As it’s a 20 minute walk from Snowview -- the next estate going into Almora (and, apparently, the end of the line for the postman) -- the postman will sometimes come out here to deliver mail, sometimes he will drop the mail off at a tea stall to be brought up (hopefully) by anyone coming up this way, and sometimes especially in bad weather -- he will simply throw our letters away, and then, not having anything to deliver, save himself the 40-minute round trip. He will also open letters and steal anything worth stealing. He is quite open about all of this apparently he doesn't even consider it improper conduct -- a sort of bakshish for his trouble, I suspect -- and this being India, there is, of course, nothing to be done. Taking this creative postal service into account, we should, perhaps, design our correspondence accordingly -- if that's possible. Perhaps, we can come up with
our own Enigma Code or something.
Right now it's about 8 AM and I've just finished my usual breakfast -- two chapaties -- made in the fireplace -- with home-made jam (plums in season) and tea and am sitting on the verandah looking to the NE, where about 100 miles away rises the snow peak of Anapurna in Nepal, the third or fourth highest mountain in the world. The Kumaon hills where I am are atleast 30 miles south of any of the great Himalayan peaks, but the north wind brings the sharp taste of snow and glacier past us down to the plains, another 50 miles. Clouds from the valley below (about 2000 feet down, at more than a 45° angle: the base of the valley is still nearly a mile high) sweep westward, sometimes obscuring the sweep of the ridge opposite; but the clear blue sky -- almost as deep blue as the purple knife-sharp shadows of the mountains -- remains clear, and the mountains themselves are never quite obscured by these vagrant clouds. Shafts of sunlight through a haze some miles away break onto a huge silent cloud sitting like a sea in a valley several hills off, and the top of this sea-cloud is blindingly white, while the hills around it sparkle with a preternatural green: the pine forests cover the higher reaches of the hills, while the lower halves are sculpted with brown-and-green rice-field terraces broken by dots of white houses and ribbons of silver-brown rivers.
In the mornings I do whatever tasks need to be done -- washing, sewing, cleaning, cooking, etc. -- or sit quietly. I try to work slowly, with awareness of the present, so everything takes longer (but the great lesson of India is patience) and thus gives me more satisfaction. I'll probably go for a walk soon -- through the hills, in the forests, or find a rock to sit on or a tree to sit under for the rest of the day. Towards evening I'll make my way back to the road -- a glorified footpath really -- that runs along the ridge on which sits the hill on which sits the cottage in which sit I -- and will usually meet one or two other Cranks of the Ridge, who have, probably, been doing the same thing, spending their day in their own quiet way, developing their own amity and inner peace, and we may just smile and pass each other, or talk for a bit, drink tea at one of the shops that sprout (like a leaf on a vine) along the side of the twisting footpath. We watch the sunset. Sometimes we watch each other. Always the mountains giving an extra dimension. (How would a two-dimensional person living in a picture feel if he could look out and see the three-dimensional picture frame?) Perhaps Kumaon is like a picture -- it is certainly like a fairy land, or perhaps Alice's Wonderland -- in three dimensions and looking at the mountains that frame this picture is like looking into a fourth dimensional perspective. That may not seem rational or sensible; but neither do the Himalayas.
Today seems to be a peculiar mixture of clouds and sunshine, giving the air a vibrant luminescent quality and making the surroundings appear (when they appear) as if they were painted with DayGlo colors. Not a breeze; unearthly still -- hardly kite-flying weather (though I have a small kite ready for a windy day; it's a big sport in the East -- though for me it's just a means to soar). The monkeys made one of their rare visits here this morning; they seldom come so close to the leopard run, which crosses the Ridge about 1,5 mile south of here. A leopard took a cow from Snowview a few days ago in broad daylight; they are usually only about at dawn and dusk. They won't go near a person if he has a light.
In the evenings, I sit quietly smoking a hookah -- the coolest possible way to take tobacco -- and read, or study Hindi, or watch the stars.
Conditions are rough here, and comforts are few, conveniences non-existent; but, by making each moment as graceful as I can, I try to make each day an act of grace. If I can succeed in that I shall be content to accomplish nothing else at all.
