Stembo and the tomb-raider

by Tissa Devendra

Sam Stembo was, perhaps, the most unusual of the Supervisors who worked with me in the mid-1950s when I was a District Land Officer in the Nuwara Eliya District.

While all other Supervisors were Sinhalese or Tamils who had studied in village schools, Stembo was the sole Burgher who had been in a Colombo school. He was also quite older than the rest, whom he treated with avuncular advice and amusement in equal measure.

The explanation for his seniority was that he had been in the British Army during WW II and thus secured exemption from the age qualification to join government service as a field officer tramping the great outdoors he loved, instead of pen-pushing in a dusty office. His Kotahena antecedents were far removed from those of his more pukka "compatriots" and equipped him with the salty Sinhala vocabulary he used for tongue-lashing back-sliding peasant settlers whose construction works he supervised.

The story begins

After a day of muscle-aching climbing the hills of Uda Hewaheta to inspect the progress made by settlers on their far-flung cottages, we finally came to the Rest House at Hanguranketa where we were to spend the night before yet another tiring day.

After an "ah-gudoos" bath, I slipped into a sarong and thankfully stretched my weary legs on the arms of a 'hansi-putuwa' on the veranda. As was my habit, when on field inspections where I had to spend a 'night out', I carried a few books with me to read myself to sleep.

This evening I settled down to read a book, from the bookshelves of my archaeologist father, on Howard Carter's excavation of Tutankhamen's tomb. Stembo sat himself down nearby with an apologetic smile as he was sipping his customary sun-downer.

He looked with curiosity at my book and said "You know, sir, I was in Egypt during The War and saw Tutankhamen's mummy and treasures in the Cairo Museum". With this opening salvo he captured my attention. I set aside my book and prepared to listen to a master story-teller.

My request "Tell me about it, Sam." was offering a ladder to a monkey which Stembo shinned up with alacrity as he began the saga of his Egyptian adventure, which held me in thrall right through dinner and until a very late bed time.

"The British Army accepted me as soon as I passed my physical. I had two qualifications' I spoke good English and I could drive. This won me a place in the Royal Army Service Corps [RASC] where I was trained for a few weeks during which my home folks and girl friends benefited from NAAFI tinned foods, never seen on Colombo's largely empty shop-shelves.

At last I set off on the journey I had longed for, on a troop-carrying ship headed for the Middle East. It was a ghastly voyage, with many of us sea-sick and spewing most of the time. It was an old ship, and we sailed without lights and in a zig-zag way to avoid enemy submarines. It was a great relief when we touched land at Port Said and were bundled off in trucks to the barracks in Cairo."

War in the desert

"The first few weeks we spent in Barracks and the dusty parade ground where we drilled and were roughly inducted into Army discipline. This was followed by gruelling lessons in driving ten ton trucks in the desert. We had too little time, or money, to look around the Cairo that bustled around outside our barrack gates. Our exploration of the city would have to wait till our week-end pass.

Driving a ten-ton truck through the desert, loaded with equipment or troops, was a gruelling experience. Cairo was crowded with camels, carts and madmen, our road in the shifting sands was almost invisible. We navigated following earlier tyre tracks and concrete barrels buried in the sand as markers.

We also had to keep a sharp eye for pressure mines that the Germans had buried and cunningly run tires over to mislead us. Once in a while we saw the scary sight of the abandoned remains of blown-up trucks.

The camps we supplied were far from being spick and span barracks. They were hardly visible from afar. Tanks and armoured vehicles were in shelters dug out in the sand, as were the crude bunkers for the troops. Camouflage nets were draped over everything to hide from German spotter planes.

The troops were shabbily dressed and very smelly as the only water available was for drinking only. I must admit that I never saw any real fighting. But one night, when we had to sleep over at a front line camp I heard the distant rumble of heavy guns and saw ceaseless flashes on the distant horizon. It was with relief that I headed back to Cairo.

Wartime Cairo

It took us some time to realize that Egypt was not a British colony. This was a common mistake as Cairo was flooded with Allied troops British, Australian, South African, Indian and so on. But Egypt was not a combatant, but remained technically neutral with its own King the helpless playboy young Farouk. England was the real power determined to hang on to Egypt and keep Rommel from sweeping over the Suez Canal to the oil-fields of the Middle East. That's why we were there.

Wartime Cairo was a bustling place far more crowded and confusing than our Pettah. It was a shock to step out from our barracks into this teeming mass. Just outside our gate was a rowdy low-life area crowded with pedlars, street musicians, dancers, palmists and, of course, whores of all sizes and colours who lived in a maze of narrow alleys between mud-brick buildings.

Bemused young soldiers in various uniforms kilts, turbans, cocked hats etc wandered about in their heavy boots. Once in a while we saw columns of prisoners-of-war Rommel's Germans yet proudly marching in step and scruffy Italians shambling along.

