences connected by “and” split into two. . Some long paragraphs split. . The comma before “and” deleted. . Terminology and expressions of the day retained, eg the jungle “infested by wild beasts”, “It was vile”, “verandah”, “snaps” for “photos”. . Spelling of place-names changed to those on current maps where possible, eg "Horabora Wewa" instead of "Sorabora Wewa". . Some chapters have been split and re-named to cover one topic, instead of several, eg one on snakes and others on caste and customs, Jaffna, Perumal (the servant). . Notes on tea production and gems found in diaries added, as chapter end-notes. . Some historical/mythological content transferred to chapter end-notes. . Frequent changes between past and present tense retained (to keep sense of immediacy and because each chapter is headed with a date). . Title changed from "The Isle of Spicy Breezes" to "All the Gangways are Up" to obscurely reflect Valesca's 30 years of adventures (see third paragraph of Preface above).

viii

TRIBUTES FROM TRINITY

By Mr R R Breckenridge in the School Magazine of August 1946

"V. L. O. R.

"TRINITY without Valesca Reimann is one of those voids caused in 1945 by the changes and chances of time. For thirty years she lived and moved in our midst shyly and tentatively at first, as became a newcomer to these shores from far Australia, plunged into a whirl of an athletically- minded boys' school. She had come to teach the Western Classics, having graduated with high honours in Classics and Mathematics. Presently we found that she was devoted to classical music; and then we found she could wield a useful tennis racket, and go on mountain-climbing hikes, and swim in the swift running streams. A dreary wet afternoon found her ready to play chess or take a hand at bridge. And when the theatricals were in season she would play an aunt or a devoted mother. If a sing song were proposed she would be accompanist, and with unswerving charm range from soulful ballads to rousing sea-shanties.

"No wonder that Trinity got used to the presence of a dame teaching the higher forms, and presently found that V.L.O.R. was needed at every turn.

"It is not the intention of this sketch to catalogue her many activities - it would be enough to say that hardly any part of the many-sided life at Trinity was left untouched by her helpful influence. Generations of Old Boys of the school remember with affection their association with her, as they testified at various farewell gatherings held in her honour. We know that she cherishes a deep affection for the School where so many years of her active life were spent; and that her many friends in Lanka would like to say as Alexander Pope said two centuries ago:-

"'I know a thing that's most uncommon; (Envy! be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend!'"

From the School History “Trinity College Kandy – Centenary Number 1872-1972”

“…The next new member of staff came from the University of Adelaide in 1915 and stayed for the next thirty years. She was Miss V. L. O. Reimann who taught Classics in the higher forms and later trained the choir and played the piano in Chapel. She was probably, during that time, the most familiar figure in the school for there was no activity that she ever missed, be it a Society meeting or a house match. She also has to her credit the School History which she wrote up to 1922 for the

Fiftieth Anniversary, a monumental piece of research. After she retired she returned to Australia but the call of Lanka was too much for her and she came out for a short while in 1955.”

From the current Trinity College Principal, Brigadier W G K Aryaratne

“Ms. Valesca Reimann is a legend here at Trinity. There are 9 (nine) scholarships in operation every year named “Valesca Reimann Scholarship” sponsored by the T C K Family Foundation in Australia from the donations given by the Old Boys. A deserving student good in academics and extra- curricular activities is selected by a Committee for admission to Trinity at Grade 6 level every year who will continue his studies up to GCE (Advanced Level) examination and his progress is carefully monitored by the Committee. The scholarship benefit is full school fees.”

INTRODUCTION

For thirty years I was on the staff of a Church Missionary Society school in Kandy, Trinity College, one of the leading boys' colleges in Ceylon. Until the island gained independence in 1947, English was the official language and all the secondary schools used English as the medium of instruction. In European houses the servants could mostly speak and understand English and it was spoken in all the shops and markets. There was little need to learn Sinhalese or Tamil, unless one's work was out in the villages. But although English was used so copiously, it was not always of a very high standard:

Once on a wayside railway station two friends unexpectedly met. "Ah!" said one enthusiastically, "How are you, I hope?" And the other, equally overjoyed, replied: "Of course, no doubt."

Or this: "And how are things going with you?" "Ah, things are very difficult to keep the cat out of the bag."

And too: "How far is it from Pussellawa to Nuwara Eliya?" "Well, as the cock crows, I think it is about 20 miles."

We had a Sinhalese member of the Municipal Council in Kandy, a most efficient man, but without the advantage of higher education. During the last war he became Minister of Health. On one occasion they were considering the shortage of milk in the villages. "We have only one alternative." said the Minister, "We must take the bull by the horns and squeeze out every drop of milk." On another occasion, when he was visiting one of the hospitals, he asked the doctors how supplies of medicines were working out. One doctor said they were faring almost entirely with the use of local anaesthetics. "Splendid," said the Minister, "I am all in favour of supporting home products."

Valesca Reimann Adelaide, 1956

xii

For more details while reading, see Google map at https://www.google.co.nz/maps/@7.8054356,78.7914683,8z, then look for places using 'search' function.

xiii

ALL THE GANGWAYS ARE UP

The R M S "Omrah" left Adelaide Outer Harbour on Christmas Eve, 1915. There were 29 passengers, of whom 27 of us were in second class. The sea was choppy and Christmas was not enjoyable. On the fourth day we reached Fremantle. Then nothing happened. Rumours abounded: we had sprung a leak and would be delayed at least three days, or perhaps three weeks and we would have to go into dry dock. A diver went down. He found that a fire in Sydney had warped one of the plates. There was a hole two and a half inches across. After several attempts, a wooden plug was made to fit.

The poor old "Omrah" was a ramshackle boat and would have been scrapped long ago had it not been for the War. One morning we nearly lost a member of the crew. He was leaning against the railing on the top deck, when it suddenly gave way.

Among the passengers were Town Guard Artillery men, returning to Ceylon after delivering some German prisoners to Sydney. We found them very friendly. Billy made a habit of kissing the young ladies "goodnight". Another passenger had artistic tendencies. He engraved my initials on my travelling clock and on a couple of silver-topped jars.

Hilda was attractive and rather a flirt. She became especially friendly with Bobbie, the Marconi operator and spent many pleasant evenings with him on the top deck. I was invited to act in the capacity of 'gooseberry' [chaperone]. But they quarrelled violently the day before we reached Colombo. Perhaps it was as well, as Bobbie looked far from attractive in plain, civilian clothes when he went ashore.

We arrived at 8.30 p.m. on 7 January, 1916 and it was already dark. This was disappointing, as I had heard so much of the wonder of one's first impressions of the Orient. Jack met me and took me to the Church Missionary Society bungalow on Galle Face, where I was given a huge room off the verandah and told to lock myself in for the night. Before bed-time, Jack took me for a rickshaw ride. The first puller just crawled. He said he was too tired to run. So we hired another who did not

mind running. These rickshaw pullers do not last many years. The strain affects their hearts. Then they usually become dhobies [washer-men/women].

Next morning we went for a tram ride to the Pettah, or native quarters. We travelled first-class on the front seat behind the driver, passing rickshaws and clumsy native carts drawn by stunted bulls, all in a brilliant sunlit medley of coloured costumes, swarthy faces, green lawns, palms and flowers.

There seemed to be a strange aimlessness about the people in the native quarters. They just sat on their doorsteps and lazily watched the world as it passed by. Jack pointed out the various nationalities of the people. Many of the low-country Sinhalese wear a yellow comb stuck in their hair. Moslems, of Moor or Malay descent, wear fez caps or turbans. Pathans from the north-west frontiers of India are tall and well-built. They wear baggy white trousers of material forty feet long, wound around their legs to form trousers. They are hated in Ceylon, being unscrupulous money- lenders. If a man once gets into their clutches, he rarely gets out again. They charge something like 100% interest per month.

For lunch we had a most curious curry. First we helped ourselves to plenty of rice. We added curried meat with gravy, like a thick stew, then several curried vegetables and a very hot mixture of onions, pounded chillies and ground coconut called "Sambal". Finally, over the whole mixture we sprinkled coconut and added some hot chutney and plantain. Luckily I did not take much as I found it very hot and my eyes began to stream.

We caught the afternoon train up to Kandy, also with one of the Sinhalese masters of the College. He had an unpronounceable name of six syllables and fifteen letters. Near Colombo the countryside was full of bogs and swampy ground. In the middle of these were buffaloes covered with wet mud and scantily clad natives standing up to their middle in the water, fishing. At one of the stations we bought plantains, mangoes and golden ‘King’ coconuts. Jack just cut a small hole in the top of the coconut for a refreshing drink.

On either side of the line were terraced rice fields, emerald green and arranged in a picturesque pattern. Each terrace was full of water and separated from the one below by an earth wall a few inches high. Connection by channels allows regulation of the water supply. As soon as the paddy begins to ripen, the water has to be drained. (Every rice plant after sowing has to be replanted by hand, mostly by women. It must be back-breaking).

The scenery along the line was superb - trees with different shades of green and young leaves with an autumn tint. The kapok cotton trees had a mass of scarlet flowers, without leaves. The distant mountains were of peculiar shapes and a lovely misty blue. As we got closer, we could see they were clothed in a tangle of jungle growth. Some of the mountains had bare pinnacles of purple rock. We saw a couple of elephants walking along one of the jungle paths. At several of the villages there seemed to be festivals. There were swarms of villagers in gaily-coloured costumes and a large array of flags of all shapes and sizes, representing many countries, friend and foe alike.

The College Principal met us at Kandy station. We rode up to the college in rickshaws. On the way he pointed out the Roman Catholic Cathedral. I thought the white-washed walls looked rather soiled and neglected. White-wash is much used in Ceylon, with some ornamentation of houses in a sort of Reckitt's blue or lolly-pink. The College buildings too, with their white-wash and peeling paint, did not impress me very much. But there are plenty of windows and doors and they are quite bright and attractive inside.

I am to live with a missionary family in a bungalow on the side of a steep hill in the College compound. The town lies along a valley. In the distance are rounded hills and peaked mountains of fantastic shape. Hantane is four thousand feet high - so sharp it looks dangerous to sit on it. Behind it is a row of precipitous crags. At the back of the bungalow is a dense jungle, kept out by a concrete wall, but there are masses of ferns and creepers close by.

Early on Sunday morning my hostess took me for a walk in Lady Horton's Jungle, so named after the wife of a former Governor. It is full of paths winding in all directions, so fairly safe from snakes. The only wild animals here are a few jackals and families of small brown monkeys, attracted to the jak-fruits, papaws and pineapples. Scattered through the jungle are tiny, muddy lakes and native huts of mud and thatch. Each has its own plantation of coconut, areke-nut, plantain, jak and betel. The natives mix the leaves of the betel-creeper mixed with areke-nut and lime. It fills their mouth with red juice and makes their teeth pink around the gums. There is a great deal of expectorating. As we went around the Pettah in Colombo, all over the footpath were patches of red. At first I thought it was blood and that there had been a great many murders committed recently. The Principal says that betel-chewing is about their only source of lime.

The meals here are strange and numerous. Morning tea at 6.30 a.m. comes with boiled egg, toast, jam, marmalade, bread and butter, tea and plantains. We get plantains for every meal apparently, as they are cheap. They are placed on the table in a great bundle and we just pull them off. At nine o'clock comes cocoa and biscuits. Then at eleven-thirty we have breakfast. My first seems typical for a Sunday. At first we had curried soup, called mallagatannig, from a Tamil word meaning ‘curried water’. A servant brought us rice and lemon to put into it. After that we had scrambled eggs on toast, then meat, potatoes and vegetables. Finally the servant brought us brass finger- bowls, fruit plates, knives and forks, plantains and pawpaw. At three-thirty we have ‘tiffin’ - not really afternoon tea, as we sit down to table. It consists of toast, bread, jam, butter, cake, tea and plantains and an optional sweet. Between five and six there is tea and cake if desired. We dine at 7.30 on soup, fish or meat, potatoes, vegetables, a sweet, plantains and coffee. In Ceylon there is scarcely any fat on the meat and it is usually very tough. The milk too is not very rich. The cows are small and inferior, unless they are imported. In spite of the vast quantities I consume, I seem eternally hungry.

All the legs of the cupboards and tables in the dining room stand in little tins of water to deter the ants. Added oil prevents mosquitoes breeding. If dust collects on the oil, it forms a bridge for the ants.

As I write this, there is a glorious star shining in at my door. It gets dark very quickly here - sunset and then darkness. There are some lights down in the town, but I can scarcely see them, as the College compound is thickly wooded. The fire-flies are darting about in the trees, like tiny flickering candles on a Christmas tree.

SCHOOL IN TWO DAYS (January 1916)

One of the English masters called to make my acquaintance. Then the Principal suggested a walk, so the three of us went. We walked down into the town, through the Buddhist precincts to Asgiriya, where there is a Bo-tree, sprung from the original Bo-tree under which Lord Buddha found enlightenment at Sarnath in India. Every temple Bo-tree is said to spring from the parent tree at Anuradhapura. This grew from a twig brought to Ceylon from India by Mahinda, the missionary son of King Asoka, more than two thousand years ago. The tree is surrounded by a white wall containing niches for the red clay oil lamps, lit at festivals to honour Buddha. Around the tree is a shrine like an alter, for offerings of rice and flowers.

Just beyond this is our College playing field - four or five acres, formed by excavating the slope and filling in the valley to a height of 90 feet. It is a lovely square field, surrounded by flowering trees and a glorious view over distant mountains. There is a pavilion, scoring-box and tennis court. The grass is kept short and smooth and is sacred to the game of cricket. Rugby football has to be played on the town field.

Next we came to a monastery, with a temple and house for the high priest. All the Buddhist priests wear bright yellow robes, dyed from the sap of the jak tree. The chief priest's robe is a little darker. They have only one meal, at noon and spend the mornings visiting houses with a begging bowl. Some of the priests have fine faces, but others seem degenerate and of low mentality. When we passed a priest preaching in the street the people's interest was on us, rather than the sermon. Even the priest stopped for a moment. There are no temple services, as we understand them, but Poya days occur at New Moon and Full Moon. Then people visit the temples and there is preaching called "bannu" and worshippers come with flower offerings.

Last year terrible riots broke out in Kandy and spread to other parts of the Island - Buddhists against Moslems. The Principal told me that a wounded Moslem man ran to a government official's house and asked the official's wife to give him shelter. She refused, fearing attack on herself and the man was killed by the mob. By contrast there was the courage of one of our own teachers, a Burgher of Dutch descent. She saw a man, bleeding, being hunted along the street and called to him to take shelter at her house. She then slammed the door and faced the mob, telling them to come on and that she only had only an aged father and mother in the house and no other protection. The crowd hammered on the door for a while and eventually went away.

At the end of our walk we came to a large paddy field with a village clustered around it in the midst of a thick growth of trees. Each family is allotted a section of the paddy in rotation by the village headman, who lives in a house slightly more pretentious than the others. Each hut, built of mud and thatch, has its own clump of coconut trees. Coconut is exceedingly useful to the villager. The milk makes a refreshing drink. The ripe coconut is split in halves with an axe and left in the sun

to dry for several days. The nut shrinks so is easily removed from the shell. This is copra - usually exported for its oil or desiccation. If 20% of the oil is left in the nut it can be crushed to make poonac (cow's biscuit). To make the milk for curry the cooks grate the nut and then squeeze it by hand in a little water. The sap of the flower is tapped for sweet toddy or fermented into arrack, which is more potent than brandy. Or the sweet toddy can be boiled down to make jaggery sugar. The fibrous husk is used for mats and rope. This is done by soaking it in water for a few weeks until it becomes soft. Then it is beaten and the fibre is easily removed from the shell by hand. It can then be plaited and twisted into coir rope. The leaf is plaited to make cadjans for fencing and roofing and the ekels or ribs are tied together for brooms. Spoons and cups can be made from the shell. The wood of the stem is burned or carved into elephants and other animals and sold to tourists.

On our way home, we walked by the side of a beautiful lake, with high wooded hills on either side. It is artificial, with a wide bund at the town end. It is said to be so cold that nobody has swum across it with impunity and many have drowned. The story goes that King Sri Wickreme Raja Sinha, who made the lake, treated his labourers so cruelly that their ghosts demand at least one drowning every year. All along the banks are palms and rain trees. In the centre is a little palm covered island, all that remains of the built-up causeway which the King used to cross to his favourite bathing place. At night the feathery leaves of the rain trees close and imprison the moisture in the air. Next morning, when the sun warms them, the leaves open and the dew falls like a shower of rain in the breeze.

The Portuguese conquered Ceylon in the sixteenth century. One hundred and fifty years later came the Dutch and finally in 1802 Ceylon became a British possession. There has been intermarriage with the native population in all three periods. Those of Dutch descent are called Burghers and those of English descent Eurasians. The Eurasians are usually the illegitimate offspring of English planters and soldiers. But the Dutch married their Singhalese or semi-Portuguese wives. There is a Dutch-Burgher Union which admits to its membership only those who can trace a pure Dutch descent on their father's side. There is little social intercourse between the pure whites and the Ceylonese - a comprehensive term for all who are born and bred in Ceylon. There is practically no Dutch family here which can claim an absolutely pure European descent. If only one ancestor has Ceylon blood in him, that family is excluded from much social intercourse with the Englishman and cannot be admitted to his club. An Englishman could have a native mistress and illegitimate children and keep them in the background. But if he then marries his mistress, he is ostracised by his fellows. One is not surprised that the 'coloured' person chafes at the attitude of superiority adopted by many of the Europeans.

On the boat I had a heated argument with a man who had spent a few years in India in a minor position. He maintained that coloured people were absolutely inferior to white people in every way and they should be made to feel it. I insisted that they were my equals, except perhaps in opportunity, that the colour of the skin could make no difference if education and moral standards were the same. He insisted that it was missionaries and people like me who did a lot of harm in

India and Ceylon and that we were the real cause of disaffection and outbreaks against the government. Fortunately, his opinion is not shared by many Europeans.

We begin school in two day's time. I have just received my time-table. There are eight periods in the day, but I am to teach only five, with six on Mondays. I shall be taking the Intermediate Arts class in Classics, with Roman and Greek History and a few other classes in Latin and Mathematics. There are more than twenty men on the staff of various races, chiefly Burgher, Tamil and Sinhalese, also four Europeans and about half a dozen women. One Tamil man, after the first staff meeting said he thought I had a "sweet, vacant face". I did not know whether to take this as a compliment or the reverse.

Kandy Lake at dawn

THE KALEIDOSCOPE (February 1916)

No wonder people who come to such countries are spoilt for ever after. Servants do everything, even to the extent of preparing one's bath and emptying it again, or pouring water into the wash basins. I find it a fine life - beautiful meals and plenty of attention.

Labour is very cheap here. The table servant's name is Juanis. He is a Buddhist. Dishes are not placed on the table, but Juanis hands everything around. He does this noiselessly, as he is bare- footed. He is dressed in a white sarong and coat with a coloured head-cloth and girdle. He wears a large yellow comb in his hair, showing that he is a lowlander. Every day after breakfast Juanis goes down to the Town to post letters and buy stamps if we need them.

My room is twelve by fifteen feet, with a cement floor and bathroom in a corner. People say that warm water is essential for foreigners in the tropics, but I find it bracing pouring cold water over myself from a tin. I have a door onto the verandah, the top half barred and wire-netted for coolness with safety. My two windows have iron bars, but no glass. There are plenty of thieves, so the door must be locked at night. The walls are white-washed and there is no wall-paper. I have been warned never to walk about in the dark without a light, as snakes and scorpions often come into the rooms on the ground floor. There are no flies in Kandy, or anywhere in Ceylon, except on the coast. Mosquitoes are bad, but we usually sleep under nets.

Our daily life is full of incidents and to me everything still seems unusual and interesting, even in my ordinary class teaching. It is bound to be so when our classes are made up of boys of so many nationalities and religions.

The boys in the school dress more or less the same, despite the many nationalities and religions. However, there are some differences. For instance, one of the Indian boys in my geometry class wears a sort of white cape all round him below his waist-coat. I found it was his shirt and that it is the normal Indian custom to wear the shirt outside the trousers. Gupta, in my geometry class, is of the merchant class from Bombay. When he dresses for any occasion he looks very fine, with a gorgeous silk scarf wound around his head to form a turban. He has turbans of many different colours. He also has a moustache and long, white, slender pants. Sometimes, Gupta comes to call on the ladies in the compound. Then his turban is especially elaborate. His English is halting and conversation becomes difficult. But finally, he bows and says: "Madam, I beg to take your leave." When he gets up in College debates he usually begins: "Gentlemens and brethrens." Poor Gupta, he hopes to take the London Matriculation, but I fear he will never get there.

At first I was puzzled by the Tamil system of names. I have a boy in my class registered as Thuriappa, but he told me his name was T. Kanagasabapathy and his father's name was Thuriappa. I could not understand why his name was different from his father's, so asked what the "T" stood

for - what was his Christian name? He said he was not a Christian and seemed puzzled when I asked what his people called him. He said the father was Thuriappa so all sons had the initial "T" before their own names - in this case Kanagasabapathy. They speak to us in the third person, for politeness. So, "Does Miss Reimann like it in Ceylon?" they often ask.

As tennis servant we have a little dark boy, Andris, with a very large head. A week ago he had his head shaved, except for a fringe on the front. The shaven head is for coolness and to control the ‘poochies’ (lice). But a fringe has to be kept for luck. A completely shaven head brings ill-luck to the person who sees it first thing in the morning. Andris gets sworn at for forgetting to pick up the balls. I feel it would be quicker to pick them up ourselves, but one is not expected to do this.

The Ceylon people bathe at least once a day. Ablutions are often on the front door-step or at the village well. Each bather pours a definite number of buckets of cold water over himself, the horoscope fixing the number. If he pours fewer he will not be properly clean, if more, he will catch a cold. A boy at the boarding school here refused to use the shower, until he was persuaded to stand in a tub in which the right amount of water had previously been measured. Then he was able to stand under the shower until the strategic level was reached. But even after a bath many do not give the impression of cleanliness. Often they are so poor they have no change of clothes. Bathing is nearly always taken in the morning. Afternoon bathing is considered dangerous to the health.

Teeth are cleaned with charcoal rubbed on with the finger, or twigs frayed out to get into the crevices. The use of a toothbrush constantly is considered a dirty habit. Washing out the mouth and clearing the throat are essentials.

The use of the handkerchief is rare. A College boy thinks nothing of sniffing hard right through a lesson. I found it very unpleasant at first, but one gets hardened to it. The habit of spitting is unpleasant too. I have a boy who gets up at frequent intervals and goes to the window and spits. Nobody seems to notice it. Many of the boys are bare-footed. The soles get so hard, they often develop great cracks. All the people keep their hair black and glossy with coconut oil. They do not like the brownish tinge of un-oiled hair. The boys have a certain amount of vanity. Most carry a little comb and mirror in their pockets and use them in public.

Our nearest town, Peradeniya, is about four miles from Kandy and world-famed for its beautiful gardens and wonderful collection of trees. My friend and her mother had come up to Kandy for a few days and we hired one of the Victoria carriages, in which the driver sits perched up high on the seat in front. I decided I should get a better view if I sat up alongside him. As we proceeded we noticed we were the subject of great amusement. One man actually stood in the middle of the road and roared with laughter. Comments were frequent, but they were in a strange tongue. Later on I was told that no female would dream of sitting up there with the driver.

At the Gardens we found what we took to be a lovely princess sweeping fallen leaves from the path with a coconut ekel broom. She wore a gaily coloured sari and was bedecked with a wealth of necklaces, nose-studs, ear-rings and anklets. She was young and very beautiful and gazed at us

limpidly from large black eyes. I was disappointed to learn later that she was only a ‘coolie woman’.

Just north of Kandy lies Katugastota. Here the elephants come down to the river and bathe. A tame elephant will not keep fit unless he spends several hours in the water every day. An old boy of the College has some fine tuskers. Here they lie on their sides in the water looking like dark smooth rocks. A little further off one sees just the tip of a trunk showing above the surface of the water. Their keepers scrub them with soap or coconut husk and the elephants lie quite still. When they have finished, the keeper climbs on to the elephant's foot. Then the elephant raises him up high and he climbs onto the bent knee and so finally onto its back. Then they all go home for supper. I have been to Katugastota several times by bullock cart. The driver twists the bullock's tail and cries "pittah" to make him go.

A few nights ago we were expecting a recrudescence of last year's riots. The Principal and Padre went out with great sticks and they let me accompany them. The Buddhists had been refused a full-moon festival and procession by the Government. The Moslems had wanted one for the same night and had likewise been refused. It was too late to inform the villagers and they came flocking into Kandy from all over the district. The mosque was lit by torches and the Buddhist Temple of the Tooth was a mass of illuminations in red, white and blue. On top of the Temple was a life- sized portrait of one of last year's ring-leaders, who had been condemned to life imprisonment and died there. He was regarded as a martyr and the crowds who came to pay homage were not likely to feel well-disposed towards the British Government. All the Town Guard had been sent into Kandy and the Punjabis were standing by the Temple with rifles and fixed bayonets. However, nothing violent happened.

Yesterday some monkeys from the jungle climbed on to our cotton trees to drink the honey from the scarlet flowers. It seemed to make them a little tipsy. After a while they jumped from tree to tree and were lost sight of in the jungle.

There are plenty of glow-worms and fire-flies here, as well as squirrels, geckos, bats and flying foxes. The crows, sparrows, hawks and the brain-fever bird do not sing sweetly. The brain-fever bird is so called because its monotonous cry, rising higher and higher, is supposed to give people brain fever. But there are some birds with glorious plumage: the blue king-fisher, golden aureole and red-crested wood-pecker.

At present the kapok cotton trees are a mass of scarlet flowers, with a beautiful red carpet below. The sensitive plant grows like a weed everywhere and is entertaining. It shrivels at once if touched and opens out again after a while. It has a pretty pink or purple feathery flower. At the edges of the jungle are brilliant bushes of mauve or orange lantana.

One of our visitors to the College was a Y M C A man from America - a Professor of Human Relations. He considered the scenery of Kandy was "on a good basis for appreciation". He told us that for his address to the Y M C A he was going to give them "half an hour's worth of moral uplift."

In the valley below I can hear the chant of the muezzin from the mosque. His voice is clear and beautiful. "There is no god but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." I usually hear his call to prayer at sunrise and sunset.

Life is never dull. If I ever feel lonely, I just go for a walk down Trincomalee Street in the late afternoon. I pass a little native barber shop, with a notice on the door:

HAIRC UTTING SALOON

Nearby is an office claiming to be an "EMPLOYMENT BUREAU FOR THE UNEMPLOYABLE" and a humble boot-maker whose sign reads: "BOOT BUILDER AND FOOT COSTUMIER". A little way down the street is a shop which has "COFFINS FOR SALE OR FOR HIRE".

All along the street are little sewing shops with the native tailors sitting outside by the door and sewing machines whirring. Or there are the chetties, the South Indian money lenders and businessmen. They wear thin white muslin drapery on their lower half, but the top is usually sleek and bare, with perhaps an embroidered scarf across their shoulders. Usually they squat just inside their doorway, with incense burning and counting their money. Shrewd and reliable, they have a better reputation then the Afghans. Further along are the Bombay merchants with shops of rich silks and carpets, carved tables, brass and ivory. And there are jewellers, selling brilliant sapphires, rubies and emeralds. Many of the shops stay open all night.

On the street may be a yellow-clad Buddhist priest carrying a palmyra leaf umbrella, or a telegram delivery boy on a bicycle, his legs clad in puttees, but bare-footed. Or there is a scissor-grinder with a large grinding stone on wheels and dozens of broken and faded umbrellas, waiting for repairs. He always combines the two trades. And you may even meet an elephant carrying home a great bundle of leaves or the trunk of a palm tree, which he is going to enjoy for his supper.

Then I go home and read in the newspaper that "we must look twice before you leap," or that "If the Colombo arrack vendor were to adopt Mr. Bacchus' table, he will do a very fine trade and Mr Bacchus could laugh at his sleeves." Or I hear that one of our boys has received a telegram: "Uncle expiring. Funeral tomorrow." and next it is followed by another: "Uncle recovering. Funeral postponed."

Elephants working (morning)

Bathing at Katugastota (afternoon)

ANURADHAPURA (March 1916)

[See chapter end-notes for history]

A few weeks ago my hostess, Alice, and I went to Anuradhapura for the weekend. These ancient Buddhist ruins date from the third century B. C. We visited the ruins in a bullock cart. We paid the driver only two rupees for four hours. I felt rather ashamed of this low amount and the driver made a big fuss. But he came back next day, so I presume he was really satisfied.

The most sacred of all things at Anuradhapura is the historic Bo-tree, enclosed in a stone-walled square quadrangle and grown from the branch of the original sacred Bo-tree in India. It is said to be the oldest tree in the world. Whether it is so old is open to doubt, but a calamity equal to the death of such a tree would hardly have escaped mention in the Buddhist sacred chronicle the Mahawansa. Not far from this enclosure is the Brazen Palace, not brazen now, but merely a mass of plain stone pillars. It was originally nine stories high and built by King Dutta Gemanu, who was responsible for the most important Anuradhapura buildings. In this palace lived the priesthood of various ranks, the highest being at the top. The ones on the ground floor had not yet attained the state of sanctification.

All the stone work and carving at Anuradhapura is in gneissic rock, some very beautiful. The monasteries and temples are approached by several steps. At the foot is a semi-circular slab of “moonstone”, often carved in concentric rings of sacred figures and lotus emblems. One of the rings usually includes figures of the Hansa or sacred goose in procession. The Hansa represents wisdom. There is a legend that the Hansa is so wise that if offered a mixture of milk and water, it can drink the milk and leave the water. At either side of the steps are “guard-stones” depicting the naga-rajah or “snake-king”, with the cobra hood over his head and a little dwarf at his feet. The naga-rajas were a mythological race, half snake, half man, who lived in the bowels of the earth and had many superhuman qualities.

Besides the temples and monasteries there were large baths, paved and lined with stone slabs, and flights of steps leading down into them. There were enormous circular dagabas built of millions of bricks – bell-shaped and containing some ancient relic. The oldest is the Thuparama Dagaba, said to contain Buddha’s right collar bone. Some of the dagabas were so big that their ruins have formed a hill. We climbed to the top of Abhayagiriya Dagaba through a narrow, dark passage. It was the home of myriads of bats and the smell was quite overpowering. From the top we had a splendid view over Anuradhapura.

Besides the numerous stone buildings there are some wonderful tanks at Anuradhapura, really enormous reservoirs or artificial lakes. These huge sheets of water are impounded by a wide bund

or embankment built across the valley. They are now the homes of crocodiles, fish, tortoises and water-birds.

About a mile from the centre of Anuradhapura is the ancient Vihare or rock temple of Issarumuniya. Some time ago a Buddhist priest discovered its ruins overgrown with jungle, harbouring families of bears and monkeys. He has spent the whole of his life excavating and restoring it. He is now 86 and nearly blind, but still spends his time beautifying the temple. He showed us in the visitor’s book the names of the Crown Prince of Germany and his wife, the Princess Cecilia. The old priest seemed very pleased and proud of these names and said the Crown Prince gave him a golden sovereign for the Temple.

In the surrounding jungle are leopards and elephants. Rogue elephants are lonely males thrust out of the herd by a younger male. They become savage and uproot trees and trample down fields.

We stayed in a mission bungalow and at night there was a terrible noise over the ceiling. Apparently there were rat-snakes chasing rats or frogs. The funniest thing I saw were the gekkos on the walls and ceiling catching moths attracted by the light. They sat in rows on the picture frames. I counted 10 on one picture. Sometimes there was a sickening plop as one would lose its footing on the ceiling and tumble onto the floor, apparently unharmed.

Ceylon/Anuradhapura History According to the story in the Mahawansa, Ceylon was invaded in the sixth century B. C. by North Indian prince Vijaya, who had been banished by his father because of his lawlessness. Vijaya and his followers were the beginning of the Sinhalese people. Sinha means “lion” and the grandfather of Vijaya is said to have been a lion. The invasion began on the very day that Buddha attained Nirvana, They found the island, Lanka, peopled by a dark race of stone-age aborigines, whom they called Yakkus, or “demons”. Gradually, the whole of Lanka was conquered and the Yakkus were driven into the forests, or they intermarried with the Sinhalese. The small remnants are called Veddahs. The Sinhalese founded Anuradhapura, which to the present day is the capital of the North Central Province.

Meanwhile North India became Buddhist and King Asoka sent out missionaries, chiefly to the countries beyond the Himalayas, but also to Burma and Ceylon. Devanampiya Tissa (“Delight of the Gods”), was the king in Ceylon at the time. One day he was out hunting near Anuradhapura, when a stag fled up the side of a mountain. The king followed until he reached a place surrounded by hills and was confronted by a man. This was Mahinda, the missionary son of King Asoka. Mahinda is supposed to have flown over from India with four Buddhist priests and alighted on that spot, now called Mihintale. That day the king and 40,000 of his followers were converted to Buddhism, which became their national religion. From these early times date the wonderful temples and monasteries, whose ruins still stand in Anuradhapura.

A little later, in the third and second centuries B. C., began a long and bitter struggle against the invasions of Tamils from South India. The Tamils gradually seized parts of Ceylon and eventually drove the Sinhalese out of Anuradhapura and the low-lying districts. For many centuries the history of Ceylon centres around these struggles between the two races, with the constant retreat of the Sinhalese. The ruins of Anuradhapura are said to be within an area 16 miles square. The city was partially destroyed several times but rebuilt by later kings. The result is somewhat mixed architecture.

In the early fifth century a famous Chinese traveller, Fa Hsien, visited Ceylon. He wrote of the greatness of Anuradhapura – its temples, monasteries and Bo-tree. He spoke of the Tooth relic which had recently been brought from India and the great procession held in its honour. The Sinhalese kings, especially Mahanama, used to send embassies to China between the fifth and eighth centuries, owing to their common allegiance to Buddhism. It took anything up to 10 years to make the journey.

The Tamils are still in Ceylon, chiefly in the north and east. They remain distinct in their religion (Hindu), customs, appearance and language.

THE BISHOP'S VISIT (March 1916)

The car was a beauty and the driver most reliable. But the Bishop kept calling to him to "steady, boy, steady." After 35 years in Ceylon, the Bishop's nerves were not as they had been.

The scenery on the way to Hanguranketha was wonderful. We followed the course of the Mahaweli Ganga, which got more and more rocky. The waters began to roar and swirl and tumble. In the distance the mountains rose to 6,000 feet. Then we climbed to the top of a pass. The descent was terrifying, with hairpin bends needing several reverses to negotiate. On one side was a precipice without a protective fence, even on the bends. There was scarcely room for two cars to pass. The wide bullock carts are the most dangerous to meet. The bulls are yoked together with a heavy log jutting out from either side. Pass too close and the bulls are likely to swing the log back in their endeavour to regain the centre of the road. Mostly the bullock driver stands at their heads and tries to hold them back by their horns. Often pi-dogs chased us.

From Hanguranketha, where we had a large breakfast of rice and various curries, we drove to Wellegiriya, lying at the foot of rugged and fantastic peaks, many covered with misty clouds. All the time, the road wound down until we came to a mountain stream frothing over great boulders, or splashing down over waterfalls and sending spray across the road. The villages were built of mud and thatch. Inside lived the villagers with their goats and fowls to protect them from prowling jackals at night. The men wore just a loin cloth and the women a bodice and cloth. The babies were naked, except for a bracelet or necklace, or ornamental chain around the waist.

About a mile from the site of the new school we were met by a procession of some 200 children, two abreast, with their teacher. Each child carried a coloured paper flag on a long stick. At the front was a big white panoply, really a sheet held aloft by four poles. Under this, we were expected to walk.

Before the procession started, a venerable old man with white hair and flowing beard welcomed us. He held a staff and was dressed in white robes. He bulged a little, as he suffered from dropsy. In a minute he had told the Bishop all about the dropsy and how they had removed twelve bottles of fluid from him. We were each given a somewhat murky glass of lemonade to drink. Then we turned about and started off up-hill, led by the school master and the children, ourselves under the panoply at the rear. All the way, the teacher chanted in Sinhalese, with the children shouting refrains. It was two o'clock and blazing hot.

At last we arrived and the children sat in rows on the hill-side, while the Bishop addressed them in classical Sinhalese. They probably understood very little. Then the Bishop laid the foundation stone.

After the ceremony we returned to the village and had tiffin at the house of the dropsical patriarch. The Bishop and Padre asked the most personal questions about the food - where they had got it, when and how and what it cost. I was horrified at such rudeness, but was later told that it was expected of us. If we failed to show a proper interest, they would think we did not appreciate their efforts. Of the household, all were Buddhists except the patriarch, but all felt honoured by the Bishop's visit. Our host told him with choking voice and tears streaming that he never expected to be so highly honoured before his approaching death by this visit of "my Lord". He thanked "my Lord" for coming to his humble dwelling and lowering himself to partake of his fare. It was all very moving.

At the door crouched an old hag with one long tooth and a broad grin. She was thin and shrivelled - a poor beggar from the village. She held out her hands in supplication. When the Padre asked what she wanted, she replied "nikkan" (nothing); but still stretched out her palms, still with a broad grin. The Padre gave her twenty five cents and she bowed to the ground at her feet.

The patriarch was very old and ill - a nice old man, so genuinely glad of our visit. He had sent for the best strawberry jam all the way from Kandy.

UP-COUNTRY (May 1916)

I have just returned from my first long vacation. This was to Nuwara Eliya, Ceylon's highest "hill station". It is 6,200 feet high and cold enough in the evenings to have fires. However, I continued to have cold baths every morning, though my hosts warned me that my liver would suffer.

Nuwara Eliya means "City of Light" or “City of Fire”. Prince Rama, son of the King of Ayodhya (Oudh), was wandering one day in the forests of central India with his beautiful bride, Sita, when she was seized and carried away to Lanka by the Demon-king Ravana. Prince Rama gathered a great army and called upon the King of the Vultures and the King of the Monkeys to assist in a war against Ravana. Hanuman, the King of the Monkeys, built Adam's Bridge, a ridge of sand between India and Ceylon, for the army to cross. In one of the battles, Rama tied a burning faggot to Ravana's tail and chased him up and down the mountains, so that they were all burned black. That is why the jungle around Nuwara Eliya is so dark. Finally, after 12 years of warfare, Ravana was defeated and slain. The story of Rama and Sita and the siege of Ravana is the subject of the great Indian epic, “The Ramayana”.

Just above the town, which lies in a basin between high mountains, is Pidurutalagala, Ceylon's highest mountain (8,200 feet). We set off to climb this at 4.30 in the afternoon. It had been pouring most of the day and a heavy mist covered the summit. On either side of the steep path was dense jungle, smelling fresh and earthy after the rain. Sometimes we saw tracks of wild pig. They are fierce and do not hesitate to rip one open with their tusks. In these jungles there are also wild elephants, leopards and elk.

