On a February evening in 1961, we took off from Sheremetyevo Airport on a "Super Constellation" plane of Air India and landed in Delhi's Palam port in the morning. From there, a Dutch KLM plane transferred us to the Santa Cruz airport in Bombay. Finally, in Madras, we switched to a "Viscount" of Air Ceylon.
The shadow of our plane, which we had chased from Madras, crossed the line of the surf and glided over the green crowns of the palms. We finally caught up with it on the concrete of the landing strip as it came to a halt under the wings of the Viscount, which was taxiing to the Ratmalana airport terminal.
The first days in Colombo—the capital of tropical Ceylon—literally overwhelm the newcomer, especially if he has arrived from countries located closer to the northern latitudes. Everything is striking: the hot, sea-moistened air (after just a few steps under the vertically falling rays of the sun, the body is covered with sweat), the abundance of greenery in the city, the variety and juiciness of colors (here, you will hardly see dull shades, only pure and bright tones).
The colorful crowd looks unusual—Sinhalese men in sarongs (a long piece of fabric wrapped around the waist like a skirt) and Muslim women in shalwar kameez; a girl in a short fashionable skirt next to a woman wrapped in a sari that descends to the ground. A stiff Englishman, who does not part with his starched shirt and tie even in the midday heat, walks next to a bald Buddhist monk in orange robes, sandals, and with an obligatory black umbrella in hand (locals believe that only a black umbrella can protect against the sun's rays); here you will also meet a Moor in a red fez, black vest, and white trousers, and a Catholic nun in a peculiar black hood with rosary beads in her hands.
You don't get used to left-hand traffic right away; you often find yourself in front of a car that appears from nowhere, dangerously close to you. The flow of cars and carts, pulled by slow humped zebu oxen under the shouts of their drivers—huge red double-decker buses and rickshaws—is regulated by a policeman in a wide-brimmed hat, a tunic with white epaulettes, and khaki shorts.
Between the cars and carts, cyclists dart in all directions, ignoring any rules; a Catholic priest in a white safety helmet races by on a scooter, and the wind flutters the hems of his cassock.
Bundles of newspapers in Sinhalese, Tamil, and English lie directly on the sidewalks. Ceylon has a high literacy rate compared to other Southeast Asian countries (over seventy percent). More than half a million copies of newspapers are sold here daily.
Colombo and its maritime gates—a port that is rightly called the "crossroads of Asia." It is a kind of exchange point where ships under all flags of the world meet. Winches and port cranes load fragrant tea into the holds, which will be enjoyed by enthusiasts in many countries, the pungent aroma of semi-transparent sheets of rubber that, turned into tires, will whisper along the roads of different continents, valuable timber, and many, many other goods of traditional Ceylonese exports.
Precious stones are securely hidden in ship safes, which will be delivered to jewelry stores in the largest cities of the world. They can be admired in the windows and on the counters of Colombo. On blue velvet, golden and smoky topazes, rubies and moonstones, amethysts and aquamarines, cat's eyes and alexandrites, opals and pearls shine and shimmer. The sapphires are remarkably beautiful, among which its rare variety—the star sapphire—is especially prized. Local jewelers will not fail to tell you that it was here, in Colombo, that American multimillionaire John Pierpont Morgan acquired the largest sapphire in the world, once mined in Ceylon (weighing over five hundred carats). In October 1964, newspapers around the world published sensational news about the audacious theft of this gemstone from the New York Museum of Natural History.
Loading is complete. Tugboats swarm around the ship that has settled to the waterline and pull it out to the outer anchorage, where other ships wait at the piers for their turn to unload. The same tugs carefully, even respectfully, guide a gleaming white super-modern liner of the "Canberra" type into the port, which makes regular flights between England and Australia, and multilingual crowds of tourists spread out across Colombo.
With a deep bass signal, a "tramp"—an ocean vagabond—enters the port, having learned, judging by its salt-eaten hull, the cost of maritime misfortune. Rounding the breakwater, an Indian dhoni—a small boat with a slanted sail, rigged with coconut fiber, and crewed by dark-skinned sailors in loincloths—hastens along, having brought vegetables from the Indian port of Tuticorin.
