From My Notebooks In 1976: India and Ceylon

30th November 2024 |

We have a holiday season ahead of us and I’d like to contribute to the fun. I still have stack of my Camera book, and I’d like to see them go. I have no problem saying it’s a beautiful book and I’m sure you all know someone who’d like to have it, so for the next two weeks I’ll knock $20 off the price. It will cost you $30 instead of $50, until Saturday 14th. If you buy more than one, let me know and I should be able to reduce the postage.

Merry Christmas!

. . . and now for the main course

I’ve left Auroville and the temples behind me and I’m about to take a ferry from the mainland at Rameswaram to Ceylon. As in Penang they are insisting that I must pay for a first-class ticket.

October 4th, 1976

The ferry. Shipping office. Uncle and nephew, all in white. I tell them about change of policy on Chidambaram. “It has not reached here yet” they say. And go on to describe virtues of first-class travel. Sometimes boat doesn’t leave till 7 pm. (Sailing time is 2 pm). And at the other end may be held up for hours. Europeans – especially Germans – are outraged by this. So now all white people are forcibly privileged to be the first off – at an extra 22 rupees a head. Total fare 50 rupees. The m/cycle fare is 14. 25 + 10 rupees handling + 2 rupees port charge + 10 rupees tip + 4 rupees drinks and cigs while waiting = 90. On Ceylon side 5 rupees handling, 1 rupee port charge, 6 rupees for maintenance of the floating wharf under the wear and tear of my motorcycle. Total cost, 102.

Formalities began at 10 am. I boarded the bike at about 1 pm. The ferry sailed at 5 pm. At about 8.30 we touched alongside a jetty – but then took off again into the ocean. At 10 we once again touched a wharf, only to sail away in a great circle and reapproach on the other side. Got ashore with bike at 12.15. Sea distance covered, about 25 miles. On the boat were modern tourists, some nuns from Dalhousie with 70 students. Some well-to do N.Indian girls just like the ones on the Chidambaram, and saying exactly the same things, flippant observations with no substance, intended to exhibit sophistication. Well, that’s universal, so it’s the subjects and attitudes that are particular. Jokes about the incompetence and idleness of others, from a superior and detached point of view.

On the boat a very short man with a John Player beard travelling with an African girl.

Mick and Martha Desorbes, travelling by train in India. Endless ordeal. To break journey, ticket must be signed by station master on leaving train and rejoining train. Also you forfeit the sleeper reservation. All this takes hours of time, so every stop is an exhausting prospect. Endless hustling. People running in and out of compartment. Towns all crowded. India [they say] is just a place to go through to get to Nepal, Ceylon, Afghanistan.

Also on board was the short Aussie that Murray called a ‘bushie.’ When I first saw him I’d settled into a cane deckchair to read and wipe my tapes. I had the helmet on the next seat, and he paused in frit if it. “Are you tired of answering the same questions,” he asked. I seized the opportunity with firm “Yes.” He sat on the bench opposite, staring fixedly out across the rail. After a while I thought I’d offer him the chair which was obviously more comfortable. He sat next to me and tried to keep quiet – he knew I wanted to read and was in sympathy, but like a kettle on the boil he couldn’t help spluttering. At one point he said, “Would you like to hear some Communism?”

This is the third time I’ve bumped into him.

On my left were four Hari Krishna disciples. The one next to me had small cymbals. Another had a drum of the two ended kind which he carried on a red braid around his neck As I dozed they went into a chant, almost good at one point. But they were a messy looking quartet – not very convincing. Fellini could have used them.

Somebody said the Indians on the lower deck didn’t get off till 4 am, and that they are badly treated by the officials.

I rode off into mysterious darkness, wondering how to find the rest house, but a boy walking along was also going there. Rooms were occupied. I slept on the sand in the compound next to a smart Aus. Vehicle with a raised roof. Drank a beer and fell into a stupor.

