BATTICALOA
Musical shell-fish—Shooting fish by torchlight—Baptism of villagers at
Navatkuda—Tamil caste persecution—Honorific umbrellas—Life on a
cocoa-palm estate—Visit to the Veddahs—Dread of the evil eye—
Singhalese castes—Dhobies prepare huts for travellers—Bad water
causes divers diseases—Pollanarua.
From Rugam we drove to Batticaloa; part of the distance was to have been
accomplished in a borrowed carriage, but as the horse totally refused to
move, and finally lay down in the middle of the road, we had to wait
several hours under the palm-trees till another could be procured. These
little difficulties are of such frequent recurrence whenever it is
necessary to hire horses, and the many unpleasant methods to which the
horse-keepers resort to persuade obstinate, or perhaps half-starved,
animals to proceed have been so often described, that it is needless to
refer to them, and, personally, my own experience was generally confined
to the well-cared-for and well-trained horses of friends.
The country towards Batticaloa is a dead-level plain, which (thanks to
the restoration of the tanks, and of the ancient system of irrigation)
has been transformed from an unhealthy marsh, overgrown with low jungle,
to a vast expanse of luxuriant rice.
Sir Henry Ward (who first suggested the necessity of a forest
protection) was also the first to attempt any restoration of the old
irrigation works in the Eastern and Southern Provinces. In the
Batticaloa district the repair of the great tanks at Irakkamam and
Amparai restored prosperity to all the country round, converting a
district where malarious swamps alternated with arid wastes into a
smiling expanse of fertile land. Now the eye may rest on a plain of
about 20,000 acres of lovely green rice, in addition to all other
varieties of cultivation, and a well-fed, prosperous, healthy population
replaces the half-starved and diseased villagers of fifty years ago.
Parallel with the coast for about thirty miles lies one of those strange
fresh-water lagoons or ‘gobbs’ similar to those on which we sailed up
the western shores of Ceylon,[144] formed by the confluence of some of
the many rivers, which, meandering through this vast verdant plain, 200
miles in length by about twenty in width, have changed their course in
many a flood, and yet continue to supply their former channels, thus
forming a natural network of navigable canals—quiet waterways fringed
with dense thickets of evergreen mangroves whose curiously arched and
wide-spreading roots grow right into the water, the home of innumerable
crabs and shell-fish, and also swarming with crocodiles. Lovely blue
kingfishers and snowy or rose-coloured cranes, pelicans, and other
aquatic birds here find quiet covert whence they can fish unmolested.
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Footnote 144:
See Chapter iv. A glance at the map will well repay the trouble.
-----
The united waters are prevented from entering the sea (except when in
flood) by a harbour-bar of their own creating, which effectually forbids
the entrance of any vessel—a grave inconvenience to those whose business
is occasionally interrupted by the raging breakers on the bar, but a
feature which secures a beautifully calm lake, in which all the ranges
of blue distant hills and wooded headlands lie faultlessly mirrored.
The name of Batticaloa is said to be derived from the Tamil words _Matta
Kalappa_, meaning ‘Mud-Lake,’ and the little isle on which the
Portuguese built their town and fort is called Puliyantivu, or ‘The Isle
of the Tamarind-trees.’ This they did in 1627 without permission of the
King of Kandy, who thereupon invoked the aid of the Dutch. These in 1638
arrived in force from Java with six ships-of-war, captured and destroyed
the fort, and then proceeded to build one for themselves, which remains
to this day, with the invariable uncompromisingly plain chapel within
its precincts.
Likewise within the fort, and scattered round three sides of a grassy
common, are white houses all roofed with red tiles, each bungalow
standing in its own pleasant garden. The peaceful cemetery occupies a
prominent position on this green common, one side of which is washed by
the lake, whose farther shores are densely clothed with cocoa-palms.
One of those red-tiled houses and one little corner in that still God’s
acre possess a very special interest in our family history, as the
scenes of the close of this first chapter in the life of one very dear
to us.[145]
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Footnote 145:
See page 248.
-----
After watching a gorgeous sunset from the ramparts of the old Dutch
fort, when earth and lake and sky seemed transformed to glowing gold and
the rosy oleanders shone red as rubies, we rowed in the quiet moonlight
to listen to the faint notes of the far-famed ‘musical shell-fish,’
which are only to be heard in the dry season, so we were fortunate in
the time of our visit. When the lake is swollen by the rains the depth
of water deadens the faint submarine chorus.
That night there was not a breath of wind nor the least ripple to
disturb the dead calm, and we distinctly heard the tiny voices, each
apparently producing a succession of notes, as if you gently tapped a
tumbler with a steel knitting-pin, the combination of these producing
faint rippling thrills, just like the vibration when you rub the rim of
a finger-glass with a moist finger.
We rowed very gently, halting at different points where alone the sounds
were audible, whence we inferred that the musicians live in colonies.
The Tamil fishermen attribute the notes to the inmate of a small pointed
shell which they call _ooria coolooroa cradoe_, ‘the crying-shell;’[146]
but this shell is found in other lagoons where it shows no talent for
singing, and, in truth, no one seems able to identify this little
minstrel of the Batticaloa lake.
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Footnote 146:
_Cerithium Palustre._
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Less pleasant inhabitants of the lake are the crocodiles, which are
large and numerous, ranging from six inches to twenty feet in length.
The former, of course, are the newly hatched babies.
We were much interested in watching the fishers shooting fish by
firelight, which they did with almost unerring aim. They go out at
sunset, and having kindled a bright fire in a brazier in the centre of
their boat, they stand at the prow with a large bow and arrow—the latter
attached to a long string, whereby they draw in the silvery fish which,
moth-like, have been attracted to their doom by the glare on the dark
waters. The strangely shaped boats and dark figures, and the reflections
of these moving fires, with the bright moonlight just silvering the tall
dark palms, presented a succession of very striking scenes.
