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A Charmed Life in Ceylon 1953-1963
A Charmed Life in Ceylon 1953-1963
A Charmed Life in Ceylon 1953-1963
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A Charmed Life in Ceylon 1953-1963

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Born in Ceylon (Sri Lanka) in 1931, during the days of the British colonials and then living his childhood in England, Tony Buxton  returned there to hopefully take over his family's commodities business. Not the typical colonial type, who was expected to segregate himself from the "natives" Tony went against the rules and preferred the company of the Ceylonese. This resulted in him making many friends, including well-known politicians.  He soon found  he had a passion for the ocean and diving. Giving up his job, he made a meagre living spearing fish, catching lobsters and live tropical fish for aquariums. He eventually offered his services as a guide to the underwater world.  This brought him many wealthy and famous customers from all over. They invited them to their homes, where he experienced a life style he hardly knew existed . These vacations could not have been any more adventurous. He enjoyed the best hotels and entertainment and drove around in his friends Masarati wining and dining with some of the most prominent influential colourful people in Europe.

Reading about the adventures of this bold and goodhearted man, makes one want to emulate him.  An unusual life indeed, with twists and turns that were never premeditated.

 "A Charmed Life" in Ceylon" takes the reader on a stunning journey across the marvels of Tony's lifestyle

LanguageEnglish
PublisherTony Buxton
Release dateJan 4, 2019
ISBN9781386155386
A Charmed Life in Ceylon 1953-1963
Author

Tony Buxton

Tony Buxton was born in 1931 in Sri Lanka. He went back to England during the war and eventually returned to Sri Lanka in the early 50s. There he developed a passion for exploring underwater, before the event of SCUBA. He made a living spear fishing as well as being an underwater guide, during which time many rich and famous people, including local politicians used his services. He was the first person to dive in the Maldives and southern India. He won the Ceylon National spear fishing Championships in 1959, and then went on to the world Championships in Malta where he came first on the British team.  After the event, he was invited by Jaques Cousteau to meet him in Monaco, and some years later Cousteau invited him to join him on an expedition to the Indian Ocean.  Leaving Sri Lanka in 1963, he went to Thailand where he was the first person to dive there, and he founded the Thailand sub aqua club. In 1965 he was invited by award-winning underwater photographer Ben Crop to star in his film "Challenge of the sea". During the filming, he explored unknown reefs in the Pacific with well-known underwater explorer Jaques Dumas. Eventually, he moved to Singapore and set up a highly profitable commercial diving venture with Exxon  (Esso) underwater cleaning ships. His years of diving to considerable depths without scuba eventually affected his health, and he had to curtail his diving. He took up the sport of polo with the same passion he had for diving. Playing in international tournaments he achieved a Polo handicap of +2 and was eventually invited to play on one of the Malay sultans teams and lived in one of their palaces in Malaysia. After a serious accident playing polo, he retired to Thailand where he lives now.

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    A Charmed Life in Ceylon 1953-1963 - Tony Buxton

    Dedication

    I dedicate this book, firstly to Sir John Kotelawala, R.G Senanayake, and J.R Jayawardene. It was an honour to count them amongst my friends, and they inspired me with their integrity, leadership and dedication to the people of Ceylon. Also to another friend, Esmond Wickremasinghe who helped me and advised me on many occasions. I would even mention Rodney Jonklaas, the legendary diver, who taught me to make a living from the sea.

    Acknowledgments

    With thanks to Keith Lorentz of Hawaii for helping me write and edit this book. Aidan Schmer for designing the cover and Jayam Ratnam (Good news from Jayam) for the introduction. Also Rex de Silva (author of Sharks of Sri Lanka) for his help in promotion and the late Sir Arthur C. Clarke (best selling author) who gave me a lot of encouragement.

