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Whilst the economy, the basic underlying problem that needs urgent attention remains largely unattended by all concerned, political changes have moved at an alarming pace. So fast, that the totally unexpected has happened. Who would have imagined that Ranil, humiliatingly rejected by the voters in August 2020, would achieve his lifelong ambition in the most bizarre manner? The way, party after party, pledged support to Dulles made most of us believe that he would be our eighth president. When Sajith, who would have been the outright winner in a contest for verbosity, withdrew from the race at the last moment offering his support to Dulles it was pretty obvious that we were heading for a new era: Dulles/Sajith government. That was till the votes were counted! Even more surprising than Ranil’s victory was his massive majority.
A stunned silence pervaded not only in the parliament but also across the country!This, obviously, is not what the ‘Aragalists’ wanted! Interestingly, judging by the behaviour of the ambassadors as well as the lack of customary messages of congratulations, it looks as if this is not what the West wanted either. Ranil, the flagbearer of the West, has received congratulatory messages only from China and Russia! What an interesting and inexplicable paradox? Afterall, however bizarre the circumstances of Ranil’s ascent to the presidency, his election is constitutional and legal. This behaviour of the West surely adds credence to the suggestion that it played a significant role in the Aragalaya.
If so, there is yet another paradox: Is West in cahoots with ultra-leftists! There is no doubt whatsoever that,what started as a protest by those suffering severe economic hardships was seized by the JVP and FSP. The pronouncements by their leaders confirmed this and since their seizure the protests turned violent. The occupations of the president’s house, presidential secretariat, Temple Trees and Prime Minister’s office certainly were marred by violence. Accounts circulating show that Gota, to his credit, behaved in an exemplary manner instructing the security forces not to use force on the encroachers. This was in total contrast to the image of ‘Gota the dictator’ created! Once he escaped the mob, what should have happened? The protestors should have withdrawn instead of continuing to occupy and vandalise places of strategic importance.
The mobs went even further. They invaded television stations and nearly took over the parliament. If they succeeded in taking over the parliament on 13th night, perhaps, we may be having JVP/FSP rule today!What is happening now seems to be full of paradoxes! Celebrating Gota’s departure, a jubilant Omalpe Sobitha declared “Sinhala Buddhist domination is over!” Is it not surprising that statement came from someone who is supposed to be the Anunayaka of the Southern Chapter of Ramanna Nikaya? Perhaps, he is Anunayaka when he imparts honours on Sajith but forgets that when he speaks as a political bhikkhu surrounded by Catholic priests! I have held Ramanna Nikaya in high esteem because of caste-neutrality but have lost it to a degree because of this unwarranted statement by a high-up in the Nikaya. Further, I am saddened to note that the Mahanayaka of Ramanna Nikaya did not counter this.
At lease he should have stated that no purpose is served by hurting majority sentiment. Though some accuse MPs of voting Ranil for money, it is quite possible some Sinhala Buddhist MPs may have voted in retaliation to the prevailing antiSinhala Buddhist campaign, as exemplified by the unwarranted utterance of this man in robes!Basil was turned away from the airport apparently by immigration officials who had taken the law to their hands. I have been very critical of Basil’s actions but do not endorse this type of discriminatory behaviour. In fact, Basil being kept in Sri Lanka by immigration officials too may have helped Ranil. There is no doubt that Basil is a capable organiser and used his talents! Much is made of the removal of protestors from the presidential secretariat. Interestingly, no one seems to question why they were there or why they should be there.
It is said that they were to leave the next day. But do they have the right to decide when they should leave? Do they have the right to disregard a court order? Can you take their word? I am no admirer of Ranil but have to admit that he took appropriate action as the president, so that he can function from his secretariat. When ambassadors tweeted, he called them and gave them a perfectly logical and legal explanation. He pointed out how protestors invading the Congress were treated in USA! When the ambassadors tried to fall back on BASL, he pointed out that the statements issued were based on the political agenda of the BASL president. This reminds me of the GMOA statements issued a while ago on the basis of the former GMOA president’s agenda! The US ambassador demonstrated undiplomatic defiance by tweeting a message very similar to her previous one, after meeting Ranil.