When we reached the top the sun was just setting and the mists beginning to clear. Far away the steep cone of Adam's Peak rose sheer from the surrounding mountains. We decided to climb it in the near future. All around us were mists and ranges of dark blue mountains. After the sun had set and darkness was falling, we began the descent in the fitful light of a half moon.

It is glorious walking in the dark in Ceylon. The jungle is silent and eerie. The only sound is the sleepy call of a bird from its nest, or occasionally one's own footfall. But all one's faculties are quickened as one imagines shapes in the black tree trunks and almost sees the eyes of the leopard glaring out from the darkness, or thinks one hears the stealthy foot-fall of a boar about to attack.

A few days later an Englishman and some friends went up Pedru with a pack of hounds just arrived from England. They disappeared near the top. After a long search they were found - terribly mauled by pigs and leopards. The same fate overtook a Government mineralogist. He and his family were holidaying in N'Eliya and one afternoon he went for a walk alone through Scrubbs' tea-estate. When he did not return and it began to get dark, gangs of coolies went out in the pouring rain to search the jungle. They looked for days in vain. Huge rewards were offered. Stories

began to circulate: he had been seen in Colombo on the wharf, he had left the country in disguise because of financial difficulties. Three months later a coolie found his body in a pool of water, below a large sloping rock, only 50 yards inside the jungle. It was torn to pieces with bits of clothing scattered everywhere. It looked as if he had injured himself on the slippery wet rock. It transpired that the coolies allotted to that area were afraid to go into the jungle in the stormy night and waited until morning. And then it was too late.

Tappel-coolies, or native postmen, who have to carry their letters long distances through lonely jungles, are always armed with a knife and have a large bell which they ring continuously as they jog along through the night. The villager is afraid of the dark and will never sleep alone. He goes nowhere at night without a fire-brand or lantern.

One night we climbed Adam's Peak (7,500 feet). We motored to Maskeliya, about 40 miles from N'Eliya, down the Nanu Oya Pass - a lovely drive. At Maskeliya the Padre shed his motor bike and joined the car, already overloaded with six of us in a five-seater and a friend of the driver riding on the foot-board. At a village we picked up some Tamil coolies to carry our luggage, food, rugs and coats. This made ten passengers in all.

We passed a tea estate and the road became narrow - full of twists and turns. I felt sick. It was now dark and the driver was uncertain of the road. On one side was a precipice and we had to cross narrow bridges with almost impossible curves and sharp corners. Our journey ended at an unsavoury manure shed, where we had a meal.

At 8.30 p.m. we began the ascent. Three hours later we reached an Ambalam - a shelter shed for pilgrims. It was full. They were strewn about the floor. A fire was blazing in the centre. The keeper made the pilgrims clear a space for us near the fire and spread rush mats on the floor for our bedding. We had another meal, with all the pilgrims standing around, staring. Then we rolled up in our rugs, crammed together and tried to sleep to loud snoring. All the time the fire flickered and the hurricane lamp smoked as the wind swayed it to and fro. Shivering pilgrims got up and crouched by the fire to warm their thinly clad bodies. Rats squealed and gnawed at the woodwork. I made no attempt to sleep and tried not to disturb the people sleeping on my knees and feet.

The peak is sacred to Buddhists, Hindus and Moslems. The Buddhists call it Sripada, or "holy footprint", because once Lord Buddha landed there from a journey through the air, leaving his sacred foot-print on the top. Thousands of Buddhist pilgrims make the climb each year, to acquire merit. They bring with them even their babies and old, feeble parents. The Hindus call it Sivanadipathan. It is sacred because this is where the god Siva first reached Ceylon when he came south. He recited his sacred mantrams to his disciples and left his footprint on the mountain. The Moslems say that our first ancestor, Adam, had to stand on the top of the peak on one foot for two thousand years, for punishment. This, naturally, made a dent on the mountain - now cemented in to preserve it.

At 3.30 a.m. we got up, had some more food and set out with the pilgrims, many with hurricane lanterns. We climbed up an almost perpendicular path, in single file. All along were huge rocks and roots jutting out. In some places it was a direct water-course, with water splashing down from the

rain of the previous evening. All the way, the pilgrims cried "Sahdhu, Sahdu, Sa-a-a", a salutation to Lord Buddha. I had hardly enough breath in me for the climb - I could never have shouted as well. One little Singhalese lass gave me her hand to guide me, as it was fairly dark in spite of the moon and the shadows cast by the swinging lanterns made it even more precarious. Sometimes we had to pull ourselves up by ropes and iron bars. The rain made everything slippery.

At last we got to the top, just before sunrise. Everything was soaking wet and puddles were lying about within the concrete enclosure. It was chilly, even wrapped in our coats and rugs. The lightly- clad pilgrims must have been frozen.

There was a great bell hanging on some posts. The pilgrims rang it according to the number of times they had been up the Peak. It was uncanny to hear the clanging in the cold gloom of the early morning. Some had been up 24 times. There was also a pole from which hung a bunch of hair. The pilgrims each added one of their hairs to the bundle.

Just before the sun began to rise and the light was turning grey, they formed a Perahera and walked round and round, chanting and praying to Lord Buddha. Once, a woman got too close to the man in front of her. He turned around in a fury: "Get behind, you devil!" he shouted in Singhalese. At the shrine, reeking coconut-oil lamps were flickering, torches flared and pilgrims knelt in adoration of the footprint.

Then the sun rose in all its glory. Towards the west it cast the shadow of the peak far into the distance on the mists and white fluffy clouds which covered the hills and valleys - a great narrow, purple cone. As the sun rose higher the mists began to scatter in a brilliant rosy light.

At seven o'clock we began the descent. In some ways it was more trying than the ascent. With such wobbly knees it was difficult to hold our course.

On another day we visited Horton Plains. We set out very early to walk the five miles down the Pass to Nanu Oya. How lovely it was, so early in the morning, walking between high mountains with the mists covering the valleys! When the sun rose it threw rainbows in the mist. Two hours by train followed, to Ohiya. Then we climbed through miles of jungle. Suddenly, the jungle ended and before us were great undulating plains of grass-covered patana. Eventually, after many miles and wrong turnings, we reached World's End, famous for its view. But the mists refused to clear and rain came hurrying through the mountains. The rest of the party grew weary of waiting and I stayed on alone. I was on the brink of a precipice going down sheer for hundreds of feet. Behind me was jungle. In front and to the left and right was only oppressive space. It was absolutely, the End of the World. Far below I could hear the rushing of water. At my feet were red flowers of rhododendrons, growing at the top of the precipice. Then suddenly the fog cleared. Right below me was a village and in the valley were emerald paddy fields, waterfalls and jungle-clad slopes. Far away in the distance through a gap in the hills I could see mile upon mile of plains and misty blue mountain ranges, fading away to meet the blue of the sky in an indistinguishable haze. Then the mist closed in again. Twice this happened before I turned back to join the others.

After tiffin we set out for Pattipola to catch the train to Nanu Oya, arriving at 9.30 p.m. Then followed the weary walk up-hill in pitch darkness back to Nuwara Eliya. Hot cocoa was waiting for us - and a chance to minister to our blisters, after our 29 miles on foot.

Some miles from Nuwara Eliya beyond the Lake and down a steep pass are the Hakgala Gardens. Hakgala itself is a huge precipitous rock, bare and black, rising up sheer in the landscape. The lower slopes are clothed in jungle and at its foot are the famous Gardens.

We decided to climb the rock along a steep jungle path. Half way up we came to a tiny lake, where wild beasts come at night to drink. We heard the constant chatter of wanderus (big black monkeys) and the cry of jungle fowl. We saw the tracks of elephant and pig. There is a story that aged elephants come sometimes to this pool to die. One rarely sees a dead elephant. Only years later their bones are found, in some remote pool or lake.

Overhanging the path was a plant with pink and red flowers, called nellu. The scent is pleasant, but the flowers are sticky, like honey. There are many varieties and they bloom irregularly - up to twelve year intervals. Whenever the nellu is in flower, there are plenty of jungle-fowl about, who find it a great delicacy. Jungle rats sometimes come to an untimely end through over-eating.

Notes on Tea Planting and Production Protective trees – Grevillia is useful for providing shade and wind protection. The dead leaves help to hold the soil together. Dadap is leguminous so adds nitrogen to the soil. Manuring – A trench is dug in alternate rows, so that each tea bush gets manure on one side. Dead leaves and bone dust are added to the trench.

Pruning – done every year or two. The tea bush must be level at the top, so that all the leaves get the light, the growth is thick and picking is quicker. Plucking – Usually two leaves and the bud are plucked, sometimes three leaves below the bud. Plucking occurs about every eight days. The tender stems are picked with the leaves. Pests – The shot-borer (a tiny beetle) is a great enemy of tea. It bores into the stem making a hole about as wide as a pin’s head – or small shot. Then it bores along the stem, lays eggs and bores its way out again. The young are hatched in the stem and feed on it. Eventually the stem withers and breaks. The only remedy is manuring, which strengthens the plant and causes the break to heal over. Such plants are often crooked. Tea making –

 The leaves are plucked and brought to the factory.

 They are spread on hessian trays, one above the other and allowed to wither for 24 hours. The leaves should not be too brittle for the next process – regulated with warm air if it is too damp. The drying brings the moisture to the surface of the leaf.

 The withered leaves are poured down a chute into a rolling machine, where they are rolled for about 30 minutes.

 Then they are put onto glass trays for about two hours to ferment (from bacteria). They go brown in the process. There are water trickles to keep the air cool.

 Next they are dried in ovens on trays for about 20 minutes, until they are quite dry (like tea).

 Sifting then occurs on shaking trays. The coarsest can be broken up further. Yield: 400 – 500 pounds per acre, depending on manuring.

THE LITTLE MONSOON (May 1916)

Now I am back in Kandy. It is the hottest and stickiest time of the year. Every morning there is brilliant sunshine, but later in the afternoon the monsoon clouds begin to gather from the south- west, thicker and blacker, every day. In the distance thunder rolls and lightning flashes. Suddenly, without warning, there is a brilliant flash, followed immediately by a furious clap of thunder which shakes the whole foundations. Yesterday when that happened I was practicing on the piano. I jumped straight out of my seat. Then came a huge downpour lasting several hours, interspersed with lightning and rolling bursts of thunder. The wind gets very strong, just before the rain.

This happens every day in the late afternoon. This is the start of the little south-west monsoon, they tell me. What the big one will be like at the end of May, I shudder to think. The little one flooded the study a few days ago. It nearly washed away our steep path. All the doors were banging and pictures on the walls rattling. My papers were chasing each other about the floor. Outside was a Ceylon snow-storm. The cotton pods had burst, the wind carrying the fluff in all directions.

At present the Principal and I are taking pot-luck in our bungalow for meals. The two families are away up-country with their servants and we only have a kitchen coolie left in each bungalow. Neither of them knows much about cooking. So we got John, the College peon, to come and help, but he knows almost as little. Sometimes the food is boiling hot and other days it is cold and greasy and only half-cooked.

A few days ago, the Principal had to go to Colombo and I had my meals alone. It seems the height of absurdity to have three men just to keep me fed.

For early tea we now have apas, vulgarly called “hoppers”. They are a sort of pancake made of rice flour and coconut milk and baked on a flat piece of iron. They are spread with butter and jam and rolled up to eat. Or they are dipped in juggery syrup or sambal, or eaten with plantains. Since the Principal has been here, we have been having papadams with our rice and curry. They are a thin, brittle kind of biscuit with a cheesy flavour and fried in fat.

NEGOMBO (August 1916)

We have just spent a week at Negombo, by the sea, about 20 miles from Colombo. Our boarding house was right on the shore, in the midst of shady coconut palms. All around were the huts of the native fisher folk. These coast people form a caste in themselves. Their women dress like the Singhalese, but their language is Tamil and they hand on their trade from father to son, with very few exceptions. There is much speculation as to why Tamil-speaking people should wear Singhalese costume. One theory is that many generations ago Tamil raiders settled on the coast and intermarried with the Singhalese, adopting their costume, but imposing their language. The men wear little more than a loin-cloth and a round straw hat. Many of the people along the coast have become Christian, chiefly Roman Catholic.

The fishermen launch their catamarans early every morning, by the light of lanterns. They drag them down to the water’s edge and wait until a big wave breaks. Then they push the catamaran down into the back-wash until suddenly the boat swings clear of the sand and leaps into the water. The fishermen, thoroughly drenched, hop on board and away they go. When they have paddled across the line of breakers they hoist a picturesque reddish sail, or continue to row with a flat piece of wood.

Catamarans are really rafts, consisting of long heavy logs of wood, slightly curved and sharpened at one end. Four or five logs are fixed together by a wooden skewer a few feet from each end and tied tightly with rope. The word comes from the Tamil katu maran meaning “tied wood”.

Often when they get into the surf on their return they tip over, or the surf sweeps the fishermen, nets and fish into the sea. But they help each other to salvage their possessions.

Other boats used at Mt Lavinia, Negombo and other coastal towns are out-riggers – long, high and narrow canoes with a log some feet long attached by curved beams as an outrigger. These boats are too narrow to sit in and the fishermen have to balance on their edges. They carry a mast and a big rectangular sail of brown or reddish colour. In the rising and setting sun the sail looks blood red or golden. As these graceful boats glide out of the lagoon in the greyness or scarlet of the early morning, against a shadowy background of palm trees, they present a picture of amazing beauty.

The Roman Catholic fisher-folk on the south and west coast wear charms around their necks and many have a figure of a crucified Christ tattooed on their breasts. On the beaches in the morning, smoke curls from little braziers burning incense, to ensure a prosperous day. When they return, a tenth part of their catch is put aside for the church. A priest comes down to the shore to preside over the division. But these fishing folk are hot-blooded and sometimes knives are unsheathed.

One evening we sat on the beach and watched the little crabs emerging cautiously from their holes to hunt for the little nuts the tide brought in. If we made the slightest movement, they scuttled back and went down with a ‘plop’. We tried to dig one out but it was too deep and twisted.

Negombo outrigger

On another day we went for a row on an outrigger on the lagoon with a fisherman named Pedro. The boats with sails full-spread were coming into the lagoon, casting their reflections on its still waters. We rowed lazily past mangroves and palms. Every now and then we passed a man standing in the water to his waist, casting his net into the lagoon for prawns. After a while we landed and walked through a native village till we came to the open sea on the other side. There was a cemetery on the beach. In recent storms the waves had washed up to the cemetery and many of the coffins had begun to float about. The breakers were now pounding on the beach, brilliant blue and white in the sunshine. There was a great outcrop of rocks running into the sea, white with foam.

The Dutch people built a fort in Negombo with a lovely old gate-way and some canals connecting with Colombo and Kotte. The canals are lined with palms and are full of barges with curved coconut matting roofs. The men punt them along or use a tow-rope. In Negombo there is an enormous banyan tree, said to date from Portuguese times. It has over 200 branches, rooted to the ground.

Sometimes we crossed the bridge and walked inland along the lagoon, through villages in the midst of coconut palms. We found a man and woman making salt. They had filled a large earthenware pot with sand and water from the lagoon. The pot was supported on a tripod made from the ribs of coconut leaf. At the bottom of the pot was a small hole covered with a pad of rope. The salty water dripped slowly through the hole into another earthenware pot below. After this, the salty water was boiled over a fire to evaporate and leave clean, white salt. Why did they not just boil ordinary sea water?

All along the lagoon were little crab holes. In front of the holes were piles of little sandy bullets made of the earth they carried out of the holes. The small crabs had a single, large red claw. Some crabs were brown, with blue spots.

Our hostess, Miss Carry, was wonderful. Though well over sixty, she played tennis and swam with the best of us. Her jokes were never flat. At her end of the table there was always uproar. Her face was wrinkled and somewhat fat, her hair grey, thin and untidy. But her eyes were full of fun. Her clothes were pinned on, often with pins missing. Her house was unconventional and untidy. The men took as much pleasure in her company as if she was 17. I often saw them helping her cut up a salad we were to have for breakfast and ‘swapping yarns’. The supply and variety of food she gave us was more than lavish. Between meals she was full of suggestions for our entertainment or ready to fall in with any plans we had made.

THE KANDY PERAHERA (August 1916)

The great Kandy Perahera (procession) commences about ten days before full moon in late July/early August. Buddhists from all over Ceylon and even from Burma and Siam flock to Kandy. All the Ratemahatmayas, or chiefs, bring in their elephants and troupes of dancers. Night after night the procession walks through the streets, taking a longer route each night. The first night there are usually only about thirty elephants, but by the end there are often as many as a hundred. Some are huge and their keepers reach only half-way up their legs. Others are babies, who toddle along by the side of their mothers. Each elephant has one or two keepers, who hold on to their tusks, if they have any, or control them with long iron spikes. All the elephants, except the babies, wear trappings of different colours to cover their faces and backs. Each has a great bell hanging down on either side. As they walk the bells clang musically on different notes.

Elephants are risky, specifically when they are in “must”. If they get mad almost nothing can control them. The more risky ones walk with their legs heavily chained, their little eyes rolling and gleaming red. Elephants are terrified of fire. So for the procession men carry flaming torches or hanging wire baskets on poles, filled with blazing coconut shells, soaked in oil. These are at close intervals on each side and also provide illumination. When elephants have been noosed at a kraal they are enclosed in an area fenced in with stakes and coconut leaves and leafy branches. The elephants could easily break through, but all round the palisades are great fires and lighted torches.

Many of the Ceylon elephants have no tusks at all, but some have tusks several feet long and this makes them very valuable. I have heard that another sign of good breeding and high value is the pink spots all over the trunk and ears. It makes them look as if they have measles. There are not many tuskers in the Perahera, but some have sheaths of gold fitted on to their tusks.

The finest tusker, the Temple elephant, carries on its back the golden casket, which is supposed to contain the sacred tooth of Lord Buddha. This tooth is housed in the Dalada Maligawa, or Temple of the Tooth, in Kandy and is locked in an inner shrine behind heavy iron doors. It was brought to Ceylon in 313 A. D. in the time of King Siri Mevan, by an Indian princess disguised as an ascetic. She hid the sacred relic in her hair, because her father, who had the tooth at Kalinga in India, was being attacked by another king in an attempt to procure it for himself. There is a story that once the Sinhalese were defeated by their South Indian enemies in a battle. The enemy captured the sacred tooth, crushed it to powder and flung the dust into the Mahaweli Ganga. But next day the tooth was found intact floating on a lotus leaf. So now the lotus is regarded as sacred and the tooth rests in a golden circlet of lotus petals. The Temple of the Tooth has been in Kandy only a few centuries. The earliest Dalada Maligawa was in Anuradhapura, but with the Tamil invasions it changed its locality to various sacred cities, until finally it found rest in Kandy.

Every night the sacred elephant mounts the steps of the Temple to receive the golden casket from the shrine. As this is placed on its back by the highest chiefs, an ancient gun is fired, amid the din of tom-toms and native horns, while all of the worshippers bow and cry “Sadhu, Sahdu, Sa”. Then the elephant comes down the steps and takes its place under a huge embroidered canopy between two other tuskers. Its feet are not permitted to touch the dust of the streets, so runners of white cloth are laid before it and gathered up when the elephant has passed and flung again to the man in front.

The dancers at the back and front of the sacred elephant are especially fine and the rhythm of the tom-toms is highly excited. The whole art of the tom-tom beater lies in his capacity to beat intricate rhythms, or to answer the rhythm set by the head beater. As the Perahera proceeds, the dancers work themselves up into a frenzy. On the last night they dance the whole night through.

No one sits on the back of the temple elephant and its trappings are expensive. Just before the 1916 Perahera, the sacred elephant, which had carried the casket for 30 years, died. Another tusker had to be bought from India at a huge price.

The chiefs who own the troupes walk in groups of three behind their dancers, who dance chiefly in their honour. Around their waists they carry 30 yards of white cloth, which their servants have to wind round them (so thick that no enemy dagger can penetrate). They wear long narrow white trousers, frilled at the bottom, also a short red or blue velvet jacket richly embroidered with gold, a gold embroidered square hat or cap, anklets, embroidered turned-up slippers, a sheathed carved dagger in their wide belts, golden necklaces and costly, massive rings. It takes a couple of hours to robe a Kandyan chief. Surrounded by their retainers, they walk along with proud dignity. No priest takes part in the procession.

The Perahera is really made up of five separate groups of chiefs, dancers and elephants, representing the five temples or devalas in Kandy. But the groups are all linked up to form a single Perahera. It is partly religious and partly historical to commemorate a great victory of the Singhalese over the Tamils in the third invasion of 110 – 113 A. D. At first the Perahera was held every year in Anuradhapura, but from the time that the Tooth was placed in the Dalada Maligawa in Kandy, the Great Perahera has been held there.

It is said to be the finest Oriental procession in the world. It is a gorgeous spectacle – the moonlight filtering through the feathery leaves of the trees, blazing torches, the silent tread of the caparisoned elephants, the dancers in their white skirts, peaked hats and clanging anklets, the splendour of the chiefs, the savage din of the tom-toms, the ringing elephant bells, cries of the betel and sweet-meat vendors and the devout throngs of spectators. The streets are packed with people, but they are the most orderly crowd I have ever seen. There is little noise or jostling and no cat-calling.

The dancing at the Perahera is really folk-dancing, based on village incidents, such as sowing and reaping the paddy, winnowing and pounding the rice. The men with the long drums are said to be of low caste, but others are of any caste. The dancers are connected with different temples. They

cultivate the temple lands. In return they become temple dancers, to be available when required. The large hats that some of them wear are a relic of sun worshipping days of old. The spikes represent the rays of the sun, while the bead ornamentation on the breast is the sun surrounded by the planets. The dancers make the ornamentation themselves.

Last night an elephant trumpeted. It was like the scream of a lion. We sat on the wall near the Governor's gate and had a wonderful view. The moon shone through the leaves of the tamarinds and rain-trees and it was very beautiful. We bought sugar cane from a street vendor and the sticky juice ran down our arms.

As soon as the Procession ends the people melt away. Walking the silent streets, one can scarcely believe that only a short while ago there were over 50 thousand people lining the streets of Kandy.

“Devil dancing” is different. In 200 A. D. there was a drought and plague of the eyes in Ceylon. Devil dancing was established to ward off the red-eye demon. It is still performed to drive out the evil spirit from a person who is sick.

ALANKAN, AFGHANS AND ANCHYLOSTOMIASIS (October 1916)

Now the north-east monsoon rains have begun. I scarcely noticed the break between the south- west and north-east. It is cool enough to wear a thin coat in the evenings and early mornings. The north-east is usually ushered in by terrific thunderstorms, they say. I thought the south-west was bad enough, but presumably worse is coming. Apart from the wet I find monsoon weather very discouraging. A few weeks ago I dusted all my books because they were green with mould. Soon they were covered again, as well as my shoes and even some clothes. I bought some special book varnish for my camera and some of the books. Now they smell like very new furniture and the bellows of the camera are stuck.

Yesterday, in sheer desperation, I put on old clothes and went for a walk in Lady Horton’s, without coat, hat or umbrella. The rain was considerate enough to stop, so I had a lovely walk on a sticky, sodden path. But when I returned home, I found my legs covered with leeches. Leech bites itch for days and if one scratches them they may easily begin to bleed again. It is not safe to pull the leeches off, as they are apt to leave their heads behind and the sore may become sceptic. I burned them off with matches. Some had become so saturated with blood that they rolled off of their own accord, slimy inflated round balls. These I burned and they ejected my gore all over the place and tried to crawl away. They also dislike salt, tobacco or lemon juice. Some people carry limes with them while on such walks.

I have now moved to the Principal’s bungalow to live. Our cook is a Tamil, named Alankan. He has a wild appearance with long dishevelled hair and fierce rolling eyes and looks none too clean. The first time I saw him enter the sitting room I was almost afraid he had come to murder us. But for all his unkempt looks he is really a very clean cook. He has been with the family for nine years and refuses to go anywhere else. When they go on furlough periodically he takes a job in the college until they return. His mistress suggested that he should go to cook for another family while they were absent. “No lady”, he said, “I not cook for anybody else. When lady coming back, I coming back to cook for lady.”

The other day the children’s ayah complained to Mrs Fraser that Alankan always drove her out of the kitchen and said he was not going to allow her to use his pots and pans to cook the baby’s food. Mrs Fraser went along to the kitchen and said, “Alankan, since when have these pots and pans been yours?” “Lady knows very well,” he replied “that they are mine”. So that was that. Nor do we get for our meals necessarily what has been ordered. A few nights ago, tripe and batter appeared instead of chicken. On enquiry, Alankan explained that the tripe was left over from breakfast and had to be eaten first. Tomorrow we could have chicken. So too when rice-pudding was served up for tiffin instead of fritters which had been ordered. Alankan informed his mistress that the rice had been left over from the last curry. If it was all finished by tomorrow’s tiffin, then

Alankan would be pleased to make fritters for her. In the evening we had rice-pudding again for dinner.

Alankan is a man of many accomplishments. He says the garden coolies are all fools and know nothing about gardening. So in his spare time he grows flowers. At present the garden is a picture of dahlias, cosmos and sunflowers, all grown by Alankan. He is a Hindu and became so irritated when people talked to him about Christianity, that he had a cobra and the word “Hindu” tattooed on his arm. Now, if anyone mentions religion to him, he just pulls up his shirt-sleeves and points to the tattoo in scornful silence.

Recently the Principal had invited some important people to dine. So Mrs Fraser ordered a nice dinner of five courses, hoping the servants would cope with it satisfactorily. When the party came to the table they found it beautifully decorated with coloured rice and flower petals. There were menu cards in gold lettering surmounted by a green laurel leaf. Mrs Fraser was perplexed, as the card seemed to contain a great many courses. To her amusement and that of her guests she read as follows:

MENU Recherché dinner for Twelve Turtle soup Pigeon on toast and a long list of courses, which bore no resemblance at all to the dinner provided. Alankan, the cook, to maintain the prestige of the family, had got hold of Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, taken it down to a printer and with him examined all the examples of menus. This particular one took their fancy, partly because it was for twelve people, the exact number to be present at the dinner. So between them they had this card printed in grand style.

Another night at a smaller party, after the sweets Alankan produced Welsh rarebit, his own addition, to keep up the Principal’s reputation. Afterwards he was asked where he had obtained the cheese. “Lady,” replied Alankan, raising his hand to dismiss so trifling a matter, “that is all right. Tomorrow lady finding it on her account. Very small amount of money.” But originality is not confined to Ceylon servants, apparently. Once in Uganda Mr and Mrs Fraser were entertaining the Governor. To their horror the potatoes came in, a bright pink. They had been cooked in cochineal to make them look nice.

I have mentioned before what a menace the Afghan money-lenders are and how they get the simple villagers and others into their clutches. A Sinhalese man went to a missionary and asked him to free him from threats of a certain Afghan. He said a few months previously he borrowed only ten rupees and now owed him two hundred and fifty. This is how it happens. A man is hard up and needs money badly for a wedding, or funeral or some clothes. He goes to an Afghan and easily borrows say, ten rupees. The Afghan makes him sign an agreement that at the end of the month he will pay back the money, with interest added. At the end of the month he is unable to pay. The Afghan tears up the agreement and makes the man sign another to the effect that he will

pay him a much larger sum in a month’s time. Again he is unable to pay and the sum mounts up at an enormous pace. From that time on the borrower’s life is Hell. The Afghan dogs his steps wherever he goes. On pay-day he is on the spot and relieves him of nearly all his money and so forces him to borrow more. Even his home is not private. The Afghan walks in whenever and wherever he likes, squats on the floor and refuses to go. The victim has no chance in court because the Afghan sees to it that there is no scrap of evidence that the original loan was only ten rupees. Often the villager cannot even read the I O U which he marks with his cross. No wonder the money-lenders are hated and feared by the Ceylonese.

At the Municipal offices one always knows when pay-day has come. The street outside is crowded with Afghans squatting near the gates or peering over the walls waiting for their unhappy debtors. They are huge, oily men and sometimes handsome. But most of them look depraved. The only way to overcome the difficulty seems to be to set up a rival business. The Y M C A has done something along these lines. They lend money to honest decent people and charge them only a small rate of interest. So these, at least, are saved from applying to the Afghans. But unfortunately, many people borrow readily and are less eager to repay their debts.

Many Malays came over as soldiers or police and have stayed in the country for generations. The Moors are traders and usually much wealthier.

Recently there has been an anti-hookworm campaign in Ceylon, launched by American experts. Hookworm, or anchylostomasis, is a disease common especially to tropical and sub-tropical countries and has only recently been discovered. Of all the people tested in Ceylon, 90% of the Ceylonese were found to have it and 81% of the Europeans. Hookworm is a tiny worm that hatches out in the ground and gets into the human body, chiefly through the soles of the feet or palms of the hands. Then it works its way up through the tissues and blood-stream until reaching the intestines. There it grows to about an eighth of an inch and sucks away at human nourishment. So it lives and feeds, stunting the growth of its victim and dulling the intellect. A single person may harbour hundreds or even thousands of them. Next they breed and lay their eggs, which pass out of the body with the excreta and hatch again in the ground. A few of these parasites do not do much damage. The symptoms are only occasional headaches and a lack of energy. But the worst cases are very badly affected, resulting in an almost complete loss of mental and physical capacity.

One of our boys, a dwarfed, skinny and anaemic child was tested a month ago and it was found that his was one of the worst cases so far discovered in Ceylon. He was cured by chenopodium and is gradually becoming a changed boy. His body is growing and filling out and he is already ‘full of beans’. Chenopodium is a flowering plant that includes about 250 species. It is highly nutritious and rich in protein, dietary fibre, fat, ash and useful minerals.

Hookworm accounts for much of the lack of vitality in tropical countries. Unfortunately many of the ignorant people refuse to be tested or treated and they flee to the jungles when the doctors arrive in their villages.

NAWANAGALLA (April 1917)

It is our long vacation again and the Gasters and I are up at Nawanagalla in the Rangala district, living on the side of a mountain. Behind us the mountains rise rugged and precipitous, covered in dark tangles of jungle. In places the vertical face of a black cliff stands out sheer. The jungle is beautiful to look at but seems quite impenetrable. It is not advisable to try, as it is the home of large grey monkeys, elk, wild pig and leopards. The leopards have lately been carrying off some of the village cattle, which pasture on the lower slopes. Every evening towards sunset, grey scurrying mists gather around the tops of the cliffs and the Sleeping Warrior has his head shrouded in filmy white. Then the sun is blotted out and the jungle gets dark and sinister. On either side of us are stretches of mountain ranges, becoming bluer as they fade away in the distance. In front are rounder hills covered in short grass and on these the cattle and buffalo graze.

Not far from here, over several ranges, the Mahaweli Ganga winds down until it gets to the Low Country. It empties into the sea at Trincomalee. On clear days we can trace its source for many miles. Just below is a tea estate and beyond that a wide gap in the mountains. Through this gap, 4,000 feet below us, we can see mile upon mile of low country with isolated mountains breaking through the jungle. Every morning there are soft white clouds over the whole expanse, with a few peaks standing out above. It is like a great foaming sea full of little blue islands. When the sun gets hotter the clouds disappear and a shimmering haze settles over the low country, making it blurred and indistinct. The sunrise is always lovely in the mountains and the whole country takes on a reddish tinge. Just below the edge of the mountains, where the low country begins, is a great irrigation tank or reservoir, hundreds of years old. In it live crocodiles, tortoises and fish. Between the mountain ranges in the valleys are brilliant terraces of paddy. The colours vary from bright gold, when the paddy is ripe, to emerald green, when it is still young.

It has rained a good deal lately, so the leeches are terrible. A few days ago we walked along a jungle path where cardamoms had been planted. The path was damp and sunless and the leeches were thick. We could see them hurrying towards us, hooking themselves on to blades of grass and stretching out their long, elastic bodies. Every time we got to a rock, we stopped to pull off dozens of them from our shoes and stockings. Now I have some very irritating sores on my ankles.

We spend a good deal of time netting butterflies. There are some wonderful butterflies in Ceylon, especially here at Nawanagalla. We have our own popular names for them - ghosts, peacock blues, orange tips and so on. We lay them between folds of paper, then at home put them in killing bottles of potassium cyanide, then mount them on a cork frame until they are properly set. Finally they are pinned in our butterfly boxes.

At present there is a war on between the north-east and the south-west monsoon, with varying fortunes. The north-east is at its last gasp and the south-west is just fresh after six months in the

north of Australia. At times the battle gets quite furious. We just happened to choose such a time to walk down to a planter's bungalow, a few miles away. The south-west was having its own way and our path was facing right into the full blast of the onslaught, complete with full artillery of rain. Casualties were caused by ever-vigilant leeches. Nevertheless, we did succeed in reaching the bungalow, to breakfast on half a dozen courses, followed by billiards for a few hours until tiffin- time. We arranged to go on an expedition in a few days time to the Binchenne district in the Low Country.

We set out by car. It had been raining fairly steadily and the road had become muddy and slippery and chopped about by bullock carts. Sometimes our wheels refused to grip and just spun around, shooting out showers of wet mud. We all had to get out and push, trying to avoid the muddy jets. The zig-zags on this particular road are terrifying and there are eighteen of them. Most of the way we passed through jungle or patana land, but when we got to the lower levels the jungle became much wilder. Several times we saw recent tracks of elephant herds.

There are not many villages in the Binchenne district and much of it is wild and unexplored. At last we came to the river at Weeragamtote and had to wait for the ferry.

Ferry - Weeragamtote to Alutnawara

At the opposite side is Alutnuwara, an ancient town with many Buddhist ruins. There is a large temple which is gradually being restored by the pilgrims who visit the sacred sites at full moon or at Wesak, Buddha's birthday in May.

Then we went along to the Rest House to get some tea. We were given sweet biscuits with cheese and tea with solid lumps of condensed milk floating in it. We had just finished when we received a

visit from the Ratemahatmaya or district governor. He could speak no English but some of our party spoke fluently in Sinhalese. He was very friendly and invited us all to dinner at his Wallauwa, a few yards away. We failed to enquire at what hour he dined, so we arrived a little after seven and sat on the verandah, drinking glasses of karumba (coconut milk), while the men smoked and the R M smiled his welcome. We waited and waited, but apparently they had not even begun to cook the dinner, as we heard a chicken squark in the vicinity of the kitchen. We were all desperately tired and Mr Gaster went right off to sleep in his chair.

At half past nine dinner was ready and I began my soup by dropping my new college tie into it. However, the servants brought me some cold water to clean the grease off. We had many courses - soup, eggs, tinned sardines mixed with onion and chilli, some kind of minced meat and tank fish, then chicken, potato and vegetables, several kinds of curry and lastly all sorts of Sinhalese sweet- meats and tea mixed with plenty of sugar. I was very thirsty and asked for a glass of water, but when it arrived I decided against it. It was the colour of mud and was evidently water straight from the Mahaweli Ganga, the Great Sand River. The sweet-meats were oily but very attractive and I tasted every kind. There was the dark jelly-like doldol and the soft brown balls of coconut mixture called narunkawan. Then there was the pale kondekawan, rather leathery and tasteless, made of rice flour and boiled in coconut oil. We also had honey-comb of wild honey, slightly fermented.

Dinner was over long after ten and after a decent interval we retired back to the Rest House and tumbled into bed. The men slept outside, but we had a bedroom with a mud and cow-dung floor. The windows were tightly closed with wooden shutters, but we soon got those open.

Early in the morning we found the room full of squeaking bats. We washed in the red muddy river- water and even had to use it for our teeth. The R M was very kind and sent along our morning tea – egg hoppers, looking like huge poached eggs, and plain hoppers which we ate with plantains and more sweet-meats.

A little later the R M appeared in person and said he was coming with us to the tank and that he had brought a bull-cart for the two ladies. The two ladies were not over-pleased with this arrangement, as the carts are extremely shaky and a walk through the jungle in the early morning is far more pleasant than being bumped and jarred in a springless cart. It would have been churlish to refuse. The seats faced sideways and there was very little room for our knees, but we wedged them in somehow. I dare say we have not learned the proper art. The track was half under water, full of mud and rocks. The long tail of the bull kept swishing mud and water into our faces. Sometimes one wheel sank several feet deeper than the other and we were in constant danger of being pitched out headlong. But the R M had thoughtfully provided some coolies to support the cart on either side. Sometimes, we simply had to get out and walk. The R M was apologetic when this happened and we did manage to get through most weak spots with a good deal of shoving and pushing on the part of the coolies. The R M had a retinue of servants, who appeared to be carrying provisions for us. One small boy carried three karumbas and another carried the R M’s gun.

At last we were thankful to see the end of the cart track. We got very stiff in our cramped position. But the jungle was fresh after the rain in the cool of the early morning. We saw jungle birds, the spoor of more elephants and the track of wild pig and deer – but no animals. Then we reached a channel of water fed by the tank, fairly swollen after the heavy rains. We took off our shoes and stockings to cross, but got wet to the waist.

The tank, Horabora Wewa, was beautiful, set in the midst of hills. It is twelve miles round and full of little inlets running down from the valleys. The bund, where the valley is banked up to form the tank, is about twenty feet wide and very high. In the surrounding jungle live monkeys, deer, pigs, elephants, bears and cheetahs. The animals in Ceylon which attack without provocation are wild boars, bears, wild buffaloes, rogue elephants and cow elephants with calves. We saw a crocodile in the lake lying still like a log of wood. The R M fired at it but missed. Crocodiles that live in the tanks are sluggish and only rarely attack humans, but river crocodiles are more active and dangerous. The lake was full of birds and butterflies of every hue. Mr Gaster and I had brought our nets with us and we caught some beautiful specimens of peacocks, low-fliers and orange-tips.

The R M gave us refreshments of coconut milk, tea and biscuits. It was very welcome as it had become hot by the lake. From here we had to find our way to a spot on the river where a boat was waiting to take us across. But the guide seemed to have lost his way. He took us over a huge paddy field, muddy and full of wallowing buffaloes and pure white egrets. We had to zig-zag on muddy embankments and wade across muddy and slimy streams to a path which led through some miles of jungle. Finally, we reached the river an hour and a half late. The boat was still waiting – time has little meaning in Ceylon. The hospitable R M then gave us more karumbas to drink and we said our grateful farewells. Unfortunately we had very little money and could not give a proper ‘present’ to his servants.

