RETURN TO COLOMBO
Bentota—Lilies—Mangroves—Kalutara—Fisher castes—Ordeal by boiling oil—
Colombo.
On my return journey from Mātara to Colombo I proved how comfortable it
can be to travel ‘in charge of the police;’ always provided such charge
be that of a great Inspector-General who takes special pride not only in
every detail of his official work, but also in the excellence of the
grey horses which await him at every halting-place.
Not that we had to hurry over the beautiful drive. Happily for my
sketching mania, there was so much police inspection to be done on the
way, that we were detained a whole day at Galle and another at Bentota,
a very pretty fishing-village, with a really luxurious rest-house
charmingly situated beneath the cool shade of feathery tamarind-trees
and cocoa-palms, on a little rocky headland washed by the waves, and at
the mouth of the Alutgama River.
Thence, looking along the shore, there is a fine view of Cape Barberyn,
which is the westernmost point of Ceylon. Grand waves breaking round
rocky palm-covered islands, glimpses of calm freshwater pools and green
turf, coast villages, and many fishing boats, successive headlands all
clothed with cocoa-palms, pandanus, and other tropical vegetation, and
yellow sands carpeted with marine convolvulus, make up as pleasant a
picture as can be desired.
Equally fascinating is the view from the bridge looking up the beautiful
river flowing so calmly between continuous walls of lovely foliage, to
where, beyond many ranges of palm and forest in varied tints of green
and blue, rises the clear delicate range of far-away blue mountains, of
which the crowning peak is the ever-attractive ‘Sri Pada’ (the Holy
Footprint).
Most beautiful of all was a row up the silent river in the clear
moonlight, doubly attractive after the great heat of the day. Yet even
that heat was tempered by a delicious sea-breeze and an invigorating
scent of iodine, and the too dazzling light on sea and sky served to
intensify enjoyment of the blessed shade.
Truly exquisite and delightful to eyes wearied with the sun’s glare is
the endless variety of cool refreshing greens which surround them on
every side in this verdant paradise; large golden-green silky leaves,
which seem to have embodied the sunlight that plays on their upper
surface; sombre dark-green foliage, so thick and heavy as effectually to
bar all light, casting a cool deep shadow on the grassy carpet below.
There are olive-greens and emerald-greens, indigo and chrome, every tint
that can be produced by blending every known yellow with every known
blue. Loveliest of all, perhaps, is the exquisitely fresh green of the
rice-fields, brighter even than our own wheat-fields in early spring.
As if to harmonise with these all pervading hues, a large proportion of
living creatures—the fairies of the forest—are clad in green, the better
to escape the notice of their foes. Brilliant green birds, butterflies,
and dragonflies flit from tree to tree, tasting each honeyed blossom,
while green lizards and green beetles find secure homes in crevices of
the mossy stems, and green whipsnakes too often glide about among the
boughs, perhaps in pursuit of the pretty little green tree-frogs, which
try to hide themselves beneath the green leaves.
As to the small green parroquets (which are the only Singhalese
representatives of the parrot family), their name is legion, and they
are as gregarious as our own rooks, vast flocks assembling towards
evening in such trees as they fancy, uttering shrill screams, chattering
and fluttering, while apparently fighting for the best places, and
dispersing again in the early morning amid a babel of the same
ear-splitting screams.
Though all these parroquets are practically green, several varieties
have distinguishing marks; thus one peculiar to the mountains in the
Central Province has a purple head; another, which is also peculiar to
Ceylon, has a deep red plume on the crown of the head; a third has a
grey head, and a fourth has a rose-coloured ring round the neck.
Occasionally, but very rarely, a pure yellow parroquet is hatched, and
is valued on the same principle as the many-headed palm, on account of
its rarity.