A few days later we were privileged to witness a scene of far more
enduring interest. On Sunday the Bishop held service in English for the
general community of Britons and Burghers, and afterwards in Tamil for
the converts of that race, assisted by their own native clergyman.
The latter had the happiness of telling him of the remarkable (and in
Ceylon quite unique) conversion of all the inhabitants of a neighbouring
village—that is to say, that all had resolved _en masse_ to give up the
worship of the Tamil (Hindoo) gods, and to become the faithful servants
of the One True God. They had already given substantial proof of being
thoroughly in earnest, for although very poor people—only despised
toddy-drawers—of the Nallavar caste, they had quite of their own accord
subscribed so liberally that they had raised sufficient money to buy a
piece of land as the site for their village church, and had already
built a temporary house in which to meet for service.
These earnest converts now craved Christian baptism, and the native
clergyman requested the Bishop to go to their village and admit thirty
men to that holy Sacrament. About 130 women and children were kept back
for fuller instruction.
On a lovely afternoon[147] we proceeded by boat to the village of
Navatkuda (_i.e._, the Bay of the Jambu-tree or Rose-apple,[148] a waxy
pink fruit with a flavour like the perfume of rose-leaves), which lies
on the shores of the lake, about two miles from Batticaloa.
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Footnote 147:
September 10th, 1873.
Footnote 148:
‘The Malay Apple’ (_Eugenia Malaccensis_).
-----
There, on the grassy palm-fringed shore of the clear blue lake, we found
the 160 men, women, and children who had resolved on this great step,
assembled to receive the servant of their newly-found MASTER. Brown men
with large turbans and waist-cloths of bright-coloured calico, and brown
women and children with glossy black hair and brilliant drapery, and of
course (however poor) adorned with some sort of metal bracelets and
anklets, always ornamental. They were a very nice-looking lot, and all
reverently escorted the Bishop to their little temporary chapel, which
was hung with white calico (‘the honours of the white cloth’), and
prettily decorated with palm leaves in the native style.
Nothing could have been more impressive than the baptismal service which
followed, and all listened with the deepest and most earnest attention
to the Bishop’s address, charging one and all to stand steadfast unto
the end, in the face of whatever difficulties might await them. Then, as
the sun set, we bade them farewell, and rowed back to Batticaloa in the
stillness of rapidly-deepening twilight, watching the gleaming
reflections of many boat-fires as the fishers started for their evening
sport.
Very shortly after this the Bishop’s health became so seriously affected
that he was compelled to resign his charge in Ceylon and return to
Britain; and though the remembrance of the scene on the shores of the
lake has often come back to me, it is only quite recently that I have
obtained details of the grievous and pitiless persecution which (albeit
under protection of the Union Jack) these our fellow-subjects and
fellow-Christians have endured during all these long years, for no other
reason than that, being of very low caste—toddy-drawers[149]—they had
presumed to support a resident schoolmaster, and they and their children
had obtained a little rudimentary education. For religious teaching they
were dependent on the visits of a catechist, and occasionally of a Tamil
clergyman, the Rev. A. Vethacan.
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Footnote 149:
The work of collecting the sap of the palm-blossoms is described in
page 418.
-----
From the time of their conversion they declined to carry wood to the
idol temples, and they abstain from Sunday-work, except the necessary
collection of the sap in the early morning. But, worst of all, it is
averred that some of these low-caste people have actually ventured to
carry umbrellas to shelter them from the blazing sun! These are the sole
offences of which they have been guilty, and for which they have
repeatedly been cruelly beaten and insulted by unneighbourly neighbours
of the Fisher caste, who (taking advantage of their sometimes prolonged
absence at different cocoa-nut plantations, where they have been
employed in the dangerous work of toddy drawing) have again and again
maliciously destroyed their poor palm-leaf and mud huts, so that on
their return they have found their houses all wrecked.
The persecution can scarcely be ascribed to envy of any advantages
conferred on these poor Christians by their profession of faith, for
they do not seem to have received any sympathy or support from the large
Christian community in Batticaloa, and they have never yet been able to
improve on their original rude school-chapel, though years ago they
collected a great heap of bricks, hoping soon to be able to build a
simple church.
To this effort they were encouraged by the present Bishop,[150] who
visited them in 1889, and being deeply touched by manifest proofs of
their genuine Christianity, earnestly commended their work to the
sympathy of the Church in Batticaloa. But beyond the collection of a
small sum of money by the Bishop himself, nothing seems to have been
done, and probably the very fact of the Bishop’s visit stirred up the
jealousy of the Fishers. Anyhow, on January 6, 1890, they commenced a
most unprovoked series of attacks on the poor Christians, two of whom
were so seriously wounded that they had to be carried to the hospital at
Batticaloa, their assailants proceeding to burn the school-chapel with
its benches and simple furnishings, and totally destroy the village.
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Footnote 150:
The Right Rev. R. S. Copleston, D.D.
-----
Nevertheless, on the following Sunday the catechist assembled his
congregation as usual, and held service beneath the shadow of the trees
beside the calm lake.
Of course, as in duty bound, the Rev. A. Vethacan reported the
disgraceful business to the Magistrate and Government Agent, and the
ringleaders having been secured, several were deservedly sentenced to
long terms of imprisonment. None of the Christians were found to be at
all in fault, having acted solely in self-defence.
