COLOMBO, CEYLON'S COSMOPOLITAN SEAPORT
A modern man of business might believe that Bishop Heber of Calcutta
wove into irresistible verse a tremendous advertisement for Ceylon real
estate, but repelled investors by a sweeping castigation of mankind,
when he wrote:
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
In tens of thousands of Christian churches the praises of Ceylon are
thus sung every Sunday, and will be as long as the inhabitants of
America and Great Britain speak the English language. Some of the
divine's statements, to be acceptable as impartial testimony, require
modification; for the natural charms of the island are not so sweepingly
perfect, and there man is far above the Asian average. Hymnists, it may
be inferred, write with some of the license of poets. No part of
England's great realm, nevertheless, is more beautiful than the crown
colony of Ceylon in the Indian Ocean.
[Illustration: THE JETTY AT COLOMBO]
An Eastbound traveler during the long run from Aden hears much of the
incomparable island of palms, pearls, and elephants; and every waggish
shipmate haunts smoke room and ladies' saloon waiting for the
opportunity to point out the lighthouse on Minecoy Island in the
Maldives as "the Light of Asia." Four hundred miles further and your
good ship approaches Colombo. The great breakwater, whose first stone
was laid by Albert Edward, is penetrated at last, and the polyglot and
universal harbor of call unfolds like a fan.
There's music within; the breezes bring proof of this. Surely, it is
Bishop Heber's trite stanzas repeated in unison by the forgiving
populace--they are sung everywhere, and why not in Ceylon's great
seaport? The ship churns forward to her moorings. It is singing; there
is no mistaking it. But the air! Does it deal with "spicy breezes," and
"pleasing prospects?" No; it is a sort of chant. Listen again. Ah, it is
Lottie Collins's masterpiece, not Bishop Heber's: it is "Ta-ra-ra boom
de-ay." And the chanters are dozens of Britain's loyal subjects, youths
naked and black, lying in wait to induce passengers to shower coins into
the sea in recompense of a display of diving from catamarans constructed
from trunks of palm-trees.
If asked what place in all the world can in a day show the greatest
medley of humanity, I should pronounce in favor of the landing-jetty at
Colombo. Scurrying ashore from ocean steamers in launches, in
jolly-boats pulled by oars fashioned like huge mustard-spoons, or in
outrigger canoes that glide rapidly, are representatives of every nation
of the West, of China, of Japan--in fact, of every division of God's
footstool having place in the list of nations. Being the great port of
call and coaling station linking Occident, Orient and Australasia, a
traveler naturally wants to inspect the place and stretch his legs on
shore, while his ship is stocking with fuel to carry it to Aden,
Singapore or to an antipodean port. Tiffin or dinner on _terra firma_ is
likewise coveted by the traveler with appetite jaded by weeks of
sea-cooking. Ceylon's capital teems consequently with people hungry for
a _table d'hote_ meal, a 'rickshaw ride, and the indiscriminate purchase
of rubbishing cats-eye and sapphire jewelry.
The conglomeration of people on the promenade floor of the jetty,
watching voyagers come and go, would tend to make a student of
anthropology lose his mind. Every variety of man of Ceylon, practically
of every creed and caste of India, even of all Asia, is there, and a
liberal admixture of Europeans as well.
