COLOMBO
July 8th.—We enter the harbour of Colombo and moor pretty far away from
the coast, to the great disappointment of the recruits. Scores of sampans
with Singhalese rowers came to bring us ashore. We stopped again at the
Grand Hôtel. I had tea in a nice shady corner of the verandah, which
runs round the two sides of the hotel. The first half of it is lined
with tables and easy-chairs and the other is nothing but a succession of
shops, where Hindoo merchants are installed. We could see from here all
that was going on in the street, and observe all passers to and fro. The
feminine-looking Singhalese walk bareheaded, their long hair saturated
in cocoa-oil, gathered in a knot chignon-fashion, and fastened by a huge
tortoise-shell circle-comb. The Singhalese women wear only a short skirt
and a short waist bodice between which several inches of brown skin are
visible.
After luncheon we set off in six rikshas to explore the city of Colombo.
Our men-horses trotted off at full speed, regardless of my protestations.
The principal streets are planted with great overhanging trees and
bordered with beautiful several-storied houses. Opposite the shipping
office, in the heart of the European section, lay Gordon Gardens, a
park full of flowers and grateful shade, the rendezvous of the elite of
the city, white and brown. We went down the smooth red road that lies
almost level with the sea, with emerald, velvety grass and cool shady
bungalows. In the distance towered the Queen’s House, Governor Black’s
residence, set well back from the broad highway in a grove of palms, a
spacious, imposing edifice, where large entertainments are given. The
governor, for the moment, was away on tour to some distant district
of the island. We met on our way covered waggons drawn by two little
hump-necked, strangely tattooed bullocks, and elegant dog-carts driven
by English women. Dark came on suddenly and our riksha-men stopped to
light their paper-lanterns, and hurried us back to the hotel. The second
dinner-bell sounded as we entered the dining-room, as big as a cathedral
and ventilated by twelve punkahs.
July 9th.—Our boat does not leave for another ten days; we will profit
by it and go on a trip to Kandy, the ancient city of the sovereigns of
Ceylon, situated in the hills some 2,000 feet above the level of the sea,
which can boast of a climate in many respects superior to that of Colombo.
A Singhalese boy brought in my coffee very early in the morning, and
tried to explain to me that the train for Kandy left at 8 o’clock.
It took some time for both of us to make ourselves understood, for I
addressed the boy in English and he replied in Malay language; however,
with a good deal of pantomime, we got along somehow.
It is a three hours’ ride from Colombo to Kandy. Ceylon wears rightly the
title of the “Switzerland of the Tropics;” only fairy islands can surpass
the scenery. I could but gaze and gaze, and felt what poor things words
had suddenly become. A riot of luxuriant tropical vegetation spread out
on every hand, and aromas of strong smelling flowers scented the air. A
series of moving pictures glided past us. We are rolling through fields
of lotuses, sugar-cane plantations and vast plots of ground planted with
coffee-trees, with shining leaves like porcelain, cut small to facilitate
the gathering of the fruit. Cocoa and date-palms and bread-fruit are
at your service, all you have to do is to pick the fruit—and luncheon
is ready. The train is speeding along thick bamboo-clumps, through
which peered the red-tiled roofs of bungalows and negro villages with
palm-thatched huts shaded by immense banana-trees. We are in the harvest
season. In the fields men and women were at work, occupied in gathering
in the coffee. Natives sitting in ox-waggons drive slowly along the road.
Here is an enormous elephant covered over with a rich carpet, carrying
four natives on his back. The huge animal’s offspring, a baby-elephant
as big as a bull, is running clumsily alongside. The railway stations
are hidden amid cocoa-palms. On the platforms water-carriers and
fruit-sellers briskly plied their trades. At one of the stoppages a
Hindoo in white skirts came up to offer us bananas and cocoa-nuts full
of milk, and red juicy fruit which I found very tasty; but I was awfully
disgusted when I learned that it was the fruit of the castor-oil plant.
Our train was moving away when a negro boy thrust into my lap, through
the window, a small serpent of tender green colour, which I took at
first for a blade of grass. Though these reptiles are quite inoffensive,
I didn’t like the present. The ascent began. We climbed on steadily
into the cooler regions. The steamy atmosphere was left behind, we were
welcomed now by draughts of delicious air. We are crossing a thick-set
wood, and are in the mysterious primitive jungle which the foot of man
has seldom penetrated, and where elephants and tigers wander about.
The train continues to wind its way upwards to the mountains, plunging
through numerous tunnels. Coming out of them we see the road which
we had just crossed just beneath us now. The place is rightly named
“Sensational Rock”—it is a succession of precipices and torrents. We are
rolling along ledges cut in the rock, twisting and turning above sheer
abysses.
When we arrived at Kandy, we ran on the platform in pursuit of our
luggage, which a swarm of vociferous natives had confiscated and carried
off. Having overtaken them, we climbed into an omnibus which brought us
to Queen’s Hotel, situated on the shore of a miniature lake.
After lunch we went to see the Pyradenia Gardens, about six miles from
Kandy, situated on the right bank of the river Manhavilla-Ganga. These
gardens are renowned for their splendid flowers. There are trees as high
as ship-masts and strange plants with large blossoms monstrous of shape
and gorgeous in colour. Most things are highly coloured as in Java:
birds, butterflies and luxuriant vegetation. I am not sent easily into
fits of ecstasy, nevertheless I admired everything until my vocabulary of
exclamations was exhausted and my head whirled.