2 August 2008
1 August 2008
Letter 2.54
Going north out of Almora there is a steep climb along a paved road for about 1,5 miles, until coming to Chota Bazaar ('Little Market'), which lies at the foot of Crank's Ridge. Turning off the paved road one enters upon the Ridge, a horse-shoe-shaped protuberance (visible from Almora and blocking the north and view) perhaps 6 miles long. The dirt road-jeepable in good weather -- then makes a huge arc along the top of the Ridge, and it is sometimes possible to look down both sides at once -- steeply sloping hills (often more vertical than horizontal) of pine forests (which are tapped for turpentine) and deodars (a tree similar to the pine) with grassy fields and long-trod footpaths, during the rainy season (now) brooks well up out of the upper slopes and cascade down to the valleys thousands of feet below, where minute villages are nestled among the terraced rice-paddy fields that slope upwards to the forest line. Since there are few thorns, bushes, and other obstacles I can wander among the slopes freely clambering over stone walls which separate fields, wading (and bathing in) icy streams, sitting on rocky outcroppings or at the root of a tree. Except for an occasional boy tending his herd of cows, buffalo or goats, and for the prematurely yellowed and wrinkled village woman who passes by carrying a basket on her head laden with pine needles, straw, or vegetables, there is no one about.
Although there's a lot of farming in the valleys, these high foothills of the Himalayas are still wild: in the day I can watch eagles soaring above, their wings quivering for balance only rarely, and at night I sometimes hear the yelping howl of packs of jackals or a solitary wolf. And on the topmost peak of Crank's Ridge -- perhaps 7500 feet (Almora is 5600 feet) -- is the Kasr Devi temple, an ancient complex of low stone structures where I can sit, in sunny weather, soaking it all in. And, of course, when the skies are unusually clear for the rainy season, I can look north, to the snow-peaked mountains 50 miles away, and be always astonished at how much higher, and more massive, and icier blue white they are than I remember them being the last time I saw them: the most prominent peak, Nanda Devi, is over 25,000 feet high, and although over 50 miles away it is easily capable of sending icy blasts of wind (and, perhaps, more subtle emanations not only far beyond Almora, but even, in the southwest, to Rishikesh, the Hindu holy of holies, a hundred miles off. The details -- the minutiae of life -- here are always surprising; a wonderland. The mountains, the hills, valleys, flowers, birds, clouds, fogs, and sunsets all strongly and strangely affect the people who choose to live at this height (altitude an attitude?).
The road also has its influence. Beginning at Chota Bazaar it continues far, beyond the Ridge, and the knowledge that it carries on into Tibet already gives it a certain mystique: On clear mornings the massive fortress-like mountain called Trisul (in Tibetan: I don't know the Hindi or English names) is visible in the far northwest, pure white with peaks at each of its four corners, nearly 100 miles away, but still dominating its quarter of the horizon, and Trisul is in Tibet itself, the forbidden (and forbidding) land.
The road, running along the top of the Ridge, sometimes seems like the Razor's Edge, worn blunt, but also -- since daily there is a certain amount of going up and down the road -- being nearly circular I find myself in a position reminiscent of an ant that runs endlessly along the rim of a cup, ever retracing its own steps, and -- since everyone else on the Ridge does the same thing -- I always meet people on road and we stop to wave our tentacles at each other over a cup of tea, or to just talk briefly before hurrying on to circle the rim of the cup once again.
There are many Westerners here doing various Things -- Hindu Things, Buddhist Things, Tantric Things, Freak Things, or simply quiet things -- and many very cool heads among the Indians as well, and also some very peculiar congruencies and incongruencies: perhaps in another missive I can describe the local fauna who live north of Chota Bazaar, and you will understand why the area is called Crank's Ridge.
A cottage has been rented for three months; a three-room affair with 3 patio with a fine view to the north; it's on one of the hills atop the Ridge, but off the 'main' road, so all is quiet with few visitors. (I call it 'the Mole Hill' because I want to make a mountain of it.) It has a stone floor and a slate roof and is a rustic mixture of colonial and native styles. Our landlord, Major B. Thomas Chodhury, is a well-off wog -- i.e. a native who has tried to get into the (former) colonial power-structure by adopting English ways: he vacations in a big house just above the cottage; but since hels usually in Delhi -- as he will be for the next two months -- we have the use of his fine large unkempt gardens, as well as the rest of the (non-commercial) estate for Rs. 40-/month -- a bit less than $6. With a few bits of furnishing -- a large rug in the main room (where we mostly live, and which is about 14 feet by 12 feet), straw mats, etc. -- it’s quite cozy, particularly with a roaring log fire in the fireplace. Water is not much of a problem in the rainy season -- we have 4 gallon tins brought up from a tank not far below now -- but when the rain stops we'll have to have it brought from a mile away, the nearest spring, where it is enriched with minute particles of mica (a lot of the stone hereabouts is mica, which glitters beautifully in the sun, but is ugly for the guts) which have to be carefully filtered out: the water shortage is what keeps the population sparse in this area: aside from a few other Westerners living on another part of the estate, our nearest neighbor in any direction is a 20 minute walk -- that's over to Snowview Estate.