As they did not dare to return to rebuild their village on the former
site, the Government Agent determined at first to provide for them a new
settlement on Government land in another part of the district; but
believing that after the leader of the aggressions had been committed to
prison all would be peaceful, he resolved to erect new huts on the old
site, and having done so, invited the Christians to return. This they
were afraid to do, and the headman, whose duty it was to bring them
back, asked Mr. Vethacan to come over and persuade them to do so.
Bound on this peaceful errand to his sorely-tried flock, the good old
clergyman started, as he had so often done, to cross the calm lake to
Navatkuda, and at 7.30 A.M.[151] he landed on the grassy shore,
expecting to find the headman waiting for him. That official was late,
but Mr. Vethacan perceived a man coming towards him armed with a gun and
brandishing a sword, and recognised one of the most bitter aggressors,
and one, moreover, who had been hurt by one of the Christians in
self-defence (as had been proved in the court).
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Footnote 151:
On the 1st December, 1890.
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On seeing this truculent-looking person approach, Mr. Vethacan returned
to his boat and shoved off from the land, whereupon the assailant began
pelting him with stones, and threatening to fire if the boatman did not
at once return, which the cowardly fellow, being in mortal terror, did.
The miscreant then fell on Mr. Vethacan with his sword, wounding him
very severely, and then went off, leaving him on the ground half dead.
There he lay in the blazing sun for about two hours before any one came
to his assistance, his boatman having gone off to Batticaloa to inform
the Government Agent of the assault. The latter started at once, but met
another boat in which the victim was being brought to the hospital, his
clothes all saturated with blood. He was found to have received several
severe wounds on the arms, the first finger of the left hand had been
cut off, and several others were severely injured, and he had lost so
much blood and received so grave a shock that at first it was feared his
life was in danger.
Happily, however, all went on well, and with good care and nursing he
has made a good recovery, and after five months was able to resume his
duties. Ten months elapsed ere the case was tried, when it is
satisfactory to learn that the cowardly assailant was then sentenced to
ten months’ imprisonment. It is equally satisfactory to learn that this
long delay was due to the fact that there was no spring assize either at
Trincomalee or Batticaloa, owing to the general absence of crime in the
Eastern Province, and the fact that there was no other case for trial.
In order to teach the people to keep the peace, a police force has been
quartered in the village, for which they will have to pay about 1,600
rupees a year—a salutary lesson.
The Christians very naturally refuse to return to their old quarters, so
it has been decided to remove them to the other side of Batticaloa.
Their chief regret is that they will thus be removed from the
neighbourhood of a large Mahommedan village, where they have hitherto
got work from employers who happily ignore caste questions.
Surely it would be well that some proof of sympathy was extended lo
these long-suffering Christians, and the Bishop earnestly hopes that
funds may be placed at his disposal to enable him to build their church,
though not on the site which they secured so many years ago, and also to
secure the salary of a catechist who may endeavour to turn the hearts of
the persecutors, and win them also to the knowledge and love of the
MASTER, Whose love recognises no distinction of caste.[152]
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Footnote 152:
Any donations for this object will be gladly received by Mrs.
Coplestone, 16 Denmark Place, Brighton.
-----
For the whole difficulty has really arisen from these wretched petty
caste privileges, and the determination of the Fishers that no lower
caste should rise in the social scale or presume to encroach on their
prerogatives. Of these, none is so jealously guarded as that of carrying
an umbrella in scorching sun or pitiless rain!
A few years ago some men of the Barber caste presumed thus to offend on
the grand occasion of a wedding. The Fishers took umbrage, smashed the
umbrellas, and a mêlée ensued in which several of the ‘higher caste’
were stabbed. This led to a riot in which sundry houses were burnt, and
all Barbers punished for becoming proud. Natives in good position
declared it ‘served them right.’ A number of Fishers were sent to
prison, but to this day the Barbers dare not carry umbrellas. It is
alleged that the Nallavars of Navatkuda had been guilty of this offence,
and that consequently the Fishers resolved to give them a lesson.[153]
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Footnote 153:
See Chapter xxii. Subdivisions of Fisher Caste.
-----
As an example of how low caste acts as a social disability even in the
professional world, I may instance the case of a man whose father,
although a toddy-drawer by birth, has made money in plumbago, and
educated his son as a proctor. His Tamil brethren of the law, however,
would not allow him to sit at the table with them in his native town,
and he has been compelled to seek practice elsewhere.
Such a detail in an English court of law sounds strange in Britain,
where we are so effectually learning that ‘money maketh man,’ and where
‘Gold hath the sway
We all obey.’
Imagine the son of a rich ironmaster being professionally scouted on
account of his father being a self-made man!
Leaving Batticaloa at sunrise in a wretched palanquin, one execrable
horse dragged us four miles along the lake, and then was replaced by one
rather worse, till we came to a deep sand track, impassable for wheels.
There the Bishop’s horses met us, and we rode to the shores of the
Moondim Aar lake or river, where a boat was waiting to take us to
Chandivelle, a large cocoa-palm plantation belonging to one of my
brother’s old friends.
A hospitable welcome awaited us in a real rough-and-ready bungalow
beneath the palms, a smaller separate one being assigned to Miss Jermyn
and myself, which formed our comfortable headquarters for several days.
It was my first experience of living on a cocoa plantation, and was
quite ‘a new sensation’ in nuts! Every morning the great elephant-cart
went round the estate, collecting such cocoa-nuts as had fallen during
the night, and by midday a huge pile had accumulated. These nuts being
fully ripe, were then broken up wholesale with hatchets by a band of
almost nude coolies, and very hard work they had, the outer husk being
so thick. Then another lot scoop out the kernel, either to be dried in
the sun as _copra_ for curry-stuff, or sent off to the oil-mill. On
every side picturesque brown Tamil men in big turbans, women in bright
draperies with ear-rings and nose-rings, bangles and anklets of silver
or base metal, and children with silver charms but little drapery, gave
life and colour and interest to the scene; and I for one was never weary
of watching these ever-varying groups in their daily avocations,
especially when they gathered round the primitive well to fill their
great red earthenware chatties or brass lotas, cooling themselves by
emptying these over their heads.
