Irrepressible Julia Margaret Cameron, at peace in Bogawantalawa

Some years ago, my sister, BIL, and I drove to the Dimbula area, visiting Anglican churches and graveyards looking for evidence of our ancestors. At the quaint St. Mary’s church at Bogawantalawa, we found the grave my grand uncle, Frank Wyndham Becher Braine, who had died on March 9, 1879, at only 11 months. We may have been the first family members to visit his grave in more than a hundred years.

St. Mary’s, Bogawantalawa

That graveyard is also the resting place of a husband and wife, Charles Hay and Julia Margaret Cameron. Julia, during and after her lifetime, has been described as “indefatigable”, “a centripetal force”, “a bully”, “queenly”, “a one-woman empire”, “infernal”, “hot to handle”, “omnipresent”, “a tigress”. She was “impatient and restive”, for whom “a single lifetime wasn’t enough”. Who was this remarkable Victorian? Why is she buried at Bogawantalawa?

Julia was born in Calcutta, in 1815, one of seven daughters of James Pattle of the Indian Civil Service. They belonged to the Anglo-Indian upper class, and were all sent to France - their mother Adeline Marie was of the French aristocracy - for their education. The sisters were well accomplished and known for their “charm, wit, and beauty”, and “unconventional behavior and dress”: they conversed among themselves in Hindustani, even in England. They served curry. They all married well, four spouses being fellow Anglo-Indians in the civil service and military.

Julia lived at various times in England, France, back in India, South Africa, in India again, on the Isle of Wight, and finally in Ceylon. Travel to Cape Town in 1835 was for her health, after recovering from serious illnesses. Charles Hay Cameron, a distinguished legal scholar from Calcutta, was also in Cape Town, perhaps after a severe bout of malaria. They met, and married back in Calcutta in 1838. Charles was twenty years her senior. Together, they raised 11 children, five of their own and the rest adopted.

Julia’s introduction to London’s artistic and cultural milieu came in 1845, at her sister Sara Prinsep’s residence in Kensington. Sara conducted a salon at home, where poets, artists, writers and philosophers such as Tennyson, Rossetti, the Brownings, Longfellow, Trollope, Darwin, Thackeray, Henry Taylor, du Maurier and Leighton were regular attendees. Julia’s “hero worship” of these luminaries began at that time.

“Dimbola”

In 1860, the Camerons moved to the Isle of Wight, to a home named “Dimbola”, obviously after Dimbula in Ceylon, where Charles Cameron had invested in vast coffee and rubber plantations. He had served on the Colebrooke-Cameron Commission (appointed in 1833) to assess the administration of Ceylon and make recommendations for administrative, financial, economic, and judicial reform. The poet Henry Taylor, a close friend of Julia, wrote that Charles had “a passionate love for the island [and] he never ceased to yearn after the island as his place of abode”.

Incidentally, an English planter named Herbert Brett, known to my family, named his British home “Yakvilla”. He had once been the manager of Yakwila Estate, near Pannala in the NWP.

“Dimbola” had been purchased because it was next door to Tennyson’s home, and a private gate connected the two properties. Better known as Alfred, Lord Tennyson, he had become Britain’s Poet Laureate by then. Julia and the poet addressed each other by their first names. When he refused to be vaccinated against smallpox, Julia supposedly went to his home and yelled at him: “You’re a coward, Alfred, a coward!”

Soon, the Cameron and Tennyson families began entertaining well-known visitors to the Poet Laureate with music, poetry readings, and amateur plays, creating an artistic ambience similar to that seen earlier at Sara Princep’s home in Kensington. in keeping with Julia’s personality, the activities could be indefatigable. “Mrs. Cameron seemed to be omnipresent—organizing happy things, summoning one person and another, ordering all the day and long into the night, for of an evening came impromptu plays and waltzes in the wooden ballroom, and young partners dancing under the stars”, wrote Anne Thackeray, the novelist’s daughter. Even Julia’s generosity could be overwhelming. Henry Taylor expressed this best: “she keeps showering upon us her ‘barbaric pearls and gold,’—India shawls, turquoise bracelets, inlaid portfolios, ivory elephants”.

Photography

A turning point in Julia’s life came in 1863, when she was already 48. Charles was in Ceylon, and Julia was bored. A daughter gifted her a camera to keep her “amused”. A clumsy affair in those early days of photography, it consisted of two wooden boxes, bound in brass, one of which slid inside the other, with a single focus lens. The timber tripod was unwieldy. Images were recorded on a heavy, rectangular glass plate measuring 11 x 9 inches.

Julia took to photography with her usual energy and enthusiasm, converting a chicken coop to a studio. If the camera was clumsy, the process of photo development was even more complicated and challenging, with the use of chemicals – collodion, silver nitrate, potassium cyanide, gold chloride (even egg white was used) – and the need to work quickly. Julia’s hands and clothes are said to have become black and brown with the chemicals. The process was riven with trial and error.