    Introduction

    Born on the island of Ceylon in 1931, during the days of the British colonials and then living his childhood in England, Tony Buxton returned to Ceylon to hopefully take over his family’s commodities business. Not the typical colonial type, who was expected to segregate himself from the natives Tony went against the rules and preferred the company of the Ceylonese. This resulted in him making many friends, including manywell-known politicians. He favoured the independent life and soon found that he had a passion for the ocean and deep sea diving. He gave up his job and made a meagre living spearing fish, catching lobsters and live tropical fish for aquariums. He eventually offered his services as a guide to the underwater world. This brought him many wealthy and famous customers from all over the world. Charging nothing for his services. They invited them to their homes, where he experienced a lifestyle he hardly knew existed. These vacations in Monte Carlo and Rome could not have been any more adventurous. Having met some of the elite and colourful of Europe, he enjoyed some of the best hotels and entertainment, wining and dining with some of the most prominent influential colourful people in Europe.

    Incredibly handsome, Tony attracted the most beautiful local ladies. His exploits and romances were well-known topics.

    Reading about the adventures of this bold and goodhearted man, makes one want to emulate him. An unusual life indeed, with twists and turns that were never premeditated. Alas, life cannot remain an adventure. When age catches up with you, one is fortunate to have a young, beautiful and caring wife to take care of you.

    I lived in Ceylon during Tony Buxton’s time. Although I was ten years younger, I heard the stories about him and maybe got a glimpse of him now and again. There was many a time that as a teenager, that I envied him.

    JayamRatnam

    Preface

    This book is about my life in Ceylon. I was born in Colombo in 1931 when my father was working there in the family business, founded by my grandfather in the 1880s. We returned to England before the war, when I went to boarding school. Afterwards, I worked for a few months in the London office of the family company, then went back to Ceylon.

    Arriving in Colombo in April 1954, I felt that I had returned home. I had met many Ceylonese who had visited my family in England. I found them charming, and beautiful people and I look forward to meeting and making friends with them. My father had encouraged me before leaving, to do so. However, I was somewhat shocked to find that most of the Europeans did not mix or make friends with them. They had their clubs, and at the parties that I was obliged to attend, when I first arrived, I found very few if any, Ceylonese were invited. I was expected to join their exclusive clubs and socialise with the European community. I decided to do just the opposite; I made many friends amongst the Ceylonese and joined their clubs. Had I been anyone else, the company would probably have put me on the first plane back home. However, being my father’s oldest son and the fact that he was the managing director of the London office. They could do nothing and in the end eventually ignored me.

    It was there that I found my calling diving in the beautiful sea and coral reefs surrounding the island. Deciding the sea was my future. I gave up my job and made my living diving. I speared fish and caught lobsters which I sold, and caught live tropical fish, which I exported. I never made any money, but I was happy. Eventually, I set myself up as an underwater guide. It was just about the time when diving became the trend for the wealthy and famous. Unexpectedly, I found my services in much demand. The Minister of tourism, RG Senanayake was also a keen underwater enthusiast and put me on the government tourist board to promote the country's underwater scenery.

    My life in Ceylon was extraordinary. Most of my clients were very wealthy and paid all my expenses. They wanted the best of everything, and I tried to supply it. I made my base at the rest house in Hikkaduwa which became my second home, and I eventually anchored my two fishing trawlers in front.

    . My clients lavishly spent money while they were here. One of them was the grandson of the wealthiest man in America. He used my services for two months a year, for three years running. He shared my enthusiasm for diving, and we became the closest of friends. Also, every year he invited me back to Rome where he entertained me there and in Monte Carlo in a fashion that I hardly knew existed. He was not the only one. There were many other famous people I took out diving;

    I also found it rather strange that eventually, my closest friends in Ceylon were high-ranking politicians of opposing sides and wealthy Ceylonese. However, it upset me no end to find that many of them were not on talking terms with each other. Perhaps it was because I was a European and not involved in the highly divided political scene that they enjoyed my company. The fact that I was born in Ceylon also helped since at no time did anyone consider me a foreigner. I never had much money other than the commissions I made from time to time from the jeweller’s whom I had taken my clients. My diving business did not cover my expenses. However, I lived exceptionally well. I could get a free airline ticket to Europe. From all the carriers, I used, to export my tropical fish. Any day of the year I could catch at least 25 lobsters diving in the Colombo harbour. Sometimes I would trade them for various items; I was equally happy living a simple life in Ceylon or living it up with my wealthy friends in Europe.But at the end of 10 years, I thought I had no future in the country because the political situation was deteriorating and the country was going broke.

