There are many handsome butterflies here, especially of the swallow-tail sort—some of enormous size—and a number of queer insects. I saw a large green mantis, perhaps six inches long—a most wicked-looking creature. I confess it reminded me of a highly respectable British property owner. It sits up like a beautiful green leaf, with its two foreclaws (themselves flattened out and green to look like lesser leaves) held up as if it were praying—perfectly motionless—except that all the time it rolls its stalked eyes slowly around, till it sees a poor little insect approach, when it stealthily moves a claw, and pounces.
The birds are not so numerous as I expected. There are some bright-colored kinds and a few parrots, but the woods seem quiet on the whole. The barbet, a green bird not quite so big as a pigeon, goes on with its monotonous bell-like call—like a cuckoo that has lost its second note—on and on, the whole day long; the lizards cluck and kiss, full of omens to the natives, who call them “the crocodile’s little brothers”—and say “if you kill a little lizard the crocodile will come and kill you”; the grasshoppers give three clicks and a wheeze; the small grey squirrels chirrup; the frogs croak; and the whole air is full of continuous though subdued sound.
At Palábaddala, the tiny little hamlet at the foot of the mountains, I was dead-beat with the long jolting downhill, and if it had not been for the faithful Kalua, who held my hand in the steeper parts, I should fairly have fallen once or twice. Here we stopped two hours at a little cabin. Good people and friendly—a father and mother and two lads—the same anxious, tender mother-face that is the same all over the world. They brought out a kind of couch for me to lie on, but would not at first believe that I would eat their food. However, after a little persuasion they made some tea (for the people are beginning to use tea quite freely) and some curry and rice—quite palatable. I began to eat of course with my fingers, native fashion; but as soon as I did so, they saw that something was wrong, and raised a cry of Karandi! (spoon); and a boy was sent off, despite my protests, to the cabin of a rich neighbor half a mile off, and ultimately returned in triumph with a rather battered German-silver teaspoon!
I felt doubtful about doing another twelve miles to Ratnapura; however thought best to try, and off we went. But the rest had done little good, and I could not go more than two miles an hour. At 4 p.m., after walking about four miles, we came out into flat land—a good path, little villages with clumps of palm and banana, lovely open meadows, and tame buffalos grazing. Thence along the side of the Kaluganga, most lovely of rivers, through thickets of bamboo and tangles of shrubs, and past more hamlets and grazing grounds (though feeling so done, I thoroughly enjoyed every step of the way), till at last at a little kind of shop (kadai) we halted, about 6 p.m. Got more tea, and a few bananas, which was all I cared to eat; and then went in and lay down on a trestle and mat for an hour, after which we decided to stay the night. Kalua stretched himself near me; the men of the place lay down on the floor—the women somewhere inside; the plank shutters were built in, and lights put out. I slept fairly well, and woke finally at the sound of voices and with dawn peeping in through the holes in the roof. Had a lovely wash in a little stream, and an early breakfast of tea, bananas, and hot cakes made of rice, coco-nut, and sugar—and then walked four miles into this place (Ratnapura), where at last we came to a road and signs of civilisation.
The rest-house here is comfortable; have had another bath, and a good solid breakfast, and made arrangements for a boat to start with us this evening down the river to Kalutara (60 miles).
Sunday, Jan. 4th.—After walking round the town yesterday, and getting fruit and provisions for our voyage, we embarked about 6 p.m., and are now floating lazily down the Kaluganga. The water is rather low, and the speed not good; but the river is very beautiful, with bamboos, areca-palms, and other trees, leaning over in profusion.
Ratnapura (the city of jewels) is only a small town—hardly so big as Kurunégala—just about one long street of little booths and cabins, a post-office, court-house and cutcherry, and the usual two or three bungalows of the English agent and officials standing back in park-like grounds in a kind of feudal reserve. The town derives its name from the trade in precious stones which has been carried on here for long enough—rubies, sapphires, and others being found over a great part of the mountain district. In perhaps half the little shops of Ratnapura men and boys may be seen squatted on the floor grinding and polishing jewels. With one hand they use a bow to turn their wheels, and with the other they hold the stone in position. The jewels are also set and offered for sale—often at what seem very low prices. But the purchaser must beware; for the blessings of modern commerce are with us even here, and many of these precious stones are bits of stained glass supplied wholesale from Birmingham.
This boat, which is of a type common on the river, consists of two canoes or “dug-outs,” each twenty feet long, and set five or six feet apart from each other, with a flooring laid across them, and a little thatched cabin constructed amidships. The cabin is for cooking and sleeping—a fire and cooking pots at one end, and mats laid at the other. At the front end of the boat sit the two rowers, and the steersman stands behind. We have a skipper and four crew (an old man, Djayánis; a middle-aged man, Signápu; and two lads, Duánis and Thoránis). The name of the skipper is Pedri. About two miles below Ratnapura we drew to the shore and stopped below a temple; and Pedri and the old man went up to offer money for a favorable voyage! They washed a few coppers in the river, wrapped them in a bo-tree leaf, which had also been washed, sprinkled water on their foreheads, and then went up. They soon came back, and then we started.
RICE-BOATS ON THE KALUGANGA.