Julia managed to coerce illustrious visitors to Tennyson’s home to pose for her. They included Longfellow, Trollope, Darwin, John Herschel, Robert Browning, the painter George Watts, Thackeray, Carlyle, and Lewis Carrol, and Tennyson, of course. Her photograph of Tennyson is shown on this page. The men were photographed in pensive moods, intended to capture their “genius”. She also photographed women for their beauty, and children as “innocent, kind, and noble”, a prevailing Victorian notion.

Posing for a portrait was no easy task: the subject had to be within eight feet of the camera, and had to remain still for around 10 minutes. Julia chose not to use head supports. Here is a vivid description of a photographic session with Julia: “The studio, I remember, was very untidy and very uncomfortable. Mrs. Cameron

Tennyson, photographed by Julia Cameron

put a crown on my head and posed me as the heroic queen. … The exposure began. A minute went over and I felt as if I must scream, another minute and the sensation was as if my eyes were coming out of my head … a fifth—but here I utterly broke down …” No wonder Tennyson called Julia’s sitters “victims”.

Showing sound business acumen, Julia copyrighted, published, exhibited and marketed her work. Harper’s Weekly, writing on a London exhibition in 1870, noted that “many art critics to go into raptures over [Julia’s] work as something beyond the range of ordinary photographic achievement”.

For the sake of brevity, I have focused on her portraits. She also photographed individuals and groups of people depicting allegories, religion, and literature; illustrations for Tennyson’s Idylls of the King being especially noteworthy.  In Ceylon, her subjects were mainly ordinary people and plantation workers. Her career wasn’t long – only 12 years – and despite criticism of her work for technical imperfections and the numerous challenges she faced, Julia produced about 900 photographs. An incredible feat.

To Ceylon

From the early 1840s, Charles had bought up sprawling extents of land at Ceylon at bargain prices, and was thought to be the biggest landowner in Ceylon. The 1850s and 60s were the best years for coffee. But, in addition to being absentee landlords, the Camerons faced other problems: extremes of weather, a shortage of labor, transporting the coffee to Colombo on poor roads, incompetent managers, and, finally, the devastating coffee blight.

Charles was in poor health - “receiving visitors in his bedroom or walking about the garden reciting Homer and Virgil” - and had not worked since 1848, and the expenses of supporting a large family and their lifestyle at “Dimbola” had forced the Camerons to borrow heavily. In 1864, Charles admitted to being virtually “penniless”.

Charles was keen to move to Ceylon, but Julia was not. Attempting to change her mind, he wrote her a moving, lyrical description of his “Swiss cottage” bungalow and the surrounding plantations in Ceylon. In Ceylon, the cost of living would be cheaper, and he was confident that his health would improve.  Later, Julia wrote that Charles’ passion for his Ceylon properties had “weakened his love for England”. Lord Overstone, their main creditor, was pressuring them to sell Rathoongodde (Rahathungoda), their plantation in the Deltota area managed by son Ewen. 

Finally, Julia gave in, partly because four of their sons were already in Ceylon. Charles’ health is said to have magically improved. In 1875, when she was 60 years old and Charles was 80, they left “Dimbola” for Ceylon, taking a maid, a cow, Julia’s photographic equipment, and two coffins, packed with china and glass. Henry Taylor noted that they had departed for Ceylon “to live and die” there, and that Charles had “never ceased to yearn after the island as his place of abode”.

Their son, Hardinge, the Governor’s private secretary, owned a bungalow on the river at Kalutara, on the western coast. Julia and Charles divided their time in Ceylon between Kalutara and their plantations in the hill country. Julia soon fell under Ceylon’s spell, writing that “the glorious beauty of the scenery — the primitive simplicity of the inhabitants & the charms of the climate all make me love Ceylon more and more”.

When the botanical painter Marianne North visited the Camerons at Kalutara, Julia went into a “fever of excitement” at having found a European subject. She dressed North up “in flowing draperies of cashmere wool” (despite the intense heat), with “spiky coconut branches running into [her] head” to be photographed. A remarkable photo taken by Julia shows North standing at her easel on the spacious verandah of the Kalutara house, with a bare-bodied “native” holding a clay pot over his shoulder.

Julia must have been busy during this period, because North noted that “the walls of the room were covered with magnificent photographs; others were tumbling about the tables, chairs, and floors”. In contrast to the distinguished personalities she photographed in England, her subjects in Ceylon were ordinary “natives” and plantation workers. But, only about 30 photographs from Julia’s Ceylon period have survived. The architect Ismeth Raheem, who has conducted extensive research on Julia, has stated that some photographs given to the Colombo Museum appear to be lost.