Leaning over the hand-rail all humanity appears equal--for sight-seeing
purposes, certainly. There are gentle Cingalese men with hair twisted
into a knot on the back of the head and large shell comb on the crown,
Tamil coolies and Hindus in profusion, of course. There are fat Parsees
from Bombay, and Buddhist priests and monks in yellow togas, each armed
with palm-leaf fan and umbrella, precisely as Gautama Buddha left his
father's mansion to sow the religion worshiped by nearly a third of the
people of the earth. A group of lascars, on leave from a P. & O. liner,
look depreciatingly on nautical brethren from colder climes. There are
Malays, as well, obsequious Moormen merchants, and haughty Afghans from
beyond the "Roof of the World," as scholars call the Himalayas. Here and
there are broad-chested Arabs from Aden way and the Persian Gulf, taking
chances on the announcement of a pearl "fishery" by the
government--divers, who may secure a gem of price in an hour's work, or
may return home empty-handed. Their neighbors on the platform are
seafarers coming with the embassy from the Sultan of the Maldive
Islands, bringing to the governor of Ceylon the annual tribute
sanctioned by custom, and the renewed assurances of loyalty to Edward
VII. Close by them, and taking a profound interest in a group of
European ladies stepping from a launch below, are three black girls in
the garb of Catholic Sisters of Charity, whose chains and crucifixes are
of unusual size.
With a conscious air of proprietorship of the British Empire, khaki-clad
Tommy Atkins comes down the pier, attended by the inevitable fox
terrier. Following close on his heels is a towering man of ebon
complexion, with three stripes of ashes and the wafer of humility on his
forehead. He is barefooted, and his solitary garment is a piece of
cotton with which he has girded his loins; he is abundantly lacquered
with cocoanut oil, to protect him from contracting a cold from the too
rigorous "spicy breezes" of Lanka's isle. A stranger would say he was a
penitent wayfarer of God, not worth the smallest coin of the East. In
one hand he carries an overfilled valise, and in the other a sunshade of
immaculate white: the initiated recognize him to be a chettie, easily
worth lakhs of rupees, who is presumably embarking for Rangoon, and
there to purchase a cargo of rice.
Hark! There is commotion and much noise at the jetty entrance. Can it be
an alarm of fire, or have the customs officials at the gates apprehended
a flagrant smuggler? Oh, no; it is merely Great Britain arriving on the
scene in the person of a smart-looking tea-planter who has honked down
in his motor-car to see a comrade off on the mail steamer; incidentally,
some of the noise proceeds from a group of sailors on leave from a
battleship who are wrangling with 'rickshaw men as to proper payment for
having been hauled about the city on a sight-seeing tour. And so it goes
in Colombo. Each day presents a picture not to be adequately described
by a less gifted writer than Kipling.
[Illustration: HINDU SILVERSMITHS. COLOMBO]
Colombo is the westermost town of that great division of Asia wherein
subject races--black, brown and yellow--haul the white man in
jinrickshaws. No institution of the East stamps the superiority of the
European more than this menial office of the native. Probably every
American when brought face to face with the matter says manfully that he
will never descend to employing a fellow creature to run between shafts
like an animal, that he (visitor from a land where rights of mankind
are equal and constitutional) may be spared from footweariness under a
tropic sun. It is a noble impulse--but weak man is easily tempted.
Hence, you decide to try the 'rickshaw just once.
The sensation is found to be agreeable, surprisingly so. Your fellow
mortal, you perceive, is dripping with perspiration under the awful heat
of the sun, while beneath the hood of the vehicle you are cool and
comfortable. Then you yield to the savage defects of your moral
make-up--and decide never to walk another yard in the East, not when a
'rickshaw is to be had. The habit comes as easily as drinking, or
anything that your conscience and bringing-up tell you is not quite
right, although enjoyable.
The 'rickshaw in Colombo is a splendid convenience. The runner's rights
are as loyally protected as those of his employer, and he readily covers
six miles an hour at a swinging gait. If his vehicle has rubber tires
and ball-bearings the labor is not severe. The man might have a harder
vocation with smaller pay.