I am no saint yet I must confess that the tarts of Cairo held no attraction for me. I was a great reader in school and fascinated by stories of the Pyramids and mummies of the Pharaohs (as you seem to be). I was, therefore, determined to see the Pyramids and visit the Museum. I saw both but I won't describe them as so much has been written about them. But all I can say is they were far more ancient and impressive than the ruined cities of Ceylon.

As I was looking around the mummies at the museum I noticed an Egyptian guide trailing me. I tried to shoo him off in pidgin English "Me Indian. No money". He waited till I stepped out and, to my surprise, spoke to me in passable English. He had been intrigued to see a poor Indian interested in Egyptian antiquities.

He introduced himself as Abdul and offered to show me his collection of antiques. He was not discouraged when I said that I could not afford to buy anything. I know you like old things Just come and look I had little of value to tempt any thief, and Abdul's offer intrigued me so I set off with him.

We passed through narrow alleys bustling with sellers of spices, gold and silver merchants hammering away in little cubicles and sellers of carpets.I followed Abdul as he pushed through the crowd and turned sharply into a narrow doorway shadowed by a tattered carpet.

We climbed a rickety wooden staircase and, pushing open an ornately carved door, stepped into the incense sweet air of a richly carpeted room lined with cushions for sitting. One wall was lined with shelves that held a fantastic array of objects from the age of the Pharaohs.

I recovered these from forgotten old tombs and, after the War, they'll be sold to museums in America and Europe. It was now clear to me that Abdul was a well established tomb robber. This meant nothing to me and I was thankful to him for showing me his hoard. I was ready to leave after many glasses of mint tea.

Where will you be next week I have something far, far more precious to show you. I replied that I'd be in a convoy to Alexandria. That's just the place. Meet me outside the Museum.

The treasure

True to his word Abdul, the honest robber, met me as planned. Once again he took me through a maze of alleys and led me to his hide-out. This time it was on the ground floor.

After bolting the massive door he rolled aside a corner of the rich carpet which covered the floor and uncovered a heavy trap-door. Abdul carried a lantern and gave me a flashlight An assistant was left behind to roll back the carpet and sound any warning.

We cautiously climbed down a wooden ladder and entered a narrow corridor carved out of the rock. We walked cautiously for quite some time and found the corridor gradually widening. Abdul whispered to me to slowdown and watch my step. I found that I had to pick my steps around the bodies of ancient soldiers, mummified in the dry heat, yet in helmets and armour. We now approached an inner chamber.

Before we entered Abdul, in all earnest, asked me to say a prayer as he himself did. I am not a church-goer but, to be on the safe side, I muttered a few Hail Marys and crossed myself.

When we entered the chamber Abdul held his lantern on high and I saw the most wonderful sight I ever saw. There lay a great sarcophagus more richly adorned than any I had seen. But it was very different. The painted face was realistic but European looking, with the hair painted golden yellow.

As I looked closely I had a far greater shock. On this mysterious king's breastplate was drawn in gold the Sinhala letter SHRI and in its centre was painted a stylized golden footprint! I took one last, longing, look at the tomb of this forgotten blond pharaoh and followed Abdul back to the real world of bloody war, - my head full of unanswered questions." Sam fell silent, a yarn well spun.

Palabathgala

A lightning flash of memory took me back ten years earlier. My father had led a group of schoolboys up the gruelling Gilimale route to Sri Pada. Coming back we were caught in a heavy downpour as the sun went down.

The only shelter we saw was the Palabathgala school. Footsore and rain-soaked we hurried there. Father spoke to the Headmaster who was only too happy to oblige another teacher, and gave us the run of the school where we dozed down on its benches. As we fell wearily asleep we heard Father and his host in deep conversation.

Next morning, as we trudged the last few miles to Ratnapura Father told us his story. The Headmaster was a scholar who spent his holidays exploring old temples in the Peak Wilderness and studying ola manuscripts in their musty libraries.

In one of them he discovered an unknown ola which the resident bhikku believed was the Siripavansa, though the ola's title 'page was lost. The Headmaster had spent many days at the temple poring over his discovery and what a tale he unravelled. Among the many royal pilgrims to the Sacred Peak the ola spoke of a mysterious ruler, never recorded in the Mahavansa.

This name was Helaskanda Chakravarti Raja. In his honor a lamp was yet lit every evening in a little grotto enshrining a strange spearhead representing this man-god.

Father was astounded. This name was none other than the Sinhala version of Emperor Alexander of Hellas - whose pilgrimage to the Sacred Peak was yet honoured, many centuries later, by the humble folk who lived in the wilderness of its foothills!

The lost tomb

"Well, Sam" I said as I told him my story "You are one of the chosen few who have had the honor of standing before the lost tomb of Alexander in Alexandria. His spirit would have been happy to sense that this visitor from afar came from the country he travelled to on the never forgotten pilgrimage whose symbol adorns his sarcophagus".