A ‘present’ sounds better than a ‘tip’. The other day a man came to the bungalow and offered us some lovely fruit. We asked him how much he wanted for it but he rejected the idea that it might be for sale. He was bringing it to us as a present and we could give him a present in return. The return present would naturally be in the form of money. This mutual bestowal of gifts establishes a better relationship than sordid buying and selling. Also, the return present is usually larger than the value of the fruit. The donor feels generous for having given a present and he feels pleased to have received a larger present in return.

Near Nawangalla is a mountain called Kodiyabedapuhenakande. We went there one day, but struck a narrow path teeming with leeches. We tried the mountain stream route and when that became too precipitous we were driven back into the jungle. Here we ran into a mass of giant stinging nettle, unrecognisable until we felt the agonising stings on our legs, hands and arms. This nettle is a tree with apparently perfectly smooth leaves, but actually covered with minute poisoned hairs. That night we got little sleep from the pain and next day it had barely subsided. In fact we felt it for several weeks. One way to remove the hairs is to pour burning candle grease over the affected areas – a remedy almost as bad as the disease.

SNAKE UPSETS (July 1917)

All sorts of things have been happening, the most serious being the departure of Mr Fraser for the Front as chaplain. Mr Gaster is carrying on as Acting Principal. I have stayed on in the Principal’s bungalow and am living with the mother of the Vice-Principal.

One day a snake charmer came to visit us. He had a number of round flat baskets in which he kept his cobras. He would take off the lid of one or two of them and begin to play his magic pipe. The cobras reared up and opened their hoods, to display beautiful markings across the hood, exactly like a pair of spectacles. Their bodies trembled, whether with ecstasy or anger I could not tell. Occasionally they struck suddenly, but did no damage. They seemed quite willing to be pushed back into their baskets and offered no resistance, except an occasional hiss.

A few nights ago, just before dinner, James and Perumal brought along a snake which they killed on the back verandah. It was about three feet long, thin and fawn coloured with a diamond- shaped head and darker markings on its body. The servants said it was a mapila and very dangerous.

The story goes that mapilas come in groups of seven at night time and loop themselves together to form a chain, which hangs down from the ceiling, so that the lowest snake comes in contact with the face of the sleeper below. It then very gently rubs the surface of the skin backwards and forwards with its head until the sleeper becomes hypnotised. Eventually the bottom snake draws blood. When it has slaked its thirst, it makes room for the next one and so on until they have all had their fill. The sleeper is drained of blood and dies. The face of the dead man becomes extraordinarily chalky, so the villager always knows how he met his death.

The servants were very excited. James, being a Buddhist, refused to kill the snake himself, but had no compunction in calling the Hindu Perumal to do the deed. The servants told us they would burn the snake and bury it to keep the others away. Mrs Mack, my companion, was absolutely terrified and all the time after dinner she was worrying about the snake. She seemed to expect the other six to slither into the sitting room at any moment. When we went to bed she insisted that I should keep a light on all night and she forced herself to keep awake until 3.30 a.m.

Actually, I find scorpions worse. They are often nine or ten inches long, with a tail that curls up has claws like that of a crab. They are dark bluish-black in colour and they sometimes come into the bungalow after rain. One night I found one crawling over my pillow, just as I was going to bed and had to noose it by the tail with a piece of string. There are plenty of them in Lady Horton’s jungle, especially after rain.

Less dangerous was a snake which Philip, the college grounds-man, caught in the playing field at Asgiriya. It was brilliant green, about six feet long and known as an eye-pecker. It has a small head

and a long pointed mouth like a beak. These snakes are said to hang from the branches of trees and peck out the eyes of unwary travellers as they pass beneath. They can certainly dart about very quickly. Philip handed the snake over to the Nature-study master, who left it in a glass- covered box and fed it on lizards and frogs. Then to give it an airing he would take it to the Green and hold it by the tail, while the snake stretched and exercised itself. After that he tied a long tape to the snake’s tail to give it more freedom of movement. He used to carry it about in his pocket and let it out on the string to show people. Then he stuffed it back by the neck. Soon the snake got quite tame and could be let loose without the tape, to crawl all over the room. Sometimes it was even allowed to take the air by itself outside. It just stayed there until it was brought in again. But one fine day it became very fierce and darted savagely at all the small boys. Its master was hastily summoned. The snake had puffed itself right out and looked very fat, so the master did not recognise it as his own. He grabbed a stick and broke its back and then found he had killed his cherished pet, which had swallowed a large toad and did not want its digestion interfered with by little boys.

A MAD DOG AND OTHER SCARES (July 1917)

There is great excitement at the college just now. Two masters and twenty boys are at the Coonoor Pasteur Institute in South India, receiving anti-rabies injections. One of the boarders had a little dog at school and kept it hidden in the kitchen for some time. After a while the dog began to get savage and bit and scratched several boys when they tried to play with it. So its master was told to remove it. After two days it reached his village home, bit his father and five of the servants. It went quite mad and died. As soon as the Vice-Principal heard of this, he went around to every class asking for the names of any of the boys who had been licked, scratched or bitten by the dog. There were 16. The next day they were to start for Coonoor.

Meanwhile the excitement had grown and by the end of the day at least 15 boys discovered that they had been licked. The numbers were mounting rapidly. “Sir, I don’t definitely remember being licked, but I played with the dog and may have been.” Another said to his friend: “You must come too. I saw the dog lick you on the left leg.” And so the infection spread. The boys thought it was going to be a grand picnic. The V P did not feel he could refuse a boy who said he had been licked and the doctor was loath to assert that licking was not dangerous. So next day a huge bullock bandy was stacked with luggage, pillows and blankets. Alas! When the army reached the station the doctor was there to meet them. He had just had a message from Coonoor to say that licking was not dangerous unless there was a cut or sore. So all except fourteen boys with one master in charge, had to return to College. The Government had kindly issued a free pass on the railways. Just before the train started, another master who thought he might have been licked, began to get scared. He felt a queer pain in his leg and thought he was definitely feverish. As he seemed in no real danger, he was persuaded not to go. But just as the train was moving off, he changed his mind, jumped on board and left his luggage behind on the platform. At the next station he decided not to go after all and returned to Kandy. But he felt more and more unhappy and tried to talk himself out of the scare at the tuck-shop or wherever he could find a group of people ready to listen. Finally he could endure the suspense no longer and hopped into a car which was meeting the train that night across country at Kurunegala. So he went after all, beyond recall. At Kurunegala four more boarders joined the party. One of the mothers had been hysterical all night, though her son had only been licked. The owner of the dog was not allowed to go himself as his father said the boy could get expert treatment in his own village – treatment which would consist of incantations and devil dancing.

There is a lot of rabies in the Low Country, especially among pi-dogs. There are all sorts of suggestions to get rid of these dogs and to import others and sell them at a reasonable price. A dog is dangerous in the seven or eight days before it actually shows signs of rabies and becomes mad. There is some sense in the order that all dogs in the street must be muzzled, especially in the hot weather before the south-west monsoon breaks.

In due course the mad-dog patients returned. They seemed to have had a good time on the whole, though daily punctures in the stomach made them feel sick. They were injected with lymph taken from the brains and spines of rabbits and other animals which had been injected with hydrophobia germs. A little Moslem boy had died of the disease at Coonoor. He came from Colombo but they sent him too late. Before there was a station at Coonoor people had to go all the way to Paris and many of them died before they could get there. The same happened to the Burmese before a station was set up there. In this last year thousands of people have been treated at Coonoor. While our boys were there no less than eighty cases were being treated every day. The return trip was uneventful, except that on the Indian side, the train ran over a bull and cut it in halves. The stench, they said, was awful. Then when they reached the coast there was some seaweed smelling equally badly and the boys felt sure another bull must have been massacred.

Servants have a horror of being cut. Juanis wept and nearly fainted when he cut himself opening a lemonade bottle. Recently the college peon, John, had quite a bad attack of appendicitis. The college authorities wanted to send him to hospital for an operation, but his old mother refused point blank to have her son cut. The peon, about thirty years of age, had to respect his mother’s wishes. He took native treatment, often very effective.

Many of the Buddhist priests are particularly skilled in the use of oils and herbs. They know certain cures for some of the deadliest bites from snakes, such as the cobra and tik-pollonga. Usually a priest is skilled in one particular remedy. The secret of the cure will have been revealed to him by another priest on his death-bed. If he reveals it before, it will lose its potency. A secret of this nature may be transmitted too by father to son. The result is that many of the secrets die with the men who hold them. Near the College at Asgiriya is a priest who is very clever with bones and joints. Often the boys who get hurt in football or other games go to him for treatment.

One day one of the College youngsters crashed into another in a game of football, with the result that his eye was nearly knocked out of its socket. He was at once rushed to hospital, but the doctor said nothing could be done. The father took the boy home and sent for an old priest from a long distance. The priest came and for some weeks treated his eye with special oils and herbs. Now his eye is perfectly well and there is not even a scar. The priest refused to receive any payment. Some of them, however, are more mercenary than this.

There is an objection to a vedarala (native doctor) publishing his secrets. He says the medicine would lose its virtue. In reality the vedarala fears he might be deprived of his monopoly. There are many secret cures for all sorts of diseases in India and Ceylon. Much of this knowledge of herbs and oils is used by the men who practice ayurvedic remedies.

PERUMAL (July 1917)

Perumal was the rickshaw puller. He became the centre of attraction to a large group of servants when he harangued them outside a shop where he had been sent a message. He is a Tamil of very low caste, big and strong and handsome, with a remarkably good taste in floral descriptions. He often puts a beautiful bowl of flowers in my bedroom. He is like a big overgrown boy, full of moods and whims. Recently he was dismissed for drunkenness. There had been a great Hindu festival and he borrowed two rupees from me and got dead drunk. He sent a message to his mistress that he was ill and ‘spitting blood,’ so could not pull the rickshaw. Unfortunately he was seen outside an arrack tavern, where he was behaving in a ferocious and quarrelsome manner. He nearly ended up in prison as he noisily threatened a policeman and other people. He often borrows money from me, but always pays back. It must be difficult to keep going on only 15 rupees a month, with a wife and children. Servants are paid their totally inadequate wages only at the end of each month, then in a lump sum. That means extravagance at the beginning of the month and poverty at the end. Some masters and mistresses refuse to give advances for any reason. That often leads to borrowing from a money-lender. Since the war servants have received slightly better wages.

A few days after his dismissal, he returned. For several days his ‘lady’ had tried to get a new boy. But none was forthcoming, except for an Indian boy, who refused to do any sweeping. The first day his mistress said: “Oh dear, I quite miss Perumal – the ruffian.” The next day she said: “I do miss my rickshaw rides in the morning and I suppose it will be difficult to get a boy just now, because they make such a harvest at Perahera time.” The third day James announced that Perumal had bought a letter for her. She strongly suspected that she had not been able to get a boy because the other servants wanted the cheerful Perumal back – but of course they hotly denied any such thing. Then Perumal strategically appeared at the door all dressed ready to take ‘lady’ out in the rickshaw. It was a lovely afternoon and Perumal was reinstated. For a time he became wonderfully industrious and the arrack bottle offered no temptation.

SUPERNATURAL CEYLON (July 1919)

Some of the superstitions die hard. Apart from the evil influence of a completely shaven head, it is even more dangerous to see a widow or Buddhist priest early in the morning. To counteract this, many people carry a small mirror in their pockets and look at themselves first of all. It is dangerous, too, to see a Buddhist priest or hear a gecko chuckle as one leaves the house to go on a journey. Sometimes the journey is abandoned, but often it is sufficient to return and set out again with the left foot first. Also, peacock feathers have an evil effect and should never be kept in the house. One does not bury on Tuesdays or Fridays as they are unlucky days and the spirit of the dead person will haunt the living. It is unlucky if one is in a car and refuses a beggar – one could meet with an accident.

The Sinhalese kings started a superstition that it was very unlucky to have ebony and satinwood furniture in the house. The reason was that they wanted all this wood for their palaces and temples so wished to keep a monopoly.

As soon as a child is born, an astrologer is summoned to cast the child’s horoscope, including lucky and unlucky days. When any important event is to take place, the horoscope is always consulted. One main reason for the horoscope is to prevent two incompatible characters from marrying each other. A professional matchmaker, before he arranges a union, is always careful to consult their horoscopes.

Often boys have returned to school after the holidays several days or even weeks late, because they have to wait for an auspicious day. Excuses of this sort are no longer accepted and parents are obliged to pay a fine if their sons returned late. Usually they prefer to risk the unlucky day. There are stories of appendix operations being postponed because the horoscope declares bad luck. When at last a favourable time comes, it is sometimes too late and the patient dies.

THE RICE FAMINE (July 1919)

Two weeks ago the rice supply gave out in Ceylon, a terrible disaster. Rice is the staple diet of the Island, which is by no means self-supporting and depends largely on imports from India and Burma. The imports failed because of shortage of ships, famine in India and increased demand from the West.

There was chaos in Ceylon. The Social Service League managed to secure about one hundred bags to feed the whole of Kandy – population more than 30,000. So the town was divided into districts and we were allotted different districts. My responsibility was Malabar Street, with two other people from the College. We had to visit every house, find out the circumstances of the people, the numbers of adults and children and issue food-cards. This does not sound very strenuous, but every street in Kandy has numerous little alleys running off it, with hovels packed to overflowing. To visit even a few yards of street took hours. It was no simple matter to issue cards, because people told us lies about the number of inmates and we found ourselves issuing cards to members of the same household under different names. Not even the house numbers could be used as a check, because there were often several dwellings under the same number. We refused to issue chits to anyone coming to us in the street, however plausible the story, but made them go to their houses to wait for us there. Wherever we went, we had a long procession of men, women and children following us, chattering and offering advice.

Depots were set up where people could buy rice according to the amounts stated on their cards. However, some people presented their cards again and again to hoard great quantities of rice. So we had to re-visit, with a new system of detachable dated coupons to last for a week. We spent the whole of Sunday from 7 a.m. until after midday visiting our people. The heat was overpowering.

At the depots, congestion was terrible. The people had to be kept out by force, only 50 allowed in at a time. When they paid their money, they spread out their cloths, hankies or head coverings on the ground, had their ration poured into them and were told to “palayan” quickly. Many had to wait hours. Finally, the bags ran out.

A ship-load reached Colombo from Burma as a result of the Governor’s earnest appeals. It was expected in Kandy that night, but failed to arrive. The next day murmuring grew loud and there was danger of food riots. In many of the villages people had been living on nothing but fruits for weeks past. At seven o’clock in the evening the rice at last reached Kandy. People had been without since the previous morning. Temporary stores had to be set up. We had one at Trinity College. It was beautiful beneath the shining stars, with only dim, flickering lanterns to light the scene and hungry and eager folk with their silent tread and colourful clothing.

The following Sunday we issued another lot of tickets under a third system. This time we had different districts allotted to us. As I had a bicycle I was responsible for Katugastota Road. All the northern side of Kandy, including the villages, was allotted to our College. A number of our boys helped at the stores. The stores were part of the new system, to give people a choice. The depots were a little cheaper, but many preferred the stores because they could get credit until the end of the month and they disliked waiting in queues. Rationing happened for some time – about one- half the normal amount.

TIMITAR ESTATE (April 1920)

This time, Edna, Bertie, Christie and I planned to visit a coconut estate 50 miles south of Batticaloa on the East coast, not far from Pottuvil. Edna’s brother, Vernon, manages the estate. We left Kandy at 5 a.m. by car to do the 200 miles to Batticaloa. Kandy is only 1,600 feet high. First we had to climb up the Ramboda Pass to N’Eliya, 6,500 feet, then down again to sea level. By the time we were half way up the pass, Edna and I were feeling car sick. Then there was the long and winding descent down the Hakgala Pass to Welimada and up again to Haputale, 5,000 feet. By this time, Edna was really ill and icy cold in spite of all the blankets and pillows I piled on her at the Haputale Rest House. I even used the tea pot to try to warm her feet.

After a few hours, we set out again. From the gap we had a magnificent view over the Low Country, spread out 5,000 feet below us. Into this we had to descend, with more awful curves. Half way down we passed Koslanda and Diyaluma Falls, a glorious sight with the spray floating down like a bridal veil. Towards sunset we reached Pottuvil Rest House. On the way, Christie shot a jungle-fowl, a beautiful cock. Their inquisitiveness often brings about their destruction. It was sitting in the grass by the road-side when it heard us coming. It flew into a tree close by and from there sat and watched us. We had it for dinner later on at the Rest House, where Vernon met us. The trees were swarming with grey monkeys and the air was thick with mosquitoes.

The next morning early we motored the last ten miles to Timitar Estate. The soil on the estate is simply grey and yellow sand. It is extraordinary that the coconut palms get any nourishment from it. It was hard work walking through a mile of dry, heavy sand to the bungalow, when the car could go no further. The bungalow walls are only three feet high and the roof is thatched with cadjan. All the rooms have these low walls, except the bedrooms, which have partitions on two sides for privacy. So we got as much of the breeze as possible. The walls and floor are made of mud mixed with wet cow dung. All the houses are built this way.

Vernon had an excellent cook and we had wonderful meals there. For breakfast there were four or five courses, the same for dinner. People do not live by clocks down here. Dinner must be between 9.30 and 10.30 at night. Early in the mornings we bathed in the sea, some distance along the beach, because of the undertow in front of the bungalow.

Just out to sea was the wrecked "Botanist", stuck on a sunken reef with one end tilted up and the other down in the water. It was a Hampshire liner of about 3,500 tons, carrying some thousand tons of cargo, not yet salvaged, as the accident happened only two weeks ago. We rescued a 15 pound tin of bully-beef from the sea and lived on it for some days.

When we bathed we could not go out far because of sharks and the strong back-wash. The beach is covered with shells, especially cowries. Like most Ceylon beaches it shelves rapidly and is soft and heavy for walking. After the bathe came morning tea - eggs, toast and coffee.

One morning we found some turtle's eggs in a hole in the sand. Unfortunately they had been discovered first by a bear, but he left a few for us. We boiled them but they were rather mealy and fishy to the taste.

The surrounding jungle is full of birds and wild animals. The wild doves we shot were good eating. The other morning I got fourteen doves! After the morning's ramble and a day of reading and sleeping, we would tramp through the estate to a waiting bull-cart for a three mile drive to a large swampy tank, called Kumari. The lake swarms with all kinds of water-fowl and is infested with crocodile, like every sizeable piece of water here. Last time Christie waded across to a clump of rocks with a tracker, a great crocodile slipped into the water right in front of him. While we were waiting for the teal, a large flock of flamingos soared over our heads. Christie missed his crocodile but got some teal. As the sun goes down over the tank the birds fly home to their nests among the rushes and for a long time one hears them crooning to each other sleepily before everything grows silent. Occasionally there is the plop of a fish.

On one occasion, we decided to shoot crocodiles, often found lying in the mud near the water’s edge. We set out before dawn, but there was a bright moon. Just before we reached the cart, Vernon saw an elephant some distance away at the edge of the jungle. He must have the eyes of a lynx. I could barely see it even when he showed me where it was. We decided to give up the crocs for another day and chase the elephant instead. We waited for the tracker to get the elephant- gun, but the beast disappeared into the jungle. While tracking it, Vernon saw a wild pig in the long grass. He and Christie crept towards it. Christie fired and bowled it over. The shot roused half a dozen more, with a lot of sucklings close behind, all rushing past. The boys fired again but missed. We began to track the elephant again, but the watcher said it was a ‘rogue’, then too far off to chase. The fine for shooting an elephant, except a ‘rogue’ is 100 rupees. When elephants die in the jungle the stench is so awful that nothing grows for yards around. All the leaves of the trees and blades of grass wither and fall.

We have now returned from our ten day sojourn in the jungle. We got back early yesterday morning after travelling all night in bullock carts. We were not sorry when it ended. At night the mosquitoes were terrible. As soon as the sun went down they began to swarm with the hum of an approaching army. Many would have been malarial, so we had to take quinine regularly. For all those ten days we had no bread. Every day we had rice hoppers or string hoppers. How we longed for a bit of bread! Finally, we were ready to depart, because we had scared all the game away. For the last few days we had shot practically nothing at all. Vernon did get a couple of wild boars with splendid tusks. But all the deer had been frightened away and we saw no leopards or bears, only their tracks. Actually, we did not shoot much in the jungle. Christie shot two boars, two stags and some rock-squirrels.

One night, Christie got lost in the jungle. He had gone out with the watcher to shoot deer, but by eight o’clock he had not returned. It was pitch dark and we were getting anxious. We fired signal shots into the air and far away there was a single answering shot. Vernon sent for some trackers from the estate and they arrived at 3 a.m. At dawn the two boys and a party of coolies and trackers set out and a couple of hours later they returned with Christie and the tracker. The two had got benighted and eventually decided that the safest thing to do was to light fires and spend the night in a tree, out of reach of prowling animals.

In the jungle, close to us was a lovely shady stream where we used to bathe. It was not deep and there were sandbanks everywhere, but it was cool and beautiful. All along were jungle trees growing right in the water and there were birds with brilliant plumage of all colours, chattering monkeys – brown ones and grey ones with long white beards and whiskers all round their faces. They seemed annoyed that we were trespassing. About two miles from our jungle hut was another river, much deeper. We caught little fish, not much good for eating, but it was fun. I caught lots of butterflies for my collection. But plenty more I missed, because they were too quick for me.

During our absence, a rogue elephant had been making a mess of the estate, destroying coconut trees and in broad daylight a leopard carried off one of the bulls used for ploughing the estate. A few days ago, Vernon put some bait on two enormous hooks to catch crocodile in a pond nearby. The bait was a dog which had been shot. The next day a watcher reported that a crocodile was on the bait. Vernon and the watcher rowed across to the spot and dragged it towards the shore. They found it difficult, though it was only a baby, about eight feet long. Vernon gave me the shot to kill it and I shot it through the skull and shattered it. The coolies then cut up the meat for their curries.

One afternoon Christie and I went out with the watcher, so that I could have a shoot. We walked for many miles and finally came to a patch of tall grass in the jungle. Everywhere were the tracks of pig and deer. At last we saw a pig only about 25 yards away, just the top of its back above the high grass. I shot and hit, but did not kill it outright. Immediately, the whole herd jumped up and made for the jungle. We tried to find my pig, but it had got away!

Before we reached the main road again and it was getting dark, we heard an elephant feeding at the side of it. When we got to the road, we heard a party of coolies approaching, singing lustily, all unconscious of the elephant. Suddenly we all met, the coolies right in front of us and the elephant only about five yards to our left. The coolies scattered in all directions shouting “alaya” (elephant) and two of them tried to hide under a culvert. Christie shouted to them, “Stop, you idiots!”, as a show of panic might easily infuriate the beast. Then we saw another elephant on our right, about the same distance away. It was truly alarming to walk between the two elephants and to wonder if they would attack us. We did not wait to see what happened to the coolies.

The next excitement began after four o’clock tea. We all came into the sitting-room, except Bertie. A little later Edna announced that he had gone shooting by himself, but that he would stay close by. Vernon was angry as he had warned us all on no account to go shooting alone. By eight o’clock

Bertie had not returned, but we heard that he had been walking along the road a few hours before, about three miles away. All that night he failed to arrive. We were worried, especially as he had gone to a part of the jungle full of bears and there were always snakes about. When he did not turn up in the morning Vernon sent out search parties. One watcher – a Burgher – said he had investigated Bertie’s fate in a Saathara (a charm) and that he was safe. The charm consists of boiling rice and mixing certain leaves in it. If the leaves shrivel, the person is dead. If they stay fresh, he is alive.

At about 6 p.m. a search party brought him back. They found him wandering on a road. He said he had tried to find a tank where he had shot pig before. He could not find it and instead followed a cart-track into the jungle until he came to some open grass land. There he met a pig and shot at it twice. He wounded it, but the pig ran into the jungle with Bertie after it. After about 200 yards he killed it. He tried to find his way out but lost the track. He wandered about in the jungle until night time. It was pitch dark but then the moon came up. Bertie climbed a tree and got in a funk every time he heard a branch snap. It was cold and uncomfortable, sitting in the tree. So he spent the night alternatively in trees and walking through the jungle. All next day he wandered about without food or water. At about 4 p.m. he found the main road, seven miles from the estate. He did not know whether to go to the right or left. He began in the wrong direction, but then turned and went the right way. After a few miles he met the watcher, with lime water. At first he could not talk and arrived at the estate looking dead beat.

Several officials were camping on the beach in cadjun huts to salvage as much as possible from the wreck of the “Botanist”. There are schooners from Jaffna to transport the cargo to Colombo. One of the schooners on its way from Jaffna got caught in a cyclone and sank with all men, except two who managed to cling to the wreckage. The official became friendly with Vernon, so they were willing to take us on board. We divided into two parties as the canoes do not hold many people. They are high-sided, long and only about a foot wide. We had one and a half miles to go, so got tossed about. We climbed aboard by rope ladder. The water came up to the funnel and one half of the ship was submerged. The smell of the rotting cargo was awful. Mr Raffel, one of the officials, told us that on one wreck, when they were salvaging the cargo, eight men were asphyxiated. Rice, when wet, rots and gives off poisonous gases. I do not think there was rice on the “Botanist”. But in the submerged hold was a brand new motor car which they could not reach. It was sad to see the waves rushing in and retreating and to hear helpless banging to and fro of cabin doors. We looked all over the dry part of the boat and helped ourselves to some bandages and medicine for the scratches and sores from our jungle adventures. We found some pickles and a bottle of lime juice from the pantry and gathered all the stray magazines we could find.

When we got back, the watcher, Marian, came at tea time and said the rogue was close to the road. The three boys set out, with two watchers. They got into some dense jungle and to their amazement they came upon one, then another and finally a third. Fortunately they had not shot when they found the first one – they could easily have been charged by the other two. As soon as the elephants got the human scent they decamped, but the boys chased the biggest of them until

coming to an almost impenetrable piece of jungle. All they could see was the trunk sniffing the air and the for-legs. The watcher urged Vernon to shoot and wound or break the leg. Vernon, the watcher, Christie and Bertie were all crouching one behind the other. When the elephant was shot in the knee, it dropped like a stone, but Vernon could not follow up the shot as he could not see through the thick and tangled bushes. Suddenly the elephant got up with an awful deafening scream and charged straight at the boys and the watchers. They could do nothing but fly for their lives. Vernon was too close even to run and he jumped behind a tree right in the path of the elephant. He cocked his rifle but knew he could not kill the elephant as it was right over him like a great house. The beast, blind with fury, rushed past the tree, its swinging tail brushing Vernon. He expected the animal to swerve, but it saw the others right in front. Christie was only five yards away, getting through and over bushes with great speed until he came to a bush intertwined with creepers like thick lattice work. He could not penetrate this, so rushed to the right and thrust his body far into the bushes and cocked his rifle. Bertie, too, had gone to the right and that fact saved their lives. The elephant went stampeding straight on through and lost sight of the boys, who were making for the road as fast as they could. Elephants have bad eye-sight in the daylight and can see only half a dozen yards in front of them. The wind was blowing from the left. All along its path the elephant was spurting blood from its knee. When the boys got to the road they found Vernon, wondering if they were still alive. A little further along, they found Marian crouching on the ground shaking like a leaf. The other watcher was nowhere to be seen but answered their calls from a distance. When everyone was re-united the first thing they said was that it was a mercy Edna and I had not come. Later on the watcher followed the bloody trail, which soon stopped. Christie was in a poor condition, legs and hands covered with blood and scratches from the jungle thorns and bushes.

Our final adventure was with another elephant. We decided to do some water-hole shooting at night. A massé (platform) had been erected in a tree, out of elephant-reach. After an early dinner we all set out in the half-light of the moon. While passing a stretch of open country we came face to face with an elephant. The watcher got between us and tried to frighten it off with all sorts of weird cries, but to our horror it came towards us. We scattered and fled. The next thing I knew I was wallowing knee-deep in a bog. I got behind some bushes and lay there until the watcher had driven the elephant into the jungle. The massé was horrible. We had to keep absolutely still while hordes of mosquitoes chewed us alive. We heard the jungle crackle while some beast made its way to the water-hole. Then the wind changed and it was useless staying any longer – our scent would be blown straight onto the pool. We all tumbled thankfully into bed a little after midnight.

Our feet are sore and most of us have to wear bandages. It is probably due to the constant rubbing of our shoes and walking through so much sand and water without stockings. We heard there is a plague in Kandy and hope it will not interfere with my departure to Europe. So far there have been only eight cases, but seven were fatal.

Christie and tracker with deer

18 DAMBULLA AND SIGIRIYA BY BICYCLE (September 1921)

Six of us from the College set out at day-break on a cycling trip to Dambulla Rock, famous for its old historic rock temples.

We cycled first to Matale, 17 miles from Kandy, including a long descent down Balakaduwa Pass. The scenery was lovely – all palm trees, paddy fields, shady streams and in the distance, the misty blue Matale Hills. We went to Dr. Weerapermall’s for morning tea and there picked up three more members of the expedition.

None of us were very rich, so we carried all our food, instead of using the Rest House at Dambulla. We had 16 loaves of bread, tins of salmon, sardines, butter, jam, milk, cocoa, tea and sugar. The Ceylonese take plenty of sugar in their tea. It is more like syrup than tea. On top of this we carried a complete change of clothes, bed linen and towels. We took a spirit-stove and kettle, which we never used. With such loads, what we looked like defies imagination.

We left Matale at 9.30 a.m. to do the twenty-eight miles to Dambulla. It was pleasant at first, but we soon got hot and thirsty. At a village we bought luke-warm lemonade at a small boutique (native shop). It is not safe to drink water at such places, as it is never boiled and one is liable to get enteric. More heat and thirst followed and our legs became wobbly and uncertain. As we had nothing to drink we consumed milk chocolate and it actually made us feel much better. Soon there was nothing but jungle on either side of us. Now and then we heard the cries of jungle-fowl near the road-side, or saw their gay plumage disappear into the jungle as we approached. Otherwise we saw no wild creatures and the jungle might have been dead, it was so silent.

We reached Dambulla after mid-day and at once went to the Rest House to swallow gallons of tea and cool drinks, until we felt strong enough to tackle some food and a sleep. After more tea and food, we set off to climb the Rock.

Dambulla Rock is a solitary outcrop of bare gneiss, which rises 500 feet from the plain and is about a mile in circumference. This Rock makes Dambulla very hot. At the foot half a dozen little boys attached themselves to us as guides, though they were not necessary. The way is quite clear, up steps cut out of the rock or made of slabs of stone. We reached the ledge where the temples are situated. They were locked, so one of our guides began to toll a bell for the priests who apparently lived somewhere lower down. We waited and waited but still no priests came. The bell was rung repeatedly and the boys called down the precipice. At last we saw them emerging from the jungle by a little path – three young boy priests in saffron robes and with shaven heads. They had not yet acquired the staid demeanour of the older priests and seemed amused at our strange assorted company. One of them carried an enormous key, 12 - 18 inches long, thick and heavy.

These temples are great caves, formed partly by overhanging rock and partly by hollowing out for three mighty caverns. Originally they were hiding places of King Walagambahu, when he was driven by the Tamils from his throne at Anuradhapura in the first century B. C. After an exile of 15 years he recovered his throne and in gratitude transformed the caves into temples.

We had to take off our shoes and leave them outside, as we were entering holy ground. Our socks and stockings got dirty, as everywhere we were stepping on candle grease. It was pitch dark inside and oppressive with the lack of ventilation and heavy-scented flowers brought as offerings by the devout. Our guides – we had collected three or four – each carried a candle to lighten the gloom. There is a strange mixture of Brahmanism and Buddhism. The most famous thing to be seen is the mighty recumbent Buddha, carved out of solid rock, with the head resting on a great stone pillow and the elbows bent. The guide said it was 20 yards long, though the guide-books say it is only 16. It was astonishing how these wonderful rock carvings were produced with the most primitive tools, usually just a nail and hammer. Opposite is a large wooden carving of the Hindu God Vishnu. All about are other figures, some of rock and some of wood – Buddhas, Hindu gods and ancient Sinhalese kings. All the figures are painted. The walls and ceilings are ornamented, depicting shrines or battles or just formal designs and decorations. Some of the paint is 2,000 years old, but many of the frescoes were re-painted 600 years ago.

When we had finished there, the priest locked the door and went to the next one. This was the Maha Vihare (Great Temple) and much larger – about 160 feet long and 50 feet deep, with a 23 foot high entrance, but only four feet high at the back. Here is a statue of King Walagambahu and about fifty others. Many are Buddhas with curly hair, sitting beneath the five or seven headed cobras and some are Hindu deities. In the frescoes there is a blending of Buddhism and Hinduism. In the middle of the floor is a great stone vessel into which water drips from the ceiling. Nobody knew where the water came from as there was no crack in the solid rock above. Despite the continuous dripping, the vessel never overflowed.

From there we went into the third cavern. But the atmosphere was too much for me and I got out as fast as I could and put my shoes over my greasy stockings. The sun was almost setting and we wanted to climb to the top of the rock. One guide undertook to show us the way, though he seemed afraid we might be benighted. We had to clamber through jungle and over loose rocks for about 50 yards on hands and knees. The view from the top was fine in the setting sun – flat jungle country with many lakes gleaming among the trees and here and there isolated hills rising up from the plains. Far away in the dim distance were the ranges of the Kandy hills. Away to the east rose Sigiri rock in lonely grandeur. We could not stay very long and in any case the wind was terrific. We clambered down again by a different route and came to a big pond in the rocks full of frogs and bull-frogs. That probably explained the mystery of the water dripping into the cave below. It was quite dark when we got back to the Rest House.

The next morning we were so refreshed that seven of us decided to cycle the seven miles to Sigiriya. But three went gaily ahead, took the wrong turn and never arrived. They cycled on for ten miles, waited an hour for us to come along, then cycled back to Dambulla. We soon discovered we

were not as fresh as we had thought. At the Sigiri Rest House we borrowed a bed-room jug, had it filled with lime squash and departed with it to the Rock. Sigiri rises sheer many hundreds of feet. Around the base are several other great boulders. Some of them have been built on and the ruins are still there.

The rock of Sigiri is of historic interest and centres around a tragedy which took place early in the fifth century A. D. [See chapter end-notes].

To ascend the rock we first climbed up the granite steps, then along a gallery. A wall about nine feet high, acts as a balustrade to the gallery and is still highly polished like marble, though it has been battered by the monsoons for 15 centuries. This high wall served as a protection against any missiles that might be hurled. Half-way up the side of the rock are some beautiful frescoes of Indian court scenes and noble ladies carrying lotus buds or baskets of flowers. These figures are wonderfully fresh after all those centuries.

From the gallery we came to a level piece of ground half way up the rock. In the cliffs above were hornet’s nests – dangerous if disturbed. Then we passed though the Lion Gateway between the lion paws and up some stairs rising almost perpendicular. Finally there were some more steps cut in the rock. We had to cling to the railing in the boisterous wind.

On the top we saw the ruins of the palace walls and the baths carved out of the rock for the king and queen. One of them was right on the edge. The water was clear as crystal and beautifully cool. The king’s throne was up there too – a wide seat carved out of the rock. Naturally, we sat on the throne. We spent more than an hour clambering over the top of the rock.

After that, we cycled back to Dambulla, arriving just before noon. After some food, we had to face the return journey to Matale – 28 miles, largely up-hill with a strong head wind and the last train

for Kandy at 3.45 p.m. It was scorchingly hot. After struggling for seven miles we lay down by the road-side to rest. I was almost at the end of my tether. Some of the party pushed on. I followed them but could not keep up. I had left three others behind, as they did not have to catch the train. I waited for the rest of the party, but there was no sign of them, so pushed on slowly, having frequent rests by the roadside. I was really thirsty and there was nothing but jungle on either side. I came to a village, but did not dare to drink the water. A Tamil woman saw me struggling and asked sympathetically: “Enna?” (What is the matter?) She ran alongside the bicycle for a while, but I could not answer her. By this time my right foot was completely out of my shoe, the sole flapping about. I was too tired to cycle up even the slightest incline and free-wheeling down any incline was almost impossible in the headwind.

Next I met two little Sinhalese boys carrying bundles of grass on their heads. They began to walk with me, chatting all the while. But I could not understand. After a while I sat down on some grass on a bank and they sat down too, facing me. Eventually they went. Opposite was a cocoa estate. I knew that when the cocoa pods reach maturity the matrix around the seed gets acidic and will quench one’s thirst for a while. I picked a pod and broke it against a tree, but it was all worm- eaten inside. I picked another, but it was too hard to break. A coolie came along with a knife in his belt and he cut it for me. Alas! It was far too young and the matrix and seeds were all a stodgy jumble. I went on further, stopping opposite a rubber estate. My throat was sore and swollen for want of a drink and my lips coated and parched. Coolie men and women were drawing water from a well and carrying it away in buckets or brass pots on their heads, but I did not dare risk drinking it. Near me was an old man grazing his cow. When he got nearer he began to say something about “thanni” (water). I gathered he was telling me that I could get a drink close by, if I went further. So I salaamed my thanks and trudged on. Only about two minutes on was a boutique with bottles of lemonade!

By now the sun was setting and I had to shove on, wondering where the others were. I still had seven miles of mostly up-hill to Matale. Then Dr Weerapermall appeared in his car. The vanguard of our party had missed the train and gone to the bungalow long before and he came to gather up the stragglers. I waited while he picked up the other three. We enjoyed a hot bath and a clean change of clothes and I borrowed some shoes. We all stayed the night and were thoroughly bitten by mosquitoes. Then we caught the train to Kandy.

My skin is burned a deep brown and I might easily be Sinhalese. I got back to an empty bungalow and a servant who seemed to think I had a mania for beans. It was the only vegetable he served for all the breakfasts and dinners for the next week. I spent the next day drinking. The others were not in such a bad plight, partly because they risked the water and partly because I was unseasoned after my year in Europe. However, I was not stiff, only saddle-sore and desperately sleepy. I alternatively slept and drank for the next few days. After all, ninety miles in the low-country of Ceylon on bicycles in two days was no joke. My feet and legs are covered with mosquito bites, extending even to my body. The irritation is exasperating. That was the legacy of our cycle trip, but it was well worth it.

Now Eva Martin is back at the bungalow and her first meal was celebrated with carrots instead of beans. But that was only a temporary respite and we soon relapsed to beans. School begins again this week, with the return of the housekeeper and a change of vegetables, I hope.

Sigiriya History

Dhatu Sen was a royal prince, but owing to the supremacy of the Tamils at the time, he was brought up in retirement by a Buddhist Monk, named Mahanama. He became a priest. But at last the cruelty and devastations of the Tamils roused him from his life of contemplation and he determined to regain the throne for the Sinhalese. He succeeded, drove out the Tamils and gradually brought peace and happiness to the country.