    CHAPTER

    One

    Prelude

    My mother was six months pregnant when she arrived in Bombay in February 1931. She and my father had decided to stop there on their way to Ceylon, where he would work for a few years in the family business, which had interests there. They had the usual long sea voyage from England and were glad to be away from the confined atmosphere of the vessel. As they disembarked, a smartly dressed Indian led them to a Rolls-Royce parked on the jetty.

    His Highness, the Maharaja, welcomes you to Bombay and trusts you had a safe journey, he said. The Maharaja was a friend of my grandfather and felt it his duty to look after my father on his first trip to Bombay

    When they eventually arrived at the Palace, the Maharaja greeted my father like an old friend. After being shown their quarters, the luggage arrived and was unpacked by four room boys. My mother could not get over seeing so many servants and the opulent luxury everywhere. She had never been to the East before. My father told her that the Palace was apparently only a small one, which the Maharaja kept in Bombay to use on his visits there. His main palace was much larger situated in his state, quite far away.

    A sumptuous dinner was in a huge dining room where eight servants were in attendance. Afterwards, the Maharaja told my father that he had arranged a Tiger shoot. My father protested that he could not spare the time since he had business to attend to in Bombay. Also, he was fearful of my mother’s condition. The Maharaja was very insistent and said that the ‘shoot’ would not be too far away and that we would be back in six days. My father made a determined effort to get out of it by saying that he had to make a phone call to his head office in London every other day. He assumed that there would not be any way of doing that on a Tiger shoot. The Maharaja looked pensive.

    No problem I will have a phone cable laid out to our camp from my palace, and you will be able to make your call to London, replied the Maharaja

    My father realised that the Maharaja was serious, even though it meant obtaining miles of cable and a massive operation. He couldn’t think of any other excuses to get out of the trip but felt very guilty because his London office did not expect him to telephone at all, and if he did so, he would have no idea what to say. A call from India to London in those days cost a fortune, and he was only a junior director and was not expected to make any except possibly in cases of dire emergency.

    The next day they left together in the Rolls-Royce with the Maharaja on a long journey to his big palace in his state. They stopped every two hours where a tent had been put up with comfortable chairs, a table, refreshments and three servants, one for each of them. On arrival, the Maharani greeted them and again my mother could just not get over the extravagance and opulence all around her. There were so many servants she had no idea what they could all possibly be doing. My mother described the huge dinner that night, with everything brought in from abroad, including pheasants, smoked salmon, imported French champagne and many other delicacies.

    After a night’s rest, they all set out early in the Rolls followed by several Lorries. En route, they passed dozens of men unloading cables and laying them out on the side of the road. Also, as before, they stopped every two hours for refreshments.

    For your telephone, the Maharaja remarked to my father, who stared aghast at the massive, expensive operation involving what seemed to him hundreds of people, Lorries, and drivers, which he estimated would cost a princely sum. Far more, he thought, than he could probably ever earn. He felt very guilty. However, one can hardly blame him because he could never have believed in his wildest imagination that the Maharaja Raja would go to such efforts so that he could make a telephone call.

    Finally, they arrived at a clearing where the road abruptly ended. Several elephants were waiting to transport the party to the shoot area in the jungle. My mother travelled with the Maharani on one elephant, while my father with the Maharaja on another. After a long and slow journey with many stops for refreshments, they arrived at the camp, which was swarming with servants. My mother was shocked to see an elephant with a massive block of ice tied on its back; it appeared to be shivering from cold. My parents were soon installed in a vast luxurious tent with the trappings of a deluxe hotel. The camp seemed to be like a village with all the tents, and an enormous central marquee had been erected for the dining room. Dinner was served on a large table, which had been transported all the way from the maharaja’s palace. The next morning scouts went out to look for tigers while my parents rested.

