From My Notebooks In 1976: A Fortress In Ceylon

May I remind you that I am reproducing here, word for word, the notes I took on my so-called Jupiter Journey, frequently disjointed, sometimes almost incomprehensible, even to me. At this point I am still in Ceylon [Sri Lanka today] at Trincomalee, on my way to Sigirya, an ancient fortress.

October 7th

Back seems bit better. Walk to Fort Frederick – lots of big, shady banyans inside, few monkeys in them, and spotted deer below. Take great comfort from the general quiet. So peaceful after India. Is it the individuals, or the mass makes such a disturbance? Have various half-formed impressions about what happens when population compressed – as in physics. Something must crystalise out. Does structure result from compression – or density. And a pattern having been established does the process continue even after pressure is removed? i.e. Do people cling together as a matter of habit (structure) custom. They seem to. Watch them at any post office counter – cf Penang, noses through the grill. Or remember the queue at the bank at Roissy airport, with the man behind actually pushing against me for almost half an hour – or would have if I’d let him. Is there a difference also between island and mainland (All these ideas seem suddenly very important (cf. Australia – the reverse.)

CUSTOMS & CROWDS

Hindu mythology is as crowded as Hindu life. Ceylon has the Buddha. We have one God, but Africans and American Indians have many spirits.

In the evening I invite Octavia & Cordula to Chinese dinner. Not totally altruistic. I’m invited to stay in Munich. We lie on beach afterwards under full moon – Poya, a holiday – until a heavy shower sends us running. Yes, I can run a little.

October 8th

Ride around Trinco. Tea at boutik, breakfast at Fish hotel. Then pursuit of map takes me to Harbour Road. Welcombe Hotel, ABCD café, Survey office.

Pack and leave at 11.30. Endless entreaties to stay at Traveller’s Nest in Kandy. Will avoid it. Sell my sandals for 10 rupees. 30% profit. 60 miles to Segirya (lion’s throat).

Wanted to go to Baticalao (original Portuguese influence) but too many unpredictable ferries. Stop at Kantalai Rest House for lemonade. Tank almost empty. Then stop for some monkeys with orange faces (most are black) but the interminable process of stopping and switching lenses is far too clumsy. Ride on and stop for rain shower. Leave disposable lighter in road. Suppose a monkey finds it, carries it off, hands it on, father to son, for a million years or so, until long after human race is extinct, an evolved monkey finally gets it to work, and the whole process begins all over again?

Sigirya lies under blackest rain clouds. Circuit bungalow has room. Sit in rest house, as first rain breaks in torrents. Everyone delighted. I’ve done it again.

[Ceylon has been suffering under a serious drought, but I seem to be bringing the rain with me.]

The fortress is carved into the top of this extraordinary rock formation

Two Russians come in soaked to skin. After the angry look he gave me earlier I find that amusing. Another couple arrive at bungalow – a Berliner and a Japanese girl. He has an extraordinarily resonant but monotonous voice which drones from their bedroom. Dinner is terrific. Veg.

Dream strangely of publishing – of responsibility shirked, of floating down spiral stairs round a lift shaft, touching rail delicately here and there [flashback to that childhood fantasy]. Of being with Walsh in a Morris Minor and handing over to him, unable to drive, but without rancour. It suddenly occurred to me yesty that I still owed my mother that £500. Must write to her about it.

October 9th

This way up

Got up at 5.45 and walked to rock. Long climb. Back still bad. Long climb to lion’s paws. Then up iron staircase and on to sentry ridge cut in rock. Although the iron rails make it perfectly safe, for me they became as soft and unreliable as marzipan. Halfway along I had to give up and go down again. Then on the stone terrace I reorganised myself and then went up again – this time easily. What caused the breakdown?

This where I lost my nerve – and found it again

The Russians are Yugoslavs. Also, the woman lives in Paris as a construction engineer. The man is a professional artist and has a sheaf of watercolours to prove it. Furthermore, they are both quite charming people. So, I’m falling into bad habits myself.

Back to bungalow through deep night, with the most fantastic roar issuing from the jungle on left ¬– mostly frogs, I suppose, but sounds much more aggressive. Imagine being in it, or meeting an elephant now, on the road. Everything is extremely wet – rained harder and longer today. At bungalow feel a sense of lively pleasure to find the Schrenk sisters sitting at the table.

They arrived soaked to the skin, but in good spirits.

The man who runs the bungalow directly, helped by a 70-year-old man, has already given my back a massage earlier today, with oil. Now he’s going to apply a hot towel before bed. Has the roundest, most eloquent eyes. Took picture at last.

The staff at the Circuit House

PS: If you are wanting to take advantage of my offer of Jupiter’s Travels in Camera, would you please order it separately, not in combination with other books, to avoid a possible problem with shipping.

Thank you