Colombo has hotels that would satisfy in Europe or America--one, the
Grand Oriental, is spoken of as the most comfortable hostelry between
Cairo and San Francisco. To refer to it by its full name stamps the
newcomer and novice at traveling--throughout half the world it is known
familiarly as the "G. O. H." Two miles from Colombo, gloriously situated
on the sea-front, the Galle Face Hotel is fashionable, cool and quiet,
but lacking in the characteristic of being an international
casino--which assuredly the "G. O. H." is. Tiffin or dinner is an
interesting function at a Colombo hotel, for one never knows who or what
his table mates may be. In the East every man who travels is assumed to
be somebody. Hence you suspect your _vis-a-vis_ at dinner to be the
governor of a colony somewhere in the immeasurable Orient, or a new
commander for Saigon, or perhaps a Frankfort banker going to China to
conclude the terms of a new loan. If your neighbor at table is specially
reserved, and gives his orders like one accustomed to being obeyed, you
fancy him to be an accomplished diplomatist, very likely having in his
pocket the draft of a treaty affecting half the people of the Far East.
No one seems ever to suspect his confrères of being mere business men.
And the ladies--well, they may be duchesses or dressmakers no longer
content with traveling "on the Continong"; nobody cares which. If they
are very well gowned, probably they are the latter.
An army of waiters clad in spotless and snowy uniforms with red facings
and shining buttons set before you dishes you never heard of. Some are
satisfying in the extreme; but these waiters, can they be described as
in uniform? True, their garments are alike, but the head-gear is of
infinite variety. According to caste or nationality each proclaims
himself. But look once more; there _is_ uniformity, for all are
barefooted.
[Illustration: A HIGH PRIEST OF BUDDHA]
Wonderful fellows these Easterns. The native hotel band, led by a
wandering European, plays Sousa's marches and "Hiawatha," yes, even
"Tammany," with accuracy; and the cooks prepare dishes with French
names, make _vin blanc_ and _Hollandaise_ sauces worthy of Delmonico or
Ritz, and this without permitting the palate to guide them. If they
tasted food concocted for Christians a million kinds of perdition might
be their punishment. Music may be mechanical, as it is claimed to be,
but not cooking. How do the gastronomic experts of pagan Asia acquire
their skill?
Considering that the Ceylon capital is only four hundred miles north of
the equator, the heat is never extremely oppressive. One's energies
there, nevertheless, are not what they are farther north or at higher
elevations. Kandy, the ancient up-country capital, is cooler, and Nuwara
Eliya, in the mountains, is actually cold at night. When white people do
anything in Colombo--work, attend church, play bridge, or billiards--a
native keeps them moderately comfortable with swinging _punkahs_. Some
hotels and residential bungalows have discarded punkahs for mechanical
fans; but the complaint is that the electricity costs more than the
_punkah-wallah_--the fan-boy of the East. "Ah, yes; but your wallah
frequently falls asleep at his work," you remark to the resident. "True,
and your electricity frequently fails us," is the reply.
Pear-shaped Ceylon, separated from India by only fifty miles of water,
is three fourths the size of Ireland, and its population 3,600,000.
Seventy-five per cent. of the people are Cingalese, and their language
a dialect harking back to Sanskrit. The Cingalese are mostly Buddhists,
with a sprinkling of Roman Catholics, the latter religion having been
left in the land by its one-time Portuguese rulers. The Tamils,
numbering a million, are not native to the island, like the Cingalese,
but have come from southern India as laborers on coffee and tea estates;
they are chiefly Hindus, although thousands have been converted to the
Christian faith. The Mohammedan Moormen, living on the coast,
approximate a quarter of a million in number. Europeans of all
nationalities, not including the British troops, total only 6,500, a
percentage of the island's human family to be computed in fractions.
The Cingalese seen chiefly in the towns wear their long hair arranged
like a woman's, and around their heads a large, semicircular comb of
shell, as has been said. The comb has nothing to do with religion or
caste--contrary to what a visitor is usually told; it merely announces
the wearer to be not of the coolie class, who carry sacks of rice and
cases of merchandise on their heads. Half the people of Ceylon wear no
head-gear, and not two per cent. know what it is to wear shoes.