Though he seemed to be all that was kind and noble in himself, he had a streak of cruelty in his disposition. He had married his only daughter, whom he greatly loved, to his commander-in-chief. One day he heard that his son-in-law had beaten his beloved daughter in a horrible manner. In revenge, he seized the culprit’s mother and put her to death with great cruelty. The son-in-law then conspired with the King’s son, Kasyapa, to dethrone Dhatu Sen. The king was seized and thrown into prison, in spite of the protests of Moggallama, another of his sons and Moggallana had to flee for his life to India.

The son-in-law then persuaded the new king Kasyapa that his father had hidden a great treasure and Kasyapa sent messengers to his father to demand that he should reveal the hiding place. Dhatu Sen realised that it was a plot against his life and replied: “It is well that I should die after I have beheld my old friends again and bathed myself in the waters of Kala Wewa” and he promised to reveal the treasure if he were taken to Kala Wewa, a huge irrigation tank he himself had built. Kasyapa was delighted and had his father taken there in a chariot. But when the king had bathed and drunk the Kala Wewa waters, he pointed to the old monk, Mahanama and the lake waters and said to his guards: “These are all the treasures I possess.” In disappointed rage, Kasyapa handed him over to the commander-in-chief, who stripped him naked, bound him in chains and walled up the entrance to his prison and so left him to die.

By this time Kasyapa had become very unpopular and was afraid that his brother might bring an army against him from India. So he retired from his city Anuradhapura, to this lonely rock of Sigiri, which he proceeded to fortify. He built a spiral gallery around it so that he could climb the precipitous rock. Then he built a rampart around it, gathered in all his treasures and lived in luxury in the palace which he had built on the top.

He tried to wipe out the memory of his past crimes by various acts of merit, such as the building of monasteries and grants of land to the priesthood. But one day Moggallana, his brother, came with a mighty army and invaded the island. Instead of remaining in his impregnable fortress, Kasyapa descended to the plains. As he rode his elephant he came to a deep marsh and turned back to find another route. His followers thought he was fleeing and broke into headlong confusion. Kesyapa committed suicide on the field.

There is another version of his death – that he ordered a signal to be given in case of defeat, while he watched from the rock. Through a misunderstanding the wrong signal was given and Kasyapa in despair first hurled his wife down the precipice and then threw himself down after her. They were both dashed to pieces.

POLONNARUWA (January 1924)

Eva and I did this trip with some guests from Melbourne, who were staying at our bungalow. The hired car turned up early on New Year’s Day. It was a glorious morning, so we felt things augured well. It had been raining for weeks on end and heavy monsoon rains often make low-country roads impassable. Small streams overflow, culverts get blocked, or bunds burst and let out all the tank water. During the north-east monsoon, all this part of Ceylon gets the heaviest rain and we were going right into it. No roads had been declared impassable, but often we had to drive through long stretches of water, where the road was quite invisible and we could judge our direction only from its reappearance on the other side. Often we rushed through sending out showers of spray on either side, like great silver wings. On one of these we passed a motor bicycle with a lady passenger in the side car. I fear they must have got a fine ducking.

We got down to Matale in good time and the view over the distant hills was as lovely as ever. Matale really is wonderfully situated, in a long valley with hills beyond. It was full of colour after the rains and fine mists were scurrying over the mountains. Beyond Matale we passed through the rubber and cocoa plantations. This is also the pepper-growing district and most of the trees near the road were clad with green creepers with little bunches of pepper corns hung from them like diminutive bunches of grapes. Graceful young girls and women were carrying brass water pots on their heads or shoulders. They wore anklets and necklaces and ear-rings – a lovely picture of Oriental beauty. We passed a broken suspension bridge that had stood high above the stream. But the rain had loosened the fixtures at one end and it was now hanging far below water-level. The paddy-fields were brilliant emerald in the morning light.

We drove straight through Matale’s main street, with its long row of Moorish shops and other boutiques. The day’s work had begun. Buddhist priests, in their saffron robes were on their daily rounds carrying their begging bowls and palmyra-palm sunshades, still furled. They always walk in procession in single-file and make a wonderful picture against the intensely green back-ground. The bright scarlet, red, orange and blue of the villagers’ sarongs and saris all seem to harmonise and the only blot on the landscape is the ugly coat and trouser arrangement of the European costume. Unfitting, too, is the motor-car as contrasted with the slow jolting of bullock-carts, whose arched roofs are made of dried palm leaves drawn by bulls with heavy wooden yokes between their big humps and necks. Nevertheless, I would not have enjoyed making our trip in a bullock-cart, or wearing the heavy draperies of some of the graceful women.

We branched off the main road at Habarana to drive on to Polonnaruwa. We passed through many miles of jungle, seeing various kinds of monkeys, moose deer, snakes, squirrels, jackals and some lovely birds in all shades of yellow, golden, grey and blue.

The Rest House at Polonnaruwa is built right on the edge of a tank – the Topa Wewa. It is not as large as some tanks, but is beautiful. There were numerous water-birds swimming about or fishing. There was the huge pelican, like a great white swan as it plied gracefully to and fro. Every now and then it would dip down and bring out a wriggling fish, which it stuffed into its pouch. Then there was the black cormorant with its long, snake-like neck. Its favourite position seemed to be to stand on rock on tip-toe with wings outspread. It stayed like that for hours on end. There were large flocks of teal, to delight the sportsman’s heart. Some of the most interesting birds were the various kinds of divers that hovered ready-poised in mid-air and then suddenly shot straight down into the water to bring out an unhappy fish each time. We saw a great eagle sitting on a branch at the water’s edge. It saw us coming but was quite undisturbed. We tried to frighten it away, but it merely flew to another tree a few yards off. There were also hawks or kites. At sunset the teal circled around high up over the water. Then gradually everywhere sleepy birds began to croon lullabies from their beds in the rushes. Occasionally we heard a swish in the water, but there was nothing to be seen. It might have been a frog or tortoise or crocodile. Over it all, the sunset clouds grew crimson and then came the dark and utter stillness, fire-flies, star-light and a myriad of lake-insects.

One visits Polonnaruwa for its ruins or for hunting. We visited it for the ruins. They are not as old as those at Anuradhapura and date mostly from the time of the Tamil King, Parakrama Bahu I, who practically built the city. He was a brilliant king who reigned in Ceylon in the twelfth century, between two periods of national chaos and depression. Anuradhapura, the great capital, had gradually declined owing to constant wars between the Sinhalese, Tamils and South Indians. Finally during the Tamil ascendancy in the reign of Parakrama Bahu, Polonnaruwa became the capital, a large city whose ruins still stand. The ruins were not so much due to the age of the ancient city as to wanton destruction on the part of the South Indian Cholyans. Anuradhapura had been the capital of the Sinhalese and then it fell into the hands of the Tamils. Gradually Polonnaruwa began to rival Anuradhapura as the seat of the kings and eventually entirely replaced it when Anuradhapura was sacked and plundered. The buildings at Polonnaruwa were a mixture of the old style of Anuradhapura and the Tamil art of the twelfth century. The ruins extended for about four miles north and south, about the Topa Wewa [see further description and history at chapter end-notes]. After the rain some of the paths were largely under water soaking our shoes. Everywhere were grey bearded monkeys with black faces, leaping from branch to branch in the trees above.

While we were there it began to rain hard, so we took refuge under the arms of a figure. We reached up to his hips and he kept us dry for a while, but when he began to drip uncomfortably, we left him to his solitary meditations in the jungle, while we hurried back to the Rest House.

More on Polonnaruwa History

Quite close to the Rest House are the ruins of some of the most important buildings – the Kings’ Council Chamber, with forty-eight stone pillars, half still standing. Around the stone basement are carvings of lions, elephants, geese and dwarfs. Nearby is a huge brick Audience Hall, completely ruined and a mausoleum,

most of whose walls are still standing. Further on is a large raised citadel on which stood the palace of the kings. The citadel space is about 440 yards by 250. The Palace, as far as one could see then, is all of brick, with many rooms, courts and halls. Parts of the high walls are still standing.

Close by is a really fine little building practically un-ruined. It is the Hindu Kovil or Temple of Siva and built altogether of stone. It is divided into three chambers and beautifully preserved. A little further on is another square raised platform on which are some of the finest ruins. There is the Watadage - a circular relic house, surrounded by a brick wall and some fine stone carvings. In the centre is a dagaba with four entrances and a large stone Buddha facing each entrance. Then there is the great Thuparama – a large shrine with its roof still standing. Inside are images of Buddha and a flight of stairs leading to the roof. From the top one gets a fine view over the ruins – preaching halls, stone railings, inscriptions on slabs of stone, carvings of ganas, or dwarfs, all dancing in different attitudes, some even standing on their heads. One large slab has a long inscription on it about one of the kings, Nissanka Malla, who was supposed to be greatly devoted to works of charity. It is 28 feet high, five feet across and two and a half feet thick. This slab was brought all the way from Mihintale, a distance of about 50 miles - one wonders how it was done. Nearby is the Temple of the Tooth, built of stone, with very queer curved pillars.

One of the most wonderful ruins was the Jetawanarama – a huge Buddhist temple of brick, with a narrow entrance and towering walls like a cathedral. At the end of it is a large brick figure of Buddha, standing upright on a stone platform. When we stood alongside we reached only half-way to the knees.

About a quarter of a mile away through the jungle is the Gal Vihare or Rock Temple. The rock on the sides of the cave has been carved into three huge Buddhas – one sedent, one standing and one recumbent (45 feet long). From there, we walked through the jungle still further to the Demala Maha Seya, a fairly well preserved temple. On the walls inside are still some of the original paintings – mostly of conventional geometric designs.

About a mile from the Rest House through the jungle at the far end of Topa Wewa is the statue of a man carved in an outcrop of solid rock. He has a long beard and conical cap on his head. In his hands he carries an open book – the ola leaf. It was popularly known as the statue of King Parakrawa, really the image of an Indian sage or philosopher. He was tutor to the gods and the scroll portrayed that the lucky hour for building Polonaruwa had come.

TRINCOMALEE (January 1924)

On the way from Polonnaruwa to Trincomalee, we passed several tanks. The first was small and very beautiful. The jungle-clad hills came right down to the water’s edge.

Further on and a little way off the road was Minneriya, one of the largest, about 20 miles round. We saw several crocodiles lying flat in the water, like logs of wood. This tank, known as the “Killarney of Ceylon” was lovely. We walked along the bund for some distance and it seemed to get more beautiful all the time. Under a large tree over-looking the water, we came across some stone figures, known as the Gods of Minneriya. They are more likely to be images of King Maha Sena, who built the tank in the third century and some of his courtiers. They looked lonely and forlorn standing in a row along the bank. Some devout people had brought them offerings of flowers and rice. Again, the hills came right down to the water. There were numerous bays and headlands and wonderful shadows and reflections in the water.

Not far from Trincomalee we passed another tank – Kantalai. We had a splendid view of it as the road passed right along the bund.

This is all wonderful shooting country with its thick jungle everywhere for big game and the tanks for birds. Like so many parts of Ceylon it is malarial.

From Trincomalee we walked to Fort Ostenberg, an old Dutch fort on one of the headlands in the harbour. We thought the harbour must be one of the most beautiful in the world. It reminded me of Sydney Harbour, but the hills were higher and not built on. Three battle cruisers were in – “Southampton”, “Colombo” and “Cairo”. The “Sydney” was due later on. The harbour is going to be used again as a naval base. It was abandoned some time ago by the British. Before them, it was used by the Dutch.

Grey monkeys were sitting on the walls of the Fort, or playing in the court-yard. A large grey one seemed to resent our intrusion. He sat there making horrible grimaces at us, poking out his head and drawing up his nose and upper lip. His wife came up and advised him to get along, but he refused. He was not going to be ousted by silly foreigners. His grimaces increased in intensity. After a time I returned the compliment, to receive a gasp of surprise and annoyance.

The next morning we drove along the harbour esplanade, in the rain. We came to a group of fishermen hauling in a big drag-net. A small boy was trying to take a hand with the men. He wore a sailor cap, but was otherwise scantily clad. The fishermen wore an assortment of hats, some ladies’ hats. Some had a brim without a crown. Some had a crown without a brim. Some men wore two hats of different shapes and colours on top of each other. As the nets were being dragged in, hosts of fish were jumping away and we felt sure none would be left. But when the net came in it was bulging – fish of all colours, shapes and sizes. The small boy brought a basket. He began

helping the men clear the net, incidentally filling his hands with some nice fish and surreptitiously stuffing them into his basket. He was told to go, but he was like an eel dodging about and managed to slip his hands in again and again without being seen. Sometimes I thought the fishermen pretended they did not see and the boy soon got his basket full to over-flowing.

When we got to the pier, it was full of men fishing. Off the end was a man in a boat, fishing for sardines with his hands. He sprinkled some bait on the water and when crowds of little fish came up to eat, he quickly caught some in his hands and threw them into the boat. The water was alive with sardines and the man had caught hundreds. As we watched he became less successful. He stopped, muttering to himself. Our driver explained that it was because we were watching. We had brought the ‘evil eye’ and ruined his success.

In the afternoon we drove to Fort Frederick on the ocean side, to see the famous Swamy Rock ceremony. The Swamy rock juts out from a mass of boulders about a hundred feet sheer from the water, on the edge of the Fort Frederick headland. The rocks form a sort of great cavern. Once many years ago the Hindus had a temple there – perhaps dedicated to a sea-god. The Swamy Rock is one of the three spots from which the Hindu God, Siva, recited his mantarams when he came South, so it was more likely to be a Siva temple. It is a wild and mysterious place. When the Portuguese came they deliberately destroyed the temple and refused to allow the HIndus to worship there. Now the British allow them to come to this spot and hold their ceremony from the Swamy Rock twice a week. On Fridays the high-caste Hindus come and on Mondays the low-caste. We saw the Friday ceremony.

Soon after five, the worshippers, chiefly men, dressed in white, filmy robes, began to collect on the rocks just above the Swamy Rock. Each one stood with his hands clasped above his head and made his prayer to the god. They all brought coconuts, leaves and flower offerings and some brought candles or little oil lamps to light on the rocks. Soon the Brahmin priest came, swathed in the same filmy robes from his waist, with an embroidered scarf thrown over his shoulders. Over his left shoulder he wore the cord which all Brahmins wear. Around his neck was a long string of brown and gold beads and around his brow a chaplet of the same. Then he began to prepare for the ceremony. He had several brass vessels in which he put the leaves and flowers. Some of the coconuts he broke against the rock and caught the milk in another brass vessel. All the time the ceremony was going on, a man was beating on a gong and the worshippers bowed their heads in prayer and repeated aloud some formula, which we did not understand. Then the priest took a small brazier, filled it with oil and lit it. The wind was strong and the flames leapt from the brazier. Then the priest held it aloft over his head, a bell rang and all the worshippers cried aloud, while the priest recited some holy mantarams. Next he began to throw the leaves and flowers into the sea, but most of them the wind caught and carried them high up into the air. Some circled back amongst the worshippers, who caught them and pressed them to their brows or lips. Several times the ceremony was repeated. Then the priest hurled with all his might one of the coconuts on to the rocks below, so that it shattered to pieces.

Near us were standing two Hindu women – one young and the other old, in widow’s robes. There was sorrow written all over their faces. In the older woman’s face was more resignation, but the younger one seemed full of some longing denied. After raising the brazier three times over the priest’s head, one of the worshippers sang a beautiful Tamil religious ode. Then the priest recited another long incantation and the ceremony drew to a close. He took a jar of coconut milk and gave some to each worshipper. Some drank it, others smeared it on their bodies or anointed their heads. Next he took around some ashes and they smeared these on their brows. After that he handed them some sandal-wood mixed with water and each worshipper put a spot right in the middle of his forehead. The rest they smeared on their necks, arms and bodies. Finally, he gave each man a small leaf and yellow flower and they put in their hair. Before they left many of them prostrated themselves three times, touching the rock with their foreheads and temples. The younger woman near us did this with tremendous intensity.

I found the ceremony awe inspiring, but poetical in such a setting - the wind blowing the white flowing robes of the worshippers, the priest with the flaming lamp above his head and sheer down a hundred feet the surging waves beating against the rocks and away in the distance the setting sun. It might well have been some ancient Greek ceremony to Poseidon, god of the sea. Nearly all the people in Trincomalee are fishers, so the sea would naturally need to be appeased more than any other element.

AN ELEPHANT KRAAL (March 1924)

I had been wondering how I could get to the elephant kraal in the Kurunegala district, when I realised that Alfred, one of our old Kandyan boys and a great friend of mine, was President of that district. I wrote to him and received a very warm invitation from him. He undertook to drive Eva and me the 65 miles from Kurunegala to Kraal Town, in the heart of the jungle.

We were duly met at the station by Alfred and taken to his house for tea. Here we were joined by the other two Australians on our staff – the “Uncle” and Stanley and half a dozen Kandyans. After tea we packed into three cars and set out for a Rest House, where we had ordered dinner. It was beautiful as the sun set and later there was a slender moon, stars and silent jungle.

After dinner we drove the last 25 miles to Kraal Town. At 11.30 p.m. we arrived at the barrier and were stopped by a policeman who wanted to see our passes. There were eleven of us and Alfred was the only one with a pass. We were not allowed inside. Alfred left us waiting for an hour while he tried to collect passes. Every now and then we heard gun-shots and men shouting, to keep the herd of elephants from breaking through the cordon. At last Alfred returned with enough passes borrowed from friends inside to get us in. Next day a friend of his got us some beater’s tickets and on those we were allowed inside the ‘Town’ itself.

When there is going to be a kraal, weeks beforehand villagers or professional beaters form a big circle around a herd of wild elephants. This circle may have a diameter of three miles or more. Gradually, day by day, the beaters draw in closer to confine the elephants to a smaller space, aided by watch fires at night and guns and noise during the day. Meanwhile a stockade is built in the jungle, covering an acre of big trees. A water pipe is laid on and a small artificial pond dug in the water. The walls of the stockade are made of stakes and branches of trees tied firmly together. From the encircled herd to the stockade a narrowing funnel is similarly built and camouflaged with leaves and tree branches. Once the leading elephant enters the stockade and finds the water, all follow. Then the entrance is closed and the beaters with guns and spears encircle the stockade to make sure the elephants do not break through. Beyond the stockade on the side opposite the funnel is Kraal Town. The village Headman and Ratemahatmayas of the districts and others interested gather some time before the kraal and put up tents and temporary wooden shacks to form a little town in the heart of the jungle, with a barrier all around to keep out wild beasts.

When we arrived the elephants were only half a mile from the stockade and the drive-in was to take place next morning. The elephants were fierce as they were already in the funnel and had been without water for some time. All night the beaters were on the alert at the watch fires in three concentric rings. We could see none of this, as the jungle was dense.

The next morning we all took our places outside the stockade near the funnel. But the Government Agent sent us away, as we were not beaters and it was too dangerous. We were disappointed, but had to be satisfied with positions on the town-side of the stockade on two raised platforms, but it was impossible to see across the stockade, due to the thick jungle.

The beaters yelled, shot blank cartridges and beat tom-toms to frighten the herd. The din got closer to the stockade. Suddenly there was dead silence. We knew the herd had broken through the line of beaters and very soon they were far away. The trouble was that one cow elephant had a baby and that made the herd particularly fierce. There was also a rogue amongst them. There were three herds together, about 45 in all. All the people left their platforms and the beaters left their places around the stockade.

In the afternoon they tried again. This time the men had been given more guns and not only blank cartridges and they were told to shoot freely. Again the noise began and bullets whizzed dangerously through the air and several struck the branches of the trees under which we were standing. One man – a beater – was shot in the leg and we saw him being carried away. The cries got closer until it seemed as if they were right in the stockade. Then the elephants broke through again. It was a disaster and almost unknown to have two such failures. This time they were within a few yards of the stockade when a cow elephant turned wildly and the beaters had only just enough time to leap aside, while the whole herd stampeded. They got only half a mile away, but there could be no further attempt until next day. A third failure would mean abandonment of the whole kraal. We did not see the finish, as the four members of staff had to be back at school next day.

We left at 4.30 by car for the nearest station, Talawakelle, 13 miles away. The Rest House was crowded and we had to sleep on the cement verandah or on chairs. Our train left at 3.20 a.m. for Kurunegala, where we arrived two hours later. Then we hired a car back to Kandy.

We were disappointed not to see the end, but it was an exciting experience. We heard what happened afterwards. At the third attempt they had to shoot the cow elephant and a rogue and so they got the herd into the stockade. One baby elephant was drowned in the pond and that sent its mother mad. She charged the stockade three times and if she had broken through, lives would have been forfeited. She tried in three different places and was driven back each time by the guns and spears.

After they catch a herd they separate any wild elephant from the rest, while noosers rush out from under the bellies of the tame elephants, noose its legs and tie it to a tree. They always noose the baby first, as these are liable to be trampled to death. Then the noosed elephants are left to starve for a while until they become more amenable. They are then led away between two tame elephants and gradually taught the arts of civilised life! Many die as a result of fear and strain, as they pull hard at their chains. Of this herd of 45 only 19 survived.

The Moors have a different method for catching elephants. They watch for the track in the jungle. Then they dig a hole, place a noose ready in it and disguise it all with twigs and branches. At just the right distance from the hidden hole they place a dry twig across the path. An elephant, which walks silently, will never step on a dry twig. So it lifts one fore-foot over the twig and steps right into the hole. The Moor, who has been hiding, pulls the rope and winds it tightly around the tree and the elephant is caught. He then nooses the other legs and leaves the elephant to starve and thirst for a few days before leading it away between two tame elephants.

Finally there is a story about a wild elephant, as told me by one of my pupils a few days ago. There were several people working near their hut at the edge of the forest. Suddenly they saw a wild elephant coming towards them. They fled into the hut and quite forgot the baby they had left lying on the ground. The elephant approached the child and remained still for a little while. Then it retreated a short distance and waited, but the people were too scared to come out and fetch the baby. The elephant then returned, picked up the child in its trunk, placed it on the verandah of the hut and retreated. When it saw the people had taken the child inside it disappeared into the jungle. I do not vouch for the truth of this story, but it is quite possible. Many animals will not harm babies.

CASTE AND CUSTOMS (May 1926)

I have been hearing a lot lately about caste in Ceylon, especially in Jaffna, the peninsula in the north. The people there are Tamils, as in South India, but they speak a purer Tamil than the Indian Tamils, or so they say. The people are all Hindu and there are many Hindu rites and ceremonies which have no place in the Buddhist part of Ceylon. Caste plays a more prominent part and in the schools, high caste children will not sit with low-caste children. The low caste children in a government school have to stand outside the door or window to get their education the best way they can.

In the rest of Ceylon, this extreme caste feeling has largely disappeared, except in the case of marriages. Some of the lower caste people in Ceylon, the so-called “fisher-caste”, are handsome, well-educated and cultured. Many are wealthy and have been educated in the best English schools and universities. Once, a daughter of a wealthy family was married to a cultured and well- educated man of the same caste. Over a thousand guests attended the wedding. The English community was represented by the Governor, Director of Education, the Bishop, Principals of leading colleges and many government officials. The Queen sent a message of good wishes by cable. The presents included motor cars, pianos, thorough-bred horses, a plate of sovereigns, expensive jewels and so on. But no Sinhalese family of high rank attended the wedding and they would have felt outraged if they had been invited. At school their children might mix and be friends, but afterwards there would be no social intercourse at all. Until recently, high caste Kandyan families would not inter-marry with low-country Sinhalese of good caste. Even now there is opposition on the part of the older generation when it occurs. But much of this rigidity is breaking down and Ceylon has become more democratic in outlook.

Family ties and obligations are much stronger in Ceylon than in the West. The father is the head of the family. Later on when he dies the oldest son takes his place. Even when his brothers and sisters are married and have children of their own, he is still regarded as the head of the clan and his advice is sought and taken in most important matters. He, as the head of the clan, feels responsibility for every member of the clan – even to the extent of providing dowries when the girls’ father are not in a position to do it.

I once stayed with Mr W__, head of the W__ clan, the brother of Mrs P__. When she married Mr P__, who is English, the feeling was bitter. After seven years they were reconciled, but Mr P__ and his Eurasian children, whose tastes are far more English than Sinhalese, obviously do not fit into the clan. Though they visit their relatives and are proud of them, there is a difference. Now his son has fallen in love with his cousin, Connie M__, and Mrs W__ is opposed to any idea of marriage between them. He wants Connie to marry one of her own people and not be lost to the clan.

There is again coolness between the families. The Sinhalese are proud and conservative and dislike inter-marriage as much as the English do.

Closely connected with this is the strong family feeling in Ceylon and family obligation. Here it is understood that brothers will shoulder the burdens of family education and support members of the family who are unsupported. This feeling extends to cousins or even more remote relations. Many members of the staff have not only their own children to provide for. Sometimes impecunious relatives take advantage of this and become parasites.

There is the feeling of absolute authority of the father even in questions of marriage. This attitude is gradually passing. Great respect is felt by younger members of the family for their elders. No son would dream of smoking in the presence of his father and in every way he treats him with the greatest respect. English education is undermining this attitude of respect.

The Sinhalese never refer to “my wife” or “my husband”. They use circumlocution. Plain “he” means “my husband”. “My wife” is “my son’s mother”. So the husband and wife never call each other by name. A younger child never uses the name of his brother or sister but always “brother” or “sister” and refers to them as “big brother” and “big sister”. A father simply calls his boy “son”. For the same reason many boys at school will not call us “sir”, it becomes “madam”. They have not the same difficulty with masters as they are naturally ‘sir’.

It is never considered proper that the sisters should sit down at table before their brothers. Usually the sisters wait on their brothers before they have their own meal, or if there are servants the sisters sit down with their brothers but never before them. If the brothers are late, the sisters wait for them.

Muslim girls leave school at the ages of 10 – 12 years, before they mature. A girl is considered to come of age when she first becomes ‘unwell’ at the age of 12 or 13 or earlier. This is considered a great event. The girl is taken home and put to bed. The friends and relatives are informed. There is rejoicing, feasting and ceremonies are performed. Presents are given. Amongst the Kandyans, the girl wears the tail of her sari thrown over her shoulder. Children wear it tucked in. They wait until they are a little older until their fathers find a husband. They marry at about 15 – 16 years, or even younger. Some fathers feel that this is not right, but they are afraid to stand up against the community.

The conventions of courtship are strict. It is usually considered indecent for a young man and woman to be alone together and certainly for the young man to hold the hand of his bride elect would be regarded as very bad. But these conventions are breaking down with European contact. Europeans are considered ‘different’ and so may do things which they cannot.

At a Buddhist wedding it is the uncle who ties the knot. The father and mother are each presented with betel by the bride while the older men chant songs of good wishes. The young bride prostrates herself and ‘worships’ her parents and the parents of her husband and receives their

blessing. She then serves her husband at table with rice and water. When he has eaten she sits down and he serves her.

Weddings in Ceylon are a great liability to poorer people. They are elaborate and often far exceed the family purse. But to be less than lavish would bring shame on the family. The guests and relatives wear wonderful and expensive clothes, which sometimes have to be hired, if the family is poor. Then there is the wedding cake, often as many as eighteen storeys high, all beautifully iced and handsomely decorated with doves and harps and flowers in coloured icing. It is astonishing, until one discovers that it is made only of cardboard iced over and the same structure is hired out to many different weddings. But in the bottom storey is a door out of which are take little packets of cake, all neatly wrapped in tissue paper and handed to the guests.

If a Sinhalese husband is left a widower it is quite customary for him to marry his deceased wife’s sister. He may marry several times – even the third or fourth sister.

For Moorish Muslim marriages the bride is arrayed on a raised seat from around 6.30 a.m. There she sits for three or four hours with lowered eyes, without uttering a word. After this time her costume is changed and she is brought back again. She sits in this way for the whole day, right through the reception and apparently takes no notice at all of the proceedings.

Funerals may be a great expense, as a funeral feast has to be given to the friends of the bereaved. Apart from that the Buddhist priests are entertained at a special feast some time after the funeral. Quite often we hear the tom-toms and pipes of the Sinhalese funeral dirge as the procession passes down the street. It is one of the saddest rhythms I have ever heard.

A few days ago I passed a strange funeral taking place in the street. The deceased was probably a man of the Appu (head-servant) class, as there were many appus in the procession. First there was an atrocious band, playing out of tune. Then came a motor-car, having difficulty keeping to the slow pace. Every now and then it banged into the drum or stopped altogether, holding up the whole procession. Then it started with a jerk. Across the backs of the seats rested the coffin. All around it, under it and standing on the steps of the car were the mourners, hanging on to the coffin to stop falling off. They were not going to be done out of a motor-ride.

Mr George de Siva was accused of the following. At a Municipal meeting one member advised that the Lake could be improved if a number of gondolas were introduced. “There is no need for a number,” said George, “Why not get a pair and leave the rest to nature?”

MEETINGS WITH SNAKES (July 1927)

On our way to Anuradhapura by bus recently, we passed two gipsy camps on the edge of the jungle. These gipsies are said to be of Tamil origin and to come from South India. The women dress gaily, but they are all dirty, like most gipsies the world over. They keep herds of goats which they sell to the villagers, Their babies are hung from the branches of trees in a cloth, like a hammock. They swing to and fro in the wind and are quickly rocked to sleep. On their camping ground the gipsies build themselves tiny semi-circular shelters of palm-leaves, just large enough for one or two people. Snake-charmers often travel in their company and some of the gipsies themselves are snake-charmers. Though snakes are said to be deaf, there is no doubt that the charmers attract them by means of the flute or pipe. They go along to the jungle’s edge and pipe and pipe, until at last a snake is charmed by the music. Then they tease the snake and defend themselves with a cloth which the snake bites. As soon as they get an opportunity they seize the snake just below the head with their hand, thrust a stick into its mouth and so break out the poison teeth and extract the poison. After this operation the snake lies still, as if dead. Then the charmer seizes it and carries it off in a little round basket. He will never kill the snake, because he believes that if he does he will lose his power and fall victim to a snake in the future. The process of snake-catching may be painful to the snake, but the charmer never fails to catch one if he requires it. Most charmers carry a mongoose about with them as well and in their performances they often stage a mongoose and cobra fight. The mongoose nearly always gets the better of it, as it grips the snake below the head. A charmer naturally never allows a fight to the death.

Most of the snakes used by the charmers are cobras. They are among the deadliest of Ceylon snakes and may grow to a length of six feet and are brownish in colour. A Sinhalese man had a wife who was terrified of these reptiles. One day he killed a cobra and placed it in the room to cure his wife of her terror. When she went into the room he heard her screams but took no notice. Later on he went in and found his wife lying dead. She had been bitten by a live cobra which had come to seek its mate. When one kills a snake it is always safest to burn it.

Another Sinhalese man would not kill the snake that haunted his garden, but with his milk he attracted it into a chatti (earthenware pot) and let it float down the river. Further along another man saw the chatti and in retrieving it was stung by the snake and died.

As the cobra is the king of snakes, so the rat-snake is regarded as a low-caste snake. Hence if one is bitten by a rat-snake, no other snake will bite and one becomes immune. Of course the difficulty is to get a rat-snake to bite at all, as it is very timid.

Another deadly snake is the mapila. It is pale brown, with darker lines and not very long. A few days ago one of our masters said he found one in his house, killed it and burned it. Next day there was another in exactly the same spot.

But the deadliest of all is the tik-pollonga. It is not as long as the cobra and is brown, with dark diamond shaped marks on its back. It is said that after a cobra bite one may live for 17 minutes, but when a tik-pollonga has bitten, one is dead in three. One of these was killed on the college farm a few days ago. It was among the pineapples and darted at the coolies, who fled. They severed its head with a mammoty. The fangs of the teeth curved like hooks, each with a little hole in it, from the poison gland.

There is a current belief that a cobra will always swallow a tik-pollonga. The other day a man found a tik-pollonga in the undergrowth of our playing-field at Asgiriya. To test the theory, he put a cobra there and he swore to us that it had swallowed the tik – he had seen it with his own eyes!

One late afternoon some men arrived at our bungalow with a large python in a bag. They had caught it in Lady Horton’s, as it was very sluggish after a large meal. They offered it to us for five rupees. Eva and I examined it and decided it would make us some lovely pairs of shoes. When we asked them to kill it they refused. They said they were Buddhists and it was against their religion to take life. So there we were with a live python, 16 feet long, on our hands. The Senior Prefect undertook to despatch it and cure it for us and he took away the bundle in the bag. He put it under his bed in the dormitory for the night. The next day during the breakfast interval while many of the boys were in the dormitory, they decided to give the python an airing. The snake meanwhile had digested its food and become very lively. It began to dart about after the smaller boys and there was pandemonium. Finally with great difficulty they got it back into the bag. But the housekeeper became alarmed and as soon as the boys went down to afternoon school, he got a rifle from the armoury, opened the bag and shot the python through the head. Later on the prefects skinned it and cured the skin with salt and alum. After a week they gave it back to us and we hung it up for a while. But when we examined it we found great chunks seemed to peel off and it looked rather moth-eaten. So we decided it was badly cured, rolled it up and stowed it away. A few weeks later, to make quite certain, I took it along to a shoe-maker. He was most enthusiastic, said it would make a beautiful skin and he would make us some lovely shoes. The shoes certainly looked grand when he had finished, but for weeks afterwards we left little mounds of scales around us wherever we sat. In the end the peeling process stopped and our shoes were then the admiration of everyone who beheld them.

FROM THE BUNGALOW (1927)

Pole-cats haunt our ceilings. These are the filthiest creatures. They come in from the jungle, especially at night time, climb up our verandah posts or drain pipes and finally get on to the ceiling under the tiled roof. During the night they run up and down, squeaking and chasing rats or each other, beating the ceiling with their tails and otherwise making a fearful din and keeping us awake. Often an evil-smelling shower will descend from above and make the room uninhabitable until the mess has been cleared up and the abominable stench counteracted with an equally powerful disinfectant poured on the infected area. One day a dhobi brought back my clothes nicely washed, ironed and folded. I was rash enough to leave them exposed overnight and the next day they all had to be sent away again. One night a cat performed on my bed and just avoided my head.

An attempt was made to render our bungalow pole-cat proof. The men took the tiles off the roof to get inside and there they found a large male creature. It refused to budge, for pole-cats always turn at bay when they are cornered. So it had to be shot. It measured 44 inches from nose to tail and was a hideous, scraggy animal, greyish, with dark stripes on its back. Podisinho, our chief house-boy and cook, skinned it, then dried it in the sun, put it together again, stuffed it and mounted it on a board. But the skin had got so elongated in the process that it looked more like a pre-historic reptile with legs spread wide apart. He put some feathers in its mouth in most realistic fashion and presented the trophy to me with great pride. For a decent interval we had it on show on our dining-room almirah. When poor Podisinho had to leave us because he developed T B we presented it to the College Nature Study room, where it was possibly better appreciated.

I was very fond of Podisinho and missed him very much. He was a generous and faithful servant, but his memory was poor. He loved to give me fried eggs for morning tea and in spite of my almost daily chiding he found it difficult to remember or perhaps understand. At last I thought I had made it clear that he was on no account to give me more than two each week. Then one week I had them on Monday, on Wednesday, on Thursday with bacon and again on Friday. By this time I was really feeling upset and I said to Podisinho: “I telling you I wanting only two in one week. You giving me fried egg yesterday and fried egg the day before and today fried egg again.” “No, missy,” he replied gently, “yesterday not having fried egg – having fried egg and bacon.”

Podisinho was specially attached to me and tried to keep my room tidy. He had a habit of making newspaper parcels of everything and putting them out of sight in some corner. Sometimes I spent ages looking for things and would finally discover them in some parcel. These parcels contained such mixtures as one glove, a stocking, a camera, a jumper, a belt, some luggage labels and a shoe. He used to mend my sheets, slippers and bed-spreads – not necessarily with the right coloured cotton, but very neatly done. One day I found that a tear in my grey rain-coat had been mended with bright purple silk.

Then Podisinho developed hay fever badly and consumption slightly, as we found when we sent him to be overhauled by a doctor. He simply would not believe that he had it. He wept and assured me: “Doctors always telling these things against cooks and then sending to the hospital.” His wife completely turned against us. She had been very friendly before and presented me with d’oyleys and antimacassars of her own crocheting. She believed it was all a plot to get rid of her husband and glared at us stonily when we went to see her. Meanwhile we had to support her and the two children. After six weeks Podisinho came back cured and expecting to be taken on again by us. But he was not supposed to cook any longer and ought not to have remained in Kandy where the climate was too damp. I felt like weeping too, when I told him that the other ladies were unwilling to have him back and saw his stricken face. He still visited us sometimes. Later on we heard he was building himself a little hut and had got a temporary job somewhere. Then he fell victim to the malaria epidemic and died. We went to see his wife and tried to help her with some money. She accepted it but never forgave us. She felt we were in some way responsible for his death. Perhaps we were. I always felt we had not quite played the game.

Then we took on Francis. He was a much better cook and was very devoted but his manner was surly. He waged a bitter war on the pole-cats. The bungalow did not stay proof very long, as the bricks and pieces of wood quickly got displaced by crows and squirrels.

Among the less obnoxious pets are a family of squirrels. They visited me every morning when I had my tea on the verandah. I fed them on bits of buttered toast and trained them to come nearer my chair. Papa was even been bold enough to climb on the back of it, if he thought I was inattentive, but mama remained rather timid. She and the baby squirrel would seize a piece of toast and rush away to a safe distance. Then they all would sit up and hold it in their paws and daintily lick off the butter, ignoring the toast entirely. Unfortunately their untidy habits attracted the crows and quite a lot got lost to them. The crows would even try to take it out of their mouths.

But the squirrels were not an unmixed joy. One day I had washed some stockings and hung them over a line on my private verandah. A few hours later six had disappeared and we found them trailed over the kitchen roof where they had got stuck. They wanted them for their nest. Then I found papa one day chewing a series of holes in my door curtains. Also, four of my cushions had holes in them from which the kapok was being steadily removed. Even the rope for the clothes line was gnawed.

My more vociferous friends were the house sparrows. In my bedroom, high up on the wall were some elongated ventilators. Some sparrows decided that was an excellent place for their nest and they began to build one with bits of dry grass and soft pieces of wool pecked from the edges of floor-rugs. I frequently caught the sparrows admiring themselves in my dressing table mirror and they duly left their visiting cards there. My writing desk got covered with bits of straw. I kept on shooing the birds and trying to block up the ventilators, but I gave up in despair. The nest was built and the eggs were laid. Papa would sit on my book-case and shrilly serenade his wife who was sitting on the eggs.

When the little chicks appeared the noise became deafening. The babies lifted up their voices and demanded to be fed all day. Papa and mama spent their time flying backwards and forwards and filling the wide-open throats with anything they could find, meanwhile singing ear-splitting lullabies to their beloved offspring, It was impossible for me to get my rest in the day-time and there was constant mess on the floor when the nest had received its daily clean-up. I endured it all until the birds were old enough to fend for themselves and then I had the ventilators boarded up and I kept my doors tight shut. I had a little peace again, from that quarter at least.