After a visit to England – four weeks of “turmoil, sickness, sorrows, marriages, and deaths” -  Julia developed a dangerous chill (pneumonia?) upon her return to Ceylon. She died on 26 January1879 at Glencairn Estate. Charles and four of her sons were with her. Her coffin was drawn by white bulls and also carried by plantation workers to St. Mary’s. Charles died a year later and was also buried at St. Mary’s.

Back to the Braines

My great, great grandfather, Charles Joseph Braine, arrived in Ceylon in 1862, as the manager of Ceylon Company, which I believe is the predecessor of Ceylon Tea Plantations Company that eventually owned and managed vast acres of tea as well as rubber and coconut. By 1880, he is listed as the first owner of Abbotsleigh Estate in Hatton. (In contrast with Charles Cameron and Herbert Brett, who named their homes in England after plantations in Ceylon, Charles Joseph named his plantation in Ceylon after his property, Abbotsleigh, in England.)

The Camerons arrived in Ceylon in 1875. British planters, away from home and often stationed in remote plantations, socialized mainly at two locations: their clubs, and at church. I have no doubt that Charles Joseph Braine and the Camerons had met at the club, perhaps even during Charles’ previous visits to his plantations, and at church, especially when the Camerons stayed at the nearby Glencairn Estate, managed by their son Henry.

St. Mary’s Church, Bogawantalawa, was dedicated in 1877. Although Charles Cameron wasn’t religious and did not attend church, Julia did, traveling perhaps on horseback or bullock cart like the families of fellow planters. The Camerons gifted three stained glass windows to St. Mary’s, and that is obviously where Julia worshipped and both she and Charles wished to be buried.

Charles Joseph Braine’s son, Charles Frederick (my great grandfather) arrived in Ceylon in 1869, at 19 years of age, six years before the Camerons did, and worked at Meddecombra Estate in the Dimbula area. Later, he was the manager of the vast Wanarajah Estate. He, too, may have met Charles and later Julia Cameron. Braine must have worshipped at St. Mary’s, because, as I stated at the beginning of this article, his infant son was buried at St. Mary’s churchyard in March, 1879, only two months after Julia was buried there.

My grandfather, Charles Stanley, was born in Ceylon in 1874, and, as a child, is likely have met the Camerons, or at least Julia, at church. He has an angelic appearance in an early photograph – “innocent, kind, and noble” – the type of child Julia preferred to photograph, and I like to imagine Julia tousling his hair! Hence, although no records exist, three generations of my ancestors are likely to have been acquainted with the Camerons, and perhaps worshipped alongside her at St. Mary’s.

The legacy of the Camerons

Julia Margaret Cameron is acknowledged now as one of the most important portraitists of the 19th century. Her work has been exhibited in important galleries and museums in the UK, the USA, Japan, and elsewhere. The photographer Stephen White, who calls Julia a “revered figure” in the history of photography, wrote in 2020 that an album of Julia’s photographs was valued at £3 million. Each of her prints are said to be worth about $50,000.

The Cameron home on the Isle of Wight, “Dimbola”, is now owned by the Julia Margaret Cameron Trust, and consists of a popular museum and galleries. It has a growing permanent collection of Julia’s photographs, and is dedicated to her life and work.

When I visited St. Mary’s church in 2012, looking for evidence of my ancestors, the churchyard was covered in weeds. Stephen White, who visited St. Mary’s Church in 2017, lamented that the grave of “a woman whose photographs still stirred thousands with their beauty, and whose name was spoken with reverence by lovers of photography around Europe and the States” could be so “forlorn … unattended [and] unadorned”. A photograph of the grave that accompanies his article indeed shows a neglected gravesite, the curb cracked. The more recent photo shown here, from the Thuppahi’s blog, displays a better maintained grave.

Ismeth Raheem wrote that the house on Glencairn Estate where Julia died had been demolished in 2021.

While Julia is the better known of the Camerons, Charles made a lasting impact on Ceylon as a member of the Colebrooke-Cameron Commission, which, among other contributions, provided a uniform code of justice for the island. His on and off association with Ceylon was much longer, about 50 years at the time he died. A romantic at heart, he loved Ceylon with a passion.

Recently, Ismeth Raheem and Dr. Martin Pieris have brought out a short film, “From the Isle of Wight to Ceylon”, based on substantial research on Julia’s life. Finally, in Sri Lanka, Julia Margaret Cameron appears to be receiving the recognition she fully deserves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Charles & Julia Cameron’s gravesite at St. Mary’s churchyard

Duncan White, and the returned Trinity Lion

 

Duncan White, and the Returned Trinity Lion

For the 125^th anniversary of Trinity College, Kandy, The Old Boys Association published a 135-page commemorative volume titled Memories of Trinity, containing short pieces written mainly by old boys. Consisting mostly of humorous anecdotes about teachers and students, the volume was edited by five old boys, including Lakshman Kadiragamar, who also happened to be the President of the OBA at that time. Kadiragamar also wrote the Foreword. The cover depicted a water color painting by Stanley Kirinde of the Hantana peak seen through the college chapel.