Perhaps, she imagines herself to be a viceroy! As headlined by Shamindra Ferdinando it looks like “New Prez on a collision course with Western powers” (The Island, 27 July) and the question is what the Western powers want? Have they lost trust in Ranil because he is associated with Rajapaksas? Dulles? Do they want Sajith to be president as they feel he is manipulatable? Worse still, would they have been happy with a JVP/FSP takeover? Unfortunately,working towards economic recovery still seems a dream. So would be an all-party government as leaders seem busy finding excuses. Everyone seems to be obsessed with protests and protestors than the economy. It was interesting reading an appeal to the president by members of my profession, in the news item titled “Group of senior docs calls for maximum restraint by govt. in tackling volatile situations” (The Island, 27 July). It is a pity they did not extend their appeal to the protesters and leaders of political parties behind protestors too, reminding them that they also have a part to play. More importantly, they should have appealed to all politicians to form an all-party government to get us out of the economic mess.Many questions remain unanswered and one wonders where we are heading. It looks as if masterminds are at play. Who they are and what their game plan is, no one seems to know !
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pethiyagoda Sri Lanka’s forest cover is estimated to be about 27% of the land area. It was three times this extent a few decades back. The Forest Department was one of the first to be established by the British and is a hundred years old. The dwindling forest cover is a constant lament among Environmentalists, Ecologists, Foresters and Wildlife enthusiasts. Forests and trees have recognised economic and aesthetic value. Bhutan is a good example, maintaining some 70-80% of the land area in natural forest, with a corresponding benefit to the “quality of life”. Generally, trees are desirable and have many virtues that are the subject of this note. It is only exceptionally, such as when their roots invade building foundation or when they fall on roofs, that they cause damaging negative effects.
Sri Lanka is subject to droughts and floods that are increasing in frequency and severity and likely to do so in the future as well. There is a real fear that these multiple effects of global warming could have serious effects that may in the distant future lead to the extinction of life on the Planet. Scientists have evidence to believe that this has happened in the past – as dramatised by the sudden disappearance of the Dinosaurs. The terror of extinction is so much ahead however that our generation may feel no need to worry.
But there are more immediate considerations. The fears are real that the World may run out of fuel, water and clean air. For all these perils, forests and trees, directly or indirectly, are important influences. Mercifully, Sri Lanka is outside the worst Hurricane, Earthquake and Volcanic Zones. But as a small island set in the Tropical Monsoon Zone, we are vulnerable to localized perils and must remember the devastating tsunami of not so long ago. Further, there is a global moral obligation. It is easy to see that global warming will impose pressures on fossil fuels, water and clean air. These long-term consequences cannot be ignored – small though our overall impact might be. A few random considerations are touched.
Pressures of agriculture and urbanisation have caused heavy losses of forest cover. The Mahaweli scheme is a recent case in point. For convenience in awarding contracts and for other reasons, clearing operations have been allocated in extents much in excess of immediate needs. It would have been ecological prudent for clearing operations to keep pace with settlement demands. Also it may well be realised in the future that the most stable system for dry zone farming, would be for areas farmed to alternate with reserves of native forests alternating with farmed land – in a “patchwork” or “strip – planting” style, with dimensions and cycles appropriately determined. Such arrangement would also create fire-gaps should there be devastating fire accidents and provide shelter for Wildlife as well.
Present forestry practices treat forested areas as isolated from human trespass. Much evidence proves that this is a failure. Timber thieves and other despoilers (eg. treasure hunters, gem prospectors, squatters, poachers and vandals) are not deterred. Much the better approach should be to enlist the co-operation of locals as joint users. This will guard against marauders and allow regulated access to timber and other forest products (firewood, fruits and medicinal herbs). Regulated harvesting of so-called “Bush Meat”, which is anyway poached, would be possible. A sense of ownership of forest resources has many benefits. Other countries have used such approaches successfully.
Clearing of tree cover has spectacular damaging effects on water flow of small streams – they easily disappear. Exposed soils dry out quicker, the water table drops and wells become less productive. The ameliorative effects of trees on coolness become immediately apparent to anyone venturing into forest or tree reserves. Forest tree roots open up the soil, encouraging readier infiltration of rain water. Additionally leaf fall increases water retention and slow release in the mulch. Tradition recognises that some trees such as Kumbuk are specially valuable alongside wells. Tree roots also purify water as it moves through and may even have use in respect of CKDU by detoxification. One wonders whether this factor has been considered by the many studies that have been do9ne in the search for possible causes. Trees are also invaluable in controlling soil erosion or in draining swamps – often so employed in “Woodlots” on tea estates.