A plague came to Kandy and all cases were fatal. It spread chiefly among the Moslems, because they try to hide dead bodies owing to their religious beliefs. The other day a man died and for four hours they had his body hidden among the sugar bags and went on selling the sugar. They pleaded to be exempt from post-mortems, as it is against their religion to tamper with their dead.

The plague is caught chiefly through the bite of a flea off a plague-infested rat. About 3,000 rats were killed in Kandy, but often when they are caught in traps the superstitious people let them out again. All night long the Moslems had chanting at the Mosque to drive away the plague.

It was no wonder the plague spread. At Katukelle a man died at midnight. It was reported eight hours later. The officials came at 4 p.m. for the post-mortem. Meanwhile everyone had been walking in and looking at the corpse without hindrance. The relatives were asked to carry out the corpse on a table and there the post-mortem was held, while the children and others looked on. The policeman who was guarding the house was unable to cope with the crowds. The examination was over at 6 p.m. and then the relatives had to bury the man – not the municipality. Four days later the house was disinfected.

SIX YEARS LATER (May 1933)

Last Sunday it rained just over seven inches in Kandy. The road to Gampola became impassable and the bridge beyond Peradeniya Junction was submerged. Houses in the village collapsed – especially those built of mud and wattle. The shop-keepers lost everything from their boutiques.

The Mahaweli Ganga was a swirling mass and huge logs were hurled down the river. Along Lady Blake’s Drive the gorge and rapids were an amazing sight – wild rushing water and foam dashing high into the air. Within three days the floods were the highest on record. At Getambe the Peradeniya Road was fifteen feet under water. The railway bridge was covered and Kandy completely cut off. The river was 42 feet high. Kandy had 13 inches of rain in three days and at Nawalapitiya 22 inches. The water in Gampola rose to the top of the station roof and only the signal posts could be seen. Refugees were housed at Peradeniya in the Training Colony Practicing School. We visited them a few days ago. Each family had arranged a little corner for itself using school desks and benches. One boutique-keeper had set up a little shop, as his bags of rice and vegetables had been rescued by boat.

Just before the floods some thieves broke into our bungalow while we were down in the College Hall at a concert. They ransacked Eva’s room and stole all her jewels. Jan’s room was untouched. Mine was in such an untidy mess that they probably thought they had been there already. Our servant Abraham and the peon John went to a soothsayer to consult him. He put a drop of oil on a betel leaf to read the truth in it. He said it was a large, fat man and gave an exact description of a recently dismissed College watcher, whom John did not at all love. He said the thief had sold the jewels for Rs.45 and that they were now in a certain almirah in a certain pawn-shop in Colombo Street. Francis and Abraham promised Rs.25 each to him if the jewels were found. Eva, the police- inspector and Abraham went to the shop and found nothing. Then Abraham absented himself for two separate days to consult the priest at Gampola. This man was said to be so clever that he could tell where things were even if they were as far away as England. Each time he returned he looked really ill. Finally we learned that the thief would go mad within a fortnight and would come and confess. All this as a result of the rites and incantations! Unfortunately we were going on holiday shortly, but we left Abraham to cope with the confession.

When we returned no more was said about the theft, but Abraham excelled at table decorations. Mostly he does them with flowers, leaves and flower-petals. The designs are usually geometric, but a fortnight ago we had a dinner party and found the decoration had taken the form of a series of letters, such as – C M S, T C K, Good Luck and Good Night. Francis does intricate patterns in coloured rice, very effective. Abraham cannot pronounce the letter ‘p’. He went to Jan and asked for her ”fly”. After some time she realised he wanted the pliers.

Michael, the second college peon, recently got married. He is quite young and had no real desire, but his father decided it would be a great advantage to have them as a family. Michael has been living with his father, sister, brother, uncle and uncle’s little girl, in a tiny house. They paid ten rupees per month as rent. The sister could not be married as she was needed to cook and look after the child. Besides, the dowry would have caused difficulty. The girl whom Michael was to marry lived with her mother in their own little house. Now all of Michael’s family have gone to live with the bride and so the rent is saved. Also the sister can now marry and the young wife can cook and mind the child – and the extra 10 rupees will supply her dowry. So everyone is happy and Michael says she is a nice girl. A week after the wedding he had to sit at home all day to welcome his relatives and friends. He was afraid to ask the Principal for a day off and nearly wept when the Office refused. Eventually they took pity on him and he got his day off. Now he looks a sight with barber’s itch.

Cotton women have been coming lately loaded with baskets of kapok. Each woman carries about eight baskets on a board balanced on her head. The cotton is protected from rain by plantain leaves. As I was getting a mattress made I needed plenty of cotton. They asked for 15 cents per basket but were quite willing to take 8 cents. So I bought the 41 baskets. Next day they came with 90, but the servants said I had paid far too much and refused to give more than Rs.4.50. After a lot of discussion the women agreed. As they were leaving one woman’s board tipped over and we saw her basket full of cotton. The servants then examined all the baskets and found eight un- emptied. The women were quite good-humoured about it.

One of our little Bandaranayake boys, aged 12, had to leave school, as he is to become a Buddhist priest. The poor child seemed spiritless about it, but the father and elder brother said he was eager and asked for it. The boy looked a little frightened. I suppose it is being forced on him to get merit for the family. What a life. And soon he will have to take the oath of celibacy.

JAFFNA (May 1933)

On a holiday I went to Jaffna by train and had the compartment to myself. In the middle of the night I woke up, choking with smoke. On investigation I found that my hold-all together with some of my bedding on the floor had caught fire from a spark from the engine and was blazing away merrily. I at once pulled the communication cord and threw the hold-all out of the window. In about a quarter of an hour, as I was thinking of lying down to sleep again, the train gradually slowed down and finally came to a stop. The driver and guard came along with a hurricane lantern to enquire why I had stopped the train. When I explained the situation I was told it would be all right. This made me feel wrathful and I pointed out that but for my presence of mind I might have been cinders by that time. Later on when I put in a claim for damages, it was refused on the ground that the fire had not been due to “any official neglect”.

The origin of the name “Jaffna” is as follows. There was a blind musician who so delighted the King with his music, that the King presented him with the sandy waste peninsula (which the blind man could not see, of course). From this incident came the name “Yalpana”, or “Gift of Music”. Gradually this changed to Yappana and finally to Jaffna. Jaffna is a great contrast to Kandy. It is dry, sandy, flat and hot. It depends almost entirely on wells for its water, as it gets only the north- east monsoon. Many of these wells have a plentiful supply and the land around is well irrigated by little channels. There are very few coconut palms, but palmyra flourishes. From this juggery and toddy are made. The water is drawn from the wells by a long pole like a see-saw on a central support. At one end are weights and at the other a bucket hanging from a rope. A man pulls the rope and lets the bucket down the well, while the weights pull it up again. But if the shaft is too big and heavy, two men manipulate it by walking backwards and forwards on top. The water from the bucket feeds the channels. The work is long and wearisome.

My hostess at Uduvil Girl’s School took me one morning to Manipay where there is a large American Mission Hospital. It is difficult to keep a hospital clean, as the sick always bring their families with them. These do the cooking for them and often interfere with medical arrangements. There are usually several beds in the room with the patient, but there are also “lines” where the facilities live and cook. Manipay had just had a nasty knock because Japan had confiscated their new X-ray instrument on its way from America. Apparently Japan, being in a state of war, was able to do this with impunity. In the afternoon the staff and girls at Uduvil performed Indian folk dances and played Oriental music on some queer Indian instruments, called veenas. They were shaped like enormous long trombones and emitted a very small sound. The music was mostly of Telugu origin, monotonous but beautiful and plaintive. The teacher had studied the music and dancing at Tagore’s school at Santiniketan.

All over Jaffna the flamboyants made a blaze of colour. One afternoon we visited the old Dutch Fort. It has a great moat and massive walls overlooking the sea and Kayts and other islands.

We called on an English civil servant who was receiving a visit from a Buddhist priest. The priest was collecting funds for a bathing tank and well at Kadugannawa. Though the people of Jaffna are almost entirely Hindu, there is a Buddhist temple there. Many of the Sinhalese have migrated north owing to the depression. They work more cheaply than the Jaffnese, who are slower to move and they keep the same prices even when labour and production is cheaper. So the Sinhalese are ousting the Tamils as carpenters, bus drivers, car drivers and so on. Some of these occupations the Jaffnese regard as low-caste and refuse to do them. The Sinhalese, who migrate to Jaffna, are not regarded as having any caste, because they are strangers. Hence they are insinuating themselves into many of the jobs. Even Government appointments are falling into the hands of the Sinhalese, many of whom have qualified in England.

One evening we had a picnic by the sea in the moonlight. The sea was wonderful for bathing, smooth as a mirror and phosphorescent. In the darkness we sometimes saw the shadowy outline of a boat or sailing vessel. Possibly they were smugglers. There is a great deal of smuggling from India along the coast of Jaffna. It is mostly ganja (opium) smuggling.

Another afternoon we visited a village called Udupitti, where a Mrs Raju and Miss Matthews are in charge of a splendid little Christian school. The children are taught by the project method. They make anything that is required in the village. There are numerous temples but there is crime here. However they fear Mrs Raju and regard her as a sort of sage. She is consulted by all kinds – Hindus and Christians alike. She is a fine and courageous fighter.

The water in Jaffna is hard. One day I wanted to wash my hair and was told to rub a raw egg on my scalp. This I did but the water was too hot and the egg set. The second attempt was more successful. The servants made me a slimy green mixture of crushed shoe-flower (hibiscus) leaves. It made an excellent shampoo.

A JUNGLE TREK (August 1933)

Jan had gone ahead and was camping on the bund of Soraborawewa with some Guides and I was to join her on the day the camp ended.

The car drive down to Alutnuwara was beautiful, but uneventful, except that in the drain at one of the hair-pin bends we found the mangled carcase of a cow, a victim of a hungry leopard during the night. The ferry-crossing over the Mahaweli Ganga to Alutnuwara was somewhat difficult, as the river was swollen by the heavy rains up-country and local storms. We had reached the so-called dry zone, but we found that even this was deluged by unseasonable rains. Paths and streams which should have been dry, were swampy and often flooded.

From Alutnuwara we walked the three miles through the jungle to Horabora Wewa. Before we had gone very far our personal company consisting of myself and two porters, had increased by a dozen or so villagers homeward bound and a large herd of buffaloes driven by a man and a boy. As the path was narrow, we became quite a lengthy procession and the eccentricities of the buffaloes’ route made progress slow. At last, just after mid-day, we reached the lovely Horabora Wewa, our camping ground for the next few days.

There was very little privacy attached to our camp. All day long villagers passed to and fro along the bund and watched our doings with the deepest interest. Usually they just squatted and talked or speculated about us and told each other tales of how we had opened a sardine tin and bathed in the tank and how constantly we appeared to require cups of tea, which we drank entirely without sugar. Sometimes they were helpful in getting us water, or assisting to blow up the fire for our tea and potatoes. Our impromptu shelves for stores and cutlery intrigued them greatly. But we had to keep a stern eye on our visitors when their investigations became a little too intimate. Between sunset and sunrise we were left in complete solitude. No man, for fear of beasts, ventured forth in the dark. We, being foolhardy, scarcely realised the danger. A complete stillness surrounded us, except for the occasional crooning of a bird or frog and the distant cries and drumming of watchers in the paddy-fields. Usually the evening was heralded by wind and a heavy thunderstorm which lasted for several hours. Then we had to shelter in our little tent, with all the flaps tied down securely.

One evening we found that nearby an old hollow tree had caught fire and was roaring and blazing and spouting showers of sparks like meteors in the most glorious fashion. We were told by the villagers that the tree had been struck by lightning. But later on a porter told us that in this district trees were often set on fire secretly and the perpetrators could never be traced. At certain seasons the Veddahs fire trees as part of a religious ceremony.

Early on Monday morning we struck camp to begin our 50 mile jungle trek along the river to Polonnaruwa. This should have brought us to our destination by Thursday. Actually owing to the limitations of our guide and the circuitous route adopted by our men, the trek was lengthened to 80 miles and we reached Polonnaruwa only on Friday afternoon. This Binthenne jungle is some of the wildest and least frequented in Ceylon. It is infested by wild beasts and it is the home of many of the aboriginal Veddah people who are still extant in Ceylon. We were escorted by the Police Vidane of Hembarawe as guide and four Horabora men to carry our food, tent and bedding. A Police Vidane is a kind of village headman.

We did not realise that our escort intended accompanying us only as far as Hembarawe and that from there we would have to get a completely new set of people. Unfortunately our original plans had gone awry. The R M of Alutnuwara, a Kandyan chief, whose boys were at the College, had promised us his tracker for the whole journey. The night before we set out the tracker had to go up-country to visit his sick wife. So the R M sent along the Police Vidane, who happened to be at Alutnuwara, to guide us as far as Hembarawe, his own village. There he was to make other arrangements for us.

While the Vidane was with us all went well. The path was well-defined, the jungle fresh after the afternoon rain and the streams not too swollen. One caused us a little trouble. It was only waist- deep, but its bed consisted of the stickiest, slimiest mud that it has ever been my lot to encounter. Jan opened the proceedings by simply sliding in uncontrollably. Of course, we got very wet in the crossing, but soon dried again in the hot sun. The greatest trouble was our shoes and socks. At first we used to take them off each time, but after a while we got tired of this and walked through with them on. As they quickly got muddy and sodden they became uncomfortable. It did not improve the tick-bites that Jan had picked up at Horabora Wewa and they were beginning to turn septic.

We passed several Veddah villages consisting of a few huts grouped around a paddy-field. But these Veddahs were less primitive, as they had to a large extent inter-married with the Sinhalese.

Our real adventure began with our arrival at Hembarawe. The R M of Alutnuwara had given the villagers warning of our coming and had told them to give us a good reception. Nothing could have equalled the sincerity and enthusiasm of their welcome. If their ideas of hospitality differed from our own, it was probably we who were lacking. The whole village, about 60 people, men, women and children, turned out to meet us and escort us to the Vidane’s newly-built house, which had been put at our disposal. Two stretchers, covered with mats, had been placed on the verandah. Jan and I, overheated, sank down to rest and cool off, while the population crowded into the verandah and around its low mud walls to watch and discuss. Many of them had never seen white women before. The noise was terrific – loud and eager voices all around us with the village pi-dogs snarling and fighting in the background. When we drank water out of our dark-green vinegar bottles the people decided it must be arrack. They offered us some karumba to drink. The Police Vidane then informed the people that I had paid three rupees for my sun-glasses in England (actually Malta). This piece of news, which he had extracted from me on the march, now became the topic of quite a lengthy conversation. It cropped up again several times in the course of the

next few days. I could not decide whether the Vidane thought the glasses were cheap or a sign of affluence.

Jan and I were weary, but we found the position of our stretchers somewhat public. So the people carried them into an inner room. They then offered the village furniture for our use – a table with a cloth and two chairs. The pillows we refused. It was only when we wished to sleep that we were able to get any privacy. For two hours they left us in peace – partly because the rain was now falling in torrents and the village was becoming a complete swamp.

Later on when we decided to bathe in the river the whole village escorted us. They carried our soap, washers and towels. The women of the village insisted on soaping us and washing our hair. Jan’s soap, an attractive green shade, met with special approval. One woman, bolder than the rest, borrowed it for her own use. After this it was surreptitiously passed from hand to hand and many a bare chest received a furtive rub. They were greatly alarmed when we dived in off the far side of a raft moored to the bank. The current was running strong and there were crocodiles in the river. However, we kept close to the bank and came to no harm.

When we were with difficulty clothed again all the village poured into the room to watch our preparations for the evening meal. We had a little dry methylated spirit stove. This intrigued them greatly. One man, feeling sceptical that little white solid cakes could really produce any kind of heat, put his fingers into the flame to reassure himself. As soon as we sat down to eat, the room cleared immediately. It is not considered polite to watch others eat their food. Then they came back to hang up our mosquito nets, examine our bedding and the contents of our kit-bag. Our pyjamas and dressing gowns received much attention. The people at Hembarawe are very poor. Besides tilling their fields they make cheap earthenware pots which they take to Alutnuwara to sell.

The next morning packing was difficult, as every square inch of room was occupied by spectators. After a hurried meal we thanked our hosts and hostesses in a mixture of broken Tamil and Sinhalese, distributed our empty tins and bottles and a few rupees. Then we set out on the next stage of our journey, with four new porters and a new guide. The Police Vidane gave his last instructions to the men for our comfort. We told them we were queerly constructed inside and that at about midday it would always be necessary to rest by some water so that we could eat and drink tea. Otherwise our stomachs (and he rubbed his stomach violently) would grow sick and we should not be able to continue the march. Apparently they never stop until the day’s trek is finished. Our Horabora porters had turned back immediately for the return journey the day before, without any food or drink. And they had 18 miles to go.

Our guide now explained that we must turn east to Maha Ella. The northern jungle along the river was too dense and thorny to get our luggage through. The real reason, we suspected afterwards, was that there were no friendly villages along the river and our men were desperately afraid of the jungle by night. So we agreed to go to Maha Ella though it lengthened our route by nearly twenty miles. It was lengthened still further by the defects of our guide, who completely lost his way and

took us through the densest and thorniest jungle along an almost invisible path that seemed to lead nowhere. At last it brought us out to a Veddah village some five miles to the south of Maha Ella. We passed some grand old trees in the jungle, all gnarled and twisted and surrounded with a hedge of protruding roots. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine.

We had now reached the heart of Veddah country. In the afternoon we had our first experience of a pukka wild Veddah, when he suddenly confronted us with a hatchet in his hand. His wife and child, who were looking for yams, ran away and hid. Our men rather timidly addressed the Veddah with friendly words, but he made no reply – just stood up, straight and haughty and gazed at each one of us without the flicker of an eyelid. But his nostrils quivered. He was a young handsome man, surely descended from a proud line of Veddah kings. At last he stood aside and allowed us to pass. His lips remained tightly closed.

Then our men did an unfortunate thing. The Veddah wife had got over her fear and came to peep at us a little further on. She was carrying a bundle of yams on her head and our men took one from her. They divided it up amongst themselves. Like a whirlwind the Veddah came upon us, uttering a torrent at the top of his voice in some language of which we understood no word. Our men looked alarmed and made no attempt to interfere when the Veddah seized Jan by the wrist. I offered him a coin, but it obviously had no meaning for him. He demanded “salt” and “tobacco”, but we had none to give him. Our guide offered him betel and this he snatched. He next seized me by both wrists and then the tracker, still talking loudly in a throaty tone. Evidently appeased he began to sing in a loud, clear voice, in words that were monotonously repeated. Finally he began to dance. This haughty young prince suddenly converted into a performing monkey gave my feelings an awful jolt. However, he now allowed us to pass and directed our route in loud fierce tones. Later on we made tea for ourselves, but the only water we could find was in a little slimy pool covered with green.

We reached Maha Ella at five o’clock. This village consisted of about three isolated Veddah huts in the middle of some Chena land. Chena is a piece of land reclaimed from the jungle, cultivated for a year or two and then allowed to relapse. It is a very destructive form of cultivation and causes the loss of much valuable timber. At one of the huts our guide appeared to have a ‘friend’ and the men decided to put up there for the night. We did not like having our sleeping quarters so close to the Veddahs and suggested pitching our tent some distance away on the Chena land. The men warned us against this as there were aliyas (elephants) and other wild animals about. So we had to put up our tent within a few feet of the hut. The village was lost in admiration of our little bangalawa (bungalow).

We now met our second wild Veddah, carrying a bow and arrow with feathered end and iron tip. On his shoulder he bore a hatchet. This man was small and nearly black, with long curly hair and a much-scarred body. He had a low retreating forehead and was a typical stone-age aboriginal. He allowed us to take his photograph in return for a box of matches. He looked fierce and talked loudly and caught me by both wrists. We began to realise that this was probably a sign of friendliness. For a long time he stood in the doorway of the tent and refused to move even when

the rain came down in a deluge and we were forced to close the flaps. We suspected that our neighbours would try to rob us in the night. We took the precaution of explaining to our porters at the outset that we carried practically no money, but that it would be waiting for us at Polonnaruwa. I think they did not believe us. Before we went to bed we put loose newspaper all round the tent inside to alert us. Sure enough, when everybody had apparently settled for the night we heard somebody move stealthily towards the tent. But in the dark he tripped over one of the guy-lines and gave himself away. After that we were left in peace, but took turns to keep awake.

A Veddah inspects our camp

The next day our men proposed a new route. But we took the law into our own hands and insisted we must go to Polonnaruwa through Dastota. So we set out. The Veddah ‘friend’, a silent, morose sort of man, came with us as additional guide. Then the man with the bow and arrow turned up again and joined the procession for about two miles along a sandy bed of a jungle oya (stream). When we emerged into park country, our queer little Veddah escort sang and danced to us and then disappeared into the jungle to “shoot his breakfast.”

So far we had seen no big game at all – only jackals, rock squirrels, monkeys and mongoose. We heard a bear cough close to us in the jungle, but he did not appear. Now in the open park land we saw numerous tall, graceful birds – black with white heads and tails, a sort of crane. To fly they ran a few steps along the ground to get a push off. Their wings in flight were narrow and long. The suddenly a herd of wild buffalo took fright and stampeded. Herds of deer in great numbers

appeared in the grass at the edge of the forest. One magnificent tall stag stood with head erect to get a scent. We had a splendid view of him before the whole herd fled into the jungle.

Our men were weary and hungry. Their food was giving out and they had only some plain yams to eat at Maha Ella. They had depended on being able to get curry-stuffs and sambal on the way in the villages. This proved a forlorn hope. These jungle folk are all desperately poor and to a large extent live only on yams and meat. In all the 80 miles of our trek, there was not a single place where anything could be bought at all, not even at Hembarawe. Later on we gave them a loaf of bread and some cheese and shared our raisins, tea and condensed milk. Owing to the longer route we, too, were beginning to run low in our stores. By about three o’clock there was a thundery sky and we were still seven miles from Kalukolawala. We had to pitch our camp quickly in the midst of park land, the pasturage of innumerable beasts. For water there were a couple of buffalo swamps. We lent the men one of our ground sheets and they erected some sort of shelter for themselves. After the downpour, our guides shot a fine young stag which they cut into pieces and smoked all night on a platform of twigs over a big fire. That night they had a royal feast – a fitting savoury to their rice. They gave us some of the meat, but it was too tough. We ate some of the liver though.

All night they kept the watch fires going and shouted and beat tins to keep the animals away. Elephants trumpeted nearby and deer barked, but nothing came close.

Since the night at Maha Ella we had suspicions that these men were hatching a plot to rob us and perhaps abandon us in the forest. Possibly they believed we were going to cheat them and that when we had got to Topa Wewa we would not pay them. We considered it might be safer to secure our possessions at least. Perhaps they thought we had more money than we had led them to believe and our story that it was waiting for us at Topa Wewa was merely a blind. That night, when they thought we were asleep, the talk around the fire became more definite. There was constant reference to our keys, our money, our boxes and especially our hats, which being double terais, would do “for four men.” They sang songs of what they would do with the money and how our goods would be divided. One young fellow was going to send his mother on a pilgrimage to the Perahara at Alutnuwara. These songs were interspersed with invocations to Kiriamma, a spirit of the forest and to the Raja of Binthenne – whoever that might be. Our men were superstitious. Before entering a jungle they always broke a twig to appease the jungle spirit. When we crossed a stream they splashed some water to propitiate the water-spirit.

Whatever their plots may have been – and our limited Sinhalese made this a little uncertain – we felt we should be wary. We thought the plan might be carried into operation the next night at the “Big River.” Why it was being postponed so late we could not imagine. They had wonderful opportunities day and night in this lonely jungle. Perhaps it was only wild talk – talk which made them feel strong and brave in the night. In the day-time they were just simple village folk, very charming, helpful and courteous. In retrospect I think that we were the victims of a too vivid imagination. We put together a story from the few words we understood. Whatever the truth, we were afraid and even considered plan of abandoning our possessions and giving them the slip in the night. We went so far as to pack our rucksacks in the dark with some bare essentials. Luckily

we gave this idea away, as we could never have found our way through these miles of dense jungle. But we decided we would keep close together all the time and walk only in the rear of the procession.

Provisions were running low. Most of our bread, wet with mould, we had to throw out the night before. The men scrambled for it. We hoped we might procure something at Yakkure, a Sinhalese village large enough to have a school, as we saw by the survey map. The silent, brooding Veddah escorted us for a few miles where the jungle path was almost entirely obliterated by swamps or fallen leaves, or merely wound along the bed of a little stream. Some of the dried meat had been stowed away in a hiding place, ready to be picked up on the return journey. Soon the Veddah took leave of us and we were not sorry to see the last of him. He was uncanny. At Kalukoluebbe we obtained another guide. We were glad the ‘friend’ whom our men had expected to find here was absent. We did not much care for their friends. But we made use of his hut to boil some tea. Jan and I kept strict guard while it was being made in case a poison mal (flower) should be inserted.

At last we arrived at Yakkure, where we had decided to seek the help of the school-master. But alas: the school was closed and the school-master away and the village headman, too. But we saw a man in the crowd, which had collected to see us, with a crucifix tattooed on his chest. Knowing he was a Roman Catholic we thought we might appeal to him when the opportunity offered. Our porters never seemed to leave us alone. But finally Jan managed to slip away to the Catholic’s hut and explain our dilemma to him. He promised to find us another tracker with a gun. The tone of this village was so entirely different from the wild Veddah villages through which we had come, that we decided to make the school-room our head-quarters for the night, rather than camp at Dastota on the “Big River” where disastrous plots might be hatched against us in the night. When we told the men we were too tired to go on, their faces fell. They had no ‘friends’ in this village. And they became surprisingly angry when we stated that we intended taking an additional guide from this village to Topa Wewa. We refused to allow our porters to share the school-room with us and in the night again we put crumpled newspaper all around the inside of the low wall. We made our beds on the school forms and put a kitchen knife and torch under our pillows. We kept watch again in turns through the night.

We ate the last of our mouldy bread and disguised its flavour with sardines and condensed milk – an awful mixture. The men ate the last of their rice. Nothing was procurable in the village and there was no boutique of any sort. The people seemed to live mostly on meat and buffalo milk and had nothing to spare. One of our men brought us some wild honey in the comb, which he found on a tree, but we foolishly feared poison and buried it. Around mid-night a herd of buffaloes broke into the school compound and stampeded. We did not realise for some time what the noise was about and felt alarmed.

The next day we shared our tea and few remaining water biscuits and raisins with the men and set out on the last stage of our journey with an additional guide. The path was even swampier than on previous days. All this swampy water had a bad effect on Jan’s septic tick-bites. We crossed the swollen Mahaweli Ganga in a precarious dugout without an outrigger.

The ferry at Dastota

On the other side was Dastota, marked as a village on the map. But there was only a group of abandoned huts at the edge of the jungle. Dastota Wewa was a glorious sight, covered with pink, white and blue lotus and water-lilies. This tank was also abandoned. Next we came to the Nalande Ganga flowing wide and flooded. There was no ferry and our men were inclined to abandon the attempt to ford it. However, Jan and I put on our bathing gowns and plunged in and the men formed a line behind us, carrying the luggage on their heads. The water was up to our necks and the strong current carried us off our feet. Eventually we got across, and with dry luggage. Finally, we had to walk through some miles of hot, low, scrubby jungle. At last, hungry and weary, we reached the Rest House at Polonnaruwa in the early afternoon. We had walked 16 miles with nothing to eat except two biscuits each in the early morning. Our men had little spunk left in them. Here we found our servant, Abraham, who had been waiting for two days. To these simple folk he seemed an impressive figure in his coat. They called him “Mahatmaya” (master). This so elated Abraham that next day as we left, he tipped one of the Rest House servants.

We paid off our guides and porters. We had grown fond of these jungle folk. They were so simple and ingenuous. The last we saw of them they were quarrelling over our empty tins and bottles. I have related the story as we felt it at the time, but I realise now that it admits of an entirely different interpretation. These men may have been entirely guileless and had no evil intentions against us. At any rate we decided that if ever we visited Hembarawe again, we would take presents of soap, tobacco, tins and bottles!

As soon as they were gone we had a wonderful hot bath each. Then we ate and ate – especially fruit and vegetables, which we had scarcely seen for a week. Finally we slept for hours. After that we felt much better, only Jan’s sores were worrying her a good deal.

He next day we set out for Trincomalee but stayed the night at Kantale Tank. Most of the journey was by bus – not a very comfortable mode of travel. European ladies were always given the front seat with the driver. But we were right over the radiator and our feet got increasingly hot. There was also a horrible smell of petrol, but on the whole if was preferable to the smell of damp human bodies.

In the morning some nasty aggressive European men came to the Rest House. One had a gun and he stood on the verandah and shot at every single bird he saw on the tank – pelicans, divers and any other harmless thing. It was vile. Fortunately, he missed most of them. A little later the bus called for us and we went on to Trincomalee. Here one of my pupils took charge of us and we visited the Naval Dock Yards along the harbour.

In the Rest House at Trinco was a queer little drunken Sinhalese man. He was, so his prospectus stated, a "Dentist and Toothache Specialist". A notice in our bedroom said that the management could not hold themselves responsible for the loss of valuables, "provided they are put in charge of the rest-house keeper."

On the way to Batticaloa, the bus was rowed or towed across seven streams and lagoons, including three mouths of the Mahaweli Ganga. The Rest House stands on a large lagoon. At night fishermen line the edges with lanterns and little casting nets of fibre. The fish are attracted by the light. “Tiny”, an old boy of the College, discovered us and at once took charge. After dinner we took a little narrow dug-out on to the lagoon to hear the singing fish. These fish are to be heard only here, at Aden and in the Panama Canal. It was a nice moonlit night, so the fish were musical, as they are not always. They refused to sing for the Governor when he came. They have about ten notes and sing from the floor of the lagoon. It sounds like an orchestra tuning up, or a mouth- organ blown in and out, or as Jan says, a “series of musical creaks.” One can hear them more clearly by putting the oar to one’s ear. Of course, the mosquitoes were atrocious.

On the way to Badulla we bought little pots of curds for five cents each. The pots were of earthenware and hold about two pints each. As the pots were thrown in, the curds were cheap enough. The bus men bought up a lot and sold them in the hills later on for fifteen cents. At Badulla another pupil took us to a picnic at the beautiful Dunhinde Falls. There is a legend that in the pool at the base lives a fish which carries in its mouth a golden ring with a precious stone. But any who try to catch the fish have fallen in and been drowned in the strong eddies and currents.

After the picnic we went straight down to Ratnapura to stay again with Bertie and his wife at Timitar Estate. Ratnapura is the famous gem district of Ceylon [See chapter end-notes on gems]. Bertie took us to visit a gem pit. We walked through a rubber estate and swampy paddy fields. Most of the pits are in paddy fields. A pit is somewhat like a coal shaft, usually not very wide. Many feet down is a bed of clay and sand deposited by a prehistoric stream, in which the gems are

embedded. The gem-diggers bring up the sand and clay and pile it into a mound outside. The whole of it gets washed in wicker baskets. All the clay and pebbles are washed away leaving only stones. The larger stones are tossed to one side. After washing about 20 baskets, the small stones at the bottom are examined. Gems, being heavier than ordinary stones, sink to the bottom. They found nothing while we were there, but the previous day found a fair-sized blue sapphire, some yellow sapphires and amethysts. The gems are auctioned and the proceeds divided among the few shareholders, the manager and gemmers. They are all on the alert that nothing is stolen. The work is done in the drier weather from December to March mainly by the Sinhalese, to whom its gambling nature strongly appeals.

Bertie drove us down to Hambantota, where we arrived at sunset. The coast is beautiful here with many sweeping bays and cliffs. En route we passed a gipsy camp with the little palm-leaf open huts on either side of the road and innumerable dogs and donkeys.

Next day he drove us up to Kandy, where we arrived just half an hour before our first staff meeting. The Principal was relieved to see us but was annoyed that we had taken such “fool-hardy risks”.

Ceylon Gems Corundum - When opaque, it is used as an abrasive. When transparent: sapphires in white, red (ruby), blue, purple (oriental amethyst), green (oriental emerald - rare), yellow or orange (oriental topaz). The blue sapphire is one of the most beautiful of Ceylon gems. The ruby and sapphire often have a milky-ness or silk. When cut in a rounded form they show a star, known as star rubies or star sapphires, only found in Ceylon. Zircon - Known as tourmaline when cut as a gem. It usually has a dull green colour which changes its tint according to the direction of the light. The fine leaf-green colour is the most valuable. It can also be in yellow, orange or red. The so-called Matara diamond, set in native jewellery, is colourless zircon obtained by burning pale and poorly coloured stones. Garnet – The red garnet, when cut en cabochon is known as carbuncle. A brown garnet is known as a cinnamon stone. A magnificent flame red stone, a garnet containing manganese, is sometimes seen and commands a high price. Topaz – The white stone is cheap. When pale green, it is sold as aquamarine. Beryl – Pale green specimens are common, also known as aquamarine. Dark green beryl is the emerald, very rare in Ceylon. Chrysoberyl – Pale green or yellow. A valuable variety is the alexandrite which is dark green by day and crimson in artificial light. When silky in appearance it can be cut as a cat’s eye – a stone showing a sharp line or ray of light along the middle. The cat’s eye is almost peculiar to Ceylon and is most prized when of a fine green colour with a sharp ray. Spinel – These are cheap stones with poor lustre, in red, blue, violet and green. Fine red and blue specimens are liable to be mistaken for rubies or sapphires. Quartz – Colourless, transparent quartz is known as rock crystal. When yellowish-brown it is cut as a gem and may be known by the Scotch term cairngorm. If violet it is known an amethyst.

Feldspar – Some of the Ceylon orthoclase feldspar, especially in the Kandy district, is semi-transparent and shows a peculiar sheen, sometimes blue (the more valuable), sometimes white “moonstone”. It is a beautiful but undervalued gem. Cordierite – Known as water sapphire, a name often incorrectly given to white topaz. It is rarely found. Andalusite – This is a somewhat rare and curious stone. When cut in an oblong shape it shows a pale green colour with red patches in the four corners. Gems are cut in Ceylon on lead wheels or laps, as a rule, with powdered corundum. But moonstones are cut with wooden laps and powdered garnet. When the right shape has been obtained, it is polished on a copper lap with the ash of a [rice] paddy straw. The island has been famous for gems from very early times. They are mostly found in the alluvial plains to the south-west of the Adam’s Peak range of mountains. (Condensed from hand-written notes attributed to Miss C. Krause).

Gemmers at Ratnapura

TWO KINDS OF DROUGHT (October 1934)

We are in the middle of the worst drought on record. Animals are dying in the jungles, and even the leeches in Lady Horton’s are disappearing. In Jaffna monkeys come down and steal from the villages.

There is a legend that one of the tanks is inhabited by an eel. If one could catch it by the tail it was cause rain to fall. So the villagers emptied the tank to catch the eel, losing all the water they had.

The Buddhists have begun a Poya for a week and on the fifteenth the Tooth is to be displayed. This, they say, will definitely bring rain. But I fear it will only bring the crowds to Kandy, where the reservoir is only a muddy swamp. Lake water is being taken around in carts. People store it in all the buckets and pots they can lay hands on. Long queues wait for the cart every day and there is much quarrelling. But in Mannar, the newspaper reports, the asses brayed all night. This is regarded as an infallible sign of rain. “Another equally certain sign,” it says, “is that all the frogs in the swamps and lagoons have begun to croak, and were at it all night.”

Letter received by the Paynters from a young teacher Dominus Vobiscum:

“Dear Madam,

“I and the rest of our teachers are quite well here Dei gratia in your kind care. We one and all earnestly for your safety return.

“En rapport to your orders, I have taken charge of the I. C. M. School at N__. Right from the start I am doing my duty examino. But I am undergoing a thousand difficulties for my daily bread. Have come out of the Training School as an in formapauperis. I do not have ready money in hand. I have been trying for a little help live et ubique but in vain. Consequently I feel hard for meals in a fine new village.

“As you are in loco parentis, I look ardently upon you for help in this ex recessiate rei. I beg to remind you that I did not take any amount in advance on the day of your departure. Nolens Volens I could not but keep quiet when you were pleased not to pay me in advance.

“So I humbly request you to be kind enough to send me some money ie quantum meruit or sufficient for me pro tempore. Afterwards my labor omnia Vincit. Thanking you in anticipation.

Viola tout, With reverence I remain, Yours obediently”

YALA GAME SANCTUARY (April 1935)

We proposed to leave Kandy in two cars, Martin’s and mine. Most of the preliminary arrangements were left to me, such as obtaining a permit from the Minister of Agriculture, booking the Buttala area and a tracker and collecting all the food. We expected to buy bread en route. I went on ahead with Mabel, as Martin’s car had parts scattered all over the grass. He had a leaking radiator but was sure he could get everything together again in time to meet us at the Tissamaharama Rest House at mid-day next day.

The weather was uncertain. At Pussellawa, where we finally procured bread, it began to rain hard, but cleared for a while as we got near the foot of the Ramboda Pass. Then there was a black deluge and for some time we had to shelter under some trees in case we got water in the petrol tank. It was only 4 p.m. but got very dark going up the Pass. At last we arrived at the N’Eliya Mission House and had a pleasant evening before a cosy fire.

Next morning we left early to avoid any more rain up-country. It was a beautiful morning with the mountains in the distance a clear, brilliant blue. Between Welimade and Bandarawela we had wonderful views over undulating patinas (grass lands), with their rounded hummocks and distant mountains. From the top of Haputale the low-country looked like a wide blue sea with little island hills in the midst and dark cloud shadows passing rapidly across. In some places there was rain, like great circular whirl-winds of mist. In the distance we saw the triple peaks of Kataragama, a place sacred to the Hindus. Here they hold an annual festival, when men in a frenzy of religious devotion walk over red-hot coals or hasten along roads with a large number of hooks piercing the flesh of their backs.

Then we ground our way down the long, winding Pass. At Koslande the Diyaluwa Falls were magnificent after the rain. We lay on our backs on some rocks below and watched the misty spray lightly splashing onto the jutting rocks down the precipice, pouring down like snow-drift. We arrived at Wellawaya in the rain, only to find that all accommodation at the Rest House was gone, so we had to return to Koslanda for the night. The next morning it was clear again and we left early for Tissamaharama, where we arrived just after mid-day.

