Chapter 16
Soon, a young man with a tray full of fried fish cut in small pieces came up and placed it on a makeshift table constructed simply by digging four stakes into the soft beach sand and placing a rough plank on it. There was no cutlery. Everything was eaten by hand, morsels bitten off if the pieces were too large.

Bill bit into a sizzling chunk of fish. It still dripped oil from the deep pan, and was pungent with the flavour of lime. Other slices of lime were placed on the plate. Bill bit through the brown crust into the succulent flesh.

"Beautiful," he pronounced with deep feeling.

"Bounty of the ocean," said Wickrema. "This is a fishing village, remember. The fish you are eating was caught just a couple of hours ago. It’s leaping fresh when cut for cooking. In Negombo and in other fishing towns like Moratuwa and Panadura and Galle and Matara, fish can be cooked in dozens of ways. At a wedding feast I attended last Saturday in Moratuwa, there were twenty four varieties of the culinary art as applied to fish."

"Twenty four?" said Bill, impressed.

"That’s only half of what they know."

The young men were sprawled about drinking toddy out of coconut shells. They were the hardy cups in many villages. Glass tumblers and crockery were reserved for special occasions and for visitors and usually kept safe in a wooden, glass-fronted case. Every home had one in the living room and the contents indicated the social status of the inmate.

"You like to see the town a little? Before lunch? Wickrema, you like to join us?"

Bill and Wickrema rose to accept Pat’s invitation. Wickrema also welcomed the opportunity as it would provide him with another, if mobile lecture forum.

"This was the last bastion of the Dutch imperialists," he said as they walked along a canal that traversed the town. "These canals are one of their lasting legacies. They constructed them with remarkable foresight to transport goods cheaply to the city. Environmentally sound too. No pollution. Well, not of the mechanical kind anyway," he added with an exaggerated wink that contorted his whole face.

"As you probably know already we have been sitting ducks for all kinds of invaders. We’ve had the Indians coming over in hordes. Then the big timers came with the big guns. First the Portuguese. And they sowed alien corn. They corrupted our language, our religion, our race and left behind the first of the white bastards. Oops, sorry," he said. "I didn’t mean any insult. Nothing personal. Just a matter of fact and precise language.

"In the earliest of the trade wars, with rival navies fighting for supremacy of the very lucrative spice trade, the Dutch ousted the Portuguese and supplanted Catholicism with their branch of Christianity, Calvinism. Both branches I’m afraid were planted with the sword. Now when Buddhism was first introduced to Ceylon, it came from India, from a mighty Emperor who under the benign influence of an enlightened philosophy, forsook violence and established a rule of great wisdom and tolerance.

"He sent a single ambassador, his son, Mahinda, who incidentally bore no arms other than a message of non-violence. So powerful was this message that it instantly converted the king, Devanampiya Tissa, who passed it on as a lasting legacy to his subjects. And I am one of the beneficiaries though not a pure one unfortunately.

"Buddhism fell into decline with the western invaders, and you have here in Negombo a citadel of Catholicism. And there," he said pointing at a church grandly incongruous in its setting, "there is the principal place of worship."

Bill looked around for the incongruities – small huts and hovels made of dried coconut fronds with floors of dried clay. Half naked and fully naked ebony coloured children with unwashed faces and snotty noses stood mutely as they passed. Their mothers clad in gingham camboys and long sleeved blouses, or in bodices exposing pendulous bosoms, attended to household chores. Many of them smoked black cigars, the noxious fumes of which wafted to the street.

Bill said nothing but tucked the impression away. This was an entirely strange world to him and he had been warned not to react naively or rudely.

He had been given the handy, hoary advice by the National Chaplain in Melbourne. "Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut." Bill tried to keep his mouth shut but occasionally it fell open.

A little while later they passed a richer part of town. There were large houses with ornate balconies, polished floors, rich drapes in the windows, and well-tended lawns resplendent with tropical blooms. In the porches were luxury cars.

It was Pat who now spoke. "These are the people who hold the lives of the fishermen in their hands. They own the boats, the nets, the haul. The fishermen pay a rent for the use of the equipment, and they get ten per cent of the catch. They must sell it each day to the rich merchants who will freeze it and take it to Colombo and other towns close by for sale in the markets for ten times the price they pay the fishermen."