    In the afternoon, London was on the line. "Your call has come through at last’ the Maharaja announced triumphantly as he summoned my father to a very traditional gold-plated telephone. It had a gold box underneath with a handle on it, which had to be turned to make electricity for the phone call. In London, so seldom did they get a call from so far afield that they thought that it must be of great importance, so the chairman of the company took the call himself. My father was a complete loss for what to say but did not want to lose face in front of the Maharaja who was listening attentively. Therefore, he talked a lot of complete nonsense about the state of the rubber markets. The chairman was utterly baffled by the calland thought my father had gone off his head, and seriously considered recalling him home

    Early the following day they went deeper into the jungle on elephants including the poor one with a massive block of ice on its back to keep the champagne cold. The Maharaja informed my father that the tiger had been located and it would be herded by the beaters until it came in front of the platform where they would be installed, and then he should shoot it. The sad thing according to my mother was that my father was not particularly keen on killing a Tiger. However, the Maharaja presumed that all British gentlemen like to shoot.

    My mother and the Maharani were installed on a comfortable platform situated in a tree well above the ground. There were several servants to attend them and armed guards below. My father went ahead with the Maharaja to another platform some way away. My mother’s was overlooking a vast plain, and she saw in the distance about a hundred men spread out beating instruments and making a lot of noise to try to flush out the Tiger. The beaters were just about to pass in front of their platform when suddenly a man broke away from the line of them and was running towards where my mother was. The Tiger pounced on the man just before he reached her platform and proceeded to tear him to bits. His screams were terrible according to my mother who asked the Maharani why the guard did not shoot the tiger.

    The tiger is for your husband to kill and no one can shoot one without the Maharaja’s permission, even in self-defence She calmly replied.

    My mother was utterly appalled at such callousness and for such lack of concern for a man’s life. She just could not believe what was happening and was in a state of shock and nearly had a miscarriage. If she had one, I would not have been born. As it was, I was born in Colombo on 8 May 1931. I was a twin, and my brother died in childbirth. My mother had lain in the nursing home in the stifling heat. The monsoon was late, and I had not rained for many months. There was no air-conditioning in those days and few fans. However, just as I was born the rain poured down and the temperature dropped 10°. The nursing home was crowded, and I had to spend my first night on earth sharing a cot with two baby girls. Maybe it was a premonition of my future when it would not be uncommon for me to find myself in the same situation

    I returned to England with my parents when I was a few years old, with memories of beautiful palm-fringed beaches and my love of the sea. In the years ahead, these images never left me. I went to a boarding school when I was eight and to another when I was thirteen. I have no happy memories of these schools that I attended during and after the war. Conditions in them were hardly better than a prison.

    When I was about nine years old, I developed terrible asthma and chronic sinusitis. It was during the war; we had no heating in winter and conditions were awful. Our diet lacked vital nutrients, and I was a very sick young boy, mainly because I could not take any exercise. I was also very underweight. At that, time there was no cure for asthma, and I got these terrible attacks, which were terrifying to a young person of my age. When they came about, usually at night, I would hold onto the bedpost forcing air into my lungs until I just about passed out with exhaustion. During these years, I could not play any games and missed most of my lessons. Even when I was better, all I wanted to do was going outside into the fresh air and not sit in a stuffy classroom. Therefore, I just went out and wandered in the woods around the school. I missed so much school that I failed all my exams.

    I was detached from everything and spent most of my time in the school library reading the Encyclopaedia Britannica while the other children were playing games. It was a miserable life for me especially during the war, when we often had to spend nights in an air raid shelter. When I was about twelve, I had a severe attack of asthma, and it did not look as if I was going to recover. I got weaker and weaker, and I had the feeling that I was going to die. However, I can well remember a Doctor suddenly appearing waving an inhaler. I did not know what it was, but he gave me a few puffs, and I started to recover. This made an enormous difference to my life and of course to many people living with asthma. The moment an attack began, I just took a few puffs, and the asthma was gone. I had to carry this inhaler with me wherever I went. Once I had it, my health improved dramatically. However, I could not run for long but was able to take a certain amount of exercise. I had no interest in sports except individual ones. School to me was a nightmare from beginning to end. None of the subjects we had to study interested me. I was forced to learn Latin and the only ones I ever did well in, were French and German.