Tissa is full of ancient ruins and dagabas. It is a pilgrim centre, sacred to Buddhists, because Princess Sanghamitta settled there after she brought to Anuradhapura a branch of the sacred Bo- tree under which Gautama Buddha had found Enlightenment in India. Sanghamitta was a priestess and the daughter of King Asoka. She came to Ceylon at the request of her brother, Mahinda, who wanted her to teach the hundreds of women converts to Buddhism. This was much against the wish of her father, who pleaded that he would be left lonely in his old age, but Sanghamitta felt she could not disregard her brother’s appeal. So she came to Ceylon with 11 other priestesses and

as a result of her teaching many noble ladies were ordained to the priest-hood, including Anula, the wife of King Tissa’s younger brother.

Just as we reached the Rest House we met Martin and Clifford, arriving on foot, looking dishevelled. The radiator was beyond repair and they had to travel by three different newspaper buses all night. The bag of vegetables was lost on the way. The lack of Martin’s car complicated matters. Yala was 29 miles from Tissa, along a rough jungle track. It would take a long time in a little car which could hold only two people and little luggage. So we decided to hire a bullock-cart for the baggage and stores, while we drove and walked in relays. Mabel ransacked the village for vegetables.

At the Rest House Mabel nearly came to grief. She found what she thought was a coiled up piece of chain lying on the floor by her bed and was just going to pick it up when it un-wound itself. It was a tik-pollonga of the most dangerous kind. It darted away, but the Rest House Keeper managed to despatch it before it disappeared through the window.

The cart left at 2.30 a.m. but we waited until 9. The two men squeezed into the car and I drove them to the jungle track to join the cart, while I returned for Mabel. The track was anything but a motor road. It was full of boulders, deep sand and ruts, stumps of trees and thorny bushes. We were now in the dry zone in the midst of low jungle, sand and thorn-trees. Every now and then we passed a half-dried up, abandoned tank. Most of the time I had to drive on bottom gear to avoid the bumps and a smashed axle. Some of the shrubs had thorns, several inches long. We had to examine the tyres constantly to see that none of them had penetrated. Several had, but we got them out before they punctured the inner tube. The track ran almost parallel to the sea, but behind several lines of sand-hills. At one spot by a lagoon we came across masses of pig, deer and buffalo, grazing together in the greatest amity.

Half way through the morning we reached Palatupana Circuit bungalow, where we decided to leave the car and walk the remaining 12 miles to Yala. It was a risky thing to do, as the tracker was waiting for us at Yala. We had no guns and the Reserve was full of wild buffaloes. We met many herds of buffalo as we turned into a fairly open plain. Often we avoided them by leaving the track and hiding among the trees. If any had charged, our only protection would have been the low bushes or an occasional tree we might have climbed. It was blazing hot and we got weary and parched. We rested several times in the shade. Once, a herd of spotted deer passed across the path ahead of us in almost single file. We got very close, but suddenly one of them saw us, gave a funny little frightened bark and they all fled. Next a peacock started up near us. There were a few jackals and a lot of bleached bones. After three hours of heat, sand and the interminable track we came to a great outcrop of rock, for a view of the sea. It was a lovely sight. We could see and hear the big waves breaking on the yellow sand.

At last a tracker met us with a note from Travice, the Game Warden and an Old Boy of the College. He said it was less than a mile further and there was plenty of tea waiting for us. At his little

bungalow we drank tea as never before. It is remarkable how quickly one can revive after all the weary strain.

We had no idea of the risk we were running, walking through the Reserve without a tracker or firearms. There was a rogue elephant at large. One of the watchers met the rogue while collecting his bulls and he had to flee for his life. Some of them met dangerous buffaloes and had to shin up trees. That is their only protection, as they are not allowed to carry firearms. A few days later the rogue visited the bungalow and broke off the disk of Travice’s sun-dial.

The bungalow was on the bank of the Menik Ganga, which forms one boundary of the Game Sanctuary. Just across we could hear the animals and peacocks all day long. Between us and the sea, about a quarter of a mile away, were jungle and sand-hills. The Menik Ganga was deep and swollen through up-country rains. It had formed a great sand-bar across the mouth, so that the pent-up waters had over-flowed into the Sanctuary and formed lakes. So for the time being it was impossible for us to cross into the Sanctuary. Travice had sent men to dig through the bar, but so far without success.

The next morning we went along to look at the barrier. It was about ten yards wide and at least six feet high and ran right along the beach, so that the shut-in river water formed a sort of narrow lake on the inside. The men had dug down almost level with the sea. Travice said they would try again next day.

We expected to be able to bathe in the sea, but a few feet from the shore we saw a shark’s fin protruding. Travice shot at it, but we realised how unsafe it was, quite apart from the shelving coast and backwash. Then we climbed a mound overlooking the Sanctuary. It was as though staged for our special benefit. On the plain in front we saw herds of pigs, deer and buffaloes, all grazing together. Further along on the sea cliff was a lonely elephant flapping its ears and trunk. There were peacocks strutting about everywhere. Near the mouth of the stream was a large buffalo with only his great head and horns showing above the water. On the sand-hills near us were lots of large grey monkeys with black faces.

Then we sat outside the bungalow on what Travice called his “lawn”. It was a large wooden platform erected to avoid the dust and sand. On our side of the river on the bank was a huge tree full of horn-bills, making a ridiculous clatter. On the other side were three magnificent peacocks preening themselves and spreading out their brilliant tails. As it got darker we flashed our torches along the banks to see if there were any beasts. We saw the gleam of a crocodile’s eyes, like two red rubies. Travice fired a shot to frighten it away and there was no further gleam. A baby elephant came down to the water to drink and some deer began to bark. It was so very peaceful, until the mosquitoes drove us indoors.

The next morning we walked a few miles along the river bank and saw hosts of pig, deer, sambur, jackals, monkeys and talagoyas (large ungainly lizards several feet long). We hid on the bank, hoping a leopard might come down to drink, but only deer and buffalo came.

After tea we went down to the beach again to see what progress the men had made at the bar and found they had cut it a quarter of an hour before. The waters were rushing through madly, making the channel wider and wider. It was terrifying. The roar of the water was so great that we could not hear each other shout. In an hour the river had gone down three feet and the channel had increased to 30 yards from its initial four feet. The men found lobsters stranded when the water subsided. River fish which were carried down by the force of the current, fought hard at the mouth against being carried into the sea, but they had no chance and the salt water quickly killed them. A big crocodile was stranded among the reeds. The men gave chase, but it got away. As we were returning over the sand-hills we heard a baby sambur in the bushes. When we approached it ran out but we gave chase and eventually caught it. It struggled hard, but it would have been eaten by a leopard in the night. It was only about two months old and the difficulty was to feed it. At last we tried Klim in a bottle and the creature took to it with enthusiasm. It kept the men awake nearly all night, but next morning it was much tamer. It was making inroads on our store of Klim and we were afraid we should run out all together. However, it solved the problem for us by jumping over the fence and disappearing.

The waters have now quite subsided and we left early with two bullock-carts for the Sanctuary. After a mile along the bank we crossed the stream by the ford and then more with thick, slimy mud at the bottom. At one crossing of a brackish sea-lagoon the floor was so slippery that we had to hold on to the carts to keep our footing. It was a 12 mile walk through the Sanctuary to a fresh water well where we were to camp for several days. We constantly met herds of deer, pig, sambur and buffalo. At one place there were flocks of crows and jackals around a carcase. The tracker, Andris, found it was the carcase of a bull belonging to one of the watchers. It had strayed across the stream into the Sanctuary the night before and been killed by a leopard. We met several of the jackals carrying off bits of the bull. They are nasty, slinking creatures, but the friend of all the jungle animals. A jackal can eat a carcase with a leopard in complete safety. This is because the jackal often helps to find food for the leopard by advertising the fact when it finds anything dead, or even alive. Then it eats the less attractive parts, which the leopard does not relish.

We photographed pig and buffalo on the way. I got fairly close to a buffalo, under the protection of the tracker. But I did not dare go any closer in case it should charge and that would have meant shooting it in the Sanctuary. It objected to my photo and snorted loudly. We had to watch it for some time in case it crept up behind us – a favourite trick of theirs.

We reached our camping site by the fresh water well half-way through the Sanctuary. This is where pilgrims camp on their way from Jaffna to Kataragama, sometimes with disastrous results. Recently some of them had lost their lives to prowling leopards. We arrived shortly before mid-day and pitched our two tents, nets and ground-sheets, one of the tents being for “Master” and “Sir”. “Master”, of course, was Travice, but which was “Sir”?

After lunch we bathed in a stream nearby. Trackers had to come with us with guns, in case of buffaloes or crocodiles. We could not move from the camp without a tracker. Our stream was in the midst of a huge plain. Herds of pig and buffalo, and further off, deer, watched us with the

deepest interest, while the trackers sat on guard on the bank. That night a leopard prowled about so the men got little sleep.

The next day we set out to photograph animals, but at first the wind was blowing in the wrong direction and most of the deer vanished. So we made our way through the jungle. First we met two bulls, one so large I thought it was an elephant. They stood and snorted, pawing the ground and looked as if they might charge at any moment. We squatted by a tree while the tracker yelled and threw mud at them. At last they went. On the plain there were three large pigs and six baby ones. When anything frightened them one of the big pigs led the way, then came the little ones and finally the other two big ones in the rear – all in single file. They looked very funny. Then we crouched again to watch a large iguana come flopping towards us with clumsy gait. It put its tongue out at every step. When it got about three yards form us without seeing us, I stood up to photograph it. But it dashed away at terrific speed. The little group of pigs did not see us until they were close. I got a lovely snap. They stood in sheer amazement until I had finished.

We had to crawl along on our hands and knees to get close to a wonderful looking herd of deer with some beautiful antlers. I crawled very close and got a fine picture of them massed together. Again they were too amazed to flee at once. Then they gave their little surprised frightened bark and stampeded.

This evening we had prawns from the lagoon for dinner. The leopard left us alone as we had watch-fires all night. But a little baby bandicoot came and fed out of our hands. It spent the night with us. The next morning we rose early for a trek through the jungle to Mandugala rocks and caves – a distance of five miles. We met the usual crowd of animals. Just before we reached the rocks we came upon a little lily pond with a lone elephant standing in the middle spraying himself with his trunk. We crept closer and got some fine snaps before he saw us. Mandugala is a crop of rocks over 500 feet high. Near the top we saw a bricked-up rock cave with doors and some dagabas. We did not climb up as the growth is very dense and it is now the haunt of bears and leopards. Nearby are abandoned tanks, over-grown with scrub and jungle. On the way back we boldly drank some water from a pond, squeezing lime-juice into it, which we hoped might disinfect it. It probably did, as none of us developed enteric.

We decided to leave our camping ground that night instead of waiting until next day. This was to spare the bulls which had a long trek before them after our return. So after tea and a bathe we packed up. We had dinner by lantern-light in the open amidst a cloud of mosquitoes, while a leopard prowled about close by among the trees. The carts were ready packed by 7.30 and off we went. We were told to stay close to the carts for protection, while Travice and two trackers went ahead flashing torches into the jungle on both sides.

When we got to a brackish lagoon a herd of elephants was close by trumpeting and growling, evidently annoyed at us. Travice fired into the air to frighten them away, but it had no effect. They still trumpeted loudly. After a while we plunged into the water, holding on to the carts. There was a slight moon, but we could see nothing, except the flash of a crocodile’s eyes in the torch light.

Progress was very slow. Then Travice wanted us to make a noise, unless he gave the signal to stop. So we sang loudly all the songs we could think of, but it made us rather breathless. We passed bears near the track, but did not see them – only heard them grunt. Quite often buffaloes had to be frightened off, and several times elephants. We went on gaily, trusting implicitly Travice and the trackers. But they had a nerve-racking time searching the jungle. One of the trackers said we were the first people who had come through in the night. At about mid-night it came on to rain and that made us all feel much cooler. Several times we had to cross swamps and nearly lost our shoes in the thick mud and slush. Eventually we reached the border stream, which fortunately was not swollen. We reached the bungalow at 1.30 a.m. and went to bed as soon as the carts were unloaded. Travice was much relieved that he had got us all through safely.

We woke at 4.30 a.m. for an early start to Palatupana. Then we picked up the car and headed off in relays to Wirawla tank near a bird sanctuary, to find a camping ground for the night. It was terribly hot and the camping ground was a poor one, I thought. There was too much grass and it was near a village buffalo pasture ground, probably full of ticks. We had already suffered a little from these, especially Clifford. The water was filthy, just a buffalo swamp and like thick pea soup. However, we had our tea there. The tea was quite thick and in the bottom of the can was about an inch of sediment. After that we moved to a flatter place along the road.

At six-thirty we were having our dinner in the half-light, when a villager on a bicycle stopped on the road and stood and watched for some time. I was beginning to feel irritated, when another man came along. The two of them conferred for a while. Then they came to us and told us in Tamil, which Mabel understood, that our camping place was not safe. The night before a rogue elephant, two tigers (meaning leopards) and a bear had been there and would likely come again at seven o’clock. They urged us to go to the circuit bungalow of Wirawila, half a mile away. By this time another man and a Buddhist priest had come along and all added their bit to the lurid story. It was now just on seven. We had to stop in the middle of the meal and load the car in the dark. Martin drove the car to the bungalow, dumped the luggage and returned for a passenger. The bungalow was shut, with a light inside and there was no one about. However, we managed to break in and we made ourselves comfortable in the mosquito-proof room to finish our meal. The caretaker turned up and seemed rather amused to find us in possession. However, he agreed about the elephant. We tried to sleep on the verandah but the mosquitoes were very bad. Soon rain came in torrents and leaked on to our bedding. It was as well we were not camping, as we had no tent. Mabel and Martin moved into the mosquito-proof furnace, but Clifford and I stuck it out on the verandah. After a while the rain cleared and an elephant trumpeted a little way off. Finally we slept a bit. We found many ticks on us in the morning.

A few days after returning to Kandy Clifford’s leg began bothering him. One of the tick bites was turning septic. We poulticed it and he had it dressed every day. But it got worse and the other leg also became infected. Then one leg seemed to clear up and he played tennis twice. But it got worse again and half-way through the term he needed injections. He was laid up for a month, getting steadily worse, with fever. The doctor sent him to hospital. He was there for five weeks

and had to have two operations, as abscesses had formed deep down. Eventually the infection went and after nearly three weeks in a convalescent home in Nuwara Eliya, poor Clifford was ready to start a new term and rehearsals for “H M S Pinafore”, in which he is taking a leading part.

Ticks are tiny and burrow right in and weeks after start some infection. I know of a man who lost his life through the blood poisoning caused by a tick bite.

Clifford spent all his money on doctors and hospitals so could not go to Burma next Christmas. The rest of us got off lightly, except that I had to pay a hundred rupees to get the springs of my car put right after all the overloading to which it had been subjected.

LIFE AND DEATH AT SCHOOL (1935 - 1936)

In the night Ehelemalpe died in the sick room. It was malarial enteritis with colitis. I heard awful howling in the night and for a moment thought it must be women shrieking, then decided it was dogs or jackals. Actually it was his mother and sisters.

We all went to the funeral. I took my car, but never would have if I had known what a difficult road it was – all hair-pin bends and precipices. The funeral was at 5 p.m. The women were shrieking and making a terrible noise. One man kept shooting off a gun which made me jump. The grave was on a hill-side in the loveliest surroundings of mountains, paddy fields and wonderful sky. The women kept up an awful din (it is not considered proper not to). Mr Stoppard took the service. We kept the women quiet while this went on. Different people made orations about the dead boy and the brilliant fortune he was cut off from. It was very sad. The family are terribly poor and everything had been sacrificed to give this boy a good education. He was 18 and in the Senior form.

Coming back to Kandy it was awful. Not only was it dark, but with a thunderstorm and rain in torrents. I could not see at all and had to crawl. Edna had to tell me which way to go. I could not keep the lights on full beam because of reflections against the rain. The lightning helped to show me where the road was. It took 2 ½ hours to Kandy. We were wet through as I had to keep the wind-screen open or else I could not see at all.

The doctors in Colombo have declared Kandy an unhealthy place. The result is that many children are leaving the Kandy schools. Further, the Roman Catholics of St Antony’s have issued an ultimatum to parents that if they send their children to Protestant schools they will have to do penance. So many R C children are also being taken away from Kandy schools.

I later attended the funeral of Abdeen at Nawalapitya. He had malaria for 29 days – badly. The day before at 4 p.m. the doctor gave him an atebrin injection. He was with him until 5.30 p.m. Half an hour later he shot himself. It must have been cerebral malaria. He had left only two terms ago.

As a Moslem, his funeral took the form of a procession of only men. I was the only woman present. He was buried on the estate near the main estate road, up a bank. He was carried on a cane bier with a covering over it. His body only was placed in the grave. Three feet from the bottom, planks were placed across and then the grave filled with earth over the planks. This leaves room for the dead man to sit up when the angel comes to him and examines his past life to decide between Hell and Heaven. When the grave was covered, flowers were placed on it and the priest said many Arabic prayers, to which the people responded with “amen”.

The river picnic along the Teldeninga Road was a disaster. On the way, boys in two of the buses threw stones at people on the road. One of the coolies working on the road lost his eyesight. They were the younger boys of Napier and Ryde. They were severely caned, apologies were written by

their parents, the boys were gated for the term and all pocket-money was diverted to pay for the coolie. The whole school was punished by cancelling the holiday on 6 March. There will be no picnics for a long time.

Further, small boys began to rifle the cocoa pods by the side of the river – after the estate owner had given generous permission for the picnic to take place there. Many pods were picked.

The next disaster was that the cutlets for the picnic breakfast made nearly the whole upper school sick for the night. Apparently competition for the bathroom was appalling. I too was afflicted. The next day the boarders made it an excuse to cut school, though many were not ill. They were all given salts and leave from class when necessary. Hardly a boarder turned up after roll-call. Afternoon school was cancelled.

A further disaster was that Miss Hoffman put pork in with the cutlets, hoping it would not be discovered. This is a terrible offence against the Moslems in the School. She was severely ‘blown up’ by Mr Stoppard, who felt he ought to write to the parents and apologise. He was advised not to and trust the news would not get to the parents. The boys merely suspected, but were not sure.

The last disaster was the discovery of itch in the Lower School. The Junior School boys refused to come out of the water when they were told. The Cub picnic for Saturday was cancelled.

The boys were frightened by a ghost that comes in the night and makes weird noises. They have heard it for several nights and are so terrified they will not go to the lavatory alone. A branch has been broken there. This is a sure proof of a ghost. In this country ghosts are in the habit of breaking branches – cleanly – no jagged edges. Kamanangara heard a noise in the night like a child being strangled. Jim, Young and Little waited up last night until midnight. Then they did a prowl around the compound. There were numerous dogs whining at the moon. The watcher saw the ghost and then it disappeared. It is probably ‘Angus’ – the skeleton which the biology class borrowed from Dr Hay. Angus must be roaming at night from his cupboard. The best thing is to look inside the cupboard at night.

I had my first attack of malaria of the alternating kind. My temperature was 103° for four days. The treatment was atebrin and plasmo-quinine – most unpleasant.

Mr Fraser’s story: A little girl asked her brother where God lived. He replied “In the W C.” The mother remonstrated, but the boy persisted. “He does. Daddy says so. I heard him say to Him - My God, are you still in there!”

THE RIVER (April 1937)

Rest at noon - river trip

How nice it is to have a car of one’s own! Though I have had my Morris Minor for only two years, I seem to have driven practically all over Ceylon. There are a few isolated spots not yet penetrated, but they are on my list.

Nearly every morning before I have my morning tea, I go out, either around the Lake or to Peradeniya Gardens or Lady Horton's. They are all lovely in the early morning, but perhaps the Lake is loveliest of all, especially in January and February, when the nights are comparatively chilly and a dense mist covers the water. As the sun rises the Lake seems to breathe out cold vapour from its glassy surface and then the mist gradually rises in long delicate spirals which turn golden and rosy in the early morning light. Finally, shafts of silver stab through the shadowy trees and the lake is bathed in gleaming sunlight.

But this is about our trip down the Mahaweli Ganga. There were five of us in three cars, with mountains of luggage piled chiefly in David's car. His car is nicer in appearance than mine, so I have Eve as my passenger and only a little luggage. Besides David, Eve and me, there were Stoppers, (the Principal) and Martin King. Our luggage consisted of something like 48 pieces, including such things as a billy, frying pan, hurricane lantern, eggs, bread, rusks, onions, potatoes,

mosquito nets, bedding, clothes and several bags of tinned food. The frying pan was the property of the College Glee Club. But as the Club is under my jurisdiction, I could easily borrow it with no questions asked. I need not explain why the Glee Club owns a frying pan. We own even odder things.

Our immediate destination was Trincomalee, 114 miles away and we had to leave early as we had to catch a bus from there at three o'clock. It was almost cold. All the way down the Balakaduwa Pass to Matale there was thick mist, with occasional lovely glimpses of the mountains, all fresh and bright in the rising sun. This mist lasted even in the low-country beyond Dambulla. I have never known it like that before. Just before Dambulla a strange animal slunk across the road in front of my car, the colour of a jackal but the body of a small leopard. It may have been a leopard- cat.

Our first resting place was Habarane, at the junction to Polonnaruwa, where we proposed to spend the first night. We deposited all our luggage in the Habarane Rest House, to await our arrival in the evening from Tincomalee. The Rest House Keeper was very helpful and undertook to hold up the Polonnaruwa bus for us, in case we arrived late. We cleaned and hung the jungle fowl which David had shot on the way and went across the road to a little boutique for hoppers, plantains and tea. We were doing this holiday on the cheap, so could not afford rest-house meals. The hoppers (pancakes made from rice flour and no eggs) were particularly good, so we ate a great many. Boutique tea David calls "taka taka tea" from the noise made by the boutique keeper when he beats up the milk and sugar violently in the glass. The tea gets a sort of airy, uplifted quality in it. The water is kept boiling all the time in an urn. The thick tea essence seems to be boiling all the time too, but as the tea is made very weak, one hardly notices any bitterness.

Martin and Stoppers arrived an hour later, with the car missing on two cylinders, the steering faulty and petrol consumption appalling. By this time it was very hot and Stoppers was feeling ill with a high temperature after an enteric inoculation the previous day. We transferred him to David’s car and put Martin’s in the middle in case it came to grief. I was at the back and felt quite ill watching Martin’s zig-zagging progress on the road. It was difficult driving so slowly.

We reached Trinco at 12.30 and hunted up various people to see if they would park our cars during our absence. We lunched at Fort Frederick under the shade of Swami Rock. We had to hand over our cameras and guns before we entered the Fort, because Trinco is now the chief naval base for the Eastern Squadron and is being strongly fortified in preparation for the next war. The sea was marvellous – a brilliant blue-green without a ripple. When we got back to the town we had fizzy drinks at a superior boutique. They turned on the gramophone for our special benefit. It was of the particularly blatant variety and I begged them to stop. Of course they could not hear what I said. Then we climbed into the bus, loaded with smelly dried fish. We got back to Habarane at five. We found the bus to Polonnaruwa waiting for us and apparently in no great hurry. After loading it with our luggage from the Rest House, we had some tea at our old boutique. The bus driver very obligingly took us to Polonnaruwa station, two miles from the village. The station master allowed us to spend the night there rather than in the jungle. There happened to be a suitable tree from

which to hang our nets. There were masses of night flies and mosquitoes, making eating near the lamp an unpleasant affair. The only protection against them was slacks. From then on Eva and I abandoned skirts and wore shorts by day and longs at night.

We rose early and Eva and I went into the jungle to wash, taking a railway bucket with us for the purpose. From this time on Eva and I always shared a small bucket of water for our ablutions, dipping in our washers alternately. We bought hoppers and hot water for our tea from a nearby boutique, but the hoppers were too sodden to eat.

We wondered how we were going to get to the railway bridge where we had arranged for canoes to wait for us to take us down the river. There was a train due shortly. We thought if we went first- class and Stoppers made himself important as the Principal of a prominent college and David, as Ceylon’s leading artist, the engine-driver might be encouraged to stop the train at the bridge. It would certainly be simpler than getting all our stuff carried by an army of men. In spite of some reluctance by the Principal we decided to try it. When the train arrived Stoppers went along to the driver with David and the station-master. The driver agreed, as long as we told nobody about it. So we bundled in for the journey of a quarter of an hour and bundled out again at the bridge.

Our boatmen were there to meet us, six of them. Below the bridge were the two canoes which we had ordered on faith through our old friend Bertie. The canoes were about thirty feet long and three feet wide in the middle – just ordinary dugouts without outriggers, The boatmen were coast Moors and spoke only Tamil. David knew a little Tamil and I knew less, a handicap, so we missed some interesting things along the river as a result.

We put our luggage in one boat and clambered into the other ourselves. Each boat had three men, one to steer with a paddle and two to row if necessary. They had taken three days to punt the 60 miles upstream from Trinco. We left the bridge at 9.30. The river was very wide here with low green banks and distant blue mountains. There was a cool breeze blowing. Almost immediately David shot a large bush-snipe sitting on a sand-bank. This, with yesterday’s jungle fowl, was to be our chief course at supper. Stoppers went ashore and tried to get the mate of the snipe, but after a long chase it flew to the other bank. Next we got stuck on a sand-bank and the boatmen had to work hard to get us off again. It began to get hot and we looked for a spot to land. But on both banks there was only tobacco cultivation and we hoped we should get clear of it around the next bend. Finally we found a sand-bank shaded by trees with only a little grass. David had a horror of grass because of ticks. They seem to flock to him and he easily goes septic. We bathed in the river as there seemed to be no crocodiles. Opposite us were some huge precipitous rocks, on the face of which elephants were carved, but they are fully visible only when the water is low. Nobody knows who carved them or why or when.

After lunch we slept or read, lying on our ground sheets beneath the trees, until it got cooler at four. Our unhappy fowl was more than a little high. So we gave it a watery burial and half-cooked the snipe with potatoes and onions. We were now in much denser cultivation and there were even little villages. The Coast Moors come up-stream in canoes, settle on the banks and clear the jungle

100

for about 100 yards inland. Their huts, cattle and irrigation make the river ugly and uninteresting. We did not want to camp in the midst of habitation and David continued hopeful about “the next bend”. But it was getting later and the cultivation denser. We were forced to land on a sand-bank immediately opposite a village. We were disappointed and saw no reason why the banks should not be cultivated all the way to Trinco. Instead of jungle down to the water’s edge, as we expected, there was only red earth and a few dusty green plants, with cattle and unwelcome humans, who shouted to our boatmen and exchanged news in a language we did not understand. Nevertheless we did see plenty of birds and monkeys. There were horn-bills, a crested devil-bird and peacocks. The peacocks kept out of range of our guns. We passed a dead buffalo on the sand and a large kabaragoya waddled away as we approached. One tree was bare of leaves and against the sky we saw monkeys silhouetted in lovely positions just as in a Chinese picture.

We camped on the bare sand, tying up our nets on punting poles and branches which the men cut from nearby trees. While the men made a fire of driftwood, boiled water and heated the stew, we stood at the edge of the bank with buckets and tried to get clean. We did not dare to get into the water – river crocodiles are fiercer than the tank ones. The stew was as tough as leather, but the potatoes, onions and gravy were delicious. After brushing our teeth in the tea we went to bed. Brushing of teeth was a difficulty on this trip. There was never enough boiled water. The others seemed not to mind if the operation had to fall through sometimes. But I have rather a kink about brushing my teeth – at least the others thought so.

We slept under the stars, but the dew dripped through my net. I had to get my raincoat and put up my umbrella. This became a regular performance every morning at about three. The others had bell nets which did not collect the water on top. The moon was a slender crescent and the dawn was streaky and red. When the sun appeared the mist rose on the river, a lovely sight.

David boiled the eggs for breakfast as he hates them hard. But he forgot about them for six minutes, so we had them hard after all. The river water was filthy, but we had to make tea with it. By seven it was hot so we packed quickly and set off. Peacocks were on the trees, but always just out of range.

At last to our joy we were clear of the cultivation. The jungle was marvellous – so dense, with great creepers hanging from the trees into the water. There were straight, grassy banks and overgrown islands. Several times crocodiles slithered into the water as we approached. When it became too hot we landed and camped under the trees. Everywhere were tracks of elephants and leopards. Bears had torn bark from the trees. We saw many pigs and wild buffaloes on the banks. The boatmen wanted us to shoot them a buffalo, but David said that if we did, they would simply gorge all night and sleep all the next day and we would never get them to move. He seemed to speak bitterly from the depths of his heart.

Towards evening we landed on a sandbank at the edge of the jungle, but the mosquitoes and night flies were awful. We wanted to fry sausages for dinner, but the flies were in a dense mass around the fire and in the pan. The dead bodies were lying in heaps inches high. I have never seen

101

anything like it. We tried to eat some food under a mosquito net, but even then they got inside and drowned in the fruit juice. It was revolting. We could get nowhere near the lamp.

David went out early to try to shoot something. All night there were jungle noises and some elephants had come down to bathe on the other side of the river. We heard plenty of deer, also peacocks. But David came back empty handed.

By about eleven we came to a part with wonderful rain-trees hanging over the water. They were planted there, as they are not jungle trees. Later we heard their story. About 60 years ago some Englishmen came up the river in a boat from Trinco, built a house, settled down and began to plant an estate. In their ignorance they used to order tinned salmon, sardines and fruit to feed their coolies. They had whisky to drink and gave some to the coolies. In the end one of them drowned in the river when a sudden squall capsized the sailing boat and the other drank himself to death. The rain-trees were planted by them and that was all that was left of the estate. Philip, a famous tracker of earlier days was a podeon (small boy) in the bungalow. We met him when we got to Trinco and he told us the story. Now the place is a favourite haunt of wild elephants. David and Martin met one when they went into the jungle a little way to see if they could get a peacock. They stood petrified under a tree and waited for it to go. A little later they met it again, blocking their way back to the camp. At last it departed. Then a peacock flew out of the tree just above their heads. It must have been there all the time. They felt it was adding insult to injury.

This night we camped on a large sandbank, but it was full of elephant and crocodile tracks and the boatmen did not like it at all. Towards sunset we went for a walk along the jungle by an elephant track. Then we heard one among the bushes close by, so we went hurriedly and silently past. Coming back we lost the track and found a buffalo track instead, with the result that we got tangled up in a filthy bog in which the buffaloes had been wallowing. Our white canvas shoes became the colour of slimy mud and no amount of cleaning ever changed them. For the night we collected stacks of drift-wood, as we would have to keep watch-fires going all night. One large crocodile appeared near the bank and seemed determined to come ashore in spite of our efforts to drive it off. We saw its evil face come out of the water several times. We took turns at being on guard and tending the fires all night. My watch was from one to three. The stars were lovely and I did not feel at all sleepy. Every now and then I searched the bank with a torch. Tending the fires made me thirsty and there was little water ready boiled. It was not safe to risk getting any out of the river in the dark.

As soon as the sun rose it became hotter and we got wet through with sweat packing our bedding. After a restful morning we set off for the last lap. The river changed now, as we neared the sea. Sometimes it divided and the jungle gave place to pampas grass, reeds and mangroves. The sunset was glorious, with wonderful reflections in the water. Just as the sun went down we suddenly came to the end – a landing bridge among the mangroves. It belonged to the Rest House at Muttur, about 18 miles from Trinco. There was no way of getting to Trinco that night. So we packed all our stuff in a room at the Rest House and decided to camp on the beach for the night. The Rest House Keeper was not over-pleased to see us. I suppose we did not look very attractive

102

with our queer bundles and crumpled clothes. In any case he was not going to get much out of it. We decided to have a first class meal after a bathe. Stoppers made a fire on the beach, not easy in the wind. After dinner we brought down our ground-sheets and bedding and slept like tops. A few crabs crawled over us.

At six next morning a cart came to take our stuff across the ferry to the boat which crosses the Koddiyar Bay to Trinco Harbour. These are fairly large boats, partly rowing and partly sailing – three of them. We had twelve rowers and a large and odd assortment of passengers and luggage. All the rowers shouted to each other all the way to Trinco. It took two hours to cross as the wind had died down and the sails flapped about. We raced with one of the other boats. The sea was choppy and of course I was sick.

Just as we entered the mouth of the harbour and a smoother sea, a Moslem beggar musician began to sing to the accompaniment of his tambourine. He had a pleasant voice and people listened in silence. People do not as a rule applaud in Ceylon. The musician earned his passage for his half-hour – 25 cents – and one cent over. Most of that came from our party. The other passengers were not very generous and the cents came in slowly. One passenger had a faded black umbrella on which he had patched a large hole with figured red Turkey twill. Things like that never strike the people of Ceylon as funny. They were all tremendously interested in us. Some of our boatmen were splendid, handsome fellows, with wonderful limbs.

After collecting our cars our next objective was Kuchchaveli circuit bungalow – 26 miles north of Trinco. We had to cross three lagoons by ferries. On the banks were trees with lovely scarlet and yellow flowers. We saw many climbing fish. The jungle along the road to Kuchchaveli is dense and full of beasts, but we only saw black monkeys. The bathing from the circuit bungalow is the finest I have had in Ceylon. The sea was smooth, the sand fairly hard and one did not get out of one’s depth immediately. There are few places on the Ceylon coast where people could learn to swim.

Stoppers left us for his second inoculation. David took him to Trinco for his bus and train to Kandy, then arranged to meet us at the Kumburepitti Tank. David had done some fine bear and leopard shooting there before. But on this occasion he shot a jungle fowl and missed a peacock. We saw plenty of deer and pig, besides mongoose and monkeys, but it was useless trying to get a pig and take it along in our car. Jungle fowl was quite sufficient for our next dinner. We spread our bedding over the sand, but black clouds were building up and a few drops of rain fell. David eventually persuaded us to de-camp in our night attire to a Roman Catholic church he knew of, a few miles away. It was a primitive little place, built by Father Reichard and his village folk, of mud, cadjun and galvanised iron. Father Reichard is French and devotes his whole life to these poor and ignorant villagers. Unfortunately, we did not meet him. By this time the stars were shining brightly, so we camped under the trees in front of the church. In the night there was grunting close to us. I thought it must be a village cow with a bad cold. Then there was an awful hullabaloo and stampede into the jungle. Some earth was kicked onto my face and bedding. In the morning we found it had been a herd of wild pig.

103

After returning to Trinco David had persuaded the caretaker of the circuit bungalow at Kiliveddi to allow us to spend the next night there. On the way we visited Andankulam, a lovely tank with great masses of rocks and cliffs at one end, with fantastic trees growing right in the water. David had used some of the rock formations in his College Chapel frescoes.

At the bungalow at Kiliveddi, never in my life have I experienced such mosquitoes. It was meant to be mosquito-proof. We decided to have our food inside in comfort and sleep on the cement verandah where it would be cooler. While preparing our meal we got bitten to death. Certainly the doors and windows were all wired, but there was an open gap between the top of the walls and the ceiling. The mosquitoes swarmed in on the light. We could easily understand why the caretaker seemed so lethargic and unwilling to help with hot water and washing our dirty cups and plates. I suppose he was riddled with malaria. We were careful not to forget our quinine that night.

On the way back we camped on the beach at Kalkuduh – a favourite weekend spot for planters from Batticaloa and estates further inland. In the morning the fishermen arrived early and began to fish and talk around us. We watched them throwing a casting net over a shoal. Then a man had to dive down to gather up the edges under water and bring it up full of fish. They were able to stay under water a remarkably long time. Other men were catching larger fish with bait snared on a three pronged hook flicked about in a mass of little fish. The water was quite dark with myriads of fish of all sizes.

Next night was at Batticaloa to stay with the Paynter’s cousin, Dr Kathleen Jayawardene. She had not been told of our intention and would obviously have no food prepared for us, but people in Ceylon are very hospitable and always welcome unannounced guests, even if they arrive in shoals. She had just come in from the hospital. She was pleased to see us as she finds B’caloa a little lonely still. She has not been there long and almost all the people are Tamils and Moors. She is Sinhalese and speaks very little Tamil. Most of her work is among poor Moor women who live in the dirtiest conditions. She says is astonished that any of the mothers or babies survive. Mortality is high. After hot baths and a first-class luncheon of curry and rice we slept until five. When we woke we found Tiny Edwards (an old boy from the College) had come to see us.

104

WESTMINSTER ABBEY (April 1937)

After our journey down the River ending up finally at Dr Kathleen’s in Batticaloa, we stayed there a few days. We were accompanied by Tiny who took us to his estate right in the middle of the jungle about 15 miles from B'caloa. This estate is part of the “back to the land” scheme of the government, who are trying to get young men of the better class to take up farming, by giving them a certain number of acres of jungle and some assistance until they get going. But though Tiny has cleared about 25 acres and it is producing paddy and kurrakan (native corn) and a certain amount of fruit and other things, he is disillusioned. He says the farm is not likely to pay, owing to the difficulty of transport, dry seasons and destruction by wild elephants, pigs and other animals. Also the help provided by the government such as fencing and seeds is so slow in coming that when and if it comes the need has long since passed, or the damage done irreparable. He refuses to bribe, so can get none of his wants attended to. Last year he showed neither profit nor loss, and that is after five years of hard work and privations. It is a lonely existence with no company except for his overseer, who is uneducated, and a couple of coolies. He lives in a mud hut with no furniture, except for a table, chair and a camp bed. The same hut also acts as a store-room. He is disheartened and will throw it up as soon as he can. Perhaps farming in the dry zone never will really offer a future to a man who wants more than a bare existence.

From Tiny's estate we went to Unichchi Tank and lunched in the P W D's little bungalow. The tank is a huge sheet of water, restored for irrigation purposes. It is rather modern looking, but there are lovely mountains in the distance. From the tank we had a marvellous drive to the main road through very wild jungle, but we saw nothing more harmful than monkeys. We left Tiny on the main road to wait for a bus to take him back close to his estate. I fear he must have waited for hours, as we passed nothing for several hours. We were on our way to Bibile, where Senaka Bibile and his uncle, Mr Rambukpothe, the Ratamahatmaya of the Bibile district, had made arrangements for our climb of Westminster Abbey, a mountain in the heart of the jungle, and called so by the English from its shape.

The Bibiles trace their descent from the ancient Veddah kings. There is a story that a certain Veddah king sent his nine sons out in different directions to settle. One son found a place with a number of natural springs and settled there. He called the place Bibile, which means "springs" and the present family are his descendants. Senaka's father died last year. He was the R M of Bibile and an old boy of Trinity. This post has been in the family for many generations, but Senaka was too young to take it on, so his uncle is 'holding the fort' until Senaka finishes his education. It is a government appointment, but there is every likelihood Senaka will be appointed, as the family is regarded as the natural head by all villages in the district. In ancient times under the Sinhalese Kings, the R M was the petty chieftain of a large district in the country. It is somewhat the same

105

now, but part of the civil service. Mostly descendants of the old Sinhalese nobility are appointed to these posts.