Ceylon exports much, but it also imports a lot: industrial equipment and cars, fabrics and household items, fish and meat, flour and rice. The traces of the colonizers' management in the country are far from eradicated.
This is easy to confirm if you walk to the business and administrative part of the city. Once, Portuguese colonizers built their first stronghold here—a fort that gave its name to an entire district. On the site of solid fortress fortifications, solid buildings of banks, branches of world-famous companies and firms, and shops have grown. Here are the residence of the governor-general, the office of the prime minister, the senate, and the buildings of the post and telegraph.
On Prince Street, at the imposing entrances, thickly plastered with copper plates bearing the names of institutions, gleaming lacquered and nickel-plated cars of various brands—European, American, Japanese—are lined up in solid rows. In the quiet offices, fanned by the breeze of electric hair dryers, dealers with European and American surnames are still counting their profits, converting the labor of the Ceylonese people and the wealth of Ceylonese land into pounds, dollars, marks, guilders, and other currencies. Meanwhile, on the neighboring street, the nationalized Bank of Ceylon and the People's Bank are operating.
During the lunch break, cranes in the port stop, and everywhere in the city, shop and institution doors close. Laborers in the shade of the warehouse unfold a modest handful or two of rice, taken from home and wrapped in banana leaves, and silently eat it, washing it down with warm water that has warmed in the sun from a bottle.
A bicycle deliveryman hurries to deliver lunch to those who can afford the "luxury" of ordering it from a diner. On the luggage rack, a pyramid of wrapped plates of food rises.
It is crowded at this time in the boutiques—something between a small cafeteria and a shop—where you can have lunch, drink a glass of tea or coffee, and at the same time make small purchases.
At lunchtime, on the dining table of a Ceylonese, both poor and rich, boiled rice appears with traditional curry, a sauce-spice, which must include very strong chili pepper and grated coconut flesh. The "assortment" of sauces depends on the family's income. The poor are satisfied with a vegetable seasoning and "Maldivian fish," as they call the dried tuna delivered from the Maldives. On the table of a wealthy Ceylonese, about ten or more sauces are served: meat, fish, game, shrimp, and greens.
Curry is prepared incredibly spicy. An unaccustomed person, having tasted it, involuntarily remembers the fire extinguisher, wipes away the tears that have come out, and rinses his throat with the contents of the first bottle that comes to hand. I can testify that both Caucasian, Indian, Hungarian, and Romanian cuisines, in which pepper and spicy seasonings play a significant role, seem bland compared to Ceylonese curry. This dish, by the way, is traditionally eaten without bread and with hands.
By evening, when banks and offices close, the streets of Fort empty: businessmen are taken away by cars to their mansions, clerks hurry to bus stops. In the pre-sunset hour, the pleasant freshness of the sea breeze is especially felt on the breakwater, which stretches from the port embankment for a good kilometer. This concrete and stone barrier takes the brunt of the raging sea, protecting the ships that have entered the port from the whims of the Indian Ocean. On its inner side, on the crests painted with rainbow oil and tar stains, debris from some boxes, scraps of nets, coconut shells, empty bottles— in short, all the garbage that usually accumulates in ocean ports—dance. On the outer side, clean, transparent waves break into moist salty dust, meeting the steep stone walls of the breakwater and the concrete pyramids thrown before it.
Before sunset (the sun sets here around six o'clock in the evening all year round), evening promenades begin on the breakwater. The head of one of the local English firms strides energetically in shorts, taking the prescribed exercise. A servant respectfully carries an umbrella and a folding chair behind him. A group of girls in saris moves slowly. The upper part of their bodies is covered by tightly fitting, short blouses that do not reach the waist. Their outfit is complemented by rings, bracelets, and earrings.
A young Englishwoman walks along the breakwater. In one hand, she holds a harness supporting a wobbly child, and in the other, a leash, at the end of which a long, low dachshund, resembling a centipede, with short crooked legs and a lilac tongue hanging to the ground, runs briskly.
