From Adam's Peak to Elephanta

by Edward Carpenter

(A clump of bamboos on the right.)

Hardly any signs of habitation along the river. Now and then rude steps down to the shore, and a dark figure pouring water on its own head. The river varying, a hundred yards, more or less, wide. At about seven it got too dark and we halted against a sandbank, waiting for the moon to rise, and had dinner—rice, curried eggs, and beans, and a pineapple—very good. Then got out and sat on the sand, while the boys lighted a fire. Very fine, the gloom on the tall fringed banks, gleams from the fire, voices of children far back among the woods, playing in some village. After a time we went back on board again, and sat round teaching each other to count, and laughing at our mistakes—ekkai, dekkai, tonai, hattarai—one, two, three, four. The Cinghalese language (unlike the Tamil) is full of Aryan roots—minya, man; gáni, woman; and so on. The small boy Thoránis (12 years) learnt his “one two three” in no time; he is pretty sharp; he does the cooking, and prepares our meals, taking an oar between times. The man Pedri seemed good to the lads, and they all enjoyed themselves till they got sleepy and lay in a row and snored.

Started again at moonrise, about midnight; after which I went to sleep till six or so, then went ashore and had a bath—water quite warm. Then off again; a few slight rapids, but nothing much. We go aground every now and then; but these boats are so tough—the canoes themselves being hollowed trees—that a bump even on a rock does not seem to matter much. The lads quite enjoy the struggle getting over a sandbank, and Duánis jumps down from his perch and plunges through the water with evident pleasure. The old man Djayánis steers—a shrewd-faced calm thin fellow, almost like a North American Indian, but no beak. See a monkey or a kite occasionally; no crocodiles in this part of the river, above the rapids; some large and handsome kingfishers, and the fruit-crow, whose plumage is something like that of a pheasant.

Kalua enjoys the voyage. It suits his lazy sociable temperament, and he chats away to Pedri and the crew no end. His savage strength and insouciance are splendid. All over Adam’s Peak he walked barefoot, with no more sign of fatigue than if it had been a walk round a garden,—would lie down and sleep anywhere, or not sleep, eat or not eat, endure cold or heat with apparent indifference; yet though so complete a savage physically, it is interesting to see what an attraction for him civilisation, or the little he has seen of it, exerts. He is always asking me about Europe, and evidently dreaming about its wealth and splendor. All the modern facilities and inventions are sort of wonderful toys to this child of nature; and though I think he is attached to me, and is no doubt of an affectionate disposition, still it is partly that I am mixed up in his mind with all these things. I tried one day to find out from K. his idea of god or devil, or supreme power of any kind; but in vain. His mind wandered to things more tangible. Many of the Cinghalese however have rather a turn for speculations of this kind; and at one hotel where I was staying the chamber-servant entertained me with quite a discourse on Buddha, and ended by ridiculing the Christian idea that a man can get rid of the results of sin by merely praying to God or believing in Jesus.

We have now passed the nárraka-gála (bad rock) rapid, which is about half-way down the river, and is the only rapid which has looked awkward, the river narrowing to five or six yards between rocks, and plunging over at a decided slope. We went through with a great bump, but no damage! The sun and smells on board are getting rather trying; this dried-fish smell unfortunately haunts one wherever there are native cabins. But we shall not be long now before reaching my landing-place, a little above Kalutara.

There are a good many boats like ours on the river, some laden with rice going down, others poling upwards—sometimes whole families on the move. Quantities of ragged white lilies fringing the shore.

Jan. 6th.—Kalua and I left our friends and their boat in the afternoon, and spent Sunday night at P——’s bungalow. P. is manager of a tea plantation—a bit of a Robinson Crusoe, living all by himself—native servants of course—with two dogs, a cat, and a jackdaw (and at one time a hare!) sharing his meals. Some of these planter-fellows must find the life a little dreary I fancy, living isolated on their plantations at a considerable distance from European neighbors, with very small choice of society at the best, and prevented no doubt by their position from associating too closely with the only folk who are near them—their own employees. The more kindly-hearted among them however do a good deal for their workers in the way of physicking and nursing them when ill or disabled, advising them when in difficulties, etc.; and in these cases the natives, with their instinct of dependence, soon learn to lean like children on their employer, and the latter finds himself, after a few years, the father (so to speak) of a large family. There are 200 Tamil coolies permanently employed on this plantation, and a hundred or two besides, mostly girls and women, who come in to work when wanted from neighboring Cinghalese villages.

GROUP OF TAMIL COOLIES, OR WAGE-WORKERS.

But the system, like the commercial system wherever it is found to-day, is pretty bad and odious in itself, and is no doubt in many cases a cover for shameful abuses. The Tamil coolies—men, women, and children—come over in gangs from the mainland of India. An agent is sent out to tout for them, and to conduct them by sea and land to their destination. On their arrival on the tea-estate each one finds himself so many rupees in debt for the expenses of transit! An average wage is 6d. a day, but to keep them up to the mark in productiveness their work is “set” for them to complete a certain task in a certain time, and if they do not come up to their task they get only half pay; so that if a man is slow, or lazy, or ill, he may expect about 3d. per diem! Under these circumstances the debt, as may be imagined, goes on increasing instead of diminishing; the estate is far up country, away from town or village, and the tea company acts as agent and sells rice and the other necessaries of life to its own coolies. Poor things, they cannot buy elsewhere. “Oh, but they like to be in debt,” said a young planter to me, “and think they are not doing the best for themselves unless they owe as much as the company will allow.” He was very young, that planter, and perhaps did not realise what he was saying; but what a suggestion of despair! Certainly there may have been some truth in the remark; for when all hope of ever being out of debt is gone, the very next best thing is to be in debt, as much as ever you can. At the end of the week the coolie does not see any wage; his rice, etc., has forestalled all that, and more; only his debt is ticked down a little deeper. If he runs away to a neighboring estate he is soon sent back in irons. He is a slave, and must remain so to the end of his days. That is not very long however; for poor food and thin clothing, and the mists and cool airs of the mountains soon bring on lung diseases, of which the slight-bodied Tamil easily dies.