We got to Bibile at 4.30 and were made welcome by Mrs Bibile and all the family, as well as the Rambukpothe family. There was a crowd of children – at least 13, six Bibiles alone and other relatives for the holidays. Imagine the noise! Mrs Bibile is a low-country lady and a remarkable manager. When her husband died she pulled things together and is now practically running the R M-ship herself. She joins in with all the children’s fun and enjoys it as much as they do. Naturally they all adore her.

Eva and I were given the best bedroom with a bathroom attached, in which there was an English bath and running water. Martin camped on the verandah with David and the children lay in rows on the drawing room floor. After a huge dinner and noisy gramophone we got to bed at 9.30 and slept well.

Next morning we left for Siyambal Anduwa, 40 miles away. We left Martin’s car behind, as it was still giving trouble, so we took David’s, mine and the Bibiles’. Senaka and Ananda Bibile were with us on this trip. We got to S A by ten and camped in the little circuit bungalow. These huts always have floors of mud mixed with cow-dung, quite a good mixture when it is wet. The bungalow was at the edge of the jungle quite close to a lovely little stream. Soon after our arrival a villager came along with an offering of pines, oranges and plantains. Senaka accepted such attentions as a matter of course, as the son of the late R M of the district. Quite a lot of villagers came along to ‘worship’, that is, bow very low to Senaka and Ananda. The boys responded, but not so low, as befitted their superior rank.

We spent the day at S A, then in the late afternoon all packed into one car to visit Lahugala Tank, about 15 miles away. Senaka said there were lots of elephants near this tank. There were plenty of jungle fowl on the road. Senaka started by missing two. Then Martin shot one and a little later Senaka shot two. It began to drizzle and we got cold and damp. By the time we reached the tank we were all shivering. It was too late to distinguish any elephants along the edge of the jungle in the distance. We did see a number of teal among the reeds of the tank, but we refrained from shooting because of the prospect of crocodiles.

We left S A before sunrise next morning for the 15 mile walk through the jungle to the foot of Westminster Abbey. We had 11 porters to carry our luggage and food. We also had Bibiles’ cook, so things were likely to be less slipshod. After three miles through lovely, wild jungle we came upon a group of villagers waiting for us with karumbas. As soon as we arrived they started ‘worshipping’ Senaka and Ananda – but we came in for some of it as well. The karumba water was most refreshing and welcome. After four more miles the same thing happened. This was the advantage of having the trip arranged by the R M. He had asked the Korale (head of a group of villages) to make the trip comfortable for us. At the end of 10 miles we were met by the Korale himself with more coconut milk. We simply could not drink any more, so the villagers took them to the little circuit bungalow, where the Korale had a breakfast ready for us.

106

Great preparations had been made for our reception. A pandal was erected over the gateway, made of young coconut leaves, the whole surmounted by a double flag, which, for lack of better material, was made of two torn bits of newspaper. A pandal is a sort of triumphal archway made of a coconut and bamboo framework and decorated usually with young coconut leaves and stagmoss, flags or other available material. The approach to a pandal is generally decorated by a double row of young coconut leaves hanging in arches. Only the tender yellow/white leaves are used. In the little open mud bungalow a canopy, consisting of a white sheet, was erected over the table in the dining room. All the chairs were draped with sheets and other cloths. Masses of people collected to peep at us furtively through the jungle trees. They never see any but Sinhalese women. They seemed much amused by our shorts and stared all the time we were there.

We had to wait some time for breakfast, but when it arrived it was a veritable feast of rice, curries of game, chicken, eggs, fish and vegetables. It was about mid-day now. We ate far too much and then before we had a chance of digesting the rich food we set out again in all the heat for the last five miles to the foot of Westminster. This was a mistake as we discovered when the most strenuous part of the journey upwards began. The jungle got wilder. A path had been especially cut for us in some of the most overgrown places. There were many tracks of elephants and leopards. Our first view of W A was from a little chena (clearing) about three miles from the mountain. Only hardy things like Indian corn or dry-zone vegetables will grow in a chena. After one or two crops the fertility of the soil is exhausted and the chena abandoned. The government objects to chena cultivation as so many jungle trees get cut down and there is a loss of valuable timber. They can not forbid it altogether as the poor people depend on it for much of their food, but the regulations are stricter. A great deal of illicit chena cultivation is done in remote and inaccessible jungle. We found several, some abandoned, some still in use.

This first view showed W A to be a huge outcrop of rock, much like a great abbey with a steeple at one end. The steeple end is 1,800 feet high – a mass of sheer rock with some jungle on top. The Sinhalese call it Govinda-hela, a corruption of Goya-innahela, (the height where the iguana lives}. A large piece of rock juts out, which in shape resembles a huge lizard climbing up a rocky cliff. This rock was once the refuge of King Bhuvenaka IV in the 14th century. From the top he had a magnificent view of the sea only 20 miles away and could make preparation against any Pandyan or Tamil invasion from India.

Now we were at the foot of the rock and the ascent began. It was steep and rough and we were hot enough before we began. The sun was under a cloud but the air was breathless and muggy. We felt heavy after the rice and curry meal. We all began to drip in a fashion I thought not possible. When we sat down to rest, the perspiration just poured off us. Our clothes were completely soaked and we got thirstier. I really did not think I should get to the top alive. The first 1,400 feet were a scramble over boulders and tree stumps, with slippery damp earth in-between. We had to cling to roots and tree trunks. The last 400 feet were up the sheer rocky precipice up ladders. Villagers had gone ahead a few days before and put them up. They were made of cut tree branches and the rungs tied on with jungle creepers, several feet apart. The ladders were attached

107

to the rock or roots and trees by creepers. Actually I did not find this part as trying as the first part, although it was more risky. I do not know how the men managed to tie up the ladders. There was very little foothold anywhere.

We eventually got to the top at about four and lay on the sun-baked rock to dry and recover. We waited some time for tea, but when we did get it we drank cup after cup. By this time the clouds were banking up everywhere, there was thunder and a few drops of rain. The Korale told us it had rained every day for some time past. There was no shelter on top, but Eva and I were quite content to risk it. Not so David. He insisted that we must climb down the ladders and take refuge for the night in an overhanging cave a little way around from the foot of the ladders. In the end we had to descend under strong protest from Eva and me. And after all there was no rain. When we reached the cave we found masses of people gathered. Besides our cook and 11 porters, there were 11 other people of all shapes and sizes who had joined us as visitors and were expecting us to feed them until further notice. We undertook to keep them for that night, but made it plain that we could not be responsible for them any longer. Apart from the food question, we had no desire to be followed by a swarm of people wherever we went. The cave was large but with thirty people sheltering under it for the night we needed to sleep at closer quarters than we relished.

As night approached we could see the mists scurrying over the cliffs. Some eagles began to quarrel far above. The stars came out and it was a lovely night. The next morning the plains below were covered in mist and only the solitary mountain peaks showed above it.

After morning tea we climbed to the top again. There was an absolutely marvellous view, the sea from B’caloa to Pottuvil to the east, Friar’s Hood to the north, Perdu and the Horton’s Plains’ mountains and the whole of the Badulla range on the other sides. We went for a walk along the cliff edges through some dense jungle to the crags of the steeple. The precipitous drops all around were terrifying. The only ruins or remains of the royal habitation on top that we saw were a large bathing place and smaller reservoir cut out of the rock. These were full of water clean enough for us to drink. Some remains of brick walls were almost entirely overgrown with jungle and the bricks had become quite crumbly. There are no wild beasts on top of this mountain except monkeys and during the honey season bears come up. There are plenty of birds, of course.

Returning to the spot we had selected for camping on top we got very hot clambering over the rock and pushing through the thick jungle. We found another visitor with a present of two dozen oranges so we gave him a much warmer welcome than accorded to our ‘parasites’ of the night before. Our cook and the porters stayed below in the cave. The cooking was all done there and then brought up to us by the ladders. All the water was fetched from above. So the cook and the porters got quite used to climbing up and down with the food or water. It was not at all easy, but I do not think they had a single accident. Martin, David and Senaka went down once or twice to fetch things we needed, but Eva and I stayed on top.

After lunch we played bridge and slept as far as the heat would allow. After tea we explored more crags on the other side. We saw our men in the cave below. They looked like ants. Then we sat on

108

the rocks and watched the sun set over the Badulla mountains. It was lovely – rather wild and stormy looking with deep blue clouds and mountains.

Finally we spread our bedding on the bare rock surface wherever we could find a tolerably smooth spot, for the rock was gneiss and unyielding. This night we needed no nets. It was too breezy and anyway mosquitoes do not fly so high. All the clouds cleared away and the stars were brilliant. A night-jar called all night and owls hooted – all very romantic. Less romantic was the heavy dew. We and our bedding were soaked, but for all that we slept extremely well.

The next morning the sun rose gloriously and the valleys below were full of thinly spread mist. Only the peaks stood out but away in the distance the sea was very clear. The night-jar ceased calling and the other birds began to wake.

After breakfast we descended and the return journey started. It was hot but after a few miles we were met with karumbas. They were very welcome, but we had the feeling that things were being made too easy. All the same when the karumbas failed to appear on our last lap that evening we would have given almost anything for them!

The Korale welcomed us once more with karumbas and an equally grand lunch at the same circuit bungalow. The same people gathered to look at us. They thought we were on a religious pilgrimage to the top of Westminster Abbey because they heard that we had a church of that name held in great reverence. The Korale asked if this was the reason for our climbing the mountain. They can never see the sense of doing anything like this without a definite purpose. Once in Kashmir we climbed a mountain and our servant wanted to know why. “Was it our duty?” he asked. One might do it to fulfil a vow, but to go to so much trouble for the sheer joy of it is quite unintelligible to them.

109

YAPAHUWA AND KALA WEWA (July 1937)

Yapahuwa was a place I always wanted to visit, as I was impressed by photographs of the ruins I had seen. It is off the beaten track, a feature that always appeals to me.

Jan Taylor and I reached Kurunegala at about nine o’clock and then after several wrong turns at last found the Puttalam road. It was a beautiful and interesting road, arched with huge shady rain trees and constantly passing by great outcrops of rock on which were shrines, temples and Buddhist monasteries – altogether a very sacred road. We passed many tanks, some abandoned and covered with lotus and water-lilies. After some miles we branched off onto a minor road that went to Maho. It is passable only when there have been no up-country rains, as it crosses several causeways that get easily flooded. We decided to risk it. We now began to go through some wonderful country – typical low-country jungle, a road that would be dangerous at night, but safe enough by day, when the beasts disappear into the jungle. After five miles we reached the first causeway, with only a foot of water in it. But the surface was tricky – slimy mud over a rock bottom. We crawled over it and even then skidded a good deal. The other causeways were in much the same state.

At Maho we took another branch for a couple of miles and then turned into the jungle by a small cart track for the last two miles to Yapahuwa rock. At the foot of the great rock was a vast banyan tree which gave us plenty of shade for ourselves and the car against the scorching sun. We decided to camp there and set about making a fire. The only water we could find was thick green swamp water where buffaloes wallowed. But an old villager I met on the way said it was very good water and he insisted on carrying the bucket for me. I do not know why these villagers do not get awful diseases, constantly using such ghastly water and often un-boiled. By the time I returned a few villagers had collected and watched us with the greatest interest, but as soon as we began our food they departed. The tea did not taste bad at all and we drank great quantities.

After a short rest we set out to explore the rock. The cliff was overhanging and covered with jungle in which we could see rock caves where monks must once have lived, but now probably the shelters of bear.

Yapahuwa means ‘excellent mountain’. It served as a fortress retreat for one of the kings against Pandyan invaders from south India at the latter end of the 13th century. King Wijaya Bahu IV began the fortification of the rock and it became the capital of the next king, Bhuwaneka Bahu in 1277. He reigned here for 11 years before he died. Yapahuwa was then taken by the Pandyans and the Tooth relic was carried off to India. It was soon recovered by Parakrama Bahu III – but he did not live at Yapahuwa and it was never after used as a capital. It was ruined by the Portuguese in the 16th century and only recently somewhat restored by the Archaeological Department. There are very few buildings to be seen. Apart from the famous staircase in stone and the entrance porch to

110

what was planned as a magnificent palace, there are only a few brick dagabas, a few rock caves and some broken statues and the ruins of the Dalada Maligawa, in which the Tooth relic was housed. The kings always took the relic to their new capitals as a sign of authority and prestige.

A path leads from the cart track past a modern pansala or monastery to the staircase which leads up to the palace porch. The staircase consists of three flights of steps, each each ending in a terrace, but the top flight of stairs is the famous one. The balustrades are elaborately and magnificently carved with lions on pedestals, demons or rakshas and gaja-singhas – fabulous creatures with the head of an elephant and body of a lion. At the top is the porch resting on a plinth of lotus leaf above which is a dado of dancers and musicians with all kinds of instruments. On the porch are some pillars and a doorway handsomely carved and a stone window at each side surmounted by makara torana, in which is carved the goddess Sri seated on a lotus throne and holding a lotus flower. Over her throne stand two elephants on their hind legs. The whole of the staircase and porch are of gneissic rock and the carving is Hindu in style. The palace was never built. It is one of the finest examples of mediaeval sculpture. I have never seen anything that impressed me more. It was all so intensely alive.

From the levelled space where the palace was to have been built a steep path leads up through the jungle to some ruins on the flat surface of the rock. They are not remarkable in any way, but there are a few caves near the top, which show the drip ledges very clearly. One contains a battered Buddha of white quartz. It took us several hours to explore all this. We got down hot enough for a bathe in a nearby tank.

Under the banyan tree was too damp, so we moved our camp a little further along by the roadside. A little goatherd drove his flocks past us several times. When we began our meal quite a crowd gathered around us, once more. All night we heard the distant cries of the watchers in the fields frightening off wild beasts and their cries echoed against the rock. Passing showers alternated with clear starry skies. In the early part of the night villagers kept on passing along the road carrying native torches and singing or talking loudly to keep off wild beasts.

In the morning some women squatted down on the road and commented in Sinhalese on the way we lit the fire. They do not use paper and always pour kerosene onto the wood to make it burn. They criticised the way we boiled eggs, not putting them in cold water first, but being Buddhists I do not suppose they ever boiled eggs. They got a bit of a shock when they found we understood some of their comments and they quickly faded away.

We went back to Maho and took the road to Talawa, where Miss Karney has a splendid mission which I had never seen. When we arrived we found her in a little schoolroom distributing the weekly tins of condensed milk to poor mothers for their babies. Nearby one of her helpers was distributing rice, chilli and salt to some destitute people.

After breakfast Miss Karney took us into Anuradhapura to deliver to a released prisoner his infant son. The prisoner had arrived at prison six weeks beforehand with the infant, as he had no one

111

else to care for him. The poor man broke down and wept like a child when Miss Karney gave him his baby decently fed and clothed.

When we got back to Talawa, Miss Karney showed us all over her hospital, where she had 29 maternity cases and some other sick. Then we went to “Dawn”, her home for little orphans. She had put up some little huts for the destitute aged called “Eventide”, but these were empty as people refuse to come. They prefer to starve to death in their villages rather than uproot and change.

We were also taken to Ehetuwewa, a village about 26 miles away where a branch of the maternity hospital has been started under Mrs Napier-Clavering, the wife of a former Principal of Trinity College. He died in England a few years ago. Ehetuwewa is a lovely little place surrounded by hills and has an abandoned tank overgrown with lotus and reeds. It is a feeding ground for masses of teal, which no one shoots. Mrs N C was in a somewhat nervy condition, so we took her back to Talawa.

Next morning we departed early for Kala Wewa. On the way we visited a tank at Maha Illuppallama, about two miles off the road. Some years ago I stayed here on a sisal hemp estate and in the evenings we often used to go and watch the birds that roosted on the dead trees in the tank water. Vernon was managing the estate for some Colombo firm. He had left Timitar Estate after a nasty encounter with a leopard which he shot at in some high grass from a massé in the trees. When the leopard made no movement and was apparently dead, he climbed down from the massé and went to investigate. The beast suddenly sprang out at him from the grass, flung him down and began to maul him. A leopard is particularly dangerous when it has been mortally wounded. The shouts of the tracker and its own death agony finally made it relinquish its hold and Vernon was with great difficulty transported partly by bullock cart and partly by car to hospital at Batticaloa, a distance of over 50 miles. When he left hospital he had no heart to remain on the lonely coconut estate at Akkaraipattu and had taken on the hemp estate at Maha Illuppallama. We now found it abandoned, the hemp all overgrown with jungle and the whole place a desolate waste. But the Irrigation Department was making efforts to reclaim the tank and irrigate paddy fields all around. I was almost sorry I had not left the tank a happy memory, the home at sunset of dense flocks of birds in its creepers and ghostly trees.

We got to Kala Wewa at nine and found the tank water very low. This tank is the largest in Ceylon. It covers seven square miles, but used to extend right to Dambulla. It was built by King Dhatu Sena in the middle of the fifth century. Dhatu Sena freed the land from the Tamils during his reign, but there were internal troubles. I have previously mentioned about his grim end at Anuradhapura and the hands of his son, Kasyapa and his chief general and nephew. To some extent he deserved his fate, because when he was building the bund at Kala Wewa he would not wait for a priest to finish his meditations on that spot, but gave orders to throw the earth over him and bury him alive. All the same, one feels a sneaking sympathy for the king. The priest must have been very irritating.

112

Kala Wewa is connected with Anuradhapura by the Yodi Ella, a giant canal 50 – 60 miles long and built by Dhatu Sena. Near Kala Wewa is the huge Aukana Buddha, originally in the Aukana Vihara (temple). The temple has disappeared and only the statue remains standing. This is one of the ruins I had long wanted to see. It was a three mile walk to see the Buddha. We found most of the jungle had been cleared for the great new farm, to be irrigated by Kala Wewa.

The Buddha stands about 50 feet high by a cliff which had been the inner wall of the rock temple. It is a remarkable piece of sculpture, cut out of one piece of rock. The draperies are especially fine. They look like transparent gauze. The little guide who attached himself to us came barely above its feet. Unfortunately the pious Buddhists, to protect the statue from heat and rain, have erected a hideous wooden umbrella-like structure just above the head. It is a pity that piety is so often combined with bad taste.

In the afternoon we bathed in the tank. The water was slimy and green, but cool. The tank used to be full of crocodiles, but they have all been shot. The whole time we were bathing some startled pewits fluttered over us asking, “Did you do it, did you do it?” They are irritating birds – the curse of hunters in Ceylon, because they always give the alarm. While we were sitting on the bund we saw two cobras at the edge of the water. They had their bodies intertwined and were making darts at one another with their heads. Their hoods were open and we wondered if they were playing or mating. They went on for quite a long time, then they parted and went off in opposite directions. They were large snakes, over four feet long.

Owing to the howling wind and the noise and smell of bats in the bedroom, we spent a disturbed night and were not really sorry to leave early next morning.

113

ELEPHANT PASS (August 1937)

Elephant Pass is only 167 miles north of Kandy, This may not seem very far for a day’s journey. But most of the driving is difficult and a great strain – up and down mountain passes, around terrible hairpin bends and along roads that often have a yawning precipice on one side with absolutely nothing to protect one from destruction except very careful driving. I think if one can drive in Ceylon one can drive anywhere.

Elephant Pass was not in the least like what I had expected. The Rest House is on a huge lagoon which seems to join the two seas, but the open sea is invisible at either end. The lagoon is more than a mile across, but the water is less than knee deep and salty. I tried bathing in it and walked out for a great distance, but it got no deeper and I had to lie down in it to get wet at all.

There are various explanations as to the origin of the name of Elephant Pass. One is that the long causeway which now joins the Jaffna Peninsula to the mainland of Ceylon was once a shallow ford. Across this, herds of elephants used to visit Jaffna during July and August, when the clusters of sweet palmyra fruits began to ripen on the palms. Another explanation is that elephants were taken across here by the Sinhalese as a tribute to the Portuguese and Dutch, who then shipped them to Indian markets. Apart from this long built-up causeway on the western side, the only other connection between the Peninsula and the rest of Ceylon is by a narrow strip of land on the eastern side. The present Rest House was once a Dutch Fort.

114

THE WAR YEARS

November 1940

Today (11th) is Armistice Day. It makes me sad to think that the “War to End Wars” failed so unhappily to achieve its purpose. The news is not good, but we feel a little remote in Ceylon. Some of our Old Boys have begun to enlist for service overseas, but we do not know yet how it is going to affect the East.

I have now abandoned all hope of visiting Australia next April. Even if I managed to get there I might not be able to return. So I shall have to wait until I retire at the end of 1943. A serious blow is that Stoppers has decided to leave in January. He has accepted the Principal ship of the Prince of Wales College at Achimota, on the Gold Coast, the school which my first Principal, Rev. A G Fraser, began in 1924. I do not know who will be the next Principal.

Francis has been waging war on the polecats again. For some months we have been haunted by a family of them. The only advantage of the polecats was that a rat had been eating my bedroom floor and that stopped. In the August holidays, while we were away, Francis shot papa dead and for several weeks of the new term there was comparative peace. Then mama and the baby returned and the situation steadily declined. Several times mama broke into the dining room, helped herself to the fruit and left a hideous mess on the table. Jan and I put down rat poison – enough for one hundred rats – and the cat cheerfully ate it all. There was a sound of a great struggle in the ceiling and then complete silence. We naturally thought the poison had worked and sent the servants up to investigate. There was nothing to be found. A few days later the polecat came back for more and left its usual visiting card. Francis tied bait to a string which led outside to the verandah and set a bell tinkling when disturbed. He went to bed with a rifle loaded with ancient cartridges. The rifle and cartridges were given to him by his English “master” when he was a lad on an estate many years before. The bell rang vociferously, but Francis slept peacefully through it and next morning the dining room was a shambles. The following night the bell failed to ring and the cat got all it wanted. Francis heard it but was too slow and the cat disappeared through the high window. The next night arrangements were still more intricate. By means of a series of strings tied to chairs and windows he fixed the bell outside close to his ear and another string was attached to the window so that it could be closed as soon as the bell rang. It all worked according to plan. We were wakened by a terrific explosion. The bell had rung and the cat had been trapped. Then Francis got inside and shot the cat against the wall. The next morning he was all smiles and showed us the large blood-splattered hole his bullet had made. We have had no disturbance now for a week. I asked Francis what he would do with the dead polecat. Would he bury it? He said some people liked to eat them. “What!” I exclaimed in horror, “Do you eat them?” “Chi!” he answered in utter disgust and nearly spat. He later gave the cat to the woodman.

115

Francis’ phonetic spelling in his housekeeping book: “grey fruit” (grapefruit), “rose meat” (roast meat), “segu” (sago), “latis” (lettuce), “prornes” (prawns), “spinis” (spinach), “masted” (mustard), “stirl” (ox-tail) and “keetan” (kiwi tin).

The Principal received a very charming letter from a mother in Jaffna recently, concerning her son, whose education had been sadly neglected owing to a legal separation between the parents. The Court had decided that the boy be sent to Trinity, but our Kindergarten staff had objected to his admission as he was already 10 years old.

“Dear Sir,

“With reference to your kind letter of the 3rd. inst. I beg to inform you that B___ was not studied English or English was not his home language. He has only passed his Tamil III Std. It was my idea that he should begin his English in a decent college like Trinity.

“If he is acquainted with English speaking boys he may pick his due in no time.

“Trinity is a divine college, which turn stone into a mould of gold. Why not it experiment B___, the stone that was found out by the learned Principal?

“It was my idea that my son start his A and B and C from Trinity.

“I hope you, as an English Gentleman, will consider this perticular case and help me. I have set my hand at Trinity for the education of my boy.

“One day Bala. may become the Head of the Corner Stone of the Trinity. Who knows it? B. is intelligent, gentle, frank and a nice boy.

Yours very sincerely”

I have attended a number of deaths lately. One was that of an old Tamil lady. When we went to the house many women – relatives and visitors – were seated in silence around the sitting room. The open coffin was in the centre and all the pictures were turned with their faces to the wall. From time to time a visitor would get up, shake hands with all the members of the family and depart. The men visitors, as they arrived, came in and looked at the body, then they went out to the verandah and sat around in silence. After a time, they got up and departed.

Another was the death of a very Old Boy. The College choir had been asked to attend the service held in the house. I had to play the hymns sitting at the head of the corpse with the coffin open. All the mourners were sitting around the walls of the room. There were candles at the four corners of the coffin and at one a bottle of lavender scent. The Principal was handed the bottle and asked to sprinkle the corpse. He was then followed by all the relatives and friends. Some of them sprinkled lavishly and I wondered if the coffin would get flooded.

Then there was the funeral of a young Kandyan. When we reached the Wallauwa we found all the women throwing themselves about in paroxysms of grief. It is customary for the women to exhibit

116

their sorrow uncontrolled. Then the bier was carried to the family burial ground, on top of a hill some distance away and the pall-bearers walked on a white cloth. The road and path were lined with festoons of young coconut leaves. A large decorated pandal had been erected over the grave and many Buddhist priests were waiting there. First there was chanting between the priests and people. Then the priests made long ovations on the virtues of the dead man, mostly in literary Sinhalese. He was not the eldest son, so according to Kandyan customs his body was not cremated.

June 1941

Our new College chaplain, Fred Woodd, and his family have arrived from Japan. The children speak only Japanese. At present they are housed in the Principal’s bungalow, but if a principal is appointed soon, we shall probably be turned out of our bungalow to make room for them.

Martin, Samara’s son, the garden coolie, came the other day to borrow Rs.5. His father’s eyes were very bad and the priest refused to cure him unless he received Rs.15 down. This was the whole of Martin’s wages. He was able to put up Rs.10 but the College would not advance him Rs.5, so would we? Some of these priests are mercenary.

Now we have lost our second boy, Douglas. He and Francis did not get on well together. Actually no one gets on with Francis, as he is a bit jealous of the other servants. So now we have nobody to send on messages. Our bungalow, too, is falling to pieces. All the woodwork is being eaten away by dry rot. But I expect it will last out our time. Repairs in the college are becoming increasingly difficult.

An eminent Hindu doctor in Ceylon went to the Kataragam Hindu festival and came back deeply impressed. He said to Mabel “You know it was a wonderful experience and has had a deep effect on me. I feel I simply could not tell a lie. I really think that I shall feel like this for at least six months.”

We have had highest floods on record. There was a lot of rain up-country. It began at 3 a.m. in Kandy and by the end of the day we had five inches. By 4 p.m. next day the road to Peradeniya was 20 feet under water at Getembe. The houses were completely submerged and the river at Lady Blake’s was a seething cauldron, travelling at terrific speed. It had great waves that rose up in a backwash and hurled the spray high in the air. The water carried down massive logs and trees as if they were bits of stick. An elephant and many buffaloes were carried away and a few people have lost their lives. The next day, when the waters subsided, the people returned to their houses – those that were left – cleaned out the mud and settled in again. I do not know how they have the courage.

This morning at six o’clock a large polecat with its kitten was sitting on the rails of the verandah upstairs. I went for them with a stick. The mother fled, but the baby got stuck and took refuge on the landing, where we easily caught it. It was a pretty little creature and mewed plaintively. I am sorry we had to kill it, but the cats are so horrible when they grow up.

117

I have been busy lately giving talks and lectures. I have given four on Kashmir and one on the universe to the Astronomical Society. I am getting quite tired of Kashmir!

November 1941

This month I went down to Colombo to give a talk to the Classical Association on my travels in Greece and Cyprus two years ago. I was not able to take my car as we are rationed for petrol. My ration is six gallons a month. We are not in dire need in Ceylon yet, as our supply comes from Burma. It was a great pleasure to meet some of my old pupils again.

The next day I went to Ragama with the Ladies’ College girls, as they were staging a play for the Australian nurses and medical staff in the new military hospital. There are crowds of nurses and staff and the hospital is large. We found them nice and friendly, but I did not know any of them, though some were from Adelaide. They belong to a younger generation.

By way of variety I have been busy cleaning out an ants’ nest from my piano. It took me well over an hour, as I had to remove all the insides and every key, as the eggs were thick underneath. I sprayed and killed all the ants and with the aid of a knife managed to scrape out most of the eggs. There were thousands of them. These ants’ nests are a curse in this country. One is constantly finding them in unexpected places, some nearly an inch long. Jan found a nest in her flute some time ago and has not been able to play it since, because of the taste of the spray.

At last the appointment of the Principal has been announced. He is an old Etonian with many University scholarships to his credit and a first class economist. But at present he is doing his army job in India and cannot be released until after the war. So the Vice-Principal, Mr Simithraaratchy, has been appointed “Officiating Principal”. I doubt whether Jan and I will meet the new man at all.

Some of the boards and cement in the bungalow have been renewed, so we can get on until we depart. At any rate we will not fall through the floor now. But we have been having more trouble with the servants. Francis left at the end of last month after being with us for many years. He said he wanted to retire and buy a little plot of ground with the money we had been putting aside for him each month. At present our arrangements are very makeshift and we are trying out Punchi Banda, Douglas’ successor, with cooking. He looks promising. But he had to be dismissed recently. He was rather dishonest and finally he and Douglas had a flare-up and flew at each other, so I sent off Punchi Banda on the spot. It is no use when servants begin to knife each other. Stephen, the second boy, will not suit, I fear. He is slow and uncouth, an untrained village lad.

It looks as if Japan may cut us off from Australia. We depend on Australia for most of our imports of wheat, butter, jam and other tinned and cold-storage goods. Our rice supplies from Burma are running out. We had planned a trip to Mysore and South India for Christmas, but we have to abandon it. I am anxious about my friends in Hong Kong and others in Malaya. Many ships are being sunk in these waters.

January 1942

118

I hear that planters were called up for military duty, but when they got to Colombo their agents or managers told them to return to their estates until they received permission to leave them. The matter was taken to the governor who decided that planting was of secondary importance. The result was that all planters under 40 were called up. Their wives and children were to be provided with bungalows on the estates and they were to receive half the husband’s salary or the children three quarters. All this was to be at the expense of the estates.

February 1942

They are having a bad time in Singapore. Many of the women and children have come to Kandy and other parts of Ceylon. Rice is being rationed here now and the Ceylonese are getting about a third of their normal quantity. For the rest they have to make a sort of pancake of Australian flour for their curries. But we are experiencing more difficulty in getting food from Australia. There has been no news of our Ceylon friends in Malaya. Their regiment was badly mauled.

The monkeys lately have been coming down from Lady Horton’s and destroying things in our gardens. They ate all the leaves and fruit of the young pawpaw tree, rooted up and carried away young pie-apple plants and plantains which Mr Woodd planted. They took a short-cut over our roof from the jak tree. When I went to the verandah upstairs about six of them were hanging down from the roof to have a look at me. I had to shut my bedroom door and windows in case they ran off with the things on my dressing table.

The squirrels have only just realised that with daylight saving time they must get up earlier to catch me at my tea. Only two come now. The friendliest one, who came for a couple of years, has stopped coming. I fear he must be dead. The timid one of the two gets panicky and generally does a pirouette backwards and forwards until it at last has the courage to grab a bit of toast and flee.

June 1942

The news about Java and Burma is very disturbing. Our chief danger is being a small island. Our problem will also be food. We depend so much on imports. Of course we have dug trenches and built brick shelters and most of us have become Air Raid Wardens and have attended lectures on First Aid. We have regular air-raid practices and our lights are all blacked out. But in these two- storied bungalows it is difficult. Everywhere there are ventilators and carved wood-work, which let the light through.

After along time we can get potatoes, flour and occasionally cheese and bacon. Most other things we get off and on, but eggs are a dreadful price – nine pence each.

September 1942

Jan and I have moved down to a few rooms in the vacant Principal’s bungalow, as our Junior School has been commandeered by the Military Police. We share the bungalow with the kindergarten classes, while the Chaplain and his family have had to move up. We certainly have fewer pests in this residence, but we miss the air and view from the top bungalow. We get no

119

polecats or bats, because the windows and doors are wire-netted, but we do sometimes get a visit from a frog from outside. After a while when the door is open, he hops out again. It is not very restful here with all the children around us, but by 3.30 they are all gone and the week-ends are quiet.

We have now been without a Principal for the last two years and the one from India has withdrawn. If we get one before the war is over, I do not know where we will be stowed.

Mr W__, teacher at St Anthony’s, cram coach and owner of houses, is having all his land and house ownership disputed by a dhobi. The dhobi married a woman by Kandyan law and the dowry was some land. By Kandyan law the dowry land reverts to the father if the wife dies. The wife died but the father had died before her. The wife’s brothers then took the land and it was sold to Mr W__. The dispute was that the brothers had no claim to it. The dhobi offered privately to W__ to forego all claims for Rs.3,000 and W__ angrily drove him away. So the dhobi put in a claim and won his case before the Supreme Court. Now W__ has appealed to the High Privy Council. He has spent all his time cramming boys and having them as boarders, making pots of money in the process. His houses have been leased to St Anthony’s since their college was commandeered.

Servants never distinguish between tea towels and dusters. They use the same cloth for both purposes. Nothing will cure them. One day Mabel found her head boy using a new tea towel as a duster and her second boy drying the cups on a dirty bit of pink silk. She bought some tea towels with coloured borders and next found the garden coolie wearing one as a turban. They were “very good head cloths.”

January 1943

I have definitely decided to sell my car as I get only two gallons. The tyres and battery are wearing too and I shall not be able to replace them.

Sharing a bungalow with the Kindergarten and the children’s ayahs and servants has its disadvantages apart from the noise. The other day someone stole into our sitting room and walked off with my clock. Luckily it was not a very good one. We also discovered that our cook is taking a little of Jan’s money which she foolishly did not keep locked up. When Jan taxed him with it he first collapsed on the floor and then admitted it. It is a pity, as we thought him honest, but it is not fair to tempt people who earn so very little, especially now when prices are soaring.

Our sugar ration threatens to decline to a quarter of a pound a week. Juggery is a substitute to some extent, but the price of this is rising rapidly.

July 1943

On 1 July for Ceylon: Population 6,134,000 Sinhalese 4,113,000 Tamils 1,527,000

120

Moors 389,000 Burgher and Eurasian 40,000 Malays 18,000 European 11,000 Other 36,000

August 1943

The caterpillars are awful this season, worse than I have ever known them. They fall on one’s head while teaching, or down the front of one’s clothes. They crawl over the walls, inside and out. If they come in contact with the skin, it becomes sore and inflamed, because of the minute hairs they leave behind in the pores. It may be due to the excessive rain. Since May it has hardly stopped. At least it has been cool, but our shoes and books get covered in mould.

January 1944

I spent my Christmas holidays with Bookie at Manipay in Jaffna - cool and green. There were vast expanses of paddy fields. They were glorious this season – great stretches of emerald green, watery pools and miniature lakes with fringes of palmyra palms in the distance. Sometimes there were water lilies, white and pink and glowing sunsets reflected in the water.

Often we as sat by the edge of a field we heard the pealing of a temple bell. We used to walk to the field through a palmyra grove, but could not take the path across, because the goddess Lakshmi would have been offended if we had walked there in our shoes and she might have ruined the crop. Just opposite was a human burning ghat under a huge banyan tree. The whole corpse is burned to ashes, even the bones. Then a low-caste person collects the ashes and gives them to the family. For some reason only a low-caste woman can handle the fish which is sold to the high- caste Hindus. Sometimes she even cleans it for her patron. And yet all the food must be cooked by high-caste people.

It is not polite in Jaffna to overtake people on a pathway unless one receives permission to do so. As Bookie and I were walking one day we caught up with a Tamil gentleman on a little pathway. He stood aside for us and said with a little bow: “You may go.”

On Christmas Eve we went to a church near-by where there was to be a Christmas pageant. The service began half an hour late as the congregation had not yet collected and the lamps were not quite ready. The eight little Angels came in and placed themselves with lighted candles all about the pulpit and alter. One tiny child was placed on a chair in the centre. Just as proceedings were about to begin, this babe took fright, opened her mouth wide and started to scream at the top of her voice. She had to be removed. Then came the Shepherds and Kings and knelt before the altar. There were many carols and lyrics from the choir, sung lustlly with chest notes even in the top register. A blind man accompanied the harmonium on a fiddle and there was a tom-tom and drum. The petrol lamps began to give trouble and had constantly to be removed for attention. One near me flared up alarmingly. A lamp-glass exploded and a candle burned a hole in the alter

121

cloth. The pastor put it out with his hand. Then Bookie preached a sermon on Christ’s Hands in English and it had to be interpreted. Except for some of the carols it was a completely Tamil service.

One day two Old Boys looked me up and took me on a trip to the island of Kayts. We went by bus to Kathianagar Island across a long causeway which joined this island to the mainland and then ferried across to Kayts. After lunch we walked along the beach and asked a fisherman to take us in his native sailing boat past the old Dutch fort of Hammenheil between Kayts and Kathianagar Island towards the open sea. He agreed to take us for two rupees and told us to get the key from “Turkoturai” near the landing stage, but enquiries at the Rest House elicited the information that the key was at the Police Station. The Police Station told us that the doctor at the hospital had it, as the Fort was now a quarantine station. So we rang up the doctor for his permission and found he was in bed. The hospital was some distance away, but after much delay the assistant doctor obtained his permission, but said the key was in the court-house. The police sent a messenger there and we waited interminably. Several messengers were sent but were vague in their reports and we felt there was a definite scheme to put us off until 4 p.m., when the police boat would be available and they would get the tip. So Deryck and I decided to quit the police station, or else we might lose our fisherman and fall between two stools. But Willie’s blood was up. He persisted and eventually brought the key to the boat and a policeman with it.

The boat simply skimmed through the water in the strong wind. The Fort was small, square and well preserved. In it was a large fresh water tank and it had fine battlements all around and a lovely view across the water in all directions. On our way back we passed a larger Indian sailing boat – a beautiful sight. The people at Kayts’ landing looked very poor and under-developed, both physically and mentally. One child had dreadful rickets with legs like bent sticks and a large stomach and chest. Everybody was begging.

Another day we drove to Puttur to a meeting of the Jaffna Province Conference of Officers of Village Reconstruction. We began with some speeches and then walked in procession along the road to a village half a mile away. The officers all carried mamerties (hoes) and others carried young mango trees in bamboo pots, to be planted in the village for those who had supported the reconstruction scheme. The procession was led by a flute-player and tom-tom beaters. Then Bookie planted a tree and I helped to shovel in the earth. Various other people planted trees, but when I saw how soft and damp the red clay in the hole was, I felt reluctant to step down and risk my good suede shoes. Next we returned to a cadjan shed where the village weaving looms had been pushed to one side and seats arranged. The flute player and drummers sat on the floor and made a terrific and piercing noise. The flautist was in an ecstacy and waved his great pipe about as he played. Then a cake, plantain, wadde and cup of tea were passed around to each of us. After that there were long and eloquent Tamil speeches from the village headman and the young chief reconstruction officer. The chairman made a short speech in English and this I understood. This reconstruction scheme is very fine. The officers go to the villages, giving advice and help about

122

methods of cultivation and they introduce weaving and other occupations to the villagers for their spare time.