"How can they pay the rent for the gear?" Bill asked.

"They are in debt. Or they borrow money at 120 per cent interest."

"Well, I’ll be a monkey’s aunt," said Bill.

Pat laughed out loud and incongruously. It broke the mood.

"Now we’ll take a look at the fish market and get back to lunch," he said.

It was at the northern tip of the town, a large expanse of land with the blue-green sea at the back. Bill reckoned there were about fifty vendors scattered about, each with a basket of leaping fresh fish, covered with hordes of flies, ritually fanned away with old newspapers or dried leaves of the Jak tree.

Most of the vendors were women, all ebony-coloured with low-cut, white blouses, all smoking black cigars.

Swarming around were also crowds of people, haggling and beaten back in strident tones by the vendors. Bill looked keenly interested.

"What are they saying?" he asked. "That’s not Sinhala they are speaking, is it?"

"No, its Tamil," said Pat. Then he added grinning, "If you understood what they are saying you’d shut your ears."

"This is a Tamil fishing village then?" Bill enquired.

"Oh, no," said Wickrema, glad to throw some light on a matter he understood well. "This is a very Sinhalese village of the Karawa or fisher caste. A small percentage are Bharathas. They are from South India, and they are essentially traders. They, too, are Catholics. They are Tamils, and they speak Tamil too. The Sinhalese send their children to Tamil language schools in the early years."

Bill was puzzled. "Why?"

"One explanation is that many of these fishermen are migrant fishermen. They go in some seasons, for several months at a time, to the eastern and Northern coasts, to fish. There they must speak Tamil to get on, do business. Usage made Tamil their natural language. But at heart they remained Sinhalese.

"So they think of Tamils as competitors, as historic enemies, as people to be feared.

"The Tamils here are more prosperous as they engage in trade and commerce. They own the textile shops, the pawn broking business. Their children go to private schools in Colombo. They have private carts, and some have cars. They are rich, they act rich and they have little to do with the fisherfolk."

"In the race riots last year, the Tamil-speaking Sinhalese gave the Tamil-speaking Tamils one hell of a time. They looted their stores, then burnt them; they assaulted the men and raped their women."

Pat chipped in, this time not grinning.

"When finally peace came the rioters and the victims went to the same church and received Communion at the same rails."

That I have a slightly different point of view on the significance of language, per se, in a sociological context. People do not fight over language. They fight over the economic advantages that a language brings in a certain context. Sinhalese who go to England or America to study, and then stay on to work in those countries, don’t give a rotten fig about their precious language and culture. If they can make their fortunes and ensure that their progeny can make their fortunes as well, no matter in what language, then perhaps they might spend a little time and thought on preserving their language and religion."

It was nearly noon. The sand was heated and the land breeze was getting to be oppressive.

"Let’s go back and have some lunch before our little meeting," Pat suggested.

"Good idea," Bill agreed.

Sounds of revelry reached them before they got to the camp. When they got there, several of the youths were dancing to an entrancing rhythm. Bill found himself swinging his hips and waving his arms to the rhythm almost unwittingly.

"Look at me," he said, "I’m actually dancing."

"That’s the baila dance music, my friend. You have to be a tree to resist that."

"Baila? What’s that?"

"That’s another relic of our past of bondage." Wickrema said, stretching an arm in a melodramatic gesture. "The Portuguese brought it with them..."

"And left it, I’m happy to see," said Bill warmly.

There was a young man seated on a chair with two tablespoons held between two fingers, tapping them to the beat of the music. The men appeared to be singing duets in a competitive spirit.

"More toddy?" Pat enquired.

"And why not?" Bill replied.

The drink tasted tepid, even warm. Even Bill could sense some fermentation had occurred. After a few draughts he had a heady feeling. A plate of king-sized prawns fried, with the oil still sizzling on them, arrived. Bill bit into one and felt his head would blow off.

"Foooo," he exhaled. "That was hot. Wow!"

Pat instructed one of the men to wash the chilli and spices off for the visitor.