A whole new discipline termed “Agroforestry” has developed. This consists of reforesting with trees of immediate use. We have many such that could serve – the selections naturally depending on particular circumstances. Tropical Farming has a historical reliance on tree crops – often based on livelihood and market needs. The socalled “Kandyan Forest Garden” is often cited as an excellent example. The Chena system coped with depletion of soil fertility by simply moving on to fresh forests which were abundant in the past.It may be noted that in Chena Farming, the operation is referred to as “Eli peheli kireema”, meaning in essence that the trees are thinned, no removed entirely. Bhutan as mentioned, is estimated to retain 70 to 80% of their land in forest, with corresponding benefits to quality of life. Not without significance is that Bhutan replaces Gross National Product (GNP) with Gross National Happiness (GNH). Appropriate candidates for agroforestry are very many. In addition to fuel and pulp needs, forests are in use in other Tropical regions carrying a variety of timber species, Bamboos with dozens of species grown for special uses, fruits such as Jak, Breadfruit, Durian, Woodapple, Beli, Mora, Goraka etc and industrial crops such as Kapok, Kekuna, Castor (and other Energy Crops to reduce the need for petroleum products). Opportunities are infinite, each for its environmental niche.
F.H (Sam) Popham was an adventurous retired tea planter who took it upon himself to develop a means of resuscitating degraded forest land in the Dry Zone. He acquired some 18 acres of degraded scrub alongside the Dambulla –Kandalama Road. He spent his entire pension and contributions from benefactor friends in the UK, to experiment on a novel concept. He observed a few vital rules, essentially based on the notion that Nature, if helped to do its job, was a far better forester than man. The usual foes were weeds, fire, stray cattle and humans. The major effort was to meticulously remove all thorny choking weeds and coarse grass. Fire gaps were established. Cattle were fenced out but wild life was afforded entry. Only privileged human visitors were permitted. He kept a careful and detailed diary of daily rainfall and water table (in his well) records. Not a single plant was introduced. Only forest tree seedlings, naturally dispersed were preserved.
The results were astonishing. The scrub progressively disappeared over the years to be replaced by a mix of indigenous trees that took on the appearance of a Temperate meadow. Dried stream beds awoke to life and fish, crabs and frogs appeared. Small wild life and Jungle fowl visited every afternoon to a corner, which became a “Feeding Station”. Popham left a few years ago, bequeathing his treasure to the IFS who in turn passed it on to “Ruk Rekaganno” who it is hoped, still honour the “Popham Principles”. Although expensive a method to adopt widely, this was a classic achievement.
Incidentally, Popham was a Cambridge Alumnus (Classics) and one is tempted to believe that this helped. Much the same principle has been adopted by (Rohan) Pethiyagoda, who on some 50 acres of degraded Tea was developed into a Wet Montane Forest, by merely allowing abandoned tea to grow into medium-sized tree s and secondary forest established.
The World is moving away from fossil fuels and moving to renewable energy forms – mainly solar, wind and biomass. In our context the last is most relevant, as the cheapest option and as rural dependence on wood fuel is very large. A good proportion of this is gathered from forests. An organized effort to grow high wood producing trees (Gliricidia initially) intends to make an impact on its use for industrial needs and for dendro-power generation. Interesting projections for the extents of fuel-wood plantations required for generation of electricity from decentralised power stations sited close to consumption centres have suggested attractive operations. Wood requirements of such small power units, tailored to specific regional needs have been calculated. This would be a true and non-controversial “devolution of power”! The late Dr Ray Wijewardene has to be honoured as an enterprising pioneer, who established Gliricidia as an intercrop on his coconut property, designed and built his own generator, of a size sufficient for his bungalow needs and to recharge his electric car and still provide basic power needs for his rural neighbours.
Excellent PR ! Strangely, little systematic attempts have been made to support and encourage domestic solar power installations. Even heavily industrialised, Western countries are busily expanding this option. For us, this would remove a considerable drain from grid supplies, releasing the saved power for other uses. The same holds for wind power. There has also been some mention of Norwegian-assisted wave-energy projects. Meanwhile, for an inscrutable reason, two large coal power stations are reportedly imminent, at a time when the rest of the World is moving away from coal for power!
Extensive mangroves grow in areas around lagoons and river mouths where the sea meets fresh water. The brackish and sheltered environments provide valuable breeding grounds for shellfish, crabs and some true fish. They are under stress due to unregulated harvesting as firewood. They protect shore-lines from erosion, and when the Tsunami struck, as a protective barrier. To address the dwindling area of this precious resource, a project to replenish the exploited mangroves, a commendable project supported by a large company (and the Sri Lankan Navy) is in progress. The ideal component trees are fortunately quick to establish.