    I refused to take an interest in anything, and I could not identify myself with the team spirit that they tried to instil in me. I realised that I was very different even then. I was a complete individualist, and I would go my way in life, the way I wanted and no one would dictate to me. I only looked forward to my holidays at home where I had much more freedom and comfortable life. I was fortunate in having a happy home with loving parents. At home, my father told me all about his travels abroad. He was always going somewhere. He had to fly out to Malaya immediately after the war to help sort out the mess the Japanese had left behind. The company he worked for was a large public company with branches in Ceylon, Malaya, Singapore, the Philippines, India, and America. My father was a director at the time I was in school, and he had to travel abroad every year and visit all the branches. He worked very hard, he loved giving parties, and our house was always open to all his friends and mine as well. Many times, there were people from Asian countries at our home visiting and sometimes staying. I met many Chinese, Malays, Filipinos, Indians and Ceylonese. My father spoke very highly of them and their countries, very different from the way that I had heard British colonials referring to them. They usually called them natives. in a derogatory way.

    I implored my father to let me leave school, and he finally agreed. I was 17, and I spent the next four years working in various countries in Europe. I consider that my education started the day I left school because I became fluent in several languages, which in later years were of considerable use and landed me some good jobs.

    Looking back, there was one very acute episode. I was working in a travel agency in the south of France in 1950; I liked to stand in the crowds opposite the Hotel De Paris in Monte Carlo and gawk at the stars and celebrities as they came out onto the steps to await their chauffeur-driven cars. I was there many times, and on the night of the famous Red Cross Ball, the police had cordoned off the area to hold the crowds back. I was there with a friend amongst them and sought to put a name to each person who came out of the hotel. Most were well-known film stars or royalty with a sprinkling of politicians and millionaires. In 1950, and for many years later, the annual ball was necessary for anyone who was somebody. The tickets were costly, and the proceeds went to charity. As I stood amongst the crowds, I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams that exactly ten years later I would be standing on those same steps waiting for my friend’s Rolls-Royce to take my wealthy companions and me to the Red Cross Ball.

    However, during all these years, the jobs I did were very menial, and I never made any money or saved any. My entire worldly possessions would go into a small suitcase. In the end, I was living in Sweden where menial jobs paid a bit better. I had made a few visits to my parents in England, my father having paid my travel expenses.

    However, he always complained that I was wasting my life not doing anything constructive and continually tried to get me to join him in his company. However, I told him that the wages he offered were not even half, what I was earning in Sweden.

    In 1953, it got harder to find work. I decided that perhaps my father was right, and I should move on. Besides, things had changed. There were not many jobs available like before. Also, I had tried to get a good, interesting one. However, without any qualifications, I could not do so. So I returned home, and we discussed my joining him in his company. However, the problem was still a question of pay. You don’t have any qualifications, and I can’t pay you any more than I pay my staff, explained my father. That’s not entirely accurate. I am fluent in a few languages, I replied. Well, perhaps you can do some translation. We get a lot of letters in German and French. In the end, he offered me a salary of £7.50 a week. I groaned. I can’t live off that. I earned three times that amount in Sweden. My father thought for a minute. I could see that he desperately wanted to join the company. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you another £7.50 a week out of my salary provided you don’t tell anyone. My father looked at me hopefully. Before I knew it, I was working in the export department of J.H.Vavasseur and Co. Ltd. in London. I travelled by train and underground every day to the city from my parents’ home. After a while, the strains of living at home were too much, and I took a small basement flat in London. I never really got back into any meaningful social life in London. Again, I found that I had changed so much that I had nothing in common with any of my old friends, most of who had never been outside England. When I related some of my experiences, they found it hard to believe. Fortunately, this state of affairs did not last long. My father was on his annual trip, visiting the company’s offices in the East when I received a summons from the acting managing director telling me that I was to being posted to Ceylon as a mercantile assistant. My fortunes were about to take another turn, one that would affect me for the rest of my life, and one that I would forever be thankful.

    I was to meet

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