The English love for dachshunds was explained to me as follows. When the dog tax in England began to be levied based on their height, calculating Englishmen started acquiring dachshunds: a "representative" dog, but with a small tax. Of course, one cannot guarantee the truth of this explanation, but one thing is indisputable—if you meet a dachshund here, it is almost certainly being led by either an Englishman or the servant of an Englishman.
Once on the breakwater, I met a Sinhalese who was leading a tiny leopard, slightly larger than a cat, on a chain. It hissed fiercely at the sight of the dachshunds, baring its sharp white teeth.
Fort has emptied, but the old city—Pettah—still buzzes with life, where local merchants have been selling food, manufactured goods, ready-made clothing, shoes, hardware, and handicrafts since time immemorial. From Pettah to the Europeanized Fort is not far, yet they are sharply different. Pettah is the Asian district of Colombo. The streets here are narrower, the shops smaller, and people in European clothing are less frequently seen. There are almost no European names on the signs and advertisements, and European speech is rarely heard.
Cars struggle to navigate the labyrinth of alleys filled with a colorful crowd. It is quicker to get around on foot, especially since in Ceylon, unlike other countries, pedestrians are afforded special respect. It is not uncommon to see a column of cars stopping to let a solitary pedestrian cross the street leisurely.
The already narrow sidewalks of Pettah are cluttered with vendors' stalls, loudly praising their goods. In the rays of the sun, silk, satin, and cotton fabrics shimmer, bright saris with colorful patterns or embroidery compete with yellow and green bunches of bananas, brown pineapples with green leaves, and mountains of red and green peppers.
Here, fruits that do not grow in our regions are sold. The yellowish flesh of the green mango, the size of a fist, tastes of iodine. The fruits of the papaya tree remind one of both melon and strawberry in taste. Under the shell of the brownish-red mangosteen, translucent soft segments with a pit inside, resembling strawberries and pineapples, are found. Red, yellow, and green spines hide the gently sour fruit of the rambutan.
Here, too, the familiar "old friends"—tomatoes, cucumbers, cabbage, radishes, peas—are piled on the stalls. All these vegetables grow in Ceylon year-round. But apples, pears, plums, and grapes will have to be forgotten. Yet, for some reason, you remember them when looking at the stalls with tropical fruits.
From morning until late evening, the cries of vendors, the noisy chatter of sellers and buyers, offering, persuading, and arguing in Sinhalese, Tamil, and English, do not cease in Pettah.
Maradana has a different face—a district of small craftsmen and wholesale timber traders. Workshops stretch along the streets; the sound of hammers, the screech of saws, and the buzzing of blowtorches come from their doors and windows. Shavings fly onto the sidewalk from a lathe installed at the threshold of a metal workshop. The wind turns a peculiar advertising mill—a bicycle wheel, into which small blades are embedded, hangs above the door, and car tires and tubes dangle. Here, they vulcanize tires. A cheerful clanging can be heard from the tinsmiths' workshops, which have displayed their products: pots, bowls, basins, jugs, and troughs. The pungent smell of sawdust wafts from the timber warehouses.
The country still lacks large industrial enterprises, but a full-cycle metallurgical plant and a tire factory are already under construction near Colombo—the pioneers of Ceylonese industry.
To the southwest of Fort, under the crowns of palms and temple trees resembling magnolias, the elegant mansions of the local nobility and Europeans are hidden. Lawns with short grass trimmed in the English manner and flower beds are carefully tended. Here, in the "Colombo-7" area, a district of luxurious villas and embassies, the city noise does not reach.
The capital is picturesque in the evening when the lights come on in small street markets and boutiques. On counters, or even simply on sidewalks illuminated by smoking bowls of coconut oil and bright kerosene lamps, sellers have laid out a sticky variety of goods: fruits, fish, lighters, coconuts, shirts, vegetables, and flashlights.
The doors of numerous cafes and snack bars are hospitably open. You can see rows of refreshing drinks of the most diverse shades—from bright orange to bright green—illuminated by neon lights. A baker has set up his table right on the roadside, shaping pastries before the eyes of passersby and frying them in a sputtering oil fryer. The noise of the crowd drowns out the sounds of music broadcast on the radio.