Kadiragamar also wrote a piece titled “The school we knew” for the volume, in which he recalled the visit of Duncan White, the Olympic silver medalist, an old boy of Trinity, to the school. This was in 1948. A holiday was declared, and a general assembly was held. White walked down the school hall, to quote Kadiragamar, “dressed in his Olympic blazer and grey slacks, the silver medal around his neck … The Principal made a speech, and then, … he took from his pocket and presented to Duncan White the Trinity Athletics Lion. Duncan White was speechless, visibly moved and tearful”.

The Lion had been awarded to White in 1938, when, still a schoolboy, he had been selected to represent Ceylon at the Empire Game in Sydney. Later, the Lion had been withdrawn over a disciplinary matter. Kadiragamar wrote that “we felt the Lion in his pocket meant more to him than the medal round his neck”.

The Trinity Lion is the most prestigious award a sportsman can achieve at Trinity College, Kandy. Being a rugby school, most Lions have been awarded to rugby players. Many cricketers, too, are Lions. The very first Athletics Lion was Duncan White’s in 1938. Kadiragamar himself won the Athletics Lion in 1948; like White, he was a hurdler. He captained Trinity at cricket and also played rugby for the school.

On 4^th February, 1948, when Ceylon’s independence was proclaimed, four young men - Duncan White, Lakshman Kadiragamar, M.A.M. Sherrif and Oscar Wijesinghe - representing the Burgher, Tamil, Muslim, and Sinhalese communities, brought scrolls to Independence Square to be presented to Prime Minister D.S. Senanayake.

As for the “disciplinary matter” that nearly cost Duncan White his Lion, I have no clue.

Maris Stella College in the 1950s and 60s

 Merrick Gooneratne’s recent article on the centenary of Maris Stella College, Negombo, rekindled my memories of the school from the late 1950s and early 60s.

Maris Stella had classes from Standard Two. For lower and upper kindergarten (as they were called those days), all boys attended Ave Maria Convent, along with girls, of course. One teacher I recall is Sr. Mary Imelda, diminutive but a formidable force. As she taught, her two dogs, spoiled rotten by the children, roamed the classroom.

Maris Stella sits on the road that extends from Colombo to Chilaw, and beyond to Puttalam and Anuradhapura. Despite the heavy traffic on the road, the school displays a somewhat serene ambience because of the large, well maintained playground, and the lovely main building set some distance from the road. Two storied, with a lengthy Italianesque facade, the main building is reached along two narrow roadways lined by long, single storied classrooms. In the center, shaded by massive mara trees, is a smaller playing field - for soccer, softball cricket and gymnastics- in the 50s and 60s. These buildings, the trees, and the playing field, now a lush green, have been well preserved.

My father recalled that, during World War II, when Allied troops were stationed at the school, these mara trees were covered with camouflage nets to hide the anti-aircraft guns mounted below.

Teachers and students

My father had been at Maris Stella in the 1930s and 40s, and when I entered in 1957, some of his teachers were still there. Elias, dark, wizened, and with a tousle of grey hair, taught me in Standard 2. Capt. Jayamanne, a big man, tough as nails, had been the cadet platoon commander during my father’s time, and still was. Bro. Jonas had been in charge of sports for years. Obris, who taught English, had become the vice-principal. My father also recalled Bros. Nizier, Valentine, and Xavier, a Spaniard. Mahaboob, physical training instructor and Bro. Gerard had been his classmates. Undoubtedly, the most unusual teacher was Johannes, who taught Sinhala. The only teacher who wore a sarong to school, worn high up on the waist and held up with a broad belt, he had an owlish, scholarly air; our textbooks on Sinhala had been authored by him. Ms. Wallace, lustily playing the piano, taught us singing. Two younger teachers were Dabarera and Kurera.

One hilarious memory is that of Bro. Jonas, coaching the football team even during matches, running up and down the sidelines, grey hair and cassock flying. He was strict, liberal with the cane and slaps. Another is of Mahaboob, the PTI, in his impeccable polo shirt, pants, and tennis shoes, all in spotless white, taking us through various drills on the playground.

The principals during my time were Bros. Stanislaus and Peter, and the headmasters Bros. Nizier and Gerard.

We were living near Ave Maria Convent when I joined Maris Stella, which meant a walk of more than a mile, crossing a railway track and walking along Main Street till I reached Copra Junction along the Colombo – Chilaw road. The street is chock-a-block with shops now, but, in those days, I only passed houses with well-maintained gardens, a couple of boutiques, a dispensary and a dental clinic. A well-off classmate was driven to school and passed me on the way, but never offered me a lift.