A baby elephant wandered about as a playful pet, and one day a
snake-charmer brought a whole family of deadly cobras to dance before
the verandah, whereon lay the ugly heads of several gigantic crocodiles
with large white teeth, and other hunting trophies. These and many other
characteristic details, such as prickly aloes and tall cotton-trees,
were our surroundings, all bathed in the mellow sunlight streaming
through the golden and brown lower leaves of the tall palms, which being
right above us, revealed all their wealth of nuts and blossom.
Then at night the stars and the clear moonlight were so perfect that we
could scarcely go indoors. Specially attractive were the great bonfires
(made of palm-leaves and the outer husks of the nuts), round which about
a hundred of the estate black cattle were picketed as a protection
against leopards. It would be difficult to imagine a more striking scene
for an artist’s brush than these groups of dark animals beneath the
palms, which glowed so red in the firelight, while a silver shimmer of
moonlight played on ever-waving fronds.
One night we approached that living picture too quickly, and the cattle
mistook the strange white women for leopards, and some in their terror
broke loose and stampeded.
I should perhaps mention, as a practical though unromantic detail, that
these large herds of estate cattle are kept on various plantations
solely for the sake of manure. I visited one estate where 180 head were
kept at a cost of about £500 per annum, their sole other duty being to
supply milk and butter for one couple, though doubtless the coolies
profited by the surplus. They are also allowed a limited supply of
cow-dung for coating the floors and the inner walls of their houses,
this being an effectual preventive of vermin; it is far too precious to
be used as fuel, as in India. When coffee began to be sickly, this
manure fell into disfavour, as being productive of obnoxious white
grubs, and many estates sold their herds. Now, however, it is proved
that as a fertiliser for tea it is of inestimable value.
I regret to learn that the grievous murrain which in 1890 decimated so
many herds has not spared this district, which reports a decrease of
14,000 buffaloes and 6,200 black cattle. In the district round
Pollanarua and Minery 5,581 buffaloes and 5,223 black cattle died, and
many thousands more perished in the villages round Haputale and
throughout Uva. The mortality has been unnecessarily great owing to the
superstitious belief of the people that the murrain is the work of
demons, who would be incensed by direct interference with their doings
by any attempt to minister to sick beasts or observe rational
precautions, so that all efforts of the afflicted cattle-owners are
limited to making propitiatory offerings to the ‘ill, vile, evil
devils.’[154]
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Footnote 154:
For the benefit of any Southron who may not recognise the quotation, I
may explain that it refers to a Scotch minister’s exposition of the
character of Satan, and how appropriately he was named. ‘For, my
brethren, if you take one letter from his name, you find _evil_—he is
the father of evil; and if you take away a second, you find _vile_;
and take yet another, and there remains _ill_; so that he is just an
_ill, vile, evil devil_.’
-----
Our meat supply consisted largely of the flesh of wild pig, which we did
not consider equal to good English pork, so we were very glad when the
entertainment was varied by snipe, which are abundant in the wet rice
districts and all marshy places in the Eastern Province, sometimes
rising in flights of a dozen. I recently saw a letter from this very
estate in which the writer describes a sudden arrival of unexpected
guests, for whom, naturally, he had no provisions. He, however, went off
trustingly to his favourite preserve, and in half an hour returned,
having bagged 17-1/2 brace, which enabled him to feast his friends on
roast snipe, stewed snipe, grilled snipe, and snipe curry!
When Colonel Meaden was stationed at Trincomalee in 1872, within easy
reach of the brackish lake Tamblegam, he went out snipe-shooting on
seventeen days between January and April, and bagged 482-1/2 couple, the
highest record being fifty-two couple one day, the lowest being two
couple.
And in occasional days in March, April, and May 1891, our kinsman,
Hector Macneal, of the Gordon Highlanders (grandson of ‘The Old Forest
Ranger’), bagged 375 couple in the low country round Bentotta, in the
south-west of the isle.
The bungalow stands close to a broad reach of the river, where in the
early morning and in the delicious cool of the evening I practised
rowing, under the able tuition of my host, and very soon had an
opportunity of turning my powers to good account on the occasion of our
visit to the Veddahs.
The Park Country through which we had travelled on our way to Batticaloa
lies on the southern verge of the region haunted (I can scarcely say
inhabited) by that strangely primitive race, supposed to be descendants
of the aborigines, who, upwards of two thousand years ago, retreated to
these wilds when the Singhalese conquerors arrived here from Bengal, and
have ever since maintained their isolation from all contact with
civilisation, only desiring to be left unmolested in their own deep
solitudes. At least this is still the attitude of the pure-blooded Rock
Veddahs, who conceal themselves in the caves and forests among the
foot-hills at the base of the great mountain centre—a region known as
‘Bintenne,’ which describes broken country at the base of the highlands,
answering to ‘The Terrai’ at the base of the Himalayas. It used to be so
pestilential that even camping there generally resulted in jungle-fever,
but now its character in that respect has greatly improved, owing to
considerable clearings of forest.
This remote secluded region was, till very recently, untrodden save by
these wild shy tribes, themselves shunning the human presence, and
waging a noiseless warfare with wild beasts, silently stalking till
within ten paces of their quarry, then shooting with noiseless bow and
arrow—no disturbing firearms—and rarely letting a wounded animal escape
to be a living warning to his fellows.