It's afternoon now, and I'm sitting on the porch, The day's light sprinkle is over; the sun shines on the hedges and deodars, and I can look out onto the far end of the Ridge and the patchwork slopes leading down to the valley -- a few bits of houses, sprinklings of trees, a few fields, pasturage, light green, dark green, dusky and russet, and onto the next few ranges of hills, deeply etched with shadow and stippled by forests and fields, and then mountains of white and grey cumulus clouds mass high to obscure the sight of white and blue Himalayan crags which, perhaps this evening, will become visible again, One of the semi-wild dogs hereabouts wandered up, sniffed around, and wandered off again -- they live on gleanings from houses and shops on the Ridge -- and somewhere distant is the sound of a woodchopper, and in another direction, also distant, some children are shouting and laughing. A farmer came a while ago and sole me a kilo of peaches for 75 paise (about 1O¢). Soon apples will be in season. Two eagles soar over the valley now, one at eye level, and everything sparkles in the thin air of nearly 1,5 miles high. Time passes very slowly in the mountains, and the scent of the pine cones linger in the day, the coals of the fire linger in the evening, wisps of valley-riding fog linger in the morning. Perhaps I shall linger here a while longer.
Although there's a lot of farming in the valleys, these high foothills of the Himalayas are still wild: in the day I can watch eagles soaring above, their wings quivering for balance only rarely, and at night I sometimes hear the yelping howl of packs of jackals or a solitary wolf. And on the topmost peak of Crank's Ridge -- perhaps 7500 feet (Almora is 5600 feet) -- is the Kasr Devi temple, an ancient complex of low stone structures where I can sit, in sunny weather, soaking it all in. And, of course, when the skies are unusually clear for the rainy season, I can look north, to the snow-peaked mountains 50 miles away, and be always astonished at how much higher, and more massive, and icier blue white they are than I remember them being the last time I saw them: the most prominent peak, Nanda Devi, is over 25,000 feet high, and although over 50 miles away it is easily capable of sending icy blasts of wind (and, perhaps, more subtle emanations not only far beyond Almora, but even, in the southwest, to Rishikesh, the Hindu holy of holies, a hundred miles off. The details -- the minutiae of life -- here are always surprising; a wonderland. The mountains, the hills, valleys, flowers, birds, clouds, fogs, and sunsets all strongly and strangely affect the people who choose to live at this height (altitude an attitude?).
The road also has its influence. Beginning at Chota Bazaar it continues far, beyond the Ridge, and the knowledge that it carries on into Tibet already gives it a certain mystique: On clear mornings the massive fortress-like mountain called Trisul (in Tibetan: I don't know the Hindi or English names) is visible in the far northwest, pure white with peaks at each of its four corners, nearly 100 miles away, but still dominating its quarter of the horizon, and Trisul is in Tibet itself, the forbidden (and forbidding) land.
The road, running along the top of the Ridge, sometimes seems like the Razor's Edge, worn blunt, but also -- since daily there is a certain amount of going up and down the road -- being nearly circular I find myself in a position reminiscent of an ant that runs endlessly along the rim of a cup, ever retracing its own steps, and -- since everyone else on the Ridge does the same thing -- I always meet people on road and we stop to wave our tentacles at each other over a cup of tea, or to just talk briefly before hurrying on to circle the rim of the cup once again.
There are many Westerners here doing various Things -- Hindu Things, Buddhist Things, Tantric Things, Freak Things, or simply quiet things -- and many very cool heads among the Indians as well, and also some very peculiar congruencies and incongruencies: perhaps in another missive I can describe the local fauna who live north of Chota Bazaar, and you will understand why the area is called Crank's Ridge.
