Ding ding. Honk honk. My ears are being drilled with the blaring high notes of Hindi-pop. Ding ding, we stop. Rev rev, we’re off. Honk honk. We swerve through a checkpoint chicane, passed sandbag retreats holding tin camouflage roofs, we skim a stack of khaki patched tyres, it’s insides filled with soil and it’s top speckled with a circle of bright pink flowers. Ding ding. Honk honk. Rev rev. Passed camps of dull mud huts, with dusty yards and grey palm roofs. The victims: caught in the economic crossfire. Honk honk. We stop. Everybody off! Not I, the tourist. Not women, nor children. Rev rev, all aboard, we’re off. Honk honk. The driver’s face is framed by the reverberating rear view mirror, his expression reflecting the air of tension I’m breathing in. Honk honk. One side lays the ‘terrorist’. The other, the ‘terrorised’. Hindi-pop now screwing my eyes, my ears, my brain. The driver’s cockpit a rare theme of atheism, not Ganesh nor Lakshmi. If this bus should blow up, the tragedy would chew up these men in shirts and sarongs, these women in their elegant saris and neatly plaited hair, their uniformed children in once-white shirts and bright blue shorts, the bearded and bald, the baggy and brawn. From the gold and silver, the flecks of grey, blinking brown and pretty-in-pink we would be left with black. A sooty scar between the razor-wire, chicanes and military debris. But lest we not think of this, ding ding, we’re off, rev rev, honk honk. Continue reading ‘So Long, Ceylon’
Archive for the 'Sri Lanka' Category
Beep beep. One-forty. Beep beep. One-fifty. Beep beep. Two am, Monday morning. “What to do in Sri Lanka?” Step, step. Breath in. Step, step. Breath out. Step, step. Coffee. Black. Breath in. Step, step. Breath out. Step, step. Breath in. Coffee. Black. Strong. Breath out. Sigh. Step step. Breath in. Step… step. Breath out. Coffee. Black. Strong. Sugar. Breath. Breath. Step… step. Breath. Photo? Click click. Shiver. Click click. Shiver. Click click. Step, step. Coffee. Strong. Black. Sugar. Biscuit. Step, step, step, step… step…. step… st… ep. Eight-twenty am, Monday morning. Coffee. Strong. Black. Sugar. Biscuit. Toast, eggs, pancakes, fruit, cheese and a sandwich. Breath out. I climbed a holy mountain that Monday morning, what did you do? Continue reading ‘I Beg You, Don’t Ruin It’
Peace and quiet. Mr Peace and Mrs Quiet. Shhhh. Mmmmm. Shhhh-ri Lank-arrrr, their natural home. You’ll find them almost everywhere. On the beaches of Hikkaduwa their whispers sound like gently crashing waves resting on the twinkling beach. I looked for them on the bus as I wrestled my backpack into hidden space, I clasped my hands around the handrail and they gifted me a set of white knuckles to hold my attention away from the bully driver beating up the road. They stood with me atop the gaudy Buddha in Dickwella and once again at the edge of Tissa’s dagoba (stupa), one night they left the shores and shared with me a cigarette, beneath the rustling of palm trees while listening all the while to the trill of the local birdlife. Mr Peace, do you take Mrs Quiet to be your lawful wedded wife, in sickness and in health? I do. And you? I do. Continue reading ‘Beyond the Beach’
Driving down the road on your Scooty Pep (scooter), a guy flags you down and declares ‘coconut‘. Who are you to argue. Ten minutes later you’re surrounded by his kith and kin; his wife and seven month old son, his twin brothers, twin nieces, two young nephews, a neighbour or two and his spritely, toothless mother. The bright yellow king coconut emerges, tastes more fermented than usual but you smile politely and suck through the narrow straw he’d sent a now panting nephew to fetch from a neighbour. First comes the wedding photo, then the family holiday photo, a newspaper clipping or two and the obligatory line of questions; what’s my job, am I married, where am I staying, what’s my salary, is it my first time here, who-what-where-when-why? Food is sometimes offered, usually you politely decline on a variety of grounds, to which you receive a smile, an ‘arrrr‘ and a ‘maybe tomorrow?‘ Your stomach starts to belch from the thambili (coconut milk) prompting a festival of goodbyes, photos and address requests and you spark up the scooter feeling slightly enlightened, yet everso slightly bewildered. This Sri Lankan example extends far beyond the coasts of Serendib, it’s the South Asian way. For a wonderful moment, you’re one of the family. Continue reading ‘Coconut Kin’
Imagine returning home from work in the city to discover your world had been wiped out. Your mother, the woman who tightened your school tie and licked her hand to clean your cheek. Gone. Two sisters, who you’d grown up alongside squabbling while silently admiring. Gone. Their three small children, your nephews and niece who’s eyes harbored your world. Gone. Your childhood sweetheart, the girl who undid your school tie and held your blushing cheek. Gone. Now, really, try to imagine. That’s what I tried to do, on a visit to the Sea Turtle Farm & Hatchery in Peraliya, near Hikkaduwa, here on the island of Sri Lanka. The tragedy of the Boxing Day Tsunami - the event I’d gleaned abundant information about purely from the global media - began to unfold into a friend, fronted by a glazing pair of eyes. The story of brothers Nimal and Ruwan, their compassion born from cruelty, and the admiration I’ve formed for them is the reason I’ve emptied the bag for two weeks and volunteered to walk alongside them, and a handful of nippy sea turtles. Continue reading ‘Wake with a Start’
For some, there’re far things better. For others, there’re far things worse. An opportunity to devour endless possibilities dressed in no-limits attraction and capped, by an infinite defining line. Characters within it’s grasp perform ignorant of each others acts, yet well aware of their own golden stage. They’re drawn in, rising effortlessly, as if the wings of childhood had fluttered once again. Cradled up to the point of elation until they gasp, as Captain Reality begins to stoke the fires of fear. They lose control, blinded by the very thing that bore them wings and led by invisible surges, they feel their senses overlapping until a sudden, solitary moment causes their gullet to open and a yard of reassuring air jars them right back, to Square One. A backpacker on the beach, or a bather in the ocean waves? For a moment there, it all seemed the same to me. Continue reading ‘I Spy With My Little Eye’