Bill was sweating profusely. The others appeared to suffer no ill effects. Lunch was a banquet set in a long shed also constructed, like the other huts, with poles and dried coconut fronds. It was dark and cool inside. On a long table, also makeshift, were steaming dishes of boiled rice, several curries of prawn, lobster, fish prepared in several ways, cooked, fried, boiled and made into a salad with onions, green chillies, sliced tomato and maldive fish, fried papadam wafers, fried red chilli peppers, looking dangerously hot, Jak cooked, a mallun, a salad of shredded greens and spices, coconut sambol, an unusual accompaniment made of fresh, grated coconut, red chilli, onions and maldive fish with salt and lime juice. There was also a light coconut soup and dried fish fried. Rice could be eaten with any or all of these dishes. It was an exquisitely typical Ceylonese lunch and the beach was alive with their multiple flavours.

"And now," said Pat, "I will explain how the YCW tries to protect workers from the Marxists."

The sumptuous lunch behind them, they still stayed in the cool of the hut. Pat and Bill sat at the head of the table. Wickrema had been deftly taken off the scene as this meeting had nothing to do with him. The others sat around anyhow, now clad in clean shirts, shorts or sarongs. No one smoked. Bill wondered whether only the women of the town smoked. It was later explained that people did not smoke in the presence of elders and superiors. Pat and Bill both came into the dual category.

The afternoon wore on while Pat explained the current trade union scene. The trade union movement had begun in Ceylon in 1922, with the formation of the Ceylon Labour Union by A E Goonesinghe. That had been in the height of the reign of the British. During a strike of tramways employees organised by Goonesinghe, the British had tried to assassinate him, but had mistakenly shot another lawyer who resembled Goonesinghe.

Of such brave beginnings had the union movement sprung. But shortly before the granting of independence to Ceylon, several young Marxists, each personally ambitious, had founded several Marxist parties, and later split up into factional groups. They all, however, drew inspiration and owed allegiance to Moscow. And in order to widen and strengthen their power bases they made several inroads into independent, not politically led, trade unions. By the time the first elections were held they were well established in several trades, and among city clerks and port workers. They were able to obtain nineteen seats in the first Parliament as well. Then, with the successful revolution in China in 1950, the country and the workers and the trade union movement had another factor to consider.

Until Bandaranaike came into power, all other Prime Ministers had been wary of the Communist threat. But Bandaranaike with his liberal outlook and more because he wanted to cut a figure on the international scene, opened the doors wide to Communist influence. Embassies were sent to and accepted by several Communist countries from the Soviet Union and its satellites, and China.

The result was that the Communist unions, too, were vastly strengthened. They received funding from several Communist countries, help in numerous other ways, training, scholarships and other perks. But with the various Marxist groups fighting for supremacy and attempting to swallow each other, the country was plagued with a multiplicity of strikes. Philip Gunawardene, the choleric Minister of Food and Agriculture was battling it out at the Port with his former comrade, N M Perera, now Leader of the Opposition. Shanmuganathan, once a lackey of the Russian Communists was now lapping up the Red soup from China.

Bill smiled at the colourful imagery of Pat.

The country was being bled white by strikes.

"The YCW is not for or against any political party or ideology. We want to win the workers for Christ. That was the ideal of our founder, Cardijn. We want to preserve the essential dignity of the worker. We don’t want the worker exploited either by employers or by trade unionists turned politicians, or politicians turned trade unionists.

"We don’t organise strikes. We have never done so in Ceylon or in any of the countries in Europe or Asia where we have millions of members.

"We only try to teach them Gospel values, the Kingdom values. We teach them the dignity of labour, we teach them to give an honest day’s work for a just wage. Our leader is Christ the worker. But in this we try to protect them from the Marxists. In that area we battle. We fight with every resource we have. We use the methods of the Communists. We try to infiltrate Communist unions. We are well informed. And we know we are feared and hated by the Marxists. But we are not afraid because Christ is our leader."

The oration was greeted by much banging on the rough wooden tables and hand clapping. What a man, thought Bill, what a mob orator.

Later Pat explained other forces they had to fight to preserve the purity of trade unionism.

Communal politics had entered the scene. At union elections, members were urged to vote for candidates of their own ethnic group, or rivals were vilified for being of a minority race.