The last rounds of the streets are being made by the vendors. The bells attached to the ankles of the betel seller jingle. The green leaves of this plant, mixed with areca nut and slaked lime, are used as a spicy chew with a tonic effect. After long chewing, the mixture turns into a bright red paste. It is spat directly onto the sidewalk. "Betel is the best remedy for all worries," Ceylonese joke. "It helps the poor forget about hunger, and it stimulates the appetite in the rich."
"Pol, pol, pol!"—the coconut seller sings at the top of his lungs, pushing a cart filled with clusters of bright orange fruits. "Malu, malu, malu!"—the fish seller loudly advertises his goods, carrying a bamboo yoke on his shoulder with woven baskets from which fish heads and tails protrude. An ice cream vendor rides by on a bicycle, playing a simple tune on a flute.
Night falls quickly in the tropics. The crimson disk of the setting sun has hardly dipped into the ocean when huge southern stars light up the sky. Colombo gradually quiets down.
The working people of the capital are already resting, gathering strength for the next working day, which will begin early with the first rays of the sun. Only in the bars of fashionable hotels and nightclubs does life continue.
In the center of the capital, by the road leading from Fort to the residence of the Prime Minister, on the very edge of the ocean, stands the gray building of the parliament. Once a year, a solemn ceremony takes place here to open the next session. A continuous stream of invited guests arrives at the foot of the wide granite staircase leading to the reception hall located on the second floor. They are met by parliament servants in white garments with wide red sashes over their shoulders and large copper badges.
Supporting their black robes, members of the Supreme Court slowly ascend the stairs. From under their white nylon wigs, jet-black hair peeks out. Employees of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in black tailcoats greet and escort ambassadors and heads of diplomatic missions accredited in Ceylon to their designated protocol seats. Members of the House of Representatives and heads of departments from various ministries have already taken their seats in the hall. Separately, not mingling with the other attendees, sit representatives of the highest Buddhist clergy. They fan themselves with palm leaf fans.
With wide, sweeping steps, raising their arms to shoulder level, a combined honor guard approaches the parliament. Soldiers in black berets and khaki English-style uniforms lead the way for the band. A giant drum major with a shining mace carves intricate parabolas in the air. A rousing march is performed by dark-skinned Sinhalese pipers in plaid Scottish kilts, white gaiters, and plaid caps, and drummers in leopard skin capes.
The words of the report from the chief of the honor guard are heard in Sinhalese (some time ago they were still pronounced in English), and the soldiers perform some complex maneuvers with multiple stomps and heel clicks, turns, and formations.
The Prime Minister, who arrives with members of the Senate—the upper house of parliament—does not receive any special honors. However, the Governor-General, who arrives in an open Rolls-Royce accompanied by cavalrymen in turbans and with standards in hand, is greeted with a salute of cannon fire.
The Governor-General of Ceylon—a dominion within the British Commonwealth—represents the Queen of Great Britain here—according to the constitution, the head of Ceylon. He possesses quite broad powers: he appoints the leader of the political party that has won the general elections in parliament to form the government and approves the composition of that government.
He refers to the government and the Prime Minister as "my government" and "my Prime Minister," respectively. A bill passed by both houses becomes law only after being approved by the Governor-General. For his "services," he receives an annual salary of eight thousand British pounds, which is about three hundred Ceylonese rupees a day (the monthly salary of a Ceylonese worker does not exceed one hundred rupees on average).
At the steps of the parliament, the Governor-General is met by high-ranking officials of the Ceylonese armed forces in embroidered, shiny uniforms with plumes on their helmets and with swords. The honor guard soldiers stand at attention.
Seated on a platform in the hall, the Governor-General reads the text of the throne speech. This is the government's program for the upcoming period. The speech is preceded by a short drum roll and a long melody extracted from a sea shell, an elongated instrument. The performer, dressed in the national attire of a Kandyan, was a participant in the Moscow Youth Festival of 1957. For his skill, he was awarded an honorary medal there.