Mangroves are vital in improving several environmental factors. Travellers through the Hambantota area may have noticed that in recent years, a medium-sized tree, known locally as Katu Andara has colonised the sand dunes and surrounding areas, spreading rapidly. This tree (Prosopis juliflora), known also as Mesquite and Tamaruga is considered an invasive species and believed to have been introduced in the 1950’s as a cover for the sand dunes in this arid area. This it has done well, but proved to be highly invasive and has spread well beyond its original area. It has limited uses – of the pods and seeds as a minor food, for medicinal uses and the young foliage as fodder for roaming cattle. Its bark may well be of use for tanning leather. Its sudden spread is probably due to cattle feeding on it and passing the seeds out with their dung. Although useful as firewood, its thorny nature is a disadvantage.
It burns fiercely and thus could find use for dendro-power. Due to its thorny nature, it would require mechanized harvesting (tractors) to meet handling problems. Its rapid growth is an advantage. It could even prove to be a pioneer species to enable planting these otherwise barren wastes with useful tree crops (like Cashew) once “softened” by this tree. One remembers how the barren wastes of the Dry Patanas, widely regarded as inhospitable for use, were transformed by planting with Gums (Eucalyptus). This in turn elevated Palugama to the township of Keppetipola. This was more than a mere change of name !. One is aware that widespread monoculture plantings (in our case, Pinus) are controversial for ecological reasons. The original intent ion to use these plantation as a source of pulp for paper, is yet to become a reality.
PRESERVING ENDEMICS AND THE GENEPOOL
Our country is highly blessed with a wealth of endemic and sometimes unique, plants and animals. It is classified as a “Biodiversity Hotspot” by UNESCO. This floral and faunal variability has to be preserved, not least because it could be a massive asset, for breeding, search for novel products such as herbal pharmaceuticals and as a tourist attraction. Bio-piracy is of huge international concern. Much of our endemic flora grows in the Low Country Wet Zone, in which the Sinharaja represents the only sizeable remnant. Encroachments by tea plantings, and poorly located mini-hydropower plants, need to be controlled. The recent frequency of detections by Customs of attempts to smuggle out Wallapatta (Agar Wood) suggests widespread despoiling of protected reserves – possibly before the very eyes of policing authorities. As is well known, a large percentage of Medicines are of plant origin, and much probably are still in the forests awaiting discovery.
There exist considerable extents of abandoned or uneconomic tea lands. These should be earmarked for other uses. The soils have been so impoverished that few substitute species will thrive. One immediate approach may be to allow such tea bushes as have survived in such areas to remain and grow into trees, to be a nucleus allowing forest trees to establish. Once some fertility is thereby regained, more profitable cultivations could succeed. Illegal cultivations above the legally prescribed contours should be compulsorily and forthwith abandoned for reversal into Montane Forest. The Central Highlands need protection as the principal source which nourish our rivers.
The World’s recognition of increased atmospheric carbon dioxide as an important cause of Global Warming, has established a scheme of “Carbon Credits”. This is calculated based on actions taken to reduce carbon dioxide emissions to the atmosphere. A globally accepted scheme exists for awarding “Carbon Credits” that could be traded with countries which were requiring over agreed quotas. Thrifty countries are awarded credits for carbon sequestration which they could sell or barter with excess emitters. The “currencies” were valued at one Unit per ton of carbon dioxide. Recognising that developed countries were the larger emitters (through industry, vehicles, and domestic consumption etc) they were obliged to make greater reductions (at 25% of figures, with 1990 as the base year, with developing countries assigned lower percentages and other concessions to meet their targets). The scheme operates similar to the Stock Market.
Each country farms out its allocation, to its high emission companies. Any company operating within its allocation could trade its savings on the stock market, for trading with those releasing above quota. The latter are required to pay a tax or purchase the deficit from the market. While it is relatively easy to calculate emissions, from industry and power installations, the interplay of many variables makes the task more difficult for sequestration by forest trees. As a result, while emission figures were set out relatively easily for industrial emissions, those for trapping in forest trees have led to many difficulties of implementation because of the complexity of several variables. Amidst all the complications, an important consideration is that trapped carbon in trees is offset by releases through decay or burning of fallen leaves and branches and eventually as timber. The locking up of carbon is thus temporary. These various issues merit the closest attention by our competent professionals
The Namunukula (nine peaks) range loomed 3,000 feet above where we sat. Even from 10 miles away, it dwarfed the surrounding tea plantations, it’s craggy visage forested a verdant
green. As darkness fell, the peaks were covered in mist. For me, born and bred in the coastal plains, these massive mountain ranges were awe inspiring.