They live in caves or in temporary grass huts (not in trees, as has been
sometimes stated), but they rove to and fro, following the migration of
game, which travels from one district to another in search of
water-pools. When the water on the low ground is all dried up, and the
streams and pools are transformed to beds of dry sand, the game betakes
itself to the moist mountain pastures, and the Veddahs follow, some of
them owning small dogs to help them in the chase.
They have long bows and arrows for big game, and very small ones for
birds. As regards the former, the bows, which are of very flexible wood,
are over six feet in length; taller than the ugly little archers, who
are often under five feet in height. The bowstring is of twisted bark
fibre greased, and the arrow (which is a light shaft two and a half feet
in length, and winged with feathers from the peacock’s wing) carries a
broad flat arrow-head fully six inches in length, and sometimes twelve
or even fifteen inches long. These iron arrow-heads used to be the only
manufactures of the civilised world which they at all appreciated, and
certainly in the hands of keen marksmen they can do great execution. The
archer holds his bow in the right hand and pulls the string with the
left hand.
Even the giant elephant does not escape, for the hunter glides
stealthily close up to him, and aiming at the heart, does his business
more swiftly than many a keen rifle-shot, who vainly seeks the little
brain in that thick skull.
Sometimes these archers fall in with elephants when they had expected
only small game, and when their quiver is stored only with little
short-headed arrows. Then they wait till the giant slowly lifts his
great foot, when, swift as thought, the winged shaft pierces his sole.
An angry stamp only drives the barb farther home, and the hunter, well
satisfied with his work, is content to wait, knowing that very quickly
the wound will fester, and that the poor brute, no longer able to
support his own ponderous weight, must lie down, an easy victim to his
foes.
Strange to say, this nice clean vegetarian, whose flesh is so greatly
appreciated in Africa, is despised by all races in Ceylon; even the
Veddahs never eat elephant, buffalo, or bear, though squirrels,
mongooses, and tortoises, kites and crows, owls, rats, and bats are
highly esteemed, while a roast monkey or a huge hideous iguana-lizard is
an ideal dainty.
They also catch fish in the rivers and neglected tanks, but their chief
store is deer’s flesh cut in long strips and dried on a scaffolding of
sticks over a fire. It is then securely packed in bark and stowed away
in hollow trees, with a top-dressing of wild honey to exclude the air.
Then the hole is filled up with clay—a safe repository till the next
time their wanderings lead them to the same district.
When the chase fails to supply them with meat, they seek wild berries
and roots, and failing these, they allay the pangs of hunger by chewing
bark, which also supplies their clothing. After being soaked and beaten
till it becomes pliable, it is stitched together with fibres of the
jungle-vines, which hang so ready for use in all the forests. But even
this simple raiment was formerly considered _de luxe_, for when my
brother used, in his solitary forest wanderings, unexpectedly to come on
Rock Veddahs, men and women alike were quite naked and truly hideous;
their mass of long, shaggy black hair, and the men’s long, uncombed
beards, all filthy and matted, making their head seem too large in
proportion to their ill-shaped limbs. All are insignificant in stature,
and their wide nostrils, large jaws, and projecting mouths and teeth,
are certainly not according to _our_ idea of beauty!
Now, however, they so far condescend to contact with civilisation that
they are willing to accept a certain amount of calico and earthenware
chatties, as well as the much-prized iron arrow-heads, hatchets, and
salt, supplied by Moormen, as the Mahommedan traders are called, and in
exchange for which they place beeswax, elk’s horns, deer’s flesh, and
occasionally an elephant’s tusk in some conspicuous place.
Lucifer-matches, however, have not yet superseded the ancient way of
obtaining fire by rapidly twirling a long pointed stick in a hole made
in a piece of dry old wood, held by the feet. Atoms of dry wood are
thrown in as tinder, and after a few minutes of hard work a spark
appears and fire is kindled.
The language of this strange race consists chiefly of a very limited
range of guttural sounds, quite incomprehensible to the Singhalese; and
as regards religion, they have literally none, having no knowledge of
any God, nor any instinct of worship beyond offering propitiatory
sacrifices to certain spirits of earth and water, as their forefathers,
the Yakkas, did in bygone ages, to avert thunder and lightning; and they
also perform some devil-dances on behalf of sick persons.
These really wild Rock Veddahs are now few in number, and are very
rarely seen. Hideous and filthy as they are, the Singhalese, with their
intense reverence for high position and ancient blood, acknowledge these
gentlest of savages as of very high caste, ranking next to the Vellales,
or cultivators, who rank highest of all.
The Village Veddahs, with whom we had several interviews, are a
stronger, more manly-looking race, but are not of pure blood, having
frequently intermarried with Kandyans and Singhalese, whose language (in
a very corrupt form) they have adopted. The Coast Veddahs, who work to a
certain extent with the Tamil Fishers, speak a Tamil _patois_. These
support themselves by fishing and by weaving mats and baskets.
The total number of Veddahs is now estimated at about two thousand, but
I need scarcely say that Rock Veddahs do not furnish census statistics!
Even the Village Veddahs have a gipsy-like love of migration, and think
little of moving, their frail homes being simply constructed of mud,
reeds, and palm leaves. Efforts have, however, been made to induce them
to settle by allotments of land for cultivation. Wells were dug for
them, cocoa-palms and breadfruit trees planted, as were also fields of
Indian-corn, kurukkan, rice, and other grain, manioc and cassava roots,
plantains, gourds, and sundry vegetables: seed and agricultural
implements were provided for them—in short, everything done in the
endeavour to tame them, with the result that a considerable number of
them are becoming reconciled to a stationary life, with some simple
comforts around them.