October 5th

To Mannar. 20 miles down the road. But the reserve tap only had nine miles worth. Stopped at bus shelter. Second vehicle stopped and sold me a pint. “Lucky chap,” said driver.

Mannar rest house. Heavy rain clouds. Stayed. Big room for 5.50 rupees. Mick & Marsha [from the UK] were there. Also the American with the myopic personality, and Canadian. Eventually we talked well – especially interested in Mick’s THC [Tetrahydrocannabinol] trip, and his reasons for making it.

He was very strong about continuing class structure (he has a very strong accent) and feels that at home it’s impossible to move. Strong also against immigrants and made some remark about Jews I don’t recall. The Canadian, on the other hand, had much wilder things to say about Socialism which I found more offensive because they were outside his experience. Is this the difference between opinion and prejudice?

Walked out across the bridge where two men were fishing with tapered poles – of bamboo? They seemed to be laminated. Water shallow by the causeway. Many fish and one big crab. Water birds. Low huts along shore, and coconut palms. Peaceful scene. Fort built in 1698 – occupied by customs.

October 6th

Rode to Trincomalee. Since ship felt twinges in my back. Now getting worse. Very bumpy tarred road. At first through paddy fields – very dry. Here in Ceylon, for the first time, I identify entirely with population’s thirst for water, there’s been partial drought for three years. If anyone can bring them rain, I can, and indeed I already have. First rain in eight months on my arrival. Now I find myself actually wanting it for their sakes.

Ten miles outside Trinco there’s a flat piece of rock by roadside with light grass cover. Stop and stretch out – back is now contorted in muscle spasm. After a few minutes under umbrella muscles gratefully relaxed, a car comes and stops. I peer up at the driver.

He looks perturbed. “Elephants,” he says. “Rogues. You must not stay. Rogues. Go on to Trinco. Rogues . . . etc.” The thought of elephants is much more exciting than frightening, but his urgency infects me. Besides, he obviously won’t go until I move. But at least I can stand up straight again.

A bus in old Ceylon

Trincomalee is like a town with no middle. Find a hotel and enter it before noticing the flies. They swarm and carpet the tables. Well-meaning but obsequious old man tells me he used to supply vegetables when Europeans were there. Flies because of fish market across the road. Serves me good rice & beef curry for 5 rps (14 to dollar). Then to rest house. Too expensive. Back too bad now to look for somewhere else, so I miss the Chinese Guest House and settle for Beach Paradise, only just short of awful. Bed is particularly bad, sack cloth and straw, very irritating. Cover it with foam pad and lie down. Apart from short dip in ocean, day spent lying down. Back makes me miserable. The two German sisters from Germany are there too and I try unsuccessfully to be entertaining. They lend me a Pat Highsmith book set in Venice. Devour it in bad light.

Here are two more things – for Germans in my audience

My autobiography “Don’t Boil The Canary” has been translated into German – although it has an English title, “Go For It” – and you can get it at these web sites:

Of course you can get it in English from me.

UND

Natürlich kennen sie alle Bernd Tesch. Er hat ein neues Buch und wollte das ich Ihn da von spreche. (How am I doing so far? No AI) Hier ist was Bernd mir geschikt hat,

New Book from Bernd Tesch; Australien Abenteuer Reisen. Entdeckung des Kontinents vom Urknall bis heute durch alle Reisearten.448 S. 500 Abb, Fotos. Hardcover. DM 32,00 plus postage Info und Bezug. https://shop.berndtesch.de

Of course, if you don’t have any Deutschmarks, I’m sure Euros will do.

And here’s one last thing:

You may find this an odd request, but I don’t know any other way to ask.

During the first half of my life, when lying in bed waiting for sleep, I quite regularly experienced a quite pronounced CLICK in my brain – trying to describe it I’d say it was more like the tail end of a small explosion, once or even twice. It stopped some time in my fifties and has never happened again.

Have any of you had a similar experience? Can anyone guess what might have caused it?