Attractive to the eye as are these pretty birds, their unmusical voices
make them anything but desirable neighbours, whereas some of the
pigeons, whose plumage, though less brilliant, is quite as lovely, have
most soothing melodious notes. Such is the Kurulu-goya, whose euphonious
Singhalese name well expresses its note. These birds fly in flocks, and
their colouring is most delicate green flushed with rose-colour. A small
pretty pigeon with dark-green metallic plumage is the Batta-goya, while
the Mahavilla-goya is also a small green dove The Kobaiya is a small
grey turtle-dove, and the Baila-goya is a grey bird very like our own
wood-pigeon.
A very common green and brown bird is the barbet, of which there are at
least three varieties in Ceylon, one of which, with red head and green
back, goes by the name of the ‘coppersmith,’ its strange metallic note
being unpleasantly suggestive of hammering metal—a sound which, blending
with the incessant creaking, sawing, and buzzing noises produced by
various insects, to say nothing of the creaking of wooden cart-wheels
and the working of the garden-well, sometimes become almost unendurably
irritating.
Among the delicacies provided for us by a most attentive rest-house
keeper were some of the oysters for which Bentota is famous, but they
are poor little mis-shapen things, somewhat bitter in flavour, as well
they may be, from a hereditary intuition of how successive generations
of white men persist in tearing them from their homes, and yet never
accord them one word of praise; for you never hear a Singhalese oyster
named except in disparaging comparison with those of Europe or America.
They are, however, allowed to be good when roasted on the shore, in the
manner so familiar at Australian seaside picnics.
Alas! how poor words are to convey clear impressions of lovely scenes,
with the countless characteristic details to which they owe so much of
their charm! As I turn the pages of many sketch books and portfolios,
and feel how vividly the slightest jottings recall places, and all their
attractive Oriental inhabitants and interesting customs, I feel how
impossible it is to make mere words convey any true idea of what is so
fascinating to the eye.
To take one of the most insignificant examples, the ping-tallie or
ping-chattie, _i.e._, ‘meritorious water-jar,’ placed at intervals along
the roadside by some one anxious to acquire merit by keeping up a
constant supply of cold water for thirsty wayfarers. Here is one
sketched at Bentota on the brink of the sea. A large red chattie of
porous earthenware on a stand to raise it some feet from the ground, and
with a miniature roof of red tiles, the whole overshadowed by
golden-green banana leaves; a little child carrying a large green leaf
as a sunshade stands beside its mother while she refills the great jar,
across which lies the wooden scoop with which each traveller takes out
water and pours it into his hand, drinking thence, or else pouring it
into his mouth from some height, so that men of all castes may drink
without defilement.
Here is a very primitive ping-chattie poised on a tripod formed by three
sticks, the upper end of which supports a thatch of palm-leaves. This is
in a cocoa-palm tope, and a thirsty brown man with long silky black hair
carries in his arms a kid, whose mother follows close, as does also a
little child guiltless of any raiment.
Here is one equally primitive, sketched in a village near Kandy, where
the red jar rests in the fork of a small dead tree, across the broken
branches of which is poised the yellow fan-shaped leaf of a
talipat-palm, to protect the water from the sun. Beside it grows a large
aloe, and a datura literally white with large and very fragrant
trumpet-shaped blossoms. Just beyond, overshadowed by a great
‘lettuce-tree,’ its beautiful lemon-yellow foliage gleaming in contrast
with a bright blue sky, is an ambulam or rest-house for Tamil coolies,
its solid white pillars supporting a red-tiled roof, on the summit of
which is a curious red earthenware ornament, representing three times
three cobras arranged in a pinnacle. Well for the merry squirrels who
play hide-and-seek among the broken tiles that these are only images of
the cobra, and not the genuine article! A troop of monkeys are also
careering over the roofs and in the trees, while groups of turbaned men
are cooking at small fires in the open air.