In 1838 the Wesleyan missionaries at Batticaloa began to try teaching
them, and have continued the effort ever since, with moderate success, a
few having embraced Christianity.
Many of those who were formerly scattered along the sea-coast were
persuaded to congregate in villages prepared for them in forest
clearings near the shores of beautiful Vendeloos Bay, to the north of
Batticaloa. At one of these villages the Bishop had, in the previous
year, opened a school for the bright, intelligent Veddah children, and
to inspect this was one of the objects of the present journey.
So we started from Chandivelle at early dawn one lovely morning and
rowed about nine miles down the Nattoor River to Vallachena, two miles
from Vendeloos Bay, where the river enters the sea. (The river is quite
salt even at Chandivelle.) The shores and many little isles are clothed
with mangrove, acacia, and other trees, and the scenery is pleasant.
Many Veddahs had assembled to welcome the Bishop on his return, and
presently some women arrived and very shyly came forward to see their
white sisters (probably the first who had visited them).
First the Bishop examined the school-children, and some of the most
advanced wrote sentences for us in Tamil on the ‘ola’ or strips of
prepared palmyra leaf, which form the substitute for paper not only for
copy-books, but for precious manuscripts, though the talipot-palm is
preferred for the most valuable books.
Then we all squatted on the dry grass beneath a white awning which was
suspended from the trees, and the native clergyman read service in
Tamil, selecting Genesis i. and St. Mark i. as the Lessons. Then the
Bishop spoke on these, Mr. Samonader interpreting.
After service we begged for an illustration of the far-famed skill of
the Veddahs as archers in the use of their little bows, which they had
brought with them. This, however, proved a lamentable failure, which we
charitably attributed to the awe of our presence, but which seems to be
generally the case in presence of Europeans, their success in bringing
down game being rather due to their extreme caution in creeping close to
their quarry ere hazarding an arrow.
In the afternoon, the Bishop, being ill and very tired, was obliged to
rest, so the native clergyman offered to row Miss Jermyn and me some
distance up the river in a small boat to a Veddah village of palm-leaf
and mud huts, overshadowed by tall palm and other trees. Some of the
men’s huts were like those erected in the fields for the sentinels
watching the crops, namely, two platforms, one above the other, raised
on a scaffolding of rough-hewn poles, the upper platform shaded by a
light thatch. The regular dwelling-houses are very low, only about eight
feet high, and almost all consisting of palm-leaf thatch, the upright
side-walls being so very low. The people were quite friendly, but very
shy.
When we had gone round one village (and of course sketched a little), we
rowed on a little farther to another, and saw the people making mats,
grinding grain, &c. (korrakan, the small grain on which the poorer
villagers chiefly subsist; it is made into hard uninviting cakes,
occasionally compounded with a good deal of dirt).
We thought to win a mother’s heart by admiring her baby, but found we
had done quite the wrong thing, as admiration is supposed to imply
covetousness and involves great danger of the ‘evil eye,’ a baneful
influence which is as sorely dreaded in Ceylon as in Italy, or indeed in
most other countries, including even Scotland.[155]
-----
Footnote 155:
As I noted when ‘In the Hebrides,’ p. 261. Certainly, judging from
such verses as Mark vii. 22 and Proverbs xxviii. 22, the ‘evil eye’
must also have suggested some very definite ill to the Jewish mind.
-----
In almost all Eastern countries some device is resorted to to draw aside
this malign influence; children are loaded with jewels, or they are
purposely left with dirty faces; the trappings of camels and horses are
adorned with cowrie shells; Mahommedans suspend ostrich eggs from the
ceilings of their rooms, and here in Ceylon earthenware jars daubed with
white paint are conspicuously stuck on the roof to attract the eye which
might cast the dreaded glamour on the house.
As evening drew on, we started on our homeward row down the river, the
native clergyman, as before, taking the oars, till, as we passed a
village, the headman came out and remonstrated on his doing so, he being
a high-caste man. The argument was evidently effective, for the worthy
man appeared quite perplexed, evidently fearing to lose influence with
his flock. So to solve the difficulty (though I fear, perhaps,
establishing a bad precedent), I took the oars myself and rowed home—an
easy task, being downstream.
Though ‘caste’ distinctions are by no means so obtrusive in Ceylon as on
the mainland of India, they are, nevertheless (as I have already
proved), sufficiently marked to be the occasion of many difficulties,
especially in the formation of missionary schools, where almost naked
little brown brats of high caste sometimes begin by displaying the most
amazing spirit of contempt and persecution towards those of lower caste.
The Singhalese (as worshippers of Buddha, who entirely condemned caste
distinctions) ought to be free from these distinctions, but practically
they make as much of them as any Hindoo, which is perhaps not to be
wondered at, seeing that they are descended from the Brahminical
conquerors who, under the leadership of Wijayo, came from Bengal about
the year 543 B.C., and overran Ceylon.
Then it was that the aborigines fled for refuge to the forests and caves
of the interior, and to the outlying isles of the north. The former (who
are supposed to be the ancestors of the Veddahs) were thenceforward
known as Yakkas, or demons, because their sole religion consisted in
propitiating the powers of evil. To the Yakkas (whether demons or
aborigines) is ascribed everything of unknown origin, whether ruins of
constructions which are deemed too great to have been created by unaided
human power, or too rude to be the handiwork of any existing race, such
as certain huge dams, rock-fortresses, &c.
Those who fled to the extreme north rendered special worship to the
cobra, and were accordingly named the Nagas, or cobras, and the northern
part of the isle was called Nagadipo, ‘The Isle of Serpents.’ (As I have
previously mentioned, on one at least of the small isles near Jaffna
there is still a temple where live cobras are reverently tended by
priests and priestesses, and receive devout worship.)
