Memory Lane - Days in Celyon

MemoryLane Days in Celyon In the last issue of the magazine we featured an article written by Isabella Hagger of Melbourn – Voyage to Ceylon. In this edition Isa (as she preferred to be called) talks about her life in a country far removed from life at home.

In 1937, Isa embarked on a sea voyage to Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) to visit her husband Cyril who was working for the Admiralty, constructing oil storage tanks. Isa kept a detailed journal of her out-going journey and of the seven months she spent in Ceylon. This journey was at a time when few ventured out of the country to see the world.

On her return Isa was asked to give a talk about her experiences to the Congregational Church Women’s Group. Below is an abridged version of the second part of this interesting story which she wrote 80 years ago. The little launch landed at Colombo and the Grand Oriental Hotel just beside the landing stage. It is a huge modern hotel, and its big fan cooled lounges and airy bedrooms, each with a tiled bathroom adjoining, seemed so comfortable after three weeks in my small cabin.

The Colombo shops were a revelation. Whenever one enters a native shop, a fan is switched on, and cigarettes and cool drinks are immediately offered. These shops are so interesting with their large stocks of silks, curios and jewels. They also do a great amount of ladies’ dressmaking and are very skilful. Whenever a dress is shown to the native tailor he shakes his head in a funny little way and says “Can do lady can do”. He needs no pattern but can make a dress from a sketch or from description. Those who manage these shops are never in a hurry and are quite pleased to show their stock. It is no exaggeration to say that they would turn out their entire stock to please a European. They wear ordinary trousers and shirts, but no collar but the strange part about their dress is that they never wear their shirt inside their trousers but it flaps about outside.

One important appointment I had to make at Colombo was with a native dentist called Dr. Christoffeleze. He was a big burly man who had trained at Edinburgh. I was quite scared of him at first, but found him a speedy and efficient dentist and within 24 hours he made a new and comfortable denture for me, which helped me to forget ‘the tragedy of the Red Sea’.

Colombo is a fine town with many beautiful buildings, wide streets and, with its harbour and huge shipping trade, as well as being the capital of Ceylon it is always a busy town. I rode all around the native Quarter in a rickshaw but I felt so sorry for the rickshaw cooly pulling me in that intense heat.

On Wednesday we set off by car for our journey to Trincomalee which is about 180 miles from Colombo. The first 70 or 80 miles is mainly lined by little villages and native shops. The natives stroll lazily all over the narrow roads. The bright clothes they wear all add to the beauty of the scene. Besides this, bullock carts amble leisurely along, dogs in large numbers sleep on the roads and great herds of cows are grazing at its side and often strolling into the road. Black goats, brown goats, white goats, big goats and little kids are to be seen. I wish I could describe the beauty to you. Great palm trees stand up straight and tall, the flaming flower of the forest tree, with its brilliant orange blooms and the tulip tree, beautifully shaped and covered with red, pink and white tulip‑like flowers, all add colour to the lovely country. On our journey we stopped for cool drinks at several Rest Houses. These are run by the Ceylon Rest House Committee for the help and convenience of travellers. The Rest House keeper is always a native and they salaam and give each visitor a welcome. At last we reached the jungle road and began the ride through a dense jungle with only a narrow cutting for cars. For miles there is not a native, or a hut to be seen. We met many monkeys, snakes, civet cats, jackals, and wild buffalo. On arriving at Trincomalee and our bungalow the boys were excited about my arrival. They gave me a good reception and had dinner ready and I soon settled down for my stay. It was a novel and exciting experience for me and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The first thing one has to fight against is insects. There are mosquitoes, literally hundreds, eye flies, scorpions, snakes, and blind bats. I have often seen 5 bats in my bedroom and it is quite a joy to creep under the mosquito‑ net at bedtime, to be safe for a few hours. However ants are the biggest pest. Every cupboard stands in water to keep the ants from eating the contents, if one leaves a tin of sweets or biscuits for a few minutes they are in it in swarms. They make huge trails all over the floors and ceilings and one morning I was very annoyed to wake up and find a trail had started in my bedroom window across the floor up my bed post and I was literally covered with them. The second thing is dirt. No matter how clean and efficient the boys are and although they will keep the bungalow well polished and dusted, they leave the kitchen and their own quarters in a filthy condition, unless they are made to clean these rooms every day. They are born and brought up in poor dirty little huts, with mud floors and therefore they cannot understand that dirt breeds germs, and that cleaning in the kitchen is essential. I was told it was wise not to visit the kitchen too much or I would not be able to eat well. Our cook was fairly clean but even he had fixed ideas. I went into the kitchen one day and found him with a fish on the dirty floor and holding it down with his bare foot and happily filleting it! I remonstrated with him and he replied “But, lady you not understand, very nice, very clean now washing in medicine”. This ‘medicine’ is a solution of permanganate of potash in which nearly everything is washed in the hope that it will kill the germs. A lady in Colombo told me of her cook. She had always admired the shape of his rissoles and determined to find out how he made them. One day knowing she had ordered some for lunch she went into the kitchen to see them made.