After the 1958 riots things had become much worse. And there was also the ancient fear of the Indians. The vast army of Indian migrant labour in the plantations located mostly in the central region and some in the south western low country tea plantations had been organised by trade unionists with Indian affiliations. In fact the first of such unions had been called the Ceylon Indian Congress, the last name meant to evoke sympathy for the Indian Congress.

"In Negombo and in other fishing villages, the YCW is organising fishermen to help them break the stranglehold of the mudalalis. These men labour in the most perilous occupation, daily, cross the island twice a year, to make a living, And all they get is a tiny fraction of what they deserve. And most of them are up to their eyes in debt.

You have seen some of their hovels, you have seen their children. They live in this misery and there is no hope for them unless we get them aid to buy their own boats, their own nets, and provide them good marketing facilities.

Unless we get these for them the Marxists will, and we will lose them.

And when they go they will lose their faith, the faith of their fathers.

This is the plum the Marxists seek. The coasts are ready for picking. We have to win them for the Kingdom. Nor for this kingdom that will pass away, but for the eternal Kingdom."

It was clearly a talk aimed at the fishermen. Bill had been brought in for show. A white man’s presence, a white man’s support still meant much among the common people.

When the applause had died down, Pat invited him to address the gathering.

Bill had been alerted to the possibility and he was to some extent prepared. He rose to speak and this time Pat acted as interpreter.

"I come from an island country too," he began, "and fishing is a very important occupation for my people. But most of them own their own boats and gear, and most of them make good money. They can buy their own houses, they have their own cars, they dress very well, educate their children in good schools and save enough to retire in comfort.

"Those who work for companies get regular wages which are quite reasonable and enable them to live almost as well as the private fishermen.

"But although our country is quite young, just over 150 years old in terms of white settlement, we were never under a foreign rule the way you were. Now that you are independent, you must be careful not to come under the domination of another country by embracing a foreign ideology.

"I am here as a YCW member myself. I have taken one year off my work to see how the workers here are faring, to judge what action needs to be taken to ensure you get the due rewards of your labour."

The hut in which they gathered had three entrances. One end was fully open and the sea was visible through that. There were two openings which could hold doors but didn’t, on either side on the eastern end where Bill and Pat were speaking.

Without either of them noticing it, a man dressed in a white sarong and a red shirt was standing to the left of them. He had been listening to the latter part of Pat’s speech and now to Bill’s address. At this point he walked up and faced them. Then speaking in Sinhala he said, "We don’t need white imperialists here. We have got rid of them," he said in a loud voice. "We don’t need white imperialists to tell us how to run our country. Tell this para suddha to get out of here and out of the country."

With that he whipped out a dagger from his waist and brandished it over his head.

Although Bill did not understand much of what the man had spoken, it was clear the man was a Marxist, had addressed his remarks concerning him and that he was about to launch a violent attack. He turned quite red, then very white, but smiled disarmingly.

A man darted between the intruder and Bill.

Speaking in a low voice he told the man that the white person was an Australian. He was not from an imperialist country. He was a guest of the country, and more importantly, their guest.

"Put that knife away, and don’t be a fool," he said. "Now, leave quietly."

"All right, Christo," he said, "I’ll go. I didn’t know he was from Australia."

Then he put his knife back in his waist. Coming up to Bill he folded his hands in a gesture of placation, bowed deeply and said Samawenda seeking Bill’s forgiveness, and left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The other men, too, gathered round and used the same word, Samawenda, and patted him on the back gently.

Pat, too, apologised.

"I don’t think we need more talk," he said.

"Yes, I now see what you mean," said Bill, now quite composed.

Chapter 17

The beatitudes hung like a warm benediction in the afternoon air. "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied, blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy, blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God..."

The man’s voice fell like a trickle of syrup falling and piling in a minute mound before spreading. It was a thick, brown voice mellow with early manhood.

A formal YCW cell meeting had begun.

About a dozen men and women dressed in working clothes: cotton trousers, shorts, frocks, open sandals, sat around a rough table which doubled for table tennis sometimes. Long, heavy benches with hard planks at the back and bugs in the crevices of the wood served as seats by day and beds by night.

continued tomorrow