To this day, as we have seen, the Singhalese recognise the hideous and
filthy Veddahs to be worthy of all honour, as being of very high caste;
so much so, that it would be no disgrace for a woman of good social
position to marry one of them, should her strange taste incline her to
do so. But, on the other hand, the most cruel and indelible disgrace
that could possibly be inflicted on a high-caste woman was to give her
to an outcast Rodiya (or Rodilla), a singularly beautiful race (at least
both men and women are so in youth), who nevertheless have ever been
regarded as the lowest scum, their name even being derived from _rodda_,
‘filth.’
Under the Kandyan kings every phase of ignominy that could be devised
was heaped on these poor people, who are said to have been degraded for
ever and ever because one of their ancestors having, on one occasion,
about two thousand years ago, failed in procuring venison for the king’s
table, substituted the flesh of a nice fat baby, of which his Majesty
partook with much relish. But the crime was discovered, and the whole
clan of the miscreant shared in his disgrace, and thenceforward all
their posterity were ceaselessly persecuted and oppressed till English
rule freed them.
They were forbidden to enter a Buddhist temple or any village; they
might not till the soil, or draw water from a well, or even cross a
ferry; even the stream on which their shadow fell was defiled for a
while; they must get off the path to avoid the possibility of any one
brushing against them, and so being polluted; they were compelled to
salute _every one_ by raising their joined hands above their head and
then making lowly obeisance; men and women alike were forbidden to wear
any clothing below the knee or above the waist; and they might not even
build a decent cottage with a wall on each side, but only hovels
constructed of palm-leaf hurdles leaning against a back-wall of mud. A
curious detail of petty but very real persecution was the prohibition to
divide their burden into two bundles, hanging from each end of the
‘pingo’ or shoulder-yoke, as is done by all other natives, in Ceylon as
in China; the Rodiyas might only carry one bundle, and so lost all
balance.
They were only allowed to earn their bread by guarding the crops from
the ravages of wild beasts, or by the polluting work of burying the
carcases of dead cattle, of whose raw hides they manufactured strong
ropes for binding elephants. Once these were made, any caste might
handle them freely. They were compelled to furnish all Government
leather-work, also they might kill monkeys and prepare their skins for
covering native drums. For a member of another caste to touch a Rodiya
was accounted such pollution, that when in the early days of British
domination it was necessary to arrest some of them on a charge of
murder, the native police refused to lay hands on them, but offered to
shoot them down from a distance. This was strictly correct from a native
point of view, any man being at liberty to shoot a Rodiya as freely as
though he were a noxious animal.
Any Government orders or other communications to be made to Rodiyas were
generally sent by charcoal-burners, as being the lowest of all
recognised castes, and the messenger, if possible, delivered it across a
flowing stream, to save his own respectability. Yet, as they were deemed
to be fortune-tellers and dealers in witchcraft, doubtless many
consulted them on the sly.
Whatever may have been the true origin of these beautiful outcasts, it
is certain that their ranks have been recruited in later ages by whole
families of the highest castes, who have been degraded to the rank of
Rodiyas as a punishment for treason, sacrilege, or other grievous
crimes.
As they were forbidden to till the soil, it was enacted that in time of
harvest each cultivator should bestow on them a small gift of rice, and
very small it sometimes was. On one occasion, however, a stingy man was
paid out for having given a Rodiya an exceptionally small dole. The
angry man walked up to the threshold floor and scattered it broadcast
over the grain which was there heaped up, thereby polluting the whole.
Happily British rule was firmly established, so the infuriated farmer
dared not shoot the outcast, as he wished to do. He was recommended to
sue him before a law-court, but this he deemed quite too derogatory to
his own dignity, so the Rodiya escaped.
Of course, under British rule caste distinctions are nominally ignored,
so the Rodiyas now have better houses and some home comforts; some even
own small farms and a few head of cattle, but the old influence asserts
itself, and their proud Kandyan neighbours make them mark their cattle
by hanging round their necks a cocoa-nut-shell fastened with a strip of
leather, and in many petty ways contrive to remind them of their
inferiority.
(When Ernst Haeckel, the naturalist, was living in the rest-house at
Belligama, pursuing the study of marine zoology, his devoted assistant
was a beautiful Rodiya lad, to whose unfailing zeal and dexterity in
everything he bears the highest testimony. The amazement of the
villagers was unbounded when this despised outcast was promoted to such
honour as that of being the right-hand of the man of wondrous scientific
knowledge, and the grief of the poor lad when his employer departed may
well be imagined.)
Strange to say, low in the social scale as these poor people rank, two
castes rank so much lower that the Rodiyas refuse to have anything to
say to them. These are the Hanomoreyos of Uva (manufacturers of
betel-boxes) and the Ambetteyos or barbers. What they can have done
worse than inveigling a king to eat human flesh no one can imagine. Just
fancy entrusting your face and head to be shaved by a man whose very
touch at other times would be pollution! The village dhobies or
washermen, here as in India, are another example of how the highest
castes depend on the low castes for their cleansing and beautifying.
Strange to say, all castes, even the lowest, employ the dhobie, and
would consider it quite wrong to do their own washing!
One singular duty of the chief dhobie in each district is that of
preparing temporary bungalows for the reception of such officials as are
entitled thereto in out-of-the-way places where rest-houses are not
available, and we were now entering on a series of marches right into
the interior of the isle, where we were entirely dependent on these for
our night quarters. While travelling with the Governor, I had seen
‘mushroom villages’ of such forest bungalows provided for all the suite,
albeit to be occupied for one night only.