There was cook with the rissoles lying on the table and to obtain this marvellous shape he picked each up in turn, and popped it under his arms and shaped it – thus. The same lady had some friends to lunch unexpectedly. As the joint was almost finished and meat is so difficult to procure, cook said he would make rissoles. He brought them to the table at lunchtime and offered them to the ladies who took one each. He then went to the first gentleman guest and as he was talking to his hostess he unthinkingly helped himself to two rissoles. As quick as a flash cook snatched back one rissole from the plate with his hand and put it back on the dish saying “No master no can do. One master one rissole”.

Each bungalow has a cook, a house boy and a small boy for odd jobs who is called a podian. Immediately after breakfast the cook sees the lady of the house about food for the day. Having received his orders and his marketing money, Cook then goes to market on his bicycle, always carrying an umbrella under his arm. He returns having bought vegetables and fruit etc. Jacko, our cook always bought fish daily. If a chicken is wanted the cook brings it home alive and in ten minutes it is in the oven. Most people in the East learn to look upon chicken on the menu as a necessary evil? They are very cheap, very thin, very tough, and quite tasteless.

The cook in the bungalow will only cook and serve at table and each of the boys will only do their own special jobs. Their methods are most strange. The first time my bedroom was turned out, I was horrified to find everything had been taken out of my room and bucket after bucket of water thrown on the floor. The boys never use a rag to rub brasso on to anything they are cleaning, but put a generous supply on their hands and vigorously rub the brass. To polish a floor they apply polish in the same way, then twisting a duster round their bare feet they slip up and down the floor and obtain a brilliant polish. The podian’s job is an unenviable one. He is at the beck and call of the other boys, and has to help the cook in the kitchen.

The women are very little seen and as their poor little huts are quite without furniture or any of the things we are so proud to have in our homes, they have only food to prepare. Every day for every meal the menu is the same – curry and rice.

It is a disgrace for a Ceylonese woman to do any washing so even the poorest send their washing to the dhobi. When the day was getting a little cooler I often saw a group of women and girls sitting on the door steps of their huts. A favourite occupation is examining each other heads for livestock!

The women have a very hard life. They are married off at the early age of 15 to a man usually considerably older than themselves and whom they have probably never seen. Instead of a honeymoon the husband and wife are shut up together for four days after the ceremony. The bridegroom’s father keeps the couple for a year and often they never have a home of their own but just live in the same hut. The poor little bride seems just to have one baby after another until at the age of about 25, she looks old and haggard and then the husband looks for a new wife while the first one has all her jewels taken from her nose, ears and fingers and she just sits about for the rest of her life. The women are never allowed out walking, or to any of the local functions, and they are not treated as companions by their husbands.

The natives are kind to their children and the little babies attracted me very much. Sometimes one would be bold enough to give me a big smile, showing lovely white teeth. They do not remain shy for many years and almost as soon as they can walk, the begging instinct asserts itself, and they salaam and beg from every European who passes by.

I attended the little Missionary chapel. Can you picture a tin building with funny cane seats and a very old harmonium and a whole crowd of natives who were so pleased to see a European that they sat all around us and as close as possible. The mosquitoes seemed to breed in the chapel and I have come out after an hour’s service with 30 bites each as big as a half crown.

We had a very simple life at Trinco. Our main hobbies were bathing, sailing and motoring. We bathed most days in a delightful little bay called Sandy Cove. It was marvellous to step into this lovely blue sea and to feel a wave splash over one’s body, just like a warm shower.

The inner harbour is ideal for sailing and we spent many a delightful hour in the little sailing boat cooling down. We were often out at sunset and what a wonderful sight the sun made, as it sank, and reflected in the water making a truly remarkable picture.

I had many strange experiences but I think the one I found most frightening was the following. My husband and I went for the day to Polonnaruwa by car. It is a ruined city about 85 miles from Trinco. When I first arrived, people delighted to tell me of the danger of meeting wild elephants and for the first few weeks I was naturally rather nervous when driving through the jungle.