The village had clear divisions along political and caste lines. The leftist Sama Samaja Party (LSSP) had deep roots in the Uva, and there was a sprinkling of Communists Party supporters, too. Mainly, villagers were Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP) supporters. The post office was next to the school, and the postmaster was the most prominent UNPer in the village. Whatever their political affiliations, they seemed to get along with each other.
The caste differences were more apparent. The residents of a nearby village belonged to a caste which was considered ‘low’. Some teachers and even a few older students from Kendegolla village would point this out to me, although I didn’t care one way or the other. In fact, an underlying attitude seemed to be, “Are they seeking an education to be our equals?”
On one occasion, I saw this discrimination descend to cruelty. One day, an emaciated, poorly dressed man turned up, complaining that his son, in the primary school, had been mercilessly trashed by a teacher. The accused teacher stood there with a silly grin, and no one offered a word of sympathy to the father and son. Someone whispered that they were from the lower caste, perhaps meaning they deserved what they got.
One day, Mr. Senaratne, the principal, spoke to me: “I say Braine, shall we have a sports meet?” (He knew about my sports background). I agreed, but soon learned that there had never been a sports meet at Kendegolla, meaning we would have to start from scratch. A second challenge was the lack of a proper playground; all we had was a bare space between buildings, too narrow even for a 100-yard sprint.
A number of friends from Maharagama training college were now teachers at Badulla Maha Vidyalaya in town, and they helped and advised me in planning the sports meet. The first step was to form three “houses”, and Wijeya, Perakum, and Gemunu, named after three legendary monarchs, were the obvious choices. Next, leaving the principal, headmaster and the organiser (me) aside, the remaining 18 teachers were assigned to the houses. My roommate Gunaratne was put in-charge of Gemunu house, a decision that led to numerous accusations of favouritism as the sports meet approached.
The sports meet was scheduled for July 22, 1972.
Becoming over ambitious, I planned a comprehensive event, with a dance performance, a march past, a cross-country race, teachers’ races, relays, and middle distance races. Thinking now of the small “ground” that was available, I am surprised that I even scheduled an 800-yard race and a 4 x 400 relay. What was I thinking!
Once the events were announced, the teachers got to work with passion. Previously, the school would be deserted by 2pm, after classes were over; perhaps a stray dog or two would be left. But now, within a few days, the school was transformed. With no background in sports, finding the most suitable students for each track and field event from each house was no easy task. So, both the teachers and students stayed back for hours, running, jumping, the school becoming a hive of activity as never before. A dance performance was planned and the students trained by the two step-children of a teacher; both had been trained in song and dance.
As the sports meet neared, the inter-house rivalries became almost uncontrollable. Heated arguments would break out between teachers during school hours, as students watched in embarrassment, and I feared physical fights. Mr. Senaratne, who traveled from home in Welimada 40 miles away, taking two buses, was not always around to settle disputes, and that fell on me, the youngest member of the staff. I hadn’t bargained for that.
Meanwhile, fund raising, requests for trophies, invitations to track and field judges, all written by senior students under my directions, went out. The programme was typed by my Badulla MV friends.
For the cross country race, acting on the advice of local teachers, I planned the route through Telbedde Estate, and then walked the route with a couple of senior students.
If Namunukula mountain dominated the area in altitude, the vast Telbedde Estate covered the surroundings as far as the eye could see. The estate was managed by Mike Boyd-Moss, a legendary planter and ruggerite. He was, indisputably, the local monarch, but a benevolent suddha (white man) whom people respected. Apparently, he spoke Sinhala and Tamil fluently. I needed his permission to run the cross-country race through the estate, and also needed a back-up vehicle to pick-up struggling runners.
Lacking even a bicycle, I walked all the way to meet him at his office, passing meticulously maintained swathes of tea bushes, the pluckers and kanganis going about their work. With endless blue skies above, and the green hills and valleys below, this was picture-postcard country. The aroma of pine and eucalyptus scented the air. The office was on a hillock, surrounded by lovely flower plants. Mr. Boyd-Moss graciously agreed to my requests. As promised, a van turned up early morning before the race started and followed the runners. The winner arrived a good 5-minutes before the others, but most runners arrived in the van, having given up. I invited Mr. Boyd-Moss as a chief guest of the meet (the other was the local Member of Parliament from the ruling party), but he did not attend, although he donated a trophy. At that time, the government was nationalising plantations, and his absence was understandable; sitting alongside the MP would have been awkward.