A cottage has been rented for three months; a three-room affair with 3 patio with a fine view to the north; it's on one of the hills atop the Ridge, but off the 'main' road, so all is quiet with few visitors. (I call it 'the Mole Hill' because I want to make a mountain of it.) It has a stone floor and a slate roof and is a rustic mixture of colonial and native styles. Our landlord, Major B. Thomas Chodhury, is a well-off wog -- i.e. a native who has tried to get into the (former) colonial power-structure by adopting English ways: he vacations in a big house just above the cottage; but since hels usually in Delhi -- as he will be for the next two months -- we have the use of his fine large unkempt gardens, as well as the rest of the (non-commercial) estate for Rs. 40-/month -- a bit less than $6. With a few bits of furnishing -- a large rug in the main room (where we mostly live, and which is about 14 feet by 12 feet), straw mats, etc. -- it’s quite cozy, particularly with a roaring log fire in the fireplace. Water is not much of a problem in the rainy season -- we have 4 gallon tins brought up from a tank not far below now -- but when the rain stops we'll have to have it brought from a mile away, the nearest spring, where it is enriched with minute particles of mica (a lot of the stone hereabouts is mica, which glitters beautifully in the sun, but is ugly for the guts) which have to be carefully filtered out: the water shortage is what keeps the population sparse in this area: aside from a few other Westerners living on another part of the estate, our nearest neighbor in any direction is a 20 minute walk -- that's over to Snowview Estate.
It's afternoon now, and I'm sitting on the porch, The day's light sprinkle is over; the sun shines on the hedges and deodars, and I can look out onto the far end of the Ridge and the patchwork slopes leading down to the valley -- a few bits of houses, sprinklings of trees, a few fields, pasturage, light green, dark green, dusky and russet, and onto the next few ranges of hills, deeply etched with shadow and stippled by forests and fields, and then mountains of white and grey cumulus clouds mass high to obscure the sight of white and blue Himalayan crags which, perhaps this evening, will become visible again, One of the semi-wild dogs hereabouts wandered up, sniffed around, and wandered off again -- they live on gleanings from houses and shops on the Ridge -- and somewhere distant is the sound of a woodchopper, and in another direction, also distant, some children are shouting and laughing. A farmer came a while ago and sole me a kilo of peaches for 75 paise (about 1O¢). Soon apples will be in season. Two eagles soar over the valley now, one at eye level, and everything sparkles in the thin air of nearly 1,5 miles high. Time passes very slowly in the mountains, and the scent of the pine cones linger in the day, the coals of the fire linger in the evening, wisps of valley-riding fog linger in the morning. Perhaps I shall linger here a while longer.
30 July 2008
Letter 2.53
Katunayake airport -- in place of the bus stand which it resembled when I flew in to Colombo in '67 was now a small but tastefully-constructed modern building. While I was sitting in the lounge waiting to board, a purser walked by carrying a small box with a large label reading 'HUMAN EYES'. Rather startling. Even eye-opening. Once on board we barely had time to take off -- smoothly -- rise above the turbulence of the clouds, have a cup of tea, and fill out landing forms, before we were circling over the Madras airport.
Madras airport, of course, has not changed: India has an atmosphere of non-change, and the red soil -- a pale reddish brown -- looks as old from the air as it does from the ground. Riding into Madras on the airport bus I felt, again, the turbulence and dynamic undercurrents of India and already Ceylon began to seem a quiet provincial backwater. Symbolic was the billboard sign ('The right bank in the right place') posted just outside an old ruined building. Although the ruin was not, in fact, the bank, the impression that it might be lingered. Outside a Hindu temple -- one of those very solid decapitated-pyramid style South Indian fantasies with figures cascading down all the sides in a mythological unifying embrace of all extremes -- was a sign advertising 'The Greatest Show on Earth'. It might have been advertising all of India. And I had forgotten the sacred cows that roam the streets trying to nip vegetables from the market stalls. Madras has a baked (100°F. by late morning) colonial air to it still, mingled with the South Indian culture -- the North appeals more to me, where the cultural development has been more through accretion than refinement, yielding more diversity than subtlety -- but the native culture is probably felt more fully in some of the . other places -- Tanjore, Madurai, etc. -- that I've not seen, so perhaps my feelings about it are not well-based.
The train trip -- of two nights and a Hay -- to Calcutta was uneventful except for the peculiar fact that on the morning after we started the sun rose in the west. There is no doubt about this: we were travelling northwest, and facing the direction the train was travelling the sun clearly rose on our left, and continues to rise higher in the sky, all morning, on our left. 'Putta and I notices this independently of each other, and mulled over various explanations, pondered possibilities, considered probabilities, and mused many a musing for about three hours, when we turned from contemplating the bright patch of sunlight pouring in the western windows, and discussed what possible -- or impossible -- phenomena might account for this. Apparently only the two Buddhist monks on the train han noticed this -- or if anyone else had noticed it they had not noticed anything odd about it -- or if they had noticed anything odd they had had the good sense to keep it to themselves -- and the only explanation we could come up with which did not call for immediate rejection was that 'This is India, man.' At noon the sun reached its zenith and slowly descended as it had risen -- in the west.