However, as time went on, we never saw a wild elephant, I became quite accustomed to the jungle and rarely gave the dangers a thought. This particular evening we were coming along, when in a small clearing I saw a big wild elephant, with its trunk curled up and its big mouth wide open and just at that moment it trumpeted at us. It is the most awful noise and quite indescribable. It made no attempt to chase us and we just kept on our way but I felt horribly nervous. After about 20 miles I began to feel quite calm again.

Just then I glanced at my side and there standing quite still with its trunk hanging down was another one much bigger than the first. It was so near to us that it could easily have touched the car with its trunk, but it did not move. We were still 1½ hours journey from Trinco. A herd of wild elephants is composed of from 5 to 50 and we knew from various signs that it must be a fairly big herd. I sat very quietly by my husband’s side and hoped that we would not be attacked and I was very relieved to reach the bungalow in safety.

I feel I ought to mention the conditions under which Mr. Hagger works in Ceylon. He is building 75 oil tanks for the admiralty at Chennanwadi 9 miles from Trinco. The tanks are built in the jungle with only a clearing for each tank and then the under growth and trees are allowed to grow again and form a natural camouflage. My husband has one

The Oil Tank at Chennanwadi 9 miles from Trinco. The tanks are built in the jungle with only a clearing for each tank and then the under growth and trees were allowed to grow again and form a natural camouflage.

The Tanks covered 850 acres and each tank held 12,000 tonnes of fuel, with a total capacity of over 1.2 million tonnes.

English assistant and forty native overseers and 1,000 native workmen. The entire office work is done by an educated staff of native clerks and the head book keeper and cashier is a wonderful old man of 74 called Summugan who worked for Mr. Hagger during his previous time in Ceylon. He is a Hindu and therefore believes that no man can get to Heaven unless he has a son to light his funeral fire and he is very grieved because we have only two daughters. He is remarkably cleaver man and as such he speaks English fluently besides 5 other languages.

I tried to go to Chennanwadi every Friday when the men were paid and as they filed through the office to receive their pay (taking 2 hours to do so). There are so many and all different casts, some were young boys who heat the rivets, some older men who wore sarongs of all colours and some very superior natives who had managed to buy khaki shorts. The thing they like best of all is a bath towel which they wrap around their head or neck to protect them from the fierce sun. An umbrella is a treasured possession and they are clever enough to be able to fasten it around their necks and so hammer away on the tanks under its shade. The tanks are made of steel and become so hot in the sun that their poor feet get quite blistered. They carry little bowls for their curry and rice and they have to bring this and their umbrella into the office when they are paid or they would get stolen.

There is a clean and well‑appointed hospital with an apothecary, but so strange is their religion that they hate to go to it, as they say it is the wrong shape and that their god’s don’t like it and instead they waste their money on a native doctor who has all manner of absurd cures. Every day someone is hurt on the job, as they are quite unskilled in the use of tools and every day there was evidence of the queer native cures. The native doctor will paint huge black rings round the patient’s eyes to keep the devils away, or he will prop a poor dying man at a hut door, while devil dancers painted in vivid colours and wearing hideous masks dance for hours to frighten off the evil spirits.

The men who work at Chennanwadi nearly all live at Trinco and they travel by train all cooped up in it like cattle. I learned to know quite a number of the men by name and such queer names they have; Arnolda, Tellinayam, Nagameny, Nadarafa and Domenicus, and many more much more unpronounceable than these.

I was very fortunate as I travelled nearly all over the island during my stay and at Easter we went to Newara Eliya for a holiday. It is 7000ft above sea level and cool enough to be able to enjoy wearing a coat. It is called the Sanatorium of Ceylon and most people holiday there to escape from the high temperatures of the plains. The scenery is so lovely, the mist capped hills and sunlit valleys and dancing waterfalls make the visitor gasp in wonder. It is here that the tea is grown on the hillsides and I was most interested to see over a tea estate and factory. The tea bush which grows like our gooseberry bush is plucked into huge baskets hung on the coolie’s back and carted by bullock carts to the factory, where the process of tea making is quite simple. The green leaves are spread on canvas dryers to shrivel and dry and then all piled on the cement floor to ferment. The quality of the tea depends on the time it is allowed to ferment. It is then dried in huge ovens and rolled and sifted and is put into wood boxes ready for export. Cyril Hagger is part of a long established Melbourn Hagger family. James Hagger a saddler came to Melbourn around 1790. His son Joseph Ellis Hagger inherited the family business from his grandfather in 1824. J. E. Hagger and Son – described as Collar & Harness Maker, Dealer in Oil, Cutlery, Ironmongery, Rope, Hemp – continued trading until 1930. The shop was situated at what is now the Post Office in the High Street.