We were back for dinner at the table d’hôte. We had just finished
our meal under the cooling caresses of the punkah and were going up
to our room to take a siesta, when a boy announced to us that Hindoo
snake-charmers were going to give a performance on the veranda. We were
amazed by their startling experiments. They played the flute to their
reptiles, who crawled out of a basket and rolled round their bodies, and
they juggled with them as with balls. After that the jugglers performed
the astonishing feat of producing spontaneous vegetation. They made a
tree grow from seed to foliage before our eyes; they dug a fruit-stone
into a little heap of sand, making cabalistic signs with their wand, and
the stone grew visible and soon became a shrub covered with branches and
leaves!
July 10th.—Directly after breakfast Sergy went into the mountains to see
the sacred elephants. He was shown a pair of huge savage animals recently
caught in these parts.
When my husband returned, we went to visit the famous Hindoo temple where
the Tooth of Buddha is preserved, braving the scorching tropical sun,
whose rays fell just over our heads, so that I didn’t see my shadow, but
only the circle of my umbrella. Tradition says, there was found in Burma
one of the teeth of Gautama (Buddha). An embassy from the King of Burma
bore the relic to Ceylon, and over it was erected the celebrated Temple
of the Tooth. Kandy is a holy city; Buddhists not merely of Ceylon, but
of India and the equatorial islands, make pilgrimages to the ancient
shrine, which is an object of veneration for the four hundred million of
Buddhists inhabiting Asia. The Kings of Siam and Burma contribute to the
keeping up of the temple, in sending rich gifts to the priests every year.
The streets were alive with crowds on their way to the temple, a
structure of grey stone with a red roof, set in a lotus grove on the
shores of a lake. A large avenue leads to the courtyard of the temple,
the ground all strewn with white sweet-smelling jasmine flowers, which
deadened the sound of our steps. Within the gates, under the vaulted
archways, crowds of people gathered around a dozen of Singhalese, devoted
to the sale of candles, the white sacred flowers to be laid in the lap
of the statue of Buddha. Flaming torches burnt at the entrance of the
temple. The whole spectacle was fantastical, just like a decoration of
Lakmĕ. Under the portico of the temple, a band of native musicians beat
loudly the tom-tom and buck-skinned calabashes. On the top of the broad
steps leading into the interior of the temple, we removed our shoes and
were taken over the temple by apathetic saffron-robed bonzes (Buddhist
priests) with shaven heads, and arms and feet bare. They led us by way of
many tile-paved corridors lit by lamps suspended from roofs of arabesque
cedar-wood, and strongly incensed candles. The temple is of marvellous
richness; the altar and the doors are of carved ivory, large frescoes
cover the walls representing hell with flames, devils and so on. In every
nook and corner we saw the effigies of Buddha. There was an important
service in the temple just now. A group of bonzes, after having washed
their heads and their feet, advanced towards the sacred relic, suspended
in a tabernacle over a symbolic lotus flower with golden petals studded
with precious stones. The chief priest fell on his knees, muttering a
prayer, and then drew from the tabernacle a gold casket, from it he took
a second then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. With the opening of every
box the priests repeated their genuflexions. There appeared at last
the innermost, and soon the receptacle, set with diamonds and rubies.
Then the priests carefully opened and discovered to view an enormous
tooth yellow with age, which assuredly never grew in any human mouth.
During the whole time the tom-toms and other barbarian instruments made
a horrible noise. Two simple rules govern the production of native
music—First: make as much noise as possible all the time; and, second,
to heighten the effect, make more. There was a heavy perfume of flowers
and incense—very enervating—inside the temple, which made us hurry away.
Buddhist priestesses, with shaved heads like the priests, dressed in long
yellow robes, accompanied us to the door, throwing at us sacred flowers,
jasmine and lotuses. Crowds of Brahmin beggars, demanding money, were
gathered in the porch.
After dinner we took the train back, and were shown into a compartment
occupied by a honeymooning Anglo-Indian couple of planters, whose wedding
day was only twenty days old. They didn’t seem pleased to be disturbed,
especially the young bride, who vented her ill-humour upon her husband,
and was decidedly inclined to be disagreeable to him. The evil temper of
his consort forced the young planter to take refuge in the corridor.
On arriving at Colombo we went straight on board the _Orel_ and weighed
anchor in the night.
July 11th.—As soon as we entered the gulf of Bengal, the rocking of the
ship became so unpleasant, that I shut myself up in my cabin for the
whole day.
July 12th.—The sea continues to be very rough. Towards night, when we
approached the lighthouse at the entrance of the Bay of Malacca, the
rolling of the boat ceased suddenly.
July 15th.—We approach Sumatra. The bay is strewn with treacherous
coral-shelves. This morning, whilst I was dressing, the alarm bell
sounded. I heard voices shouting “Help, help, man overboard!” It was
a manœuvre of false alarm, which nearly came to end by a veritable
catastrophe. Whilst dropping a life-boat one of the sailors fell himself
into the sea, but help, fortunately, came in time.