Most students walked to school, or rode bicycles, in wave after wave. Others came by train or bus. The only person who drove was a senior student named Jayakody from Dankotuwa. This was extraordinary, when no teacher owned a car, and some rode rickety bicycles. His Peugeot 203 was parked under a mara tree while he attended classes and later stayed for football practice.

At Marist Stella, a Catholic school, most students were Catholic. But, ethnically, we were an eclectic band, marked by the Bharatha community and Burghers. The family names of schoolmates I can recall is evidence of this: Siriwardena, Jayawardena, Abeysekera, Swaminathan, Bolonghe, Salgado, Leitan, Tissera, Hettiaarachi, Jayamanne, Franke, Croos-Dabarera, Dabarera, Jayamaha, Coonghe, Aserappa, Rodrigo, Fernando, Pereira, Costa, Gomez, Mirando. Ives Swaminathan had immigrated from Mauritius, and sang French songs in a lovely voice.

 

After my brother entered Maris Stella, we were five cousins there: Roy and Lloyd Chelvaratnam, George Wambeck, George and Roy Braine. Roy C and Lloyd were in the Tamil stream. Two Georges and two Roys.

 

Latin was compulsory from the Junior School Certificate (JSC) class. All that memorizations were intimidating, so I was relieved when the requirement was taken off when I reached the JSC class. But, Latin prevailed in the daily mass conducted at the chapel, and in the hymns sung there. I recited prayers and sang those hymns, without any idea of what was being said or sung.

 

Sports

Mention Maris Stella and sports during my time, and the name that springs to mind is Melvin Mallawaratchi. Tall and good looking, with a ready smile that lit up his face, Melvin was already legendary when I entered school. Our age gap was more than 10 years, so I had no opportunity to know him personally. All I knew was that, whenever he batted, he lit up the cricket field. I, along with other schoolmates, simply hero worshipped him.

 

Home games were thronged with enthusiastic spectators. When Melvin came to bat and took his stance, a collective hush fell on the ground.  Soon, we were cheering wildly as the ball sailed over our heads, over trees, onto the main road, or sped along to the boundary in a flash. In his stride, Melvin was unstoppable.

 

In one game with St. Anthony’s College, Wattala, I watched as he scored a blistering 96 in the second innings, having scored an unbeaten century in the first.  In 1957, playing Ibbagamuwa Central, Melvin had scored 96 in only 20 minutes, which included two sixers and 18 fours.

 

Melvin’s flamboyance did not stop at cricket. He was also a champion sprinter. Maris Stella’s rival school in Negombo, St. Mary’s, had a champion sprinter named Mello. At every meet where they met, he dueled it out with Melvin in the 100-yards sprint, running neck to neck. We stood near the finish line to see Melvin triumph every time.

 

Fate can be cruel, and I eventually ended up at the receiving end of a Melvin onslaught. By 1968, I was at St. Mary’s College, Chilaw, and playing First XI cricket. An inaugural big match was planned with Maris Stella, and, a week in advance, an old boys team from Maris Stella came to play us, obviously to check us out. That morning. Before the game, I saw Melvin and another formidable Maris Stella cricketer, Gladstone Dias, in the visiting team. Knowing what was to come, I became a nervous wreck.

 

Melvin lived up to his reputation, thrashing my bowling over the rope many times. It was humiliating, and I was taken off after only four overs. Not surprisingly, I was also dropped from the team for the big match!

 

Eddie and Rukmani

By 1958, we had moved to a house across the road from Maris Stella; 120 Colombo Road, if memory serves. Now, I only had a 5-minute walk to school. It also meant that we went to Sunday service at the Maris Stella college chapel.

 

Eddie Jayamanne and Rukmani Devi, husband and wife, were at the peak of their popularity. She was the reigning queen of Sinhala cinema, and the nightingale of Sinhala music. Eddie was less flamboyant, somewhat short, with curly hair and spectacles.  He was a comedian. Even to a mere schoolboy, Rukmani’s luminous beauty and grace was overwhelming.

 

So, on Sunday morning, a two-toned Buick convertible would drive up regally, passing those majestic mara trees, Eddie at the wheel, and the couple would walk up to the chapel. They did not put on airs, and behaved just like the rest of us, sitting on the benches, singing hymns, and walking up to the altar and kneeling to receive communion. After the service, they mingled and chatted. And nobody asked for autographs!

 

I think Eddie and Rukmani were fond of Maris Stella. They attended fund raising events, like the Marist Mela carnival and a football match, which I recall vividly. Their nephew, Gamini Jayamanne, was my classmate.

 

Scouting, and a school take-over

Cousin George Wambeck and I were Cub Scouts, Wolf Cubs as they were called those days. The chip-a-job weeks were the best, because we got to roam all over Negombo and beyond, with no adult supervision. Most people treated us kindly, giving 50 cents or even a generous rupee for the odd “job” we did, and also a snack and a soft drink into the bargain.