The little town of Valvettithurai on the north coast is very prosperous as most of the inhabitants are opium smugglers. The opium is brought from India in their fishing boats and then sold at a high price to opium dens or else privately. One morning we saw a large boat off the coast, just outside the reef. They said it came from India and had smuggled in 300 bags of rice, which five cars carried away hastily. The people all look well-fed and prosperous. In the evening cars dashed up and down the road and we heard that the police were after the rice and people were trying to hide it. The inhabitants are rich enough to buy the rice in the black market at 2/25 rupees per measure instead of the controlled price of 29 cents.

One day we went along to look at the modern Sivite temple in the village. It was a very fine goparam, or tower, five stories high built only 10 years ago. It cost the donor Rs.15,000, all of which he made from his traffic in opium. The three faces depict stories of the gods and village life. The figures are beautifully made by Indian workmen out of a kind of cement and then painted. We were not allowed inside, but an old man outside told us the story of it.

It was lovely to watch the catamarans cross the reef and surf in the mornings, hoist their brown sails and disappear over the horizon. It was lovely, too, watching the women in their bright saris, yellow, green or red, groping among the rocks within the reef for shell-fish, when the tide was low. Sometimes they got right down in the water and then their saris glistened in the sunlight.

May 1944

In Kandy there has been a hen plague and in some quarters all the hens have died. It is a sort of cholera and is transported by crows which drop bits of infected food all over the place. The hens then eat it and die. The hens of one of our masters on the Peradeniya Road were infected, so his sister told the bathroom-coolie to remove the corpses. He was quite eager and said that next door ten had died and further down the road nine. It was later found that he and his fellow coolies had been having a grand time feasting on chicken curry every day.

No fish has been arriving inland from the coast for some time, so the Food Controller made enquiries. The reply was: “How to send fish without ice?” So he promised to supply ice, but still no fish came. Then he found the men were not fishing because they made more profit selling the ice.

The food and servant problem is becoming more acute, especially since the arrival of Lord Louis Mountbatten and all his staff in Kandy. James, Banda’s cousin, and Stephen’s successor left us to earn four rupees a day for pumping a little water for some Wrens. Pieris, who came next, has gone to Colombo where he gets a high wage. Private people cannot compete with the wages paid by the Military and our only chance is with married men who are often afraid to join up in case they are sent somewhere else. So now we have only Banda and we get our dinner brought up from the College. It consists mostly of curried dried prawns. Meat is un-procurable unless one is prepared to stand for hours in a queue and then it is limited to two pounds per person. This would not go

123

far in a College of 300 boarders, so they get none at all. There are no permits for schools, hotels or restaurants. But one day all the older boarders were sent to join the queue and they each brought back two pounds of meat. There was a great feast at the College that night. Eggs have gone up to 30 cents each. They used to be five. Now they are trying to control the price and so they will disappear into the black market. Recently masses of onions were held up because they were rationed. The result was they all went bad and thousands of tons had to be buried all over Ceylon, while the people went without or dug up the bad ones in the night.

Lord Louis Mountbatten lives in a pavilion just opposite the College. I quite often meet him riding around Lady Horton’s on his white horse early in the morning, before he goes off to his Headquarters in the Peradeniya Gardens. Since I have sold my car I usually go for a walk before school in the jungle or around the Lake. It is very lovely, but I do miss my car.

With the rise in wages, easy employment and ready money, the “oppressed classes” have developed a new spirit, which is often aggressive. The other day one of our masters, standing in a meat queue in the market, objected when a boy took his stand on his boot. “You are standing on my boot.” he remonstrated. “Well,” replied the youth, “what are you putting your boot in the way for? Take it away.” Another master in a queue chanced to knock against a woman sitting on a box. “Here you, what are you doing?” she demanded. The master apologised and said it was an accident. “Well if it was an accident, move off.” she retorted.

Last February the Senior School Certificate results were published and we found we had 84% passes. Then additional names kept appearing in the papers and finally in April the Principal had a letter from the Department stating that they had decided to add a Third Division and that therefore the following boys had also passed. It included the whole list of failures. So by this method we obtained 100% passes! This happened all over Ceylon. The explanation became current that an Assistant Director of Education had a son who had failed. Whatever the reason, we felt that this year the examination had become a decided farce.

Lately the Minister of Education, who is pro-Buddhist, is reported to have discovered that the Christians at the University numbered more than 50%. He was actually wrong in his figures, but he deduced that the country was falling into the hands of Christians, that taxes were paid in order to educate them, that all the future rulers of the country would be Christian and that it was high time to put an end to this sort of thing. As entrance to the University is by a competitive Entrance Examination one cannot quite see what his solution is going to be. Even our denominational schools have more than 50% of non-Christians in them and the Minister himself and his own daughter were educated in Christian schools in Colombo. When this was pointed out to him, he is said to have replied: “I defy any school in Ceylon to refuse admission to my children.”

Yesterday there were 15 speeches in the State Council on the future official language in Ceylon. One member proposed it should be Sinhalese, but kept adding an afterthought, “and Tamil”. As he could not propose the amendment to his own motion, another member proposed: “and Tamil”. Then a third, a Moslem, proposed: “and English.” And so the debate continued. No conclusion was

124

reached. It is a very difficult question, as in Ceylon different races are scattered everywhere. In the law-courts, the official language up to the present has been English and the Sinhalese and Tamils have had an interpreter into English, even if the judge, jury and accused all understand and speak Sinhalese and Tamil. This is completely absurd. With racial feeling running high, many Sinhalese and Tamils do not want English, but at present it is still necessary for the Burghers, Eurasians, Malays and English and many of those educated in English schools.

One reason why the price of goods from India is exorbitantly high in Ceylon, is that there is a traffic by traders in permits. A trader gets a free permit to export to Ceylon. He then sells the permit to another trader, who re-sells it at a still higher price, and so on. By the time the permit is actually used, the price of the goods has gone up treble or four-fold. Jan recently bought an Indian bath-towel for Rs.8/50. In Madras I bought on for less than Rs.2.

June 1944

Today is Poson and all schools are ordered to have a holiday. Poson commemorates the landing of Mahinda in Ceylon. It is full moon, of course. In two days is the King's postponed birthday [George VI], which we are also bidden to observe. This latter our school has never done in the past and I don't know whether we shall this time.

The new Education Bill is up before the State Council. The Minister introduced it in a three hour speech, much of it expressing great bitterness against the denominational schools. I presume the Buddhist, Hindu and Moslem schools were included. If the report goes though, all the present assisted schools will either become free under the new scheme, or if they can afford it, will become private and receive no state aid. If they elect to come under the scheme they will possibly have to sacrifice a great deal of their efficiency, as the equipment grant proposed will be only Rs.2/50 per head per annum for Senior students and Rs.1/50 for Junior. This would barely cover our expenditure in cricket! There will be no fees and the classes will be much larger, as 27 units of attendance allow for only one teacher. Excess staff - which would include all teachers for extra subjects - will not be paid from the Education Grant. Private schools will not be able to continue in the Government Pension scheme for future teachers, or probably the present salary scale and so many teachers, for the sake of security, will prefer to teach in Government Schools, even though the new entrants to the profession are to be paid on a considerably lower scale. This will mean that many of the best people will prefer other professions. Certainly education needs reform. There must be compulsory education for all and greater opportunities for those who cannot afford its high costs. But Ceylon does not seem rich enough to embark on an entirely free system without sacrificing efficiency. Many denominational schools are afraid too, of increased interference in their emphasis on religious values. The University is already free.

I have been badly cheated over some fire-wood. A few weeks ago a Sinhalese carter brought a load which, he said contained four yards at Rs.6/50 per yard - cheap at the present juncture. So he unloaded and stacked it. When he had finished, I found the length was only inches short of four yards, but the height and width seemed all right. But he had stacked it between two trees at the

125

edge of a steep bank, so examination from the rear on the part of a silly European woman would be unlikely. Then Banda, who had been on sick leave with a bad bout of malaria, returned and showed me the back view. The stack sloped badly, so that at the bottom it was only half a yard wide. Also it had been packed in such a way that in the centre there were enormous holes and gaps. Altogether it was only about two yards and not four and it lasted only 20 days instead of five weeks or more. The wood was also of very poor quality, being cuttings from cocoa trees. Banda's absence cost me a lot of money.

Another loss was of a different kind. A few days ago a crow lifted one of our only two remaining coffee cups, which we had for many years - red ones with white spots, like a certain type of mushroom. The crow seized it from the kitchen table when Banda would not permit it to take a piece of pawpaw. It dropped the cup further along.

Textiles have become difficult to obtain and the prices have soared. Our ration is eight yards of material in 15 months. Now the Cooperative Stores have been given some extra textiles from America and India to sell at fixed prices. Our Cooperative Store in Kandy has decided on a lottery, by which one draws lots for the goods. The result is I may get a sari when I really want three yards of long-cloth. It has been murmured that our Cooperative branch sells to the black market and this latest scheme looks like it. People will naturally refuse to buy what they do not want and the store will be able to sell the rejected goods to the black market at a profit.

Prawns have yielded to bully beef in the College and we are so tired of it.

Recently a college servant, Hendrick, lost his little child through worms. He is a Buddhist and very poor, but it was still expected that he should give a feast to six priests on the first, third and seventh days after the death and again after six weeks. As rice is severely rationed, he had to buy it from the black market. Richer folk usually feed the priests for about three weeks.

The other night some American soldiers refused to stand at the cinema for the National Anthem. “Why should we ask God to save your king. It’s America who’s saving the king.”

November 1944

On Monday 27th was Hadji, a Moslem festival, so all the schools closed once more. The Moslems asked and were granted permission to sacrifice 50 goats for the festival. They, at least, will have a good square meal without having to stand in a queue.

Last night as I was having dinner, I saw a black scorpion, eight inches long, walking towards me. Banda and noosed its tail and put it in a box for the Biology class. Then I found another scorpion, equally long, walking over my pillow in the bedroom. Luckily, I saw it before it got into my bed- clothes.

Some people are refusing to eat fish now, owing to the number of ships that are being sunk and people getting drowned in these waters.

126

There is a belief that sometimes at night the devil chases you, so if you hear footsteps behind you, you must never look back as the devil gets power over you, Philip told of a man who heard footsteps behind him near Hambantote. He hurried on but so did the footsteps. Then he started to run, closely followed by the footsteps until he reached home in a state of complete exhaustion and panic. For days afterwards he was ill with high fever. But the footsteps belonged to a baby deer which had lost its mother and so followed the man home. They adopted the deer and it is now fully grown.

February 1945

We are having a bad time in this old bungalow from the leaks which have developed from all parts of the roof. The water has been splashing onto the electric wires and there were fuses blowing and a couple of minor fires. Now the roof has been repaired and we can remove the buckets and basins from our sitting and other rooms.

The floor is sinking unevenly, owing to the burrowing of ants and termites. Rats and squirrels rush between the ceiling and roof and the timber is crumbling with dry rot. White ants come up through the floor and walls unless we maintain a constant fight. Silver fish, an inch long, eat our paper, books and clothes. Cockroaches are constantly turning up in drawers and cupboards and they eat our food. We continue to struggle with the ordinary ants’ nests in boxes, suit-cases, drawers and elsewhere. Cicadas cut holes about two inches in diameter in a curtain and cushion. There was one fat one in my room, singing shrilly, but I could not catch it.

Worst of all, recently I opened my bathroom door and was faced with a beautiful cobra. I do not know which of us was more surprised. The cobra immediately slithered away and disappeared down the plug hole. I at once blocked up the hole with bricks and in the exit and over the drain I stuffed paper wedges. Then I asked some masters to come up with a rifle. We removed the blockages and tried to smoke out the snake, but without effect. At last we removed all the bricks from the channel and found the snake had disappeared. It had forced its way through the paper wedges. For some days I expected it to revisit me and entered the bathroom somewhat gingerly. But I never saw it again.

Jan left for England at Christmas and I have entered my name for a passage back to Australia, so it should not be long now. It is 10 years since I was last in Adelaide. Even the Paynters are all in India now and I am feeling deserted.

May 1945

I spent my last vacation at Mount Frost in Nuwara Eliya with the Woodds. All the jungle paths are greatly changed owing to military camps and roads everywhere. On the Elk Plains much of the patina has been opened up for vegetables and the loveliness and isolation are gone. Even the Circular and Parawela Rides have been widened and masses of trees cut down. So now there is very little shade and the path is hot and sunny. The Ride has become a military road, built for

127

practice in road building. It seems a pity that this happened. The jungle was so lovely and eerie, the home of wild pig and leopards.

August 1945

There is a terrible drought in Kandy, the worst on record. Water is being pumped night and day into the mains from the Lake and sandy islands are forming in its midst. The whole area has been enclosed in barbed wire entanglements to keep the public from contaminating the water. As this receded myriads of fish lie dead in the sand. As soon as we hear the lorry bringing the daily allowance of chlorinated Lake water to the College, we all rush out with buckets, tubs, tins and watering cans. If we are there in person the men fill the utensils, but if not, they only half fill them and the servants try to steal the water from each other. One day Edna’s ayah accused Banda of taking some bucketsful out of her tub. But Banda said the Ratnayakes’ servants took it. They denied it and blamed the Chellappahs’ servants. It is all very comical. Edna told her ayah that when she had a bath she was to be economical as we all had to be and not to pour so many bucketsful over herself as in normal times. The ayah said she preferred not to have a bath at all, as it made her head bad if she limited herself. So Edna asked Banda what he did and how her ayah could get a proper bath. Banda answered cheerfully “I haven’t had a bath for a month.”

This month we had a Perahera again after three years and it was a lovely sight. 72 elephants took part and there were more torches than usually. Thousands of pilgrims flocked into Kandy and I have never seen such crowds in spite of all the discouragements – transport difficulties, acute water situation and cases of small-pox all over the island.

Eggs have been 35 cents each for some time, largely owing to the demands of the military and natural shortage caused by the hen plague and black marketing. My sugar ration is down to half a pound per week. Meat and fish are un-procurable, except at black market rates unless one stands in a queue for hours. Banda has no time for that as he is my only servant now. But for 12 days he was away with malaria. I had no stove except a little methylated spirit one and this Is sold on a permit basis, so I had very little. There was no fire-wood left but I managed to get some from the College leftovers. So I had a bath only every third day. Just to get my lunch and boil water for drinking and washing up took two hours. I got desperately weary of eating cold food and drinking cold milk. I could get no food from the College, as it was vacation time. One day I tried to fry eggs on the stove in the kitchen, but the wood would not burn and the frying pan had a hole in it. The eggs were quite black from the smoke. If Banda had dished them up like that I would have made a fuss and refused to eat them. And he never did. I do not know how the servants in Ceylon cope with all their difficulties so uncomplainingly. My respect and sympathy for them has risen enormously. Now Banda has returned at last and I get clean and hot food again. We also have a new frying pan. Banda’s face was wreathed in smiles.

We have just had an Education Exhibition and Conference at the College to celebrate the 25th Anniversary of the All-Ceylon Teacher’s Union. There were many delegates from all over Ceylon and about 15 rooms of exhibits of all sorts, many of high standard. The subject of the conference

128

was Basic Education as practiced by the Wardha scheme in various parts of India. As guest lecturers we had Mr. Arayanayakam and his wife, Shrimata Asha Devi. They come from Ghandi’s ashram in a backward village near Wardha and are most charming people. Arayanayakam is a Jaffna Tamil, but he threw in his lot with Ghandi 10 years ago. Both he and his wife were imprisoned when Congress leaders and Ghandi were arrested. Asha Devi was released after three weeks and Aryanakam after six months, when he demanded that either he be charged and tried or repatriated to Ceylon as an Undesirable. He was never tried as there were no charges against either of them. They had merely been engaged in educational work. I asked Asha Devi if she felt at all resentful. “Oh no, not at all”, she replied. “Why should we?” Asha Devi is a Brahmin lady from Bengal.

October 1945

We are all in quarantine for small-pox. Our Indian Rajah’s son somehow slipped through from India after the holidays without reporting to the medical authorities. Soon the boy developed a rash which Georgie, our Scottish matron and the doctor both thought was harmless. The boy was not isolated, though he was kept in the College hospital, as he had some fever. Soon he went back to school and in due course six more people on the compound went down with “chicken-pox” and were isolated. One was Sinniah, the hospital attendant. It was later found that one little boy and Sinniah had small-pox and not chicken-pox. Then the fun began – mass vaccination of the boys, staff and servants, isolation of all contacts and semi-contacts, Upper School out of bounds for Junior and vice versa. The dormitory housing the Indian Prince was kept apart for sleeping and meals. Now Georgie and her family, the assistant-matron and the four chicken-pox patients have been taken to Katugastota as direct contacts, A dozen other boys are in the top bungalow as contacts through the hospital and cannot attend school. The two small-pox patients went to Colombo. The boy nearly died as there was no adequate attention in the I D H in Kandy, but he is recovering now. Georgie is really in danger, as she has not been vaccinated for four years. All the day-boys come to school as usual, but boarders may not leave the compound. The doctor said the day-boys might just as well be in school for the six hours per day. They are really only remote contacts.

Banda had a day off recently, because his niece “is a big girl now.” There is always a celebration on such occasions. She is now marriageable. But Banda is sensibly sending her back to school when the fuss is over. Banda brought me a lot of the cakes – all Sinhalese baking, with juggery and coconut oil. They are very palatable and will last me a week at least.

December 1945

The small-pox scare ended happily for the College, as no more people developed it. But there have been a number of cases in the town and a few deaths. We were not responsible for its spread.

I intimated to the Powers-that-be that I was prepared to travel under any possible conditions to Australia and that I would be ready to leave at very short notice.

129

I left Ceylon by the “Otranto” on 27 December at a day’s notice. It had been converted into a New Zealand troop ship and there were about 4,000 troops on board, including officers, their wives and babies. I was allotted space in a 28-berth cabin which contained 12 children, besides adults. There was no stewardess on board, but fortunately the sea was calm all the way. The only port of call was Fremantle. After five days in Perth I got a cancellation on the Trans-Continental to Adelaide and arrived on 12 January 1946.

130

APPENDIX 1

“VISITING ADELAIDE. MISS VALESCA REIMANN” (From "A Page for Women" Conducted by Elizabeth Leigh for The Register, Adelaide, 27 March 1923, transcribed from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article64186272)

"The State is small, the University is great. When Adelaide graduates leave South Australia, it is because the field here for educated workers is small, and when they come home it is usually to bring their laurels home with them. Miss Valesca Reimann, M.A., who arrived yesterday from Ceylon (to spend a holiday with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. I. G. Reimann of Norwood), is a teacher of classics at Trinity College, Kandy, and the years since she left Adelaide have been, for her, as successful as interesting. Her classes include - let us say, brown and white, for such distinctions are unknown at Trinity College, but Buddhist, Mohammedan, and Hindu. There are over 300 boarders, and an immense day school, and to live and work under such strange conditions, one of a staff of nearly 50 - also varied in race and religion - is surely to put the finishing touches of experience to the most thorough academic education.

"'We have Moors from Africa,' said Miss Reimann cheerfully, 'and Malays, and Sinhalese, and Tamils, and Indians. Oh, yes, and a dozen or so Europeans. I like teaching boys, they are so responsive and interested. The most harmonious conditions prevail among the staff, and between the staff and the boys, who are friends as well as pupils. The other day I had a birthday party, and after it was over I happened to remember that the 10 of us who were there, represented between us, seven religions!'

"Miss Reimann had to pause just here to explain to me the difference between Tamils and Sinhalese. 'The original inhabitants of Ceylon were Veddahs, a race not unlike our own aboriginals. From the northern part of India - probably from Bengal, although that is not certain - came a conquering race, who all but exterminated the Veddahs, and became known as the Sinhalese. From the northern part of India came another party of invaders, the Tamils, who warred for centuries with the Sinhalese. Gradually, they settled down to ignore each other, the Tamils in the north and the Sinhalese in the south.

"'The burghers, too, form a very large element in our school. They are the descendants of the old Dutch settlers in Ceylon. Lately the University College has decided that the vernacular shall be a compulsory subject in the junior and senior. English, of course, is the language of teaching.'

"Trinity Mission College begins with the kindergarten, and its higher classes take the standard of the Cambridge Arts and Sciences. It is run on the lines of the best English public schools, with sports as a great feature. Occasionally among the boy students a girl or two studies, but this is merely because there is practically no provision in Ceylon for the higher education of women.

"I asked Miss Reimann whether there was any justification for the popular idea that Hindus or Sinhalese acquired only a 'veneer' of culture. 'That, I think,' she said, ‘is most often due to a

131

misconception of the measure of culture. They have their own, which, of course, is very much older and more rooted in the life of the world than ours. If they mean that only superficial knowledge of western culture is acquired, well, I think that is quite natural. It is a pity they cannot study their own literature, which is Sanskrit, instead of Greek, but then, there is such a dearth of teachers. In Trinity College there is absolutely no distinction between members of the staff or pupils. Mr Fraser, the pupil, has all his staff to breakfast, luncheon, or dinner at different times, and his wife entertains the boys in just the same impartial way. Neither is there any distinction of caste. Many of our boys from the wealthy planters’ families are some of Kandyan chiefs – that is, descendants from the old nobility of the days when there were kings. Their parents objected very strongly to the admission of one or two decidedly lower caste boys, and threatened to take their boys away. ‘Very well,’ said Mr. Fraser; ‘You had better take them’ – but they didn’t! It was the same with food at first. Some of the eastern religionists were very particular about food being prepared by a member of their caste, and eaten from special plates; but Mr. Fraser announced roundly that there was nothing of that sort in the school – and there isn’t. Buddhist and Hindu feast together quite amicably.’

“It was a little more surprising to learn that there were no difficulties in connection with service. Every Sunday, Mohammedans, Hindus, and Buddhists attend with their European fellows in a Church of England service. Parents know that it is quite open for them to take their boys away – and they also know that there are very definite advantages in having them there.

“’Even Scripture lesson presents no difficulties. There was a time when Mr. Fraser thought that perhaps it was rather unfair to compel a Mohammedan, say, to attend the first lesson, which is always Scripture, so he announced that biography might be taken as an alternative course. Only one boy gave his name for biography! I think, as a matter of fact,’ added Miss Reimann, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘that the very probable reason was that Scripture is an easy subject for the junior and senior examination’ – which proves that human nature is much the same in all countries. ‘At the end of the year,’ went on Miss Reimann, ‘special prizes are given and have to be specially competed for. The Scripture prize, which is a very fine one, is nearly always won by a Buddhist or a Mohammedan.’

“I asked Miss Reimann what careers were open to her pupils leaving the school, and she said regretfully that the outlook was not bright, ‘It is sad to see the professions of law and medicine so crowded, and most other boys taking any stray clerkship, while the great agricultural future of Ceylon is all unthought of. That is, of course, what one would like to see them take up, for Ceylon is essentially a great agricultural country. Agriculture is despised, and, of course, there are centuries of prejudice and reasons behind that. This contempt must be removed if Ceylon is to prosper. Mr. Fraser has bought a large area of land near the school, and he is going to establish an agricultural college there… In the civil service, of course, there is not the scope there should be. Only the lower positions are open, and the old argument is that Sinhalese cannot govern themselves – as if anybody could without being allowed to gain experience. Ceylon has always

132

been more tranquil – you never produce the leaders that India has, and that, perhaps, is a pity in some ways. The Buddhist religion, I think, is mostly to blame for being content with too little.’

“When Miss Reimann first went to the school she was the only woman teacher in the huge secondary school. Today there is only one other. She found the boys regarded her with extreme reserve; they confided in her afterwards that since she was an Australian, member of a race which excluded them from her country, they had resolved to see what her attitude was before they took the first step. Now she is on the best of terms with them all. ‘I think,’ she remarked in parenthesis, ‘that my easy-going Australian ways alarmed them a bit too!’ Last year was the jubilee of the college, and Miss Reimann was called upon to write its history. With other women members of the staff she attended the jubilee dinner, and, following this example, quite a number of ‘old boys’ brought their wives and sisters – an unheard-of thing 10 years ago. ‘I think,’ said Miss Reimann, ‘that it has been a jolly good thing to have one or two women in the boys’ school, and to let the boys see how European men treat them. It has reacted tremendously on their attitude to their own women. Nowadays, quite a lot of them take their wives and daughters about just like Europeans.’

“The illiterate Tamil or Sinhalese girl, by the way, is now a person of the past. Parents of high caste protested bitterly at first against the education of their daughters, but when it grew rapidly manifest that educated young men wanted helpmates, and had no intention of marrying illiterate women, the parents came round quite suddenly! ‘They are charming women,’ said MIss Reimann, ‘and the Tamil manners are most gracious and beautiful.”’

133

APPENDIX 2

STAFF PHOTOS SUPPLIED BY TRINITY COLLEGE (scanned from the book “Trinity College Kandy – Centenary Number 1872-1972”)

Staff, 1923. Valesca Reimann is seated 4th from right.

Staff, 1935. Valesca Reimann is seated 6th from left.

134

APPENDIX 3

HISTORY OF TRINITY COLLEGE, KANDY Extracts and Notes from Valesca L. O. Reimann, A History of Trinity College, Kandy, The Diocesan Press, Vepery, Madras, 1922.

The first missionaries of the Church Missionary Society arrived in Colombo in June 1818. "A little later, at the suggestion of the Governor, Sir Robert Brownrigg, one of them left Colombo for Kandy, which had recently come into British possession. This missionary was highly respected by the people of Kandy and he was able to open the first Christian schools in the interior...The buildings [in Kandy] were finished about 1823."

"Some years later an appeal was made for a school of higher education… In 1857 the Rev. J I Jones arrived from England in order to open the Kandy Collegiate School with the object of reaching the sons of the Kandian chiefs and bringing them under the influence of a Christian education". The school flourished, with up to 75 students, until about 1863 or 1864, when it closed. Subjects taught in the First Class of the Upper School were: scripture, evidences of Christianity, Euclid, algebra, arithmetic, Latin, Greek, geography, history of India, history of England, astronomy, English grammar, poetry, drawing.

"But the Singhalese people of Kandy and particularly the members of the Holy Trinity Church, were unceasing in their appeals to the Church Missionary Society for the reopening of the school." This happened in 1872, under the new name of Trinity College, after Rev. Jones' alma mater, Trinity College, Dublin.

"The School continued to increase in numbers and efficiency; and the Principal added two extra classes after school hours for the teaching of Sinhalese and Tamil."

1875: The Literary Association was formed, with essays, debates and readings. Religious and secular subjects alternated.

Secular subjects eg: "The Planet Mars", "History", "Gambling", "The Social Customs of the Sinhalese", "The Progress of Political Power in England", "Nobility".

Religious subjects eg: "Faith", "Courage", "Peace", "Love", "Duty".

"Another great feature of College life was the sham courts. On one occasion a sham trial nearly ended fatally. The accused - a strapping Tamil youngster - was convicted of murder and actually hanged with a curtain rope; but he was fortunately rescued before it was too late."

1879 boarder's timetable:

"6 a.m. Rising Bell. 6.30 a.m. Tea. 7 a.m. Roll-call, all students, in the College Hall.

135

7.30 a.m. Chapel. 8 a. m. - 10 a.m. First School. 10 a.m. Breakfast. 11 a.m. - 2 p.m. Second School. 2 p.m. Dinner. 3 p.m. - 4.30 p.m. Study. 4.30 p.m. Exercise, games, or a walk in or out of town. 6.30 p.m. Supper. 7.30 p.m. - 9 p.m. Study. 9 p.m. Prayers conducted by the Principal. 9.30 p.m. Lights out.

On Sundays the boarders attended both Sinhalese services at Holy Trinity Church."

Sporting activities included cricket, tennis and swimming.

"On July 9, 1898, the Kandy Senatorial Association was formed. The meetings were held weekly with an average attendance of twenty. Its object was the improvement and unity of the Kandyans and the instruction of Kandyan students in the history, literature and social conditions of their own community."

1901: "It appears...the day-boys were in mortal terror of the boarders, and the boarders used this fact to their own advantage. It was discovered that if it rained heavily and the day-boys got wet on their way to school or did not attend school at all, the Principal would give a 'rain-holiday' for that day. Consequently when there were even short showers, the boarders used to form up at the gate and refuse to allow any day-boy to pass until they had them thoroughly soaked [using buckets]. Many of the day-boys turned back home after this rough treatment, some even in tears. Later on the Principal would go round the classes and find more than half the boys absent or shivering in their wet clothes, and perforce pronounce the day a 'rain-holiday'. Slight showers accounted for quite a number of extra holidays."

1903: "...overcrowding in the classrooms (there were 452 boys with accommodation for less than 400), a staff incapable of dealing with the increased numbers, an unsound financial position, irregular attendance of the pupils, and consequent inefficient class-work, bad reports from the Government Inspectors and a deceased grant, which again worked for greater inefficiency in an underpaid staff."

However, in November, a new Principal arrived, Mr A G Fraser. During his tenure, until 1924, radical improvements occurred. "Fraser was an inspiring personality and yet truly self-sacrificing. All his best years were given to Trinity and all his efforts bore fruit. He had the power of persuasion, which he used to inspire brilliant men from Oxford and Cambridge to serve as Anglican missionaries at Trinity College... Decisions of Mr. Fraser were daring but far sighted. It was he who introduced the mother tongue and broke away from conventional subjects mostly imported from England. He introduced a diversified system of education with a strong bias towards national

136

needs. Agriculture was introduced when it was not the practice in any other local school. The story of Mr. Fraser is voluminous, for he was not merely a Principal but a stalwart among head masters."

1906: "...The Cambridge and London Examinations have been in vogue throughout Ceylon...

"Sinhalese and Tamil too became part of the school curriculum and so school closed half an hour later. Ceylon History was revised as a school subject."

1908: "The following is an extract from the Principal's report: 'When I came here four years ago I was astonished to find that Senior students who hoped to serve as R Ms amongst their people or to enter Government offices or to be teachers could neither read nor write their own tongue, be it Sinhalese or Tamil. Teaching throughout was given through the medium of English to boys who, when they came to school, knew how to speak only their mother tongue, although they did not read or write it. This memory work occupied of necessity far too large a place in their education, and teaching became unintelligent and dull. When in addition to subjects outside their daily life like English History and English Readers, Latin was added and possibly Greek the situation became Gilbertian. These conditions are still largely unchanged. But we intend to change them gradually. Latin becomes an optional subject in future, except in Standards IV and V, and will be taught only to those who desire it or are candidates for examinations in which it is compulsory. Instead of it and of hours given to Greek the English hours will be increased, book-keeping and shorthand will be taught and the vernaculars will be gradually made compulsory for all. By next year we hope to have large and well-equipped Science laboratories erected, chemical, physical and biological, and to introduce these subjects into the curriculum whilst keeping them related and founded on the vernaculars. We have seen in India and Ceylon of past days that invariably the best students and speakers of English were first men with a cultured and literary knowledge of their own tongues. A thorough knowledge of the mother tongue is indispensable to true culture or real thinking power. More a College fails if it is not producing true citizens, and men who are isolated from the masses of their own people by ignorance of their language and thought can never fulfil the part of educated citizens or be true leaders of their race. For these reasons and on these grounds we are continuing in our altered policy and curriculum.'

"...When these words were written the National Movement which has spread rapidly all over India and Ceylon, and was largely a reaction against Westernisation, was still in its infancy.

"...The new scheme for Trinity College was an effort to blend the good of the East and the West. Its method was the subordination of the Classics to Science and the Vernaculars... The Principal expressed his opinion thus: 'In the study of science it is almost impossible for the pupil to rely mainly on memory; observation, research, intelligent comparison and deduction, are almost inevitably called into play. We require men who will reason for themselves and will act on what they see as true, and we find in Science a better instrument of training than in another grammar of another unknown tongue.' [However,] Trinity College now [1922] stands less definitely for Science as against the Classics as a means of education. Latin is again compulsory with few exceptions, and Greek becomes optional after a certain amount of compulsory science has been studied."

137

1910: "The biggest thing the College did in 1910 was the formation of the Trinity College Union for Social Service... Local doctors were consulted and on their advice boys were told off to visit certain of the poorer and more significant patients to see that they received their medicines rightly. Permission was given to visit the Hospital and this was done regularly. Magic lantern lectures and concerts were given to patients. Then a shelter was built in August for the rickshaw coolies who before had been exposed to all weathers. The coolies agreed to pay a quarter of the cost and to refrain from gambling in it… A small vernacular school in Mahaiyawa for the children of the lowest rank of coolies was supported by the boys...two opium patients were cared for and in conjunction with the Friend-in-Need Society many beggars were traced and helped or discouraged. There were lectures in the College on social questions, and cuttings from the news-papers dealing chiefly with matters of social interest were printed weekly on a large map of the world.

"...Besides this, as the need arose, the work became more definite along special lines. Thus, as a malaria epidemic had lately broken out, the principal energy of the Union was directed towards alleviating the suffering. Several villages near Kandy were regularly visited and the malarial patients dosed with quinine."

1912: "...opposition to Trinity College fell under two heads this year. The first was from the Maha Bodhi - the organ of the Buddhist revival in Ceylon and bitter against Christianity. The reasons for the opposition [were] the number of baptisms that occurred in the College this year. There were nine, two of them old boys, and seven the sons of leading Kandyans and temple managers... The other attacks came from the Educational Association, because they loved Latin and Greek, and the English University Examinations and disliked the vernaculars.

"Since Ceylon was essentially an agricultural country and over 90 percent of the population were engaged in agriculture, it was felt that Trinity boys should be able to contribute something to the welfare of their people in that respect. And so they were taught agriculture... Practical lessons were carried out on plots of ground in the College compound." The Union for Social Service carried out an experiment in rice paddy cultivation according to a new productive method, for promotion amongst villages.

1914: Some Trinitians volunteered for service in the First World War, but it was decided that "...a contingent of Ceylonese was not possible. This was a great disappointment to the Ceylonese, and it was a political blunder on the part of the Government to discourage a practical demonstration of loyalty and patriotic sacrifice from the people of the Island themselves. But the Governor was exceedingly anxious that Ceylon should not suffer from the war - so he forbade her sharing in it... Those who enlisted, did so as individuals and were drafted into existing companies in England."

1915: "...on May 29, there broke out the Ceylon riots. The Sinhalese Buddhists had been embittered by a long series of grievances, against the Mohammedans, and it culminated in a attempt on the part of the Mohammedans to interfere with the erection of a dansala opposite the mosque on Buddha's birthday. The trouble began in Kandy...when the Sinhalese broke into a number of Moor shops, carried them out into the street and made a bonfire of them. Some of the

138

Moors were beaten or roughly handled in the process. So far the sympathies were with the Sinhalese. But the next night it became evident that the disturbance was likely to take a far more serious turn. A false report had been spread that the Moors were planning to revenge themselves by a raid on the Maligawa, and the Buddhists were immediately stirred to fury. Thousands of Sinhalese took up their quarters in their temple, or formed smaller or larger bands which scoured the streets, breaking into shops, looting, burning and hunting down the Moors. The police dashed about everywhere, but they were far too few in number. Early in the morning of the 29th there was an attack on the mosque which had objected to the erection of the dansala, and in a few hours later it was nothing but an empty shell... On the third day, Sunday, Mr Fraser called for volunteers from the school to serve as special constables, and so far as possible to preserve life and property. Thirty-six boys responded and were marched down to the police station to be sworn in...the College had incurred great hostility by the stand they had taken; and this was aggravated by the protection they were affording to Moors on the compound. By evening there were eighty- five men, women and children sheltered on the College premises. This meant guarding the compound against attack, as it was quickly reported everywhere that there were Moorish refugees in the College... School work was done in the mornings; then there was rest and after that daily drill and exercise with patrol work at night. After a few days Martial Law was proclaimed in Kandy and the boys were given rifles with ball cartridges and bayonets instead of their clubs... This went on for a month until the riots finally ended and it was possible to resume the ordinary routine of daily work...everywhere throughout the Island were Old Boys, who at great personal risk were out to protect the lives of innocent victims... Mr Fraser was asked by the Buddhists and Mohammedans both to represent their respective cases to the Governor in a deputation. He naturally was more than ready to try to bring about a reconciliation between the two parties, when all violence was laid aside."

1918: "There had once been the accusation that Trinity College was interested in nothing but sport. Unfortunately the Ceylon parent does not realise the important and necessary part which sport plays in a boy's education. A school is approved or condemned according as it is successful or otherwise in examinations. Examinations are the be-all and end-all of a boy's education, and in the past success in examinations has been regarded as a first class ticket to Heaven, Government service or a medical or law career supplying the express train. But a boy who is a highly efficient mental production may be but a poor specimen of manhood... During these years no school, could afford to laugh at Trinity for her achievements in cricket rugger, athletics and military training. But neither could they point the finger of scorn at her intellectual attainments."

The world influenza epidemic of 1918 and the great rice shortage of 1919 affected Ceylon, as well as the College.

From http://www.trinitycollege.lk/

"In January, 1919, the Tamil Literary Union was formed to encourage and develop the study of Tamil literature by Tamil boys. It began with a membership of forty-nine students and ten

139

masters." "In the days of Fraser 17 different nationalities made use of the all round educational Trinity provided."

Trinity College Now

"Trinity College has evolved into a national school emphasizing good discipline while offering students every facility to grow into a complete personality; a school with activities so diversified that there is abundant life throughout the day every day. Those passing through the school have held positions of responsibility in their own land and have shown remarkable competence at international level. It is a multi-ethnic and a multi-religious school which, having a Christian foundation, will undoubtedly help to establish peace and harmony amongst a divided nation.

"Trinity College will build on its heritage and goes to greater heights in the new millennium. The motto of Trinity is "Respice Finem", so Trinity looks if not to the end, but to the years ahead in serving the youth of Sri Lanka."

140

Between 1916 and 1945 Valesca Reimann, from South Australia, taught Western classics, Latin and mathematics at Trinity College, Kandy, in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). Trinity College was founded on Christianity in a largely Buddhist, Hindu and Moslem country. Sinhalese and Tamil cultures added to the mix. The boys at the school were mostly from these cultures and also came from nearby countries. The school was run along the lines of an English public school.

In this book, Valesca Reimann tells how she navigated through this, fell in love with the people and the country and added jungle adventures and visits to historical places along the way - ever curious and mostly undaunted. At the College, she is still remembered as a "legend".