John Ackland Forsythe: the found diaries. 30 August 1939

I've been shuffling, snuffling, ruffling around Dad's old camphor wood chest he and my mum bought in Japan in 1946 or thereabouts. It's full of his Japanese flash cards. Kanji characters on one side, with fine brush strokes, done by his teacher. On the other side, how you say the character, and its meaning. 

Digging down a little more, I come across a leather bound book, a kind of a Moleskine, but old, wrinkled, hard from age. 

It turns out it's my Dad's and starting from his first voyage overseas, to go to take up his scholarship at the Sorbonne University in Paris. Just as war was about to break out. He got only as far as Colombo in what was then known as Ceylon, no Sri Lanka, before war was declared and his boat turned back to Australia. 

I've edited a bit. And tidied up a bit. And maybe even interpolated a bit. But I'll jump right in to arrival in Colombo. Maybe later circle back for some catch ups to his life, as described by him, shortly before the war. 

30 August 1939

Me on my Baradine steamer chugging into Colombo, Ceylon.

Dawn’s breaking, sky’s all mango and fire. The island’s a green hump like it’s been there forever. Palms sway, hills roll, and some Buddhist dome glints in the light. Water’s clear, fish dart, gulls scream.

Dock’s a madhouse: coolies haul tea and spice, sweating through their rags, chanting to keep rhythm. Carts rattle, horns blare, and the air’s thick with salt, cinnamon, and fried fish from stalls slinging curry and noodles.

Colombo’s crazy color. British buildings—fancy, white, verandas—sit next to Tamil temples, their gods carved in loud reds and golds. Sinhalese women in saris glide through bazaars, baskets on heads. Men in sarongs haggle over rice and coconuts. Rickshaws dodge horse carts; some rich guy’s motorcar honks like it owns the place. Monks chant somewhere, cutting through the noise. It’s chaos, but it seems to work. 

 

1 September 1939

I stop at a tea shop under a tree I learn is a banyan. So lovely with its arial roots. Take a cup of local tea. Nice, like ours back home. Locals jabber in Sinhala, Tamil, bits of English. Radios hum with news from Europe.

Then it drops—war has been declared in Europe. Germany rolled into Poland; Britain and France have declared war. What does this mean for me? For us? Here is all quiet. A British officer nearby freezes, tea ignored. A Tamil trader grumbles about ships and shortages. Another shakes his head, like, What’s this got to do with us? 

Life goes on. Harbor’s still buzzing—crates unloaded, vendors yelling. But you feel the shift. War’s far, but it’s coming. Maybe. We've been told to return to Australia, I just heard. Board the Baradine. Sun’s up, heat’s like a wet towel. Island shrinks behind us, green fading into blue.

It’s gorgeous but fragile.