Sri Lanka

After some fabulous cultural exploration in rural India, visiting friends, watching the colorful festival in Vashist among pulsing drumming and swishing deities, shopping the mayhem of Delhi, and henna-ing our hands, I hopped on a plane to Sri Lanka, formerly called Ceylon. The heat hit me like a tidal wave, bad joke in these times, although a bit too cliché.

I surveyed the zillion taxi driver faces, looking for eyes I could trust, and settled a deal with Shan, Kishmal and Shamin. We zoomed into the night, stopping only for milk sweet tea and egg rottis – a flour type pancake with an egg cooked in the middle smothered with chili gravy. It was the starting day of the Singalese New Year, and all night long we encountered parties with hundreds of villagers celebrating all night long at big lighted dance parties in the middle of nowhere in the jungle. After a hectic rattletrap 10 hour “taxi” ride that I nicknamed the blender, with many military checkpoints to prevent movement of the Tamil Tigers – the latest upsurge against the government, we all arrived in Arguam Bay, a sleepy little town on the East coast. Prices are a travelers dream, with lodging going for 5 bucks, meals for one or two, and tuk tuk rides for 20 cents. There are almost no cars here, and people hook a line onto the live electric power lines to turn on their lights.

The water is turquoise blue, penned against white sand and fishing boats painted the colors of the crayola box. Men wear tubes of fabric wrapped into skirts, never to realize the potential of wrap skirt failure most women know all to well. At first I thought that many women and children were killed or moved from the tsunami, but soon realized that I was in a Muslim town and most were inside closed doors and behind tinted glass. I hear them chattering everyday, and sometimes get a rare sighting and occasionally can exchange some smiles and hellos. Most of Sri Lanka is Buddhist, with some Hindis and some Christians, and Muslims in the East where I am located. One of the hardest parts of the culture is the staring of the men – it is not concealed or subtle – it is blatent and raw. We women think it is the repressed sexuality of the culture – men and women hardly ever interact, and I may go a whole day without seeing a woman. I understand that I am not one to judge, and if anything I am not the one obeying their laws – hence the looks, but it is still hard. At first I hated my green cloud patterned glass on my bungalow’s windows, but now find it a haven from they eyes and crave the solitude. Walking down the street is quite and undertaking, even when I try to cover my self from head to toe.

First person I met on the beach was an old friend of a friend who I met in Rossland, BC Canada. Such a small world. He had just been working in Gulmarg, Kashmir, helping train the ski patrol there, along with an old friend from my hometown, Kip Garre.
Surf has been a bit rough- the reef has been chewing me up, bit by bit. Each day a new small hunk of flesh gets left behind. The wave is pretty hollow in spots, much what I have pictured Indo to look like, and my skills have a bit to go to handle the speed. I have met wonderful folks, as one usually does traveling alone.

Everyday you hear a new story of the tsunami. Who lost whom and how, where they clung to a tree and how far inland they were swept. Hard losses, and evidence is everywhere – in fact it looks more like it happened four months ago, and not a year and four months ago. The NGO presence is everywhere – with both positive and negative stories to tell. I’m impressed with the amount of people still here volunteering their skills away trying to help the cause. Rumor has it that the government has issued a stipend to each individual, thereby creating a bit of a disincentive to head back to work. Everyday my hotel owner, Dean, is super frustrated when the workers don’t show up again, and the same problem is happening around other job sites. Not sure if that is really the issue, as have not been able to back up that suggestion.

For my birthday, I was invited to the Beach Hut for Dinner with my three new good Kiwi and Aussi friends, and were joined by twenty others. The meal was culminated with a parade of local drummers marching around the long table with a banana cake. Such a nice relief from the dreaded out of tune “Happy Birthday” song.

Yesterday we went on the ultimate “surf safari” – strapping the tuk tuk down with our surf boards and zig zagging through the bush, stopping to photograph elephants, peacocks, flamingos, and herons along the way. All for five bucks or 500 rupees for all three of us. Gotta love the third world.

Not sure if you all heard of the bomb yesterday in the Capitol of Columbo. A woman walked into the army headquarters and blew herself up. And the military launched two missiles to the resistance area to the way north. Norway had helped broker the latest peace deal between the LTTE Tamils and the Singalese and Muslims in 2002, but apparently the government has not upheld their part of the bargain, or so it seems. I am in a peaceful area, not to worry, but tensions are tight here.

The food is to dye for – Pot Sambol abounds – grated coconut with chili and spices adorns most everything. Every form of Rotti you can imagine- curry, vegetable, banana coconut, egg, cheese, fish, meat, etc. And they are swirled, rolled, chopped, triangled, square- you name it. Quite the staple. During breakfast of string hoppers with dhal and fish curry, I watched a team of oxen pulling a wooden cart that looked like it was straight out of Jesus from Nazareth. And attached to the back they were dragging a manta ray down the street. Ummmmm, dinner.