Oh yes, one other thing happened in the afternoon of the same day. Two we dresses Indians boarded the train and sat down near me. One of then asked me where I was from, and we began talking. The other Indian said nothing at all, so I conversed with the first Indian and found him quite alert, interesting, and open-minded. He, like some other Indians whom I've met, seem to be very interested in the 'Krishna Consciousness' movement, which they all insist is 'very big in the States'. (Is it? What is it?) But I rather enjoyed our talk and was glad to meet a fairly intelligent man. At the next stop, however, our talk was cut short when the fellow abruptly rose from his seat and marched off the train, leaving all his magazines and newspapers behind him. The second Indian gathered up these papers and picked up his valise, preparing to leave also. Just before going he turned to me and said, 'The person you were just talking to is mentally disturbed. I'm his warden, and I'm taking him to the insane asylum nearby', whereupon, he too, got off the train, leaving me feeling somewhat disconcerted. After all, one hardly expects to hear such things of a person one has just been pleasantly talking to. The obvious explanation, of course, is that he was the last sane man in India, and had to be locked up before he did any damage.
In any case, I find the spirit of India very much a refreshing coolness after the hot and tight attitude of the Sinhalese for almost 5 years. An initial release of energy (which may account for this long monologue) may be nurtured and developed in India, where the entire culture is much closer to the days of the Buddha than Ceylon ever was. Everyone can do their own 'thing' without evoking any surprise, without arousing other people's hangups (except, perhaps, the fellow who was being taken off to the asylum -- but I don't know his story: maybe he wants what he's getting -- presumably so, since he went through whatever one has to go through to get it), or, indeed, without even being taken seriously, and all through North India the culture is set up to accommodate people who want a life without social bonds and ties--the society is organized to support those who haven't the slightest interest in supporting the society (whereas in Ceylon the Sangha exists largely as a pillar of society rather than -- as it was originally intended to be -- as an association of people who have given up the lay life), and as a result is more fluid in its own way.
Such is life inside a pinball machine.
Madras airport, of course, has not changed: India has an atmosphere of non-change, and the red soil -- a pale reddish brown -- looks as old from the air as it does from the ground. Riding into Madras on the airport bus I felt, again, the turbulence and dynamic undercurrents of India and already Ceylon began to seem a quiet provincial backwater. Symbolic was the billboard sign ('The right bank in the right place') posted just outside an old ruined building. Although the ruin was not, in fact, the bank, the impression that it might be lingered. Outside a Hindu temple -- one of those very solid decapitated-pyramid style South Indian fantasies with figures cascading down all the sides in a mythological unifying embrace of all extremes -- was a sign advertising 'The Greatest Show on Earth'. It might have been advertising all of India. And I had forgotten the sacred cows that roam the streets trying to nip vegetables from the market stalls. Madras has a baked (100°F. by late morning) colonial air to it still, mingled with the South Indian culture -- the North appeals more to me, where the cultural development has been more through accretion than refinement, yielding more diversity than subtlety -- but the native culture is probably felt more fully in some of the . other places -- Tanjore, Madurai, etc. -- that I've not seen, so perhaps my feelings about it are not well-based.
The train trip -- of two nights and a Hay -- to Calcutta was uneventful except for the peculiar fact that on the morning after we started the sun rose in the west. There is no doubt about this: we were travelling northwest, and facing the direction the train was travelling the sun clearly rose on our left, and continues to rise higher in the sky, all morning, on our left. 'Putta and I notices this independently of each other, and mulled over various explanations, pondered possibilities, considered probabilities, and mused many a musing for about three hours, when we turned from contemplating the bright patch of sunlight pouring in the western windows, and discussed what possible -- or impossible -- phenomena might account for this. Apparently only the two Buddhist monks on the train han noticed this -- or if anyone else had noticed it they had not noticed anything odd about it -- or if they had noticed anything odd they had had the good sense to keep it to themselves -- and the only explanation we could come up with which did not call for immediate rejection was that 'This is India, man.' At noon the sun reached its zenith and slowly descended as it had risen -- in the west.