The discussion of the throne speech, as well as all bills, takes place in a less solemn atmosphere. From the press gallery located on the second floor of the high hall, decorated with light brown wood, it is convenient to observe the work of the parliament. The hall is divided into two halves by a wide aisle. At the end of the aisle, on a low pedestal, stands the chair of the chairman, or, using English terminology, the "speaker" of the House of Representatives. To his right are the seats of the government party, and to his left are those of the opposition. At the ringing of the bell announcing the beginning of the session, deputies representing the political parties of Ceylon enter the hall. The communist deputies take their seats. Among them is the chairman of the Communist Party of Ceylon, S. A. Vikramasinghe, and the general secretary of the Central Committee of the party, Peter Keineman.
The traditional cry is heard: "Remove your hats! Make way for the speaker!" The deputies stand up when a policeman, a parliament servant, the sergeant-at-arms with a massive silver mace adorned with sixty blue sapphires, and finally the speaker himself in a black robe with a white tie and a white curled wig enter the hall. The mace is significant in parliamentary ritual. A session and all speeches by deputies are considered valid only if the mace is on its stand. There have been instances when representatives of the government and opposition parties, wishing to disrupt the consideration of a particular issue in parliament, would take the mace away.
During the discussion of a bill, deputies ask questions, to which ministers or their deputies sitting in the front row on the right side respond. Silence reigns in the hall. A member of parliament from the Communist Party of Ceylon, Peter Keineman, takes the floor. Both friends and foes listen to him with rapt attention. Reactionaries hate him, although they are forced to reckon with him; however, Keineman enjoys deep respect, love, and authority among the working people.
For nineteen consecutive years, they have entrusted him to represent their interests and defend their rights in parliament.
Peter Keineman receives his constituents in a modest house located deep in the yard on one of the quiet streets of Colombo. The first thing that catches the eye when you enter the modest office is the abundance of books. They are on the desk, adorned with busts of K. Marx and V. I. Lenin, on the shelves and in the cabinets, and finally, simply on the floor. The books are in Sinhalese, English, French, and German—all languages that the owner of the office speaks fluently. There are many works of the classics of Marxism-Leninism, theoretical journals, and newspapers of the communist parties of various countries.
Comrade Keineman willingly talks about the tasks of the Communist Party of Ceylon. He emphasizes that communists carry out their activities in a complex political environment; it is noteworthy that in such a relatively small country as Ceylon, there are about twenty political parties of various directions and shades. They have to overcome the resistance of foreign monopolies and their puppets, internal reaction, as well as representatives of right-wing circles in the government.
Communists advocate for the proclamation of Ceylon as an independent republic, the removal of reactionary individuals from leading positions in the state apparatus, armed forces, and police; for the nationalization of banks, plantations, and enterprises owned by foreign owners, and for the implementation of radical agrarian reform.
Certain successes have been achieved in a number of areas.
For example, the system of insurance and distribution of petroleum products in the country has been nationalized, private schools have been transferred to the state, and education in them is now free, and trade relations between Ceylon and the Soviet Union and other socialist states are expanding.
Visitors begin to appear on the veranda of the house where we are conversing with Keineman, and I realize that I cannot take up more of the attention and time of a person whose good advice and help are greatly needed by the people.
My acquaintance with Colombo continues. Often, during my walks around the city, I am accompanied by Cecil Liyanage, a Ceylonese journalist, an intelligent and pleasant conversationalist, who knows the history and customs of the country well. I can confidently ask him my endless questions. Here is the first one—about the name of the capital. Cecil Liyanage explains that, according to one version, although rather dubious, the Portuguese named the city after Christopher Columbus. This version is supported by the authors of many guidebooks. Meanwhile, even before the Portuguese landed here, in the Pettah area, near the now vanished mouth of the Kelani Ganga River, there was a small settlement called Kolamba, which in Sinhalese means "river mouth" and also "ferry."
Some historians assert that the capital owes its name to the Sinhalese word "kola-amba," meaning young (fruitless) "mango tree." Over time, "kolamba" or "kola-amba" transformed into Colombo.
Other indigenous Sinhalese words in the names of the streets of Colombo have also undergone distortion and "Anglicization." Liyanage pointed out to me a sign reading "Bank Shell"—in English, "Shell Beach Street."