 

One day, George and I, along with another friend, visited a relative’s house in search of a “job”. He had been drinking, and was stretched out on a hansiputuwa when we dropped-in. Thinking of having some fun with us, he assumed the role of a drill sergeant, lined us up, and put us through military “maneuvers”: attention, right turn, quick march, left turn, halt. Scouting doesn’t teach marching, and we were mere 8-year olds anyway. Our female cousins were watching from behind curtains, and we could hear the giggles. But, the man did reward us well, and also insisted that we have a meal before letting us go.

 

On another day, we walked down Temple Road to “Jaya-Ruk”, the residence of Eddie and Rukmani. But they weren’t home.

 

Perhaps the most memorable event was planned take-over of schools by the government, in 1960. The Catholic church was opposed to the move. The conflict escalated, and, as a final resort, parents of students occupied some classrooms, bringing mats and pots and pans. They cooked, ate, and slept there. They came to “defend” the school, but from whom wasn’t certain. From a new principal appointed by the government, from the police, the army?

 

Classes were suspended, and we enjoyed loitering around the school, waiting for the confrontation to take place. Eventually, the matter was resolved, but, in Negombo, only Maris Stella and Ave Maria Convent remain as private fee-levying schools.

 

When my father moved to Nattandiya for work, my brother and I travelled to school from there, by steam train. We wore khaki pith hats and carried our books and lunch in little, cardboard suitcases. Every day was an adventure. Later, when father moved to Madampe, we were boarded at Maris Stella.

 

What I recall most from the boarding is the constant hunger. We didn’t have much pocket money, so gouging at the tuck shop was not an option. On Sundays, a long line of boarders was taken for a walk, most often to the beach. Going through town, the aroma from the thosai boutiques was irresistible. Despite Bro. Raphael, an Italian, keeping a sharp eye, boys would take turns to dart into the boutiques and buying up the vadais. Our pockets would be stuffed and we salivated at the fest to come.

 

In 1962, my last year at Marist Stella, my brother and I were boarded at a home on Temple Road. Bertram Fernando, a pioneer comedian of Sinhala cinema, also lived there. Every Sunday, a card game went on for hours on the verandah around a round table. A regular attendee was Eddie Jayamanne, who drove up in his Buick convertible.

All our teachers named earlier have long departed. One by one, former classmates are also passing away. When I drive by Maris Stella and the memories come flooding in. For some, the past is a foreign country. Not for me.

Even after 60 years, the school anthem that we sang so robustly is fresh in my mind.

“All ye lads of Maris Stella proudly sing

May your voices boldly ring

Face life’s trials bravely

Act upon your motto gravely

Iter para tutum”

circa 1940 School assembly, from my late father's collection

Pandemic travels: To Sri Lanka and back

 At my age, two years is a long time to be away from the people, locations, food and the things I love. I had not seen or spent time with my sister; my favorite cousin, her husband, their son and his family; a 95-year old aunt, her children and grandchildren; my late wife’s sister, her children, and grandchild; the few close friends I still have, some quite elderly, others unwell, some both elderly and unwell. 

I missed “Pondside”, my ancestral cottage, the greenery I had carefully cultivated around it; the shrill cries of the birds, squirrels, and crickets; the croaking of frogs from the pond; the taste of mangoes, avocadoes, plantains, fresh cashew, and katu anoda from my garden; delicious meals loaded with coconut curry prepared by the caretaker Indra. I missed sitting on my verandah and watching the world go by, the con chats with distant relative Ignatius. I missed travels with Gamini, my part-time driver, chatting with him for hours as he drove. I missed the rain on the roof, the fresh water from the well. 

And people started dying. A favorite priest, a neighbor, a distant relative who called me "aiya" (elder brother), his mother, none from covid, but mainly from lack of human contact during lockdowns.

So, I planned a visit to Sri Lanka, initially in August, which had to be postponed due to severe outbreak of covid in SL. I knew it could be the most difficult of my travels; countries were changing covid regulations frequently, and I could be delayed or even stalled somewhere en route. I had read enough horror stories, about hellish quarantine regulations, for instance. At my age, carrying a supply of insulin on ice for my diabetes, air travel was always a challenge to begin with.

So, after the covid situation in Sri Lanka stabilized, I set off on October 19, having undergone a rip off (Yen30,000/Rs. 60,000) PCR test at Tokyo's Narita airport. The immigration officer affixed an "Out of the country on special re-entry permission" stamp to my passport. At that time, I didn't realize how critical this would become.

The Sri Lankan Airlines A320 had only 15 passengers, and the flight attendants, bizarrely, wore protective suits, like healthcare workers. I had received both vaccinations (Pfizer), and, upon arriving at Colombo airport, a public health inspector (PHI) checked my vaccination certificates and the negative PCR report, and, within 30 minutes, I had cleared immigration, done hurried duty free shopping, collected my bags, and caught a ride home with my nephew Charlie.