Oh yes, one other thing happened in the afternoon of the same day. Two we dresses Indians boarded the train and sat down near me. One of then asked me where I was from, and we began talking. The other Indian said nothing at all, so I conversed with the first Indian and found him quite alert, interesting, and open-minded. He, like some other Indians whom I've met, seem to be very interested in the 'Krishna Consciousness' movement, which they all insist is 'very big in the States'. (Is it? What is it?) But I rather enjoyed our talk and was glad to meet a fairly intelligent man. At the next stop, however, our talk was cut short when the fellow abruptly rose from his seat and marched off the train, leaving all his magazines and newspapers behind him. The second Indian gathered up these papers and picked up his valise, preparing to leave also. Just before going he turned to me and said, 'The person you were just talking to is mentally disturbed. I'm his warden, and I'm taking him to the insane asylum nearby', whereupon, he too, got off the train, leaving me feeling somewhat disconcerted. After all, one hardly expects to hear such things of a person one has just been pleasantly talking to. The obvious explanation, of course, is that he was the last sane man in India, and had to be locked up before he did any damage.
In any case, I find the spirit of India very much a refreshing coolness after the hot and tight attitude of the Sinhalese for almost 5 years. An initial release of energy (which may account for this long monologue) may be nurtured and developed in India, where the entire culture is much closer to the days of the Buddha than Ceylon ever was. Everyone can do their own 'thing' without evoking any surprise, without arousing other people's hangups (except, perhaps, the fellow who was being taken off to the asylum -- but I don't know his story: maybe he wants what he's getting -- presumably so, since he went through whatever one has to go through to get it), or, indeed, without even being taken seriously, and all through North India the culture is set up to accommodate people who want a life without social bonds and ties--the society is organized to support those who haven't the slightest interest in supporting the society (whereas in Ceylon the Sangha exists largely as a pillar of society rather than -- as it was originally intended to be -- as an association of people who have given up the lay life), and as a result is more fluid in its own way.
Such is life inside a pinball machine.
29 July 2008
Letter 2.52
The situation here is, as you say, messy. There are two completely different wars going on in Ceylon. One of them, as reported by the government, is daily on the verge of ending (weeks ago we were 'warned' not to become 'complacent') with the complete collapse of the rebellion: the few remaining 'pockets' of active insurgents are being 'flushed out' (the government's phrase) as the rebels, their food and war supplies running out, futilely flee while patriotic villagers cheer and aid the army and police in glorious pursuit. In this war there are a few thousand young people who have been misled by sinister (i.e. unpatriotic) forces. Many of these youths are surrendering and their leaders kill one another and themselves as they see their plans collapsing about their ears; but a few 'hard-core' insurgents still cause a bit of trouble. The main task of the country is the rehabilitation of the surrendered and captured rebels and the reconstruction of damaged areas (which are ever being revealed to us as more extensive than we thought yesterday).
The other war -- the real war -- is not so easy to find out about. Everyone has his own version of what has happened and continues to happen: the isolated farmers, the impoverished villagers, do not have the same experience and background as the Colombo socialites who hold nightly 'curfew parties'. But, from my own observations, from first-and-second-hand reports, the space between the lines of the government's tales, and from snippets from the foreign -- mostly Indian -- press (which the government tries to keep from the hands -- and eyes -- of its citizens), the following version seems likely.
Because the insurgents assigned to the Wellawaya area (at the southeast base of the central highland tea country) opened their attack a day too soon -- whether by error or necessity is uncertain -- the uprising of April 5 fell short of its goal of immediate victory. The government had time to secure the major towns, and to defend some of its positions. An attack on the Prime Minister, Mrs. Bandaranaike, never came off. Forewarned, the police of Polonnaruwa post hid in the trees and wiped out a bane of 70 insurgents who found themselves unexpectedly trapped in the deserted police station they had planned to seize. A large cache of explosives was discovered on the University of Ceylon campus, near Kandy, shortly before the uprising, along with thousands of blue uniforms (hidden in the girls' dorms) and battle plans, and the projected attack on Kandy never came off.