Field events were held in advance, and, on the day of the sports meet, the march past, dance performance, track events, the speeches and the award of trophies and certificates worked off smoothly. My friends from Badulla MV, and Fawzia, turned up to officiate, and the local MP, who happened to be a junior minister, promised a playground for the school in his speech.
In the aftermath, Kendegolla athletes performed remarkably well at the district schools sports meet. They won nearly 20 top-three places, competing against athletes from more established schools like Uva College, Dharmaduta, Badulla MV, Vishaka, and others.
Subsequently, for a teachers’ sports meet, we did not have enough female teachers with athletic abilities. So, we cheated, getting some sturdy senior students to compete, pretending to be teachers. When we got caught, Mr. Senaratne’s nonchalant excuse was “I say, they are going to become teachers”.
In 1973, Fawzia and I married at Badulla. Gunaratna and Nawalage, the ex-monk, signed as witnesses. Because Fawzia now taught at a school in Badulla town, we rented a house there, and I began to travel to Kendegolla by bus.
This leads to the first of two anecdotes about the Principal, Mr. Senaratne, whom we fondly called “Bosa” behind his back. At most, he turned up at school about three days a week, staying at the newly built staff quarters. With me travelling from town, he found a way to send the teachers’ salaries to school without having to go there. So, we would meet at the Badulla post office to collect the salaries in a lump sum, Mr. Senaratne would deduct his pay, and return home to Welimada. I would take a mid-day bus to school, trying my best to hide the large amount of cash I carried; the school had about 25 teachers by then. This was certainly not part of my teaching duties.
The second anecdote has to do with bathing. When “Bosa” was staying overnight at the teachers’ quarters, Gunaratne and I would go by in the afternoon, inviting him to bathe at the stream with us. He declined, saying that his wife prepared a warm bath for him when he was at home in Welimada. One day, when Gunaratne and I visited him at home, Mrs. Senaratne told us that her husband refused to bathe at home, saying he preferred the nice stream near the school. Later, Gunaratne and I had a good laugh. Obviously, “Bosa” never bathed!
Fifty years have gone by, and I recall those carefree days at Kendegolla with nostalgia. I was young, energetic, idealistic, and in love. Like one’s first love, the first appointment stays in one’s memory for a lifetime. In my reveries, those men and women I met at Kendegolla, the pastoral life I led, come alive. I was almost an alien being – a Christian, with an unusual name and a skin colour – but they took me in. Wherever I went, whoever I met, I was simply the “Ingreesi mahattaya”.
In December, 1995, I drove up to the school with Fawzia and son Roy, who was by then a college student in America. The school was closed for the holidays, a thick layer of dust covering the desks and chairs, and fallen leaves on the ground. It looked bleak and abandoned. I was too tired after a long road trip, and made no attempt to meet anyone I had known.
More recently, I found that Kendegolla MV now had a Facebook site, and managed to contact the current principal, Mr. Ratnayake. He is from Kendegolla, a former student of the school, and, over two lengthy phone calls, updated me on the news. The school now had 49 teachers. Most of the teachers I knew had passed away, Rajapakse, the headmaster, living to a ripe old age. Gunaratne became the principal, a strict one, but, sadly, had also passed away. The village is more prosperous now, and a bus drove by the school on a good road. In the photos uploaded on the FB site, the students were well dressed, the males in blue shorts and white shirts, the females in white uniforms and tie. The buildings were colourful, and a science lab dominated the scene.
The bougainvillea bush has now grown into a tree.
Getting on the bus in Badulla town, I asked the driver if he could let me off at the Kendegolla Maha Vidyalaya. He gave me an odd look, but said “Naginna” (get in). The small bus went along the Passara Road, turned left, and began to climb a narrow road, winding past village houses and patches of tea. After half an hour, the driver stopped and pointed to a small white speck on the highest hill, miles from the road. “That’s the school”, he said. My heart sank.
What was I, barely out of my teens, doing in remote Uva hills, hundreds of miles from home? At Maharagama training college, I had met Fawzia, and we had fallen in love. She was from a traditional Malay family, and we did our best to keep the relationship a secret from her folks. When we finished our training, as English teachers, at the end of 1971, in order to be far away from our families, we asked for schools in Uva for our first appointments. Fawzia was sent to a school near Bandarawela and I got Kendegolla.