From Sri Lanka, I diligently tracked the covid situation in Japan. The infection numbers fell dramatically, to about 125 per day for a population of 125 million. (In September, the daily infection rate had risen to 25,000.) But, Japan has a new prime minister, who was acting tough on covid regulations, mainly to look better than his predecessor. He had failed miserably during the pandemic.)  So, when the Omicron variant appeared, I knew it was time to return to Japan before stricter regulations made travel impossible.

Because of high covid numbers, travelers from Sri Lanka are banned from entering Japan. But, that "special re-entry permission" stamp on my passport would allow me to get in. What a relief!

Sri Lankan Airlines charged me Rs. 100,000 for a change of travel dates (another rip off, considering I had paid about Rs. 300,000 for the fare initially), and I took a PCR test. On December 10, I played safe by going to the airport 4 hours in advance, expecting resistance from the sometimes stubborn check-in personnel, who may not accept the re-entry permission applicable to me. I may not even be allowed to board the flight.

However, that resistance did not materialize. Instead, out of the blue, Japan required travelers to access an app, respond to a pre-departure questionnaire, and obtain a QR code prior to boarding. Despite the slow Wi-Fi at the terminal, I managed to get the code.

This time, the flight to Narita had about 60 passengers. The flight attendants no longer wore protective suits. For an expensive fare, the two meals were abysmal.

Tired, bleary eyed, and bedraggled 13 hours after leaving home (4 hours at the airport, 9 hours on the flight), Narita airport looked deserted. In July and August, thousands of athletes and officials had gone through Narita for the Tokyo Olympic and Paralympic games. We were shepherded like kindergarten children through various checkpoints (at least 7, if I recall correctly), for another health questionnaire, scrutiny of pre-boarding PCR test results, a PCR test and a wait for the results, installation of an app on our phones, a signed pledge, etc. Japan drowns in bureaucracy, and the assumption is that everyone other than bureaucrats are children or perhaps idiots, who need to be held by the hand and guided at every step. 

After clearing immigration and customs, I came to the stop for the quarantine bus. I live in Sapporo, on Hokkaido island, 900 km from Tokyo. I would have to fly out of Narita/Tokyo to Sapporo taking a domestic flight, forcing me to take public transport. In Japan, during covid, this is a big NO, so I was prepared for the required 14-day quarantine. The bus brought me to my hotel, not far from the airport, where I would spend the next 15 nights. From Sri Lanka to the hotel, the time spent was 18 hours. I was exhausted.

I paid the equivalent of Rs. 400,000, without meals, for my stay.  This is a transit hotel, affiliated with a major Japanese carrier. Guests, including air crews, were checking in and out. During the weekend, the restaurants were packed. Yesterday, I saw a wedding reception. How could this also be a quarantine hotel? Is this a sham?

I was free to wander within the hotel, use the restaurants, and go out and walk around, as long as I didn't use public transport. The hotel is not in an urban area, so there was no chance of walking anywhere. But, the convenience store at the hotel was well stocked, with food and other essentials. Compared to Hong Kong, where the quarantine is for 21 days and the harsh rules are prison-like (travelers must stay in their rooms, and food is left for them at the room entrance), I had little to complain about.

An app, "My SOS", managed by the health monitoring center for overseas entrants in Japan, was installed on my phone, to monitor me. Every day, I am being asked to report my location with the "I'm here" button, my health condition with the next button, and respond to a 30-second video call to confirm my location. Considering I am at a transit hotel, the monitoring seems ridiculous. Time hangs heavy, but I'll have to be here till the 26th morning. Only two more days to go.

During the seven weeks in Sri Lanka, I managed to visit everyone on my list, and distributed cash liberally to those in need, because many are facing severe hardships. My caretaker Indra’s husband had passed away from covid four months ago, so my presence and support lowered the family’s grief somewhat. About ten of my distant relatives in the village had been infected with covid, and they were grateful for my visit and support.  I spent time with my sister, and also walked down to visit my cousin and her family. I sat on the verandah and watched the world go by. I had simple but delicious home cooked meals. With Gamini, I did many trips to Colombo to visit friends and family, chatting freely as usual. I attended his daughter’s wedding.

Despite the travel hardships, the trip was fully worth it. I am rejuvenated, and I may have cheered-up at least some people in these miserable times. All I can say is, if there is a will, there is a way.

A week ago, Sylvie "aunty", a friend of my late parents, who I have known for 60 years, passed away. Her only child hadn't visited her in a month. I visited her with my sister three weeks ago, and we shared old stories and jokes. We made her happy that day.

How many will be there when I next visit? And when will that be?

And to all my readers, be kind, be generous, and take care of each other. In Sri Lanka, perhaps the worst is yet to come.