[Illustration: REPRESENTATION OF BUDDHA'S TOOTH, COLOMBO MUSEUM]
Colombo's population is about 160,000. The capital is a handsome city,
with communities on seafront, on the shores of a sinuous lake, and
ranging inland for miles through cinnamon gardens and groves of
cocoanut-palms. Queen's House, where the governor resides, is a
rambling pile. The general post-office is the best building in the
capital, and the museum and Prince's club, close by, are entitled to
notice. The hard red-soil roads of the city extend for miles into the
palm forests, and are equal to any in the world. Government officials
and European commercial people live in handsome suburban bungalows
smothered amid superb foliage trees and flowering shrubs and vines.
What were called the maritime provinces of Ceylon were ruled by the
Dutch until 1796. But in that year England supplanted Holland, and in
1815 she secured control of the entire island by overthrowing the
Kandyan kingdom, for a long time confining European invasion to the
island's seaboard. Ceylon costs Britain little worry and practically no
expenditure. Strategically the island is valueless, save the benefit
accruing to England in controlling if need be the enormous coal heaps of
Colombo, and the maintenance there of a graving dock capable of handling
the biggest battleship. Four hundred miles of government railways earn a
tremendous profit, and moderate import and export duties on commodities
keep the colonial cash-box well lined.
As in other Asiatic countries, the staple food is rice. Strange to say,
Ceylon produces of this only half what is demanded by the people. Hence,
it is necessary to import eight million bushels from India and Malay
regions, costing approximately $5,000,000. On the other hand, the island
sends to Europe and America annually $21,000,000 worth of tea, besides
considerable quantities of rubber, cocoanut-oil, cacao, and plumbago.
Ceylon's crude rubber commands the highest price, and is a crop growing
by leaps and bounds. It is estimated that eight hundred million
cocoanuts are grown yearly in Ceylon. An item in the list of exports is
elephants. These go to India as beasts of burden and pleasure, and the
government collects two hundred rupees for every elephant sent from the
island.
There is a possibility of two great events any springtime in Ceylon, and
the prospect of either occurring is a theme of endless small talk in the
offices and bungalow homes of everybody connected with "Government." One
is the elephant kraal, planned for the edification of His Excellency the
Governor and a few officials and visitors of distinction, who, from
cages in trees at elevated points insuring safety, look down upon the
driving in of converging herds of elephants. When an earth-strewn
flooring of bamboo gives way and the monarchs of the jungle are cast
into a stockaded pit, the kraal is complete. Then, ordinarily, the
Ceylon treasury undergoes drafts for forage, until an authorized
functionary negotiates the sale of the animals to maharajahs and lesser
worthies up in India.
A kraal occurs every four or five years, or when a British royalty
happens in Ceylon. Each governor is entitled by custom to the semi-royal
honor at least once during his incumbency. The kraal is an enterprise
usually paying for itself, unless there be a glut in the elephant
market. The last kraal failed dismally, nevertheless, but for a very
different reason. The drive had been so successful that the stockade was
full to overflowing with leviathan beasts trumpeting their displeasure
and wrath. While the dicker for their sale in India was proceeding, they
became boisterously unruly, and, breaking down their prison of palm-tree
trunks, scampered away to forest and jungle, without so much as saying
"thank you" for weeks of gorging on rations paid for out of the public
cash-box. And this was the reason why the kraal arranged for last year
was abandoned, after hundreds of natives had been busy for weeks in
"driving in" from every up-country district--to jeopardize good money
was deemed not in keeping with the principles of good finance by certain
material Britons responsible for the insular exchequer.
The popular event, coming as often as twice every three years, is the
pearl-fishery. It interests everybody not living in mountain fastnesses,
and appeals irresistibly to the hearts of the proletariat. Tricking
elephants into captivity may be the sport of grandees, but the chance to
gamble over the contents of the humble oyster of the Eastern seas
invites participation from the meekest plucker of tea-buds on Ceylon's
hill-slopes to the lowliest coolie in Colombo. Verily, the pearl-fishery
is the sensational event of that land sung of by Bishop Heber.