This rest-house is at the entrance of a village; all the roofs are
red-tiled, and all are shaded either by large-leaved plantains, fragrant
white daturas, potato-trees with lovely purple blossoms, or palm-trees
loaded with nuts in all stages. On either side of the road flows a
narrow stream, across which a separate arched bridge, with steps, leads
to each house. In the open shops hang huge clusters of ripe bananas, and
piles of huge jak fruit to be used in curries, fragrant pine-apples,
bright green ripe oranges, and other fruit to tempt wayfarers, also
large cages full of poultry. Among the innumerable, ever-changing groups
which make up the kaleidoscope of colour, all in vivid light and shadow,
comes a cart drawn by white bullocks, with the usual high-arched cover
of dried palm-leaves, which throws such rich dark shadow on the figures
crouching within. This one is literally covered, inside and out, with
red earthenware jars of all sizes, hung on with cords.
I turn a page and find another village, which, described in words, would
seem only a repetition of the last. But in this case the ‘meritorious
water-chattie’ stands on a neat white pedestal, built upon one of the
little bridges aforesaid, and it is protected by a large native umbrella
supported by two sticks.
Just one more page! Here is a ping-tallie sketched at Dickwella. It is a
most elaborately sculptured stone font, which (but that it represents
grim heraldic lions) might take a place in any church. It certainly is
out of keeping with the broken steps leading up to the rude well from
which it is being filled by a bronze lad, clothed chiefly in his own
long black hair, and who, by the help of a long rope, draws up his red
jar from the deep cool waters far below. A Singhalese woman, barefooted
of course, and showing a good deal of brown waist between her white
jacket and orange-coloured comboy, is giving her brown little ones a
drink from the wooden scoop, and oh! what pretty creatures are some of
these, with their large lustrous black eyes. Similarly attractive scenes
meet one at every turn, and give human interest to scenes of
ever-changing loveliness.
The whole drive from Galle to Colombo, a distance of about seventy
miles, is one long dream of beauty. The excellent carriage-road runs so
close to the shore that we are constantly catching sight and sound of
the vividly blue sea and grand surf, sometimes dashing on headlands of
dark rock, sometimes breaking more gently on the yellow sands of
peaceful bays, and revealing endless glimpses of fishing life—brown
boats with ruddy sails, brown men, chiefly clothed in a yellow palm-leaf
hat, drawing brown nets. The whole way is overshadowed by luxuriant
vegetation in such varied combinations that the eye can never weary of
such a succession of beauty.
Of course the tall slender palms, with their sunlit crowns, are the
predominating feature, towering above all to a height of ninety to a
hundred feet, bending in every direction, and often overgrown by
graceful creepers, which hang in festoons and garlands. The most
remarkable of these is the _Gloriosa superba_, there called
‘Neyangalla,’ a very peculiar climbing lily of a gorgeous scarlet and
orange.
Sad to say, on the many thousand palms which clothe the shore from
Bentota to Kalutara there is scarcely a nut to be seen, these trees
being grown solely for the manufacture of arrack from the sap or toddy,
which, as I have already described, is obtained by cruelly beating the
flower spathe to prevent the formation of embryo nuts. One result of
this unnatural culture is that the very bats are demoralised; and when
the toddy begins to ferment, the great flying-foxes assemble in flocks
and help themselves to the contents of the chatties so freely that they
literally become drunk and riotous!
While many beautiful types of foliage combine to produce an endless
variety overhead and on either side of the red road, the undergrowth is
no less varied and lovely. There are an infinite variety of ferns,
including several exquisite climbing species, which bear the most
delicate little fronds, sometimes fringed with seed on stems like black
horse-hair,[194] and which grow so rankly as to veil tall shrubs and
hang in fairy-like wreaths from tree to tree. In some parts of the
island I have seen these growing so abundantly that they are cut
wholesale and used for thatch as ruthlessly as we cut common brackens,
the large hair-like stems acting as excellent rain-conductors.
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Footnote 194:
_Lygodium scandens._
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Then there are a great variety of aroids, with handsome arrow-headed
leaves, from the cultivated yam and the calla-lily to the crimson veined
and spotted caladium, familiar in our greenhouses, but of so much larger
growth that a single leaf is often plucked as an effective and very
pretty sunshade.