Getting off the bus, I began to trudge towards the white speck, passing a rustic kopi kade and ramshackle village houses. Idling men hung around, gawking at this strange apparition, me. The white speck disappeared as the footpath dipped or rounded a bend, and I had to ask for directions a couple of times. The walls of the houses were mud coloured, and certainly not the wattle and daub, or baked bricks, of the low country. I later learned that the walls were made of moda gadol (foolish bricks), so called because they were simply dried in the sun, not baked, and could dissolve during rainy weather. Some roofs were of rusty corrugated iron, but most were of straw.
Tired and somewhat disoriented, I reached the school a good 30-minutes later. This was January, the air was cool and damp, and a low cloud hung over the school. Students were milling around, because it was interval time. They had spotted me trudging up, word had spread, and a few teachers were also peering down at me.
Followed by a throng of students, I reached the principal’s office, where a short, balding, older man, and a taller one dressed in “national” costume, greeted me. When I introduced myself as the new English teacher, the tall man blurted “Me lamayinte mona ingreesida” (What English for these children!). But the other person was welcoming, saying he had been requesting an English teacher for years. He turned out to be the principal. (I’ll call him Mr. Senaratne).
After the preliminaries, I needed a place to stay and Mr. Senaratne suggested that Gunaratne, who taught economics, could help me. So I went along with the latter to check-out his boarding. We forded a rocky, shallow stream near the school, and walked single-file along a fast-flowing irrigation channel that skirted the hillside on our left, with terraced paddy fields on the right. I liked the well-built, tiled house where Gunaratne boarded, and the simple family that greeted me. I could share a room with Gunaratne, whose cheerful nature – full of chatter and jokes – I took a liking to.
The few hundred students ranged from Grade 1 to 12, divided into the primary and secondary sections. The younger students came from the vicinity, but some students in the secondary section attended school from the surrounding villages, Kendegolla being the only maha vidyalaya for a sprawling, mountainous area. I came to know students who walked four miles each way, on rough, winding, mountainous paths, to attend school, some leaving home, before dawn, without breakfast. None wore shoes. Every day, a couple of students, weak from hunger, would faint during school.
Recently, I dug into my old files and found a programme for Kendegolla’s first sports meet, which I organized in 1972. That programme listed the names of all the teachers of that time. The primary school teachers – Rajapakse, Gunatilleke, Piyadasa, Piyasena, Dissanayake, Seneviratne, Dingiriamma, Senadheera, Premalatha, Margaret, Piyadasa Peiris (some were husband and wife couples) – were from the village itself. Hayath Bee Bee was from some distance away, on the Passara Road, and walked uphill about two miles to school. All the secondary school teachers, except one, were from other areas. Most were recent graduates, and some travelled by bus, from Badulla or beyond. In addition to Gunaratne, my roommate, they were Mendis and his wife Malini, Piyadasa, Piyasoma, and Karunaratne. Later, three more graduates joined the school. Two, Nawalage and Jayasinghe, were ex-monks. Nawalage, who was from far-off Nivithigala, had requested a transfer to a far off area just before he left robes, to avoid embarrassment to his family. From their general demeanor, even the way they walked and talked, one could discern a former ascetic life. Behind their backs, they did not escape the somewhat derogatory heeraluwa label.
Susil was the school drunk. Boyish in appearance, but permanently disheveled, he turned up late to school, looking as if he had slept in a gutter. Sometimes he wore shirt and slacks, a soiled national dress at other times. The principal advised him often, but Susil, on a permanent hangover, only grinned sheepishly, not uttering a word.
One clear difference between the local and other teachers was their dress. All the local men wore the so called national dress, a long white shirt and sarong. Teachers from elsewhere, except for Mendis, wore shirts and pants.
For a rural school in a “difficult” area, without proper roads or basic facilities, to have that many graduate teachers was a rare gift. These graduates were mainly young, dedicated teachers, and they soon produced results, sending a couple of students to university. I remember the students’ names: Premawathie and Podi Appuhamy, who both entered Kelaniya University.
Ironically, despite the qualified and competent teachers at Kendegolla, the local teachers sent their children to schools in Badulla town. These children, wearing neat school uniforms, were in sharp contrast to our scrawny, shabbily dressed students.
During my times, the school consisted of four long, single storied, bare-bones buildings, each housing four or five classes. The classes were not separated, even by a wall. The roofs were tile, and the sides were open, with half-walls running, lengthwise, on each side. Dust blew in, covering the floor and the students’ desks and chairs. No pipe borne water or electricity, of course. A luxuriant bougainvillea bush, near the principal’s office, added the only colour to the school.