Attacks on Colombo were sporadic, unorganized, and doomed. Nevertheless, large areas of the country came into rebel control in the first days of the uprising. Although the rebels numbered only 10,000 to 20,000 at first, and had not the strength to hold ground against sustained attack, in the next two days their numbers swelled to between 75,000 and 100,000 as large numbers of youths -- a few of them pre-teens -- joined up and surged into rebel territory. Weaponless, untrained, and unorganized, these boys -- and girls -- lacked the resources and the heart for fighting and quickly fell back -- or just fell -- wherever the government counterattacked. Vast numbers of them quit the movement as readily -- but not as vociferously -- as they had joined it; those that did not quit made up the bulk of the 30,000 to 50,000 death toll of the first month of battle. But many towns (there are no 'cities' in Ceylon in the American sense: even the capital has only a few hundred thousand people) -- any towns continued to be held by rebels for weeks until they were driven out (along with everyone else) by bombing raids and heavy artillery: many of the towns 'liberated' by the government were reduced to ashes and rubble: it is widely believed that much of the destruction cane after the police-army forces recaptured towns and villages known to have produced many insurgents. My Lai? Shhh! 'Rumor-mongering' is a crime under the Emergency Regulations, and more than one newsman has been thrown out of the country for telling the truth; more -- many more -- than one citizen has been arrested. Perhaps the comparison is not apt -- after all, in most of the world police and military brutality is not an issue, but an accepted fact -- but still, the government has been most reluctant to acknowledge that many of the battles were won from the helicopters which the U.S. supplied (via Britain): after all, Saigon is not so far from Colombo.
As foreign supplies poured in, the army and police (about 25,000 men, backed up by reserves) were able to get the upper hand on the rebels, and by the
end of the month the last towns were retaken -- although many villages are still under insurgent influence. A four day amnesty at the beginning of the month further weakened the insurgent forces: about 4,000 of them surrendered. These, however, were mostly the late-comers; the original cadre has yet to be broken, and may even be stronger today than when they first set out, their strength emanating from concentration and experience. They have retreated into a number of densely jungled areas where, apparently, they stored massive supplies before the troubles began. With the monsoon expected to begin any day -- rendering heavy equipment ineffectual -- they will not be easy to dislodge. They can be expected to wage continued battle for a long time to come, specializing in guerrilla tactics.
Ceylon, however, is not Viet Nam: since it is an island there is no possibility of establishing an equivalent of the Ho Chi Minh Trail; the people are used to peace and may not react to a long siege with the same -- what? equanimity? stoicism? restrained grief? -- that the Vietnamese seem to show. Nor do the combatants have any long murderous tradition of combat to maintain and to maintain them. And, in spite of its ineffectiveness, Mrs. B's government won a sweeping election victory less than a year ago and still retains much of its popularity (though much of this is being dissipated by widely believed -- and probably true -- stories of atrocities, primarily perpetrated by the police). The rebels are a politically rag-tag band of sophisticated (by Ceylonese standards) students and graduates, and simple semi-urban semi-rural dispossessed, and they have put forth a plethora of schemes and programs -- the government has allowed only the most outrageous of these plans to be made known (the rebels lack all facilities -- perhaps interest as well -- to communicate with the populace except by word of mouth, which means, again, that it has no unified program) such as the plan to solve unemployment by killing everyone over 55 years old, and to solve the food shortage by killing everyone under 8 years old. While it is not likely that these sort of programs represent the views of the leaders, the leadership seems to exist only on a very limited and tenuous basis (there are a number of groups of rebels in different parts of the country: communication between them must be a difficult proposition), but the bulk of the populace seem, oddly, to have believed these tales, although they don't seem at all impressed by the so predictable atrocity tales of the government press -- tales which don't sound very atrocious, particularly when compared to the tales one hears of the police. The police in Ceylon, of course, are no more concerned about the poor than are the police anywhere else, but their excesses of the past month -- often revenge killings -- would be a major public issue even in Ceylon except that under the Emergency Regulations public issues -- and even private issues -- are illegal if they are critical of anything the government supports, and you can get 20 years! for breaking that law.
So much for the revolution.
The other war -- the real war -- is not so easy to find out about. Everyone has his own version of what has happened and continues to happen: the isolated farmers, the impoverished villagers, do not have the same experience and background as the Colombo socialites who hold nightly 'curfew parties'. But, from my own observations, from first-and-second-hand reports, the space between the lines of the government's tales, and from snippets from the foreign -- mostly Indian -- press (which the government tries to keep from the hands -- and eyes -- of its citizens), the following version seems likely.
Because the insurgents assigned to the Wellawaya area (at the southeast base of the central highland tea country) opened their attack a day too soon -- whether by error or necessity is uncertain -- the uprising of April 5 fell short of its goal of immediate victory. The government had time to secure the major towns, and to defend some of its positions. An attack on the Prime Minister, Mrs. Bandaranaike, never came off. Forewarned, the police of Polonnaruwa post hid in the trees and wiped out a bane of 70 insurgents who found themselves unexpectedly trapped in the deserted police station they had planned to seize. A large cache of explosives was discovered on the University of Ceylon campus, near Kandy, shortly before the uprising, along with thousands of blue uniforms (hidden in the girls' dorms) and battle plans, and the projected attack on Kandy never came off.