— The shells had nothing to do with this street. "Bank Shell" is a distorted "bangasala," which means "trading warehouses" of Sinhalese merchants that were once located on this, one of the oldest streets in the city.
Once, my voluntary guide brought me to an unremarkable square. Located near a lake, almost in the very center of the capital, it bears the ominous name "Slave Island." During the rule of the Dutch East India Company, the Dutch living in the Colombo area were so afraid of their slaves that at night they sent them to prison on the island. It was surrounded by a deep moat and high walls, with massive iron gates closing the entrance.
On one of the central streets of the capital, in front of a multi-story building of modern architecture made of concrete and glass, stands a small house with small barred windows and thick stone walls. This inconspicuous structure is hard to notice. Liyanage pointed it out to me again. Here, in the dungeon, the English held the last Kandyan ruler in captivity before sending him into lifelong exile in India. Later, at the office of one of the local newspapers, I was introduced to journalist Sri Raja Singho, who turned out to be a descendant of the last king of Kandy.
— From the Portuguese, — said Cecil Liyanage to me once, — the name of the central district of Colombo—Fort—remains, from the Dutch—entire quarters built in the so-called Dutch colonial style. Significant parts of the city were built in the English colonial style according to the designs of English architects, and Fort has been transformed by them into something resembling London's City. So, the external appearance of the capital, in which we, Ceylonese, live, has nothing to do with our national culture. If you want to get to know the national culture and the people, travel around the country. Visit the ancient capitals of the island, go to the plantations, to the fishermen, to the mines where precious stones are extracted. And in the capital, be sure to visit the Zoo.
The zoo in Colombo is probably one of the richest collections in Asia: it houses rare specimens of predators, monkeys, birds, fish, and reptiles. Here you can find our brown "bear," a tapir from South America, and the seemingly good-natured but very dangerous predator—the Himalayan bear, giant tortoises from the Galapagos Islands, peacefully "grazing" on a fenced meadow, hornbills that easily deal with quite large rodents and lizards with their strong beaks, a multitude of parrots of the most fantastic colors, and finally, a huge monkey family: from the visitors' favorites—the playful Ceylonese macaques—to African chimpanzees and enormous orangutans from the island of Kalimantan.
Reptiles are very well represented, of which there are more than enough on the island. Behind the glass of a cage, covered for safety with iron mesh, a snake with whitish skin covered with brown spots lies curled up. Above the cage is a sign: "This snake bit its owner, who died despite all the efforts of specialist doctors." This is the tik-palonka, which Ceylonese consider the most dangerous snake, even more dangerous than the king cobra. Locals assure that it always strikes first, and its venom acts faster than that of the king cobra.
It is impossible to list everything, but one cannot overlook the elephant circus—the pride of the zoo. The elephant, they say in Ceylon, is the embodiment of strength and kindness. Indeed, anyone who has seen it at work cannot disagree with this definition. It turns out that elephants are not only helpers to humans; they are also highly skilled "artists."
Five to seven elephants, jingling bells, enter the sandy arena, around which spectators are seated on the slopes of the hill. At first, they dance, bow amusingly, sit on each other, and whirl in a circle. One of them, to the applause of the audience, easily performs a headstand.
Then come the "death-defying acts." The trainer lies on his back, and a huge elephant places its foot on his stomach and slowly surveys the silent spectators. A minute stretches in tense anticipation... another... But then, shaking its head, the elephant lifts its foot and cautiously, even with some respect, slowly steps over the trainer.
Another act is even more risky: the elephant picks up a person across the torso and carries him across the entire arena. Then the trainer puts his head in the elephant's mouth, and it lifts him into the air. The audience holds its breath, but the animal calmly places the person on the ground, showing with its demeanor that everything is fine and there is nothing to worry about. In conclusion, the four-legged "artists" perform a farewell waltz to their own accompaniment on harmonicas and, bowing, leave the circus arena.
As you watch these unusual "artists," you cannot help but feel sympathy for them and a desire to meet them again. The performance lasts only twenty to twenty-five minutes, but it is long remembered.