Of course, the preparations for the Bishop and his party were on a much
smaller scale, though answering their purpose equally well. These huts
are lightly constructed of bamboos, reeds, and plaited palm-leaves or
‘cadjans’ on a framework of wood, and the interior is all hung with
white calico. This is called ‘the honour of the white cloth,’ which is
accorded to all persons to whom special honour is due. At first I
marvelled how so much white calico could be obtained in the heart of the
forest, but we soon discovered that each strip was the spare garment of
some villager. The village washerman knows exactly who is possessed of
such extra property, and he goes round borrowing, and so the temporary
guest-house looks delightfully cool and clean to welcome the tired
travellers.
Within an hour of their departure the huts are demolished; perhaps the
woodwork and palm-leaf cadjans, and certainly all the white cloths, are
restored to their proper owners, probably with an infinitesimal share of
the vale bestowed on the dhobie.
Sometimes, however, mischievous monkeys begin the work of demolition
without waiting for the departure of the travellers. I specially
remember one day when we returned to our grass-thatched home on the
embankment of the great tanks at Pollanarua, where we halted for some
days, and found a whole troop of monkeys on the roof in wildest glee,
tearing up all the thatch!
Of course, in such a hut the floor is simply dry earth (or in some cases
very wet earth), but for such an expedition a traveller’s luggage must
include a roll of taliput palm-leaf mats, in addition to a coolie-load
of simple bedding, pillow, mosquito-net, &c.
Of course, travelling on these unbeaten tracks, where roads are still
unknown, was specially interesting; day by day we rode by jungle-paths,
perhaps following the slow footsteps of some dignified headman who was
proud to act as the Bishop’s guide. Sometimes we followed the course of
fine rivers overshadowed by magnificent trees, but in the month of
September the streams were well-nigh dry, and we were able to ford them
without difficulty. The one exception was when we came to the broad,
beautiful Mahavelli-Ganga, the largest river in Ceylon, to which I had
already done homage where it flows round the mountain capital of Kandy.
We halted for a delicious rest beneath one of the great trees
overhanging the wide glassy stream, while the horses waded and swam
across. Then we followed by boat, and again halted on the farther shore
in a green glade where the cool moist grass had attracted a swarm of
gorgeous butterflies, which floated on their fairy-like wings as though
holding a festive assembly. One family of these lovely fairies has large
velvety black wings spotted with vivid crimson; another, which measures
six inches across the wings, has upper-wings of black velvet, but
under-wings of glossy yellow satin.
All insects were not equally attractive. We found minute eye-flies and
mosquitos especially irritating, nowhere more so than at the huts where
we had spent the previous night, close to two ancient tanks, one quite
and the other partially dried up. These huts were literally swarming
with long-legged spiders, thousands of them clustered together, like
bunches of black hair. Those were not pleasant quarters, but the natives
were very kind, and brought most welcome gifts of milk, which, however,
we felt sorry to be obliged to accept, as of course the drought affected
even their supply of drinking-water, which is at all times a difficulty,
and at many places where we halted it was so foul that it had to be
boiled and filtered twice over ere we dared to use it. But under any
circumstances we were strictly forbidden ever to drink a drop of water
which had not been both boiled and filtered once. Where it was obviously
impure, obedience was comparatively easy; but where it looked clear and
sparkling, and we were parched with thirst, we were sometimes sorely
tempted, though well aware of the necessity of strict obedience, bad
water being the prolific cause of divers diseases, such as fever and
dysentery, in the mere traveller, but too often, in the case of poor
villagers compelled to use it habitually, it is in a great measure
responsible for the far more terrible diseases known as Beri-beri and
‘parangi,’ resembling leprosy. Perhaps the most blessed result of the
recent restoration of so many of the great tanks is that, with the
abundant supply of good water, and consequently of wholesome grain, this
awful malady has almost disappeared from the districts thus favoured.
The natives purify drinking-water for their own use by rubbing the
inside of the earthen water-vessel with certain seeds which have the
virtue of attracting to themselves all noxious properties, and in five
minutes all impurities sink to the bottom, leaving the water clear. One
of the seeds is a small nut called Ambu-prasa-dana, the other is the
fruit of a large forest tree, the Ingenni-gedia. It is a gelatinous
berry in a woody outer case.
A good many years ago an admirable village filter was invented by G. W.
R. Campbell,[156] consisting simply of three large wicker baskets, each
one foot smaller than the last, the space between the two outermost
being tightly packed (below and on every side) with clean sand; the
space between the next two being similarly packed with charcoal. This
was sunk in a foul village tank, leaving the surface above water, and in
a little while the innermost basket filled with pure clear water, whence
all comers might draw. Simple as is this contrivance, the natives,
however, generally prefer their own ways, and the use of the purifying
seeds which Nature provides all ready for them.
-----
Footnote 156:
For many years Inspector-General of Police in Ceylon.
-----
I am told that in preparing such a filter, vegetable charcoal, freshly
burned and powdered, suffices (with sand and gravel) to remove vegetable
matter, but that only charcoal of animal substance can remove animal
impurity. Whether this is true, however, I cannot say.
I may mention, as a hint for thirsty travellers, the advantage of
carrying bottles of cold tea for use on the march, each bottle being
wrapped in a wet towel, the evaporation from which in the burning sun
secures most welcome coolness.
Having crossed the ‘Great Sandy River,’ a short beautiful ride brought
us to our bourne, namely, the ruins of the ancient city of Pollanarua,
where we found that a group of most delightful huts had been erected for
us beneath the cool shade of large trees growing actually on the
embankment of Topa-Wewa, the great artificial lake, on whose still
waters floated the loveliest waterlilies, and across which we looked
away to the lovely blue ranges of the far-distant Matale hills, rising
above the wide expanse of dark forest which encompasses the lake on
every side.