Attacks on Colombo were sporadic, unorganized, and doomed. Nevertheless, large areas of the country came into rebel control in the first days of the uprising. Although the rebels numbered only 10,000 to 20,000 at first, and had not the strength to hold ground against sustained attack, in the next two days their numbers swelled to between 75,000 and 100,000 as large numbers of youths -- a few of them pre-teens -- joined up and surged into rebel territory. Weaponless, untrained, and unorganized, these boys -- and girls -- lacked the resources and the heart for fighting and quickly fell back -- or just fell -- wherever the government counterattacked. Vast numbers of them quit the movement as readily -- but not as vociferously -- as they had joined it; those that did not quit made up the bulk of the 30,000 to 50,000 death toll of the first month of battle. But many towns (there are no 'cities' in Ceylon in the American sense: even the capital has only a few hundred thousand people) -- any towns continued to be held by rebels for weeks until they were driven out (along with everyone else) by bombing raids and heavy artillery: many of the towns 'liberated' by the government were reduced to ashes and rubble: it is widely believed that much of the destruction cane after the police-army forces recaptured towns and villages known to have produced many insurgents. My Lai? Shhh! 'Rumor-mongering' is a crime under the Emergency Regulations, and more than one newsman has been thrown out of the country for telling the truth; more -- many more -- than one citizen has been arrested. Perhaps the comparison is not apt -- after all, in most of the world police and military brutality is not an issue, but an accepted fact -- but still, the government has been most reluctant to acknowledge that many of the battles were won from the helicopters which the U.S. supplied (via Britain): after all, Saigon is not so far from Colombo.
As foreign supplies poured in, the army and police (about 25,000 men, backed up by reserves) were able to get the upper hand on the rebels, and by the
end of the month the last towns were retaken -- although many villages are still under insurgent influence. A four day amnesty at the beginning of the month further weakened the insurgent forces: about 4,000 of them surrendered. These, however, were mostly the late-comers; the original cadre has yet to be broken, and may even be stronger today than when they first set out, their strength emanating from concentration and experience. They have retreated into a number of densely jungled areas where, apparently, they stored massive supplies before the troubles began. With the monsoon expected to begin any day -- rendering heavy equipment ineffectual -- they will not be easy to dislodge. They can be expected to wage continued battle for a long time to come, specializing in guerrilla tactics.
Ceylon, however, is not Viet Nam: since it is an island there is no possibility of establishing an equivalent of the Ho Chi Minh Trail; the people are used to peace and may not react to a long siege with the same -- what? equanimity? stoicism? restrained grief? -- that the Vietnamese seem to show. Nor do the combatants have any long murderous tradition of combat to maintain and to maintain them. And, in spite of its ineffectiveness, Mrs. B's government won a sweeping election victory less than a year ago and still retains much of its popularity (though much of this is being dissipated by widely believed -- and probably true -- stories of atrocities, primarily perpetrated by the police). The rebels are a politically rag-tag band of sophisticated (by Ceylonese standards) students and graduates, and simple semi-urban semi-rural dispossessed, and they have put forth a plethora of schemes and programs -- the government has allowed only the most outrageous of these plans to be made known (the rebels lack all facilities -- perhaps interest as well -- to communicate with the populace except by word of mouth, which means, again, that it has no unified program) such as the plan to solve unemployment by killing everyone over 55 years old, and to solve the food shortage by killing everyone under 8 years old. While it is not likely that these sort of programs represent the views of the leaders, the leadership seems to exist only on a very limited and tenuous basis (there are a number of groups of rebels in different parts of the country: communication between them must be a difficult proposition), but the bulk of the populace seem, oddly, to have believed these tales, although they don't seem at all impressed by the so predictable atrocity tales of the government press -- tales which don't sound very atrocious, particularly when compared to the tales one hears of the police. The police in Ceylon, of course, are no more concerned about the poor than are the police anywhere else, but their excesses of the past month -- often revenge killings -- would be a major public issue even in Ceylon except that under the Emergency Regulations public issues -- and even private issues -- are illegal if they are critical of anything the government supports, and you can get 20 years! for breaking that law.
So much for the revolution.
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