In the neighbourhood of Galle a beautiful white lily,[195] like our
virgin-lily, grows freely along the shore on stems fully six feet in
height, and generally with a luxuriant growth of goat’s-foot
convolvulus, with shining green leaves and pink or delicate lilac
blossoms, matting the shore to the brink of the sea, and invariably
tenanted by innumerable tiny crabs, chiefly hermits—the ‘wise men’ of
the sea, who live in houses built for themselves by other creatures.
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Footnote 195:
_Pancratium zeylanicum._
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A charming feature of this drive, or indeed of any drive along the coast
of Ceylon, is the great number of streams and rivers to be crossed by
wooden bridges. Some are all fringed with feathery bamboos and palms;
others, forming wide estuaries as they enter the sea, lose themselves in
tidal swamps densely clothed with sombre mangroves, whose aerial roots
form a labyrinth wherein myriads of crabs and shell-fish, watersnakes,
crocodiles, and other unpleasant creatures, including swarms of
mosquitoes, find a secure haven. A large proportion of these roots are
thrown out from the stem at a considerable height above the mud, and
bending downwards, act the part of buttresses to support the parent stem
in the loose soil.
A very curious feature in the reproduction of the mangrove is that the
seed does not fall from the seed-vessel when ripe, but therein remains
and germinates, while the seed-vessel remains attached to the parent
stem. The infant root grows out at the top, and continues growing till
it reaches the mud, or till the seed-vessel drops off, in which case it
equally lands in the mud, and there becomes established as a young
mangrove to take its part in clothing the swamp, and by gradually
extending the dense thicket of vegetation, reclaim more land from the
neutral ground.
The bark of the mangrove is commercially valuable on account of the
large amount of tannin it yields, and its timber is prized as firewood;
but as population increases in the vicinity of mangrove-clad shores, it
is a grave question whether the destruction of these maritime forests
may not so disturb Nature’s equilibrium as to prove a source of danger,
as the tannin, which ceaselessly drops from leaves, bark, and seeds, is
said to be a powerful antidote against putrefaction, and in places where
wholesale denudation has been permitted, as in the case of the Brazilian
mangrove swamp off Rio, the enormous deposits of dead fish and
shell-fish, which are left to decompose in the burning heat on the now
bare banks of black mud, are so offensive as to be deemed in at least
some measure accountable for the terrible visitations of yellow fever
and other epidemics of comparatively recent introduction.
Another tree which flourishes on these shores is the Baringtonia, a
large handsome tree with dark glossy foliage and clusters of delicate
white blossom edged with crimson. It bears large fibrous fruits of
pyramidal form, within which lie seeds which are used in medicine, and
from which an oil is expressed for lamps, which is also occasionally
used by fishers, who mix it with bait, and so contrive to stupefy the
fish, which are then easily captured.
One of the loveliest of these many rivers is the Kalu-Ganga, or Black
River, at the mouth of which is Kalutara, a large and pleasant village.
We started from Bentota with the earliest glimmer of dawn, while fires
were still gleaming in the fishers’ boats, and so had full benefit of
the deliciously cool morning air, and of the lovely early lights
reflected in the calm waters of a long beautiful lagoon. We halted close
to Kalutara to secure a rapid sketch of a very fine banyan-tree which
formed a magnificent archway right across the road, aerial roots having
dropped from the main branches and taken root on the farther side. The
whole was bearded with a fringe of long brown filaments and overgrown by
luxuriant parasitic plants and ferns, producing a most beautiful effect.
Alas! it is reported that this very remarkable tree has been blown over
in a fierce gale.
Very fascinating is the view from the old fort at Kalutara, where we
halted for breakfast, looking up the beautiful Kalu-Ganga to the distant
mountain range, crowned as usual by the Mount of the Holy Foot, which is
distant about sixty-five miles. The river is navigable for boats as far
as Ratnapura, whence many of the pilgrims to the Peak avail themselves
of this easy mode of returning to the sea-coast. Much of the estate
produce is also brought by this easy waterway from the hills to
Kalutara, and thence to Colombo either by rail or by further
water-carriage through lagoons and canals, such as those by which we
travelled to Kalpitya. The railway has the double advantage of speed and
of security against dishonest boatmen, to whom the quiet of the lagoons
offers almost irresistible temptations.