Kendegolla was at a high elevation. Once in a while, the entire school would be covered by a passing cloud, darkening the area and lowering the temperature. Students, shivering in the cold, stepped out of the classroom, looking for any patches of sunshine they could find. Teaching was suspended, sometimes for hours, till the cloud drifted away.
Being the only Ingreesi mahattaya, I taught English, from grades 6 to 10, every day, and an occasional lesson for the handful of students in grades 11 and 12. The government distributed free textbooks to all the students, but most had only one “exercise” (writing) book for all their subjects. Each class had 30+ students, and motivating them was the main problem. Without visual or other teaching aids, I relied mainly on reading and recitation, using the good old “chalk and talk” method. I don’t think those students learned much English from me.
School finished at 1.30 in the afternoon, and Gunaratne and I walked along the irrigation channel back to our boarding. Basins of water, with soap, had been laid out for us, and we later sat down for lunch. The local Sinhala haal rice, a couple of vegetables, and dhal. Fish or meat was never served, but we occasionally had an egg, and fried karawala, salted and dried fish. This was a devout Buddhist home. The simple meals were to my liking, although I missed curries cooked with coconut. At Kendegolla, due to the high elevation, not a coconut palm was in sight, and coconuts were a luxury, only available in Badulla town.
The family – husband, wife, two sons and two daughters – had their evening meal after Gunaratne and I had finished, and we usually chatted with the father while he chewed beetle. The two sons sat with us, but were respectful of the father, and barely uttered an opinion. Later, in our room, we listened to the radio, the Sinhala service of Radio Ceylon. During the previous year, 1971, the first JVP insurrection had occurred, and a public inquiry was broadcast on the radio. My former civics teacher in secondary school, Mr. Shanmugam, had joined the police and become an SP. I distinctly remember him being cross examined at the inquiry. Before 9pm, we turned off the kerosene lamp and went to sleep.
Our landlord was comparatively well off, being a carpenter. He also owned a small plot of paddy. The village was surrounded by a large tea plantation, Telbedde Estate, but all the workers there were Tamils residing on the estate. Most villagers scratched a living from subsistence farming, or a little patch of sweet potatoes, a grove of manioc, and various vegetables. A staple food was kollu (horse gram), especially among those who did not own paddy fields. One had to be very poor to be eating it, because kollu was usually fed to horses, and I am now reminded of how Samuel Johnson defined oats: “A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.”
Once, in response to a survey that the Education Department conducted, a large number of families, in the area, indicated an income of Rs. 100/ – not monthly, but annually. That is, about Rs. 10/ per month. In today’s terms, that would be less than Rs. 1000/ for a family, for an entire month. How people managed to feed themselves, leaving cash for clothes and other essentials aside, was a mystery. The “plight of the Kandyan peasantry” is no cliché.
Except for the teachers, no student or villager may have seen the sea, or Colombo, or even Kandy. None may have tasted sea food. The height of sophistication was Badulla town, which glittered at night with electric lights. The town even had water on tap! The cinemas, with a galaxy of popular Sinhala, Tamil, and Hindi films, drew estate workers and villagers from all around.
The village had a small temple, at the bottom of a hill, surrounded by paddy fields. The easy going young monk formed a friendship with me. He was curious about Christianity, and I explained as best as I could, avoiding tricky topics such as the Holy Trinity. On poya days, all the students and the teachers, dressed in white, observed sil at the temple, sitting on the ground of the spotlessly clean premises, in the shade of a bo tree and a small stupa. I recall the peaceful ambience, and the monk’s simple and appealing sermons.
A few afternoons a week, Gunaratne and I collected our soiled clothes in a bundle, and, a towel draped around our necks, walked to the stream to wash our clothes and to bathe. Usually, a few older male students joined us. We first walked downstream and washed our clothes, soaping and pounding them on the rocks. Then, we clambered upstream, sat in a rocky pool, and bathed leisurely, listening to Gunaratne’s endless jokes, always ending with “Hinawela marenewa” (die laughing).
On some evenings, when we were bored, he and I strolled to the edge of a hill, from where we could gaze at Badulla town, down in the valley to our right, and the majestic Namunukula mountain range across the valley to our left. Sometimes, a couple of students came along. As twilight descended, we could see the electric lights twinkling in Badulla. We talked aimlessly, sharing the news and gossip, but were wistful, longing for what we did not have at Kandegolla.
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