(24 December 2021, from the Nikko Hotel in Narita)

Desmond Tutu, My Hero

The passing of Archbishop Tutu takes my mind back to 2008, when he, as the Chair of The Elders – a group of "independent global leaders working together for peace and human rights" – found fault with the Sri Lankan government for its conduct during the war with the LTTE. Subsequently, an Opinion piece appeared in the The Island, criticizing Rev. Tutu. According to the writer, "fighting a terrorist group is violence" for Rev. Tutu. Further, Tutu had not spoken a word against Zimbabwe's human rights violations, nor against the Western invasion of Iraq.

In my response, I stated that these outrageous statements regarding Rev. Tutu made me cringe. I further stated that, in a Sri Lanka that was becoming increasingly self-centered, where freedom of information is severely curtailed, where journalists critical of the government are often assaulted or killed, we need to maintain at least a semblance of right from wrong. We need, at least occasionally, to be open-minded and self-critical. We need to speak-up.

I also presented the following facts. Rev. Tutu was a social and political activist who rose to fame during the 1980s as a non-violent opponent of Apartheid. At the time of my writing, he was primate of the Anglican Church of Southern Africa. He had received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984 [when it meant something],the Albert Schweitzer Prize for Humanitarianism, and, up to that year, more than 40 honorary doctorates (yet does not use the prefix Dr.). In February 2007, he was awarded the Gandhi Peace Prize by the President of India. Tutu was widely regarded as "South Africa's moral conscience".

I reminded my readers that, as for Zimbabwe, Rev. Tutu has been critical of the human rights abuses there, as well as the South African government's failed policy of quiet diplomacy towards Zimbabwe. He had called  Robert Mugabe, the autocratic, murderous leader of Zimbabwe, "a cartoon figure of an archetypal African dictator". To quote Rev. Tutu further, "We Africans should hang our heads in shame. How can what is happening in Zimbabwe elicit hardly a word of concern let alone condemnation from us leaders of Africa? Do we really care about human rights, do we care that people of flesh and blood, fellow Africans, are being treated like rubbish?"

I went onto state that Rev. Tutu has been equally outspoken about the invasion of Iraq.  In January 2003, he had attacked British Prime Minister Blair's support of  President  Bush on Iraq. Rev. Tutu asked why Iraq was being singled out when Europe, India and Pakistan also had weapons of mass destruction. According to Rev. Tutu, "Many, many of us are deeply saddened to see a great country such as the United States aided and abetted extraordinarily by Britain".  Rev. Tutu has also been a vociferous critic of the Guantanamo Bay detentions.

Later in 2008, I travelled to Cape Town to attend an academic conference. The government was in the hands of the African National Congress (ANC), and the leadership was (and remains) Black. They appeared to be highly corrupt. In 2004, Rev. Tutu had accused President Thabo Mbeki, who had succeeded Nelson Mandela as President, of enriching a tiny elite while “many, too many, of our people live in grueling, demeaning, dehumanizing poverty.” The utterly incompetent Mbeki’s term was ending, and Jacob Zuma was next in line for President. Zuma had been accused of rape and embezzlement of $3 billion. (He is finally in jail now.)

I read that annually, 500,000 women are raped in South Africa (these are only the cases that are reported) and 4 women die every day at the hands of their spouses or partners. The newspapers were full of letters to the editor, complaining incessantly about the deterioration in the living standards, corruption, and crime.

Yet, except for Desmond Tutu, no Black leader appeared to be critical of the falling standards. While Zimbabwe, South Africa’s neighbor, descended into hell (an outbreak of cholera, in addition to a soaring inflation, famine, and a breakdown in law and order), hardly anyone else in Africa spoke-up.

Even more disappointing was the silence of Nelson Mandela. He was over 90 during my visit, somewhat feeble, and did not make speeches, but even a short written statement from him would have had an impact. A South African academic, who faced discrimination under Apartheid, told me that Mandela’s silence was a puzzling to many locals.  

During my time in Cape Town, I made the obligatory tour of Robben Island, where Mandela had been imprisoned. But, to my eternal regret, I did not pay a visit to Rev. Tutu, to thank him for his stand on Sri Lanka, and, on bended knees, to seek his blessings.

Desmond Tutu is known for his impish humor, uproarious laughter, or unashamed weeping, as when he chaired the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and was overcome with emotion. In keeping with his request, he lay in state in the cheapest coffin available, with a simple wreath of carnations on top.

Now, there is no Desmond Tutu to sound a moral conscience. He was open minded and self-critical, saw right from wrong, and spoke-up. Since his passing, I have felt a sadness and emptiness that is hard to explain. In a world lurching towards oppression and totalitarianism, when his voice is most needed, Rev. Tutu is gone. We may never see the like of him again.

I can go on, but I’ll conclude with one of Rev. Tutu’s best known quotes: “When the missionaries came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said ‘Let us pray.’ We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had the Bible and they had the land.”