The river is here spanned by a wide bridge, below which lay moored many
thatched boats, while seaward, fishers were drawing up their long seine
nets and others were fishing from boats.
Strange to say, the laws of caste are as rigidly marked between the
subdivisions of the fisher caste as between separate castes. There are
five upper divisions, who are allowed to intermarry; each of these has a
distinctive name, meaning ‘those who fish from the rocks,’ ‘those who
fish from boats,’ ‘those who catch turtle,’ ‘those who cast nets,’ and
‘those who fish with a rod.’
Besides these there are a number of divisions of fishers of lower social
position, who must on no account aspire to marry with their betters,
though some are engaged in lucrative trades, such as boat and
ship-building and cabinet-making. Some are carpenters and some are
farmers—a curious blending of professions according to our British
experience of the sharp line of demarcation which exists between our own
fisher folk and all others inhabiting even the other end of the same
village.
Kalutara is one of the few places in Ceylon where that most delicious of
fruits the mangosteen ripens well—a great point in its favour. The
industry by which the town is most widely known is that of weaving
baskets from the fibre of a palm-leaf, which is split as narrow as fine
grass, and dyed black, red, and yellow. The baskets are oblong, and are
sold in nests of twelve, fitting inside of one another, very convenient
to carry and very useful. They are wonderfully light and yet durable,
and are made by women and children. Nearer to Colombo a good many Malays
manufacture baskets and flower-stands from the rattan-cane, and at
various villages in the interior we saw people weaving coarse rush-mats,
but all finer ornamental mats used in Ceylon are imported from the
Suvadiva group of the Maldive Isles, which are a dependency of Ceylon.
It is much to be feared that future travellers will miss much of the
enjoyment of this lovely drive to Colombo, for the railway is now open
as far as Bentota, with a station at the mouth of the Alutgama River—a
beautiful line of railway, skirting still lagoons and generally running
close along the shore, where the mighty waves break with a crash louder
than the roar of the rushing train. But railway travel allows small
leisure to realise all the beauties of the panorama so rapidly revealed,
and in an Oriental land, where each moment we whirl past something of
interest, it is the worst form of the aggravation of _tableaux vivants_,
for at best we catch an unsatisfying glimpse of scenes which in the
twinkling of an eye have vanished from our gaze.
Nothing is more remarkable in the history of all Oriental railways than
the rapidity with which pilgrims of various faiths avail themselves of
this mode of lightening the toil of their pilgrimage. The extension to
Bentota proved no exception, for very soon after it was opened crowds of
Mahommedans poured down from Colombo and elsewhere to worship at the
Alutgama mosque.
Here, as elsewhere, the old life and the new flow side by side,
sometimes in strange contrast. Thus while the railway from Kalutara to
Bentota was in process of completion, three persons, including a native
headman, were tried before the District Court for having subjected
several persons to the torture known as the ‘ordeal by boiling oil,’ in
order to extract a confession of the theft of some plumbago.
The accused, who did not attempt to deny the offence, were very much
aggrieved that British law should interfere, and even punish them for an
act sanctioned by ancient custom, and which, it appears, is still
commonly practised in out-of-the-way parts of the Isle.
The ceremony is as follows. Oil from newly-gathered king cocoa-nuts is
manufactured by a friend of the complainant, and is heated over the fire
in a chattie. When boiling, each of the persons accused is required to
dip his fingers thrice into the chattie, and, I believe, thrice also
into a preparation of boiling cow-dung. If he can refrain from any
exclamation of pain, he is held to be innocent, but any cry is
equivalent to an admission of guilt. The only consolation of the victim
is that he is at liberty to sprinkle over his adversary as much boiling
oil as sticks to his fingers.
In the present case, though the five persons accused were all forcibly
dragged up to the chattie and compelled to plunge their hands in the
boiling oil, all managed to refrain from crying out except one young
lad, though he was the least injured, consequently he was declared to be
the thief and required to surrender the stolen property. All the five
persons subjected to the ordeal were so shockingly scalded as to be
unable to return to their work for three weeks.
Much to their indignation, the self-appointed torturers were each
condemned to pay a fine of a hundred rupees, or undergo ten months’
imprisonment.
At Pantura (or, as it is now called, Panadura), about half-way from
Kalutara to Colombo, we crossed a backwater of the sea, which,
stretching inland, forms the beautiful lake Bolgoda, all dotted with
charming islands. These are the homes of innumerable waterfowl, and also
are the scene of a curious phase of bird life, quite _à la_ Box and Cox,
affording a roosting-ground by day to flocks of large flying-foxes,
which, after a night of marauding among the fruit-trees, come here at
dawn to hang themselves up on secure boughs, just as the crows, who have
slept here peacefully all night, as beseems respectable workers, are
starting on their day of useful toil as scavengers.
As we drove cheerily on our way from Kalutara to Colombo, the excellence
of ‘the Queen’s highway’ could not but call forth the usual encomium, as
we contrasted our pleasant drive from Galle with the toilsome journey of
the Governor’s party when travelling over the same ground in the year
1800, when roads were non-existent. Just think of the heat and of the
dust stirred up by 160 palanquin-bearers and 400 baggage-coolies
trudging wearily through the hot sand, to say nothing of the troop of
fifty lascars, six horses, and two elephants who were necessary for the
transport and care of the tents!
Now the coast-road, 769 miles in length, extends right round the island,
the greater part of it being available for wheel traffic, though here
and there portions still leave room for improvement.
Since we parted at Galle, the Bishop had been ordered to Malta on
sick-leave, and the Campbells had most kindly offered me headquarters at
their pleasant temporary home in Captain’s Gardens, which is a
promontory jutting into the Lake of Colombo, and clothed with most
luxuriant vegetation—flowering trees gorgeous with fragrant blossom,
kittool-palms seeming literally overladen with ropes of fruit, all
reflected in the calm water, on which floated a wealth of lovely lilies.
At the entrance a fine banyan-tree formed an arch right across the road,
somewhat in the style of the tree at Kalutara, but lacking its grace and
its dainty tracery of ferns. Two fine india-rubber trees spread their
wide arms and cool shade over the lawn in front of the comfortable
bungalow, a one-storied house of the regular type, with a wide verandah
and red-tiled roof, white pillars supporting the home of innumerable
happy squirrels and little lizards.
A separate bungalow stood a little apart in the garden, and the large
house was so full of little daughters that this separate ‘guest-house’
was assigned to me, greatly to my pleasure, as it was charmingly
situated on the very brink of the lovely lake, and shaded with
cocoa-palms of all ages (which implies the loveliest variety of form),
growing amid cool green grass, and catching every breath of air,
whenever there was the faintest breeze from sea or lake. And it
certainly was hot; every one around was gasping and craving for the
‘Chota monsoon’[196] to bring cool rain, though personally I gloried in
what seemed to me divine weather; and certainly I was always up to
anything, from gunfire till starlight.
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Footnote 196:
_Chota_, small.
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[Illustration: COCOA PALMS: SHORE OF COLOMBO LAKE.]
It was fortunate that I was not troubled with nerves, for the house of
which I was sole occupant had five outer doors and seventeen windows,
not one of which could be securely closed, and so they all stood wide
open day and night, for if they could not keep out thieves, there was no
reason why they should keep out air! I confess to having experienced an
occasional nocturnal qualm at the proximity of a large village of
dhobies (laundry-men) not of the best repute, and sometimes awoke in the
moonlight to make sure that there were no long poles coming in at the
window to fish out my clothes in the approved fashion. However, no such
evil befell; and, indeed, by reason of my host’s office, police
orderlies were always somewhere about to scare marauders.